Tags/warnings: f!reader, age gap (reader is 24, Brendon is mid-late 30s), inappropriate boss/employee relationship, high key perv!brendon, daddy kink, masturbation (m and f), fingering, hand job, angst, car crash, injury, comfort, fight/confessing feelings, dry humping, lil somno, oral (f receiving), protected piv sex
Summary: Your dynamic with Brendon is easy, comfortable, until one night everything changes and you're forced to deal with your feelings for each other.
a/n: something to get me out of this writing slump dear god
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
"Daddy!"
The shrill of childish excitement lights up the surgery department in an instant, eyes and ears cutting through the sterile floor towards the sound, eager for a reaction from someone, anyone.
It's even more satisfying when Brendon Park, the Shark of orthopedics, stops mid sentence, turning swiftly to the sound, his blank expression curling into a gentle smile as he bends down to pick up the three year old in his gigantic arms.
"What're you doing here, guppy?" he teases. Brendon Park jokes, and glances get thrown between residents, interns and nurses alike.
Ah gossip, the great equalizer.
"Wanted to see you."
The little girl manhandles him, pulling and squeezing his cheeks like he's not a great white but rather a pliable flounder, reducing him to nothing more than a sucker for his kid.
"Oh yeah, where's—?"
"Jesus trouble, how do you run so fast?"
The way Brendon Park lights up for the second time practically blinds everyone. Oh this is definitely making the rumor mill rounds today. So long boring ten hour surgery to come.
"I didn't run!" the child huffs. "I ski...skiddered."
"Skipped?" Brendon looks to you for confirmation.
You roll your eyes at her antics, nodding your head towards her father, gracing him with a smile that makes everyone understand exactly why their big, mean, scary boss is acting the way he is.
The floor returns to its normal shuffle after that, one more second of inaction and the Shark would've definitely snapped.
"Hey," Brendon greets you, a little reserved, definitely surgical in nature.
"Hey Mr. Park," you beam and he instantly stills.
"How many times do I have to tell you," he starts to chide. "At least call me doctor Park."
You sigh out a laugh at that, rolling your eyes playfully as you instinctively step closer. He can smell the faint sweetness of your perfume, the spilled apple sauce on your shirt, the hint of laundry detergent on your fingers.
"I'm glad we caught you," you tell him. "We didn't know if you'd started on time today."
"Just about to go in."
You nod, clinical, like you're absorbing information and processing how you're going to get out of his hair in the next twenty seconds.
"Gotcha, well, you got what you wanted trouble," you hum, moving to grab the child in his arms.
She knows what's coming and so she throws herself onto her dad, tiny hands fisting the purple scrubs, cheek pressed tightly over his chest.
"No! I wanna stay with daddy."
Brendon opens his mouth to speak, to defuse the situation before the guilt eats him alive. But you're no sucker, unlike him.
"Really?" you frown. "You wanna stay with your daddy while he does his surgery instead of going to the park to get ice cream with me?"
In all honesty, he stopped listening to you the second the word daddy left your lips. He's certain his kid can feel his heart beating uncomfortably fast, rattling against this ribcage and threatening to burst out of his chest.
All he registers is the toddler flinging herself out of his loose embrace, almost face planting against the sterile floors and practically buzzing with excitement.
"Brendon?" you turn to him, smile turning into a frown quickly.
He springs back into reality when your hand lands over his forearm, light and grounding, like an anchor he didn't know he needed.
"Yeah, yeah," he responds, pretends, shifts out of your touch like he's already late for something that isn't even remotely time for. "I'll see you for dinner, okay guppy?"
But she doesn't care anymore.
"Okay! Bye dad."
Instead, she grabs your hand, demanding and pushy, and pulls you down the hall.
"Bye doctor Park," you tease. "See you later."
And just like that, calm and cold return to the surgery department, and Brendon Park snaps back into the sharpness that defines him.
It's late by the time he makes it home.
Too late, too tired, too...everything.
He sneaks into his own home like a teenager, light steps, a soft touch as he turns the key, even takes off his shoes by the door before he even makes it into the house.
It's not the first time either, not gonna be the last.
He shouldn't feel bad, this is what he pays you the big bucks for at the end of the day.
It's when he peeks into his daughter's room, catching the two of you snuggled together in her tiny bed, butterfly printed comforter covering her and not you, a book forgotten, Mr. Stuffles the rabbit on the floor that it hits him.
Hard.
He'd been miserable that first year after his girlfriend left him. They'd been planning a wedding, the baby being just another blessing in the string of goodness that they had been experiencing.
At least it had been to him.
It took her a year to leave, to finally crack under the pressure and run away. He didn't know how to be a dad alone, much less navigate co-parenting with the woman who had torn his heart out of his chest with her bare hands.
If it hadn't been for his mother, sisters and brothers, Brendon would not have made it through it.
But even they could only get him so far. He needed to go back to work, needed to find something to keep him going, needed...help. Professional help.
And that's when he'd found you.
Frank Langdon's occasional babysitter, full time student looking for a summer job while you got yourself situated for your master's program.
The little guppy was two at that point and Brendon simply couldn't be there for her all the time. So he poached you away from the ED doctor.
To say the dynamic had started out a little toxic would be...an understatement.
Once Brendon returned to the OR with full force, he fell hard into it, into the love and thrill and control that he could exert over his patients, his work, his process.
All the control he'd lost, the scared man that he had become—frantic and powerless—disappeared the second he got back in those scrubs.
And so did the loving and caring father that had put his kid first.
You ripped him a new one about eight days after first meeting him, a night like this, one where he came back home buzzing from a procedure well done, pupils dilated and ego through the roof.
She was young enough to not remember then, but she was definitely old enough to hold onto broken promises now, and that is what tugged at his heartstrings.
Now, tea parties and recitals were just as, if not more important than getting to do a risky procedure no one at PTMC had done before.
Of course, this time around he'd texted, let you know there had been a complication with the surgery. The shaky intern typing out the message practically stopped breathing every time Brendon asked him to erase everything and start from scratch.
They all thought it was cute how he wanted it to be perfect and gentle for his daughter, but the truth is, he needed it to be for you.
Brendon steps into the room softly, bending down to pick up the stuffy and placing it in between his kid's arms before he closes the picture book and sets it on the nightstand.
Neither of you startle at the movement, the soft glow from the salt lamp casting shadows that you knew were never meant to harm you.
It's only when Brendon places a hand over your shoulder, squeezing gently that you blink awake.
"Hi," you whisper, barely turning back to look at him.
"Hi," he smiles softly. "Are you comfy?"
You scoff out a laugh, soft enough not to wake up the kid but loud enough to make his smile grow twice the size.
"Let's get you to bed then," he places a hand under your neck then, pushing you up by supporting your back with his forearm while you tangle your hands around his other arm and pulling yourself into a sitting position.
Certain you're awake enough not to topple over, he leans over you and places a kiss to his kid's temple, watching her nose scrunch ever so slightly before settling back into comfortable sleep.
You smirk at his antics, using his body as leverage to get up to your feet, hands clumsily digging into the muscles of his back.
He groans lightly, old man that he is, and quickly retaliates, holding onto you so that you'll hoist him up with you.
"So heavy," you joke, straining to keep the two of you upright.
Brendon shrugs. "Just full of love."
"Booo," you chuckle, making your way out of her room, Brendon's hands over your shoulders to steady you. "There's leftovers in the microwave if you want them."
He hums in acknowledgment, letting you go as you make it out to the hallway.
"Eat, then shower?" he asks you.
"I'll take advantage then."
He nods. "Yours is still busted?"
"Yeah, guy said earliest he could come is next week."
"Damn plumbers."
"Indeed."
He stares at you for a long second after the conversation settles.
He's...comfortable. Too comfortable with you.
The past year has been a whirlwind. One summer quickly turning into you deferring your master's program so you could finish out the year with them. Then one semester turned into two, into you moving in, into...this.
Don't get him wrong, Brendon knows where the two of you stand. It's not necessarily healthy, but it's innocent, it's professional, it's...just a pathetic crush, nothing more. A fantasy he'll never allow himself to indulge in.
And yet, he cannot stop himself every time his eyes fall on your lips, the plumpness calling to him, beckoning him forward, demanding attention, truth.
"Goodnight then," he manages, rough and exhausted, desperate yet...not enough. Never enough.
You smile dopily at him. "Goodnight Brendon."
It's his own fault really, he should've knocked. But it's his house for fuck's sake, why should he?
So that's how he gets a complete eyeful of you taking a shower the next morning.
He got a late start which meant making breakfast, taking his guppy to school and then going to the gym, all before nine.
Unfortunately for him, earbuds in, distracted as all hell, he completely misses all the warning signs, the closed door, the steam, your clothes on the floor, the music blaring from the speaker.
He's certain he's dead and this is both heaven and hell simultaneously when he finally dares to look up and—
Jesus fucking Christ.
He should look away, he needs to look away...but he physically can't, his hungry gaze taking in every inch of skin visible through the condensation of the glass shower.
If only he would've reacted a second earlier...
You turn in slow motion, your reaction catching up late. You yelp, hands coming up to wrap around your chest, only aiding in pushing your boobs up further.
He instantly snaps into action, blush taking over every inch of his face and neck as he curses out a long string of apologies, blood pumping through his heart and his...yeah, he needs to get the fuck out of there.
"I'm sorry, so sorry," he stumbles out of the bathroom ungracefully, fast enough that he doesn't catch your own reaction, the way your chest constricts, the way your legs rub together.
Brendon manages to hurriedly hide in the kitchen, heart hammering against his ribcage, eyes wide and mind absolutely running a million miles an hour.
He needs to forget he ever saw that, needs to erase it from his brain...but his stupid erection won't let him.
The tent in his pants becomes painful the second he gives it attention, the flimsy material of his work out shorts just not helping his case at all. He needs to take care of this, needs to stop being such a weirdo before you come out.
So he rushes into your bathroom, locks the door like a sane human being does, and pulls himself out of his boxers methodically.
This isn't pleasurable, no, not at all, never. This is necessity. Emotionless, cold and surgical. He spits on his hand, wrapping it around himself without much preamble, thinking of nothing, searching for only one thing, release.
But he looks down at himself and his brain betrays him.
Imagine her on her knees.
"Fuck no."
How beautiful does she look, skin wet, hair stuck to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open?
"Shut the fuck up."
Her mouth would be so hot, come on, Brendon, give into her—
"Go away."
And yet he groans, the mere thought of you knowing what he's doing two doors away, the way you pushed up your chest, the need to paint it—paint you—white with his spend—
He's biting down on his other hand quickly after as he cums loudly, making sure to aim for the toilet while does.
You're no longer in the shower when he comes back out, your movements confined to your room. He doesn't have the courage to seek you out, so instead he just showers in silence.
The two of you don't interact at all before he's making his way into work.
You left his food prepped on the dining room table, disappearing out of the house the second you did to run some errands.
The tinge of shame and embarrassment linger deep in his bones all throughout the day, following him around like an unwanted shadow.
How would he even start to apologize? You have to talk about it, there's just no other way around it, but...how could he ever tell you it was a mistake when a part of him wanted nothing more than for it to happen again—to get a better look?
Since he made it to work late, he leaves even later. As he makes his way into his home, the same stillness from the night before greets him, only this time, it's heavy, like a breath that's been held in too long.
He goes through his routine quietly, dropping his bag by the door, checking in on his kid before walking down the hallway towards his bedroom.
But before he can make it, something catches his attention.
A breath. A gasp. A moan.
He freezes in front of your closed door, body going rigid with goosebumps, head turning almost robotically as his senses sharpen.
Your light is still on, peeking through the bottom slit of the door. Not uncommon, you like staying up to wait for him before you go to sleep.
No, what catches his attention is the distant...humming.
He steps forward, tentatively pressing his ear to the wood. It's not just a humming, it's vibrations, soft and steady.
Another shaky breath escapes you, louder than you would've liked, and you readjust the toy.
A shiver passes through Brendon as realization hits.
His cock twitches painfully against his underwear. Fuck this cannot be happening right now.
His head falls against your door, stabilizing, grounding. He can't, he will not—
Another moan from you. You're close.
Whatever resolve Brendon has snaps as he pulls himself out of his pants, hot, heavy and leaking.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he whispers as he takes himself into his hand. He begins to pump quickly, the pace excruciating and borderline painful, but he doesn't care, he needs to—
"Brendon," you huff, a breathy moan curling around his name. "Please I'm—Motherfucker!" you curse through gritted teeth, the vibrations stopping abruptly.
Brendon's heart does a leap in his chest.
Oh my god.
He can feel how frustrated you are, can hear how you shift uncomfortably over your sheets, can practically taste how wet you are as you toss the toy with a thump on the mattress next to you.
And Brendon doesn't think. Can't think, can't process a logical thought to save his life as he lifts his unoccupied hand and—
Knocks.
Says your name in that soft, saccharine voice of his that he uses when his child is throwing a tantrum.
Oh how he wishes he could see your face pale in horror at the knowledge of your boss being on the other side of the door.
"Are you okay?" he keeps poking.
You swallow thickly, shame mixing with terror.
"Mhmm."
"Can I come in?"
A broken sound leaves your chest, unprompted and definitely surprising you just as much as it does him.
"Um...no?"
He says your name again, stern and fatherly. He hears you moving around frantically, hiding all evidence of what you were just doing.
"Okay."
"Okay." A Cheshire smile curls at his lips, a thrill of satisfaction coursing through him as he tucks himself into his pants, the outline of his still rock hard dick on full display.
It's now or never.
He opens the door. You never seem to lock it, fucking adorable.
He has to physically hold himself back from pouncing on you as his eyes land on your heated cheeks, on your slightly tussled hair, on how you're gripping your comforter to save your life.
He shoots you a calming smile, boyish and embarrassed, as he steps into your room and closes the door behind him. Locking it.
He hears you gulp loudly as you notice his final movement.
"How was your day?" you barely manage to ask, your throat hoarse, your breathing broken.
He settles down on the bed by your feet, close enough to make your heart beat out of your throat, far away enough that he won't overwhelm you entirely.
"Good, good," he sighs, one hand tentatively inching closer and closer to you. "Lot of injuries today."
"I bet."
He smirks, a huff of a laugh cutting through the tension in the room.
"Listen—" he starts, looking up at you before continuing. You choke on your own breath, body becoming a statue with shame. "I'm sorry, I should've realized you were in the shower. It was very inappropriate of me and it will not happen again."
You let out a shaky breath, settling into the false sense of security, choosing to believe that he definitely did not hear you...yeah.
Brendon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning like an idiot. God, you're just so adorable.
You nod, shifting forward, closer to him. "It's okay, I know you didn't do it on purpose. It was just...weird I guess."
You laugh, awkwardly, because what a silly predicament the two of you have found yourselves in, clearly.
Brendon doesn't follow your lead, not at all. He just keeps watching you, eyes darkening as he leans into you as well, his hand finally coming up to grab ahold of your foot over the comforter.
He squeezes enough to punctuate the moment, the tension, the heat. Your gaze snaps towards his hand, towards him, towards—
Your eyes widen without your consent as they land on his crotch, on the straining in his scrubs, on his still practically throbbing erection.
"Brendon," you exhale, confusion and desire blending together excruciatingly.
He shivers over you, his grip tightening on you.
"Don't," he warns. "Don't start something you won't finish, sweetheart."
Your gaze meets his then. He looks like a caged animal, practically vibrating as he holds himself back.
Emboldened by your lust, by the pent up frustration left coiling in your lower stomach, you get up on your knees, letting the comforter fall around your waist, the slightest sliver of skin peeking through.
"Oh I intend to finish it," you whisper.
"Unlike your vibrator?"
That breaks the spell quickly, heat rushing up to your face, neck, back instantly.
"Oh my god, Brendon!" you smack his arm, falling back down on your heels.
He smiles dopily, his hand sliding up your thigh as your brain processes all this new information. Distracted, you don't even notice when he slides beneath the fabric. It's only when the backs of his fingers graze your dripping folds that your breathing hitches.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans. "You're so wet."
You whimper at the feather light contact, hips bucking towards his touch.
"Please," you're no longer thinking, finally. "I need...make me cum, Bren."
The smirk that adorns his face then, all self-righteous and proud, only gets you wetter.
"Is this what you need, baby?" he leans in, breath hot against your ear as he presses a kiss just below it. "Needed my fingers to get yourself to cum?"
You moan, hands coming up to grab a hold of him, nails digging into the toughness of his arms.
In response, Brendon presses his thumb over your clit, slowly moving the pad in torturous circles. You pull him closer, opening your legs so that he has better access.
"Tell me what you need," he commands. "Tell daddy how to make you feel good."
Oh your head is spinning. A tear falls down your cheek, frustration rocking you out of control.
"Need your fingers," you pant.
He grins against your skin. "You already have 'em."
You whine, patience wearing thin. Who would've ever thought, his good girl, so demanding.
"In me, please," you choke, swallowing the drool that has gathered in your mouth before continuing. "Please daddy."
It breaks him, his ring and middle finger thrusting into you in one swift movement as his thumb picks up the pace.
You instantly hide your face agains the crook of his neck, your breathy moan muffled against him as he hooks his fingers into you, curling them over and over again against you until your legs are shaking beneath him.
"That's it, baby, such a good girl for me."
You shiver against him, melting against his warmth.
"Help daddy out, baby, wanna—" he groans. "Wanna cum with you."
He slows down his movements, keeping you right on the edge between putty and alert.
You nod against him, timid hands grazing down his torso towards his pants. The second your hand slides under his waistband, a hiss escapes him, causing a shiver of praise to boost your ego.
You manage to pull him out, long and thick and hot and heavy against your palm, you can't help but salivate at the sight. You let your drool drip down on him, his hips jerking as the wetness lands over his sensitive tip.
You giggle, overly amused by his reactions, emboldened by how easy it is to tame the Shark with just a simple swipe of your hand over his leaking head.
"Fucking hell, baby," he groans, picking up his own pace in retaliation.
You pull back to look at him then, gazes locking in silent competition.
He looks completely disheveled, broken and almost...reverent. Gratification blooms in your stomach, your hand pumping his length in tandem with his own fingers inside of you, the pace causing the two of you to slowly start to unravel together.
Your mouth hangs open in a silent moan as your body clenches around him, so close to the edge, so, so, so perfect—
"Daddy," you warn. "I'm gonna—"
He grunts, grabbing your hand and pulling it back up to his tip, urging you to focus your efforts there.
It takes him no time to catch up to you, his own body tensing in anticipation.
"C'mon baby," he implores. "Let go for me, cum with me."
A choked moan ripples through you as the coil snaps. Your legs quake, your vision blurs from pleasure, your hand stills over him as you feel his own release take over.
It's overwhelming to say the least, his hot moans heavy in your ear, his spend spurting onto your hand, painting his scrubs and your delicate skin, his warmth...oh my god he's so everywhere.
You can't think straight. Can't breathe right. Can't—
You groan as he removes his hand from inside of you, wetness running down your inner thighs as he does. Pleasure clouds your brain as you watch him bring his hand up to his mouth, his tongue lapping up your release, humming contently at the sweet taste.
Hunger flares in your belly as you do the same, lifting your hand up towards your mouth and sucking down on the spot covered by his cum.
You can feel the moan that ripples through him, his body tensing up with lust once more as he watches you.
"Fuck sweetheart, who would've thought..." he smirks, leaning down to smash his lips with your own, mouth desperately seeking to combine your tastes into one sloppy, searing kiss.
You oblige instantly, opening up for him to take whatever he pleases.
He pushes you down onto the mattress, his imposing body slotting itself perfectly in between your open thighs.
He's about to join you on the bed when you break the kiss.
"Outside clothes," you grumble, sleepy and spent.
It tugs at his heartstrings, his mouth curling into a loving smile as he strips down to his boxers before slipping back into bed with you, pulling your body to nestle snugly against his.
"I'm sorry, baby," he kisses your temple, watching you settle into sleep beside him, completely oblivious to how he licks and cleans your skin before finally allowing himself to succumb to the darkness.
You're woken up by laughter.
Soft and airy, like a gust of wind rustling outside your window.
Your curtains are still drawn, only slivers of light peeking through into your room, the warmth from outside starting to become overwhelming as you toss the comforter aside.
You sit up with a start, memories from the night before crashing through you like a downpour.
You almost, almost could've pretended it had all been a dream. Almost, if not for the stickiness lingering between your thighs, for the Brendon sized dip in your mattress that he left behind.
It's impossible not to feel his lingering presence in your bed, the way the sheets molded to accommodate him, the way his woodsy scent mixed with hospital antiseptic lingers on the cotton.
Fuck!
You're so close to spiraling, to having your chest cave in from the pressure of guilt, but then you hear it again.
That laugh, like a tug, a spark, a lifeline.
School, you're supposed to up to help with drop-off today.
You're quick to dress, pulling on your sleep shorts, hastily forgoing underwear because you simply aren't thinking straight.
It's late, too late to be thinking instead of moving.
You burst into the kitchen, ready to hastily put together breakfast and Brendon's lunch when—
"Noooooo!" the toddler screams at you from her high chair. "Go back!”
You frown at her, moving slowly around the kitchen island to catch her dad, sweatpants low on his hips, topless for added effect, just finishing up at the stove.
Behind him, a plate with a mountain of pancakes, and beside it, a tray, decked out with cut fruit, a cup of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, even a cup with a little flower from the backyard.
He must see the flurry of emotions taking a hold of you, so he softens instantly.
"Morning," he steps forward slightly. "We were just coming to surprise you."
Your gaze snaps up to his, searching, panicked, overwhelmed and then...grateful.
Your cheeks heat up softly, not instantly, not rushed, just comfortable, safe, loved.
"I'm sorry bug," you lean over and plant a kiss on her head, unruly curls frizzy from sleep. "But now we can have breakfast together, yeah?"
She sighs, dramatically, before she turns to you, arms high up so that you'll pick her up.
You roll your eyes, obviously doing exactly what the princess wants.
You're about to walk out into the living room when you turn back to Brendon, the expression you manage to catch across his features just barely shy of adoration.
You've done this plenty of times before but it's never felt this...domestic. And you can't help how your stomach twists, how your heart blooms—you like this.
Breakfast continues on in that same way. Stolen glances, confusing feelings and an overly energetic toddler that get maple syrup over everything, especially her hair.
One rushed bath time later, you're putting her hair up into ponytail braids, her request, when his imposing frame slides up to lean against his daughter's open door, purple scrubs hugging his body deliciously.
"Ready to go, guppy?"
The kid nods, bashful, as she takes in the little hair clips in her hair, the beads from her ponytails.
"You look beautiful, trouble," you kiss her cheek and she responds by throwing herself around you, a hug so tight it melts you right into her.
"Thank you!"
"You're so welcome."
When she finally lets you go and runs towards her dad, you catch his stare through the mirror. It's...everything. Stormy, bright, hopeful, sorrowful, angry, pleading, you can't look away.
Later, he mouths. We'll talk.
You nod, shooting him a timid smile before he's being dragged out of the house.
Your brain is fuzzy for the next half hour, your movements slow and sluggish.
You focus on tidying up around the house, going through routine out of muscle memory. Cause the truth is, your mind is far away, stuck on the night before, on his lips, his fingers, his hot breath—
Jesus fuck you have got to get it together.
The postman comes through at the perfect time, envelopes snapping you out of inaction. You sort through them absentmindedly still—energy bill, invitation to the annual hospital gala, ortho research magazine, University of Pittsburg—
Your name.
His address.
Your heart constricts, your throat tightens.
Shaky fingers tear through the sticky adhesive, almost tearing the letter within its confines.
Rabid eyes scan the corporate jargon.
Final notice. Unable to push back start date another semester. Confirm attendance or forfeit spot. And then, a deadline.
Sink or swim.
Reality pounding at the door of your carefully crafted fantasy.
It all crumbles instantly.
You've grown attached, complacent, lost yourself as you found a new place, comfortable, easy, simple. You love your life, you love how easy it is to not have to think, to just do, to soak up the joy and the tantrums and the late nights and...
Him.
He's your fucking boss for crying out loud! He can't...he doesn't...you live in his house, you eat his food, you take care of his kid.
How can you take his money and be with him romantically?
You're taking advantage of him, this is so wrong, how could you ever do that to him? To them? To yourself?
But if you leave...if you leave you lose everything you've grown attached to, everything that makes up who you are now, everything—everyone—you love.
This isn't fair. This isn't how it's supposed to go. How could you have been so stupid to—
Your phone blares, a reminder alarm goes off, effectively cutting off your spiraling but only making you even more panicked.
You're late for pick up.
You don't remember much, just that you're driving a little more on edge than you usually are. The lunch traffic is easing down, luckily, but it's just a reminder that you're late.
The school calls, you tell them you're on your way.
He texts, you ignore it.
The green light turns red after you cross—
And it all goes dark.
You're so out of it that your name doesn't sound real.
There's overlapping voices, bright lights, too many hands touching your sweaty skin.
You try to push them off, try to close your eyes for them to be pulled open, try to complain but your throat is so dry nothing remotely close to words spill out.
You know where you are before the nurses have a chance to ease your discomfort.
You can't be here. Nope, not here, bad place to be cause he's here.
You try to get up the second they transfer you into a bed, even manage to sit before Langdon's hands are pulling you back down against the pillow.
"No, nope, none of that," he chides.
"Frank—" your voice sounds so broken it scares you.
"You're okay, let us take care of you," he stares deep into your eyes, his baby blues reminding you of the exact person you're desperate to avoid. "Please."
Before you can continue protesting, they drug you. Yeah, not their finest moment, not yours either. Lorazepam, just enough to calm you down, to finish their exam.
You're lucid, you think, just...softer. It's only then that your body comes back to you, the weight of your bones, the exhaustion in your muscles.
You don't complain again, only answer questions when they're asked.
You're fast tracked to CT, nothing abnormal though you definitely have a concussion. Your body is littered with little cuts and bruises from impact, apparently a motorcyclist who decided to accelerate to sixty without thinking twice. He's being treated at Westbridge so you'll know more later.
Now...now you're just a guilty, crying mess, injuries wrapped, IV almost done, waiting for an ortho consult because everyone in the ED knows you.
But he's not here yet.
It's been hours and he hasn't shown his face.
Logically, you know why.
He had to go pick her up when you didn't know. He had to call out of work because you weren't reliable, he had to—
The curtain is drawn and a child's voice says your name.
You can't help but burst into tears again, desperately trying to hide away, to brace yourself for the impact that follows her around.
But it only makes her more afraid, more distressed, and it breaks your heart.
With your eyes shut, tears streaking down your face, you don't see him, but you hear him.
Hear how he steps into the room, how he refrains from speaking your name, how he pulls the curtain closed again, how he picks up his kid and settles down on the stool beside your bed.
And then you feel tiny, cold hands press over your cheeks, gently poking at you until you break, calling out your name over and over and over until he says it.
Low and soft, pleading.
You open your eyes, a fresh waterfall dripping onto her fingers, causing her to recoil adorably.
"Yucky," she shivers, wiping your tears on her father's shirt.
That gets a laugh out of you.
"There she is," Brendon's voice is heavy, like the emotional weight has solidified into his body and is crushing over his chest.
You finally look up at him then, relinquishing your fears and staring directly into the place you know is both salvation and ruin.
"Well hello baby shark," Dana's signature snark breaks the moment. "Y'wanna come with me and let the boring grownups talk? I got apple sauce and crayons."
Wow she's so easy to lure away it's a wonder she's still in one piece. Well...who wouldn't be, with a dad like that and a nanny who would kill anyone that even thought about breathing near her with wrong intentions.
She winks at you and shoots a stern look at Brendon before leaving the two of you alone.
He doesn't even let the room settle before he's pouncing, lips on yours simply to prove to himself that you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're still here.
You can't stop crying, can't stop shaking, can't—
He shushes you gently, warm hands cupping your cheeks and wiping away the wetness as it falls.
You choke out a half-hearted laugh. "Not yucky?"
He smiles against your mouth, kissing you one last time before he pulls back to look at you.
"I was so worried," the confession is a mere whisper but it hangs thick in the room, suspended in a web of all the things you've both left unsaid. "When Dana called—" he chokes on a breath. "Fuck, sweetheart I almost—I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, I was resetting someone's fucking shoulder and..." he chuckles at the memory. "Almost made it worse."
"The great Brendon Park, almost ruined by one phone call," you try to joke, try to lighten the mood but...it's impossible. The way he stares at you, his gaze searing, his hands holding onto you as if he's afraid if he lets go you'll disappear—"Brendon."
"I know," he murmurs. "I'm sorry, we should've—I should've—"
You shake your head as much as the concussion will allow, your hands coming up to lace with his own.
"It's my fault," you sob. "I wasn't thinking—I...I got scared."
His brow furrows but he doesn't prod, doesn't force you to speak. He just waits, patiently, like you've seen him do plenty times before with a snotty, emotionally confused toddler.
So you take a steadying breath, grab his hand tighter, and tell him everything. The letter, your panic attack, your uncertainty, your fears, your...hopefulness.
It doesn't matter that your brain doesn't feel comfortable baring your soul to him, your heart does. With each word, the clutches of doubt and panic ease off, your grip lightening until you're unashamedly fiddling with his fingers, tracing lazy patterns over his skin like he...like he belongs to you.
He sits with your confession for a while, a few seconds turning into a few minutes but he doesn't pull away, doesn't make you feel unwanted. So you don't panic either, you just trace his nails with your fingers over and over and over agains until—
He lifts your hand up to his mouth and places a soft kiss onto your knuckles.
"What do you wanna do, baby?"
Baby, like it's simple. Baby, like it's normal. Baby, like you're his.
You search his eyes for malice, for a truth that you desperately need to push on him so that you can focus on a broken heart and not the overwhelming reality of choice, of making it work.
But all you find is patience, kindness, openness.
Fucking girl dad ortho bros that are emotionally intelligent—they're the worst.
You sigh, honest and raw. "I don't know. I just don't want to lose you."
He hums in understanding, rolling closer to the bed.
"I don't want to lose you either," he states, unflinching. "We can take this however you need, you can still live with us, you can..."
He trails off as he notices the hesitancy in your eyes.
"You don't want that?"
He doesn't say it maliciously, but it still sucker punches you all the same.
"I don't know...what about trouble? She's young but she's not stupid. I don't...I don't want her to think that I'm...that I don't love her because it's not the same—"
"She's a smart kid, she'll understand," he's too quick to catch your lie. "Now if you're afraid of things changing..." he catches your guilt flash through your eyes. "Then that's okay. We can go slow. We don't have to figure it all out right now."
You nod, accepting the easy way out.
One step at a time.
You can live with that.
Recovery is...boring as all hell.
The motorcycle guy lived, your insurance companies settled out of court, nothing to worry about according to Brendon who's been fussing over you for the past five days.
He's taken a temporary leave to nurse you back to health and "take care of his girls" as he put it, settling some stupid bet that the surgery department started a few days ago.
The little bug is practically glued to you, helping out her dad in whatever way she can, which isn't much, but it's always appreciated. She's even started reading you bedtime stories, but in truth she's just making things up as she points to the pictures.
At night, when she finally knocks herself out, Brendon settles into bed next to you, those first couple of days unable to get you into bed with him but finally, after much groaning and moaning, claiming he needed the extra room from his king for his back—which is a fucking lie since he always just sleeps tangled around you—he finally comes out victorious.
It's a Saturday when it happens.
No school, no early alarms, no nothing except his steady breathing, his safe embrace keeping you flush against his front, your leg straddled over his hip so that he can pull you in closer—
It's his own damn fault honestly.
You blink awake as a hardness pressed against your front. His heat pulls you in, your sleepy brain not thinking anything other than closer, warmer...so you roll your hips and a jolt of pleasure courses through you.
You're suddenly extremely aware of everything, frustration rearing its ugly head as memories flash from that night again.
You haven't touched yourself since then. Haven't wanted or been able to. But now, this morning you're just...very aware of how much you need it.
You roll your hips again, hoping to wake him up and have him take care of you. You can feel how much he needs it too, how much his body craves yours. If you can just—
"Baby," he groans against your temple, grip on you tightening, pulling you further into him. "What're you doing?"
You huff, desperate, sliding a hand in between your bodies and accidentally on purpose raking your nails along his length.
He hisses against your skin, question answered instantly as his eyes snap open.
"Oh sweetheart," he coos, merciful it seems. "Did you wake up needy, baby? Need me to take care of you?"
You nod, pathetically honestly, but you can’t care less.
He's got you sprawled under him in the blink of an eye, his mouth connecting with yours in a searing kiss before his lips begin to trail a path downward.
You're doing much better today. The cuts have scabbed over, the bruises are starting to fade from purple to brown, movement doesn't make you dizzy, if anything, it makes you just the right amount of lightheaded.
You feel his touch everywhere. Feather light grazes over your abdomen, nails raking up towards your breasts under his obnoxiously soft cotton t-shirt.
He removes his mouth off you so he can pull the shirt off your body, the offending fabric getting tossed to the side as his mouth latches onto your nipple.
You arch into his mouth, strangled moans escaping before his hand comes up to slide his fingers inside. He presses them against your tongue and you instantly suck on them as he too continues his assault.
When he's finally satisfied, he trails lower, hot tongue licking down your stomach until he reaches your pubic bone. His hand slips out from between your lips so he can hold your legs open for him before settling his mouth over your panties, taking a deep breath in and relishing in the way your breathing hitches.
Fuck he's so beautiful like this.
"Thank you baby," he grins against you. Fuck did you say that out loud?
He doesn't let you think on it as his mouth opens up, wide and predatory, and bites down on your mound, his tongue pressing against your clothed clit, working it through the fabric.
"Bren—please, I need—" you pant, already delirious.
"What do you need baby, tell daddy what you need."
Your head spins, heat blooms everywhere.
"Your mouth," you try, hoarse and needy. "Need your mouth."
He doesn't force you to beg, it's not the time for that. Instead, he shows you mercy, pulling your underwear to the side and diving right in.
His tongue is ravenous, licking a powerful stripe from your entrance up to your clit, groaning against your folds at the gathered wetness.
"So fucking good," he mumbles into your skin before his puffy lips latch onto your clit. He sucks and licks and pulls and tugs, all the while your body thrusts into his mouth. You almost hit him before his grip on your thighs tightens and he reminds you swiftly that he's much stronger than you.
You bite down on your tongue, hard enough to feel the sting, the faintness of copper lacing your taste buds. You know you have to be quiet but fuck do you want to scream.
"Bren fuck oh my god," you whimper, your hands threading through his soft waves, the lack of gel sending another shiver down your spine. No one else gets to see him like this.
He bites down on your clit then, pulling slightly before he slides down again, his nose perfectly hitting your bundle of nerves as his tongue and mouth fuck your entrance.
He feels you cumming before you even know what's happening, the coil in your abdomen snapping without even giving you a heads up. Your hands come up to muffle your screams while your body rocks, a tidal wave crashing through you as he does his best to hold you down, to work you through it.
He's gentle, diligent, devout almost as his mouth continues to kiss and lick and suck until you twitch from overstimulation. Only then does he detach himself from you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your release.
You look at him with the most gleeful expression, so proud of yourself, of his smugness.
He settles in between your legs again, pulling them tight around his waist, just reveling in being able to hold you against his naked front.
You're so blissed out, grateful and happy, planting your lips over every inch of skin he'll let you. But you're greedy now, you need more, want more.
You press your front against the bulge in his sweats and he hisses.
"We don't have to—"
"I want to," you kiss him again, your lingering taste euphoric. "Please."
You don't need to tell him twice. He rolls over towards his bedside table instantly, pulling out a silver wrapper and discarding his pants in what feels like seconds.
You can't help but giggle, the boyish smile on his lips and the way his cheeks tinge pink quickly sending you into overdrive.
You need this man inside of you right now.
You watch in awe as he tears the wrapper with his teeth, rolling on the slick condom over his impressive length.
Yeah, he's perfect, and he's yours, there's not a shred of doubt in your mind. You don't know how everything will fall into place but you don't have to, because you'll figure it out together.
He settles in between your thighs again, his chest pressing down against yours, desperate to be as close to you as possible before he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly thrusts himself inside.
You're wet enough that with the lube, he slides right in, your ass flush with his thighs in a dizzying, all consuming instant. He's perfectly snug, fitting so perfectly inside of you that neither of you can help the moan of satisfaction that spills.
It quickly turns into a fit of laughter, easy and shy, like you're both making love instead of having sex. And that just feels right.
He kisses you softly, tentatively, letting you get used to him before he begins to move. But you're impatient, your hips rolling on their own as you seek some friction.
He groans into your mouth. "Fuck baby, trying to kill me."
You smirk against his kiss, cocky for exactly three seconds before he meets your movement with a thrust of his hips. With the air getting knocked out of your lungs, he begins to move, slow and unhurried, all the way out before he thrusts right back to the hilt.
You hold onto him like your life depends on it, pressing further into his skin, his warmth, his safety. You can't get enough of him, of the excitement of tomorrow, of the need that comes from wanting nothing more than to be close to him.
"Such a good girl for me," he praises into your ear. "Letting me take care of you, only complaining a couple times."
You huff out a laugh, remembering the first time he'd helped you to the bathroom and then waited imposingly on the other side of the door until you were done. He's lucky he never tried to get in with you otherwise you would've hit him.
His thrusts pick up the pace in response.
"Let me take care of you, baby," he pleads then. "Whatever you decide, let me help you, please."
You blink back tears, nodding against his cheek, nails digging into his chiseled back.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you moan. "Please daddy—"
You don't get to finish as he groans, hoisting your bottom half off the bed as his mercifulness finally snaps.
He fucks into you like he needs to show you just how much your words affect him. The bed rattles, the mattress squeaks awkwardly but neither of you cares. You need this, need each other.
"Come on, pretty girl," he pants. "Cum with me, cum with daddy."
You're just as affected as him, your second peak slowly but surely sneaking up on you again as he sneaks a hand in between your bodies, pressing the pad of his thumb over your clit.
You clench around him and he hisses, leaning down to capture your lips with his in a searing kiss as warmth floods you both. Your moans get tangled in between hungry tongues and teeth, your bodies vibrate against each other in bursts of pleasure and care and...love.
You're unsure how long you're stuck there, in between real life and whatever the fuck you're feeling, but finally when your body pushes him out of you, he rolls over and goes into the bathroom.
You watch him through hazy eyes as he cleans himself up, his adonis like body always such a sight to gaze upon. He blushes crimson when he catches you watching him, the apex predator reduced to a blubbering mess by just one simple look.
But it's not simple, and you both know that.
Pride swells up in your chest as he runs a wet towel in between your legs, leaning down to kiss you over and over again before he finally deigns the day worthy enough to begin, or rather, three soft knocks on his bedroom door startle you back into reality.
"Can we have ice cream for breakfast?"
You roll your eyes, sharing a glance with him that warms your heart.
Yeah, you're gonna be alright.
a/n: thank you to everyone that participated in the poll! hope this is to your satisfaction
dividers by @/enchanthings
summary: you and jack get a little distracted on your way to breakfast and somehow, someway end up beneath his sheets
warnings: smut
notes: part 5 eek! i hope this satisfies the sgtmd itch. my tags are closed for now until i find a better way of doing it lol
part 1! part 2! part 3! part 4!
masterlist 𓊔 request
“Are you doing anything after work today?” Jack tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.
His eyes are so soft, so intense as they take you in. It’s really a wonder how he manages to do it. To be so sweet and so sexy all at once.
“No,” you reply softly, meeting his stare.
“Get breakfast with me.” It’s not a question, somehow.
Still you nod, swallowing hard. Even after being here for a couple of weeks, he still makes you so nervous. He probably always will, really.
“That sounds nice.” Your eyes fall to his mouth and up again. “I’ll come get you when I’m done with these charts.”
His lips meet your temple, press a soft kiss there, and then he’s back off to go treat someone somewhere.
---
Two hours later, you’re slinging your backpack over your shoulder. You’re in the casual post-work clothes you packed for yourself this morning, not knowing you’d be leaving with Jack or going to breakfast.
Still, you packed something cute enough. It’s fun to play with him-- walking out of the locker room in a low-cut shirt or a scandalous pair of shorts was always sure to fluster him enough that you’d get a sexy text within minutes.
Today, it’s your favorite pair of jeans and a plain white tee that hung cutely off your shoulder to reveal the strap of a red bra that he bought for you once upon a time when he was still SgtMD and you were still just a girl on a computer screen.
You’re not surprised to see him talking to Robby near the locker room entrance.
His eyes catch yours and he waves you over. As soon as you’re at his side, he’s slinging an arm around your waist and kissing the top of your head. Embracing you like you’ve established something deep and familiar here.
It exists, in a way. There’s history between you, strong enough to have escalated this bond faster than it would’ve otherwise. Honestly, you wished your schedules lined up more. This was only your fourth or fifth shift with him in two weeks.
“Ready to go?” Having all his attention on you in the presence of Robby is so, so intimidating and so, so sexy.
You nod, yawning and letting your head roll onto his shoulder. A low chuckle rumbles his chest, and you think you could sleep to the sound of it.
Making him laugh is so ugh.
It’s unreal, truly.
“You two have fun.” Robby shakes his head in disbelief.
“Have a good day,” you reply with a shy grin. Jack nods.
He takes your hand in his, and you notice that he changed, too. He’s wearing a clean black shirt and a pair of blue jeans that you’re surprised look so loose around his strong legs.
“You look nice,” you tell him as you both step into the fresh morning air. “I like those jeans.”
That puts a little smirk on his lips. His eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that drives you absolutely mad.
“Thanks, doll.” He squeezes your hand in his. “There’s a diner a block from here that has anything you can think of. I think you’ll like it.”
“Perfect.” You lay your head on his arm as you walk to his car. “I’d say we can walk the block, but my feet are killing me.”
He cackles at that, to which you frown. It wasn’t that funny. Really, it wasn’t a joke at all. Your feet hurt like hell.
“What? Sergeant Abbot doesn’t get sore after a shift?” You bump his shoulder.
He only laughs louder. Deep smile lines are etched around his eyes and mouth, curving handsomely.
“Oh, sweetheart. You’ve got no idea.” He rubs a hand over his face. “God, ha! It’s my fault, I guess I never said anything.”
He’s still chuckling. It’s very easily the most tickled you’ve ever seen him by anything. That’s saying a lot considering the types of patients he sees on shift.
“Said anything about what?” You’re feeling a little out of the loop.
When you reach his truck, you don’t notice that he’s parked in an accessible spot. You’re too focused on keeping your feet moving despite the ache in your heels. With a cheeky grin, Jack opens the passenger door for you. Just as you’re about to ask for a little insight, he’s propping his leg up on the running board. He tugs the end of his pant leg up over his shoe to reveal his prosthetic leg.
It starts right below his knee, a black, metal shin that continues down until his shoe begins.
Suddenly, all the little things come flooding back in.
The way he sways in place. How he starts rubbing his leg each time he moves from standing to sitting. The way he never responds when you nudge his foot each time someone says something ridiculous.
All you can do is put your head in your hands and giggle, because how on earth have you both gone this long without mentioning it?
“How has this never come up?” You look at his face and admire the wide smile he’s wearing. God, he’s handsome. For a fleeting moment, you picture a life with him. A baby with those big hazel eyes and red curls. Freckles on their skin as they grow up and take after their father. Fearless and smart and confident like him, too.
He notices your smile falter as your stare falls to his lips. Your own lips part just slightly, and his eyes track the movement.
There’s no more fresh air. No, this air is thick with tension now, clouded with deep desire as you both share shallow breaths in the gap between you.
“Jack,” you whisper.
“Sweet girl.” He’s stepping up on the running board now. His hand finds your hip and pushes you down to the driver’s side of the bench seat. As soon as you’re out of his way, he’s climbing into the spot you just occupied and slamming the door shut behind him.
His lips meet yours hot and fast. He’s swallowing every whimper, every moan, every breath you take like it’s fuel to him. One hand finds your side and grips it roughly, squeezing your skin hard. The other winds under your shirt behind your back, pulling you closer until you’re straddling his lap.
“So perfect,” he murmurs as his palms rub down your sides. They find purchase along your spine, pulling you impossibly closer as his mouth connects with yours again.
Your tongue prods at his mouth and he lets you in easily, lips moving languidly against yours. Doing this here, in the hospital parking lot, feels forbidden.
But it can’t be any worse than fucking on the roof or in the confessional.
You part from his mouth and trail hot kisses across his jawline. Stubble burns your chin, cheeks, and nose as you press yourself into his skin. Salty sweat tingles on your tongue as you lap at his pulse point.
Pure sex is the only adjective to properly describe the sounds he’s making as you continue. When you take his earlobe between your teeth, his hips buck up into you. It makes your breath hitch, and you accidentally bite down a little harder on him in surprise.
“Get off,” he orders, and before you have time to register the words, he’s already lifting you up by the hips and setting you next to him. “Seatbelt on.”
Again, he’s doing it for you before you can say anything.
“J-- fuck, Jack, I’m so sorry,” you say breathlessly. Turning, you reach for his head, trying to look at where you just bit him. “I didn’t mean to hurt y-”
“Didn’t hurt me, baby. Need more, not here. My house.” With an arm across the back of the seat, he’s reversing out of his spot and peeling out of the parking lot. Not a moment later, his palm rests on your thigh and he squeezes hard.
“Your house?” You look up at him next to you.
At the red light, his eyes find your pretty face. You’re all kiss-bitten and warm. The way you’re staring up at him like he’s the moon and stars breaks something in him. His dick is harder than it’s ever been. His heart is working more than it ever has because looking at you feels like having everything he’s ever wanted or needed right in the palm of his hand.
“It’s not far, sweetheart.” His lips find yours for a moment that’s too brief before the car behind him honks. By the time he’s crossing the intersection, it’s already turning back to yellow.
As he focuses on the road ahead, you take all of him in.
He looks fucking hot. His backpack is discarded at your feet along with your own. His shoes are practical, which probably has more to do with his age than it does his condition. His jeans fit him so fucking nicely, and as you observe their pull, you think again of how ridiculously little you know about Jack Abbot.
Fucking a man twice and never noticing that he’s a missing leg? What kind of camgirl-resident-fuck-buddy are you?
When you catch sight of the tent in your pants, you’re reminded of exactly what distracted you both those times. He’s huge. Now, his pants are so strained over his lap that you worry they’re going to burst.
So, you palm his erection over his jeans with one hand. He hisses, instinctively gripping you by the hair to keep you from continuing. Still, he doesn’t move you, so you continue to unbutton his jeans and then tug his zipper down.
A long, heavy sigh falls from his lips as you give him that relief.
His cock twitches in his underwear.
For the moment, he’s unable to resist. Unable to focus on you and deny himself pleasure because he wants to treat you. You’re able to have your fun with him.
Lowering your body, you stop when your face meets his crotch. You feel his body tense as he holds his breath. Instead of giving him what he wants, you press a barely-there kiss to his cock through his thin briefs. Hissing, he wraps your hair around his fist again, keeping tension on your neck.
Obeying, you let him pull you back up in your seat. As soon as you’re up, you’re unhooking your bra behind your back, pulling it through the sleeve of your shirt to hang on his rearview mirror.
“Looks pretty right there,” you say sweetly.
“Stop,” he groans, unable to help himself. He yanks the car off the side of the road and for a moment you think he’s pulled over randomly. “Get out of the car.”
Finally peeling your eyes off of him, you notice that you’re in a driveway. His, presumably.
The house at the end of it is nice. It’s a newer red-brick with a big garage and a big oak tree in the front.
As you bend to grab your bag, Jack tsks.
“I got it, c’mere, baby.” He slings both backpacks over his shoulder and steps out of the car with his jeans undone and showcasing his erection for the whole damn neighborhood to see.
Like he asks, you slide down to his side of the cab and move to get out. A squeal leaves your mouth as Jack bends down and lifts you from the seat. Immediately, your legs wind around his body. You close the door behind you and let him carry you and your bag inside while you giggle in his ear because this is fun.
“So strong,” you praise, peppering kisses along the side of his face. He grins, giving you access to kiss his pretty dimples. “Mm, so handsome, too. Lucky gal I am.”
At that, he blows a breath.
His front door has a code, not a key, and he pads it in easily with his free hand. It’s hard to believe that he only needs one to hold you. It’s nothing to do with how much you weigh, and everything to do with how fucking ripped he is.
“Welcome in,” he says coyly as he carries you over the threshold and into his home.
You don’t have time to take anything in before he’s pressing you against his front door and pulling your shirt over your head to reveal your bare chest. At the feeling of his cool AC, your nipples peak, and Jack wastes no time pinching them between his forefinger and thumb.
You finish your earlier work and slide his jeans down to the floor, then connect your mouth to his while he continues toying with your nipples. Pleasure washes over you and you moan deep into his mouth. Hands strike forward to tug at his shirt, and he pulls back for only a moment to pull it over his head.
Then, he’s kissing you again. Though now, his fingers leave your breasts. They travel further down your body, teasing the soft skin at your sides, at your waist. His hands are big and rough and so fucking warm.
His lips leave yours and instead find purchase on your jaw, then your neck, and then between your breasts, down your stomach, and to the waistband of your jeans. He undoes the button, pressing a kiss to the skin he’s revealed. Then the zipper slides down, and he’s trailing kisses over the front of your panties while you writhe and whine above him.
When he pulls your jeans off, he takes the panties with them, leaving you stark naked just beyond his front door. He’s knelt on the ground, untying your shoes painfully slowly. Impatiently, you step out of them without untying them and kneel next to him, taking his face in your hands and pressing another searing kiss to his mouth.
“Don’t wanna wait,” you moan against his lips. “Want to feel you.”
His responding groan is gutteral, like it’s escaped from his chest and he’s had no say in the matter. He nods, still kissing you, and runs a hand through your hair.
“Whatever you want, baby,” he says softly, placing a kiss between your eyebrows.
You raise yourself to your feet and lend a hand to Jack, who has a trickier time finding his way back on two feet. As soon as he’s up, you wrap your arms around his neck and lean in for what must be the thousandth kiss. He’s quick to lift you, one hand gripping the back of your thigh while he uses the other to hold the back of your neck, keeping your mouth to his.
Whatever route he takes to his bedroom is quick, and you’re being laid out onto his bed before you realize you’ve even entered another room.
You’re laying there while Jack peels his boxers down, letting them hit the floor before settling next to you. Once he’s on the mattress, you take what you want.
A hand finds your breast again as you sit up and straddle his waist. Without dramatics, you fist his cock a few times before running it through your folds, letting your own arousal slicken him before lining his head up with your entrance and sinking down all at once.
“Fuck.” Jack throws his head back, both of his hands now gripping your waist too tightly. “Oh fuck you feel so good, sweetheart.”
He mutters a few more fucks as you slowly roll your hips back and forth, trying to accommodate to his size. After a few times, Jack’s hands release their vice grip and move to pull you down into a kiss.
It makes him move inside of you, and you both end up gasping into each other’s mouths. The sensation is so erotic, so charged that you begin to feel lightheaded.
“Jack,” you moan as he thrusts his hips up into you.
He hums, kissing you slowly while he does it again. His hand reaches up to find your nipple and he rolls it between his fingers. You whine against his mouth and feel him grin in return.
“You sound so pretty.” He leans back, head and shoulders propped against a stack of pillows so he has a better view of you riding his cock.
Just the sight of him makes you so fucking wet.
With a little effort, you raise your hips up and drop them back down onto him, watching as he inhales sharply. On the next bounce, he takes his lips between his teeth and lets his eyes roam over your body, hands roaming to touch every inch of you.
Then you get more comfortable. Your motions get faster, hips moving higher and coming down harder until the both of you are panting hard and you have to stop.
As soon as you do, Jack winds a hand into the back of your hair and pulls your face to meet his.
“Do you have any idea how fucking good you look?” He kisses a bead of sweat rolling from your hairline. “You’re so fucking sexy. I love getting to look at you while you take me.”
“Yeah?” You exhale a heavy breath, lips parted as you recover from that set.
“All I’ve thought about for three fuckin’ years and it’s so much better than I imagined.” His head rolls back onto the pillow and he gives you a lazy grin.
“You can’t just say that,” you whine, sitting up and placing both hands on his chest to look at him. His dick twitches inside of you and your hips roll back without thinking.
“Which part?” That cocky fucking grin tells you that he knows exactly which part.
“Jack, fuck.” A shaky laugh leaves your lips as you realize how fucking gone you are for the man inside of you.
“I know you thought about it too.” He pushes a piece of hair behind your ear, and then his eyes shift to yours and trap you in a gaze that feels just a little mean. “Making me a birthday cake. Keeping me as your only client. I know what that all means.”
“Oh yeah?” You raise your eyebrows, shifting your hips to try and break his cocky facade. “Tell me then. What was I thinking, Sarge?”
He chuckles under his breath, reaching out to hold your waist and keep you still.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Is that an order, Sarge?” You challenge, feeling emboldened by the sight of his throat bobbing. Beneath your touch, his stomach tightens and relaxes.
“You take orders now?” He tries to be just as unaffected, but his voice is tense.
“Oh, I’ve always taken orders from you. And I don’t plan on that changing anytime soon.” Slowly you bend at the hips, stopping just before your lips brush his.
“Oh, yeah?” His nose brushes yours.
“Yeah.”
He’s the one to close the distance, instantly shoving his tongue into your mouth to kiss you hard. His hands stay on your hips, holding them still while he starts to thrust himself up inside of you over and over and over.
His pace is steady, but his dick is punishing. It’s thick and long and makes you feel so full that you think you might just burst at the seams. Little pants are exchanged from his mouth to yours and from yours to his as you both melt into one another.
As soon as he starts going faster, your head falls into his shoulder, a little grunt coming from your throat at how fucking overwhelming it feels to be this aroused. Tension builds low in your stomach and Jack must sense it, because he manages to hold you up with one hand while the other begins to rub at your clit expertly, like he’s studied exactly what makes you finish.
And fuck you do.
It happens all at once, a knot bursting in your stomach and leaking down the inside of your thighs and onto Jack’s dick.
“Inside of me, please,” you whine desperately as he begins to groan louder.
“Huh?” It’s half-question, half-grunt.
“Cum inside me, Jack. Please cum inside me I need-”
You’re interrupted by his shaky inhale, desperate pants, and vice grip on your skin as his hips slam into you hard. His entire body is wound up, tensed to showcase every muscle, every dimple and divot in his perfect skin.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.” He lays a sloppy kiss to your shoulder and pulls you down on top of him, where you both spend the next hour sleeping the morning away, limbs tangled, sheets dirtied, and hearts beating as one.
hellooo, first of all I wanted to say congrats for your 3k (almost 3.5k :p) you really deserve it I think you’re an amazing writer <333 and I wanted to request for the perfect match event sammy bryant x reader with the n° 59 in the 75 smut prompts list, I was thinking about something fluffy (and smutty ofc) with reader and sammy who have being dating for a bit after his divorce and yeah it’s just his raging breeding kink speaking gotta love baby trapper sammy but that’s just an idea wtv inspires you really (:
— not gonna lie…i forgot about the fluffy part + idk how i feel about this but i hope you enjoy!
You and Sammy have been fucking like bunnies ever since getting together. He hadn’t been getting much from Tammi before their divorce besides the attempts at making Nate. Now that he’s a free man and has you, he’s a bit insatiable. So when you’re in the midst of a heavy make out session (probably about your 5th this week) and he reaches over to his nightstand drawer to find the box of condoms he bought a week and a half ago empty. Neither of you are all that surprised.
“Fuck honey, we’re out” he mumbles against your mouth, not wanting to pull away and put an end to this. He has you laid out under him on his bed, half your clothes already discarded to the floor, him still fairly dressed so you suggest — “Could go out and get more?” but when Sammy presses his hips forward and practically grinds his bulge against your pussy through your panties you get his point. “Too worked up to go, ‘n don’t wanna stop kissing you sweet girl” he groans, hands returning to your hips, thumbs sliding under the waist band of your panties to rub back and forth.
"I promise I'll pull out." he grumbles out, his hips now desperately rutting his cock up against the wet patch forming between your thighs. “Mmm fuck…okay” you whine out, caving a little faster than you expected too. “Yes?, oh thank you baby” he smiles softly, kissing you with more fever as you hear the clink of his belt. “Thank you thank you” he blabbles out as he licks into your mouth, hands frantically trying to tug his cock free. Your own hands works at stripping your panties off your legs before they rake through his auburn curls, “We’ll just buy more tomorrow morning” you state, Sammy tries to ignore the ache in his chest knowing after getting to feel you bare this time the next his cock will be back to being trapped in latex. “Okay honey, yeah yeah we’ll get more” if sammy conveniently forgets to buy more who’s to say.
Finally getting his pants and boxers pushed down enough to release his throbbing cock, he’s quick to grab your body again and push all the way inside not wanting to waste a moment. “Shit- feels s’ good honey” he moans out in a pathetic high pitched tone. Pulling his hips back, they snap forward harshly and setting a frantic eager pace. The feeling of your walls squeezing his cock far more intense without that thin layer between your sexes. “Samm! Baby slow down” you cry out, grabbing onto his bicep for stability as his brutal thrusts rock your body.
“Can’t- fuck you feel s’ damn good raw baby” he whines, his eyes screwing shut as his orgasm hits him dead on. You gasp out as you feel him spill ropes and ropes of cum inside you. “Said you’d pull out” you pant breathlessly, the only upside to him finishing pathetically quick was his hips slow down.
"I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself." “Felt too good” he mumbles out a bit ashamed, his thrusts haven't stopped. Subconsciously he hopes he’s fucking his seed deeper and deeper inside you as he bucks his hips.. “S’ okay baby, should we-” you were gonna ask if you should stop, even if you hadn’t cum at all. Sammy cuts you off however, thumb rubbing at your clit down as his hips speed back up "It won't make a difference now, just one more, yeah?" he huffs out but before you can answer he’s jack hammering into you and making your head spin. “Yeah sweet girl?”
We need to spread the Terry agenda. So what do you think about Dbf! Terry pulls you over and you begging him not to tell your dad about this… you’ll do anything. 🥺 (make it as smutty as you like bestie)
OHHHH YES DBF! TERRY
wow this is so much longer than i expected it would be i really took that and ran, i had a lot of fun writing this hopefully you all have a good time reading it too <3
1.8k words cw: manipulation, power dynamic, age gap (but i dont really go into detail about it, just that hes dbf), coercion/dubcon? (he makes you do stuff so he wont write a ticket) hand cuffs, sir kink, car sex, praise kink, oral (reader receiving), p in v unprotected sex, manhandling, lmk if i missed any!
You are driving down an empty road in at night, you knew you should've left your friend's house earlier, but everyone was having so much fun and you had fomo.
Suddenly, there are a pair of headlights behind you, you don't know whether to celebrate or be worried, but you stop thinking about that as soon as you hear the sirens go off and the red and blue is flashing in your rear-view mirror.
fuck you didn't think you were speeding but maybe you were going a little fast since you just wanted to get home
You pull over to the right and sit there anxiously trying to figure out how to get out of this, because you called your dad saying you were home safe 3 hours ago, he can't find out you were stopped by another cop.
You are shocked out of your thoughts when you are blinded by a flashlight knock at your window and a flashlight in your face You roll the window down and fuuuuck its terry, there's no way your dad isn't finding out now, what kind of shit luck are you having tonight?
You don't know him too well, you've seen him come at your dad's house when he hosted barbeques and seen him a few times while visiting the station, but you try to remain calm and play it cool, "hi officer Terry, what seems to be the problem?"
"oh, its you, you aware you were going 20 over the speed limit, and what're you doing out this late, hun? should be at home in bed by now"
20 over? theres no way you were going that fast, shit you're gonna be in real trouble with your dad
"no officer i had no idea, i'm so sorry i was just trying to get home quickly, please dont give me a ticket, you know how my dad is, he'll kill me"
"20 over is pretty serious sweetheart i don't think i can just let ya' off with a warnin'"
"please, terry just this once, i'm begging you, i'd do anything"
"anything, huh?" he asks raising his eyebrows.
"yes, anything" you look up at him with big hopefully eyes and he knows he's got you in his trap
"alright, deal, step outta the car" he uses his flashlight to point to where he wants you. You open your door and step out with your back to the side of your car, as he stands in front of you.
"now kiss me"
"what?" is he serious?
"you heard me sweetheart, you said you'd do anything didn't ya?"
Slowly nodding, eyes drifting to his lips, you hesitate a little but lean in to press a kiss on to his lips. it couldn't be so bad right? you can just give him a kiss and then he will let you go and everything will be fine
Boy were you wrong, as soon as your lips make contact with his, he's pushing you against your car and deepening the kiss forcing you to whimper against his mouth.
One of his hands is gripping your chin and the other is running up and down your waist. When he finally pulls off and lets you breathe, you are immediately flipped around and press your front to the car, then feel cold metal around your wrists.
"wha- what are you doing?"
"you said you'd do anything, so that means I can do anything i want to ya, right?" he leans in by your ear, "'you don't want me to write up that ticket do ya?"
what the hell is happening, there's no way this is happening right now, but its either this or your dad's wrath, you always thought he looked good for his age and his arms wer-
"i ask you a question sweetheart"
"no, don't write that ticket"
"s'cuse you?"
"please don't write that ticket, sir"
"uh huh, that's what i thought, now walk to my car"
You get to his cruiser, and he opens the back door, "get in, on your knees, face on the seat"
With your hands still cuffed behind your back, you manage to climb into the car with your ass facing him, he climbs in behind you and runs his hands from your waist down to your thighs.
You feel him bring a hand up between your legs as he rubs his fingers backs and forth making you twitch and grind on to his hand.
"oh, so eager now that you're starting to feel good?
You turn your head to the side to look at his face and whisper out "yes, sir"
"jus' pretendin' you didn't want me earlier, huh?" he dips a hand beneath your waist band of your sweats and panties, touching your bare pussy, "fuck, you're already drippin' for me"
He pulls out and brings his fingers to his mouth "mmm, taste even better than I imagined"
he's thought about this? wasn't this something he came up with spur of the moment?
He hooks his thumbs into your sweats and panties and pull them down at once, his tongue is immediately on you, licking a stripe from your clit to your weeping hole. The sudden pleasure making you moan and squirm away from him.
He grabs you by the thighs and pulls you back toward him, "ah-ah, don't try runnin' from me, hun"
Then his mouth is back on you and fuck it feels so good, you don't know why but you just give in. Your arms are straining against the cuffs, you're moaning into the seat and can't that you are grinding into his face, which only makes him hum and start rubbing your clit with his thumb as he pushes his tongue inside you/
"oh my god- hngg, pl-please"
"please what, huh?, what're you beggin' for sweetheart?"
"please make me cum sir" you whine out.
He plunges two fingers inside and starts sucking on your clit and it's all just so much you cum right then, twitching and moaning with your arms still bound, on your dad's best friend's face and fingers.
god this is so humiliating, theres no way you can attend your dad's parties anymore
He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on your ass, before giving your clit a little kiss as your body slumps even deeper into the seat. You only get a few breaths in before Terry is hauling you upright by the arms, he positions you on your knees, straddling his muscular thighs, and kisses you hard, you taste yourself on his tongue and whimper into his mouth.
"now you're gonna ride me, baby" he growls, smirking at you with lust filled eyes as he pulls out his rock hard cock.
Your eyes widen at the sight of it, he's so big and girthy and already leaking precum, you don't know if he's going to fit. Not to mention you can barely hold yourself up and your legs feel like jelly right now. You feel dizzy even imagining it inside you.
"c'mon sweetheart, i know you can do it, i'll even help ya, jus' lift your hips for me, justtttt like that" he rubs the tip through your folds sending jolts all over your body. Then he sinks the tip inside you, "already takin' me so well, huh? squeezing me so tight"
He barely gives you a second to adjust and he's pulling you down further onto his cock.
"fuck, you're so big, sir, feels so good" your mouth is moving faster than your brain because you can't believe you just said that or that this is even happening.
When you have finally sunken down all the way, you just feel so full it forces out a moan. He drags you back and forth on his cock, then lifts you by the hips and slams you back down. He's hitting all the right spots inside you, your mind just goes blank for a second.
"come back to me, hun" he says as he taps on your cheek, "there ya go, i gotcha" he just continues manhandling you onto his cock. You cum so fast because you are still sensitive from when you came on his tongue, but he's still using you while you squirm in his grasp which just makes him grip you harder. It feels like forever until you finally feel his cock twitching inside and he pulls out of you, jerking himself off and groaning as he cums all over your thighs.
You collapse onto his chest as soon as he's done, and he reaches around you to undo your cuffs. Your arms fall by your sides and he goes to kiss your neck but it was so unexpectedly gentle. He lifts your face by your chin, pressing sweet kisses onto your cheeks and lips. "so perfect for me, sweetheart" you can only hum in response. He holds you there for a bit then admits "been thinkin' 'bout this since your old man's Christmas get together y'know that? jus' knew i had to get my hands on you"
starting to come back into your mind and comprehending what he just said you remember the ticket, "so this was your plan? go on a search for me and hope im speeding so you can black mail me?" you ask half jokingly.
"wellll sorta, plan was just to pull you over, you weren't actually speeding, you were actually drivin' the exact speed limit, kinda impressive actually"
this motherfucker "WHAT THE FUCK TERRY?" you yell punching him in the shoulder lightly, "what was all this for then!?"
"well you enjoyed it didn't ya, you were beggin' me n everything, i certainly enjoyed it" he said with that stupid smirk on his face, and all you can do is hide your face in his chest.
"c'mon, ill get you some wipes then you can put your pants back on, you think you can drive? i'll escort you home"
"mhmm mkay" you nod and climb off of him. Once you get all cleaned up, at least as much as you could at this point, and gotten dressed again you started heading for your car. Terry calls you back and hands you a card, "my number's on here, gimme a call if you need anythin' i know goin' to your old man can be tough, or if ya ever catch yourself speedin' and wanna self report if ya know what i mean", that dumb smirk is back on his face.
You stick the card in your pocket and walk to your car, as promised he gets you home safely and waits for you to get inside before driving off. You collapse onto your couch and contemplate life and what led you to that moment, then pull out that card. Oh you are definitely making that call.
content warning ♪ – fauxcest/stepcest or smtg idk yall, allusions to smut (fem!oral specifically), alcohol (beer), mention of toxic parents, you and wade have known eachother for a while ♪ NOT PROOFREAD ♪
word count ♪ – 0.6k
della's note ♪ – got a little inspired by @s4ngel 's stepverse and wrote this in 25 minutes. no i have not finished hart of dixie but u cannot tell me he isnt cousin-coded...
MORE UNDER THE CUT – MINORS DNI </3
Cousin!Wade is your best friend. You've known him for so long, and you think he’s the coolest guy ever. He's a little bit of an asshole, but never to you—he treats you like a princess. He's a bartender, he plays the guitar, and when you're hanging, he lets you do anything you please. His place is like a haven. Whenever you needed a break from your bickering parents, you'd slip out the front door and make your way to the mayor's property, where Wade lived. Wade was always waiting there for you with open arms, a beer, and a kiss on the forehead. But…when you guys get a little too tipsy, you lose all agency. The usual closeness you’re comfortable with feels heated; the loose arm that’s wrapped around your waist makes you feel a little dizzy. You clear your throat and pull yourself out of his arms. Wade would notice, of course. “What’s the matter, kid?” His words are slightly melted together by the beer, just like yours. “Nothin’, Wade. I think I drank a little too much…” It’s the partial truth. The amount of alcohol in your system is an issue, but that’s not why you’re acting the way you are—at least you don’t think so.
Wade would always reply with the same thing: “C’mon then. Let’s get you in bed.” Normally, that’s one of the last things you say to someone before sleep parts the time you spend together awake, but not with you and Wade. You guys were different. He’d drag you into his room, tuck you into his bed, and lie beside you. You’re always facing each other. The rough pads of his fingertips drag down your cheeks slowly while a drunken smile bends on his lips. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen…” Your heart rate quickens at the sentiment and the warmth between your thighs grows. Wade sees them squeeze together and gives you an all too familiar look. “Want me to take care of you? Y’know I always know how to,” he’d whisper, dragging his hand down from your cheek to your arm and across your thigh.
“Y-you don’t have to. I’m alright,” you reply, throat clenching harshly as you look into his eyes. “Now, you know better than to lie to me. I know you better than anyone else.” He begins, sliding his thick fingers between your legs, parting them with one hand. There’s no resistance from you; you know how this always ends. “…just let me help you, sweetheart.” You give in like you always do, nodding gently at his advances. He calls you a smart girl, his voice dropping to that low tone you love, before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It’s no secret that what you’re doing is bad—you’re not stupid. You know that if this were to get out, the people of Bluebell would burn you two at the stake. Yet, you push that thought to the side and focus on the pleasure that somehow makes it worth it.
Wade kisses down your body, leaving prickly goosebumps under each inch of your skin his lips touch. Once he’s between your thighs, a deep sigh comes from his lungs, like he’s been waiting for it all along. Pulling apart your legs is a treat for him, all of it is. The way your brows draw together, how your pretty little fingers twitch by your sides, the softness of your skin. The skirt of your dress gives him easy access to relieve your tension. A chuckle leaves his lips when he gets a look at the mess seeping through your floral panties. “Jesus Christ…Is this my fault, angel? Did I get you like this?” he asks, words taut with mock sympathy. You hum out a shaky, “Mhm,” in response. You gasp when his lips meet the wet patch, putting your arousal on display. “S’okay. I’ll make it all better like I always do.”
getting dad!robby all worked up when you come home from college.
or robby gets caught being a nasty pervert (hurt kinda, no comfort but he does jerk off so that's something)
the sweet, innocent girl who went off to college in september is not the same girl who came back for the holidays, robby’s sure of this. when you went away you were all soft smiles, warm hugs and big jumpers. the girl who came back is all eye rolls, bratty huffs and tiny little skirts.
robby loves his daughter more than anything in the world, you’d always been daddy’s girl growing up, always dutifully doing everything he asked without complaint, never talked back, never questioned him.
and he still loves you, but god, were you making it difficult. the two of you had never fought a day in your lives until you came back from college, now it seems there’s an argument everyday, usually about what you’re wearing. robby didn’t appreciate the way you’d walk around the house in tiny pajama shorts and practically sheer tank tops…well, he did, though not in the way he’s supposed to.
that’s what killed him the most. it wasn’t that you were wearing that stuff, you’re a grown woman, you should be able to wear what you want in your own home, it was how it affected him that got his stomach twisting with something really sick.
the first time it happened he wanted to kill himself, when he felt that familiar stirring in his pants. he tried to tell himself that this was his daughter he was looking at, he should not be having this reaction but it was no use, the way your perky ass peeked out of the bottom of your shorts and the way your nipples poked through your thin top in the winter air had already gotten to him. he was fucked.
it had become an every day occurrence now, you’d come downstairs wearing the same tiny pajama’s, he’d get hard and to his shame, the only thing he could do to relieve himself was to excuse himself to his room and jerk off. definitely not thinking about you and those damn shorts. he definitely didn’t imagine how if you bent over in them he’d probably be able to see your pussy…and he definitely didn’t imagine what you’re pussy might feel like. how soft it would be, how wet he could make you, how tight you’d feel around his cock. certainly not that.
and afterwards he’d sit in his shame, with his fresh load still dripping down his knuckles, thinking about what a terrible father he is and how he’s truly an evil man.
this had to stop, he had to say something. he couldn’t keep going on this way, he wouldn’t make it the length of your stay if he kept it up like this. he just had to do something about it.
you’re coming downstairs for your breakfast like you usually do, wearing your tempting little outfit. robby’s already sat on the couch, sat straight upright, trying to keep himself together for the duration of your conversation. so locked in on not getting hard that he looks like he’s in pain.
“hey, sweetheart. a word?” he asks when you hit the bottom step, you stop in your tracks and turn to him, of course rolling your eyes at him.
“i guess, what’s up, dad?” you drag your feet over to the couch, stopping in front of him, he’s eye level with your tits. look away, michael. look away.
he swallows thickly, “sit down, honey” his voice is shaky as he motions for you to sit beside him on the couch. you don’t though, you park yourself on the coffee table in front of him, sitting with your legs crossed causing your tiny shorts to shift slightly and expose delicate flesh of your pussy to him. fuck, he shouldn’t of looked but he did.
he feels that familiar twitch in his cock and tries hard to will it away, but it just won’t shift. fuck. he doesn’t say anything for a moment or two, so focused on trying to stop his erection, you’re getting impatient. “can we make this quick, dad? i’m starving.”
“i uh-yeah, sure, honey.” he swallows again. fuck, it’s not going away. “so uhm, i just wanted to say that..um, fuck..there’s no way to tell you this without sounding like a complete cunt but…” why did he say cunt, now he’s thinking about yours again. “but..um- i think maybe you should dress a little more appropriately when you’re here, sweetheart.” he closes his eyes and winces as the words come out of his mouth. god, this was a terrible idea.
you don’t say anything for a beat, taken aback by your dad’s request. when robby finally opens his eyes you’re scowling at him, if looks could kill he’d be dead. fuck, how he wishes he was. “oh, you do? do you? and why would i need to dress ‘more appropriately’ at home? and actually, how is what i’m wearing inappropriate to wear in front of my own father?”
robby’s cursing himself now, why did he have to say anything? why couldn’t he of just sucked it up and dealt with it for a few more weeks? in fact, why couldn’t he just be a normal father and not think of his daughter in that way? now he’s started a whole conversation he doesn’t know how to have.
“because i uh- i’m your dad, and i say so?” it was more of a question than a statement, and you’re absolutely not convinced.
“yeah, i’m an adult now, that’s not going to cut it. why is it a problem to wear this around you?” you uncross your legs, planting both feet on the floor with your thighs parted. robby’s gaze flickers to your pussy again, which is somehow even more exposed than before. and to robby’s chagrin you catch his gaze. fuck. fuck. fuck.
the lightbulb clicks above your head and your eyes widen at the realisation and they become even wider when you look down and catch the strained outline of his cock pressed against the fabric of his pants.
“oh. my. god. are you kidding me, dad!? you’re joking, this has to be a joke, right?” your voice is dripping with something that’s a mix of anger and disgust, with a dash of disappointment for good measure. your legs are now tightly crossed.
robby doesn’t know what to do or what to say, there’s nothing he can say to fix this mess, to make it okay. “i-i…fuck, i’m sorry, sweetheart. i’m so so sorry.” he’s scrambling to grab a pillow to cover himself up, shame bubbles in his stomach like acid.
no one says anything for a few minutes, an uncomfortable awkward silence falls over the room, you’re the first to break it. “no, i’m sorry. i’m sorry i didn’t realise my dad was a fucking pervert, i’ll make an effort to cover up in the future. don’t worry you’ll never have to see my skin again. sicko.” your words hit robby like a truck, ‘fucking pervert’, yeah, that about sums him up nicely.
you’re already up the stairs before he can think of anything to say, your bedroom door closes with a loud slam and silence falls on the room again.
fucking pervert.
pervert.
he plays the word over and over again in his head, the way you spat it with such disgust and venom. and he replays it still as he pulls his cock out of his pants and wraps a shaking hand around it with that glimpse he got of your pretty little pussy burned on the front of his brain. pervert. pervert. pervert. tears prick at his eyes as he strokes himself, how did this happen? why is he doing this? why can’t he stop?
because michael robinavitch, you are a pervert.
yeah, this is nawtt proofread. also this is my first dad!robby smut so i hope u liked it hehehe.
begging pleading for a part 2 with daughter reader being just as much of a pervert as her dad like maybe when she ran up stairs it was to go play with her clit. and then them both getting that thing they shouldn’t want but can’t help craving (they fuck crazy style) https://www.tumblr.com/totallynotvalentine/822222988047941632/cw-incest-getting-dadrobby-all-worked-up-when
your wish is my command 😌
for anyone who hasn’t, you can read part 1 here!!
cw: incest!!
your first time with dad!robby
unprotected p in v, masturbation (m&f!) idk the word count but it’s pretty long maybe like 1k ish.
your heart beats fast in your chest, feels like it’s trying to fight it’s way out as you slam your door and collapse on your bed. why did you shout at him? why did you call him that? if you were to be truthful your reasoning for wearing such tiny little outfits wasn’t completely innocent…
they say when you go away to college you find yourself, and boy, did you find yourself. you found yourself online reading incest smut. it started off as an accident, you thought it was stepdad but you must’ve hallucinated the step and found yourself getting turned on by the content you were reading. the second time, that was no accident and the hundred subsequent times that followed that. you were in deep and now you could only get turned on by thinking about getting fucked by your dad.
your poor dad who you’d just crucified for having the exact same feelings that you’ve been having. you feel terrible, truly truly terrible but you can’t ignore the aching feeling between your legs that had been there since you laid your eyes on the thick outline of his cock as it fought to get out of his pants.
slowly, you slide your hand down your stomach and under the waist band of your shorts, your fingers finding you soaked already. you let out a breathy gasp as you graze over your swollen clit, rubbing light circles over it as you try to keep the noise down to a minimum. the last thing you want is robby finding you like this, especially after how you just spoke to him.
you close your eyes and try to visualise his cock, using what you’ve seen of him as inspiration. imagining him on top of you, pressing open mouthed kisses to your neck and chest, how his back would feel under your fingertips, how his breath would shake when he pushed into your tight pussy for the first time. you wondered what he’d call you, would he call you honey? baby? his sweet little girl?
before you know it you’re unraveling, silently screaming out for your dad as your body trembles with each after shock, making such a mess of your tiny shorts.
in the aftermath your guilt hits you tenfold and you decide that you must apologise, you have to fix this. so, carefully you get up off the bed, knowing how unsteady you are on your legs after having an orgasm and slowly you make your way back downstairs, not even bothering to clean yourself up yet. it can wait, this can’t.
about halfway down the stairs you hear something that stops you in your tracks, muffled groaning. it’s your dad, you’re sure of it. you’ve heard that sound so many times over the last week through the thin wall that separates your bedroom, that same sound that makes your tummy so fuzzy and your pussy so achy you can’t help but touch yourself until he stops.
you have half a mind to go back to your room, come down when he’s finished, you didn’t want to embarrass him anymore but you can’t stop your own legs as they carry you the rest of the way down the stairs. robby doesn’t notice you straight away, he’s got his eyes screwed shut, his hand covering his mouth in an attempt to dampen his noises.
it’s not until you’re stood in front of him and you clear your throat that he notices your presence. his eyes open wide and his hand pumping his cock comes to a screeching halt. his breathing’s ragged and he doesn’t say anything, too in shock by your being there and you seeing him like this to even know what to say.
“honey, i-” he starts breathlessly, his eyes don’t leave your face, he’s waiting for you to start shouting at him again, but you don’t. instead you sit down beside him on the couch, snuggling up to his side with your chin resting on his shoulder.
“need any help?” you ask, your voice dripping in innocence but your question was anything but.
again, robby’s lost for words, he stutters for a beat before shaking his head and blinking his eyes rapidly, like he must’ve misheard you. “wha- sorry, what was that, honey?”
“i said, need any help, daddy?” you smile up at him, cheeks flushing with heat as you try not to think about the fact his hand is still wrapped around his cock, you’re trying so hard not to look at it yet.
“baby, that’s not- no, we can’t-” he stutters hopelessly. he’s sure this is some sort of trick, someone’s trying to catch him out. it’s not and they’re not.
“why not? i wanna say sorry for how i spoke to you earlier, i didn’t mean it i was just scared if i reacted any other way you’d realise that i feel the same way as you and you’d be mad at me.” you explain, using that voice on him that always got you whatever you wanted when you were growing up.
“what do you mean the same?” he’s finally let go of his cock, he places both hand in his lap in an attempt to cover his still very prominent erection.
“i mean, you think i’m hot right? you want to have sex with me? i feel the same…about you, daddy.” you bite your lip, extending a hand out to rest on his chest. you can feel his heart thumping against your palm, he’s nervous. so are you.
“i-i don’t-” he starts but you cut him off again.
“don’t lie to me, dad. you wouldn’t lie to your sweet little girl, would you?” you’re batting your lashes now, pulling out all the stops to try and get him to fold. he’s close, you can tell.
“okay, fine. i won’t lie to you. but we can’t do anything like that, baby. we just can’t it’s wrong. so so wrong. and not to mention very illegal. you shouldn’t say stuff like that, sweetheart. you’re just young and confused, you don’t want this.” he sighs, doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince you or himself.
“i’m not confused, i really want this. i want you. pleaseee daddy. just one time…” you beg, your voice all whiny and cute. how could he say no? he won’t say no, you’re sure.
and as he lets out a long, drawn out sigh and drags a hand down his face your suspicion is confirmed. “shit. okay. just one time, baby. i mean it.”
you’re all smiles again now, beaming from ear to ear as you jump up to your knees and press a big wet kiss to his cheek. “you’re the best, dad! promise it’ll be totally worth it.” you smirk as you climb into his lap, becoming very aware of the tip of his cock brushing against your thigh as he moves his hands to your waist, not touching yet just hovering.
“you can touch me you know? that’s kind of how this has to work.” you giggle, kissing his cheek again, feeling the heat of his blush under your lips.
“i know, i know. just- fuck, give me a second, okay honey. are you absolutely sure this is what you want? you don’t have to do this just because you think you should.” he sighs, resting his head in the crook of your shoulder, his hot breath fanning against your skin.
“yes, i’m sure, daddy. never been so sure of anything in my life. i love you and i want to do this with you.” you rest your head against his and just give him a moment to come to terms with what’s happening, you can tell he’s nervous.
“okay then, baby. have you um..have you ever…?” he lifts his head, looking up at you again hoping you’re picking up what he’s putting down so he doesn’t have to actually ask his own daughter if she’s ever had sex before.
“oh, yeah…loads of times!” it’s a lie but you say it with enough conviction to convince him. he doesn’t have to know.
“okay yeah, cool. um…so, are you ready, sweetheart?” he grabs his cock at the base and lines himself up at your entrance, finding you already dripping for him. his tip brushes through your folds as he feels for your hole and you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips:
“mhm! so ready, daddy!” you smile at him, looking so sweet and innocent it somehow makes him feel worse but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on that feeling before you’re sinking yourself onto his thick cock.
“oh, fuck!” you moan, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in hard as his head stretches you out. he’s big, much bigger than the dildo you’d been using when imagining this exact scenario.
robby’s eyes slam closed and his head drops to your shoulder again as he feels the tight, wet heat of your cunt swallow the first few inches of him. “shit, honey. you’re so fucking tight.” he groans into your neck. his hands come down to rest on your hips, his fingers dig in hard just like yours to stop himself from cumming instantly like his body seems to want to.
“you’re so big, daddy. fuck, feels so good.” you press your lips to his temple as you let yourself sink down a little more, feeling every inch as he stretches you out, moulding you to him.
“yeah, you like that, huh? like having your pretty little pussy stretched out on daddy’s cock, princess?”he asks, feeling a little braver, spurred on by the euphoric feeling taking over him.
“mhm, feel s’good daddy, so so good, want more.” you whine, letting yourself fall the rest of the way down, moaning when the fat head of his cock hits your cervix as he bottoms out inside of you.
“god, you’re so perfect, honey. my perfect little girl, made for me, weren’t you?” his hands smooth over the expanse of your ass, pawing at your plush skin as he waits for you to start moving, he doesn’t want to rush his precious girl.
it’s not long before you do start raising your hips again, small tiny bounces to start with, just barely a roll of your hips until you find yourself getting greedier and greedier, wanting to feel more and more of him inside of you. want to feel every ridge and vein of his cock dragging against your walls, want to feel every rush of heat that rolls through your body whenever he hits your cervix, you want it all.
and he gives it you all, lets you take him for everything that he has. he barely has to guide you, he gets to watch in awe as you fuck yourself completely dumb on his cock. such a perfect sight, his daughter taking her pleasure from him, using him like a toy. he wishes it could last forever.
but obviously, it can’t, he’s just a man after all and it’s not long before he feels that familiar tightening in his balls and heat blooming in his stomach.
“fuck, baby. i’m gonna cum. shit- need to get off, quick.” he rasps, his voice hoarse from the deep guttural groans you’ve been pulling out of him this whole time.
“it’s fine, mm- ‘m on birth control.” you moan, wrapping your arms around his neck to stop him from being able to move.
“still i don’t, i think you should-”
“please, daddy. i want you to cum inside of me, wanna feel it dripping out of my little pussy, wanna make me all messy. pleaseeee” and as if your pleas are some kind of spell he finds himself unable to stop himself from doing exactly that. a long string of moans and curses leave his lips as he spills himself right inside of you, feeling the warmth of it around his cock as you continue your bouncing. he’s ruined now, he knows he’ll never experience anything that comes close to being as heavenly as this moment.
you keep riding him through his high, you know you’re not going to cum but that’s okay. you have a sneaking suspicion that this will not be the last time, despite what he said earlier.
you know daddy just can’t say no to his pretty little girl, especially not know he knows what he’ll be missing.
i feel high writing this. again, not proofread i’m too excited to post. wowowoowieee. that bit about accidentally reading incest smut is inspired by true events. this is so buzzy i hope u like it <333
chapter nine of pope’s girl 🖤 | series masterlist | also on AO3
summary: Pope has always known how to wait, but this time he’s learning how to ask. As the two of you try to find your way back to each other, old names start meaning something new, and Smurf realizes there are some places she can’t walk into anymore.
notes: This chapter is all yearning and smut is back, baby!! Thank you to my lovelies for continuing to support my writing 🖤
warnings: 18+ only, explicit smut, oral sex , fingering, piv sex, emotional/reunion sex, possessive/protective pope, Smurf being Smurf, canon-typical Cody violence, swearing, pet name “baby”, no use of Y/N, Pope is a yearner
Please do not translate, repost, redistribute, or adapt this story on any platform without my explicit permission. Reblogs are welcome and encouraged!
chapter 9 | andrew
A week passes before anything starts to feel familiar again.
Pope texts before he comes over now, not much and not in a way that crowds you. Just enough that you know where he is. Just enough that you don’t have to wonder if silence means he’s gone, waiting outside, or driving because sitting still has never been something he’s good at when there’s too much in his head.
Some nights, he doesn’t come by at all.
On those nights, your phone lights up once or twice.
home
you sleep yet
He doesn’t push when you answer late. He doesn’t ask why you didn’t answer sooner. If you say you’re tired, he tells you okay and leaves it there. That means more than pushing would have.
The nights he does stay, he keeps his boots by the door and his keys on the counter. He sleeps on his side of the bed until you make the first move. He doesn’t reach for you in the dark or pull you against him like the last few weeks didn’t happen. There are times you feel him wake beside you, feel the shift of the mattress and the restless way he settles again, but he waits until your fingers find his before he lets himself hold on.
You miss the old ease. You miss the weight of him behind you and his hand under your shirt, warm against your stomach, like he belonged there because you had both stopped pretending he didn’t. You miss all the little things that used to happen without asking.
You miss them, but you know why he waits.
On the seventh morning, you wake with gray light through the blinds and Pope beside you, already awake.
He’s always stayed long enough for you to wake up. Even before either of you called it anything real, he said goodbye before he left. He drove you to work when your shifts lined up. He waited while you locked the apartment door and walked you to his car like he didn’t trust the street between your door and his car. That part isn’t new.
What’s different is the way he lies there with space still between your bodies, one arm bent beneath the pillow and the other resting over his stomach, careful even in bed.
“Morning,” you say.
Pope turns his head on the pillow. “Morning.”
His voice is rough from sleep, and you look at him longer than you mean to. His hair is messy, stubble dark along his jaw, eyes tired but open on yours.
“You sleep?” you ask.
“Some.” His gaze moves over your face. “You?”
“Some.”
He nods once, like both answers make sense to him.
“Do you need to leave soon?” you ask.
Pope reaches for his phone on the nightstand, checks the screen, then sets it back down. “Not yet.”
You move closer before you can talk yourself out of it. Your knee touches his under the blanket, and his eyes drop to where the fabric shifts before coming back to your face. He doesn’t put his hand on you.
So you move the rest of the way, pressing your forehead near his shoulder. Pope exhales through his nose, and his mouth brushes your temple, barely there before he lets it stay.
“Missed this,” he says.
Your eyes close. “I missed it too.”
His hand moves then, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to. You don’t. He rests it at your waist over the blanket, palm warm and still, and the weight of it makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
“You working today?” Pope asks.
“Yeah. Later.”
His thumb stays still against the blanket. “Can I pick you up?”
You lift your head enough to look at him.
Pope knows how to wait. He’s done it outside your work, outside your door, in his car with his hands tight on the wheel. This is different. This time, he asks first.
“Yeah,” you say.
His eyes stay on yours.
“I’d like that,” you add.
Pope nods. “Okay.”
You settle back against him, and when his hand tightens slightly at your waist, you let him keep it there. His mouth rests against your hair, his body warm beside yours, and you both let the touch stay where it is.
The Pig is quiet when you come in, early enough that the chairs are still stacked near the back tables. Deran is behind the bar with the register drawer open, counting bills with a pen tucked behind his ear.
“You’re early,” he says.
You drop your bag under the counter. “That a problem?”
“No.” He adds another bill to the stack. “Just weird.”
“You want me to leave and come back late?”
Deran shuts the drawer and turns the key. “Don’t start doing charity work on my account.”
You tie your apron and start helping him open. Deran checks the taps while you restock the clean glasses and make sure the bottles behind the bar are where they should be. The two of you move around each other without needing to talk through any of it.
He waits until you’re replacing a bottle near the register before he says, “So he done being a pain in the ass?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.”
“That’s all?”
Deran folds the towel over his shoulder. “What do you want me to say? He was being a pain in the ass. Now he’s being less of one.”
“Very supportive.”
“I’m being nice.”
“This is nice?”
“For me, yeah.”
You put the bottle back in its place. “He’s trying.”
Deran’s expression turns more serious. “He better.”
“He is.”
He nods and leaves it there.
“Is Adrian back from Hawaii?” you ask.
“In a few days.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yeah.”
You turn toward him. “You did?”
Deran gives you a look. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
You let that go. “So what happens in a few days?”
“I’m picking him up.”
“From the airport?”
“Yeah.”
You keep your face still.
“Don’t,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“How long is he staying?” you ask.
“Don’t know yet.”
Deran reaches into his pocket and tosses a set of keys across the bar. You catch them before they hit the floor.
“What’s this?” you ask.
“Second set.”
“To the bar?”
“I need you to open in a few days.”
“What time?”
“Eight.”
You turn the keys over once before sliding them into your apron pocket. “I’ll open.”
Deran nods and reaches for the towel again.
“I’m glad you called him,” you say.
He looks toward the front windows. “Yeah.”
You don’t ask for more. Deran goes to unlock the front door while you finish checking the bottles behind the bar.
Your phone lights up a little after seven, while you’re wiping down the last few rings of condensation from the bar.
still okay if i pick you up?
You read it twice, even though there isn’t much to read. The words are plain, almost awkward, but Pope has never been careless about showing up for you. He used to wait outside because that was what he did, because he knew your shifts and your routes and the hours you hated walking home alone. Now he asks first.
You type back before you can make too much of it.
yeah
The reply comes a minute later.
be there soon
You slide your phone into your back pocket and finish closing with Deran, who doesn’t say anything about the smile you’re trying not to wear. He only takes the rag from your hand when you wipe the same part of the counter twice and tells you to go.
Pope’s car is outside when you step out of the bar, parked close to the curb with the engine running and the headlights low against the street. He’s behind the wheel, one hand resting at the top of it, his face turned toward the front doors before you reach the sidewalk. It’s close enough to the old routine that your chest tightens before you reach the curb.
He gets out before you reach the passenger side.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
Pope glances at your face, then at the bag on your shoulder. “Good shift?”
“Quiet. Deran complained about paperwork for half of it.”
“Sounds like him.”
“He also said you were being less of a pain in the ass.”
Pope’s mouth shifts, barely. “Sounds like him too.”
You almost smile, and this time you let yourself. Pope opens the passenger door for you and waits until you’re settled before he shuts it.
When he gets back in, the car smells faintly like him and the cigarettes he hasn’t smoked with you in it, the air warm from the heater running low. He pulls away from the curb with both hands on the wheel. The old version of this drive had his palm on your thigh before the first light, heavy and familiar, his thumb moving over your jeans while the two of you talked about nothing or didn’t talk at all.
Tonight, his hand stays where it is.
“You hungry?” Pope asks.
“Yeah, actually. I am.”
“There’s a place still open near your place. We can grab something before I drop you off.”
You turn your head toward him. “Do you want to come up?”
His hands tighten once on the wheel, then ease. He doesn’t answer too fast. “If that’s okay.”
“It is.”
Pope keeps his attention on the road, but something in his shoulders settles. “Then yeah.”
You let your hand rest on your own thigh. The car moves through the dark streets toward your apartment, his hand still on the wheel and yours resting near the place his used to be.
By the time you get back to the apartment, the food has gone soft in the takeout bags. Pope carries everything upstairs without asking, waits while you unlock the door, then steps in after you and shuts it with his shoulder while you kick off your shoes. He leaves his boots beside yours by the door, keys going on the small table in the hall before he follows you into the living room.
The apartment still feels half-empty from Chrissy’s boxes. Pope being there takes some of the edge off it.
He puts the bags on the coffee table and sits beside you, close but not crowding. The TV plays low across the room, some old movie neither of you is watching, and you eat from the containers on the table with your knees angled toward each other. The blanket is folded over the arm of the couch now, the cushion underneath cleaned as much as it’s ever going to be, and you try not to think about Craig bleeding there or Baz’s voice in your apartment.
Pope sets his food down before he speaks. “Had a job today.”
Your fork pauses over the carton. You don’t lift your head right away because if you do, he might stop.
“Me, Craig, J,” he says. “Went to see Pete. He’s got a garage out nearby. Knows Smurf. Does shit for her sometimes.”
You set the carton down. “What kind of shit?”
“Cars. Plates. Parts he doesn’t ask about.” Pope leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. “Smurf thinks somebody’s been taking from one of her storage places. She’s been losing it over that and Baz, Cath, Lena, all of it. Thinks maybe Baz is spiraling and grabbing whatever he can.”
“Do you think it was Baz?”
“No.” Pope shakes his head. “None of us knew about the storage place until a few days ago. Smurf hides shit, then gets pissed when nobody knows where she hid it.”
It isn’t the kind of thing he would’ve told you before. Maybe pieces, if someone else said too much first. Tonight, he tells you first.
“Where was Baz?” you ask.
Pope’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t shut down. “Following something the PI gave him.”
Your stomach turns. “About Cath and Lena?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think he’ll find them?”
“No.” His answer comes quickly, but not carelessly. He sits back against the couch, one hand dragging over his thigh before he lets it rest there. “Cath’s not that stupid. She got out because she planned it. Baz thinks wanting something bad enough means he gets to have it, but Cath knew him. She knew Smurf too.”
You look down before he can read too much relief on your face. You think of Cath’s hands on the wheel, Lena asleep in the back seat, and the warning not to ask anything you couldn’t lie about later. For the first time since they drove away, not knowing where they are doesn’t feel quite as close to panic.
“So he’s gone?” you ask.
“For now.” Pope looks toward the TV, though his attention isn’t on it. “Smurf let him go. Keeps him busy. Keeps him away from me.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” you ask.
Pope looks at you and takes his time with it. “Trying something different.”
You wait.
“Don’t need you knowing every part of it,” Pope says. “Some of it’s better if you don’t. But I can tell you where I am. Who I’m with. When I’m coming back.”
You nod, looking down at the carton in your hands. “Okay.”
Pope watches you. “That enough?”
“It’s a start.”
He takes that in with a small nod. “Okay.”
The TV keeps playing low across the room. You pick up your fork again, but you don’t eat. Pope stays angled toward you, waiting to see if you’ll ask for more.
“Pope,” you say.
He turns his head.
You don’t know what you meant to say after it. Maybe thank you. Maybe something else. His name comes out instead, soft enough that his eyes drop to his hands.
“Baz gave me that name,” he says.
You sit back. “What?”
“When we were kids.” He looks down at the space between his feet. “Thought it was funny. Everybody else started saying it, so it stuck.”
You think of Baz saying it. Craig. Deran. J. Men at the house. Men at jobs. Smurf when she isn’t using Andrew like a leash. You’ve said it too, over and over, never thinking about who put it on him first.
“You hate it?” you ask.
“Sometimes.” Pope’s jaw works before he keeps going. “Mostly depends who’s saying it.”
“When I say it?”
He looks at you then. “Don’t mind when you say it.”
“Why?”
Pope leans forward again, forearms on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. “People who don’t know me call me that. People who hear shit. People who need something done.”
You stay quiet.
His eyes move back to yours. “Don’t want you not knowing me.”
You place the carton on the coffee table and turn more fully toward him. “You ever think about asking me to call you Andrew?”
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
Pope looks down before he answers. “A while.”
He looks like he has more, so you wait. You don’t fill the quiet for him this time.
“A lot more lately,” he says.
Your chest aches at the way he says it. He wanted the name from you before he knew how to ask.
You say it carefully. “Andrew.”
His hand stills against his knee.
The name feels strange in your mouth, but not wrong. Softer than Pope, though not smaller. You’ve heard Smurf say it sweet enough to make your skin crawl, watched him answer even when he hated it.
This doesn’t feel like that.
Pope doesn’t look smaller when you say it. He looks like he heard you.
“That sounds different too,” he says.
“Bad different?”
“No.”
“Good different?”
His eyes stay on yours. “Good.”
You look down at your hand, then back at him. “It might take me a little while.”
“I know.”
“But I can try.”
Pope nods once. “Okay.”
You reach for his hand. He lets you take it, palm turning under yours, fingers closing around yours.
“Andrew,” you say again, quieter this time.
His grip tightens once.
The TV keeps playing, the food goes cold on the coffee table, and neither of you reaches for it again.
You get up first and start clearing the coffee table.
Pope follows after you, gathering the napkins and empty cartons while you carry the plates into the kitchen. He stays beside the counter while you rinse the forks, close enough that you know he’s there.
You shut off the tap and dry your hands on the towel. “Let’s go to bed.”
Pope looks at you. “You tired?”
“A little.”
He nods and follows you down the hall, turning off the lamp in the living room before he comes into the bedroom. You change in the bathroom with the door half-closed, then come back in an old shirt and sleep shorts while he stands by the dresser, folding his jeans over the chair instead of dropping them on the floor. It’s such a small thing, so like him, that it makes your chest hurt a little. Even here, even now, Pope keeps order where he can.
He gets into bed after you. You turn onto your side facing him, and he lies on his back at first, one arm bent over his stomach, eyes on the ceiling. He leaves a little room between you, enough that you can move first.
You move closer.
Pope turns his head toward you, and his hand shifts against the blanket but doesn’t reach. You slide your fingers over the sheet until they touch his. His palm opens right away, rough and warm beneath yours, but he waits until you curl your fingers around him before he holds on.
“Good night, Andrew,” you say.
Pope doesn’t answer right away, but his hand tightens around yours. Then he turns onto his side, facing you.
“Good night,” he says.
You close your eyes with his hand still in yours. He doesn’t pull you closer. You keep your hand in his, and he holds on until you fall asleep.
A few days later, Smurf comes into The Pig while Deran is still out.
It’s early enough that the bar hasn’t filled, but late enough that the lunch crowd has cleared and left rings on the counter you’ve wiped twice already. You’re restocking the little tray of cherries behind the bar when the front door opens and Smurf steps in wearing white slacks and sunglasses pushed into her hair, too clean for the bar.
She smiles when she finds you behind the counter.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
You set the cherry jar down and wipe your fingers on a towel. “Deran’s not in yet.”
“I know. I can still look in on the place.” Smurf walks farther in, taking in the tables, the bottles behind the bar, the stack of clean glasses near the sink. “Besides, I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m working.”
“So you are.” Her smile widens, but nothing about her softens. “Andrew seems better.”
Your hand closes around the towel, but you keep your face even. “Does he?”
“He does. Little steadier.” Smurf reaches the bar and rests her purse on top of it. “Hard to get ahold of, though.”
“Maybe he had somewhere to be.”
“Maybe.” Smurf watches you with that patient, sweet look she uses when she’s waiting for someone to step wrong. “I stopped by the house yesterday.”
You keep the towel in your hand. “Oh?”
“Let myself in and everything.” Her smile doesn’t move. “He wasn’t there.”
The words sit wrong. She meant them to. You turn and take a clean glass from the rack, setting it near the sink. “You want something to drink?”
“No, baby. I’m fine.” She tilts her head. “You always do that.”
You look back at her. “Do what?”
“Make yourself busy when you don’t want to answer me.”
The door opens again before you have to decide whether to answer at all.
Pope comes in with his keys still in his hand. He stops near the entrance long enough to take in where Smurf is standing, where you are behind the bar, the purse set on the counter like she plans to stay. Then he starts toward you, shoulders set and attention fixed on his mother.
Smurf turns first. “There you are, baby.”
Pope comes to the bar and stands at the opening near the service side, close enough to you that you can feel him there without him touching you.
“Need something?” he asks.
“I came by the house yesterday,” Smurf says. “You weren’t there.”
“I was out.”
“I gathered that.”
Pope looks at her. “You let yourself in?”
“It’s my house.”
“It’s where I sleep.”
Smurf gives a small laugh, almost fond. “You’ve never cared before.”
“I care now.”
Her smile slips at the edge, but she keeps it. “Well. I just worry about you, baby.”
“Don’t.”
“That’s not really how mothers work.”
Pope goes still, his voice staying low. “What the hell would you know about that?”
Smurf’s eyes sharpen. “Andrew,” she says.
Pope doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t look away either.
Smurf puts the concern back on. “See? This is what I mean. He gets himself worked up, and then everybody has to—”
“Don’t put it on her,” Pope says.
Smurf stops.
Pope’s hand curls around the edge of the bar, fingers pressing into the wood before he lets them loosen. “You got something to say, say it to me.”
“I am talking to you.”
“No, you’re not.” His voice stays controlled. “You came here because Deran’s not here and you thought she’d be easier.”
Smurf looks at you, hurt surprise already waiting on her face. “Is that what he tells you?”
Pope steps into the opening at the bar, not touching you, not touching her. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You came here to.”
Smurf looks at him for a long time. Then she reaches for her purse, slow enough to make sure both of you know she’s leaving because she chose to. “I just came to check on the bar,” she says.
“Then check on the bar.”
Her mouth curves, but there’s no warmth left in it. “You look tired, Andrew.”
Pope doesn’t answer.
Smurf turns to you. “You take care now.”
You nod once. “You too.”
She walks out calmly. The door closes softly behind her.
Pope stays where he is, one hand still on the bar, attention on the door until her car pulls away from the curb outside.
Only then does he turn toward you. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“She doesn’t need to come here and bother you.”
“I’m used to Smurf.”
Pope’s mouth tightens. “Doesn’t make it okay.”
You let the towel fall onto the counter and take a step closer to him. “You handled it.”
“Wanted to do something else.”
“I know.”
You reach for his hand where it rests on the bar. He lets you turn it over, lets your fingers slide into his palm.
“Deran’s gonna be pissed he missed her,” you say.
Pope looks at you. “No, he’s not.”
“He likes having something to complain about.”
“He’s got Craig.”
That pulls a small laugh out of you before you can stop it. Pope’s hand closes around yours, careful but sure.
Smurf’s car is gone. Pope stays beside you at the bar, his hand still around yours.
Chrissy comes by the apartment the next afternoon for the last of her things.
She lets herself in with the key she still hasn’t given back, calling your name from the hallway before she appears with her hair pulled up and an empty tote bag hanging from one shoulder. There isn’t much left for her to take anymore: a few books from the shelf near the kitchen, the sweater she kept forgetting in the hall closet, and a chipped mug she swears is hers even though you’re pretty sure you bought it at the thrift store down the street.
“I’m taking this,” Chrissy says, holding it up.
“You always do.”
“Then it’s basically mine.”
You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, folding laundry into uneven piles. You started doing it to keep your hands busy and lost the system somewhere after the first load. Chrissy steps around the basket and lowers herself onto the couch, the tote bag dropping beside her.
“You look better,” she says.
You smooth the shirt over your knee. “Do I?”
“Yeah.” She leans back against the couch. “Less like you’re waiting for something bad to come through the door.”
“That bad?”
“You looked like shit.”
You throw a shirt her way before she tosses it back to you.
“Pope been coming around?” she asks.
“Some nights.”
“Good some nights?”
You nod, setting the shirt in the pile near your knee. “Good. Careful.”
“Careful’s probably not the worst thing.”
“No,” you say. “It’s not.”
Chrissy picks at a loose thread on her sleeve, then looks toward the blanket folded over the couch arm. She doesn’t say anything about it. You’re grateful for that.
You reach for another shirt from the basket. “Things with Andrew feel different this time.”
“Andrew?” Chrissy asks.
Your hands slow over the fabric. “Yeah.”
“That’s new.”
“Feels new.”
“Good new?”
You smooth the shirt over your knee. “I think so.”
Chrissy nods and lets that be enough. She moves around the apartment, picking up the last things she left behind without meaning to. You helped her pack most of it already, but this feels different. This feels final.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Chrissy looks at it before you reach for it. “Him?”
You pick it up and read the text.
can you come to the house?
Then another one.
beach house
Your thumb hovers over the screen.
everything okay?
The reply comes less than a minute later.
yeah
want to show you something
You read it twice, then type back.
be there soon
Chrissy is already reaching for her keys from the couch. “I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to.”
She grabs the tote bag with one hand and the mug with the other. “Fine. I’m nosy, and I want to know if he’s showing you something sweet or something weird he fixed.”
“It’s Pope.”
“Exactly.”
You laugh, and Chrissy looks pleased enough that you know she was aiming for it. She walks to the kitchen and sets the mug carefully into her tote instead of tossing it in with the books.
You text Pope that you’re leaving soon, then glance toward the hallway. Chrissy’s room is almost empty now, the door half-open, the last of her things gathered into one bag and one stolen mug. She follows your gaze and gives you a small shrug.
“I’ll still come by,” she says.
“I know.”
“And you’re still coming over for dinner. Simon bought too much food again.”
“Again?”
“He thinks two people eat like six.”
“You kinda do.”
“Rude.” She points the mug at you from inside the bag. “Accurate, but rude.”
You stand and push the laundry basket closer to the couch with your foot. Chrissy waits by the door while you grab your bag, and when you step into the hallway, she locks up behind both of you like she still lives there enough to know the deadbolt by heart.
On the way to her car, Chrissy bumps her shoulder lightly against yours. “Andrew, huh?”
You look down at the keys in your hand. “Yeah.”
Chrissy drives you to the beach house with the windows cracked and the radio low. She doesn’t ask too much on the way, and you’re grateful for that. She lets the quiet sit until the houses thin out and the ocean appears between buildings, gray-blue under the afternoon light.
When she pulls up outside the beach house, she leaves the engine running.
Pope’s car is in the driveway. The porch is empty. You look at the door, then down at your phone, even though there’s nothing new on the screen.
Chrissy follows your eyes. “I’m not coming in.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know. I’m saying it before you get polite and weird about it.”
You reach for the door handle. “Thank you for driving me.”
“Text me later.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
You turn back to her. “I know you do.”
Chrissy’s face softens, but she keeps one hand on the wheel and doesn’t make it a whole thing. “This is good, right?”
You look at the beach house again, at Pope’s car, at the door he asked you to come through.
“I hope so.”
Chrissy nods once. “Go find out.”
Chrissy waits at the curb until you reach the porch.
The front door opens before you knock. Pope stands inside with one hand on the edge of the door, his hair a little messy, his T-shirt pulled close across his shoulders, his eyes on you before you’ve finished climbing the last step.
You turn and lift your hand toward Chrissy. She gives you one small wave from behind the wheel, then pulls away once you’re inside. Pope closes the door behind you.
“Andrew,” you say.
His hand stays on the knob before he turns back to you. The name is still new enough that you feel it after it leaves your mouth. Not wrong. Just close.
He looks at you for another beat. “Hey.”
“You said you wanted to show me something,” you say.
“Kitchen.”
You follow him down the short hall and stop when you reach the counter.
The old deadbolt is sitting near the sink with the screws and scratched metal plate, the pieces laid out in a neat row because Pope would never leave them scattered. A toolbox is open on the floor by the back door, and there are faint marks near the frame where he must have worked the old piece loose.
You look from the counter to him. “What happened to the door?”
“Changed the locks.”
“Why?”
Pope wipes his hands on a rag and sets it beside the hardware. “Smurf had keys.”
You look toward the front hall, then back at the metal on the counter.
“She doesn’t anymore?” you ask.
“No.”
Pope reaches into his pocket and takes out a key on a plain silver ring.
He holds it out to you. “This one’s yours.”
You stare at it before taking it. The key is warm from his pocket, the teeth pressing lightly into your palm when your fingers close around it.
“Mine?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
Pope leans back against the counter, arms loose at his sides. “Chrissy’s gone more now. I know that.”
Your grip tightens around the key.
“But that’s not why,” he says.
His gaze drops to the key in your hand. “Want you to have it. Not just when I bring you here. Not just when I’m here. If you want to be here.”
He isn’t trying to fill the space Chrissy left. He’s giving you access to a place Smurf can’t unlock anymore, and for Pope, that says more than almost anything else could.
You turn the key in your hand. “You sure you want me able to show up whenever I want?”
“Yeah.”
“You say that now.”
The corner of his mouth pulls a little. “Said what I said.”
You look down before your face gives too much away. “That’s dangerous.”
“What is?”
“Giving me a key.”
Pope’s eyes stay on you. “I know what I’m doing.”
You set your bag on the counter and slide the key into the inside pocket, careful with it. When you look back at him, he hasn’t moved.
You walk over to him and stop close enough that your knees almost touch his.
Pope’s hands stay where they are, resting against the counter behind him, but his gaze drops to your mouth and comes back up. He holds himself still, and it makes something low in your stomach pull tight.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you say.
“What thing?”
“Waiting for me.”
His jaw works once. “Trying to.”
You step between his knees and take his right hand from the edge of the counter. His fingers are rough around yours, his palm warm and still when you place it at your waist.
“You can touch me,” you say.
Pope’s hand closes slowly, just enough to make the shape of you real under his palm. His other hand comes up when you lean in, settling at your other side as your arms slide around his neck.
His forehead lowers to yours.
“I missed you,” he says.
“You’ve said that a lot.”
“It’s true.”
You kiss him before he can say anything else.
Pope answers slow at first, his mouth firm, his grip tight at your waist. You press closer, fingers tightening in his hair, and that’s when he starts to give. He opens for you. His body comes in harder. The kiss turns slower, hotter, until you can’t stand the space between you.
He walks you backward out of the kitchen, one hand at your waist and the other at the back of your neck, not rushing, not letting you get far enough away to cool off. Your shoulder brushes the hallway wall, and he shifts with you, keeping his body between you and the harder edge before kissing you again.
By the time you reach the bedroom, your shirt is already pulled loose from your jeans and his hands are under it, warm against your skin. You get his shirt off first. He lets you tug it over his head, lets you put both hands on his chest after, and the feel of him under your palms makes the wanting in you turn heavy and familiar. You missed this. Missed the heat of him, the solid weight of him, the way your body wakes up under his hands.
Pope watches you while your fingers move to his belt. His palms stay at your waist.
You undo the buckle, then the button, and drag the zipper down. His cock is already hard when your hand slides over him through his briefs, and the groan he gives against your mouth makes your legs press together.
He pulls back just enough to get your shirt over your head. Your bra follows, then your jeans, and Pope lowers with you as you step out of them, his mouth moving over your shoulder, your collarbone, the top of your breast. He takes his time even when his fingers dig in like he’s close to losing patience. Your underwear goes down your legs with the rest of your clothes, and when he touches between your thighs, you have to hold onto his shoulders.
It feels too good too fast.
He kisses you again while his fingers work over your clit, steady and sure, his other arm low around your back to keep you against him. You rock into his hand, chasing the pressure, and he follows the movement without making you ask. The first sound you make into his mouth pulls him closer. His fingers slow just enough to make it sharper, then circle again until your hips move on their own and your grip digs into his shoulders.
He lowers his mouth to your neck, then your chest, then keeps going, guiding you back until your legs meet the edge of the mattress. You sit when he guides you down, and he drops to his knees between yours. Your hand goes into his hair.
The first pass of his mouth has you gripping his hair harder, pleasure spreading hot through your stomach and down your legs. Pope holds your hips and keeps you where he wants you, his mouth working against your clit with the same focus he brings to everything that matters. You missed this too, missed the blunt devotion of him between your legs, the way he gives like it matters and still makes you take it.
His fingers press into you while his mouth stays on your clit, and the stretch makes your grip tighten in his hair.
“Andrew,” you say.
His fingers slow inside you. You look down at him, his mouth still close enough that the next touch pulls a sound from you.
Pope groans against you. “Fuck—”
The word is rough against your skin, almost lost before his mouth is on you again. He goes back to it harder, holding your hip firm when your body tries to move.
“Say it again,” he says.
“Andrew.”
His breath comes hot against you. “Again.”
“Andrew…”
“Fuck.” His voice comes out low, wrecked. “Don’t stop saying it.”
He presses in harder, and the pressure builds until your legs draw tight around his shoulders.
“Fuck—Andrew, I’m gonna come.”
He groans into you, fingers working deeper, mouth staying exactly where you need it.
“Come for me…”
You do, his name breaking in your mouth as pleasure takes you hard, your body tightening around his fingers.
He works you through it, slower after the first rush, his mouth still moving until your hand loosens in his hair and your legs shake against him.
When he rises over you, his face is flushed, his mouth slick from you, and there’s so much want in him that you reach for him before he can decide to hold back again. He pushes his briefs down and steps out of them, and then he’s over you on the bed, skin hot against yours, his cock pressing between your thighs while your hands move over his back.
“Baby…”
The word comes out rough against your mouth, like he didn’t mean to let it out.
Your fingers slide into his hair. “Say it again.”
Pope lifts his head enough to look at you, breathing hard, his hand braced beside your ribs.
His voice drops. “Baby.”
You kiss him for it, open and deep, pulling him down until his weight settles over you.
“Fuck,” he says against your mouth. “Missed you… missed this.”
His arm hooks under your thigh, lifting it higher along his hip, and when he pushes into you, the pressure makes your mouth open against his. He goes slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough that the ache of missing him and the feel of having him again tangle together until your eyes burn.
He pushes all the way in and stops there, forehead near yours, his body tight with the effort of not moving before you’re ready.
You move first.
Pope makes a low sound and starts to thrust, deep and controlled at first, but the control doesn’t last the way it did before. He’s fucking you now, not holding himself away from you anymore, his mouth brushing yours every time your hips lift to meet him. Every drag of his cock reminds you exactly what the last week made you wait for. It feels good enough to make you angry with how much you missed it, good enough that your nails press into his back and your hips lift to meet him again.
His rhythm falters, and you use the break to push at his shoulder. Pope follows you when you guide him onto his back. He lets you climb over him, lets you take his cock in your hand and sink down onto him with both of his hands hovering near your hips until you grab them and place them where you want them.
One at your waist.
One at your breast.
His fingers close carefully at first, then harder when your body moves over his.
“Fuck,” he says, low and strained. “You feel…”
He doesn’t finish. His head tips back against the pillow, jaw tight, chest rising hard under your palm.
You move over him slowly. “Say it.”
His eyes come back to yours.
“You feel so fucking good…”
You take him deeper, and his grip tightens at your waist.
“Andrew…”
“Keep saying it,” he says. “Fuck—keep saying it.”
You fuck him slowly at first, letting yourself feel the stretch, the heat, the sound caught in his throat every time you take him deeper. His thumb drags over your nipple while his other arm holds you steady, helping you find the rhythm that makes your thighs burn. It feels good. So good your thoughts scatter into the places his hands touch and the place where he fills you again and again.
Pope sits up without pulling out of you. The shift brings your chest against his, your arms sliding around his neck as he holds you close and starts thrusting up into you. You grip his shoulders as the angle changes, your knees tight on either side of his hips. His lips are at your throat, his palms spread over your back, and each drive of his hips pushes against the place still sensitive from his mouth.
You make a sound you can’t hold back. “Right there,” you say.
Pope’s grip tightens. “There?”
“Yes… fuck, right there—”
He moves harder while he kisses you again. The kiss is messy now, too much teeth and heat, both of you breathing hard through it as his fingers slide between you. The first touch to your clit makes you fold closer, forehead pressing to his shoulder.
“Come for me…” he says against your ear.
You try to answer, but the pleasure is already too close. Pope keeps moving, keeps touching you, holding you there when it gets too much. Your nails scrape over his shoulder, and then you come around him, hard enough that your legs pull him in and a sound tears out of you before you can stop it.
He holds you through it, one arm tight around your back while his fingers keep working until you’re shaking against him.
“Baby…” he says, strained now.
You lift your head. His face is close, wrecked with it, his mouth parted, eyes fixed on yours because he wants you there with him when it happens.
Pope’s hips drive up into you again, harder, less even now. “I’m gonna come.”
You kiss him, too far gone to hide what that does to you, how close he is, how close you still are because his fingers are still on your clit and his cock keeps hitting every sensitive place inside you.
“Come for me…” you say against his mouth.
Pope’s arms close around you, and the last of his control goes with a harsh sound that spills into your kiss. He comes deep inside you, hips pressing up as he holds you hard against him, and the feel of him letting go pulls you with him again. Your next orgasm comes slower, heavier, while he keeps you against his chest.
His arms stay around you, one hand spread between your shoulder blades and the other low on your back, holding you through the tremors until your body settles against his. Your face is tucked into the side of his neck, your skin damp against his, your thighs still around his hips while he softens inside you.
Pope turns his head and presses his mouth to your hair.
You close your eyes and let yourself stay there, with him still inside you, the new key tucked away in your bag and Smurf’s old lock left on the kitchen counter.
You lie beside him after, one leg still tangled with his under the sheet, your body warm and heavy in a way you haven’t let yourself think about too much this week.
Pope is on his side facing you, close enough that his knee brushes yours when either of you shifts. His hand rests between your shoulder blades, moving slowly over your skin. Your fingers drift against his chest while his breathing settles under your palm. He’s quiet, but he keeps looking at you.
“What?” you ask.
Pope shakes his head.
“You keep looking at me.”
His thumb moves once near your spine. “I know.”
“That’s all?”
He takes his time answering. You let him. The lamp beside the bed is still on, low and yellow, catching the edge of his cheekbone and the dark line of his jaw. He looks tired now that the hunger has gone softer, but he doesn’t look closed off.
“Didn’t know if I’d get this back,” he says. He doesn’t say it like he wants you to comfort him. He says it because it’s true.
You slide your hand up to his neck, thumb resting below his jaw. “You’re here.”
“Yeah.”
You lean in and kiss him. Pope kisses you back, slow and warm, his hand flattening against your back.
When you pull away, he doesn’t go far. His mouth brushes your temple, and the words come out quiet and rough.
“I love you.”
You stop moving against him.
Pope keeps his hand on your back. He can’t take it back now. The words don’t sound planned. They sound like they got out before he could stop them.
You lift your head.
“Don’t say it because I did,” he says.
Your throat tightens.
“Not saying it so you forget what happened,” Pope adds. “I know you won’t. Don’t want you to.” He looks away once, then back. “Just don’t wanna keep going like you don’t already have it.”
You touch his face, letting your thumb move over the rough line of his cheek. He turns into it just enough that you almost lose the words.
“I love you too, Andrew.”
His eyes close, and his hand tightens at your back. When he looks at you again, he can’t hide what it did to him.
You kiss him before he has to answer.
Pope meets you halfway, one hand sliding into your hair while the other keeps you close. The kiss is slow, his mouth warm against yours, and he doesn’t let go when it ends.
After, you turn onto your side with your back to his chest, and Pope follows only when you bring his arm over your waist. His palm settles against your stomach, warm through the sheet, and this time, you’re the one who put him there.
Pope’s mouth rests near your hair, his breathing evening out behind you, and you let your eyes close with his arm around you.
You fall asleep in the house he made harder for her to enter, with his hand on you and his love still warm against your skin.
What would be difficult to remember, later— what would feel nearly impossible to believe, given the predicament he would later find himself in — was that Jack had never intended to like Michael Robinavitch in the first place.
Hello my ultratalented friend wrote a western rabbot fic and I have the unbelievable privilege of drawing for it. Please treat yourself to this marvelous experience.
tangentwithtanner
baratheonpilled
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