I'm fairly new to writing on the internet ofc I have been here just kinda in the deep part of the sea but I wanted to share my thoughts and writing to the moonjellie here!
Feel free to spam my inbox moonjellies ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ♡
I write for myself, so if you don't like the headcanons I have, go away bye. I do have a life outside of social media and might forget about this sometimes.
yes, English is my first language but do I understand it... no I do not so ignore errors
mina | 19 | aquarius | she/her | 01/24 | music is my life
find me here... | m.list... | about me...
˚ ⤹ 🌊 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔 !!: honestly I don't care how you interact with my page as long there no rude, misleading comments, if you have anything to say keep it to yourself Idgaf. I want to keep this blog positive and a safe space for everyone that comes along here! so encourage each other! thank you jellies ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ♡
˚ ⤹ 🫧 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒔 !!: Attack on Titan, maybe - the maze runner, avatar
˚ ⤹ 🩷 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒔 !!: jean kirstein (aot), leon s. kennedey (re), Eren Yeager (aot) glen powell, mikasa ackerman (aot), jakesully (avatar) , chris redfield (re) , Minho (tmr) ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ♡
Eren would never admit it out loud but he loves corrupting his sweet, innocent girlfriend.
It’s not like you were completely clueless about adult life but you had been sheltered from certain things since you were young due to being an only child. Therefore, you only started experiencing the true and sometimes harsh aspects of life when you started college. That’s when you met Eren, a junior who was set to show you all the incredible aspects of life. Especially the pleasure of the flesh
“fuuuck..ren!” You cried out with a shaky voice, a hand on his chest trying to push away the green eyed man slamming his dick inside, your eyes glued on the way his ridiculously thick cock drilled your dripping cunt.
“look at me baby” he ordered and you very much obliged, looking up at him with big teary eyes “feels good hm?” He grinned when he saw the pure bliss on your fucked out face. He wouldn’t trade that sight for anything in the world, it had him twitching in your tight pussy like crazy, encouraging him to speed up even more.
“please…I’m gon-” you mumbled, eyebrows knitting together as you felt something bubbling up inside you, a certain liquid threatening to escape “ren…I needa-” you looked down for a split second only for your boyfriend to grab your cheeks and force you to look at him.
“Relax, you’re just about to cum” he smiled, resssuring you despite utterly enjoying the panicked look on your pretty face “I think..” Eren got a hold of your leg, pushing it back onto your chest “right here should do it” he said before bucking his hips forward, precisely hitting your g-spot, prompting you to gasp as you saw yourself turn into a fountain, soaking Eren’s sheets with your juices.
You couldn’t even begin to understand the sensation. It felt like heaven as if you had been washed over with immense pleasure that went beyond human comprehension. Your nails were gripping at the sheets, bottom lip lodged between your teeth as you stared up at Eren whose face was turning red from his growing orgasm. You watched through glazed eyes how he unfolded in your pussy, a sticky liquid coating your walls without the slightest effort to pull out, your cunt too cozy to worry about that.
“Rennie…” You called out for the man who was still catching his breathe, his green eyes piercing through the darkness of the room to look at you “Again, please” you begged with the softest voice, almost a whisper. Those desperate words were enough to get him hard again, flipping you around. Licking his lips from the insane greed he felt for you. Sliding his dick back into you, stopping his cum from even oozing out as he fucked it right back into you.
Eren was your first and he very much intends to be your only. Although he initially wanted to fuck you and go on to the next, he couldn’t fathom the idea of another person seeing that slutty expression on your o so innocent face. The girl who would once claw at his flesh when he tried to fit in his leaking tip was now eagerly throwing it back on him, rather than avoiding his gaze you looked back, making direct eye contact with the grinning man. Your pussy had been molded perfectly to his dick, only get wet for him and desperately sucking him in each time.
Eren’s strong hands parted your thighs, going slow to let you get used to the feeling.
After telling him that you were a virgin, his number one priority was making sure that your first time was enjoyable and something you wouldn’t regret.
He had taken all precautions—condoms, lube, and foreplay to make sure you were fully in the mood and were truly ready before he did anything.
“Tell me you still want this.” Eren whispered, the tip of his cock hovering near your pussy.
“I already told you I do.” His expression softened slightly at your words, but was still more serious than you would prefer.
“That’s not good enough, baby. I want to hear a yes.”
“Yes, Eren. I want this.” Your voice is shaky but firm, convincing Eren just enough that you were ready.
Slowly, he pushed into your cunt, restraining himself from bucking forwards with every squeeze around him you gave. His cock was stretching you open, a sensation that was new and somewhat painful.
Gritting your teeth, you close your eyes and tilt your head back, waiting for the amount of pleasure to overtake the pain.
Once Eren was buried inside you, he paused, waiting for your approval to keep going.
“It hurts…” you mumble under your breath, though what you were feeling wasn’t entirely pain.
“That’s normal,” Eren reassures you, hands still holding your thighs apart. “If it’s too much, tell me and I’ll stop.”
You shake your head. “Keep going, Eren. I’ll be okay.”
Part of Eren wants to continue smothering you, making sure you’re alright, but he knows he won’t get any further with that. Taking a deep breath, he gently thrusts his hips forwards.
“I’ll make you feel good, baby,” he groans, thumbs gently rubbing your thighs. “So good. I promise.”
the emergency department has officially been removed from its natural habitat and relocated somewhere considerably warmer. allegedly for “moral-boosting” purposes. now there are plane tickets scattered across kitchen counters, half-packed suitcases sitting open on bedroom floors, and a group chat that has already developed into arguments about sunscreen, swimwear, and who exactly is responsible for making sure nobody gets arrested in a foreign country.
you're invited to the third mariaverse getaway trip! 𑣲⋆｡˚
❀ the destination greece ❀ vacation dates june 7-13
to secure your spot on the trip, just send me an ask with
❀ your travel partner - michael robinavitch / frank langdon / jack abbot
❀ your reader archetype - princess (w dr robby) / sunshine (w dr robby) / nerd (coming soon with dr langdon) / er barbie (w dr langdon) / dr abbot can be requested with any reader type your mind desires since i don't have reader archetypes for him right now!
❀ your euro summer fantasy scenario (sunrise walks, boat day disasters, stormy nights, midnight swims, balcony confession - can be fluff or smut (let's keep these good vibes going!!)) - can’t think of a prompt? let the gods decide your fate
event details
request submissions open: now until june 7!
event begins: june 7 - june 13
i'll be sharing little glimpses of the trip in the forms of drabbles, headcannons, and possibly a surprise or two if the mediterranean sun gets the better of me. i'll be answering requests at my own pace, so i can't promise i'll get to every one, but i'll do as many as i can!
so consider this your invitation!
the sun is hot. the drinks are cold. and someone is definitely making bad decisions with the excuse of vacation!
#mariassummerinsantorini ⟶ track the tag to follow along! i'll be putting together a masterlist as the event goes on ♡
and if you've been looking for an excuse to write something summer vacation / euro themed, this is it! feel free to post your own blurbs, fics, moodboards, whatever your heart desires under the tag (any fandom welcome!) i'll happily include any and all submissions in the final masterlist ♡
summary — loving jack always had a price. you just assumed you’d seen the worst of it.
warnings — 7.1k words. MINORS DNI!! explicit sexual content (unprotected piv sex), divorce, ex-spouses with a major case of unresolved feelings, toxic relationship dynamics, codependency, alcohol use, unexpected pregnancy, discussion of abortion and reproductive choice, crying, emotional distress, also the past relationship details are left vague
author’s note — whipped this up bc i could not stop thinking about this plot 😬 yk i love a gooood angst + this one should be multiple parts!!
If you knew your ex-husband was going to be at the bar, you would have gone straight home. The only point of getting drinks after a shift was to stop being a person who’d had that shift—to sit in a sticky booth with people who’d seen the same bad day and let it dissolve into something cheap—and Jack’s presence anywhere had the effect of making you more yourself, not less; a woman performing being completely okay for an audience of one who’d seen you cry over burnt lasagna on your two-year-anniversary and had the terrible indecency to remember it.
But you didn’t know. Dana had said a few of them were going to the bar after the night shift took over, and you’d heard it would only be a few of them and not done the thinking on who’d be working the night shift—you’d assumed him, because he was always there, always fucking there. So you walked in already loosened, your badge clipped to your waistband, and you were three steps into the warm beery dark before you saw the back of his head in the corner booth.
He was nursing a bourbon he’d probably make last the entire night and he was half-listening to Langdon tell some story, his leg stretched out into the aisle, and he hadn’t seen you yet. You had a second. You could have turned around and texted Dana some bullshit excuse of getting the full eight hours and walked back to the parking lot to go home to your dog and half your bed.
You never did, though. You told yourself afterward it was because the leaving would’ve told the table something. But the truer thing, the one you didn’t want to look at directly, was that an evening without Jack had started to feel like a room with the bulb burned out. You’d gotten that bad.
“There she is,” Dana said, twisting around in the booth, already sliding to make room. “Sit. I saved you the good side. It doesn’t wobble.”
You sat, and the good side put you diagonal from Jack, close enough that his stretched-out leg was a fact you had to arrange your own legs around under the table. He hadn’t acknowledged you yet. He was letting Langdon finish; Jack always let people finish, it was something that made patients trust him and made you, toward the end, want to put a plate through the wall because he’d let you get to the bottom of sentences you’d have killed to be interrupted out of.
But you watched the back of his neck change as his shoulders went from loose to aware. When he turned, his eyes found yours like a bad number on a monitor, faster than he could’ve chosen. For half-a-second, before his face caught up, he looked so completely undefended. Then it was gone and he looked at you like you were weather he'd been told about.
“Huh,” he breathed, picking his bourbon back up. “They let your department fraternize with the help now, or are you slumming?”
“Dana kidnapped me.” You reached over and took the lime off his rim. He’d never once in his life used it—he hated citrus in bourbon—and only got it because Marlene behind the bar had been putting it in each time. Jack had decided somewhere around your wedding that debating her on it was more than what the lime was worth.
You bit it and set the rind into his napkin where it went, where it had always gone.
His eyes tracked you as you did it without any comment. The better half of five years of the lime and he’d never once said anything, only bought you the garnish on his own drink.
“How was your floor?” you asked.
“Slow.” He turned the glass a quarter-turn on the table, an old tell, the thing his hands did when he was trying very hard to keep his words scarce. “Knock on something.”
“But I like watching you suffer,” you drawled.
He huffed at that. “I know.”
That was it. He was good at letting things sit, it was the worst of his habits, the way he could absorb a thing you said and just hold it instead of returning it. Half your sentences to him used to end in a silence you'd eventually have to fill yourself. You'd forgotten how much work it was. You'd forgotten you used to do all the talking and call it conversation.
“You got Kevin this week?” Dana asked from beside you.
Jack, without a beat of hesitation, said, “She’s got Kilo this week.”
Javadi, the new and curious med student in the ER, looked between both of you with furrowed brows. “Sorry. Kevin or Kilo? Is that—are those two dogs?”
“One dog,” you said.
“Yup. One dog,” Jack agreed.
“Then why—” Javadi started.
“His name’s Kilo,” Jack said.
“No, his name’s Kevin.”
Javadi’s head went between you as though she was watching a tennis match. The table laughed because they’d heard this a hundred times and it never stopped being funny to them; the divorced two doing their oldest bit, the one argument that had outlived the marriage that spawned it.
“His papers say Kilo,” Jack said in Javadi’s direction.
Robby, who’d been completely invested in his own drink, said, “And your papers say divorced.”
“And we very much are, thank you,” you said, picking it up before the laugh had finished.
Jack stayed silent then. Robby, he’d have something for. But this was you saying it, easy and completely certain in front of everyone. The leg that had been stretched into your space this entire night drew back slowly, a small retreat nobody at the table except you could’ve felt. He turned the glass a quarter-turn.
You’d done it on purpose. You’d felt the whole night immediately tilting into the warm dangerous fiction of it and you’d reached for the one sentence that would shut it, and you’d swung it at the only person who’d actually feel the blade.
The facts of your divorce were no concern to anyone but the two of you at the table, but you could feel Jack flinch inwardly by the announcement that blanketed it all; that you now lived in separate homes, that the dog was scheduled like a custody hearing; that the word ‘we’ had a tense and it was past. None of it was news. He’d signed the same papers you had in the same flat conference room, with the same pen the mediator kept clicking until you'd wanted to scream. He knew the facts better than anyone. And still you'd watched him wince when you said it out loud.
He'd built a whole life on the difference between a thing being true and a thing being spoken; it was how he ran a trauma bay, how he told a family the worst news in the world in a voice that never broke, how he'd ended your marriage without ever once saying the words that would've made it real, just withdrawing by degrees until you were the one who had to say them for him. He'd made you do that too. He made you do all the saying. And now you'd said this, and he was sitting there absorbing it the way he absorbed everything, quietly, like he'd decided long ago that taking it without a sound was the least of what he had coming.
“Just fucking do it, Jack.”
And he did—finally, finally—push into you with a single long stroke that dragged a sound out of both of you, his coming out through his teeth, and yours into the pillow. His forehead came down between your shoulder blades. He stayed there for a second, breathing, one hand splayed wide over your hip and the other braced into the mattress beside your hips. His weight settled onto the left leg the way it always settled, a decision his body stopped having to make years ago. You could feel him shaking with the effort of not moving yet, of dragging it out, because he always did this, he always made you ask twice.
“Christ,” he breathed into your spine. “You feel—” he started, and let the words die as his teeth gently pressed into the bone at the top of your shoulder. It was then he started to move.
He fucked like he did everything else with his hands; he was methodical, attentive, and so devastingly present. He went in believing there was always a correct rhythm, and he intended to find it just to ruin you with it. He’d learned by repetition until it stopped requiring thought, until he could play you without looking, and the worst part—the one you’d never say out loud—was that it worked. It always worked. He knew the exact angle that made you stop being a person with opinions about him.
That long stroke dragged slow on the way out and snapped deep on the way back in, and your whole body misfired around him whether you’d given it permission to or not.
His palm slid up from your hip to flatten between your shoulder blades and pressed, folding you down into the mattress, taking the choice out of your spine. And the new angle had you gasping into the sheets because he’d done it on purpose; he always did everything on purpose, and now he was hitting that place that made your fingers curl and your thighs shake and a thin embarrassing whine climb out you that you’d have died before making it sober.
Jack felt the exact second your control went and he leaned into it, hips grinding deep and unhurried, holding you right there on the edge of too-much like he was reading everything under your skin.
“That’s it,” he drawled out, his voice low and even, the bastard, like he had all night, like he wasn’t already wrecked behind the voice. “Yeah, I’ve got you.” And he did. He had you exactly where he wanted you and you let him, because no one had ever taken you apart this precisely, this patiently, like your falling apart was the only thing on his list and he intended to do it right.
The dog tags swung forward and dragged close across your back when he leaned over you, then warm when they settled against your skin, and you thought—stupidly, with the part of your brain that should’ve been offline—that you used to fall asleep listening to that chain shift when he breathed. You thought there had been a version of this where afterward he stayed. You shoved that thought down. You arched your back into him instead and he made a punched-out noise, low in his chest, his grip going tight on you to leave the marks.
“Slow down,” he muttered more to himself than you, but he didn’t. His hips stuttered out of their careful rhythm because this was the one place his composure failed; it was the one place where the sealed-up, gallows humor, watching-you-over-the-glass version of him came apart at the seams.
You’d figured this out over the months. This was the only place Jack was honest. He’d never say the things across a table, in daylight, with his clothes on. But here, with his cock buried inside of you and his composure shot, the truth leaked out of him in fragments he wouldn’t be accountable for later.
“Missed this,” he got out, ragged, his mouth at the back of your neck now, words pressed into your hairline like he could bury them in there. “Missed you, fuck. You’ve got no idea, sweetheart, the things I—”
“Don’t.” You didn’t want it. You wanted it so badly your chest ached and that was exactly why you didn’t want it, because you knew what it was worth in the morning, which was nothing, which was a text about whether you’d remembered to walk Kevin. “Jack. Don’t talk. You can’t—” You let out a gasp as he pressed his hips completely flush against yours, chasing you to the hilt, as if he could physically expel the words out of you. “Can’t fuck me into being with you again.”
You felt him falter at the words, just for a beat, the rhythm catching like you’d reached back and put a hand flat on his sternum. He slowed, dragged himself almost all the way out and held there, trembling, his whole weight coming down over your back so his mouth was now at your ear and you could feel everything against the shell of it.
“I know,” he said, words ragged. “I know I can’t. Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”
His hand moved around the dip of your waist, and he pulled out of you slow, the loss making you bite down on a sound. Then he was rolling you, one palm flat and insistent on your hip, turning you under him onto your back like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“No—” You got an arm up, forearm against your own eyes, because you knew what he wanted, and you weren’t going to give it to him. The face, the looking. From behind, you could keep it what it was; turned over, you’d have to be there for it. “Jack, leave it. I don’t—”
“Hey.” He held your wrist, thumb working into the soft inside of it where your pulse was going stupid. “C’mon. Move the arm.”
“No.”
“You won’t even—” He let out a low laugh, disbelieving, almost wounded. “You’ll let me do every other thing but you won’t even look at me?”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah.” He went quiet for a moment, and his hand slid up the inside of your thigh, holding you open, patient as anything. He knew exactly what the looking was and exactly why you were hiding from it, and he was going to wait you out. “I know it is. Move the arm anyway.”
He braced over you on his arm, the other hand drawing slow idle circles high on your thigh, his cock notched against you and not pushing in, just there, the threat and promise of him, while he looked down at the arm over your face. You could feel him watching.
So you did move the arm, mostly just to spite him by giving him exactly what he wanted. His face was right there—jaw tight, eyes gone dark and fixed on you like you were the only lit thing in the room—and the second you met it, the slight smugness melted clean down the middle and there was just the wanting underneath, naked and his.
“Thank god,” he breathed before pushing back into you. His eyes tracked your face scrunch up at the familiar—too familiar—pleasure like he’d been starving for exactly this. His hand left your jaw and found your knee, hooking it up higher over his hip. He’d always known your left hip sat wrong, that this was the angle that didn’t ache after; the same way you knew, without ever being told, to take the weight off his right side, the two of you arranging yourselves around each other the way you always had. “Knew you were in there somewhere.”
“Don’t get sentimental, Jack” you said, breathless. “You’ll pull something.”
He huffed a laugh against your jaw. Your hand had gone to his left shoulder and you pressed your thumb into the knot that always sat under the blade after a long shift, working it slow while he moved in you. He groaned low and helpless at the unexpected mercy of it.
“Mouthy,” he managed to say. “Even now.”
“You’re so—so insufferable.”
His mouth found the corner of yours and his hand slid up your ribs so his thumb could catch the underside of your breast exactly where he knew; your back came up off the mattress for him. “You married me anyway. What’s that say about you?”
You got your fingers to his hair and scratched once at the base of his skull, the thing that used to put him to sleep in under five minutes, something you’d done about a thousand times in a bed you no longer shared. You watched his eyes go briefly unfocused with how much his body remembered it meant being safe. You hated that you’d done it.
The easy heat in him went somewhere graver, and his hand came up to cover yours where it rested in his hair. He pinned it there, keeping the touch on him, like he couldn’t bear for you to take it back.
“Why’d you—” His hips stuttered. “Why’d you have to go, huh?”
“Don’t,” you said quickly, and your hand came out of his hair—you made it come down, fighting the pin of his fingers—and you planted your palm against his chest to put an inch back between the two of you. “Don’t talk. Just—shut up. Jack, shut up and—”
He took in a breath, lips still parted like he wanted to talk. You’d expected it. Jack was fabulous at saying everything important while inside you or when he was halfway asleep.
“Yeah.” He nodded shakily. “Yeah. Okay.”
He got an arm under the small of your back and hauled you up into him, and the next stroke was just deep and selfish, like he’d stopped trying to make his point and now was only trying to get somewhere. The slow ruinous tenderness burned off into something with no thought left in it, and your body surged up to meet it—God—yes, this, you could do, this didn’t ask you for anything you’d sworn off. This was just the white-hot animal fact of him and you could be all the way in without losing a single thing.
“There,” he ground out, forehead dropped to yours, both of you breathing into the same inch of air. “There—fuck—there you go.”
Your mind went black. That was the mercy of getting it like this; the part of you that counted the times he’d said your name, that totted up what the morning had cost, went quiet, drowned clean in the simple overwhelming good of him. You grabbed at his back and pulled him in past where there was room and made a strangled noise.
His hand found yours where it was fisted in the sheet and laced through it, knuckles white, pinning it down beside your head—needing the anchor—and you gripped back just as hard. The bed was loud. Neither of you cared. You'd gone past the place where you could have stopped even if the smarter version of you had walked in and ordered it, both of you just chasing the finish now with a kind of grim mutual desperation, like if you got it done fast enough you wouldn't have to deal with what it was.
“Close,” you breathed. “Jack, I’m close—”
“I know. C’mon, let me feel it—” His hand let go of yours and dropped between you, fingers finding you without a second of searching, the muscle-memory of you deathly absolute. “Been thinking about this all night.”
He worked you up to the edge with his face buried in your throat and his hips snapping. The whole thing finally cresting into something neither of you could've talked through if you'd tried.
You went over first, the peak tearing through you with your nails dug into his back and your spine bowed clean off the mattress. He fucked you through every second of it, hips ramming, dragging it up past the point you could stand. And right at the end of yours his rhythm broke and went erratic, deep and grinding and graceless, and you felt the exact moment it caught him.
His arms hooked tighter under the small of your back and hauled you up into him so there was nowhere for him to go but deeper, like the thought of any distance between the two of you right now was a thing he couldn’t tolerate. Your legs wrapped around the backs of his thighs anyway, your heel pressed into the base of his spine.
“Gonna—” His voice came out shredded, into your throat. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna—fuck—”
With a low broken sound, his whole weight crushed down and his hips gave those last helpless grinding pushes, burying himself to the hilt, spilling into you with his face shoved into your neck and his hand fisted in your hair. He continued moving even then, small, greedy rolls of his hips, working himself deeper through the aftershocks, wringing every second out.
“God.” He shuddered out the word against your pulse, hips still flush, seated as deep as he could get. His arms came around you completely—there wasn’t any inch he wasn’t holding—and he stayed there long after he finished, unwilling to give up the last of it. Greedy even now, especially now. Jack would take every second he was handed and a few he wasn’t.
His heart slammed against your ribs. His breath dragged itself slowly back down. For a moment, you let him have it. You let him stay heavy on and inside you, and you stared at the ceiling.
After a minute—because that’s all you could grant him, a mere sixty seconds—you put your palm flat on his chest, over the spot where the dog tags had settled cold against his skin, and you pushed.
He came up on his forearms and he looked down at you. That was the hundredth mistake of the night, letting him be that close to your face with the lights of the street coming through the blinds in stripes across him. He looked at you the way he looked at you in the one place he ever did, like you were something he'd been allowed to hold and was already being asked to set back down, and the wanting in it was so total and so useless that you had to look at his collarbone instead.
Then his fingers came up to your chin, tilting your head up gently to meet his eyes again. “I wish you weren’t so cruel to me in front of people.” he said, voice coming out so rough.
You knew exactly which part of the night he was talking about. He’d carried it the whole way here—through the parking lot, through the drive, through all of this, your body still humming with him—and he’d held onto it the entire time, only to let it out now because now was the only time he could.
“It’s not cruel if it’s true,” you said. “Nobody thought it was cruel.”
“No, nobody thought anything.” He caressed your jaw just slightly, and you stilled under the grazing touch. “I still felt it.”
Maybe it was the hour, or the drinks still thinning in you, or just the unbearable fact of him looking at you. Regardless of what it was, the lid you kept on the old thing slipped, and you didn't get it back down in time.
“Don’t talk to me about cruelty, Jack,” you said quietly, holding his eyes even though you could feel your own burn. You could do it for once, because he was the one that looked like he needed a collarbone to fix his gaze on. “It was your cruelty that did this.”
His thumb stopped at your jaw. And then, instead of the stillness you’d expected, his hand slid back into your hair and his arm came around you and he pulled you in, the whole weight of him bearing down. His face went into your neck.
You froze under him, suddenly hating him all over again for making this harder and harder each time.
“Go home,,” you said, and it came out lower than you’d wanted it to.
He let out a shaky breath against your skin. “I’d like to stay with you for one night. If you asked.”
Your hands came up to his shoulders. You gently pushed. “I’m asking you to go.”
He came up off you slow, by degrees, and the cold rushed into every place he’d just been. He never argued; he only gave you offers where with the condition of you having to ask welded into them. He sat up on the edge of the bed with his back to you and reached for his shirt off the floor.
People at the hospital had a word for you and it was ‘difficult.’ You’d made peace with it years ago. What you didn’t have a word for was the tired. You’d been tired before; this had a different grain to it, bone-level and sitting-behind-your eyes. Twice this week the floor had gone soft and far away when you stood up too fast. You’d put a hand on the counter and waited it out and told no one.
You hadn't eaten, either. The granola bar was still in your bag. So when you stood up from the workstation to walk the corrected units down yourself, the room didn't gray at the edges this time. It dropped. The whole thing tilted bright then dim, your hand reached for the counter and missed it by an inch, and the next clear thing was the floor being closer than it should be and a hand hard around your arm.
“Okay—I’ve got you. Sit.” Dana, you recognized. Of course it was Dana; she had a sixth sense for the exact second a person stopped standing upright. She steered you down to a chair before you’d finished falling. “Head down. Between the knees. You’ve told a hundred people to do this—do it.”
“I’m fine,” you said, voice coming out depleted. “I just got up too—”
“Yeah, you’ve been getting up fast a couple times this week.” " Her hand was on the back of your neck, two fingers at your pulse, and she wasn't looking at your face, she was looking at her watch, counting, and the professionalism of it—the way she'd switched you from colleague to patient without asking your permission—made something cold go through you. “When’d you eat, hon?”
“I ate.”
“When?” When you stayed silent, she said, “That’s what I thought.”
She straightened up and you heard her turn. “Hey! Somebody grab Robby. No, he’s not—just grab him.” She turned back to you, and gentler than you wanted, in a way that told you exactly how bad you looked, she said, “We’re gonna put you in a room. Don’t make a face. We’re gonna put you in a room, run some fluids, check a couple things. If it’s nothing—thank god—then it’s nothing, and you can be insufferable about it for weeks. But you went down, sweetheart, and I’m not arguing with you about it.”
You wanted to argue; you wanted to refuse the chair and go back to work instead of occupying a bed at work. But you were so tired. You were tired, and some animal part of you had already known that for two weeks and had been waiting, with a patience that frightened you, for someone to make you stop.
So you let Dana walk you to the room. You let her pull the curtain. You sat on the edge of the gurney in a department you'd worked in for over a decade and let a colleague put a line in your arm, and you stared at the corner of the blood pressure cuff and did not let yourself think the one thought that had started, very quietly, somewhere underneath the tired, to assemble itself, and would not finish assembling until Robby came in twenty minutes later with your labs and a look on his face you couldn't read, and asked you, carefully, like a man stepping onto ice, when your last period was.
You’d seen him tell a people about death with more steadiness than he was managing right now, standing at the foot of your gurney with a tablet he wasn't looking at, asking you about your cycle like the answer was already on the screen and he was just giving you the courtesy of arriving at it yourself.
“Why?” you asked flatly.
“Just humor me. Tell me.”
You told him and he had no reaction, and that was how you knew. Robby’s face had gone completely neutral.
“Okay,” he said, setting the tablet down. “Your labs came back. Everything’s—the anemia’s mild. That’s the lightheadedness and not-eating. We’ll sort that out.” He paused, took a breath in, and the cold thing that had gone through you on the floor came back and sat down in your chest and stayed. “Your hCG’s elevated.”
You felt your body run cold then.
“That’s the pregnancy hormone,” he said gently. He was a teacher before anything, and that reflex was still on, even with you.
“I know what hCG is, Robby,” you said, the words coming out sharp, voice cracking the last word in half. You saw him nod sharply as he decided to ignore it. “I—I know what it is.”
“It’s early,” he said. “Numbers are consistent with early, which means you’ve got time. That’s what I’m saying. You’ve got time to think about whatever you need to think about.” He was being so careful. “I didn’t put it into anything yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
Early. You’ve got time.
He picked the tablet up—done being a doctor about it now, the official part handled—and leaned a hip against the counter, and his voice changed, going off-duty.
“Hey,” he said. “Congratulations.”
You nodded, your mind already distant.
“You gonna tell Jack?”
Your mind sharpened. For a second, you genuinely didn’t understand the sentence. Your brain refused it wholly, turned it over to look for the trick. There was no way Robby knew—there was no way anybody knew—because you’d been so careful, the whole thing happened in the dark precisely so it wouldn’t seep into the light, so nobody could say a sentence like that. Your stomach dropped through the gurney.
“Huh?”
Robby looked at you, then shrugged. “I just figured, because you two still talk. He’d want to know. Big life thing.” Then, he added softer, misreading your face completely, “I guess it’s really over between the two of you then?”
You felt your breath hitch in your throat. That was what people would think when it got out, that the door has finally shut. They’d think you were getting clear, a baby with somebody new means the Jack-of-it-all was finally done, mercifully done. That you’d moved on and met someone, that you were building a thing past the divorce you survived. This was supposed to be proof of it. The sad civilized arrangement nobody named, ended at last by a life you were starting without him.
Robby had it exactly backwards and he had no way to know it. It was the furthest thing from over. It was likely the most permanent thing that had ever happened to you, and it had Jack’s name and only Jack’s name. The thing Robby believed to be your way out was the thing that could mean there’d never be a way out. Not anymore, if you chose to have this child. Not ever. You’d be tied to Jack Abbot. A year and a half of getting clear by inches.
You realized Robby was still standing there and that he’d asked you something. He was waiting for an answer you didn’t have the throat for.
“Can you give me a minute?” Your voice came out hoarse. “Just—a minute. Please. And don’t put it into anything yet. Just—don’t let anyone know.”
Robby nodded, probably thinking you needed a beat to let the good news settle, to feel something private and large before the world got its hands on it. “Course. I’ll hold the room, keep people out. Take your time.”
His hand found your shoulder on the way past, squeezing, and then the curtain rings scraped along the rod and he was gone.
It all came up at once, fast and without warning. Your hand was flat on the edge of the gurney and you watched it shake, and you made it stop. You could always make your hands stop. What you couldn’t do was make the rest of it stop. The rest of it was the thought you wouldn't think of, thinking itself anyway, and the worst part was the voice it came in, your own, flat, professional, the one you used to walk a frightened patient through their options without ever letting it shake. You could end it. It's early. Numbers consistent with early. You knew exactly how early early was. You knew the window, the way you knew the shelf life of a unit of platelets down to the day. You knew how clean it was, how legal, how completely nobody's business but your own. There was a door. Right now, there was still a door.
There was a door. There was, right now, still a door; it was the realest door, the one that actually led all the way out that would let you walk back into the life where you got clear of Jack Abbot for good and never had to share a child or a custody calendar or a name with him. He would give you Kevin, you knew that. Over would mean over, for good, where in five years you’d be a woman the hospital remembered being married once, to the ER’s night shift attending, you know the one.
You could take that door. It was yours to take. Nobody even had to know.
You sat in the small bright room and made yourself look directly at the door and waited to feel the relief of it, yet it didn’t come. What came instead, rising up under the grief like a second tide, worse than the first, was a thing you had no word for and no right to and could not, would not, look at straight on, was that it was Jack’s.
You wished you could see it as a curse, and somewhere in the last thirty seconds it had turned over in you and come up as something else; a small, traitorous, and warm thing. It was the exact warmth that had locked your ankles around him, the same warmth that had opened the door for him every night. A piece of him you could get to keep, that no amount of divorce could put back in its box. The one version of forever you two were going to get. And a part of you, a part you despised with everything you had, wanted it. More than the baby in the abstract. His, specifically and unforgivably.
You put your hand over your mouth as you felt it all come up, and you cried—the real way, the way you hadn’t since the lawyer’s office. You cried a cry that came up from the root and shook you apart, alone, in a place where you worked, with only a curtain covering you.
You couldn’t have heard the shift change happen on the other side of the curtain. The hospital had kept turning around your little curtained box, that somewhere out there it had ticked over into evening and the day people were handing the floor to the night people. You hadn’t heard any of it.
You hadn’t heard Dana catch him at the board, and she would have—you know she would have tried—put a hand flat on his chest the second she saw which way he was moving. You only heard the curtain rings scrape against the rod.
You looked up—ruined, mid-breath, your hand still pressed over your own mouth with your face holding an expression no one had ever seen you do. And there was Jack with one hand still fisted in the curtain he'd thrown back, stopped dead in the gap of it.
He’d come in braced, almost with the same register he came in when there was a level 1 trauma, except this one was a case of lightheadedness. His sleeves were shoved to his elbow, jaw already set, and he’d walked in expecting to find blood or something else equal to that, a thing he’d be able to clean up and fix. He had a hand half-raised for it, and it stayed there, hovering, for it had nothing to fix.
You knew his face better than your own; there’d never once been a thing he could’ve kept from you, not even when it felt like he was hardly your husband, especially then. You watched the readiness dissipate off of Jack’s face, watched the doctor leave him by degrees until what was left standing was just Jack.
Just Jack had no protocol for this; there was nothing he’d been taught to do with his face when you were crying because you didn’t cry.
He of all people knew so. He’d sat at a conference table with you while a mediator clicked a pen and you signed your name with a hand that was too steady. He’d carried his own boxes down to the truck while you watched from the upstairs window, dry-eyed, because tears would have made it all real and you refused—out of spite, out of the last thing you had—to make it real where he could see.
His mouth opened, and his throat worked around words, any word. When he finally spoke, it was just your name, and it came out cracked down the middle, like a plea and a prayer.
He had no idea. It made you sob slightly louder than you would’ve liked, the realization that he was standing there gutted with fear for you, scared past the edge of himself, and he did not know. Jack could not have known that he was the answer, that you were the answer. If he’d asked you what had happened, the whole truth would have been his name and your own; it would have been the thing you’d done together in the dark a couple dozen times and called nothing.
“I hate you,” you said, because the only thing you’d been capable of doing was throwing up a wall, driving him out with your own two hands. And it didn’t work, because the words had come out between sobs, wet and wrong, the cruelty falling apart on the way out.
He didn’t argue it. He never argued the ones he thought were true. He just took it the same way he’d taken every other blow you’d ever landed, without ever lifting a hand to stop it, as though he’d decided a long time ago this was the least of what he had coming.
Still, something moved through him when the words hit, a flinch, a wince that started behind his eyes and pulled his whole face down with it.
He came the rest of the way to you anyway, and your hand came up between you—far from a hit, there was nothing left in your arm to make one, just the heel of your palm landing against his chest, more sob turned outward than strike. It pushed against nothing. Jack didn’t even rock with it. And then your fingers were curling into the fabric over his sternum instead, gripping when you’d wanted to shove, the same failure of your hands as two weeks ago; pushing him away and hauling him in, your body unable to decide which.
“You—” Another blow, glancing off his chest. “Why did we have—”
“Okay.” He let you continue, letting the first ones land, face stricken and bewildered as he absorbed the blows for a crime he couldn’t name. “Okay. Okay, hey—”
You drew back, and when your hand closed in again, his own came up and closed around your wrist. You could’ve pulled free—he’d left you room for it—but you let him keep holding it there against his chest where you’d been striking him.
“What happened,” he said, words coming out quietly, not even a question. “Whatever it is. Talk to me. What happened?”
He started to move into you, closing the space between you by inches, his other hand coming up to your face, your shoulder, somewhere, anywhere, his whole self trying to fold into your orbit the way it always had. “Just tell me,” he said, closer now, voice dropped lower, into a register it stayed it when it was only the two of you. “Let me—”
“No.” You twisted your wrist in his hand and turned your face away from the one coming toward it. “You can’t just—I won’t let you—”
His forehead had dropped down to hover over your temple, the warmth of him crowding into every place you’d been trying to wall off. “I’m not. I’m not doing anything. I’m just here—let me be here.”
Here. He’d said the word so softly, with so much surety, like it was a small thing to ask, like it had been a place he’d ever once been. The wall you'd been holding with both hands didn't come down so much as it went out from under you, the way the floor had two weeks ago, all at once and without your permission.
You stopped twisting away. You felt him feel the fight going out of your wrist under his fingers and felt the new alertness move through him.
“You want to be here,” you said into his chest, where your fists were still knotted in his shirt, the words coming out muffled aimed at the fabric. Then, through a disbelieving laugh devoid of any humor, you said, “You want to be here?”
“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah. I’m here.”
“Fucking—” The laugh that tore out of you was anything but one. “Congratulations, then.” Your forehead pressed down hard against his sternum, your eyes squeezed shut, because you couldn’t say it and knew you were going to anyway. At least you wouldn’t have to watch. “Fuck—You’re gonna be a father.”
Everything that had been moving stopped all at once; the hand at your jaw, the thumb that had been working slow along your wrist, the whole restless warmth of him trying to fold into you went motionless. For a second, he didn’t even breathe.
You forced yourself to look up. You wanted, somewhere mean and small and ten years old, to see it touch Jack. You wanted to finally watch something get all the way through.
You got it, and it was worse than you’d let yourself imagine.
The first thing that fell of was the part that told you he was ready to fix this, fix you. It fell clean off, his brows furrowing in worry, a tell that looked too tiny for something this large.
For a second—less than that, before he could pull the reins on it—something that had no business being there moved under the fear. You knew it because you’d felt the exact same thing only a few minutes ago, alone, the warm traitorous thing rising up under the grief. It was there, on his face—unguarded, naked, wanting—and you watched him catch it. You watched his whole face wilt as he understood, in real time, that he wasn't allowed to feel it, that the wanting was obscene standing next to your wreckage, and you watched him put it away. He got it back behind the wall fast, the way he got everything back behind the wall.
Only his hands gave him up. The one at your jaw had started to shake.
He let out a choked sound, like he was trying to lift the words out of his chest but they kept getting stuck halfway.
“You’re—” He stopped himself and swallowed, not being able to get the back half of a sentence out of his own throat. “We’re—?”
“Yeah.”
His fingers around your wrist pulled it closer to his chest, as if he could press it through his body and into wherever the words wouldn’t come from.
“Let me—” he said, and stopped. Every possible word was too big to get a mouth around. “Just—let me.” His forehead came down against yours, and his eyes shut, and you felt the whole of him shaking now, not just the hand. “Please.”
you were a mess; your hair was stuck to your forehead from sweat, your thighs were sticky and dirty from your juices and jack’s cum, and your throat was so sore that all that came out of it were broken moans and quiet whimpers.
despite this, you were still moving your hips in a somewhat sloppy manner, now a little slower than before due to the calloused hands of the man holding onto your hips, trying to slow your movements.
jack himself was a mess too; he could feel yet another drop of sweat trickling down his temple, his breathing growing heavier and heavier, his already limp cock becoming so sensitive that he could feel every single nerve in it—and yet you kept riding him, as if your mind, drunk from the number of orgasms, hadn’t registered that his member is no longer capable of satisfying you.
and jack just growled under his breath, clenching every muscle in his body; he didn’t try to stop you or tell you to slow down, he just gritted his teeth and let you use him like your very own dildo.
and you did exactly that—you fucked him slowly while your lips rested in the hollow of his neck, leaving wet kisses and the occasional bites as he rubbed against that oversensitive spot inside you.
“you're fucking insatiable, aren't you, baby?” he whispered hoarsely, cupping your jaw with his large hands as he studied your fucked out expression.
“it just feels so good, daddy” you moaned into his skin, pressing your body against his, rubbing your hardened nipples against his firm chest, making you tremble and clench your walls tighter around him.
jack could hear just how wet you really were. the squelching sound echoed through the room, reminding both of you of all the times he’d made you gush like a waterfall, and how you’d made him fill you up to the brim.
yet that only seemed to fuel you; like you were moving with the intention of never stopping, even when your puffy, overstimulated pussy was on the verge of numbness.
at that moment, he wondered if he should invite robby to join you.
but the truth was that you’d probably wear the old man out just as much as you’d wear jack out.
੭꣒ ˖ ❛ bf!langdon who takes the phrase “kiss and makeup” a little too seriously.
c.ws :: mdni , smut , slight degradation , missionary so you can continue arguing , dirty talk.
"stop being so fucking mad at me." frank grumbles out from above, driving the point home by grinding his cock in deeper inside you. your thighs quiver despite yourself where they're hooked around his waist, lewd slapping noises permeating the room just to tease you. “i said sorry an hour ago.”
you keep turning your face, trying to angle it out of reach, or at least force the fury back into your expression. you can’t fight the scrunch of pleasure that crosses your face, however. he can see that too. the grudge held like a stone dam, meant to keep your pride immune and well guarded from the way he's fucking you into the mattress. but it never works.
"m’not-"
"you are." he nips at your shoulder, voice muffled. "you keep clenching up when i talk.” his hips rear back steadily, a wet squelch sounding from where you're joined, then he sinks back in with a grunt of effort. "except down here."
the truth stings worse than the fight itself: frank knows you like the back of his hand. the front and back. he knows exactly how to fuck you until your resentment feels misplaced and petty.
hands that had been pushing against his chest find the silky sheets instead, clutching tight.
"it was a stupid fight," he pushes in again, slowly, allowing you to relish in the thick ridge and veins dragging along your walls while he explains the situation to you.
"and you know it." pride makes you not answer, of course, the only thing you can manage is a soft whine.
"sweetheart," he sighs. "you really gonna let me cum in this pussy while you're busy pretendin' to hate me?" you blink up at him in silent retort. defiance radiating from every inch of your face.
"mmm." the man even has the audacity to pinch the bridge of his nose, like you're the one being unreasonable. like he’s not currently balls deep. "always so fucking stubborn." he reaches between your bodies, thumbing lazily at your clit. "you think i like walking out?"
rage bubbles back up your throat at once, rolling your eyes with the little attitude you had remaining. "you slammed the door — our door — and left."
"you knew damn well i'd come back…” he grunts, not missing a beat to retort. an especially brutal thrust has you seeing stars. "you’re a smart girl, stop acting stupid, yeah?" you try to hitch your hips, to hurry him along but he only holds you down, eyes narrowing.
"go ahead and scream all you want, curse me out, break something if you need to. but don't fall asleep hating me.” he rambles on, shaking his head faintly. “can’t take that shit."
your words come out sharp, bitter once you find your voice. "so what’s your plan, fuck me into forgiveness?”
there's no hesitation in him when a toothy grin splits across his face, "there you go. if we fight in the morning? before work? fine. but if we're sharing a bed like this, we fix it before we close our eyes. understood?" no thought forms twice before your head's nodding stupidly, not an ounce of resistance (or dignity) left in you as he sinks back in.
summary: One secret changes everything. As the Cody family’s carefully buried truths come to light, you find yourself caught between running from the people you love and fighting for them. In the end, loving Pope Cody doesn’t just change your life, it changes the entire family. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: sexual content/smut, abusive relationship (not andrew), bestie!deran trope, not timeline specific, fix it fic, some parts are dark, mentions of SA/grooming, parental abuse, smurf and baz, manipulation, j redemption arc, murder, violence, canon show themes, substance use, drinking, gun use, possessive!pope, jealous!pope, soft boy!pope, discussions of mental health, warnings are chapter dependent. total word count: 49.3k amalia’s love note: finally started a masterlist for this series lol, love yall
doe-eyed running to my tranquility (smut, angst)
After escaping your abusive boyfriend, you get pulled into the dangerous world of the Cody family and unexpectedly become the center of Pope Cody’s obsessive attention. As dark secrets unravel around you, Pope grows fiercely protective, pulling you deeper into his chaotic life until the line between safety and danger disappears completely.
take what you want (smut, fluff, angst)
After a job goes wrong, Pope disappears for four days, hiding his injuries and burying himself in silence. But when you finally confront him, you realize his biggest problem isn’t violence, it’s that he doesn’t believe he’s allowed to want or need anything. So you show him exactly how badly you want him to take what’s his.
i love the sick (angst, dark)
What starts as a simple night watching Lena turns into something far more dangerous when Baz leaves you at Smurf’s overnight. As Smurf slowly tightens her grip, quietly isolating you from the outside world, J is the only one who notices the pattern for what it really is and for the first time, he steps between you and his family. The night cracks open the fragile balance you’ve built with the Codys, exposing a darker, more volatile side of Pope Cody that leaves your relationship hanging by a thread and forces long-buried truths dangerously close to the surface.
all my morals shot (smut, dark, angst)
One secret sends you running from the Cody family, but escaping Pope Cody proves impossible. As buried truths come to light and old wounds turn into reckless choices, you’re forced to confront the feelings you’ve been trying to outrun. Meanwhile, Smurf realizes too late that you’ve become a threat, not because you’re using Pope, but because you’re the first person who truly chooses him. And no matter how hard you run, Pope always finds his way back to you.
mirror (fluff, angst)
Vignettes from your years-long friendship with Deran Cody, and the long-overdue conversation that finally puts the pieces back together.
nothing at all (dark, angst)
queen of nothing (angst, dark, smut)
As the Cody boys begin seeking comfort and guidance from you instead of Smurf, her resentment grows into something far more dangerous. Meanwhile, Pope’s fear of abandonment threatens the future of your relationship just as things are finally starting to feel real. Oh, and where the hell is Baz? Because whatever he’s up to, it can’t be good.
Summary: You were only unloading Jack’s dishwasher. That was all. You were in his kitchen, barefoot and comfortable in one of his old shirts, waiting for him to come home from tactical training. Domestic. Normal. Safe. And then Jack walked in wearing tactical gear. The vest. The boots. The radio. The duty belt. The quiet, knowing look on his face when he realized you could not stop staring. You tried to be normal about it. Jack noticed. Of course he did.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, established relationship, tactical gear/uniform kink, dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, light restraint, orgasm denial, oral sex, rough sex, kitchen counter sex, consent-heavy dominance, aftercare, Jack being smug and quietly devastating.
Author's Note: You’re welcome, readers. Tactical gear Jack has been in my head for far too long, and today I am making that everyone’s problem. This is for everyone who looked at that vest and immediately understood the vision. the boots, the radio, the command voice, the smugness, the “leave it on” of it all.
We did this together, and honestly? I think we should all be ashamed.
But we won’t be.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
You knew Jack’s kitchen well enough to know he had run the dishwasher. That was the first problem. The second problem was that you also knew Jack well enough to know he had absolutely no intention of unloading it before he left for tactical training.
You found the clean dishes by accident.
You had been at his townhouse for almost an hour, tucked into the corner of his couch in one of his old T-shirts and the soft lounge shorts you kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Jack pretended not to notice they had taken up permanent residence there. You pretended to believe him.
The TV murmured low in the living room. Your phone was facedown beside you. Late afternoon light stretched warm across the hardwood, catching on the coffee table, the arm of the couch, the spot near the entry where Jack always kicked off his boots, even though he complained when you did the same thing.
He had told you to let yourself in.
He always did now.
That was dangerous information if you let yourself think about it too long, so mostly, you didn’t.
You used your key. You kicked off your shoes. You curled up in his house like it had started making room for you without either of you saying it out loud.
Then you wandered into the kitchen for water, saw the clean light glowing on the dishwasher, and sighed as if this were somehow your responsibility.
“Of course,” you muttered.
The dishwasher door opened with a soft hiss. Warm air rolled up, damp and clean, smelling faintly like detergent and steam. The heat brushed your bare legs. Jack had loaded the bowls in the wrong direction again, because apparently, a man could be trusted with a trauma bay, tactical medical support, and other people’s lives, but not proper dishwasher geometry.
You started unloading it anyway.
Not because you were trying to be domestic. Not because the green mug already in his cabinet made something soft move behind your ribs. Definitely not because this had started to feel like your kitchen too.
You were simply a helpful person.
A generous person.
A person who had taken her bra off the second she got comfortable because Jack was not home yet, and you had planned to do nothing more strenuous than drink water, watch terrible television, and bully him into ordering Thai food when he got back.
You put the plates away first. Then the bowls. Then the mugs. The green one went on the second shelf, where Jack always reached for it in the morning, even though he claimed he did not have a favorite.
You were stretching to slide a mug into place when the front door opened.
You did not look over right away. “You ran the dishwasher and abandoned it,” you called, rising onto your toes. “I’m choosing to believe that was a cry for help.”
Jack did not answer. That was your first clue. Your fingers paused on the cabinet handle. The house changed when Jack entered it. You never knew how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. It was not sound, exactly. Not silence. Not even presence.
It was pressure. A subtle rearranging of the air.
You lowered yourself back onto your heels and turned.
Jack stood just inside the kitchen entry.
And your entire brain stopped. Not paused. Stopped. You had seen him in scrubs. You had seen him in old T-shirts and jeans, and the gray sweatpants he pretended were not specifically engineered to ruin your life. You had seen him half-asleep at this very counter, hair flattened on one side, making coffee with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on a French press. You had even seen him at work when he got sharp and calm, voice low, hands steady, the whole room rearranging itself around him because Jack Abbot had decided panic was not useful.
But this—
This was different.
Camouflage tactical pants tucked into boots. A tan quarter-zip stretched across his chest and shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. Camouflage sleeves pushed up enough to make his forearms a personal attack. Protective glasses shoved into his hair. A radio clipped at his shoulder. A duty belt low on his hips, heavy with equipment you did not know the names for, and suddenly wanted explained to you in unnecessary detail.
And the vest.
God help you, the vest.
It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was bulky and practical and worn in, half-unfastened, like he had started taking it off and gotten distracted. A black patch across the front read POLICE in block letters.
It should not have done anything to you.
It did several things.
Several immediate, humiliating things.
Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the mug still in your hand.
His mouth twitched. Barely. “You okay?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Yeah.” Your voice caught. “I—yeah.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough.
Heat rushed up your neck.
You turned back to the cabinet too quickly and shoved the mug onto the shelf. The wrong shelf. The green mug sat neatly beside his stack of bowls. The kitchen went horribly quiet.
Jack looked at the mug. Then at you. “That’s the bowl cabinet.”
Your fingers were still on the cabinet door. “I know.”
“You put a mug in it.”
“It’s visiting.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Small. Slow. Awful.
You shut the cabinet like that would erase the evidence, and bent for a plate from the dishwasher. A plate was normal. A plate was safe. A plate had never come home from tactical training looking like it could ruin your life with one raised eyebrow and a vest buckle.
Jack stepped farther into the kitchen. His boots sounded heavy on the tile.
You stared very hard at the plate. “Training was good?”
Jack hummed. “Mm-hm.”
“Good.” You croaked.
“Long.”
“Right.” You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Long is… training often is that.”
Jack went quiet. That was worse than if he had laughed.
You lifted the plate toward the cabinet. Wrong cabinet. Again. You froze with your arm half-raised.
Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.
You could feel him looking at the cabinet. Then at the plate. Then at you.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I didn’t.” Jack replied.
You couldn’t look at him. “You were about to.”
“No.”
Somehow, that was worse.
You lowered the plate slowly and opened the correct cabinet with all the dignity available to a person actively losing a fight with kitchen storage.
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Still in the gear. Still quiet. Still watching.
“You’re flustered.”
You laughed. It came out too high. “I am unloading the dishwasher.”
“Badly,” Jack murmured.
You exhaled, “You’re welcome.”
His eyes dropped. Not crudely. Not obviously. Just enough. Bare legs. Soft lounge shorts. His T-shirt. Your bare feet on his kitchen tile. You, too comfortable in his house to have expected him like this.
When his gaze returned to your face, something had shifted. Still amused. Still warm.
But darker now. More certain. “Oh.”
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘oh.’”
“I did.”
You pressed your lips together, “Don’t.”
He pushed off the doorway and took one slow step closer. You looked at the vest.
Mistake.
Jack noticed. His hand rested briefly against the front of it, fingers brushing one of the buckles like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly where your eyes were.
You looked away so fast that your shin almost caught the open dishwasher door.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Careful.”
You gripped the counter. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yep.” Too fast.
He came closer. Not too close. Close enough. The kitchen smelled like detergent, steam, and him now. Work and heat and Jack.
You picked up another mug. Then forgot why you were holding it.
His gaze flicked to it. Then back to you. “Need help?”
“No.”
“You sure?” He asked.
“Yes.” You answered quickly.
Jack glanced at the mug in your hand, “You’ve been holding that for a while.”
You looked down. You were, in fact, still holding the mug.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
Jack’s smile deepened. Small. Unbearably pleased.
You shoved the mug into the correct cabinet this time and immediately wished you had not looked proud of yourself for completing a task toddlers could master.
Jack caught that too. “Good job.”
Your face went instantly hot. The words were mild. Too mild.
That was the problem.
He had said them like he was talking about the mug, but his voice had gone just low enough to make your pulse stumble.
You turned to him. “Don’t do that.”
His expression stayed innocent. Too innocent. “Do what?”
You glared, “You know.”
“I don’t.” Jack shrugged a shoulder.
“You absolutely do.”
A beat passed.
His eyes dropped to the way your hand curled around the counter edge.
When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “You like the gear.”
Your mouth went dry. “I—what?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
You shook your head, “I do not.”
He raised a brow, “No?”
“No.” Your eyes betrayed you, straight to the vest.
Jack saw. The smugness sharpened.
You shut your eyes. “Damn it.”
A low sound left him. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “That’s what I thought.”
You opened your eyes.
He was close now. Close enough that you could see the dust on his boots, the tired edge around his eyes, the way the tan quarter-zip pulled across his shoulders beneath the vest.
You swallowed.
Jack watched your throat move. Said nothing.
Which was, frankly, rude.
“You’re enjoying this,” you said.
“A little.” Too honest. Too calm.
Your stomach flipped. “You’re supposed to deny it.”
“No.” The single word landed low.
Your hand slipped on the counter.
Jack’s gaze dropped to it. Then back to your face. His smile softened into something darker.
More focused. “Oh, baby.”
Your entire body went warm. “Don’t call me that right now.”
His head tilted. “Why?”
“Because I’m already—” You stopped.
Jack waited. His eyes stayed on your face, patient and pleased and quiet enough to make the silence feel like a touch.
You cleared your throat. “Because I’m unloading the dishwasher.”
He looked at the open dishwasher. Then, at the single spoon still sitting in the rack. Then back at you. “Almost done.”
You hated him.
You wanted him so badly your knees felt unreliable.
Jack stepped closer. Your back met the counter. He did not touch you.
Not yet.
His gaze moved over your face, taking in the blush, the uneven breathing, the way you kept trying not to look at the vest and failing every time.
Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. His fingers brushed the loose collar of your T-shirt where it rested against your shoulder.
Barely. Not enough. Too much.
His voice dropped, “You want me to take it off?”
Your eyes jumped to his. “The shirt?”
His mouth curved. “The vest.”
Oh. Right. The vest.
You looked at it again, because apparently, you had learned nothing.
Jack watched you look. Watched your breath catch. Watched your fingers tighten against the counter.
When you dragged your eyes back to his, he looked unbearably smug. Your voice came out smaller than planned. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack went very still. The kitchen went quiet around you.
His thumb brushed once against your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”
You nodded.
He waited. Right. Words.
“Yes,” you said softly. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack smiled then. Slow. Private. Absolutely lethal.
“Hands on the counter.”
Your breath left you. “What?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
The words were quiet. That was the problem. Jack did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The command settled into the kitchen with the same calm certainty he carried into rooms where people were used to listening when he spoke.
Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter.
Jack saw. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then came back to your face.
“You good?”
You nodded, then caught yourself because his eyebrow moved. Barely. Still enough.
“I’m good.”
Jack believed you. That was worse. Better. Both.
His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, not quite mercy.
“Then, hands on the counter.”
The kitchen seemed to shrink around the sentence.
The open dishwasher breathed out the last of its heat beside you. The single spoon still sat in the rack, ridiculous and bright beneath the kitchen light. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured to itself, low enough to be forgotten but not low enough to let the house feel empty.
You turned because he told you to. That was the first thing. The second was that Jack noticed the exact moment you realized you liked it.
Your palms met the counter. Cool stone. Smooth beneath your hands. You spread your fingers over it and tried not to think about how exposed the gesture made you feel. Tried not to think about the soft lounge shorts riding high on your thighs, the oversized T-shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, the fact that your back was to him now, and you could no longer use his face to prepare yourself for what he might do next.
Behind you, Jack did not move.
The silence was deliberate.
You felt it travel down the line of your spine.
Your skin prickled. “Jack.”
His boots sounded once on the tile. Then again. Slow. Measured. Not stalking. Not rushing.
Just coming closer because he had decided to, and because you had put your hands where he told you to put them.
He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.
The vest touched you first.
A brush of hard tactical fabric between your shoulder blades. Warm from his body underneath, rough at the edges, practical in a way that made it feel more obscene than anything designed to be sexy ever could.
Your fingers curled against the counter.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “I didn’t tell you to move.”
You had not moved. Not really. But your hands had lifted by a fraction, your fingers starting to curl like they wanted to reach back for him before you remembered yourself.
You flattened them again. The counter was cold. Your skin was not.
Jack’s hand settled at your waist. Warm. Steady. A single touch, and your whole body went too aware of itself. The old cotton of his shirt against your skin. The loose waistband of your shorts. The bare line of your shoulder where the collar had slipped. The cool air in the kitchen. The hard vest behind you.
His thumb moved once against your side. “Good.”
One word. No flourish. No smirk you could see.
Still, your breath went uneven.
Jack heard it.
His hand stayed where it was, not moving higher, not moving lower, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in giving you anywhere to hide. “You like that.”
Your eyes shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His mouth brushed the side of your neck. Barely there. “Liar.”
It should not have sounded affectionate. It did. A shiver moved through you before you could stop it. Jack’s palm flexed at your waist, grounding you without letting you pretend he had missed it.
The kitchen smelled like detergent, fading steam, and him.
Cold air still clung to his clothes from outside. Beneath that was sweat, dust, soap, and the faint metallic edge of gear and training equipment. It was not cologne. It was not polished. It was Jack after a long day doing something physical and dangerous enough that your body had apparently decided common sense was optional.
His other hand came to your opposite hip. Now he had you between him and the counter. Not trapped. Held.
There was a difference. Jack knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too.
His mouth touched your shoulder, a slow kiss just below the place where your shirt had slipped. The touch was soft enough to make your knees go weak. His hands tightened at your hips before you could sway.
Jack’s thumbs moved in slow arcs beneath the hem of your shirt, finding skin. Your breath caught. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked softly as it cooled. Jack’s vest shifted against your back when he leaned closer, and the sound of it—fabric, buckles, the faint scrape of equipment—went straight through you.
His fingers skimmed your stomach. Not high enough. Not low enough. Just enough to make you feel the shape of his restraint.
You started to turn your head toward him.
His hand left your waist and came to your jaw, two fingers beneath your chin, guiding your face forward again. “No.”
Your pulse jumped. The word was quiet. Simple. Devastating.
You faced forward again.
Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand dropped back to your side. “Stay there.”
You pressed your palms more firmly to the counter. “That’s bossy.”
His mouth hovered near your ear. “You like bossy.”
Your face burned. “I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
A frustrated sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.
Jack stilled. Then, softly, “There.”
Your stomach flipped. “What?”
“That sound.” His lips touched the back of your shoulder.
The hand beneath your shirt slid slowly up your stomach, then stopped at your ribs. Waiting. Teasing. Holding back exactly enough to make you feel the absence of everything he was not doing.
You went silent.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck. Slow. Patient. Awful. Every touch felt measured. Not because he was hesitant, but because he had figured out that patience ruined you and was immediately putting that information to use.
His palm flattened over your stomach and drew you back against him. The vest pressed hard into your back. The duty belt brushed the back of your thigh. You felt him there, solid and warm and controlled, and your body gave one helpless little shift backward before your mind could stop it.
Jack’s grip tightened. Not a warning. A response. His breath changed against your neck. For the first time since he had walked through the door, the smug control slipped just enough for you to feel the man underneath it.
You caught it.
Your mouth curved despite yourself. “There he is.”
Jack went still. The air changed. His hand stayed flat over your stomach, but his thumb stopped moving.
You had gotten him. Only a little. Only for a second. But enough.
His mouth came close to your ear. “Careful.”
Your smile widened, shaky but real. “With what?”
His hand slid to your hip and pulled you back into him again, slower this time.
Your smile disappeared. Every thought went with it.
“Thinking you’re in charge because I let you have one.”
You swallowed hard. “That was one?”
His mouth brushed your neck. “One.”
The word should not have undone you. It did. You were suddenly aware of your hands again, of how badly you wanted to take them off the counter. To reach back. To touch the vest. The straps. His belt. His hands. Anything. You wanted to turn around and get your mouth on his, wanted to make him stop sounding so calm when you could feel he was not.
Your fingers flexed.
Jack saw. “Hands.”
You flattened them.
He kissed your shoulder. A reward. You hated how fast it worked. You loved how fast it worked.
Jack’s hand slipped beneath your shirt again, slower now, knuckles brushing bare skin on the way up. His touch stayed to the edges: waist, ribs, stomach, the underside of wanting without giving it a name. He was not rushing toward the places your body begged for. He was making you feel every inch before then.
You let your head tip to the side. More room. You did not say it.
Jack did not need you to. His mouth found the space you gave him. His lips were warm against your neck, then his teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch, and your hands press flat again against the stone.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
The praise sank into you slowly like heat. You had been embarrassed before. Flustered. Mouthy because it was easier to be difficult than honest. But somewhere between the counter under your palms and his vest at your back, the fight in you had softened.
Not gone. Changed.
You were still aware of how ridiculous this should have been. The open dishwasher. The last spoon. The clean mug sitting in the bowl cabinet. His kitchen lit golden in the late afternoon while Jack stood behind you in tactical gear and touched you like he had all night and no intention of wasting a second.
But the embarrassment had started to dissolve into something heavier.
Relief, maybe. Relief at not having to hide how much you wanted him. Relief at being told exactly what to do by someone who would stop the moment you asked.
Relief at Jack’s quiet certainty, at the way he gave commands like promises and praise like reward. His hands slid down to the hem of your shirt.
You tensed, not from fear. Anticipation moved through you so sharply that your breath caught in your throat.
Jack felt it. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Still good?”
“Yes.”
He trusted it.
His thumbs hooked beneath the fabric. “Arms up.”
The command was simple. That made it worse. You had been told to keep your hands on the counter. Now he was telling you to move them. The shift itself felt intimate, as if he were changing the rules and trusting you to follow.
You lifted your hands slowly.
The counter disappeared from beneath your palms, leaving you briefly unanchored. Your arms rose above your head. The position pulled the shirt higher, exposing the line of your stomach, leaving you open to him in a way that made your face burn before he had even taken anything off.
Jack watched. You could feel him watching. His hands rested at your waist for one long second, as if he was taking in the fact that you were standing there because he had told you to.
The silence made your pulse beat harder.
Then he began to lift your shirt. Slowly. The cotton slid up your stomach. Over your ribs. Higher. He did not rush. Of course, he did not rush. Jack had learned that patience ruined you and had apparently decided to make it your problem.
You made a small, impatient sound before you could stop yourself.
The shirt stopped. You froze.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Something you need?”
Your eyes closed. Terrible man. “No.”
His fingers held the shirt exactly where it was. Not up. Not down.
A strip of kitchen air cooled your skin.
“No?”
Your pride made one final, useless attempt at survival. It failed immediately.
“Please.”
Jack’s breath changed. Only slightly. Enough.
His mouth touched your shoulder. “Please, what?”
The word sat on your tongue, embarrassing and simple, and exactly what he wanted.
“Take it off.”
A pause.
Then his lips curved against your skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re still listening.” He lifted the shirt the rest of the way.
The fabric dragged over your chest, your shoulders, your raised arms. For a second, it covered your face, warm cotton and the faint smell of him, and then it was gone, dropped somewhere behind you onto the kitchen floor.
The air touched your bare skin.
Jack went still. Completely. Your arms were still raised. Your breathing had gone uneven. The vest pressed warm and hard against your back. And Jack, who had been so smug, so pleased, so devastatingly in control, did not say anything. For one second. Two.
The silence reached your pulse before his voice did. “You weren’t wearing anything under this.”
Your face went hot. “I was comfortable.”
His hand came back to your waist. Slow. Firm. “In my kitchen.”
“You weren’t home.”
His fingers tightened once. “I am now.”
The words landed low and heavy between you.
You started to lower your arms.
Jack caught the movement immediately. “Ah.”
You froze.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could move.”
Your whole body went hot. Slowly, you lifted your arms back into place.
Jack’s hand slid over your waist, controlled, almost reverent, like he was taking a second to recover and refusing to let you see how badly he needed it.
Unfortunately for him, you knew him too well.
Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “Oh.”
His fingers paused.
You smiled, breathless. “Oh, baby.”
Jack’s grip tightened at your waist. “Careful.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. “Did you not know?”
His mouth hovered near your ear. His voice was low. Still controlled. Barely. “I know now.”
A shiver moved through you.
Jack felt it.
His mouth touched the side of your neck. “There you go.”
Your arms ached faintly from being raised, but you did not lower them.
He had not told you to.
Jack noticed.
You felt the exact moment he noticed: the way his hand stilled, the way his breath went rough, the way his body pressed closer behind yours until the vest brushed your bare back again.
He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “You’re waiting.”
Your eyes fluttered. “You didn’t tell me I could move.”
For a second, he was silent.
Then his hand spread over your stomach and pulled you gently back into him. “That’s my girl.”
The praise hit harder than you expected.
Your breath shook.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck, slower now, rewarding every second you kept your arms lifted. His hand stayed at your waist, then drifted over your stomach, then back to your hip. Teasing. Learning. Not attempt to hide how much he liked the way you were listening.
Finally, his voice came low against your skin. “Hands down.”
You lowered them slowly. Relief moved through your shoulders.
Before you could decide what to do with your hands, Jack spoke again.
“Behind your back.”
Your pulse jumped. The kitchen blurred softly at the edges. You turned your head a fraction.
Jack was waiting there over your shoulder, eyes dark and steady, giving you time because he always gave you time.
Your hands slid behind you. Slowly. Obediently.
His mouth curved. “There she is.”
The words were soft. Too soft for what they did to you. Your hands stayed behind your back, fingers curling around your opposite wrist, because you had no idea what else to do with them. The position pulled your shoulders back and left you open to him, skin still warm where his mouth had been and cooler now beneath the kitchen air.
Jack did not touch you right away. He looked. You felt the weight of it move over you. Down the side of your neck. Across your shoulders. Along the line of your spine where the vest had been brushing you. The kitchen felt too ordinary amid the silence: the open dishwasher, the clean spoon still abandoned on the rack, the soft ticking of cooling metal, the fading detergent steam caught beneath the sharper scent of him.
Then he stepped closer. The vest touched your back first. Hard fabric. Warm underneath. A scrape of tactical gear against bare skin that made your stomach pull tight.
Your breath caught.
Jack heard it. His hand moved behind you, slow enough that you could have stepped away, and closed around both of your wrists. Not tight. Not rough. Just firm. Certain.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist, and the carefulness of it almost made the whole thing worse. He held you like he meant it. Like he knew exactly what you were giving him and had no intention of taking it lightly.
“You good?” he asked against your shoulder.
Your answer came out quieter than you expected. “I’m good.”
His grip settled.
His free hand came to your waist, palm spreading warm against your skin. Then he drew you back by degrees, not pulling hard, not forcing, just guiding until your spine met the vest and your hips met the solid line of him behind you.
Your lips parted.
The air left the room.
Jack’s mouth touched the side of your neck. Barely.
You felt it everywhere.
He kissed you slowly, once beneath your ear, then again lower, where your pulse had become embarrassingly easy to find. His hand slipped from your waist to your stomach, flat and steady, holding you against him while his mouth learned what made your breath change.
You tried to swallow. It came out as a sound instead.
Jack’s grip around your wrists tightened. Not a warning. A response.
He liked that.
You knew because his breath shifted against your neck. Because the calm line of him behind you went a little less calm. Because his hand pressed you more firmly back into him, making sure you felt exactly what listening to him had done.
Your eyes opened. The kitchen cabinets blurred in front of you. The cabinet with the mugs. The bowl cabinet with the green mug still sitting in the wrong place because neither of you had bothered to fix it.
You should have found that funny.
You would have, if Jack’s mouth had not opened against your shoulder. If his teeth had not skimmed just enough to make your knees loosen. If his free hand had not slid to your hip and pulled you back again, slower this time, letting you feel him through all that gear, all that restraint.
“Jack.” His name came out thin.
He hummed against your skin. Not a question. Not yet. He knew what you wanted. That was the problem. He knew, and he was taking his time with the knowledge. His hand dragged slowly over your stomach, then back to your waist, then lower to the band of your shorts. He did not go beneath it yet. He only rested there, fingers spread, the heel of his hand warm against the place where your body had gone tight with waiting.
You pulled against his grip without meaning to. His hand around your wrists did not move. The reminder went through you like a spark.
You were not trapped.
You were held.
There was a difference, and Jack knew exactly how to make you feel it.
His mouth came to your ear. “Tell me.”
Only two words. Soft. Rough at the edges.
You closed your eyes.
The old instinct rose—joke, dodge, say something difficult enough to make the wanting less obvious. But your shirt was on the floor. His vest was against your back. His hand was at your waistband. And you were tired of pretending you were not shaking.
“Touch me,” you whispered.
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder. A reward. His hand slipped lower into the waistband of your shorts. Slowly. The first real touch made your whole body lock. Jack held you through it. One hand around your wrists, the other moving with maddening patience, his mouth warm at your neck, his breath uneven now.
He did not ask again.
He trusted the way you leaned into him. He trusted the way your head tipped back against his shoulder. He trusted the way your fingers curled helplessly in his grip instead of pulling away.
And because he trusted you, you gave him more.
A breath. A sound. His name, softer this time.
Jack moved as if he were learning you by touch and already knew he would remember every answer. Every shiver. Every little hitch of breath. Every helpless attempt to chase his hand when he slowed down.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Your body listened before your pride could object.
A low sound moved out of him, almost a laugh, pleased and dark and far too close to your ear. He liked that too. He liked it when you listened.
You could feel it in the way his grip tightened around your wrists. In the way his mouth became less patient at your neck. In the way his body leaned heavier into yours for one second before he reined himself back in.
“You’re doing so good.” The praise sank into you, warm and devastating.
Your head fell back against him. The ceiling light caught in your vision. Soft gold. Too bright. Too ordinary for this. His kitchen. His counter. The open dishwasher still breathing out the last of its heat.
Jack’s hand moved again. The world narrowed. The hard vest. The radio is brushing your shoulder. The duty belt against the back of your thigh. His mouth at your throat. His breathing is no longer even.
He brought you closer slowly. So slowly, you almost did not recognize what he was doing until your hands tightened in his hold and your legs started to tremble.
Your breath broke. “Please.”
The word slipped out raw.
Jack stopped kissing your neck. Everything in him seemed to listen. His hand did not stop.
Not yet.
“Please what?”
You made a sound that was not quite an answer.
He slowed. Cruel. Controlled. Patient enough to ruin you.
Your forehead nearly dipped into the counter in front of you. “Jack.”
His mouth touched your shoulder. “That’s not an answer.”
Your face burned. Not shame. Something warmer. Something that made the wanting sharper because he was making you stand inside it and speak.
“Please don’t stop.”
His breath left him rough against your neck. There. That got to him.
The knowledge made your knees weaker.
Jack gave you what you had asked for, and your whole body went soft and tight at once. Your wrists strained in his hold. His grip steadied you immediately, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth returned to your neck and his fingers worked over you in slow, tight circles.
You were close enough now that the room started to slip.
The tile beneath your feet. The cabinet in front of you. The hum of the refrigerator.
All of it blurred around him. His hand. His vest. His voice in your ear. “That’s it.”
You shook against him.
He felt it.
He gave you more.
Then, just as your body started to tip toward the edge, just as your breath caught and stayed caught, just as your fingers curled helplessly behind your back—
Jack stopped. Completely.
For one impossible second, you could not process the absence. Then you made a sound so desperate it should have embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
You were too far gone for that.
Your body tried to follow his hand.
Jack’s arm came around your waist immediately, holding you still, holding you up, his mouth pressing to your shoulder in something almost tender. “Easy.”
You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”
“I’ve got you.” He murmured.
“You stopped.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I did.”
You pulled at your wrists, helpless now, frustrated enough that your eyes burned. “Why?”
His hand rested flat over your stomach. Still. Warm. Maddening.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Because you begged so pretty.”
Heat rushed through you, full-body and humiliating.
“And I want to hear you do it again.”
For a second, you could not answer. You could only stand there with your hands still held behind your back, Jack’s vest pressed against your bare skin, his arm firm around your waist, his breath warm at your ear. The kitchen felt too bright for what he had done to you. Too normal. Cabinets. Counter. Open dishwasher. The last spoon was still sitting in the rack like neither of you had any intention of finishing what you started.
You whispered his name.
Jack’s mouth touched your shoulder. “Turn around.”
Your pulse jumped.
His grip loosened around your wrists. For a second, you did not move. Not because you did not want to. Because the absence of his hold made you feel strangely weightless, like your body had forgotten what to do without his hand telling it where to stay.
Jack noticed. His fingers brushed once over the inside of your wrist before he let go completely.
“Slow.”
One word. You obeyed. You turned carefully, bare feet shifting against the cool tile, counter at your back now, open dishwasher to your side, Jack in front of you.
He looked almost unfairly composed for a man whose breathing had gone rough against your neck moments ago.
Almost.
His vest was still half-unfastened. The tan shirt beneath it clung to his shoulders. His hair was mussed from the protective glasses shoved into it. There was dust on his boots. A shadow along his jaw. His eyes moved over your face first, then lower, and the effort it took him to bring them back up made your stomach twist.
“There,” he said softly.
Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you. “What?”
Jack stepped closer. His hands settled at your waist. “I wanted to see your face.”
The sentence should have been tender. It was. That made it worse. His thumbs moved once over your skin, slow and warm. He watched you take the touch. Watched your lips part, your shoulders lift, the way your body could not decide whether to lean into him or brace against the counter.
Then he bent slightly.
“Jack—”
His hands tightened at your waist. A warning. A promise.
Then he lifted you.
The counter was cold beneath you.
You gasped at the sudden shock of it, the stone pressing against the backs of your thighs, cool enough to make your whole body jolt. Jack stepped between your legs before you could close them, his gear brushing you, his hands still steady at your waist.
The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The television in the living room had gone to some muted commercial you could not place. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked again, cooling metal, soft and domestic and absurd.
Jack stood between your knees like he belonged there. Like he had always intended to put you there.
Your hands moved toward him before you thought better of it.
He caught your wrists. Fast.
Your breath stopped.
Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Not yet.”
You made a soft, frustrated sound.
His mouth curved. “Hands on the counter.”
You stared at him. “You just let me turn around.”
“And now I’m telling you where to put them.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re very bossy.”
Jack guided your hands to the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.
His fingers pressed over yours until you gripped it. “Hold here.”
Your hands curled around the counter. The stone was cold under your palms.
Jack waited until he saw your fingers tighten. Then he let go. “Good.”
The word went through you with humiliating ease.
Jack saw that too. His gaze sharpened. “You’re going to be a problem now.”
You tried to breathe normally. “You already knew I was a problem.”
“I knew you were mouthy.” His hands slid to your knees. Slow. Firm. “This is different.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs as he eased your legs wider. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain. Every inch of space he made felt deliberate.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “You love my mouth,” you said.
Jack stopped. For half a second, the entire kitchen went still.
Then his eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Amused. Worse than amused. “Yes.”
The answer was immediate. Too immediate. Your pulse stumbled.
Jack’s thumbs moved once over the inside of your knees. “But right now,” he said, voice low, “I’m interested in what it does when I tell you to be quiet.”
Oh.
Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.
Jack’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “There she is.”
Your face burned. “That was mean.”
“No.” His hands moved higher on your thighs, slow enough to make your thoughts scatter. “That was honest.”
The kitchen air felt cool against your bare skin. Jack felt warm everywhere he touched you. The vest shifted when he leaned down, hard fabric brushing the inside of your leg before he caught himself and adjusted.
Still controlled. Still careful. Still somehow making every careful thing feel worse.
His fingers found the waistband of your shorts. You went still. Jack noticed. His gaze lifted to your face. “You good?”
Your throat worked. “I’m good.”
His thumbs slipped beneath the soft fabric. “Hands stay.”
Your fingers curled harder around the counter.
Jack drew your shorts down slowly. Not because they were difficult. Because he wanted you to feel every second of it, the fabric dragged over your hips, your thighs, catching briefly beneath you until he lifted you just enough to ease it free. The movement was smooth and effortless, one hand at your waist, one at your thigh, his body still between your knees, the vest brushing your skin whenever he leaned close.
You stared at the ceiling because looking at him felt impossible. That did not help. The ceiling was too ordinary. The kitchen light was too warm. The dishwasher was still open. Your shorts slid down your legs and fell somewhere near his boots.
Jack did not move for a moment. He just looked.
The quiet of it made your pulse beat everywhere. “Jack.”
His hands settled back on your thighs. “I’m here.”
The answer came immediately. Grounding. Ruinous. His thumbs moved slowly over your skin, and he eased your knees apart again, reclaiming the space he had made before.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He lowered his head and kissed the inside of your knee.
Soft. Patient. A beginning.
Your head tipped back against the cabinet.
Jack’s voice came low against your skin. “You asked so nicely before.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. “I was desperate.”
“I know.” The smile was in his voice.
You hated that. You loved that.
His mouth moved higher. Still not enough. Your hands twitched on the counter.
Jack noticed without looking up. “Hands stay.”
Your grip tightened immediately.
The reward came as another kiss, slow and warm, higher than the last.
You let out a shaking breath.
Jack looked up at you. Focused. The kind of focus that made rooms go quiet around him. “Then take it.”
The words emptied your lungs.
Jack lowered his mouth.
The first touch made your whole body jerk. Your fingers clamped around the counter. The cold stone bit into your palms. Your shoulders hit the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, and Jack’s hands tightened on your thighs to keep you there, open and still and absolutely nowhere near in control.
“Oh, my God.” The words broke out of you before you could stop them.
Jack paused. Barely.
You felt the shape of his smile against you. “Quiet.”
You inhaled sharply.
Then he did it again. Slower this time. Like he wanted to feel the exact second you lost the fight with yourself. Your head tipped back against the cabinet. The kitchen light went soft and gold behind your closed eyes. Everything narrowed to Jack between your thighs, the rough brush of his vest against your leg, the pressure of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to listen with his entire body.
You tried to move.
Jack held you still. Not harsh. Firm enough. A reminder.
Your hands stayed on the counter. Barely.
His thumb stroked once over your thigh, approval without words, and the gentleness of it almost made you unravel faster than the rest. You made another sound. Smaller. More helpless.
Jack hummed low, pleased, and the vibration went through you like a spark.
Your eyes flew open.
He looked up. That was worse. His mouth was still close. His eyes were dark and steady, watching your face like he was reading every answer you gave him. “You like that?”
Your voice had vanished. You nodded.
Jack’s hands stilled.
The silence pressed hot against your skin. Right. Words.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved. “Tell me.”
Your fingers dug into the counter. “I like that.”
He rewarded you immediately.
Your breath broke.
Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs, adjusting you closer to the edge, and the movement made the counter colder, him warmer, the room smaller. You wanted to touch him so badly your hands ached around the stone.
One hand slipped. Only an inch.
Jack lifted his head. “No.”
The word was quiet. Your hand froze.
He did not look angry. He looked pleased. Terribly pleased. “Where do your hands stay?”
Your face burned. “On the counter.”
His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh. “That’s right.”
He waited until your hand curled back around the edge.
Then his tongue found you again. A reward. A ruin. You were a mess within seconds. Not gracefully. Not prettily. Completely. Breath snagging. Thighs trembling. Shoulders pressed against the cabinet. Hands locked around the counter because Jack had told you to keep them there, and somehow that command had become the last solid thing in the room.
Jack took his time. Of course he did. He had learned that patience ruined you, and now he was proving it. Every time you thought you knew the rhythm, he changed it. Every time your body started to rise toward something, he softened. Every time you whispered his name, he gave you enough to make you do it again.
“Jack.”
His hands tightened. You heard his breath change. Felt it. He liked his name like that. You knew it now.
You used it. “Jack, please.”
He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against your skin. “Please what?”
You let out a broken little laugh, almost angry with how badly you needed him. “You know.”
“I do.” His mouth brushed higher. Not enough. Not yet. “I want to hear you.”
Your head fell back. The cabinet was cool against your shoulder blades. Your own breathing sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Please don’t stop.”
Jack’s hands flexed. There. He liked that. The knowledge made you ache.
He gave you more. The room slipped sideways. The hum of the refrigerator disappeared. The TV disappeared. The open dishwasher, the cooling spoon, the late afternoon light across the tile — all of it blurred into sensation.
Jack’s mouth. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice, when he murmured, “Good girl,” like praise, was another way to touch you.
Your hands started to loosen from the counter. You caught yourself.
Jack saw anyway. “That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hold on.”
You did. Your fingers curled around the edge until your knuckles ached. Your thighs trembled under his hands.
He brought you close slowly. Too slowly. You could feel it building, feel yourself tipping toward that bright, impossible edge he had denied you once already. Your breath came in pieces. Your body tried to move with him, tried to chase, tried to close around him.
Jack held you open. Held you still. Kept you there.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He lifted his eyes to yours. The sight almost ended you by itself. Still in gear. Still composed enough to look up like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Not composed enough to hide the roughness in his breathing.
“What do you need?” The question was quiet. Devastating.
You swallowed. The begging came easier this time. Too easy. “Please.”
His mouth touched your thigh. “Please what?”
Your cheeks burned.
You did not hide. Not this time. “Please let me.”
Jack went still. His eyes darkened. For one breath, all the smugness slipped, and what was left underneath was hunger so sharp it made your fingers tighten on the counter.
Then his mouth curved slowly. “There it is.”
He kissed your thigh. A reward. “Again.”
You shook your head once, breathless. “Jack.”
“Again.” His voice was rougher now. Less teasing. More affected.
And because you could hear what it did to him, because you could feel that he was not nearly as untouched as he pretended, you gave him the words.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me come.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. Then he lowered his mouth again. This time, he did not stop. Your whole body went tight. The counter edge cut into your palms. Your breath caught and stayed caught. Jack’s hands held you through the first shudder, then the next, one arm pressing over your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted you while the rest of you broke apart around him.
You heard yourself say his name. Once. Twice. Too soft to be a scream. Too ruined to be anything else.
Jack stayed with you through all of it. Not rushing. Not moving away. His mouth is softer now, his hands gentler, easing you down instead of dropping you.
Your body went heavy. Boneless. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and the kitchen came back in pieces.
The hum of the refrigerator. The detergent smell. The cool counter under your palms. The sound of Jack breathing. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then the lower part of your thigh.
Then he looked up at you. His hair was mussed. His mouth was wet. His vest was still on. And he looked unbearably pleased with himself. “You still good?”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “I think you know I’m not.”
His mouth curved. Warm. Smug.
So comepletely Jack, you almost laughed.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”
He rose slowly, stepping back between your thighs.
His hands settled on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching you. He leaned close enough that the vest brushed your bare skin again, and you shivered even now.
Jack noticed. His smile deepened.
You closed your eyes. “I hate the vest.”
“No, you don’t.”
Your laugh came out weak. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack’s mouth brushed yours. Slow. Deep. A reward and a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark again.
Your hands slid from the counter toward him. This time, he let you touch the vest.
For one second.
Only one.
Then his hand closed gently around your wrist. “Not yet.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved over your pulse. “I’m not done with you.”
The words landed low.
Your hand was still caught in his. Your fingers had barely touched the vest before he stopped you, and somehow that single second had made the wanting worse. Rough fabric beneath your palm. The hard line of the strap. Heat beneath it. Jack beneath all of it.
You stared at him.
Jack stared back. His thumb moved once over your pulse. Not soothing. Not really.
A reminder.
The kitchen still felt tilted around you. Your body was loose and shaking from what he had already done, your thighs still bracketed around him, the counter cold beneath you, the cabinet cool against your back. Everything smelled like detergent and sweat and Jack. The open dishwasher had stopped steaming now, but the clean scent lingered beneath the sharper edge of his gear.
Your voice came out thin. “You’re not?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”
Your fingers flexed in his hold.
He looked down at the movement. Then back at your face. “You want to touch me.”
It was not a question.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes darkened.
For a second, the smugness softened into something heavier. Hungrier. The kind of look that made you realize he had been holding himself together too. Not unaffected. Not even close. Just disciplined enough to make you think the ruin had been one-sided.
It had not.
The proof was in the tension along his jaw. The roughness of his breathing. The way his hand tightened around your wrist before easing again, like he had to remind himself not to rush just because he wanted to.
Jack leaned in. His vest brushed your bare skin.
Your breath caught.
He noticed. “Soon,” he said.
Your eyes fluttered. That one word felt like a promise and a punishment. “Jack.”
His mouth touched yours. Not a kiss. Almost. “Hands up.”
Your pulse kicked. “What?”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “Above your head.”
The kitchen seemed to go quieter.
You were still sitting on the counter, still trembling, still trying to recover from him, and now he wanted your hands where he could see them. Where you could not reach for him. Where he could take that final inch of control before giving anything back.
Your fingers curled once against his.
Then you lifted your hands.
Slowly.
Jack guided them the rest of the way, his palm firm around your wrists as he pinned them above your head against the cabinet.
The wood was cool behind your knuckles.
Jack’s body filled the space between your thighs. His gear brushed you everywhere. The hard vest. The duty belt. The heavy weight of him still mostly dressed while you were bare and breathless on his kitchen counter.
He looked at you like that did something to him. Like he had meant to keep the upper hand and had not accounted for the sight of you listening this well.
His mouth moved against your jaw. “Still good?”
You nodded once. “I’m good.”
His grip settled around your wrists. “Stay there.”
Your answer came out as a breath. “Okay.”
Jack kissed you then. Slow at first. Deep enough to make your hands flex above your head, your wrists pressing into his palm, your body shifting toward him before he had given you permission to move. His mouth tasted like heat and restraint and the ruin he had pulled out of you minutes ago.
Then the kiss changed. Something in him shifted. The edge of all that careful patience wore thin. His free hand slid down your side, over your hip, beneath your thigh, drawing you closer to the edge of the counter with one controlled pull. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter dragged cool beneath you. His gear scraped softly, buckles and fabric and belt, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen.
Jack’s forehead touched yours. His breathing was no longer even. Not even close.
“You sure?” The question was rougher now. Less composed.
You looked at him. Really looked.
At the dark focus in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way he was still holding himself back because your answer mattered more than his urgency.
Your chest tightened. “Yes.”
His hand tightened around your wrists. “You want this?”
“Yes.”
Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Like the answer hit him somewhere deep. When he opened them again, the smugness was gone. What remained was worse.
Need, disciplined down to a blade. “Say it.”
Your breath caught.
His mouth hovered over yours. “Tell me.”
You swallowed. The words felt different now. Less like begging. More like choosing.
“I want you to fuck me.”
Jack went still. The whole kitchen held its breath with him. Then he kissed you hard. Not careless. Never that. But harder than before, deeper, the last of his patience burning down to something urgent and raw. His hand stayed around your wrists, keeping them above your head while his other hand moved between you.
You heard the shift of his belt.
The low rasp of a zipper.
Your whole body went tight.
Jack felt it immediately.
His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
He pushed his pants and boxers down only as much as he needed. No more. The gear stayed. The vest stayed. The boots, the belt, the tan fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. He was still dressed like he had walked in from training and found you in his kitchen, and that fact made everything feel sharper. More desperate. Less polished.
Jack’s hand came back to your hip.
He looked at you. Waited.
Your wrists flexed above your head. “I’m good,” you whispered.
His gaze softened for one breath. Then he moved closer. He pushed into you slowly, stealing the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the cabinet.
Jack stopped. Completely.
Every muscle in him seemed locked with the effort of it. “You okay?”
“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Breathless. Certain.
Jack’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Good.”
Then he moved. Slowly at first. Controlled even now. He gave you time to feel every inch of the change, the stretch of being held open to him, the pressure of his body against yours, the hard edge of his vest against your chest every time he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to move your hands down on instinct, needing to touch him, needing something to hold onto besides the cool cabinet and his command.
His grip tightened around your wrists. “Not yet.”
A sound left you. Frustrated. Needy.
Jack’s mouth found your neck. “I know.”
He moved again, deeper this time, harder, and the whole room tilted. Your legs tightened around him. His breathing broke. A real break. Low and rough against your throat.
You caught it even through the haze. “There,” you whispered.
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. “What?”
Your lips parted around a shaky breath. “Right there, Jack. Please.”
He drove into you again, harder, and the words disappeared from both of you. The counter creaked softly beneath you. The cabinet knocked once against your wrists. The spoon in the dishwasher shifted with a tiny metallic sound that should have been funny and was not, because Jack was moving now like the control he had used to wreck you had finally turned on him.
Still measured. Still focused. But rougher. More urgent. His mouth found yours again, catching the sounds you could not swallow. His hand kept your wrists pinned above your head. His other hand gripped your hip, dragging you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the vest brushed and pressed and turned every thrust into another reminder of how this had started.
You were shaking again.
Already.
Jack felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a flash of smugness cutting through the roughness. “Already?”
You would have snapped at him if you could breathe. Instead, you made a broken sound and pulled against his grip.
He held you there.
“You did that on purpose,” you managed.
“I did.” His voice was rough. Pleased. Not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be.
That made you smile despite yourself. “You’re not as calm as you think.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the room narrowed to that look.
Then his hand released your wrists. “Touch me.”
You did not need to be told twice. Your hands came down fast. One grabbed the edge of the vest. The other slid to the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, finally, finally holding on to him the way your whole body had been begging to since he walked through the door.
Jack groaned. A real sound. Low. Uncontrolled. The sound ruined you.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “There he is.”
Jack caught your mouth with his. The kiss turned messy. Hotter. Less careful around the edges. His hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched you higher on the counter, changing the angle until your nails dug into the back of his neck and your whole body jolted against him.
The gear scraped against your skin.
His vest. His belt. The rough line of fabric and equipment. The hard, practical pieces of him still on while his control came apart under your hands. He was still dominant. Still the one setting the pace. But now you could feel what it cost him. Every breath. Every rough sound against your mouth. Every time his rhythm faltered because your hands found another strap, another edge, another place where his body was warm beneath the gear.
“Jack.”
His forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve got you.” The words came rough. Almost broken.
“You keep saying that.”
His hand tightened on your hip. “Because I do.”
Your chest pulled tight. For one second, the heat went soft at the center. Then he moved again, and you lost the thought completely. The kitchen blurred. Your hands clutched at him, one fisted in the vest, one at his neck, holding him close as he drove you higher. The refrigerator hummed somewhere far away. The counter was cold beneath you. His mouth was hot against yours. His breathing filled your ears.
His praise came low and rough, no longer polished, no longer smug in the same way. “That’s it.”
Your eyes closed.
“Good girl.”
Your fingers tightened.
“Just like that.”
Your body answered every word.
Jack knew it. He used it. He kept one hand at your hip and brought the other to your jaw, making you look at him when your head started to fall back.
“Stay with me.”
Your eyes opened.
He was close. You could see it now. In the tension around his mouth. In the way his breath caught every time you pulled him harder against you. In the way the rhythm turned rougher, less perfect, more honest.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your cheek. “I know.”
“I’m—” You tried.
“I know.” His mouth touched yours. “Let me feel it.”
The words tipped you over. Your whole body went tight around him, hands clutching at the vest, mouth open against his, his name breaking somewhere in your throat as the room disappeared in a rush of heat and sound and Jack holding you through it.
Jack’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath breaking hot against your mouth.
“Oh, fuck.”
Your hands tightened in the front of his vest. “Jack.”
His grip dug into your hip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he was there with you, right there, as gone as you were.
“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice wrecked now. “Oh—fu-fuck.”
The sound of him losing control almost tipped you over again.
His mouth brushed yours, messy and barely there.
“God, you’re doing so good,” he breathed. “So good for me.”
You clung to him, his vest rough beneath your hands, his body tense and shaking against yours.
“Jack,” you whispered again.
That was what did it.
His eyes closed. His breath caught. His whole body went tight, and then he buried his face against your neck with a rough, broken sound.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “Good girl. Good—God, baby.”
His hand tightened once at your waist. Then loosened. His body stayed pressed to yours, still shaking in small aftershocks he could not quite hide. For a moment, there was no command. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack breathing hard against your throat, vest rough beneath your hands, his body warm and heavy and finally, completely undone.
His mouth pressed to your skin. His body went still.
For a long moment, there was only breathing.
Yours. His.
The hum of the refrigerator returning slowly. The cooling dishwasher. The ordinary kitchen gathering itself around the wreckage of what had just happened on the counter.
Your hands stayed on him. One in his hair. One curled into the vest.
Neither of you moved. Then Jack laughed once. Soft. Rough. Disbelieving.
His forehead stayed against your shoulder. “You okay?”
Your laugh came out weak. “I think my soul left my body.”
His shoulders moved with a quiet laugh. The sound warmed your skin. “Still good?”
You nodded against him. “I’m good.”
His hand, no longer commanding, slid slowly up your back.
Gentle now. Careful.
The dominance loosening into care before you could fully come down from it.
He lifted his head and looked at you.
His face had softened. His hair was a mess. His mouth was warm and swollen from kissing you. The vest was still on, crooked now, one strap half-loose, the POLICE patch no longer centered.
You reached up and touched it with two fingers.
Jack looked down. Then back at you. His mouth curved. Smug again. Barely. “You still hate the vest?”
You stared at him. Then at the vest. Then back at him. “I need you to understand that I am currently too vulnerable to answer questions.”
Jack laughed, low and warm. His thumb brushed your cheek. “That bad?”
You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “Worse.”
His smile softened. “Come here.”
“You are already kind of in my personal space.” You exhaled a laugh.
“Come here anyway.”
This time, there was no command in it. Just him. You leaned into him, and Jack gathered you carefully against the front of all that gear, one arm around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. The vest was still hard against your skin.
Somehow, in his arms, it felt softer.
He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
“You did so good,” he said quietly.
Your eyes closed. That praise hit differently now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Warm.
You let out a slow breath against his neck. “Don’t be smug.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your hair. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
You laughed, boneless and breathless.
He held you tighter for a second, like the laugh mattered.
Behind you, the dishwasher clicked one last time.
Your eyes opened.
“The spoon,” you whispered.
Jack went still. Then he started laughing against your shoulder.
You felt it more than heard it. Deep. Quiet. Helpless.
You smiled into the side of his neck. “Your dishwasher is still open.”
“I know.”
“You’re breaking kitchen safety rules.”
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you.
His eyes were still dark, but softer now. “You want to finish unloading it?”
You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then at the vest. “Absolutely not.”
His smile came slow. Warm. Entirely too pleased. “Good answer.”
You ended up in Jack’s bed after.
Not right away.
There was the shower first, warm water and his hands gentler than they had been in the kitchen. He washed the places where the counter had pressed into your skin. He kissed your shoulder under the spray. He wrapped you in a towel without making a joke about how unsteady your legs still were, which you appreciated enough not to mention how smug he looked about it.
Then one of his shirts.
Then water.
Then bed.
The room was dim by then, the late afternoon light gone blue at the edges of the blinds. You were curled against his side, cheek resting over his heart, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheet. Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, up and down, steady enough that your breathing had started to match his without you meaning for it to.
He had been quiet for a while. Not distant quiet. Jack had different kinds of quiet. You knew them now.
This one was warm. Settled.
His fingers paused at the center of your back. “Hey.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
His face was softer than it had been in the kitchen. Hair damp. Jaw relaxed. No gear. No vest. No command in his voice now.
Just Jack.
“Hey,” you said.
His thumb moved once against your side. “You okay?”
You smiled faintly. “I’m good.”
He nodded. No hovering. No second-guessing. Just belief. Then his gaze dropped to where his hand rested against your back. For a second, you thought he might make a joke. Something about the vest. Something about the spoon. Something dry enough to pull you both back onto safer ground.
He didn’t.
His voice was low when he spoke. “Thank you.”
Your brow softened. “For what?”
Jack’s hand stilled. His eyes came back to yours. “For trusting me like that.”
The room went quiet around the words. Not empty. Full.
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
Jack looked almost careful now, like the sentence had cost him more than any command he had given you downstairs. Like this was the part where he had less armor. No tactical vest. No smugness. No easy way to turn the weight of it into heat.
Just him, telling you he knew what you had handed him.
You shifted closer, your hand settling over his chest. “I do trust you.”
His jaw moved once. “I know.”
His fingers resumed their slow path over your back, but his voice stayed rougher than before. “I just don’t want to ever take it lightly.”
Oh.
That landed deeper than you expected.
You pressed your cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.
“You don’t.”
Jack’s arm tightened around you.
Not much.
Enough.
You felt his mouth touch your hair. “Good.”
You closed your eyes.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The house was quiet. The kitchen was downstairs with its open dishwasher and its abandoned spoon and the counter you were still not emotionally prepared to think about. The vest was somewhere else now. The boots. The belt. All the hard edges stripped away.
But Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back.
And when he kissed the top of your head again, it felt like the softest part of everything he had meant all along.
— The three times you sleep talk in front of Frank Langdon, and the one time he talks back.
Pairing: Frank Langdon x RT!reader
Tag(s): shared spaces, cozy reader, domestic FL, no use of y/n, no gendered pronouns used for reader
Triggers/warning(s): None. Ask to tag!
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ don't forget — a reblog is a writer's best friend! | 4k word count | ao3
i.
There had been a time when Frank was young and naive. When he believed that, if he got through enough shitty weeks, he would eventually be granted some kind of reprieve.
That the powers that be would shine down upon him as a thank you for dedicating his life to first doing no harm.
He doesn’t remember when he stopped having that kind of hope. Maybe after his fifth year of working at PMTC, when the day passed without comment and he realized he really was just another piece of the failing system.
Maybe right before his stint in rehab, when his world crashed around him so easily.
Maybe in the divorce that followed, when he couldn’t overlook the fact that he could still love Abby and that he’d never be able to return to being the man that she deserved.
After enough piling up, it all kind of blurred together. Shit was still shit.
And even though Frank had worked to pull himself into a better headspace, there were still days when he wondered if sobriety was worth it in the end.
It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning, and Frank knows that today is going to be one of those days— the kind of day that should be required to come with a warning as soon as his eyes open, in red flashing letters: hey, today is going to suck. You are going to be late to work. Some asshole is going to take your parking space. Someone is going to die and yours will be the last hands to touch them.
Something, anything, to let him know that maybe he should pre-appoint a therapy session, or at the very least call out from his shift.
Life is not that kind though, and he ruminates on the fact as he barely contains the urge to slam the door to the breakroom behind him. Frank restrains himself though, opting to shut it firmly instead.
He turns, his back pressed against the door for a moment’s worth of rest, before Frank Langdon startles.
Honest-to-god, hand to his chest, startles.
He hadn’t expected anyone else on the floor to be in the breakroom at this time, an unfortunate oversight on his part. He’s proved wrong by the sight of a form curled into the couch.
You.
Frank racks his mind for your name - once his heart settles back to rhythm - but the only thing he can come up with is something that sounds like it might be the correct string of syllables.
The new nurse? A travel contract? He isn’t sure.
His fingers run through his hair, and he feels like an ass because he doesn’t know why he remembers who you are.
Then he thinks about the fact he’s currently in the middle of having his own shitty day, and it’s still only Tuesday, and you’re not even conscious—so why should he feel bad?
Frank’s moment of rambling thoughts is fleeting, interrupted by the way you shift, as if the couch would accept you as its own if you folded yourself enough.
He’s just about to turn around, to head back into the ED where things make more sense, and leave you to your lights-on nap, when he hears you speak—
“That’s not sterile anymore.” Your voice is soft but indignant.
Frank squints, trying to determine if you’re asleep, faking it, or in the middle of a nervous breakdown.
Your forehead tilts against the couch’s back cushion, and Frank knows that no one can fake finding comfort in the scratchy material.
He waits, wondering if there’s more to the argument brewing in your dreaming subconscious. He could stick around, find some entertainment in another person who seems to be just as stressed out as he is.
The silence stretches over several, long seconds. Frank decides that he can’t stay to throw his pity party or find out if you’ll wake up to explain who you were chastising. The page shoved into the front pocket of his scrub pants chooses that exact moment to remind him of his responsibilities, choosing that exact moment to vibrate. Frank grabs the device, glancing at the screen.
A room number. A code number.
He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, recalibrating himself from man-with-emotion back to Doctor Langdon.
His hand reaches for the door knob, half a second from bolting out of the break room—then he pauses.
Before he can think about it too much, Frank flicks the lightswitch off.
ii.
Frank wonders sometimes what age is too old to work in the Emergency Department.
That’s not to say that he doesn’t love his job, or that he regrets putting himself back into the pitt after clawing himself up from rock bottom.
Sure, Jack and Robby are still going at it. But as Frank slides his backpack off of his shoulder, onto the hook at the doorway of his apartment, he scoffs at himself for having Abbot or Robinavitch as his role models.
Perhaps good men, but not without their lack of problems.
And Frank has kids that he likes to see more than once a quarter.
Combining that with the pain that still shoots from his vertebrae to leg, he thinks there are days where maybe peds wouldn’t suck.
No, scratch that—peds would suck. And cardio.
Frank is seven steps into his apartment when he’s run through every option, resigning himself to the career that he knows best.
On the brighter side of things, Frank has served his weekly sentence at Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center. Three days, a little over thirty-six hours, and now—the blissfully hot spray of the shower as he tries to scrub away every moment from his last shift.
Even better is when he changes into the pajama bottoms and worn t-shirt that he pulled from the dryer. Laundry would be tomorrow’s problem.
Tonight was for his shower, inhaling leftover noodles, and finding you.
The Respiratory Technician. The answer to PMTC’s staffing prayers eight months ago. Agreed to get coffee with him six months ago.
And now, present-day, Frank does the calculation to remember that you still had two days left in your shift rotation. Even if you hadn’t texted him earlier, he would still recognize the soft hum of the sleep machine coming from his bedroom.
Frank lived closer to the hospital than you did. It didn’t take a lot of time in your relationship with him for you to trust him when he offered you to crash in his space after a tough day at work.
Or whenever.
He rinses out the taste of noodle broth, the mouthwash leaving a minty flavor in Frank’s mouth, and he’s finally got a reason to be glad that his bathroom isn’t an immediate part of his bedroom.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess that you were already asleep for the night. And Frank knows that, generally, you’re a heavy sleeper, but he still didn’t want to tempt fate by making more noise than necessary around you.
Carefully pushing the door open, the smallest bit of ambient lighting shows Frank that yes, you are curled underneath sheets and duvet, happily unaware of the world around you.
He steps further into the room, closing the door behind him. The room was neat enough, and small enough, that full light isn’t required in order to maneuver to the bed.
The muted roar of rain noise disguises Frank’s movements as he slides between the covers—not that he was trying to be sneaky, but he knew all too well the frustration of being woken up in the middle of a work week.
Even though the sound machine went a long way to settle his mind, his body still felt as if it had another three hours to go, like he’d missed something and he’s going to have to jump out of bed at any moment.
He tries to stay very still. Laying on his back, he tries to count how many times the ceiling fan circles around. When that proves impossible, Frank’s attention turns to looking for any spiderwebs that might have appeared. It’s too dark though, and he tried to keep the walls clean.
Halfway through hefting a sigh, he feels the mattress move.
You’re shifting, turning so that your body settles into the space against his side. A hand curls against his bicep, your forehead mushes against his shoulder. Even though Frank isn’t sure how you’re comfortable, he’s learned to stop questioning and to let you be.
His breathing eventually falls into sync with yours. He’s still not fully committed to falling asleep yet, but his eyelids start to feel heavier and he’s thinking about resting them when—
Your hand squeezes against Frank’s arm. You mutter something he can’t hear. Then, more clearly: “Frank’s got it.”
He’s very aware of the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. He can feel his brow furrowing and thinks that you both probably look like you’re thinking hard.
Frank handles a plethora of things throughout the day—patients, and their symptoms, and their charts, and even their insurance companies if the need arises. He handles the department floor, and the dance that he still has going on with Robby, and the med students that make him wonder if he ever looked that young.
Sometimes the things he handles involve you—like glancing over the lab values of your patients when you bring a folder to him to confirm your thoughts, then bristling when another resident talks down on you in front of him.
And the softer times—your keys in his pocket during after-shift beers; a hand between your shoulderblades on the walk back.
Frank handles many things, juggling them in a way that his counselor suggests is not sustainable long-term. And yet.
When your brow smooths over and a small snore slips from between your lips, Frank knows that he would hold whatever you would give him—tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
iii.
Once upon a time, a flyer hung in the PMTC breakroom, announcing a movie marathon to be held as a joint effort between the newest round of med students.
One of them had the bravery to approach Doctor Langdon about it directly, saying that Sofia had the biggest selection of DVDs they’d ever seen before, and complete sagas with director cuts that was really cool, and a couple of the other students had agreed that it would be a great bonding experience.
At the time, Frank’s mind flooded him with a ridiculous amount of thoughts, all at once—did med students really have that much extra free time now? Do they not have anything better to do? Did they draw the short end of the stick and get sent to extend personal invitations to the doctors? Did their little group really think the idea would work?
His mouth closed almost as soon as it opened. Ever since Trinity, he’d worked to keep his knee-jerk reactions to himself—so instead of saying that’s the stupidest thing he’s heard all day, and he’s already been in an operational meeting that was mandatory, so instead of wasting his time why don’t they find a life to save?, he simply says no, turning away before they can attempt a follow-up.
Frank thought he handled it nicely, then he didn’t think about it at all.
At lunchtime that same day, McKay caught him as Frank swapped tablets from the charging station, one of her eyebrows raised as she leaned against the counter, as if she were waiting for him.
“Heard you got a real stick up your butt today.”
Frank took a second before he glanced up at her—because surely she hadn’t been speaking to him? He was having a great day. “What?”
She hummed, halfway shrugging. “Hollie asked me if you had any movie related trauma because you, and I quote, shat all over his invite for Moviepalooza.”
For the second time that day, Frank opened his mouth to respond then promptly closed it. “I don’t have movie trauma,” he settled on saying, giving Cassie - who he had thought was on his side - a pointed look.
Cassie laughed, pushing off the counter. “I’ll let her know,” she called out, walking away.
Fast forward several months to your living room on date night. Pizza had been ordered for dinner, and eaten, and now your feet lay across Frank’s lap as you both sprawl across the couch.
A movie is on, mostly as background noise at this point. It was a title that both you and Frank had seen before, and the story was more than halfway finished.
Frank’s hands sit against your shins, palms warm, as he idly remembers the Moviepalooza disaster, and how it is that his life is a collage created from strange moments in the hospital.
His gaze drifts to you, leaning against the couch and seeming to fight the urge to close your eyes. He thinks, fondly, that you are one of the strange things that came from the hospital.
Not that he would admit that aloud.
You stifle a yawn, and Frank shifts, lifting his arm in invitation. “Come here,” he says. Simple.
You rearrange yourself, pulling your feet from his lap and shuffling until your head finds the spot between his chest and shoulder. “Still watching the movie,” you mutter.
“Of course,” he replies, gathering you in his arms, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head when you settle.
Frank feels your hand move, sliding across his abdomen until it rests against his chest. It doesn’t take long after that until he feels your breathing slow, and he can practically count down to the moment until you go completely silent.
Maybe it should bother him - the way you’ve taken to his life like ivy to a wall. Maybe he should’ve kept to himself more, said no the first time instead of come over.
But when Frank glances down, sees the soft curl of your eyelashes against your cheek and the way it seems like you’ve finally nodded off, he knows instantly and completely that any other choice would’ve been a selfish act of cowardice by him.
He watches the rest of the movie in silence, lines that he could recite by heart if he wanted to. The ending scene starts to build, one of his favorites, when Frank hears you mumble. His attention drops down to your face again, focusing on you to hear—
“Love you.”
It’s sleepy, barely there, but Frank knows that he couldn’t mistake those two words that you’ve said. He makes an effort to keep his grip on you relaxed, nonchalant, like you hadn’t tilted his world on its axis without even knowing it.
Love you.
He had suspected it for a while now - that the nagging feeling behind his ribs had a name. He knew, even if he hadn’t spoken about it, even if he hadn’t fully admitted it yet—and you had beaten him to the punch, all while dreaming.
iv.
It’s Saturday morning. Early, judging by the lack of light in the room. Your phone chimes, a short series of text messages, finally rousing you from your nestled spot.
Frank: good morning
Frank: looping back now
Frank: breakfast??
You squint at the phone, the information processing in your brain. You remember Frank waking up before you, untangling limbs and mentioning that he was going for a run. You remember muttering a bye, and the way he kissed you before walking out.
With clumsy, still-sleepy fingers, you swipe to unlock your phone to text him back.
Yes please
Bagel?
There was a bagel shop not too far away from Frank’s apartment, and you were pretty sure that it wouldn’t be out of his way to stop at.
Frank: got it :)
Frank: send your order?
Frank: see you in 30-ish.
You give the messages from Frank a heart reaction. Opening the bagel shop’s website, you scroll through the menu to find your selection to screenshot and text back.
After another few minutes of lazing in bed, you decide to haul yourself up. A trip to the bathroom to freshen up and change into day clothes.
You start a pot of coffee, enjoying the peace of the morning by idly scrolling social media and waiting for Frank to come back.
Almost exactly thirty minutes later, you hear the sound of keys in the front door. As silly as it was, there was something nice about knowing that Frank was the kind of person to take care that his front door was locked.
His footsteps are predictable as he moves from door to kitchen. Not rushed, steady. Your head tilts up when you’re certain he’s in the same room as you. Your eyes go first to the bag held in his hands, the large logo of the shop proudly displayed, and you smile. And then—ah.
Frank Langdon in all of his morning glory.
A goofy sweatband that he insisted on wearing on his head. Bright running shorts to match his shoes, and a thin grey t-shirt that showed the efforts of his run. Calm breathing, but still with a soft flush at the edge of his cheeks.
He looks so alive. He looks healthy.
You don’t want to say it aloud, don’t want to ruin a perfectly normal moment by vocalizing the thoughts in your head—that you’re glad he runs now, chases the pavement instead of other indulgences—so instead you just say, “hey there.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he steps closer to the kitchen table, a suave move that’s interrupted by Frank stubbing his toe against a chair. He hisses a curse, dropping the bag onto the table as he takes a seat into the offending chair.
The first reaction you have is shock, manifesting in a laugh that you quickly slap your hand over. You quickly stand, your chair scraping behind you, and go to Frank. He’s got his forehead pressed against the table, arms shielding his face from being seen.
“Hey,” he mutters into the wood. One of your hands comes up, rubbing between his shoulder blades in a motion that you hope soothes.
“Hi.” Another greeting, softer, solely to diffuse any awkwardness. When Frank lifts his head to look over his shoulder, your hand goes still against his back. “Good run?”
He lets out a huff, a spark of humor returning to his eyes. “Good run,” he echoes. “No dogs. And,” he nudges the paper bag in front of him, “Got the bagels.”
You let yourself grin at him. Finally stepping away from him, you grab mugs from the cupboard.
Soon, the table is set - two plates to mix and match bagels. Full cups of coffee and a container of this week’s choice for creamer.
Sitting across from Frank, you grab the bagel marked with your order, intent to dig into breakfast and chat about nothing in particular—a comfortable routine built from months of quiet weekends.
Food raised to mouth, you’re just about to take your first bite when Frank opens his mouth to speak.
“Did you know you sometimes talk in your sleep?” He asks. He looks the opposite of malicious, with pretty blue eyes and a bit of cream cheese from his breakfast over his upper lip.
“What?”
Frank shrugs, then wipes the debris from his face. “Just—something you do sometimes.”
“Oh my God.” You sit your bagel down on a plate to cover your face. “What do I say? Did I do it last night?”
“No, not last night,” he replies. You separate your fingers in order to peek at him—see his smile, a dimple popping to suggest that he’s amused by your mortification.
You sink lower into your seat. You sometimes had suspicions that you talked in your sleep, but each time you tried to catch yourself proved to be unsuccessful. No recording app had caught you, and anytime someone else had mentioned it… you assumed they were lying.
“Frank,” you groan. “You cannot be serious. I don’t talk in my sleep.”
He lowers his bagel to his plate, brushing off his hands to rest his chin into his palm. Then he looks at you, with the kind of patience that makes you feel like it’s okay he’s considering your face. “You do,” he reiterates. “Never anything bad - at least that I’ve heard.”
“I hope I disappear. Right here and now.”
Frank snorts, reaching over to grab your fingers from your face. “No, you don’t.”
“I really do.” You let him take your hand anyway, still sulking at the newfound knowledge.
“It’s almost always about work,” Frank says. You raise an eyebrow at the slip of information.
“Almost?”
He hums his confirming answer, then takes a sip of coffee as if he isn’t stalling. “Almost,” he echoes. “Usually when it’s been a stressful week. You talk about the lab a lot.”
You can feel your face heat at the thought. All the possible scenarios; some you weren’t proud of. You never looked to start beef with the lab. It just happened. And you always apologized after. “I’m disappearing now.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s… cute?”
“You can’t say that like a question!”
“Sorry. It is cute. Statement.”
You sink your head against the table, mirroring the posture Frank had taken earlier. “Is there anything else I should know about?”
There’s a pause. You wonder how your life could have derailed so quickly.
Frank tugs on your fingers. It’s not impatient, but clear that he wants your attention. “Hey, look at me.”
You peek up, eyebrows barely clearing over your forearm as you reluctantly comply with Frank’s request.
“Nothing bad,” he says. “Never anything bad.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
You straighten, just enough to feel like maybe you could face the rest of the morning with what little dignity you had left.
“I love you, too.” Frank says it so abruptly that you’re positive you’re in a dream. Or that you’ve misheard him. Or you’ve maybe had a stroke, and missed part of the conversation.
A beat. Then another. And you remember that he was telling you about all the times you’ve talked without remembering what you’ve said.
“Oh my God, Frank, you cannot be serious.” You sound more like a whining child than someone who was having their feelings confirmed. “I did not say that.”
“Cross my heart,” he replies. He’s serious, but—you can just see the pink rising at his ears, a different flush from his earlier exercise.
His hand hasn’t let go of yours. And when you glance at his eyes, he still looks so sincere. He looks like he’s waiting.
“You weren’t supposed to find out like this,” you mutter.
“Baby, I’ve known for a while,” he says slowly, thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “About myself. You just beat me to saying it.”
“It doesn’t count in my sleep.”
“It definitely counts.” His grin has returned. The one that makes you wish that he didn’t know when he was right, or that he was handsome. You want to punch him, just a little. “You can always say it again. If you want to.”
He’s quick to add the last sentence, and you think that even if Frank Langdon is an idiot - an overeducated, incredibly competent doctor idiot - he’s not the worst one.
You swallow, telling yourself that there’s no reason why you shouldn’t say it again. Believing that you weren’t nervous, you straighten, looking at the clear eyes that stare back at you and the strands of dark hair falling across his face.
“I love you first, Frank.”
Frank brightens. You watch as it happens, how his face relaxes and he looks like you’ve handed him the world next to the spread of breakfast between the two of you.
He leans forward, apparently not caring about knocking over mugs or smushing bread, and presses his lips against yours in a way that you can feel his smile. He kisses you, and you kiss him back—soft and sweet, between the lingering taste of jam and coffee.
Warnings⋆˚࿔: violence, murder, SMUT (fingering, implied threesome), general suggestive content), I'm labeling this at dubcon but not really, fem!reader wears makeup, swearing, but otherwise apperance is not specified, no use of Y/N, medical jargon (def not accurate). do NOT read if this made you uncomfy, MDNI, lmk if i missed any other tags
w/c⋆˚࿔: 5k
a/n: hiii here's part one, I'm looking of for some inspo for a part two so feel free to share ur thoughts, NOT proof read, likes n reblogs r appreciated, comment to be added to the taglist
“All students and young adults are advised to obey the curfew set in place to avoid falling victim to this brutal crime.”
The news reporter drones on as you continue to study in the diner, your iced coffee has melted, and the snack you ordered sits heavy in your stomach. You have been studying nonestop for your first boards exam as you near the end of your second year of med school when the top student in your relatively small cohort was brutally murdered in their apartment the week before.
Kendra Wallace was going to be a doctor someday, she had all the time in the world to study for her boards, all the money in the world for tutors, and all the influence that her last name had to get matched into her first choice for residency, nobody doubted her ability to succeed. That’s what made her story national news, not just being brutally murdered, but being brutally murdered while a white rich medical student. You never really interacted with her, but you still felt sympathy for the poor girl and her grieving family, especially because her absence meant that her spot at the top of the class was now occupied by someone else, pushing you into second rather than your humble third. The guilt you had because of it was heavy in your stomach.
You sighed to yourself and continued with an active recall of your cardiovascular pathology flash cards.
After a few minutes of working you hear a book drop on your table for dinner. You look up to see Jack and Robby, two of your classmates. You met them both during your M1 year after being assigned as partners in your cadaver lab. You had been friendly with them ever since, mostly because one of them held your hair and the other rubbed your back after you threw up once the first dissection day was over. After that, you felt bonded with them. Always trading notes, debriefing after exams, and occasional movie nights. They made themselves home at your table, calling the waitress over and ordering their receptive usuals. You guys studied together here often.
“Hey babydoll, how long have you been here?” Jack asks while taking a fry off of your plate.
You rolled your eyes and pushed the plate towards them, knowing you were too nauseous to eat anything with the guilt and stress from the USMLE step one and Kendra’s death combined.
“After about four hours, I’m starting to feel a little sick from everything that’s going on though. How are you guys so normal?” You responded
“Eh, I was just gonna cram the week before the exam like I usually do. It's served me well so far.” Robby lazily replied with a mouth full of your fries.
“I’m talking about the murder not the fucking boards.” You snapped at him.
“Oh that.”
“I heard that they cut off her fingers and fed them to her.” Jack said with a wicked smirk.
“Gross” you learned over the table and shoved him back. “Don’t about her like that, she was our classmate, you freak”
Jack and Robby both burst into laughter.
“We’re just messing with you sweetheart. I thought you would be happier that we’re all moving up in the ranks with her gone.” Robby said.
“She’s still dead though. I feel guilty about it, like I didn’t earn her spot.” You said with your mouth pressing into a line. Jack slid into your side of the booth and rubbed your back, pulling you into his side.
“You have a right to her spot. You worked hard and if anyone deserves it, it’s you.” You tried to smile at that but you only mustered a slight raise of the apples of your cheeks.
“Let’s just get back to work.” You said with a groan, dragging your hand down your face, slightly smudging your mascara. Robby leans over to wipe it off. You continued your flashcards, as they worked on their respective lab reports and assignments.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
“Hello” Daniel Anderson said exasperatedly while tapping his foot.
“Hiya Daniel, what’s your favorite scary movie?” The rough baritone voice responded.
“Who the hell is this?” Daniel said.
“What’s your favorite scary movie? I asked you a question unless you’re too pussy to answer.”
“What the fuck, dude. I don’t even know who you are. I’m hanging up.”
“JUST ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION” the voice billowed and Daniel jumped out of his skin at the sudden change in tone.
“Okay, Jesus. I guess maybe Se7en I don’t know, the one with Brad Pitt. Happy now?”
“Very. Is that your ex’s favorite too?”
“What?”
“You know, that sweet girl you fumbled so badly last month. It was laughable how you tried to get her back with voice notes of you crying like a little bitch.”
“Listen, dude, you have no idea what you’re talking about. Fuck this.” Daniel hung up the phone, kicking himself for even picking up from an unknown number anyway. It was probably just you and your friends having a sleepover and he refused to be your entertainment. He unlocked his apartment door and put his phone down.
He had a slight chill and he noticed the window by his fireescape was open. He didn’t remember opening it before he left, but he just assumed that he forgot due to the stress of breaking up with you and his exams. He closed and locked it before turning on the TV and scrolling on tinder to find a hook up. He knew he should have deleted it after you caught him with it while you were together, but he enjoyed the ego boost he got from it too much.
His phone rang again, from another unknown number, he figured he should just pick up and tell whichever one of your friends to fuck off.
“Hiya Daniel. You hurt my feelings when you hung up on me like that.”
“Oh my God. Fuck off. I know it’s you, I said I’m sorry, move on.”
“It’s not who you think, Daniel, sweetie. Though I should have known you were fuckin’ stupid when you thought you were alone. In this big apartment. Nice pajamas by the way.”
At that moment the line went dead. Silence filled the apartment, Daniel’s blood went cold.
A large crash came from the front closet, a masked figure clothed in black robes sprung out holding a large hunting knife. The figure stumbled around its leg seemingly stuck in a shoebox. It was almost comical watching the figure shake its leg free. Daniel would have laughed if he wasn’t frozen in fear.
He tried to back away when he backed into another figure behind him. Its arms immediately come to pull Daniel into a headlock with another large hunting knife at his neck. Daniel couldn’t stop the warm trickle of liquid down in between his legs, making a massive stain on his hello kitty pajamas that matched with yours.
The figure in front of him freed himself from the show box and gave a hearty laugh. The burner phone he was holding was discarded on the floor. The figure's voice was familiar, but in his epinephrine induced haze, Daniel couldn’t place it. He knew the figure holding him was several inches taller than the other one. The shorter figure looked at him and made a gesture to the one holding him in place.
“So should we kill him now orrrr?”
“What just happened? You can practice your Y-shaped incisions.” The taller one sighed
“Well I got to do it last time so I’m just tryna make it even, bro.”
“Yeah but I'm better at surgical incisions, yours are janky as hell.”
“Are you sure man?”
“Of course, bro.” At this point, Daniel was shaking and squirming against the taller one’s hold.
“Let’s knock it out and maybe we can practice a cardiac ablation cause I definitely am gonna fail that section of the boards.” The taller one swiftly hit Daniel at his chin with the butt of the hunting knife, causing a mastoid ecchymosis.
“You’re the best, man.” was the last thing Daniel heard.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
You get a call from your best friend at 9:00am, two mornings later. She called saying that she was coming over and for you to stay on the phone with her. You assumed she failed a practical for her nursing program and she needed support. You were also half asleep from a long night of studying. You had turned your phone into a custom flip phone style where the only apps on there were the call and pictures for the past two days, to maximise studying.
When she arrived ten minutes later, she brought you breakfast and coffee from the boba place you both frequented. She sat you down on the couch with a serious look on her face.
“I have something to tell you, and I think it’d be good to hear it from me.”
Now you were really starting to panic, your head got hot, and your heart jumped into your ears.
“What’s going on?” You responded.
“Daniel was killed. They think it was the people who killed Kendra, the girl from your class.”
She held your hand and you processed the news. Sure you and Daniel didn’t end on great terms, but you knew that you were just looking for a reason to leave, you didn’t wish any harm to him.
You didn’t register the tears coming down your face until she pulled you into her arms and held you. You both stayed like that for who knows how long. She put one Hello Kitty and Friends to have some background noise while she stroked your hair until you eventually fell asleep, cried out and exhausted.
Your friend woke you to eat and drink some water to replenish the amount of calories you burned both crying and studying when a knock at your door came. The detectives on the case had come to interview you as a formality when the family said they had heard you and Daniel ended on less than ideal terms. You had a rock solid alibi, studying your usual diner, when the detective asked you a question that made you pause.
“And you were with Jack Abbot and Michel Robinavitch? When we interviewed them along with your other classmates, they said they were with you.”
You didn’t remember for sure, you had studied there with them hundreds of times, so it was possible they were there and you were too focused to remember.
So you agreed, not wanting to accidentally involve them in a murder case by making a simple mistake. Many of the times you studied together your memory of who were with blurred together.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
You spent the next two weeks focusing on your studies, wanting to score the best you possibly could for the board exams if anyone asked. In reality it was because you wanted to avoid all the grief and pain that’s been accumulating throughout the past weeks after Daniel and Kendra’s deaths. You were very empathetic and felt things very deeply, it was one of the reasons you wanted to be a doctor, to help others. But it was also a reason your profession of choice may wear on you over time.
You still had anxiety and grief manifesting into your body. There was another idea that kept creeping into the back of your mind; that you were next. Kendra had been at the top, then Daniel, and now you. Everything scared you. You jump at sudden noises, panic at sudden touches that catch you off guard, and in general avoid the general public unless you go to class or work.
BUMP
A book slammed on the picnic table you were studying at. A loud giggle erupted behind the book when you looked up. Jack sported a shit-eating grin.
“Wow babydoll, you are stressed.” he chuckled.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” You snapped.
“Oh you know Robby, always doing something. Think he’s at his Grandma’s making cookies or something old people like him do.” You chuckled at that. Robby was two years older than you and Jack, having taken a gap year in between high school and college, then another one between college and med school.
“Haven’t seen you in a while. You've been hiding? Afraid you’re next on the list?”
Your eyes widened slightly and Jack almost felt bad at the implication. Another part of him enjoyed the way you squirmed in your seat and looked around anxiously.
“What are you yapping about, Jack? I’m trying to study.” You said exasperatedly.
“Because you’re in the top spot now. Honestly you should be thanking whoever did it because now you’ll have the pick of the litter for residency.”
You felt sick at the implication. Not just because you didn’t necessarily earn the spot, but because it might cost you your life.
“...Jack,” You said in a small voice after thinking for a minute. “I don’t want to joke about that. It scares me.”
Suddenly all of the pain and fears that you’ve been pushing down for the past few weeks came bubbling up into the surface. Your eyes watered and a lump swelled up in your throat. Jack noticed the sudden distress and moved to sit on your side of the table. He pulled you into his chest as he stroked your hair.
“I’m sorry…”-hic-”...I don’t know why I’m crying.” You tried to wiggle out of his grasp, mainly to save your pride from being vulnerable to him.
“Hey, I’m sorry for upsetting you, Babydoll.” Jack said as he held you tighter and dried your tears with his sleeve.
“Nothin’s gonna happen to ya. You need to relax a little, okay?”
“But what if-” He stopped you with a hush.
“Me and Robby got you, you know that.” His other hand rubbed your back as your sobs subsided. “Can’t have anything happen to our favorite valedictorian. Yeah?”
“I’m scared.” you mumbled.
“How about if you have anything that scares you or you feel unsafe, you call me or Robby? We live on the floor above you so we’ll be right there.” He said it in a gentle voice that you haven’t heard before. Akin to coaxing a deer in the woods.
“Okay?” He prompted a response.
“Alright” You said.
“Let’s get some food for you. You get all cranky when you’re hungry.” Jack scrunched up his face which made you giggle. You wiped your nose and turned away from him.
“Fine. But you’re paying.” Jack started packing your textbooks in your bag and putting your laptop into its protective sleeve.
“Nah, we’ll put it on Robby’s card. He’ll sugar daddy us.” Jack replied cheekily.
You gave a laugh and something fuzzy bloomed in Jack’s chest. He almost felt bad for what they did to Daniel and Kendra because of the distress it caused you, if it weren’t for the fact that you let him keep his arm around your shoulder as you walked to your favorite diner. He could get used to this.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
The phone rang with a shrill, waking you up with a start. You were on your couch dozing while watching TikTok and scrolling instagram, getting in your daily doom scroll. It was an unknown number, but you always enjoyed answering for funsies. The worst that could happen was they called you about your car's extended warranty despite the fact that you definitely did not own a car or have a driver's license.
“Hello.” You answered professionally (what if it was a future employer?).
“Hello Miss” The voice said your name, it unnerved you slightly. The baritone settles deep into your gut.
“Who is this?”
“So, you gotta boyfriend?” You laughed, thinking it was just some middle schoolers at a sleepover.
“Why…You wanna ask me on a date?”
“Well, you’re a pretty girl.”
“Oh yeah? How would you know?” You giggled, twirling your hair, ironically lying on your stomach on the couch, and laying your feet.
“Because I’m looking right at you, Babydoll.” Your blood ran cold. You hung up the phone and were immediately greeted by another call from the same UNKNOWN. You declined it, and it continued to call back. You tried to ignore it but the phone kept ringing. Thanks to your apple ecosystem, the shrill ring! Wouldn’t stop echoing throughout your apartment.
You picked up the phone once more and were met with a deep,
“YOU HANG UP ON ME AGAIN, YOU DIE LIKE YOUR CLASSMATES!” You let out a sob at the implication. You didn’t know how to respond.
“Listen man, I DO have a boyfriend! TWO of them! And they’ll fucking beat your ass if you dont stop calling!” You were really just saying nonsense at this point, but you were too scared out of your mind to rationally think.
“Oh I’m sooooo scared.” The phone line went dead after. You continued crying, almost slobbering. You called your best friend. She didn’t pick up the phone, so she couldn’t come over. You remembered she had another practical to study for anyway.
After weighing your options, you called Jack, who didn’t answer either. After leaving him a voice note because your hands were too shaky to type, you called Robby who answered on the first ring.
“Hey, sweetheart, you okay?” he said. You let out a sob.
“Robby, can you come over?” You said through tears, voice cracking. “If you aren’t busy!” you quickly added.
“Of course, sweetheart. I’m on my way down.”
Five minutes later, there was a knock at your door. You looked through the peephole and saw Robby’s lanky figure sporting a shy smile and red pajama pants. You immediately collapsed into him as he wrapped his arms around you. You continued to cry as he walked you back to the couch, sitting you down almost on his lap. You were too caught up in your fear to notice.
“Shhhhh, I’m here, sweetheart.” he cooed at you, stroking your hair and running his large palm down your back.
“Robby”-hic’-” I was so sc-scared!” You barely managed to get out. “He said he was looking at me! And he said I would die just like them!” Robby nodded his head against your hair as he continued to comfort you. You calmed down a little bit as you followed his steady breaths. He wiped your tears with his sleeves.
“Hey, you know me and Jackie got you.” He said assuringly. “Tell me you know that.” When you didn’t respond, he grabbed your chin gently, pulling your face out of the crook of his neck.
“Go on, say ‘I know Jackie and Robby will take care of me.’” He said the last bit in a higher-pitch voice. You giggled at that.
“I know Jackie and Robby will take care of me.” Your voice was still a little shaky, but the tears left exhaustion in its place. Your eyes were heavy, but you were too scared to go to bed and leave the couch.
“Where is Jack? I tried calling him.” You asked, deciding to change the subject. Hoping to get your mind off of it.
“He picked up a night shift. He likes the darkness or something mysterious.” Robby wiggled his eyebrows. You smiled in response and exhaled through your nose.
“There she is.”
It wasn’t uncommon for Jack to leave Robby overnight while he worked as a night security guard at a local hospital for extra cash. You had no idea how he did it, functioning off of three hours of sleep and a celsius during your shared morning lectures before napping the rest of the day.
You wanted to sleep so badly, getting a headache from your tears, but you were so scared. You thought that if you went to sleep, Robby would leave and you would be alone in your apartment once again. Robby noticed your dilemma. He shifted slightly to move your legs off his lap so he could face you.
“Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll sleep here and stay. You look so tired, sweetheart.” You didn’t really have the energy to argue and Robby was being so kind and understanding, you couldn’t help but feel safe with him. You nodded at him.
“I’ll get you some blankets and a pillow.” You said.
Together you made the couch in your cramped apartment into a bed, adding sheets and several pillows. Then you led Robby into your room, it was a tradition that anytime someone slept over, you let them pick a stuffed animal to sleep with. He chuckled softly at you.
“I don’t really sleep with stuffed animals so I’m not really sure what I should pick. Maybe you should pick for me” Robby said, trying to humor you.
“Okay.” You picked up your Percy Penguin jellycat and handed it to him. It smelled like you, so he wasn’t going to complain. You showed him where your extra toothbrushes were, and excused yourself to finish your night routine. Showering off the sweat and stress of the day and doing your skincare. Robby swore he could smell your lotion from the living room.
Robby couldn’t lie if you asked him if he was enjoying this. Shamefully growing half hard at your tears in the doorway, he felt so close to you as you cried. The fear on your face had scrunched up your features, he wondered if you would look similar under him, crying out in pleasure instead of terror (maybe both). Stroking your hair and rubbing your back. You smelled so good, too. He enjoyed the feeling of your fat tears wetting his neck and the weight of your legs over his lap, it took everything in him not to pull you on top of him and make you grind and writhe on his bulge while you shook and screamed about the call. He pushed his face into the fucking penguin, it smelled just like you. He had to remind himself that you were only a thin wall away, trying to sleep off the scare (he) someone had given you. He drifted off into sleep.
You had settled into your soft pajamas, a thin tank top and a pair of boyshorts. You always run hot at night. But, no matter what, you couldn’t fall asleep. You tossed and turned, but to no avail, your mind wouldn’t slow down. You tried scrolling, when an ache between your legs at the thought of Roby being so protective of you, holding you tightly and genuinely listening attentively. You were terrified to look at the windows, in fear of someone watching you. You tried to reach into your boyshorts to relieve the ache, but after a few strokes on your clit, you had the unmistakable feeling you were being watched. Shame burnt your cheeks as you hastily wiped your fingers on the covers crept out of the safety of the covers towards Robby, towards comfort.
“Robby, are you asleep?” You asked meekly.
Robby rose up from his position lying down. He beckoned you over and slung his arm around your shoulders.
“I can’t sleep.” You mumbled. You tried to ignore how good he looked with messy hair, his pajama pants with his shirt discarded on the arm chair. His voice was thick with sleep.
“What’s wrong, baby? C’mere.” He held you tightly, voice quiet, he said. “Can’t turn that brain off, huh?” You shook your head. He kissed your bare shoulder, right next to the strap of your tank.
“Got scared..” You whispered.
“Let me take care of you, sweetheart. I’ll make it allll better.” He turned your head as you leaned in to kiss him. He ran one hand around your waist and the other through your hair. You pulled away slightly,
“What about Jack?” You whispered.
“Don’t you worry about Jackie, sweet girl, he won’t mind at all.” You simply nodded, brain fuzzy from the gentle kiss. He kissed you again, a little harder this time. His tongue is dipping into your mouth. You reached up to tangle your hands into his messy hair.
“Robby?”
“Yeah?”
“Take me to bed.” At that he pulled away to look at you, with a face that asked ‘are you sure?’ you nodded. He moved his hands to your waist, tucking his hands under your bottom, lifting you up to carry you back to the safety of your pink sheets. You felt safer with Robby with you. The idea of someone watching became less creepy and more erotic.
He laid you down on the bed setting you back against the pillows and gently pulled your boy shorts to the side. Two of his thick fingers running up your slit. You let a small gasp out at the sensation. You pawed at his pants. His other hand came to grab yours.
“Baby, you had a rough night. I’m not gonna take advantage of you.” You whined in response. “But I need you!” Robby chuckled at that.
“I’m gonna give you my fingers, and you’re gonna go to sleep after.” He mumbled against your hairline while his fingers ghosted over your clit. You whined once again.
“I need you Robby, please.” You were desperate. At that he smiled and stuck a finger into your cunt. You groaned into his shoulder. He could feel how tight you were, likely from the stress you’ve been dealing with. You’ve been pent up because of it. He began massaging your clit in tandem with his finger moving in and out of your sweet cunt. He added a second finger and you moaned, yanking on his hair for him to move down to kiss you.
“Robby,” you exhaled.
“I’m right here, baby.” he kissed the corner of your mouth and moved to kiss your neck.
He added a third finger, still stroking your clit with his thumb, skillful hands making you moan. His fingers were precise and as methodical as a surgeon's, you vaguely think about the time you felt hot after watching him practice an intubation, his hands flexing and moving with precision. He mouthed at your neck. You let out a quiet moan.
“Jack,” he chuckled darkly at that.
“You thinking ‘bout jack when i’m knuckle deep inside you?” Your face flushed. You opened your mouth to apologize for your slip. Face red and looking like you wanted him to just suffocate you with a pillow right there.
“S’okay baby. I’m thinking about him too.” He paired that sentence with a curl of his fingers, the sensation becoming too much. You whined once more.
“You thinking ‘bout his thick fingers, sweetheart?”
“Thinking ‘bout you, Robby!” You whimpered.
“Tell the truth, sweetheart.”
“Just miss ‘im. Still love you.” you moaned, forehead scrunched in pleasure as he curled his fingers deliciously once again. You clenched around him.
“You gonna cum for me, baby?” He continued playing with your clit and curling his fingers against your g-spot. You could only nod your head, eyes closed.
“You gonna cum for me while you're thinking about Jack? Huh? Go on then, do it.” at that the coil in your tummy snapped and you whimpered. Your slick covering his palm. He made eye contact with you as he brought them into his mouth to clean them off. You moaned at the sight. He used his free hand to slide your boyshorts back into place. He gave your sweet cunt a gentle pat over the thin fabric.
“S’sensative,” you squealed.
Robby moved to hand you the water at your bedside table.
“Take a few sips f’me, okay? I’m gonna get a towel. I’ll be right back.” Your eyes shot open.
“No! Don’t leave me alone with him!” You grabbed his arm and looked at him with pleading eyes. He just nodded and didn’t question it, just moved so you could lay your head on his chest. Your eyes fluttered shut. You would have noticed that if your brain wasn’t still so fuzzy from the mindnumbing orgasm he just gave you. No doubt better than any Daniel had given you throughout your short relationship.
“Are you sleepy now, baby?” You just nodded, unable to form an answer.
“Yeah you are, just needed to get your panties sticky, huh?” Your cheeks flushed. Robby seemed to enjoy making you squirm from his vulgar words. He kissed your forehead.
“G’night Robby.” you managed to mumble before drifting off while counting his heartbeats.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
The next morning, you woke up to the smell of burnt eggs in your small kitchenette. You got out of bed and noticed your boyshorts and cotton panties had been replaced with clean ones. You padded your socked feet out of your room to see Jack sitting at your counter top with a disappointed look on his face as Robby held the burnt eggs in the pan towards him.
“Morning, Babydoll, guess I missed all the fun, huh?” Your cheeks flushed as Jack moved his arm around your waist as you walked toward him, standing next to where he sat on the high top chairs. Robby smirked and cheekily winked at you.
“Told you he wouldn’t mind, sweetheart.” You were confused but you couldn’t help the warm ache that settled back into your cunt.
“You’re okay with it?” Jack just grinned, you loved his toothy smile, you couldn’t help but reciprocate.
“‘Course babydoll, what kind of friend would I be if I made you choose? That is if you want me too of course.” You flushed once again. Looking down at your Brandy Melvile heart socks. You nodded shyly. Jack didn’t let you off that easily.
“Nah uh, you gotta use your words, babydoll.”
“I- I want you both.” You finally said after a few seconds. Jack smiled and pulled you down towards him in his seat with the hand on your waist. You met his lips and smiled into the kiss. He was gentler than you expected. You had heard all of his past sexual experiences and conquests to the intimacy of the kiss was a welcome surprise.
After you pulled away, Robby appeared right behind you, you put your hands on his chest and leaned in to give him the same kiss as Jack. After you pulled away to salvage the mess that was Robby’s attempt of making breakfast, you watched as Jack yanked Robby by his shirt down to give him a filthy kiss in comparison to yours. You flushed and turned away toward the sink. Robby noticed.
“S’okay sweetheart, we want you to watch.” He said in a gravely voice.
if u use my work to train ai a puppy dies. tags⋆˚࿔: @tojisasscrumbs, @qpiiee,@chikisreads, @loki-miss-a, @4ria790, @girljusttrying28, @theory-saturn, @em1ly57, @persephone-reblogs, @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf, @supersonicoxo, @boldlyherdream, @17th-sector, @spectersgf, @peaches-roses-sins, @navs-bhat, @tigol-bitties15, @actuallyhisangel, @writtenbyhollywood, @mademoiselle1917, @deathbyvexs, @in-the-comet, @yiiiikesmish, @lexi2000, @skagelynn, @topsecretsweethearttt, @tellmealovestory, @babysoft-domination, @fangirl-dot-com, @thisisjustmyface, @writing2sirvive, @madicropp, @msmetallicareeves, @sameoldbaby, @itzpixiebabe, @im-ok-mj, @moonlitmaureder, @peachiestevie, @bookgirllstuff, @yournewstepmom8765, @durazzznosconcrema, @whatupbuttercup2019,
eren jaeger x reader, jean kirstein x reader - drabble, 18+!!!
wrote this a few weeks ago and i'm bored so have a little drabble of a jean x reader x eren threesome from...another angle<3 sorry i've been so dry lately, have this as my official apology :)
minors do not interact. this is nsfw and intended for those 18 and up.
wc: 1.6k
warnings: degradation, p in v, fem!reader, sorta dubconny if you squint (reader's just a lil shy), voyeurism;)
-
Jean’s girl.
It has a nice ring to it, one that you’re proud of. His parents’ friends refer to you as such, always going on about how cute you look in those sundresses you wear to Sunday dinner. When you stop by the office, paper bag in hand, the boys yell out, “Jean’s girl’s back! Got any lunch in there for me, sweetheart?”. Even Jean himself is guilty, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear and whispering that he “needs to see his girl’s pretty face”.
“Look at your girl, Jean,” Eren says with a cruel, barked laugh. It’s mocking, makes your cheeks burn even hotter, if that were possible.
“I see,” Jean says quietly, the lower half of his face disappearing behind his beer as he takes a sip, “I see her.”
You squirm in Eren’s lap, trying to adjust to the foreign weight of him inside of you, wincing at the slide of your thighs on his, made easy by the wetness he’s already coaxed from your body. Jean’s eyes are dark as he watches you wriggle, one hand palming over the bulge behind his zipper, slow and steady. You really can’t believe he let you do this—let Eren do all of this, this slow unraveling of your body, this tarnishing of your pretty title. Jean’s girl, spread out on Eren’s lap with his cock shoved up into her stomach. Your head spins.
“How’s it feel, baby?” Eren’s eyes are sparkling, wide and glittering like a mountain cat lying behind a bush, when he thumbs at your chin. You know now that his teeth are as sharp as they look, the aching blossom of fresh bruises thudding along your shoulders.
“J-Jean,” you stutter out pathetically, trying to turn your head to your boyfriend. Eren’s faster, large hand wrapped around your jaw and snapping your head back to him.
“Try again.” He thrusts his hips up, not too rough, but enough that you feel it, a weak mewl falling from your lips. Eren smirks. “That’s not Jean, is it?”
“S’alright, baby,” Jean says from across the room, from too far away. Hot shame clouds your eyes in the form of tears as you realize you want him closer, but you don’t want him inside of you, not yet; you’re growing unwittingly fond of the novel stretch of Eren between your legs, your muscles tense and flexing to keep yourself from rocking forward on to him. “Be sweet to Eren.”
“Yeah,” Eren coos, dripping with condescension as he rubs his thumb through the drool on your bottom lip, “be sweet to me.”
You nod shakily, wiggling your hips again and having to bite into your lip to stop the moan from escaping, but with the way Eren’s grinning at you, you think he knows what lies in the back of your throat. Well, he does know, to an extent– your jaw still aches from him fucking into your mouth earlier, stretching your lips wide around him.
“I’m gonna ask you again,” Eren says firmly, pressing his forehead to yours, “how’s my cock feel in you, hm?”
“Feels good,” you slur quietly, barely more than a breath. It’s enough for Eren, it seems, as he groans and throws his head back. You watch his Adam’s apple bob with the throaty noise, watch the furrow appear between his dark eyebrows. He really is beautiful, breathtaking even– he reminds you of that painting, what was it called? The Fallen Angel?
Eren’s head lolls back up, his bright eyes flickering over every part of you, like he doesn’t know where he wants to start, pretty creature that you are. He trails his hands over your breasts, stopping to tweak a nipple and grinning viciously when you yelp in surprise. His fingers move further, down over your ticklish rib cage and swirling around your belly button before settling firmly on your hips. Eren looks at you like he might eat you alive if you turn your back for one second, and your stomach twists.
“It’ll feel better if you move, won’t it? Want my help?”
You look questioningly to Jean, who shakes his head no at you, and inclines it in Eren’s direction. Not me, him.
Scary isn’t the right word for Eren, not when he has so much love in his stomach, but it’s all guarded under several strips of barbed wire. Poison drips from his tongue as readily as sugarwater might; he swallows it all the same. You’re sitting atop a creature with teeth, a creature that fights when it’s cornered, but god– isn’t he so pretty?
“Yes,” you breathe out to him, twitching your hips atop his as if to emphasize your point. Eren chuckles darkly in his throat, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bite. He rolls you against him once, twice, and three times is enough to have your jaw dropping, eyes flitting up to the sky.
“There you go,” Eren grits out, swearing under his breath when you tighten around him, “told you she liked me, Jean.”
“Knew she liked you,” Jean bites back at him, huffing a little laugh when you moan in protest, in embarrassment, “just wanted to see if she’d show you.”
“She’s braver than you give her credit for.” Eren thumbs at your chin again, chokes on a groan when you suck it into your mouth, run your tongue lovingly along the pad of his finger. “Look at that…beautiful.”
He’s rolling your hips faster now, enough to force a tinny whine from you. You can feel Jean’s eyes lingering, can hear the wet schlick of his hand on his now-freed cock; you’ll ask him later what you looked like, back arched and breasts shaking to the rhythm of your own haggard breathing, rocking your hips into Eren’s like your salvation depends on it. Jean’s girl, taking his best friend’s dick while he watches. Anything for your man.
Eren’s hand wanders down your tacky stomach, starts rubbing at your swollen clit gently. It’s so raw and sensitive after nearly half an hour of Eren prodding and sucking and licking at it with his tongue, that you jolt harshly, like you’ve been electrocuted.
“Eren!”
“Good?” Eren pants, and suddenly, you’re both moving so much faster than you were before. Eren’s bullying himself up into you, hitting something that reminds you of Jean, and your tears fall faster. “Tell me how good it is.”
“It’s– fuck, so good,” you whimper, cutting yourself off with a moan. Eren hisses in satisfaction, pistoning up into you faster.
“Listen to that dirty fucking mouth,” Eren chides, abandoning your clit in favor of wrapping his hand in your tangled hair, grabbing a fistful and forcing you close to his face, “you don’t sound like Jean’s perfect little girl to me, not anymore.”
A sharp inhale from across the room reminds you of your lovely, golden boyfriend, of the cock he’s fisting watching you fall apart in Eren’s arms. It brings a rush of fresh heat to your veins, one that’s mercifully absent of shame. It’s the sparks of your orgasm, white-hot and creeping along your bones like it means to pull your head under.
“I n-need to cum, please,” you admit, whining it openly in the air for Jean to hear. His only answer is a quiet swear, the sounds of his hand growing faster and wetter. Eren laughs again, pulls your chin down to him.
“So polite, aren’t you? Give me a little something baby, wan’ a taste.” Eren tugs your mouth open with his thumb, opens his jaw expectantly. Even amidst the rhythm of you bouncing on him, you find the presence of mind to spit, a long strand of drool swaying from your lips as it falls into his mouth. Eren’s eyes flicker at you menacingly when he swallows, growls deep in his chest.
“Good girl,” Jean murmurs from across the room, “good fucking girl.”
“Hear that?” Eren says, fisting your hair harder as your walls flutter around him, betraying just how close you are to going under. “He’s so proud of you, isn’t he? Taking my cock like a fucking champ.”
“Uh-huh,” you moan pitifully, hips moving with a mind of their own. Your eyes are out of focus, but through the bleary haze of your tears and pleasure, you can make out Eren, jaw slack and eyes sharp as he watches you start to truly lose it. His fist around your hair grows so tight you squeak, and he yanks your head down to rest against his shoulder. It would be almost sweet, if he weren’t tearing you apart at the seams.
Eren’s lips, his hot breath, ghost over the shell of your ear as he whispers to you. “Bet he’ll be twice as proud if you cum all over my cock, nice and pretty for us.”
That snaps the thin thread of sanity remaining in you, and you convulse around Eren, wailing into his shoulder. He makes no effort to shush you, to pet you gently and work you through it; no, Eren only curses loudly, bites into your shoulder so hard your body jerks even as it clenches and contracts around him, shoots his hips up into you– a warmth begins filling you from the inside out, sticky and balmy against the electric aftershocks of the orgasm wracking your limbs.
Once Eren’s hips have stopped twitching up into yours, he grabs your tired body by the shoulders, shoving you to sit up properly on his softening cock. You mumble something akin to discomfort, wiggling as disobediently as you can while Eren examines you. Your muscles are still quivering with the aftereffects of cumming, though, and you aren’t able to put up much of a fight, something Eren notices and grins at.
“You’re really something, aren’t ya?” Eren says to your limp form, rubbing his hands on your shoulders. “Might have to share your girl more often, Jean.”
-
just a little snack while i battle my way through the 1500 wips i have going!! <3 love you all
please leave a tip if you can. reblogs, comments and requests are all very much appreciated! and check out some of my other works if you have the time ♡
a/n: i rlly want someone to put me in my place like this :(
cw: smut, kinda hate sex??, dom! eren, sub! reader, fem coded reader, spanking, choking, cursing, degradation, bratty reader
minors and ageless blogs do not interact, 18+ only
“m’ sick of your shitty fuckin’ attitude.” your boyfriend remarks, hands gripping the sides of your hips as he fucks you.
all you can mutter out is a muffled sorry, but with the pink panties stuffed in your mouth .. the words are unintelligible.
“shut the fuck up.” eren warns, hand coming down to the skin of your ass with a SMACK!
“all day you’ve been irkin’ me.” he says, digging his nails now into the skin of your hips. your eyes roll back as you feel the head of his cock now pressing up against your cervix with each brutal, angry thrust.
you are going to be so sore in the morning.
“sassing me, ignoring my texts .. heard you were texting jean.” your boyfriends words are angry and bitter as they’re whispered into your ear, paired with the brutal, quick thrusts to your pussy .. putting you way above cloud nine.
“you’re fuckin’ ungrateful!” his voice rises and his hand comes down on your ass again with a harder smack! this time. It burns as the pain fades, and all that’s left is your cunt clenching around him .. practically begging for another slap.
“i fuckin’ bathe you, feed you, and this—look at me!” he snaps, grabbing your face between his fingers to move it in his direction. your watered eyes make contact with his furious green ones and you already know … he’s just began with you.
“this is what I get? an ungrateful bitch like you fuckin’ giving me an attitude? are you fuckin’ stupid Y/N?” his tone changes to that of an endearing one, and you feel yourself grow wetter at the degrading words flowing easily out of his mouth.
to match his words, his strokes are short and deep .. drawing the dirtiest moans out of your brown lips. in an effort to slow him down, your hands darts out trying to slow his pace.
“nah, you know the fuck better.” he says, hand moving to quickly slap away yours. his hand lays flat on your back, forcing you onto the bed to fuck you even harder.
SHLICK, SHLICK, SHLICK
“don’t you dare fuckin’ cum, you and i both know you don’t deserve to.” he says, when he feels you clench around him. apparently, you think you run shit around here because you cum right the. and there, whimpering weakly and you spray the brunette’s cock with clear liquids.
“you fuckin—” eren pulls out of your sore pussy, still squirting clear liquid as you reach out for him. he turns you over, and pulls the gag out of your mouth.
“M’ sorry eren, I—” your boyfriend’s hand wraps around your throat, shutting you up. he slaps the tip of his dick against your wet clit, making your abdomen clench before he thrusts in, hard. eren begins a rigorous pace, angry eyes not wavering as they stay on you while he fucks you like you’re no more than a fleshlight for him.
“Oh, fuuuck.” eren moans, eyes closing as you clench around him. your arms go around his neck, pulling him down onto your chest. he’s so sexy when he gets all heated like this, he has no fucking idea how hot he is to you right now.
“W-wasn’t texting Jean!” You whine out when he slows down, now fucking you in slow, languid strokes. Your ears lightly ring as his other hand feels for your clit, rubbing it in figure eight motions quickly.
“Yeah? The fuck were you doin then huh?” He asks, replacing his slow pace with a quicker one. Eren’s hands go to your thighs, pushing them down, down until they’re practically pressing into the blanket below.
You’re so fucking wet in this position. And you won’t last any longer if Eren’s tip keeps fucking against your g-spot like that .. you can’t even think straight right now. All you can focus on is the heavy cock sliding in and out of your sloppy cunt.
SHLOP, SHLOP, SHLOP
“w-wanted ..” thrust,
“i wanted …” another hard thrust
“e-eren, please!” Then another, and another and another until he’s fucking you so hard the bed is creaking from the force of his brutal thrusts.
“y’ get this wet for him too?” He teases, relishing in the way your eyes well up with tears. You look beautiful when you cry for him, truly fucking beautiful.
“n-no ..” You whine pathetically when your boyfriend buries his face into the crook of your neck. His hands leave your clit and your thigh, instead snaking around your waist to hold you up as he fucks you.
“then fuckin’ cum when i say so, show me this pussy s’ still mine.” he whispers hotly in your ear, loving the way you mewl and clench around him in response.
as if ugly ass horse face fucking jean could ever satisfy that dirty little cunt. only in his wildest dreams could he imagine being with like this, and eren relishes in that fact as he hears you moan that you’re close.
“hold it, pretty. y’ want to be forgiven don’t ya?” he smugly asks, feeling your pretty sloppy pussy flutter around him, eren brings his hand down on your ass with a slap! again, eyes closing when a pretty moan slips past your lips.
he’s fucking close, he’s so close he can fucking taste it.
“cum with me, baby. fuckin’ cum on my cock.” your boyfriend growls in your ear, fisting the blanket beside your head as he feels you clench around him tight, so tight he has to force himself to watch your face as you cum with a silent scream, eyes brimming with tears as your entire body trembles with pleasure.
eren fucks to you overstimulation, eyes fluttering as you feel his thumb rub your clit. your toes curl and your stomach clenches again as a small gust of squirt leaves your slicked and dripping cunt, wetting the both of your abdomens.
eren cums fills your insides with creamy liquid as he curses, still fucking his slicked up cock in and back out of your cunt. the sight was mesmerizing, seeing his cum drop out of your tiny pussy. no better sight in the world than that, now that he thinks about it.
“e-eren,” you whimper, pushing at his stomach. he gently slides his cock out, being careful since you’re clearly overstimulated from the pleasure .. still trembling slightly.
“give me a kiss,” he says, hands going up to your face to caress it. you kiss him with a whimper, eyes closing as your boyfriend gently kisses you.
“m’ so sorry,” you speak against, his lips breathlessly. eren’s eyes finally soften and he lays another sweet kiss to your lips with a smile.
“i know,” he speaks, hoping that you’ve learned your lesson.
cannot stop thinking about pope cody with his three teenage boys (who, yes, are just a variation of andrew, craig & deran) who back talk their mom (you) one time and if goes a little something like this:
"jesus fucking christ, the laundry isn't going to explode if i don't do it right now, god damn, mom." your middle chirps.
"she's on one, today." your oldest shakes his head.
"did that shit last week anyways, it's fine." your youngest flops on the couch and grabs the controller from his brother, before they start arguing amongst themselves.
you can barely blink before pope is storming in the house and upstairs to their rooms (yes those are bedrooms that pope, craig & deran used to sleep in when they lived with smurf), ripping every electronic device out of the wall, tossing them down the stairs.
stomping back down the stairs he stops in the living room and yanks that console from below the tv.
"let's get something crystal fuckin' clear, you three will not disrespect your mom—my wife—in my house. do you understand me? get your school shit and go to your rooms, now." pope is raising his voice as the boys stare at him stupidly.
those gaming consoles are being tossed in the pool and/or being smashed w his fucking sledge hammer btw, and pope is about to spend the rest of the evening catering to you as an apology because he cannot believe his boys believed for one second they could speak to their mom that way.
