rina

26. she/her. this is just a big mess.

[ifawns]

pussy inspection with jack abbott.

fem!afab!reader, legal age gap (reader is early/mid twenties), pussy pronouns, fingering (f receiving), clit slaps (it was literally one slap), dumbification, ruined makeup mention, praise.

"open up." he instructed, looking up into your eyes whilst positioned between your legs. you bit your lip, face flushing with embarrassment as you took both of your hands to your folds, spreading them just for him. he didn't say anything, only groaning as he thumbed gently at your clit, taking note of how you squirm at the minimal contact.

"look at 'er, baby, already so fuckin' sensitive" he grunted, free hand gripping your thigh. "such a good girl, yeah? spreadin' her real nice, lettin' me get a real good look at this pretty fuckin' pussy." he cooed while blowing cool air right onto your core, watching the way it pulsed and throbbed. you're not trying to hide any of your noises, letting free whines and pleas for him to do more than just light touches.

"yeah? do you even know what you're beggin' for, princess?" you shake your head. "'s okay, didn't think so. just can't help it, huh? only thinkin' with what's down here” he says with a light slap to your clit, making you squeak and jolt your hips up into his touch. "jack, need more, please," you whimpered out, tears running down your face. your mascara was running down your face and neither of you really cared, in fact, jack enjoyed you like this.

"fuck, i know, baby. sucha good girl usin' your words, gonna make my special girls feel real nice." you don't know what made it worse for you, the praise or the way he referred to you and your cunt. you felt your thoughts slowly drifting out of your head with every touch from him, not putting up a fight as to keep them in your head. "whatd'ya need? my fingers? mouth?" he asks, knowing you're too needy to answer properly. all you can manage is a small plead that made the man in between your thighs smile.

"awh, my girl can't talk? that's okay. jus' feel for me, alright?" that's the last thing he says before he latches onto your clit, his eyes fluttering shut as he sunk two thick, rough fingers inside of you. the sensation of both his mouth and fingers made you lose it, any self preservation you had left, if any, was all gone. you were reduced to puddy in his hands. it was too good that it would be a mistake not to grind a bit on his face, making him moan into your pussy as he worked you open. his reaction convinced you to do it over and over again until you felt your release building up. "jack, gonna cum, fuckfuck dontstopplease," your words made his free hand dig into the flesh of your thigh, enough to leave marks for days after.

he pulled away from your clit, looking you in the eyes as his fingers began to open you up faster. "yeah? go ahead, show me how good you are. go ahead and let go for me, princess." the demand sent a shiver down your spine as you jerked your hips into his touch, immediately letting go on his fingers with a loud moan.

after a few brief moments jack got up from his position, getting a glass of water and a towel for you. he set the items on the nightstand and laid down right next to you, "did such a good job, honey. took it so well for me, always do. gotta get you cleaned up now, okay? i know you can do it" he cooed while carding his fingers through your hair gently, looking at you like you were the whole world.

[groovyangelkisses]

https://www.tumblr.com/mewnbuns/822507047490928640/him-accidentally-saying-i-love-you-while-hes

hear me out... pope. that's it.

oh my god, yes. something about missionary makes him soooo soft and sweet, especially <3

“it feels so good, ‘s so wet, i love you. i love you, love-love you haaaa, yeah. i love you, you love me? you love me, honey? please?”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

✦heart✦

✧･ﾟ:you have to convince him you want it. Clark worries every time he fucks you that he’s going to break you, and it takes days of begging to convince him you’ll be fine. You kneel between his legs and rest your head on his thigh, pouting and pleading while he pets your head. His jaw ticks, and he closes his eyes in something close to a prayer. His eyes flutter, and you know he wants it as bad as you do. You feel it, every time he’s inside of you and presses down a little too hard. Every time he picks up the pace then slows down. Every time he throws you around and his cock twitches. You promise to tell him if it’s too much, rubbing that thick, demanding tent in his pants. He gives in, and you’ve never degraded yourself for something better.

✧･ﾟ:clark holds you in a headlock. His massive bicep wrapped around your throat, pinning you against his shoulder, forcing you almost fully off the broken mattress. You cling to his arm, your eyes rolling back and drool falling from your swollen lips. He’s everywhere like this. The heat rolls off of him like a summer storm, everything wet and humid and sticky. His thighs bracket yours, forcing them together while his free hand splays on your stomach and forces your ass backwards. The angle makes his cock feel like it’s cleaving you open, the thick head bumping against the deepest spot inside of you as his balls press against your cunt.

✧･ﾟ:every deep moan and filthy word is snarled into your ear, and vibrates through your body like electricity. A dazed, cockdrunk smile paints your lips as you take thrust after thrust, your body limp and overwhelmed with pleasure. The headlock limits your breathing to shallow gasps of Clark and more, but the pressure makes your head spin and every sensation all the more powerful. Clark kisses over your neck and face, skin slapping against skin, enough friction between your bodies to start a wildfire.

✧･ﾟ:“that’s a girl, huh,” he rasps, thick, calloused fingers dragging down to rub your clit in tight little circles. Your whole body writhes, back arching and a broken moan leaving your parted lips. You arch, unsure if you’re chasing more or trying to get away. Clark chuckles, pressing down hard on the hypersentive bundle of nerves and readjusting his grip so his fingers wrap around your throat. He forces your head backwards and swallows your hopeless moan with a rough, claiming kiss. “Needy little brat, takin’ my cock like you’re made for it- Shit-“

✧･ﾟ:clark groans and kisses you harder. His thrusts are getting sharper and shorter, and your own orgasm begins to wash over you like flooding sunlight. Clark fucks up into you like an animal, fingering your clit like a toy, and stars form behind your eyes. You scream with delight into his open mouth, your pussy flooding and gushing around his thick cock. He moans, squeezing your throat, and doubles over. You fall face first into the mattress, and Clark forces your ass up into the air. You sob, the pleasure overwhelming, and Clark kisses everywhere he can reach as he desperately ruts into your warm, gooey little cunt.

✧･ﾟ:he cums with a moan of your name, burying himself deep inside and painting your insides with hot, thick ropes of cum. Another orgasm shivers up your spine like lightning, making you boneless and ditzy. You giggle into the sheets as Clark folds over you like a massive blanket, and he smiles against your back, kissing over your spine and shoulders.

✧･ﾟ:“did so good for me,” he murmurs, twining his fingers through yours. “That was… Geez.”

✧･ﾟ:you laugh softly, still at a loss for words, and just curl under his body. Safe, empty-headed, and warm.

✦Clark Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦ ✦Author's Note: dirty clark ily <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦

[daughterbubs]

꒰ ⟡ 𝟣𝟪+ blurb — ❤︎ 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐎𝐓 & 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐅𝐅 . . It’s longer, a gleaming silver, gilding over his chin and jaw, while you’re forced to feel it. That thickened, rough, unshaven texture alongside every thick, wet lap he makes at your little puffed-up pussy. His tongue, licking and slipping through sticky folds, soft and sweet in contrast to the sharp texture of his facial hair, which is unintentionally marking up your thighs. It has just grown so much, prickly and nearly white, rubbing against your tender, pulsing hole while his tongue licks up in languid glides. His chin firms itself on your perineum to feel your pulsing little slit rubbing against the coarseness; to feel his baby grinding up on his own face. Jack just wants you shuddering, helpless and humping his silvered, rough-fuzzed jaw. His lips part to slick you up with saliva, allowing a thick, wet string to connect his face to your needy, swelling pussy. The wetness pools up in the seam of your clit, and he spreads his tongue onto you, flat and demanding, stiffening it for a moment on your needy bud, before licking and kissing into where your clit hood is exposed — pulled back, alit, and inflamed, all from his face between your thighs.

 "Gonna lick you 'til you're raw." Jack admits hoarsely into your little cunt. "Just need to have my mouth on you, honey."

He wraps himself on the thickened flesh of your bulbed-up clit, suckling wildly and coating his chin in you during his latch. His thicker scruff frictions right against the skin of your chubby and delicate pussy lips, before his tongue swirls hard, just once more, and retracts away from where you're spread. His fat, aged and freckled hands keep your soft thighs speared wide open, just to observe your desperate, aching hole. You’re beard-burned and sensitive, a soppy little cunt rubbed raw from his face; chafed up, creamy, and fluttering wetly around nothing. Jack's jaw is steeped in you, wet on the growth that shrouds the curve of his face and neck. He takes a long, rough breath, an open-mouthed aspiration to taste your sweetness through the air, swallowing the scent as his head lilts in working condescension. Silver curls, dampened with his own sweat, swath over his lined forehead with the tilt. 

“Aww, pumpkin… does she like it? Little pussy likes my scruff? I think she does…" Jack coos, his voice enough to make your legs quiver under his pinion. He inhales, puckers his lips, and effuses a jet of his hot breath, runneled right to your needy hole. His lips upturn, thumbs pinching deeper into your thighs.

"Look at her. She’s already clamping up – just ‘cause Daddy had his mouth on you…” 

A finger glides through the mess, thick and seeping down irritated, velveted flesh, clinging to the sheets below your puckered hole. Jack can't halt his hand, which lifts to press his thumb pad to the cleft of your ass, like he's surveilling the vicious throb of you through your puddle of arousal. 

“Is it all stingy, baby? Should Daddy shave so he doesn't hurt your little pussy anymore?” 

Your head shakes violently, writhing on the sheets, whimpering as you gush out more between your forcedly spread thighs.

“No? You like it? I can tell. My baby’s already too close…” Jack sighs with a sated grin, and his digits ascend back up to your throbby little hole.

“Should we let her, hm? Let your little cunt just cum – all messy on Daddy’s beard?” It’s rhetorical, plainly mean, and Jack completely rescinds a response from you when his jaw presses right up against where you're pulsing. He fucks his tongue inside, driving it in deep, without warning or clemency. 

Jack adheres his face and stubbly bristles to your soft, sloppy folds, prompting you to leak, fresh and hot, all over him. The strong muscle licks inside at inner walls, his fingers rubbing at your quivering clit to feel you grip onto him in tighter, cinching pulses. He pulls away just enough to watch your tiny hole cling to his tongue, his scratchy fuzz slick and sticking to your slit, and then he's lapping at you, from entrance to bud once more. He curves his lips onto your swelled clit, suckling and licking into the fleshy rift. Your whines crack open to sharp-pitched moans when your orgasm torments every nerve ending, muscle, and cell. Your belly swoops, warming in your release, riveting the heat through to your trembling thighs. Your eyes shimmer with tears through the cascades of pleasure and the prickle of his chin, which Jack rubs over your poor pussy well into the aftershocks. And he still doesn’t stop – his silver hair is lambent and streaked with your cum, and he strokes his mouth down you to elicit a shiver, patting your hip in coax. “That’s it – My good little girl. Daddy’s just gonna get you real clean now.”

◞ daughterbubs ⭐︎ 2026 ༝

[godmadeaterribleerror]

hunger

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦

✦summary: ben starts acting rather strange. being quiet. hitting on you less. making sure you eat. you're worried, even though he doesn't want you to be. you never could've guessed the reason why.✦

✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred), light angst, softer!ben in a way (as soft as he can get lmao), canon divergance, pining, plot to earn the smut (panty stealing/kink, posessiveness, teasing, messy sex, size kink, dry humping, sex pollen, stripping, body worship, dom!Ben, blowjobs, finger sucking, masturbation, fingering, begging, nipple play, manhandling, oral f!reciving, pussy spanking, overstimulation, praise and degredation kink, clit abuse, creampie, monster dick ben, rough sex, this man is a sex god, just so many orgasms, dumbification, dacryphilia, hyperspermia, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 10.3k✦

✦author's note: request! i dare to ask the question. can this man get hornier✦

Ben is being quiet. It’s incredibly worrying.

You’d been waiting for them to get back from the mission on the couch, and he’d stormed into the room like the world outside was on fire. You’d sat up with wide eyes, and he’d gone perfectly still. His face had been red, his eyes blown out, his attention almost burning through you.

“Ben?” You’d whispered, unsure if you should be running to him, or as far away as you could get. “Are you- Is there something wrong-“

He’d lurched back, blinking wildly. You’d sat up on your knees, ready to reach for him, and he’d taken a staggered step back.

“Ben-“

He’d marched into the meeting room like something was dragging him there. You’d sat on the couch for another minute, staring blankly after him until the rest of the team came up.

You sat next to him for the debrief. You always sat next to him, no matter how you protested. It didn’t matter how many times you asked not to play babysitter, you were the best at it.

It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.  

“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.

He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.

That’s what makes you freeze.

Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.

But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.

There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.

Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.

But this.

This feels like a fever.

Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.  

Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions.  Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.

You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.

“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.

Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“

“What happened?”

“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”

Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”

“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”

“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”

You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“

“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“

You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“

“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“

The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.

You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.  

A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.

You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.

It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.

And you never fear Ben.

Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.

Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.

“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“

He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.

Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.

In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.

“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”

“Eating your- What?”

“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“

“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.

“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”

“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“

“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”

“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”

“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”

Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“

“Why.”

“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“

He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.

“Um- The dryer-“

“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.

“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“

“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“

“But- Ben-“

He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.

You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.

If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.

Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”

“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.

“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”

Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“

Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”

You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“

You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.

“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”

“I- That’s not what I said-“

“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”

You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”

Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”

Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”

Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.

“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.

“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”

You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”

Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.

“Wha- What-“

He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.

You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”

You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.

Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.

He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.

“Ben, what the fuck-“

He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.

At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.

And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.

“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.

He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.

“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.

“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”

He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.

“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”

Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.

Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.

Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.

“What- What the hell was that?”

You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“

You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.

“Please don’t-“

“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.

“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“

“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”

Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.

It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.

“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.

You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.

He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.

“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.

He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.

Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.

He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.

You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.

“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“

“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.

“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”

You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.

“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”

And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.

“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.

“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”

You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“

“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.

“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.

It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.

“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.

“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”

You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“

“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“

“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”

You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“

“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”

And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.

“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”

“Butcher-“

“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”

You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.

A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.

Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.

If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.

If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.

“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”

He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.

You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.

The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.

Your panties.

Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.

Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed. 

You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.

“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.

“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”

You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.

Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.

“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.

“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.

“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“

“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”

Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”

Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.

“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“

“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.

No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.

“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”

He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”

What do you want.

He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.

“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”

Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.

A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”

You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.

He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.

“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“

“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”

Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.

“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”

You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.

“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“

He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.

You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.

“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“

He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.

“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”

You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else. 

He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“

He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.

“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”

“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.

You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.

“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.

Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”

“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“

You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.

“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“

You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.

You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.

“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“

His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.

“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”

You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.

“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”

You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.

You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.

“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“

You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.

It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.

“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”

You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.

“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”

“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.

“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”

“It needs me?”

You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.

But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.

He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.

Worth it.

“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”

He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.

Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.

You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“

“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”

Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.

He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.

“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”

You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.

“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he  sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”

Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.

He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.

“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”

You shake your head, and Ben leans back with  narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.

“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.

“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“

He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“

You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.

Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.

You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.

“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”

You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.

You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.

Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.

He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.

Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.

You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.

Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.

“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.

“Too- Too much-“

“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”

Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.

But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.

“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”

Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.

Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll. 

“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”

Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.

“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”

Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.

“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“

You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.

He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.

“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“

You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.

You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.

He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.

“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“

You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.

Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.

He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.

You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.

“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”

You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.

“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.

You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.

The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.

At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”

He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.

Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.

“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“

He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.

Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.

“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”

It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.

He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands. 

This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.

You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.

He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”

You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.

“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”

His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.

Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.

He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.

And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.

He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.

You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Marry me.”

You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”

“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”

That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”

“Because I’m not crazy.”

“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“

“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.

“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”

You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.

There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.

But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.

“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”

Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.

“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.

You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.

Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[scribeherself]

having a best friend who meets your level of freak is unmatched. you present them with the most unhinged, deeply buried thought from the depths of your psyche and instead of blinking blankly they just go "oh absolutely"—and I think that mutual brain rot like that is the highest form of intimacy actually.

[lacydear]

꒰ . ₊˚⊹♡ JACK IN :: “you would be a fun night for sure” . ꒱

tags: p in v unprotected, jack talking dirty helllooooo, fucking your boss, just porn lol

a/n: this come from a comment in a tiktok lol! also a line from his quinn audio made a cameo, lets see if any of you catch it...not proofread at all. sorry if this is sloppy im sick...

it starts off with a tipsy comment from your part when some of the night and day shift go out for drinks.

“you would be a fun night for sure.”

its a stupid comment that you should never say to your attending. not if you dont want to get fired. but jack would never fire you, he cant get enough of you. probably why you and him are cooped up in the corner of the booth everyone else is in, his shoulders pressed awfully close against yours and your faces dangerously close as well.

he doesn't speak for a moment, simply stares at you. that stare that makes you want to crawl inside your skin. you're afraid he might of been put off by it, grossed out that a girl more than ten years younger than him, a girl who's under his wing, sees him that way.

but he doesn't lean away, instead, that stupidly hot grin of his starts forming, raising his hand up to take a sip of his beer, but not before muttering; “want to test it out?”

so now here you are, in jack abbot's house, your bosses house. being eaten out against the door. your dress is hitched up to your hips, purse thrown on the floor while he's on his knees—which is definitely not good on his knee—with his nose and mouth deep in your pussy.

he just couldn't wait till you guys got to his room, he's been needing to have a taste of you. and you didn't disappoint at all. as sweet and tasty as he's imagined every night in his bed with his cock in his hand. he really can't believe he's finally tasting you.

“jackkk!” you mewl, hips bucking against his face as your hands tug on his curls. “so good..so fuckin' good baby.” you can hear and feel him say against you. the vibrations almost sending you over the edge. and when he finally pulls away? you whine, chest heaving as you watch him straighten up. “come on lets go to bed..” he grabs your waist, guiding you around his house to his bedroom. internally cussing himself out for not being able to carry you, but he doesn't exactly trust his prosthetic, not after putting a strain on it.

once inside his room, he presses his lips against you. allowing you to taste yourself in his tongue. your hands go up and down his chest, feeling his hard muscles and his tummy. “jack...” you moan out, being awfully needy.

but how you could you not? the same guy that you been fantasizing about since you joined the pitt. “i know sweetheart i know...” he coos into your mouth, gently placing you down on the bed, his thick fingers working on your back to take your zipper down.

you shiver, hands clenching around his biceps. he works slowly, painstakingly so to take your dress off, his eyes trailing up and down your body. once the dress is on the floor, he pulls away to take his shirt and pants off.

you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second. he's so big, thick. you can see his print in his grey boxers. it makes you so weak. he crawls over you, his broad frame covering you almost completely as you wrap your arms around his neck. “ill show you a good night.” he whispers, smirking while placing wet kisses on your jaw and down to your chest.

he doesn't really bother getting you prepared, he did that minutes ago against the door. he simply takes his cock out of his boxers, slapping his tip against your clit. the rush of pride he feels when hearing your tiny gasps is a bit pathetic. but he continues, prodding your entrance with his tip.

“jackieee please please-” you whine, tugging at his hair again. god, you're making him discover new things about himself with the way he gets harder each time u tug at his hair. “stop being such a fuckin' tease..”

he smirks even more, one hand next to your head, gripping the bed sheets. “you dont have to beg me to fuck you,” he slams into you, burying his face into your neck. “im going to.” you gasp against his shoulder, nails clawing at his back. his pace is relentless from the start, working his mouth against your neck while pounding into you.

if you werent already dumb down by his cock, you would think you're in heaven with the way he's moaning, whimpering and groaning into your ear. it doesn't help that he's incredibly warm, so you're actively going limp in his arms while he fucks you.

“god sweetheart im so–” he lifts his head up, rough hand wrapping around your neck. you moan louder, eyes rolling back. a breathless laugh escapes his lips, dropping his head back beside your head. “you're so fucking tight baby. i can feel you squeezing me.”

you moan in response, hands leaving his back to wrap around his wrist. “you want my cock that bad, baby? tell me how bad you want it.” he's talking so filthy, he's never talked like that. not with his wife (may she rest in peace) or with the random girls he hooked up with after his wife's passing.

you babble, you fucking babble because you're so fucked out. “dirty girl...” he breathes against your cheek, face smooshed against yours. he's sloppy now, chasing your and his orgasm while trying to keep his composure enough to keep talking to you. “squeezing my cock like a good girl. such a good girl, my girl.”

he groans, unwrapping his hand around your neck to pull you closer into his arms. your face smooshing against his chest for him to be able to hold you as he pleases. "i can feel you squeezing me. you're close, arent you baby?”

you nod helplessly against his chest, nails digging into his sides as your moans turn muffled against his chest. “come with me, together.” with one final, sloppy thrust, you both come. the room is filled with whimpers from both of you, the bed stops creaking as he peppers kisses against yours forehead.

“you did so good, so good sweetheart.” he whispers against your forehead, slowly pulling out of you. his seed spills out of you, his fingers scooping it up to put it back inside. “you took me so well.” he continues praising you, causing you to smile. although very weakly.

you're both lucky you're on the pill, with how much he released into you you're sure you could've gotten pregnant immediately. he raises his head, rough, clammy hand brushing your hair out of your face. “dont get soft on me, old man.” you let out weakly, trying to regain energy.

“soft on you?” he says roughly, spreading your legs again, hooking them over his shoulders. “i told you ill show you a fun night, didnt i?” he leans down, causing you to whimper.

“baby, this night aint over."

[romantic-insomniac]

being drunk and silly with your boyfriend jack abbot !!

had some tipsy jack talk with @mochapuppy and got to work!

! mdni ! smut below !

date night had been successful as always. the only hitch in your romantic plans was you getting accidentally wasted.

jack had insisted that the two of you could go to bed when you got home. that he wasn't expecting anything from you and didn't need anything besides you cuddling up in bed beside him.

but drunk you was persistent. you put on a tiny dress after all, did your makeup and wore a matching lacey set you knew he'd love. and by the time you pushed him onto the couch and dropped to your knees in front of him, he was already hard from your sloppy kisses and whispered dirty words in his ear. you couldn't just leave him hanging!

as you took his thick cock out of his boxers, you tried very hard to stay serious, even though everything got slightly fuzzy and realllyyy funny. so you decided not to look into your boyfriends eyes as you tried to suck his dick while shit faced.

you lean down to place a kiss to the head of him, then another. then another and another while giggling as you think about how cute his pink tip is. you hear him sigh impatiently and you blink up at him through bleary eyes. "s-sorry *hic* soryy jackie- 's jus sooo pretty."

he runs a hand through his silver curls before reaching down to try and haul you off your knees. his arms grip under your armpits like how a parent picks up a toddler. " 's alright baby you don't have to. lets just go to sleep alright?"

but you squirm out of his hold and firmly plant yourself on your knees. pouting all serious now. "no! i can do it *hic* promise!" after a second of scanning your face for doubt, jack nods and settles back into the couch when all he finds is determination.

you wrap your manicured hand around his pretty cock, a lopsided grin forms on your face when you hears jack's breath catch. you prop your elbow on one of his spread knees and rest your cheek against your fist as you stroke him way too slowly due to time meaning nothing to you in your buzzed state of mind.

you don't even realize you're eye lids drooping until jack thrusts up into your hand with a rough, "cmon baby." you jolt upright instantly, swallowing down a drunken yawn before forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. sweetly saying "sorry jackie."

you bend forward to lick him, a long stripe from base to tip that has you smacking your lips with a "mmmm tastes good." jack huffs a laugh thats snuffed out by a groan when you take him in your mouth.

one languid suck of his length has you feeling dizzy. but not the usual kind of dizziness that blooms from pleasure, the intoxicated kind. when you bob back up the world spins, you mumble jacks name weakly before your hands shoot out to grab at his thick thighs.

he straightens instantly, cursing as he grips your biceps, hard cock still standing at attention inches from your face. "no more." he grunts with a grimace on his wrinkled face, looking like he's about to try and move you from your spot again.

but he's so hard! and you told him you wanted to do this. and you still do. you love making him feel good and getting drunk was not going to stop you from doing so. you start to whine and shimmy out of his hold. " 'm jus too dizzy. *hic* help me please?" your lower lip wobbles and tears brim at your waterline. jack gives you a doting smile and strokes your hair, not being able to say no to you. "course i can sweetheart."

thinking he's gonna fuck your face, you form an 'o' and go to take him back in your mouth. you squeak in surprise when jack grips your hair and gently tugs you back to look up at him. he chides "nuh uh baby. dont wan't you gettin' nauseous." before you can even argue he lays his thumb on your tongue and drags it outwards. "lemme do all the work. stick that tongue out. good girl- just like that."

you giggle at the praise, shifting on your knees so he has a better view of you all glossy eyed and pliant for him. jack takes himself in his vein covered hand and starts to leisurely stroke. watching him touch himself has your cheeks heating and thighs squirming. "jackiee" you whine, for nothing in particular.

but he just shakes his head as his movements speed up, grunting as he twists his wrist at the tip. "don't worry baby. just sit there and look pretty- fuck- y'so pretty sweetheart." after however long -you're so wasted you couldn't say- his jaw clenches and his thighs tense and you can tell he's getting close.

you see his aged face pinch as he squeezes the thick base with his hand while staring at you wide eyed for him. your hands start to feel real useless. so you reach out to grip his balls to help! he groans loudly as you start to massage them in your soft palm.

"fuck- just like that- doin so good-" his praises have you sober the tiniest bit, enough to lean forward and dribble some spit onto his glistening tip. jack throws his head back in a broken moan before gluing his blown out eyes back to yours. "gonna cum- tongue out f'me. now."

you obey him, instantly rewarded by the sound of jack cumming, groaning your name along with a string of lewd praises. "oooh fuck- fuck baby- so good. you're so good-" he tilts his hips forward as his hand jerks himself rapidly, his salty release spraying you from your extended tongue, to your smudged mascara covered cheeks, to the tip of your nose. he only collapses when you're entirely painted in his cum, slowly blinking down at you. his chuckle at your huge grin and sticky face is weak and satisfied.

you stick your tongue out to start to lick up his release but he stops you by successfully picking you up and dropping you on the couch. "leave it." he demands as he makes his way down your body to spread your legs with his large palms.

he tugs your panties to the side and sucks a hickey to your inner thigh after you nod at him as a yes, then rasps onto your skin, "want us to match by the time im done, baby."

[mariasont]

── .✦ ANDREW 'POPE' CODY and his nympho girlfriend

★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT WARNINGS 18+ MDNI fem reader, reader has breasts, hypersexual / sexually insatiable reader, established relationship, oral sex (male receiving (except not receiving? don't know how to describe it)), edging / orgasm denial themes, mild degradation language (pope being condescending) spit/bodily fluid imagery, rough handling, very light humiliation / praise-kink mix)

MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX

Pope is still locking the front door when you brush past, bare feet padding across the hardwoods, skin glowing as though you've been hoarding sunlight all day just to pour it on him.

He swears he doesn't deserve it.

The shirt you stole from his drawer, an old skate tee with the collar chewed to hell, slides over your body and lands in a loose heap on the floor. Your tits bounce lightly as they're freed.

Fuck. He could stare at them for hours, probably has, memorizing every curve and shadow with the grim focus he brings to anything he loves too much.

“Easy, baby,” Pope warns, even though his heart is tearing through him, dragging every dirty possibility in its wake. “I bought groceries. At least let me put the milk —”

“Later.” You tug the plastic bag from his hand, thunk it onto the entry table, and hook a finger through his belt loop. “Kitchen’s close enough.”

The fridge whirs, oblivious, while you drag him backward until thighs hit cool marble.

Pope can smell cilantro, gasoline from his truck, the sweet-and-salty rush in your sweat. You taste it, too, licking the hollow beneath his ear like a kid sneaking frosting.

“One track mind,” he mutters, masking a thick swallow when his jeans tent under your touch.

You pull back just far enough to look at him.

“That's not true. I think about a lot of things. They all just end —” Your hand settles over the hardening shape in his pants. “— here.”

He laughs a little, but it dies when you kneel.

You slip two fingers beneath the waistband, teasing skin before tugging down. Fabric puddles at his feet, leaving him bare and aching. You move to trace the underside with your tongue, a lazy path from root to head, then look up through your lashes.

“You leave me alone for hours.” Your hand tightens at the base of his cock, possessive. “What else am I supposed to wait for but you coming home and letting me have this?”

Pope guides himself to tap against your tongue. You happily oblige with an open mouth.

“Yeah? You wait all nice and good for me, princess, or did those needy little fingers wander?” He feigns a thoughtful hum. “Sheets looked a little rumpled when I walked in.”

He watches your mouth struggle to form words, tension fluttering in your cheeks where he fills them.

“Tried,” you admit, voice thick with obstruction. “Made it ‘til lunch before I… got impatient.” Your palm glides up his length in apology. “Does that still count as waiting?”

He winds your hair around his knuckles and tugs until you’re staring straight up at him, guiding your mouth off him with a soft pop.

Pope clicks his tongue, pity painted on like cheap gold leaf.

“Aw, sweetheart. Must've felt like torture, didn’t it?” His thumb smears the shine across your swollen lip, then lifts so you can see the string of spit stretch. “Don't worry, I'll help you learn some real patience... after you watch me finish what you couldn't wait for.”

MARIA NOTE happy tuesday besties! wishing u love in your heart and freakiness in your spirit! stay cunty! stay hot!

YOU CAN FIND MY POPE CODY MASTERLIST HERE ⭑.ᐟ

[whatif-ialreadydid]

true blue juniper - j.a

pairing: jack abbot x buttercup!reader

wc: 1.3k

the pitt-verse masterlist | 2k celebration event (open!)

summary: your favorite regular at the farmer's market never fails to leave you weak in the knees

contains: implied age gap, reader has enough hair to fit into two braids but otherwise no physical description

a/n: new reader alert! i wrote this in a whopping 2 hours in a freckle-induced hallucinatory fervor. i hope you enjoy <3 | divider from @strangergraphics

A little girl and her mother thank you for helping them pick the ripest peaches in the pile, then leave you to your booth.

Around you the North Shore Market flows, spray from where the Ohio River meets the Allegheny making for a cool, refreshing breeze. It’s more than welcome in the June heat, which has yet to beat down on the bustling Saturday morning market. 

Customers flit from vendor to vendor, filling canvas totes with fresh produce, flowers, and other wares boasting attributes like ‘homegrown’ or ‘artisan’. 

For a side hustle, working the booth for your friend’s farm isn’t so bad. The canopy keeps you in the shade, the patrons are friendly, and you’re usually all wrapped up by one in the afternoon, leaving the rest of your Saturday ripe for the taking.

Of course, that typically just means a long, afternoon nap, but that’s beside the point. 

You should be reveling in the start of what is meant to be a serene Saturday, but there’s something holding you back.

It’s a buzzy, humming feeling in your chest. Not quite anxiety, not quite excitement, but it's been there all morning. As you set up the canopy and the folding table, stacked your peaches and tomatoes so the ripest end up on top, and even as you tied the crocheted bandana around your two braids — a necessary accessory to keep flyaway from escaping in the early morning breeze.

Anticipation. And as you swipe your hands over the apron looped around your waist, you glance down the aisle of booths, and spot the very person you’re anticipating. 

He strides toward you with purpose, ignoring the surrounding booths.

A black scrub top and mocha brown cargo pants, accompanied by work boots that have seen better days. He looks worn down, like he always does when you see him first thing every Saturday morning. But the lines on his face crinkle when he spots you, recognition lighting the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Good morning, buttercup,” he says when he sidles up, eyeing the pints of strawberries. It's a simple booth: just a folding table filled to the brim with pints of berries, peaches, tomatoes, and a few jars of honey from a local beekeeper. “And how are you today?” 

Buttercup. You glance down at the fruit-centric logo on your apron — Buttercup Farms, a locally owned small batch produce farm, owned and operated by your friend just ten miles past city limits. A nickname born out of weeks of shy, sideways glances and small talk, exchanged both ways until it became too late to ask for your name. 

But you know his— well, his last name, at least. Spotted it on his hospital badge the fifth consecutive Saturday he came to see you.

DOCTOR, it said, in bolded white letters on a green background. Then, just barely readable from where his shirt covered it, a surname that you know but you’ve never been brave enough to test on your lips. Abbot. 

You've found your thoughts drifting on more than one occasion, daring yourself to say his name aloud. Wondering how he might react if you said it to him. Wondering how it might taste on your tongue. Dr. Abbot.

“Good morning!” You chirp, taking your post at the end of the table. There’s some familiarity here — you, standing in the same place each week, and him, making a show of selecting the best produce while making conversation. 

You tried to convince yourself he was just being polite, taking pity on the market girl running a booth all by herself every Saturday morning. But after two months of recalled details, week after week, you can’t help but think maybe he might like talking to you just as much as you like talking to him. 

“I’m good today,” you pause, daring yourself to insert a cheeky Dr. Abbot into the conversation, but instead suffer an awkwardly elongated silence. You clear your throat. “How are you?” 

"Oh, you know. Same shit, different day,” he raises his eyes from the strawberries to shoot you a winsome wink. “No blackberries today?” 

You glance at the folding table with a start. Oh, no, no no. He's right. There are no blackberries. 

“Shit!” You exclaim, hand flying to your forehead in a resounding smack. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

“Woah,” Abbot chortles, extending his hand, but not quite touching you. As if he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “What’s the matter, buttercup?” 

“I left the blackberries in the truck,” you drag both hands over your face. “I left the blackberries in the truck!” 

“It’s okay,” his voice comes out firm and assured, as though he’s already hatching a plan. “Where’s the truck?” 

“It’s—“ your hand flies in the general direction of the parking lot, all the way across the park. It’s probably half a mile, if you had to guess, it doesn't matter. You’re not allowed to drive in the grass. "Oh, my god."

Panic sets in as you rattle off context to the poor man trapped in a predicament he has nothing to do with. “One of the volunteers helps me unload the canopy and the table and all the produce each week, a-and it usually takes two trips, and I must have forgotten the blackberries!" Your voice comes out a puppy whine, reduced to uselessness when you're otherwise perfectly capable of handling things on your own. "Shit, and they’re so ripe, too.” 

But it’s the fact that this isn’t your business that will suffer because you forgot the blackberries that sends you down a spiral. It’s your friend’s. Her profits for the week won’t be nearly as high as expected, all because of your thoughtlessness.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse so much before,” Abbot attempts a joke, to which you crumple even more. An exasperated whine is your only response.

“Hey,” his voice evens out again, and before you can register what’s happening, his beefy, calloused hand cups your bare shoulder. You glance up, meeting eyes the color of a carnival kaleidoscope. You can't decide what the dominating shade is: blue or green or gold. “It’s okay. Will you take a deep breath with me?” 

With his free hand, he mimes a long breath in, then a sustained, steadying breath out. You follow his lead.

“There you go,” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice shooting electric shocks up and down your veins. “That’s a good girl.” 

Your jaw goes slack. It takes everything in you not to shudder.

“How many pints of blackberries are in the truck, angel?” He asks, providing a quick rub to your shoulder before reverting back to his own space. Your skin feels especially cold now that his hand is gone.

“Twenty,” you gulp, guilt clouding over any lust for the older man before you. 

Abbot reaches into his back pocket, tugging out a weathered, camo print wallet. “And how much are they going for this week?” 

“Five dollars.” 

He flips open the wallet, then tugs out two crisp fifties, and a twenty. He extends his hand to you, the bills poised between two fingers.  

“What are you doing?” Your brow furrows, eyes dipping to the money, then back to him. The sun peeks out from the bottom of the canopy, striking him over the bridge of his nose. He's all polka dotted with freckles.

“I’m buying your blackberries,” Abbot husks. You swear the sentence sounds a million times more provocative than it should. Your knees give a little wobble. “You can give ‘em to a food bank or something.” 

“What?” You blink. 

“My arm’s gettin' tired,” he shakes the money at you, though not impatiently. “Take it, buttercup. Please.” 

“What’s the extra twenty for?” You swallow, plucking the cash from him. You move with reluctance, your bones heavy with guilt.

“Whatever a pint of these strawberries is worth, and the rest you can use for a coffee or something,” he shrugs. 

“That’s fifteen extra dollars,” you mutter, dumbfounded.

“Aren't you smart? Even when you’re stunned,” he smirks. It takes you longer than you’d care to admit to realize that he’s teasing. “Coffee and a pastry then. On me, okay?” 

You nod, then shove the cash into the pocket of your apron. On him.

God, your thoughts are veering to a place that would rip the family friendly status away from this farmer's market.

Abbot lifts a pint of strawberries without looking at them, then cradles it close to his chest. “I’ll see you next week, alright, angel?” 

A hum vibrates through you. “Okay…” you pause, nibbling your bottom lip. The breeze picks up, ruffling his delicious, greying curls. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” 

The look of bewilderment on his face is enough to make you wish you forgot the blackberries every week. 

He throws his head back in a sharp, heart-shattering laugh. He says goodbye a second time, then stalks off, only stopping to throw you one last grin over his shoulder.

[mariasont]

“Hey,” his voice evens out again, and before you can register what’s happening, his beefy, calloused hand cups your bare shoulder. You glance up, meeting eyes the color of a carnival kaleidoscope. You can't decide what the dominating shade is: blue or green or gold. “It’s okay. Will you take a deep breath with me?” 

holy trifecta of hot dialogue, beautiful prose, and a thirsting reader!!! thank u jamie 4 ur service this was delish

[pinkandblueblurbs]

18+ mdni thinking about jack abott and his sweet girl who gets distracted during sex n can have trouble finishing…

he can see when you’re into it— meeting his eye, smiling, responding to his words with sweet whimpers n hushed whispers as he fucks you… but then he can see when your head goes elsewhere. your eyes glaze over a bit and drift to the ceiling, you stop grinding down to meet his thrusts.

His hand comes up to cup your face in an attempt to draw you back, and you turn your face to kiss his palm, but he knows it’s just an absentminded reflex.

“Hey.” Jack urges, voice a low rasp. “Hey, doll. Look at me.” He smiles gently when you finally meet his eye with a small one of your own. “Where’d you go, pretty girl? Gotta stay with me.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, all breathy as Jack’s hips snap forward n his cock kisses your cervix. “Just thinking.”

Jack shakes his head, light and easy and hardly a reprimand. “You’ve got all the time in the world to think, sweetheart. I need you to focus right now, can you do that for me?”

You nod.

“Feel this?” He rolls his hips again, slow and deep. “Feel how full you are?”

You nod again, and this time your brows furrow n your face scrunches in pleasure as you fully find your way back to the present.

“Yeah. Attagirl. Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” You breathe out. You let your back arch, rutting down against Jack to chase that build-up you need. He nods encouragingly.

“There you go. You’re doing such a good job.” Jack’s hand moves low between your bodies. He finds your clit, rolls it between the pads of his index and middle fingers.

He smirks when you moan and tremble. He knows you’re getting there, but also knows that you could just as easily lose it again. So he keeps talking.

“Such a good girl for me. Look how fuckin’ perfect you are.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, then your neck, then he connects his lips to yours and lets his tongue sweep inside, swallowing your next moan. He’s panting softly when he pulls away.

His fingers speed up just a bit when he can tell that you need more. He nods, urging you along when your hands come up to grip his shoulders and you look at him with desperate eyes. He keeps the encouragement flowing freely. “Good girl. Come on, you can do it. I feel you getting close, babydoll. You’re doing so well. I wanna feel you to cum on my cock.”

Your brows knit in concentration and you writhe on the bed, trying to move the right way and find the right angles to finally send yourself over the edge.

When it works you tighten up everywhere— your fingers dig into the freckled flesh of Jack’s shoulders, your body goes rigid, your mouth slackens in a long, airy moan. Jack groans lowly at the feeling of your walls clenching up around him, pulling his cock in deep.

“Goood girl.” Jack grits out. His hips stutter as he diligently fucks you through your orgasm. “You’re so good, honey. Fuck.” His forehead falls against yours, sweaty gray curls pressing against your hairline and lust-blown eyes mere inches from your own. “That never gets fucking old.”

[lostalioth]

(smut) dbf! jack abbot- this is lowkey a wild ask so it's completely up to you if you want to write it or not but... like soft smut where reader is scared of pelvic floor exams. asked jack about pain with penetration and he said he'd examine them if they wanted that. time passes before reader finally agrees, jack coming over to their apartment- let's just say it ends with stubble burns against their thighs.

✶ match box 06 — 3k follower event.ᐟ

✦. ─ cw: dbf!jack abbot x younger fem!reader, 3.2k wc, fluff, smut, medical inaccuracies, nicknames [kid, sweetheart, honey], inappropriate physical pelvic exam turned oral, prob missed some.

— I LOVE WILD ASKS please never ever be afraid to send ‘em i really loved this one. 

As you had gotten older, you allowed your yearly pelvic exam to come and go. Sometimes you would get the courage to make the appointment and tell yourself this year you’re gonna do it. You’re gonna face the music, anxiety be damned and go get checked out. Then as it inched closer and closer to the date you chicken out and cancel.

 

You were beyond scared of getting one. You knew exactly why too, losing your virginity had not been nearly as fun as all your friends made it out to be, sex hurt. When you told your girlfriends this they looked at you a little funny and asked maybe he didn’t do it right, it wasn’t exactly supposed to be painful, not the whole time anyway. So you did a few experiments of your own, cause maybe they were right and the guy just i don’t know did it wrong?

You bought a toy, a not too big but average to smaller sized dildo, online as going in store was too much to handle. And one night when your college roommates were out, you tried using it but it hurt just the same, you even tired just using your fingers but that wasn’t much better. From then on for years, you avoided sex as much as you could. All subsequent boyfriends who managed to persuade you into it just told you it'd be “Much better with me trust me baby” and it never really was. 

When you bring it up to one of your friends again, they point something out that you had been trying to avoid thinking of. “Hey, isn't one of your dads friends a doctor or something? Why haven’t you asked him about it?” oh that guy. Yeah the one you are kinda a little too attracted to who’s not just your fathers friend but his best friend, who makes your brain short circuit each time he calls you sweetheart? That one. Yeah you’d rather not talk about how sex is painful to the older man, who is the closest person to your father. You just might have to though if you ever wanna actually enjoy sex in your life. 

When you see Jack a few days later for your dads weekly dinner night he hosts, you manage to pull him away telling your dad it’s private girly medical related questions, he shuts up shortly after that. 

“What's up kid you okay?” Jack asks, concern evident in his voice. You rarely asked him anything medical and he was a bit worried you’re about to ask him how long is it normal for a woman to go without getting her period. “How…” you squeak out. Oh god here it comes. Before you start again you clear your throat. “How um common is, you know pain during sex…” the word sex leaves your lips in a meek and quiet tone, Jack tries his best not to chuckle as to not embarrass you further, but he’s happy it's not the question he was expecting. “Pretty common kid, at least the first time” he explains calmly, his casual demeanor easing your anxiety only a bit. “And how about every time?”

The idea of you having sex multiple times shouldn't be making Jack's chest ache the way it is, you’re a young beautiful girl after all, he tries telling himself it’s only cause it’s apparently painful and he cares for you. This time he straightens up a bit, “if the guys aren’t being rough, it's less common, it shouldn’t be every time” he watches as your eyes go a little wide and shake your head no in response to the first half of his statement. “Have you had an exam lately kid?” This is a purely professional question so it shouldn’t feel as dirty as it does coming out of his mouth.

“I um normally cancel them” Jack can only sigh out in a bit of frustration. “You should really get them regularly sweetheart” he misses the way your thighs lightly squeeze together at the use of the nickname. “I’m scared s’ all, anything going um inside hurts and doctors offices only make me more nervous” you explain. He smooths a hand over your hair, sympathy lacing his voice. “it’s okay i don’t mean to make you feel bad about it kid i swear” “How-” he stops himself, his eyebrows furrowing as if he was debating something in his head. “What?” you prompt, trying your hardest to not buckle at the knees from the way he’s practically petting your head. Physical touch is a quite rare thing between you too minus a few hugs on birthdays or pats on the back. “How about I give you one?’ oh sweet jesus that sounds wrong. He clears his throat, his face a little flush now at his own words but he doesn’t backtrack. “I’m a doctor, that you know, so it’s less scary” “No appointment needed if that makes you more comfortable” as you are processing his words he continues on. “I could do it at your apartment, where ever you feel most comfortable”

  

Your throat shouldn't feel as dry as it does, but the idea of Jack examining your pussy makes your head spin and slick settle between your legs a little. Maybe you should just see a regular random doctor, not one you have a wildly inappropriate crush on. You leave him with a small “Thank you, I'll think about it” and run off with the excuse of using the bathroom. You leave before Jack that night without much of any goodbye to him, he tries not to dwell on it, he really hopes he didn’t upset you.

You however dwell for days on Jack’s suggestion. Without the underlying nerves you feel because of being attracted to him, it is a good idea. You’d feel far more comfortable, maybe too comfortable being examined by him rather than a doctor you hardly know. You don’t bring it up to anyone as you’re too embarrassed but you think about it for days. When you get a reminder for the last gyno appointment you were brave enough to make, you cancel it without another thought and text Jack. 

All he does is thumbs up your message but for the next few hours you are anxious as all hell while waiting for him to knock on your door. You had given yourself the time both to calm down but also clean your apartment. Even though he was literally coming over to give you a vaginal exam and wouldn't care what your place looked like, you wanted it to be neat. Even if this was going to be probably the weirdest event in your life to date.

You are startled out of your train of thought by a knock at the door, you glance at the clock — 3pm exactly. Damn older men and their punctuality or was it a doctor thing? Shaking your head you nervously make your way to open the door, greeting Jack with a little awkward wave. He chuckles softly, the sound calming you as you step back from the open door to invite him in. “It’ll be alright, i’ll be gentle kid” his voice runs over your skin leaving behind goosebumps. You don’t know what you’re more nervous over, the expected pain of the actual examination or, the idea of Jack's hands on you, his fingers in you. 

Without wasting much time Jack settled into a semi professional but still comforting balance as he puts down the small bag of stuff he needs on the floor of your living room. You appreciate his effectiveness, as he tells you to sit on your couch facing him. You listen and watch as he sits on top of your coffee table. “This will be a little awkward because we are here and not a hospital, so I don't have a few things sweetheart” he starts to explain. “The no gown won’t be too hard, you have a skirt on so if you could just take off your underwear i can have access without-” he paused a moment as if thinking “leaving you too indisposed” the way he snaps a pair of blue latex gloves on shouldn’t be making as wet as it is, fuck. 

“Can-” you stutter out, your face hot but he seems to pick up on what you’re asking, nodding softly he turns his head away to give you some semblance of privacy. Bunching up your skirt you hook your fingers into the waistband of your slightly soaked panties and pull them down your legs. You kick them under the coffee table so they’re out of sight and tap Jack on the shoulder, he shakes his head softly at your shyness before turning to face you again. 

“Put your feet up either side of me on the table, won’t be the same as stirrups but close enough” tugging at the end of your skirt to cover yourself a bit more you do as he says and place your feet up flat on the low table. He adjusts them slightly, grabbing your foot one at a time and slides them a bit so they are more half off not so far back. “Scooh more to the edge of the couch kid, lean back ‘n tilt your hips up a lil more f’ me” the way you listen so well to Jack has him smiling softly at you and muttering out a small “Atta girl” 

He pressed lightly around on your abdomen through your shirt and skirt, eyes glued to your face gauging your reactions. “No pain or tenderness when I do this, right?” when you shake your head no he stops. “My hand is gonna go under your skirt for a second okay?” your face grows hotter and you nod, your voice has yet to find you again but so far nods are an effective enough communication with him. He reaches down between your legs but only presses around again, this time he is much closer to your pussy but he remains on the outside, pressing over the mound of it and on your pubic bone. “No pain?” Once again your head shakes side to side. His hand pulls away, your eyes follow his movements as he reaches down to grab a small bottle out of his bag.

He holds it but doesn’t do anything with it yet, his eyes find yours again “This next part i have to put my fingers inside, that okay sweetheart?” you gulp softly, nodding yes slowly as your nervousness grows again. “That’s the part that us- usually hurts” you explain in a small voice. It’s Jack's turn to nod now, "Penetration?” you let out a ‘mhm’ in agreeance as he squeezes the clear substance onto his pointer finger. “This is lube to make it easier and I’ll go slow, only one finger” his other hand reaches around your leg to touch the back of your calf, rubbing soothing lines up and down the muscle. “If you’re relaxed it might not be as painful” he explains, waiting on your go ahead before reaching down under your skirt once again. 

Pushing his lube coated index finger through your folds the tip of it finds your entrance, he gauges your face, when you nod again he proceeds by pushing it inside. 

Your sharp intake of air makes him stop once only the first bend of his finger is inside. “Come on, relax f’ me sweetheart” his low honey dipped voice makes your body go a bit lax, he inches his finger forward again and when you show no sign of pain he goes all the way til it's completely inside. “How’s that kid?” he sounds as breathless as you feel but you try to ignore it. “A little pain” you squeak out. “Give it a second, relax and it might go away”

“Don’t know how to relax more” you whine out, the sound going straight down Jack’s spine and up again, he shivers a bit and wills it away before it travels further south. “I’m gonna try something…do you trust me sweetheart?” you’re already nodding again in response before he fully finishes his question. 

Bringing his thumb up he parts the lips of your pussy til it finds your clit. You gasp out and slightly scare him, “That hurt?” “No no m’ sorry surprised me is all” you mumble out, biting your lip to hold in any more noises from getting free, like an accidental moan. Jesus christ why did you think this was a good idea again? If you had to bet you’d say you were soaking his gloved finger, even with the sting you felt from it inside, it felt good at the same time. You never even reached this type of feeling with your own fingers.

His thumb on your clit presses down lightly and starts rubbing in circles, you let out a small little sigh that makes Jack smirk a bit. “There you go honey, come on” “Un-tense your shoulders” your body listens almost instantaneously “Good girl” you can’t help the whimper that comes out at his words, he doesn’t say anything in response. “Feel any better?” he prompts, his eyes remain on your face, no matter how bad he wants to peek under your skirt to watch the way your little bud twitches under his touch. “Mhmm a bit” you answer softly, trying to push away the odd feeling bubbling up in the pit of your stomach. 

“Can I put in another finger, we’ll see how that feels?” he whispers, he definitely has enough information that he thinks he knows what’s wrong already but you don’t need to know that. “Yeah” you pant out, shaking your head a little too eagerly, if Jack notices he doesn’t say a word. With ease his middle slips in alongside his pointer, his thumb still circling your clit. “No pain honey?” the motion of your head once again answers his question. “Wanna try something else…can I move my fingers sweetheart?” 

“Please” you plead, head to fuzzy to care how desperate you sound. Slowly pulling his fingers back he watches your face as he pistons them back in, repeating the motion. “That feel good?” “Mhm no pain, fuck! feels really good” you whine out, your hips now bucking up against his fingers. He speeds up, still waiting to see if it hurts or if you stop him. “Jack” you moan out, his cock throbs in response. 

“Yeah kid?” “Need- Mm” you cut yourself off, pinching your lips in a line and tilting your head back. “Nuh-uh come on honey, tell me what ya’ need” he prompts, curling his fingers up to hit a different spot inside you that has you letting out a pornographic noise you didn’t know you were even capable of. “Need-” you huff out, before he stops you “Look at me when you say it, come on kid” “Use your words”

Lifting your head you look into Jack’s eyes, his breath hitches at the sight of your glazed over lust filled eyes, batting your eyelashes you start again. “Need more” you sob. His stomach just about hurts now from how hard he is in his jeans that feels all too tight. “Yeah? What more honey? Another finger or something else?” he asks, consciences be damned he’s not gonna leave you hanging even if your old man would fucking kill him if he ever found out about this. “Somethin’ else please” you whine, not even knowing what more you want. Jack however seems to when he takes his free hand off your calf and lifts your skirt, his head ducking under it. His fingers don’t stop positioning in and out of your slick cunt even if you squeal a bit at his motion. The noise morphes into a moan, your body melting into the couch when his warm tongue pokes out and makes contact with your pussy, licking at your pussy. “Still feel good kid?” he mumbles out, before his thumb leaves your bundle of nerves only to be replaced by his mouth as he sucks at it. 

“Yeah- Yeah feels s’ good” you breathe out, letting go of your skirt, he grabs at your one leg, lifting your foot off the table placing it over his shoulder, prompting you to do the same with your other before his fingers slip out of your pussy. 

You whine at the loss, “Jackkk” making him chuckle softly against you. “Hang on sweetheart” he coos as he uses both hands to grab at your hips, pulling you up and half way off the couch to get you closer to his mouth, lapping at you hard splitting your folds with his pointed tongue before sucking at your clit. “Ah- Ahhh ooh fuck” you wail out, your hands frantic to steady yourself. One finding purchase on his shoulder before sliding down his back under his shirt where your nails scratch at his skin. The other holding on for dear life to the edge of your couch cushion, your legs tighten a bit around his head. 

“Holy shit” you whisper out in breathless disbelief, the odd feeling from before coming back to quickly build in the pit of your stomach. Jack's large hands cupping your waist squeeze at your flesh, as he shakes his head side to side a little, flattening his tongue against you. Your thighs burn a bit at the friction of his stubbly face rubbing against them. He moves back to harshly sucking at your clit, your pussy and his mouth coated in his spit as he practically slurps at your juices.

“Huu- shit” “Wait wait! Jack- mhm feels like m’ gonna pee” you try pushing at his head to stop him, even if you desperately didn’t want his mouth off you. That feeling in your stomach was teetering on the edge. “Ya’ don’t have to pee sweetheart, that’s a orgasm you feel” he grumbles out, the explain making your hand ease up from pushing instead it rakes through his curls “S’ okay cum for me kid” 

“Promse s’ okay” you whine out, staring down at his head between your legs. “Yeah, you can do it” “cum f’ me it’s okay honey” "Promise it’ll feel good, no pain” his reassure is all you need to let your high wash over you, legs shaking on his shoulders, “There we go, fuck” he moans out. Your back arching as you cum on his tongue with a loud wanton moan filling your apartment coupled with his praise, “Atta girl, sweetheart” “Such a good girl f’ me” he laps at your cum. “Taste so fucking sweet, like i knew ya’ would” he mumbles out, that one you think was meant more for himself.  

Managing to reluctantly pull his head from between your soft thighs, Jack used his hold on your hips to place your body back onto the couch. You stare at him wide eyed when you notice his face all wet, covered in you. “Got somethin’ on my face kid?” you nod meekly. He chuckles and pinches at the collar of his shirt to bring it up and wipe at his mouth. “No pain after?” he asks. “No, never done that before” you whisper out, flicking your head down to where your skirt now covered your puffy but satisfied pussy. 

“Just needed an older man huh sweetheart, help ya’ relax a little and the pain melts away” he states, reaching down to rub at your knee. “Fucking little boys” he tsks but your eyes are glued to the large bulge in between his thick thighs. You’d have to be extra relaxed to take that monster on…

— would the position jack eats you out in, be at all comfortable for that old man's back? fuck no and lowkey it’s a hard to physically imagine it but jack’s strong s’ fineeeee i got a little too lost in sauce when writing clearly oops…this was also only like half proofread.

[romantic-insomniac]

this was actually.... i have no words

[acecroft]

SHAWN HATOSY as Titus Danforth in Ready or Not 2: Here I Come (2026)

[pearlessance]

She's My Collar

pairing: ormund hightower x fem!targaryen!reader

summary: Ormund Hightower has been the guiding hand pushing you forward all your life. Teaching, shaping, and disciplining whenever necessary. His affections are unconventional and at times even violent, yet you cannot help but want his teeth in your heart anyway.

warnings: +18 mdni, explicit content, age gap, size difference, otk spanking, toxic relationship dynamics, reader is rhaenyra's daughter but has lived in oldtown for most of her life, power imbalances, could be said that reader is being groomed but she (like the writer) very much wants this evil man all on her own, light angst, mentions of canon typical violence, punishment, kneeling, begging, praise, sexual tension, clit stimulation, pillow humping, talk of maidenhood/virtue, bd/sm dynamics, ormund licks your tears, dry humping, oral sex f!receiving, possessive behavior, cruel devotion, discussion of marriage, jealousy, repressed feelings, body worship, virginity loss, dirty talk, face grabbing, scenting? girl idk, rough sex, multiple orgasm, creampie, collaring, lightly edited, images are purely for aesthetic purposes, reader has no physical description!

wc: 9.2k

note: if a single person asks for a part two………i may be….persuaded……..

[masterlist][AO3]

He's never liked you, that much was obvious in his stare alone.

You'd been sent to Oldtown with your cousin Daeron at your grandfather's request. Viserys had wanted it to be a sign of a united family. It had been done in a time of peace with pure intentions.

How would they have known of Ormund's hatred for Valyrian blood? How would they have known that a single look upon your face would have the man's jaw clenching and his hands curling?

For what it's worth, you truly believe he tried in the beginning. Tried not to allow his prejudice to cloud his judgment of you. But it was always there, like a curse held at the back of his throat. Too large to swallow, too cruel to speak.

He loved your cousin and treated Daeron as if he were born of his own blood. But though you were often found in the same trouble, Ormund's display of discipline was always a bit different when directed at you.

Not only a raised voice but a physical punishment, too.

A rough hand on the back of your neck. A lashing across your knuckles. Fingers curled tight around your jaw.

You'd let yourself believe that things would change when you became a woman grown. It is one thing to discipline a girl with the intent of guidance, but it is another thing to strike a lady.

The solution was to discipline in private.

Once, you'd gotten caught stealing wine from the kitchens in the dead of night. And when Ormund had been told of your transgression, he'd come to your bedchamber alone. Sat on the side of your mattress, fingers gentle as they stroked your cheek.

He shook you awake, and pretended at patience while you rubbed away the drunken stupor from your eyes.

And then he'd explain, "I am hard on you because I care. Because I see the potential beneath all your corruption. I understand it is not your fault you have such atrocity in your blood. I am only teaching you to overcome it. And you have much yet to learn, sweetling."

This is the first time Ormund takes you over his knee.

His palm lands sharp and hard across your bottom, five good times for each and every cup you'd stolen. He makes you count, and does not comment on the tears as they brim at the corners of your eyes.

The first time is the worst, because you hadn't expect it.

But by the tenth time it stops being a surprise and starts to become an expectation.

The routine is always the same. The sun will set, and he will slink into your chambers. Sometimes he doesn't even speak. He will simply stare down at you where you lay, head tilted, eyes dark, and you'll whisper apologies in the flickering candlelight.

He is meaner, you come to notice, when he is encumbered by duty. His strikes are harder and there are more of them. Sometimes he will spend hours in a day listening to petitions or dispersing soldiers or politicking with lords who come to him with future propositions.

On these nights, Ormund will groan low in his throat when you twist in his grasp, your legs flailing as you run from the impact of his tingling palm. But he will always wait for you to compose yourself, and then he'll lift his own leg over yours to bracket you in place, all before striking you again.

It is only after several months of this routine of discipline that you begin to wonder if it is less for your sake and more for his.

On one particular night, you're on strike eight out of ten, the number gritted through your teeth as you speak it aloud. Your breath comes fast and labored in your chest, lungs burning as you greedily drink up oxygen. Your muscles tire of pulling tight in anticipation only to melt in relief as the pain disperses across your skin.

It is later than usual, and you'd spent the day on horseback, and you're so exhausted that you fold your hands over one another and lay your head atop them. Face turned, you steal a glance up at Ormund to find his lips parted and his shoulders relaxed.

Posture far different than it had been when he'd closed your chamber door behind him.

You force your eyes to stay open as he hits you again, observing the look on his face.

Troublesome and argumentative woman you are, you're smart enough to recognize solace when you see it.

"Nine," you say, though it is more of a whisper than a fully spoken word.

Ormund notices.

His eyes find yours, gaze heavy and intense, as if he were seeing something inside of you that he could not put a name to if he tried.

This time, when his palm comes down against your cheek, it is hard enough that the sound echoes against the stone walls.

Your eyes squeeze shut and your ears ring and you can hear and feel and sense nothing but the heat of him beneath you and the pain he elicits. Breathing does not come easily. Each inhale is short and labored and choking.

"Count," Ormund says, the word low and demanding, the way he so often is.

You cannot catch your breath.

"Count, girl," he repeats. "Or we will begin again."

A spark of fear ignites in your chest, because you could not endure another ten lashes. Not like this, not knowing this is not even about the cruel words you'd spoken to your septa but rather for his own selfish respite.

"Ten!" The word is rushed. "Ten, ten, ten—!"

His hand smooths over your spine, as if to heal the ache he himself inflicted. "Very good," he whispers, shushing your cries. "You did so well."

The following morning, your flesh stings and bruises have already begun to form, but all you can think of is the way his praise had made your heart sing inside the cage of your ribs. The words echo in your mind, a mantra, a song, a poem.

The feeling is only because it is so rare to hear such things from his mouth, you tell yourself. It is not for desire. You could not desire a man like Ormund, could you? Who'd shaped you into the woman you are. Who saw such corruption in you and had spent the better half of your life trying to root it out.

But no matter how hard you try, you cannot shake the look you'd seen on his face. Like he'd enjoyed it.

And because you are stubborn and far too curious, you conduct an experiment to disprove your theory.

For weeks, you try very hard to be good. You go to your lessons without complaint, you listen to your septas, you pray to the seven and deny yourself excess in all forms.

You speak kindly. You cling tight to poise. You cast your eyes away when a man speaks to you and bow graciously instead of arguing or challenging a direction, no matter how stupid it may be.

You are perfect.

It is the longest you have gone without punishment in all your life.

But the stretch of time only lasts so long. And you wake late one night to find Ormund standing at your bedside, hovering.

Staring, with that same look he's leveled at you for years—not disgust, but something more complex. Something hotter. Searing.

You lift yourself up on an elbow and ask timidly, "Did I do something wrong?"

His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. "No."

Somehow, his answer is worse than if he had found a reason to punish you. Because this meant you were right, that his discipline was not only for you. It meant there was something else beneath it all.

It meant that this perverse craving in your chest that you have tried to fight off was not only yours. It was shared.

"If I've not done anything wrong, then what are you—?"

"Get up." He lifts his hand, motioning for you to remove yourself from the comfort of you linens, finally breaking the intensity of his stare.

And because you have been trained to heed his every beck and call, you do exactly as he says.

He sits at the edge of your bed, the way he always does. And you stand in front of him awaiting instruction, the way you always do.

Your heart feels suddenly too large, pushing against your bones.

He is supposed to say, kneel. He is supposed to say, over my knee. He is supposed to say, do you know what you've done?

Ormund does not.

Instead, he says, "Take off your gown."

You blink in surprise, unsure if perhaps this is a test. Maybe he's temping you, goading for a reason. Trying to get you to reveal yourself, to sacrifice your modesty so that he might prove you are just as wicked as he believes you to be.

"What?"

"Your gown," he says again, voice firmer now. "Take it off. Do not make me repeat myself."

You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel suddenly frozen. Afraid to move, afraid to say one thing when he truly means for you to do another, and—

Ormund stands suddenly and his hands are on you. Big and rough and mean, tearing the lace fabric over your chest so hard it leaves indents against your shoulder blades. Your nightclothes are thin and give so easily beneath his violence.

You do not stop him. You don't even try.

You don't want to.

Before you can fully process what's happening, you're standing completely bare before him, white fabric pooled at your feet. Your nipples harden beneath the night's cool air and your heart hammers in your ribcage.

He is not shameful in his assessment of you. His eyes are greedy and roaming, leaving no part of you untouched, starting at the curve of your throat and the the swell of your breasts, and eventually lower down to your navel and the space between your legs.

Ormund stares, and his lips part on a hollow sigh. His hand comes up to cup his jaw, squeezing hard, trying to rub the tension away.

You want so badly to hear the thoughts in his mind but know better than to ask.

Does he think you're beautiful? Does he like the shape of your body? Does he enjoy the softness of your skin, or the scent of honeysuckle oils at your pulse point? Are you womanly enough for him?

Does he want you? Does he think of you, the way you have him? Do you appear in his dreams, too?

He clears his throat, the sound masculine and powerful, startling you out of your reverie. And then he sits back down on the edge of your bed and says, "Kneel."

You do.

"Over my knee."

This instruction, too, you follow.

Warmth blooms low in your belly at the texture of his leather breeches against the top of your bare thighs.

He doesn't ask if you're aware of your transgressions, because there are none.

Ormund sets one hand on the small of your back, and the other comes to rest against the globe of your arse. His hands are calloused. Rough. Hardened from the weight of a sword.

And above all, they are…delightful. Delicious. "How—" you swallow thickly. "How many?"

His hands are gentle as they stroke your skin. Feather light and mistakenly devoted. Ormund leans forward, lips a breadth away from your ear as he answers, "As many as I'd like."

And then his hand comes down sharply, the sound of skin against skin a piercing echo.

A whine leaves you, and it takes a moment to gather yourself enough to choke out, "One."

He hits you again, and again, and again—and each time those delicate touches in between last just a bit longer. As if he is able to find peace in your punishment, granting him the gift of softness.

Everything feels hot. Your skin, your hands, the place between your legs. It throbs and aches and grows stickier by the minute.

You think he must see it. He must. Each strike has your spine arching, exposing you even more, the number more of a moan on your lips than a cry.

It is around number six that you begin to feel him harden beneath you.

The swell of his cock presses against your belly, right beside your navel. Growing larger with each loud echo.

He does not mention it, and neither do you. But your head feels fuzzy with the truth of it.

Ormund settles around strike fifteen. You are certain it will be painful to sit tomorrow, but you can't find yourself in it to care when he traces delicate patterns over your warmed flesh with the tips of his cool fingers.

The praise comes after some time, when your muscles relax in his hold, when you stop expecting one more strike to befall you.

"You always look so beautiful in the aftermath," he mutters. and you feel yourself smiling, despite your better impulses. "Pretty, obedient little girl."

His hands knead at your sore skin, squeezing the pillowy flesh and spreading you open. You look up to see him staring at your most intimate place, likely seeing the wetness that's gathered.

He then does one more thing you don't expect.

With only the pad of his thumb, Ormund slides his finger through your slit.

The touch is firm and so unforeseen that it sends a jolt straight to your heart. You let out a true cry this time, but not of pain.

Of pleasure.

You're so sensitive that your muscles clench at the contact, so lost in the feeling that you hardly hear the low groan that rumbles through his chest.

And then he's pushing you off of his lap onto your bed, and standing to his feet. He does not even spare you a parting glance over his shoulder as he says, "Enough for today."

You do not see him again for some time.

In fact, Ormund leaves Oldtown entirely the next morning and he takes Daeron with him. It is only from your septa's that you learn they've set on a quest to deliver goods to the Citadel.

Usually Ormund will mention as much to you over supper with your cousin, and you cannot help thinking the reason for his sudden and unannounced absence is due to what transpired between you the night before.

And to yourself only, you admit his absence has made you yearn for him.

You cannot quiet the thoughts in your mind each night, the longing for him, the hope that he will simply appear at your bedside with a heavy hand and that familiar stare.

But he never does, and left to your own devices with thoughts of his touch invading your every thought, it is not long before you try desperately to abate the need yourself.

In fact, you form a new routine of your own.

It starts as desperate rocking against nothing, but you learn rather quickly just how much better it feels with your linens wedged tight between your legs as you do.

The bulk of the fabric presses deliciously against your center, and each roll of your hips has your vision turning black around the edges. You can think only of Ormund—your mentor, your disciplinarian, the hand that shaped you.

You think of the force behind his strikes and of his low groans and of his sweet, sweet praise. You think of the darkness in his eyes and of his strong jaw and the way the muscles in his shoulders flex when he moves.

Even his gait makes your belly squeeze tight in desire—the surety in his steps, his confident posture and the way he towers over you. Always so big and hulking and intimidating.

Sleep only comes to you each night after you reach the peak of bliss. After a fog clouds your mind and your vision goes all starry.

You think if Ormund were to see the things you'd been up to in his absence, you don't believe fifteen strikes would be nearly enough.

He would tell you it is a sin to indulge lustful fantasies in this way. That your pleasure is reserved for your husband, meant to be given at his discretion.

But you've never been a perfect listener nor a rule follower. If there is anything in your life you are certain of, it is that.

You allow yourself to freely walk about the tower in his absence, too. The rookery and the kitchens, plucking fruit or cheese from nearby trays and sending ravens to your cousin Helaena in the Red Keep.

You visit the stables to pet the horses and even make friends with a bastard boy who'd recently come to Oldtown from Casterly Rock.

When Ormund does finally return, you're there to greet him in the great hall with a flicker of delight in your chest.

He looks the same as when he'd left. Strong, masculine, confident. His skin is maybe a bit more sun-kissed than before, and his normally polished leather boots are caked in mud.

Yet still, you cannot help but smile when you see him. You'd worn your most beautiful dress, a gown of emerald velvet and white lace, low cut with a jeweled bodice. He'd complimented you on it once, several moons ago, and it has been your favorite ever since.

When he comes to stand in front of you in greeting, you bow low. "My lord," you say. "I am grateful for your return."

His eyes stay glued to yours when you rise, his pert mouth turned up at the corners. "I am grateful to be back," he says, taking your hand in his and bringing your knuckles to his lips.

Ormund's kiss is chaste, but it feels anything but. The simple touch of his hand has your belly flipping and your face heating.

He does not linger long, though you wish he would. But there is much to tend to in the keep, things that have simply been awaiting his return.

The cooks prepare a feast that night. A massive spread for both Ormund and the knights that traveled with him.

Ormund sits at the head of the table and Daeron sits to his right. You are placed on the other side of your cousin, who spends most of the night recounting tales of the Citadel to you. Of the towering stacks of books and the tomes bigger than his head.

He tells you in a whispered tone just how old the Grand Maester truly looks. "Ancient," he explains. "With tufts of graying hair and eyes that no longer see."

You laugh and giggle together about it, indulging your childish whims that always manifest whenever you are near him.

Daeron tells you, too, about the ambush they'd suffered from raiders who's been lying in wait off the King's Road.

"Uncle Ormund nearly died from a stab wound," he whispers, and it makes your heart give a sudden lurch. "He fought bravely. Slashed the raider clean in two, if you'd believe it."

This makes you mirth fall. You have never considered his loss before this moment. Ormund has always been there, a steady presence in your life.

Just the thought of it—of losing him, it does not sit well in your gut. Though hated by him as you are, you could not imagine...you could not imagine.

Ormund does not speak to you, but you can feel his stare. Heavy and warm on the side of your face. You wonder silently if he'd missed you as you have him.

Had he been thinking of that night, too? Of how it had felt to be bared before him? Of the heat you saw in his gaze?

Had he thought of you with a blade pressed to his belly? Had it truly gotten that close?

Ormund makes a toast to his men near the end of supper. To their valiant efforts that contributed greatly to the trade and to their protection.

Your maidens ready you for bed that night and spend a little longer scrubbing you clean at your request. They dress you in white silk and by the time they leave, the fire in the hearth has dwindled to cinders. The excitement in your chest is a roaring flame, however.

But, Ormund does not come to you.

You toss and turn restlessly, hoping to hear the creak of your chamber door or footsteps on the stone just outside.

Yet, there is nothing. The night is still, as it has been for the last several weeks.

You lie there with a longing in your chest, an ache between your legs, and your head filled with a thousand questions.

The setting sun has long since given way to the moon by the time you leave your bed.

Ormund's chambers are on the other side of the Hightower, but you are more and more certain with every step you take.

Ser Roy of Oldtown stands guard outside his door, the way he does most nights. He bows low when he sees you, eyes cast away from the too thin fabric of your gown. "My lady."

"I wish to speak to him," you say, trying to muster the strength to keep your voice from wavering.

"He did request not to be disturbed lest there was an emergency," the knight tells you.

"I don't care," is your simple response, because it is true. "Please, ser, step aside so that I might—"

Ormund's door opens, the heavy weight of it daunting.

He looks at you and stares. Hard and knowing.

Your breath gives way at the precision attention, all the jumbled thoughts in your mind untangling like a pulled thread before promptly vanishing. There is…something new behind his ire for you. Something you might call intrigue, if you didn't know any better.

Ormund does not take his eyes off of you as he speaks. "Find something to busy yourself, Ser Roy," he says, eyes searching your face now, flickering from your nose to your cheeks and then to your mouth. "And do not come back," he adds to the knight.

Roy nods stiffly and doesn't argue. He, too, knows better.

The clang of his armor disappears down the corridor, and before long it is just you and the man who haunts your insides. Heart and head alike.

He smiles down at you. A true smile. Small, but real, and it weathers your resolve in an instant. Because it's a kindness he does not give freely or often, but he is here now, giving it to you—who you'd thought he'd hated.

But this doesn't feel like hatred to you in the slightest.

It's heavier. Sharper. Sweeter.

In the end, it is you who breaks the spell, pushing past him and into his chambers. You recall all your cousin had said about the journey to the Citadel. How blades had been drawn and blood had been spilled and the thought of it makes your eyes sting.

Ormund closes the chamber door behind you, but you face away from him. Staring into the crackling flames in the hearth, trying and failing to fight the tears that brim in your eyes. "Daeron told me there was an…altercation on the King's Road," you say. "He speaks tales of blood and death. Is this true?"

His heavy footfalls sound in your ears. Ormund nears you, yet you still do not turn to look at him. "It is," he answers simply. "These are dark times, as you well know. Darker yet to come."

The idea of it—of war, of famine, of the rot and loss that he speaks of, it makes you terrified. You've seen men die before, in jousts or tourneys, even on the way here to Oldtown. But thinking of Ormund in the middle of it all?

Finally, you turn to face him. He is closer than you'd expected. Only a single step away, focus narrowing as he sees the tears in your eyes. "You could have died."

"But I did not." His head tilts curiously. "Where do you place your ire?"

"In you!" You should not yell. You know this, and yet the venom in your mouth refuses to be washed out. "It is from someone else that I'd had to learn you'd been attacked on the way to the Citadel. From another I'd learned you'd taken a wound that very nearly could have put you in the grave. And even those details I'd had to overhear from one of your men when it should have come from you!"

He watches it unfold; your rage surfacing, all masks of poise absent. He does not stop you or speak a warning into existence, he only watches with curiosity on his face and something far more intense alongside it.

"I have longed for your return for weeks! You leave without a word and take my cousin with you, leaving me to sit all alone and wonder if perhaps I'd done something wrong or worse—disappointed you!" Your tears fall freely down your cheeks now, but you are far past the point of sparing yourself any embarrassment.

Ormund raises his hand to your face, cradling your head in his palm. His thumb strokes gently across your cheek, swiping your tears away. "Is it for me that you weep, sweetling?"

Yes, you want to say. Yes, of course it is. He is everything to you and has always been. "Do you have any idea how I would have mourned you?"

His eyes soften, and it soothes something inside of you to see it. Ormund leans forward slowly, carefully so as not to frighten you.

And you stand there, frozen in the gentle hold of his hands, as he licks the tears from your cheeks. His tongue is warm and soothing against your ruddy skin, and it feel so intimate that it makes you shiver.

He then kisses your eyelids. The left first, followed by the right. "I cannot promise to tell you of each of my wounds," he says, voice softer than it's ever been before. "But I can promise to warn you before I leave the tower again. I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me after all I've done, in truth."

"Glad?" The thought does not register in your mind. "I could never be glad of your absence. I confess, I…I hate it."

"Is that right?" Ormund takes a step back, and you see him inhale a shaking breath as he does. "More than you hate me?"

You wish you could deny the words, but you cannot. You've hated him all your life—the man who'd always looked at you as if your very blood was wrong, who'd never hesitated to raise a hand to you, who'd been cruel and rigid. The man who denied you the softness you've always craved unless you'd earned it.

You do hate him.

But yes, you hate his absence more.

"There is another matter," he says, not giving you time to answer his question.

Perhaps because he did not care to hear the answer, or perhaps because he could not bear it.

"I am told you'd been quite disruptive while I was away," Ormund says. "That you'd stolen and spoken with a sharp tongue. All things I could forgive, considering the worst of your misdeeds."

Your brows furrow. "And what was the worst?"

"I have told you a hundred times to stay away from the stables," he explains. "So, imagine how unexpected it was to hear that you'd been spending far too much time with a boy who works in the very same stables I've warned you against."

Your stomach twists at the sharp tone of his voice. A stark contrast to the way he'd spoken to you only moments ago. "He does magic tricks," you say. "We were not being inappropriate."

"Magic," he spits. "Is that what you'd sell your virtue for? Your maidenhood? Worth nothing but a few tricks?"

"What? No! I—!"

"It does not matter if you truly did it," Ormund interrupts. "All that matters is the way it might seem to the passing eye. A whisper in one ear turns to truth in the mouth of another."

"But I didn't do anything! There was another, in the stables," you argue. "An old woman mucking out the stalls. Ask her, she can attest we were simply brushing the mares and—!"

"He did not touch you?"

"No, my lord. On the seven above, I swear it."

You see something rigid relax in him as you say the words aloud. His posture softens, his hands unfurl. Ormund wets his lips and says, "There is still the matter of precedent. I told you not to do something, and you went ahead and did it anyway. On this much we can agree, yes?"

"Yes," you echo.

He nods thoughtfully, steps closer to his four poster bed, and says, "Come."

You do not know quite why, exactly, you feel your heart slow as he says it. The word is rehearsed and familiar and puts you at ease in all the places you've felt wound tight for weeks now. You stand in front of him and await further instruction, and Ormund does not hesitate to give it.

"Remove your dress."

That spark of excitement returns. You obey wordlessly, unlacing the fabric just enough to pull the silk over your shoulders. It falls down your body like water and pools at your feet.

And then, finally, he says, "Kneel."

You do.

Ormund does not sit on the edge of his bed for several moments. He simply exists in the space you've created, drinking up the power he holds over you. He's still fully clothed, wearing a black tunic and leather breaches, towering over your naked body that awaits his instruction.

When he does finally sit, he speaks a word you have not practiced before but it invokes something primal in you all the same.

"Crawl."

You do.

Ormund's chest heaves as you keep your eyes firmly on his, closing the space on all fours. And when you're close enough that you're right between his spread knees, you lay your cheek against the inside of his thigh.

He squeezes his eyes closed, whispering under his breath, so quiet you'd have missed the curse on the tip of his tongue had you not been paying attention.

His throat bobs as he swallows and exhales slowly. When his eyes find you again, there is something akin to wonder in them. "Over my knee."

You assume the practiced position and find yourself slick between your legs before he's even touched you. But you know he sees it, too, when he squeezes your flesh and spreads you open wide enough to feel to cool air touch your cunt.

"Ten," he says lowly. "Because I can see now that you were only acting out in response to my lack of thought for your isolation."

Ormund does not give a warning. He never does. He simply raises his hand and brings it down sharply against the swell of your cheek. The impact is painful and soothing all at the same time, and though your breathing stutters you feel your chest loosening.

You count each and every one in perfect succession, skin growing raised and warm to the touch. You cannot be sure if his hand comes down harder each time or if perhaps you've just grown more and more sensitive.

By the sixth strike, you're throbbing. Your hips move of their own accord, desperate for something to be wedged between them. Your toes curl and your feet cross at the ankles, thighs squeezed together as you try to abate the need.

By the eighth strike, you can feel Ormund's cock pressing against your belly, hard as stone. You cannot bear to look at him, not like this. Because you think you might lose all sense of self if you do, might kneel and beg for him to touch you. To violate you.

"Nine," you hiss, fingers curling in his sheets. You can feel everything, everywhere, all at once. Not just his hand and the way he hits you but his other, pressed firmly to the small of your back to keep you in place. You can feel the leather beneath you and his breath as it fans across your spine. You can feel the cool air that drifts in through the open window pane and the warm lick of the fire across the room.

You can feel your blood in your veins, the air in your lungs, the holiness in your body.

"One more," Ormund says. "Breathe, girl."

You obey, sucking in a slow breath of air and letting it fill your belly.

He strikes you on the exhale, and this time his hand stays against your tingling skin.

"Ten," you whimper. It feels as though your bones melt in his hold. The tension in your muscles dissipates, fading to nothing.

Just one touch would be enough. The pressure has become a mountain inside of you and it's on the verge of collapse.

"Are you…enjoying this?"

You cannot lie. Not to him. "Yes," you answer breathlessly.

He hums, a sound at the back of his throat that you're not sure is because he's pleased with you or because he's appalled. You half expect him to strike your backside again.

He does not.

Instead, his hands drift slowly down the back of your thighs. And as his thumbs move, they slide through your slick and your spine arches back of its own volition.

"Oh—" You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the moan that threatens. But it feels so good, better than anything else.

He lifts one hand, and you expect it to hurt when he touches you again. Ormund instead curls his fingers inwards, spreads your knees, and strokes his knuckles through your syrupy folds.

This time there is no chance at holding back your sound of pleasure. It rips through you, deep and heady, goosebumps spreading across your skin.

"So sensitive," he muses, more to himself than words spoken to you. "You've always been such a sensitive girl."

You press yourself backwards, chasing the sensation of his hand. He gently strokes you again, soft enough you'd convince yourself it's a touch of love if you believed he were capable of such a thing.

His knuckles graze over your clit and what was once warmth in your belly now spreads like wildfire beneath your skin.

"Please," you whimper. "More, please. I'll be good, I'll be—I'll be so good, I promise."

"Of course you will be," he says. "You're my perfect girl."

The word clangs around in your emptied mind. Perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect—

Ormund smooths his hand over your cunt, the pressure and roughness of his touch dizzying. He then presses his thumb directly to your clit and you feel all the blood in your body rush to your center. "Do you know what you're asking of me?"

"Yes," you answer truthfully. "I want it to be you. I need it to be. No one else…" You swallow.

"Speak, sweetling," he encourages.

"No one else makes me feel like this," you admit, turning your head to look up at him.

And what you see is catastrophic to your aching heart. Because you've known Ormund all your life, but you've never seen him look like that.

Despaired, hopeless, a slave to the thoughts that plague him. There is such longing in his eyes that it makes your stomach flip. But beneath it all there is understanding—like he relates far too well to your words to ever deny them.

"I could ask for your hand," he mutters. "Though your mother will likely deny me for my allegiance to my cousin and my house."

"So take me." The words come unbidden, a treason in their own right. "Steal me away. Hold me captive, a prisoner of a war not yet waged."

Something dark and searing flares behind his eyes when you speak.

"I am yours," you admit, and you think it may just be the truest thing you have ever said. "The way I have always been."

Ormund growls low, a frustrated sound at the bottom of his chest. He leans forward and presses his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades. "You are, aren't you."

Not a question.

He sighs, breathing in the scent of your skin deep into his lungs to soothe himself.

You are unsure of what comes next, once the truth of your feelings for him has been laid out in the open.

It feels raw. Like your chest has been cut and your ribcage cracked so he might see your very insides.

What happens next is a kiss upon your shoulder.

Gentle. Devoted. Faithful.

There is a deep crease between his brows, and you can feel evidence of hesitation in his hands.

"You are troubled," you observe aloud. "Is it because of me?"

He winces as if you'd struck him. As if the words were far more painful than anything he's ever done to you. Ormund's jaw feathers, and he breathes in deeply before saying, "Of course not. You have never…"

He shakes his head, swallows, and tries again.

"Understand this; my feelings for you do not come from a righteous place. I should feed you, guide you, protect you, and do nothing else. You should not be here now. I should not want this. Or—or you."

"But you…do?" It sounds mousy as you ask it, said with an unsure tongue.

"I do," he admits in a hoarse whisper.

There is pain in his eyes as he says it. As if this feeling has been sitting in the depths of him for some time, and only now does he allow himself to succumb to it.

You move. You are uncertain and cautious as you do, but you will strength into your limbs anyway. Climbing into his lap, straddling his hips, winding your hands around his shoulders and tugging gently at the hair at his nape. "You don't have to take," you say, so close now you're breathing in his air. "Not if I give."

His stare is heavy and dark. Full of more longing and lust than you have ever seen exist in a man before.

You close the distance. Ormund freezes, unmoving as you press your lips to his experimentally. He tastes of smoke and cedar, of steel and blood, of safety and familiarity.

He tastes of home.

When you pull back, his chest heaves and his hands curl into the sheets. The thought crosses your mind that he is angry with you—furious, even.

But Ormund does not shout or raise a hand to strike you.

He grabs you by the back of the neck and crushes his mouth to yours. Less experimental and less nervous than you were.

Ormund kisses you like he's starving.

His lips move against yours, soft and wanting. And when his tongue slips between them, he moans into your mouth as he tastes the inside of it.

It is a battle of a different kind. He bites and sucks and licks, and you try to meet his fervor. You are just as desperate, but Ormund is untamed. A feral dog let off its leash.

Your center throbs and you whimper, rolling your hips on top of him to abate the feeling. He is still fully dressed while you sit naked in his bruising grip, and you suddenly want nothing more than to feel his bare skin beneath your fingertips.

When you tug at the buttons of his tunic, Ormund's hands find yours to assist your clumsy movements. He is much faster than you are, and tugs the garment over his head the moment he is able.

There, along the left side of his abdomen, is a jagged wound.

You pause to press your fingers tenderly to the angry, red skin. His muscles are strong and hard beneath your touch. Though the stitches are removed now and the wound is mostly healed, he still winces at the pressure of your fingertips.

Without thinking, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the scarred skin.

Ormund melts beneath your affection. And then he brackets his arms around your waist and turns you both, laying you flat against the mattress. He kneels between your legs, seeming so large and intimidating from the new angle.

His hands find your face, feeling your skin. They move slowly over your bones, down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, your navel, your hips. As if he were trying to memorize this particular moment by sight and touch alone.

"I have thought of this more times than I could ever say," Ormund tells you. He settles low, hovering over your body, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat.

His lips follows the same path as his hands, peppering wet kisses over your skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake.

"Your taste, you scent, your sweetness—I have dreamt of it," he continues. His tongue circles your navel once before moving further down. And when he kisses your pubic bone, Ormund pauses. Looks up at you through dark lashes, his stare soft but still no less intense. "Is this where you ache, sweetling?"

The words feel filthy and depraved and so delicious that you whine. "Yes," you tell him, squirming. "Will you kiss me there?"

A malevolent smirk forms on his pretty mouth. "More," he answers.

And with no warning at all, Ormund licks a stripe through your heat, tongue flat and soft and so very wet.

It sends you reeling. The sensation, the sensitivity—him. "Oh, gods, I—"

He does it again, this time licking back down as well. Ormund moans low and the vibration of the sound spreads through you mercilessly. Again, and again, and again, his tongue laves through your apex. You feel yourself clench, muscles pulled taut.

Your spine bends off the mattress and your hands come to his head, fingers twisting in his soft curls, pulling his mouth impossibly closer.

When he takes your clit between his lips and sucks gently, your vision blurs. Everything else in the world fades to nothing, every sensation muted apart from the pleasure his warm mouth brings.

Ormund is relentless. He doesn't stop, even when you're writhing and gasping for air. His face flushes and you can feel his stare on you even when you can no longer keep your eyes open.

It's far better than linens between your legs, far more intense. It doesn't take long before you become a trembling mess, legs shaking around his head, heels digging into his spine as you scramble to find some sort of purchase.

And then it happens—a searing pleasure, ripping through you mercilessly. Light flashes behind your eyes and your spine arches and your fingers tighten in his hair.

He licks and sucks you through it, making those sweet, rumbling groans all the while, as if this is more for his pleasure than yours.

The bliss is blinding and fizzles out slowly, leaving remnants of euphoria behind. Only then does he settle, tongue slowing as it slides through your wet heat with less pressure now.

When he finally pulls his mouth away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are glossy with your arousal. "Better," Ormund whispers. "Far better than I ever could have dreamed."

You can hardly react to his praise, too lost in the feeling he'd given you. "I did not know it could be like that," you admit, breathless. "That it could be so…"

"Perfect," he finishes for you. And you think, yes. He is perfect.

Maybe not in everything, but for you.

Ormund crawls over you until you are face to face once more. He is heavy on top of you, muscles thick and smothering in the best way. His length presses against your hip, so hard now you can feel the pulse of it.

He kisses your mouth but this time it's slower. Softer. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating.

His hands cradle your face far gentler than another ever has. It is dizzying, the way he can bring such pain and still grant such ease.

You wriggle your arm beneath his abdomen, reaching for the metal of his belt buckle.

Ormund groans, but you feel the way his lips turn up just slightly against yours. "Greedy girl," you says, pulling away to nuzzle your cheek with the tip of his nose. "I have warned you against overindulgence endlessly."

He speaks true, but you have never listened to his warnings. Have always bent the rules until they break, have retained a sharp tongue and a love for all that might destroy you.

Including him, you suppose.

"Will you deny me, then?"

"No." Ormund shakes his head. "Never in all my life."

It eases something in you to hear the response. To know this is a sin you share, a mirrored reflection of one another.

He leans backwards, just enough to unbuckle his breeches and remove them. His cock is larger than you'd anticipated. Thick and veiny and flushed at the tip, hanging heavy between his legs and decorated with a thatch of dark, coarse hair at the base.

Ormund kneels in front of you, staring hard, watching you take all of him in for the first time.

He's beautiful, you think. Strong and powerful and profound. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, your brain going fuzzy again, carnal impulses beginning to take hold.

"I can be gentle," he says. "If that is what you need."

But it's not gentle you want. You want him—with all his sharpness, with all his anger. The totality of it; his heart, his soul, his body. If it hurts, you think it is meant to. "What I need," you whisper, "is you."

He watches you for a moment, eyes searching your face, trying to find hesitance that doesn't exist. And then he nods, leans forward to kiss your temple, and says, "You will tell me if it becomes too much."

You swear to him that you will.

Ormund takes his cock in his hand and slides the head of it through your center, coating his length in your wetness. Each stroke of him over your clit has you sighing, hips canting towards the sensation.

He lines himself up at your entrance, and your attention is so focused on his movements between your legs that it startles you when he uses the other to grab your face.

Ormund's fingers curl tightly around your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to look at him. "Eyes here," he says, voice firm.

And then, gently, he begins to push in.

The stretch of him burns, but it is not terrible. It simply aches, and you whimper a distorted version of his name but he does not stop. He keeps going until he's fully seated inside of you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly.

All the while, he keeps his big hand around your jaw, squeezing so tightly it momentarily distracts from the throbbing of your cunt.

Ormund touches his forehead to yours, breathing in your air. He says, "You are so fucking perfect."

And it makes you moan.

He starts to move, slowly at first. Pulling out of you tenderly just to slide right back in. A few strokes, encouraging your endurance. Sweet and soft and loving.

"Feels so—so full," you say, whimpers falling from your lips.

Ormund pulls out again, nearly all the way this time. He still forces you to look at him, and you can see the desperation enter his eyes mere moments before he slams his cock in deep.

There is nothing soft about it. Nothing sweet.

Your vision goes blurry and the air vanishes from your lungs as if it'd never existed there in the first place. The force of it aches so deliciously you feel pressure begin to form behind your eyes. "Oh god—!"

He does it again, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into you. "My perfect girl," he mutters against your lips. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes." Your hands find his shoulders, fingernails digging into the thick muscle .

"Do you wish for me to stop?"

That familiar warmth spreads someplace deeper than before. Not just your belly but in your womb. "No, please don't—don't stop."

Ormund turns your head just enough to press his own against the side of your cheek. He inhales the scent of your skin and a low growl reverberates in his chest.

Finally, blessedly, he picks up the pace. Hips grinding hard against yours, finding a rhythm that feels somehow both satisfying and violent. He breathes shallowly against your cheek, pressing kisses to your jaw that feel so tender in comparison to the way he fucks you.

And when he reaches between your bodies with his free hand to find you clit, you think you might die. It's too much, too sensitive. Your toes curl and your spine arches, pressing your breasts against his chest. The only word you seem to have held onto in your bliss is, "Please. Please, please—oh god, please."

"You beg so prettily," he says. "Almost like you were made for it. Made to kneel before me. Made to be mine."

The possessiveness in his tone alone has you teetering on the precipice of release. You'd given yourself freely to him, willingly—but Ormund still manages to take. Your innocence, your purity, your heart.

You're falling. Bliss blinds you, thighs trembling, nerve endings coiled and white-hot. His name falls from your mouth and Ormund kisses you hard to swallow up the sound.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "There you go, sweetling. Give it to me. My perfect girl."

He doesn't stop, even when tremors rock through your body. He keeps fucking his cock into you without remorse, fingers moving over your clit in tight circles, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher until you feel like you might burst with it.

The pace of his hips falters, and then he's groaning low against the curve of your neck and laying wet, open-mouthed kisses against your pulse. With his cock buried inside of you, he fills you with his release, painting your insides all sticky and white.

Ormund gives a couple of slow thrusts, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, before gently pulling out of you and rolling to his side.

It is not you who reaches for comfort first.

His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you across the mattress and into his warm embrace.

You nestle beneath his arm, head resting against his shoulder. He is so large and the heat of his skin is so comforting. Familiar in some ways, despite this being the first time you've ever been so close.

That same warmth that emanates from him seeps through your bones and touches your fast-beating heart. A delighted giggle escapes you, and you can feel Ormund's mouth turn up into a smile against your forehead.

He tilts your chin up so you're facing him. "What is it that you find so amusing?"

You shake your head. "Nothing, just...I am—I am happy."

His smile softens into something heavier, but no less pleased. You don't believe you've ever seen him look this way. So vulnerable. Benevolent, even.

Silence settles for some time. And you would be content to stay here, skin tingling in the aftermath of bliss, safe in his arms. But there is something weighing on him, and you can feel it in the stiffness of his hands that stroke gently over your hip.

When you can stand his distance no longer, you ask, "Is there something wrong?"

He doesn't answer right away, which frays the edges of your comfort. But then he says delicately, "I have something for you. A gift."

"A gift?" You prop yourself up on an elbow. "From the Citadel?"

"No," Ormund answers. "I'd had it made for you some time before my journey. But I—it is not a…kindness, exactly. More a token of my own grotesque worship of you."

Your brows furrow in confusion. "What is it?"

Ormund untangles himself from the sheets, unkempt and messy now below you. He crosses the chamber to his wardrobe and pulls open a drawer.

It is hard to see from so far away, but you watch as he takes something hesitantly in his hand before returning to the bedside.

"I…I sometimes believe that I have been shackled to you by the gods themselves," he begins. "Fated to bend my own morals in response to my longing for you. I am but a wolf coiled around a lamb and there will never be anything else, not for me."

You don't understand. It makes a million questions form in your mind, none easily answered.

Ormund swallows thickly. "I am a slave to your affection," he says. It makes your chest pull tight. "I do not deserve your softness but I will never turn it away so long as you continue to give it."

He extends his hand in front of you, opening his palm to display the prettiest necklace you've ever seen. Made of glittering emerald stones and a silken black ribbon.

You reach out to touch it on instinct, and Ormund lets you take it from him. But as you do, witnessing the lack of length, realization dawns on you. "This heralds a collar," you say.

Ormund nods slowly. "I only wished for you to be…possessed by me, the way I have been possessed by you."

A response does not come easily.

There is a part of you that knows this is not the way of things. A man should love his lady. Should be kind and respectful. He should certainly not place a collar around her neck as if she is owned property or a family pet.

But there is…something else, too. A part of you where desire sparks at the thought of being so wholly his, of surrendering to whatever fate may befall you so long as it is done by his own hand. There is peace in it. And certainty.

"I'd told myself to get rid of it a thousand times, but there has always been a hope within me that perhaps one day you might return my wretched affections," he says. "It is yours. But if you are to wear it, you must do so willingly."

The decision feels heavy. Weighted.

But you do not need long to decide.

You hand the necklace back to Ormund, who takes it hesitantly from your grasp.

And then you turn, facing away from him but looking over your shoulder to ask, "Will you tie it for me?"

He smiles, and there is something deeply fragile in it. Almost boyish, as if this is the first time in all his life he has ever felt truly loved by another.

Ormund kisses the back of your neck and sets the ribbon in place around your throat.

And when he ties it, he pulls the ribbon tight.

dividers by @pixopix <3

[mariasont]

── .✦ JACK ABBOT who coddles you during sex

★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ MDNI fem reader, p in v, praise kink / soft dom dynamics, size kink, pet names (baby, good girl, perfect girl, etc), dacryphilia

MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX

Jack keeps you wrapped in cotton, even while he’s buried to the hilt.

One broad palm stays splayed between your shoulder blades, a promise that he has you, always has you, while the other wanders, taming fly-aways behind your ear, thumb sweeping the tears that shimmer there before they can cool. 

“Easy, angel,” he murmurs, voice steeped in amber nectar. “I know she’s full. Just breathe for me.”

You do your best, but every lungful drags you further down his length, your body desperate for the heavy fill it’s already trembling to accommodate. A needy whimper slips out, fists knotting the sheets, and he soothes you with a gentle kiss against your smile line. 

“That’s it,” he praises, hips rocking in a rich, molasses-slow circle that lets you savor every thick inch. “Such a good girl, taking it all — see how beautifully you fit me?”

Tiny wildfires flower through you everywhere at once, heating your cheeks, spilling down your throat, settling low in your belly where desire winds itself tight and shining.

Embarrassment flickers its wings right alongside it, because he’s cooing at you the same way he coaxes patients through vaccinations: gentle, forbearing, inexorable.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, like there exists a universe where you would ask him to stop.

His hand glides the length of your back, fingers pausing in the dip where your spine meets sacrum. 

Too much is exactly how you’d describe the feeling of his cock dragging across that spot that makes your vision strobe starbusting colors, but the tenderness in his voice knots something unsteady in your body. 

You manage a breathy, “please, don’t stop.” 

A contented rumble answers you, and he plants a feather-light kiss on your forehead, right where he’d lay cool fingers to check your temperature.

He resumes that same rhythm. Slow drive in, lingering grind, languid pull out that leaves you aching for the return. The headboard knocks a soft counterpoint, each tap punctuated by his gentle commentary.

“Doing so well,” he croons when your elbows buckle, gathering you up with one flush tug to his chest. “Hold on to me, there you go, honey.”

Jack angles your leg higher, opening you wider for him, and the change steals air from your lungs in one shattered sound. 

“Shh,” he hushes, half-smile curving, proud and adoring all at once. “I know. Feels big, doesn’t it? Let me make it better.”

His fingers dip to your clit, and your gasp dissolves into his name. “Jack — s’good.”

The room narrows to the glide of his thumb and the steady ballast of his body. 

He kisses the salt at your hairline, murmuring, “Same here, baby. My perfect girl. Let me handle the rest, yeah?”

MARIA NOTE if being babied this hard during sex is wrong, i refuse to be right <3

YOU CAN FIND MY JACK ABBOT MASTERLIST HERE ⭑.ᐟ

[mariasont]

GOOD GRACE OF THAT GODLIGHT ༄.°

a no-touch rule sounds smart on a beach vacation with your secret boyfriend, especially when he happens to be your brother's best friend and twenty years your senior. unfortunately, neither of you is very good at keeping your hands to yourselves.

MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX

PAIRING jack abbot x robinavitch!reader

WARNINGS 18+ MDNI explicit smut, age gap (reader is late 20s), girly girl reader, reader is robby’s little sister (and reader and jack play in this man's FACEEEE), reader wears sunscreen but no mention of burning/redness/etc, jack applies sunscreen to reader, jack and reader just tease each other all day every day, reader and jack take a shower together!, brief inspection kink mention, flirty!jack abbot, flirty!reader, sexting, lots of pet name usage (baby, doll, sweetheart, honey, etc), munch!abbot, oral (f receiving), reader wears a dress, jealous!abbot, someone mistakes jack for your dad, reader goes along with it soooo lowkey dad!bf jack??? but not really it’s more of just a joke, alcohol mention, tipsy!reader, lowkey some angst, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it folks), twinkie (creampie is a banned word in this household), light breeding kink, kitchen sex, jack gets punched

WC 9.5k | REQUEST here!

You had no ill intentions when you sought Jack out on the beach. Truly. None whatsoever.

Your conscience was pristine. Clean enough to eat off of, if a person were inclined toward that sort of thing. And Jack would more than likely be inclined toward that sort of thing.

Which is neither here nor there and definitely not the point.

The point is that he happened to be the first available person you spotted who wasn’t elbow-deep in the cooler, manning the grill, hauling folding chairs closer to the water or otherwise occupied in some way that would’ve made your request an imposition.

He happened to be seated in the shade, sand-dusted calves stretched out and both hands conveniently free. You happened to wander over with your sunscreen and your very normal, very defensible need for help reaching the center of your back. 

Never mind that your eyes tend to find him first everywhere.

Your first choice, always. In the hospital, in crowded rooms, in Friday-night bars, and now here, on a stretch of beach sand full of towels, melting ice cubes and boozy coworkers.

If Jack is there the geometry of the universe settles. 

Noise levels drop. Potential catastrophe politely steps back in line. Statistically, things improve by, what, twenty percent when he’s within arms reach?

The only time Jack’s presence ever seems to tip from reassurance into danger is when Robby is nearby.

Your brother, his best friend, currently planted beside the grill with a pair of tongs in one hand and a beer sweating in the other, wholly unaware of just how intimately you know the man sitting a few yards away from you reading a book. 

No idea that you even know Jack beyond hospital stories and holiday small talk. No idea that you’ve counted the freckles on Jack’s torso the way other people count blessings. No idea you know the small mole just above Jack’s hip because you’ve watched it disappear beneath the push of his own thigh when he’s folded you open beneath him. No idea you know how his forearm looks when it flexes beside your head, that raised vein appearing when your heels hook into his back and he grunts your name into his mouth. No fucking idea you know the pale scar on his ribs that becomes your personal tactical obsession whenever he cages you against a doorframe and breathes against your ear, quiet, sweetheart, unless you want your brother to ask questions. 

You slip into the little wedge of shade cast by Jack’s umbrella, hip brushing the arm of his chair. 

It takes half a second for Jack’s gaze to lift. First to your face, because he is decent, or because he has spent forty-nine years perfecting the performance of decency and can probably do it under sedation.

Then his eyes dip lower, catching on your chest and the heroic and doomed labor of your bikini top, the poor thing doing its absolute best with limited resources and no meaningful administrative support, and for one brief, gorgeous second, Jack Abbot’s whole face goes blank. 

You unscrew the sunscreen cap with the patience of a saint and the moral character of someone much worse, pretending you don’t see a thing. It’s easy. You’ve been playing dumb your whole life, and Jack happens to make it especially rewarding. 

“Hi, Jack.”

He blinks as though dragged out of a dream he has no intention of describing in mixed company. 

The paperback folds around one finger; he swallows civility into a single neutral “Hey,” though his ears are flaming traitors. 

You bounce once on your toes just to watch his eyes track the up-and-down movement. “Mind helping me with my back?”

A phantom movement ripples down his arm, the muscle memory that usually ends with his thumb sliding up the tender inside of your knee.

Half-second later he remembers the clause you made him swear to the night before you left, the one you recited while sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but your earrings and a very serious expression: no contact during this trip. Not in front of Robby. Not in private. Not even the little absent-minded touches Jack was so fond of giving and so terrible at pretending were accidental. 

He had listened with the patient, faintly amused face — oh, of course, let’s discuss boundaries — all while his hands were already easing your thighs apart, palm spanning half your quads. “That’s smart, sweetheart,” he had murmured, barely out of his mouth before he fucked you so hard you spent the first two days of this trip remembering him every time you sat down, crossed your legs, climbed stairs, breathed wrong, existed.

Day one started with Robby squinting at the careful, not-at-all-in-pain way you eased into the passenger seat. 

“Pull something?” he asked, suspicion crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

Jack, loading your suitcase into the trunk, had only said, “She’s fine — just overdid the beach volleyball warm-up.”

Now, beneath the umbrella, he eyes the bottle in your hand.

“You’re asking me to put sunscreen on you while I’m currently under express orders not to touch you,” he clarifies, mouth twitching. “Little contradictory, don’t you think?”

“It’s medicinal, Jack. Doctor-ordered sun safety. That puts it squarely under the ‘acts of basic care’ exemption we definitely agreed on.” 

There is, of course, no exemption. But you say it with such polished confidence, such gorgeous little liar convocation, and Jack’s eyes keep distractedly slipping to your cleavage, you figure you might be able to gaslight him into believing otherwise.

Jack tilts in, voice dropping to bedside-manner dark. “Preventive exams are also acts of basic care, sweetheart. I offered to give you one last night. Head to toe. Very thorough. You didn’t seem to keen on the idea. Funny how selective you are with these exemptions.”

He knows perfectly well keenness was never the issue.

Keenness had been present and accounted for, actually, sitting upright in bed with a racing pulse while Jack spent nearly forty minutes vibrating your phone off the nightstand at one in the morning, apparently deciding the no-contact was less a boundary and more a diagnostic puzzle he could brute-force with persistence, semantics, and an irresponsible number of filthy hypotheticals. 

How firm is the rule?

You had answered, Very.

Define very.

Jack.

I’m serious. Are we talking legally blinding or more of a strong suggestion? 

I can’t sleep knowing you’re down the hall.

I keep thinking about your ass in that tiny fucking bikini.

And your mouth.

And the noise you make when I’m tasting your pretty pussy.

So if "very" has any flexibility, now would be an excellent time to disclose it.

You had flushed at that, instinct dragging your hand south, fingertips tucking beneath the elastic of your pajama shorts, privately checking how much trouble you were in.

Spoiler: a lot. Still, you forced your breathing steady and tapped out the grown-up response you promised yourself you’d give him.

Too risky. Robby’s awake. 

Riskier to ignore symptoms.

You seemed flushed at dinner, baby. Could be heat exhaustion.

Standard protocol is immediate evaluation. Full tactical assessment of any sensitive areas.

Better I handle it now than you collapse tomorrow, right? 

“The walls here are paper thin. I just didn’t want everyone to hear you,” you murmur, eyes flicking toward the grill where Robby still holds court. 

Jack’s gaze drags over your face, patience fraying.

His head cants. “Me?”

An accusation rather than a question.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too hard.

It’s bullshit.

Jack makes sounds in bed, sure, these low rough little things he tries to swallow down into silence, but you are, historically, the problem. You are the one who forgets walls even exist, who gets whiny and breathless, saying his name too sweet and loud.

Still, riling him up is half the fun.

“Mhm. All those grunts you do? Very compromising. You really should work on that. I was just protecting your reputation.” 

His mouth tugs into that bare-bones smile, parched and cutting, like a fence post bleached under Georgia sun. 

“That’s interesting, doll, because I seem to remember you nearly getting us thrown out of that hotel in Atlanta.” He pauses, eyes steady on yours. “Had to clamp a palm over your mouth halfway through just so the folks next door would quit pounding on the wall.” 

You make a thoughtful, entirely disingenuous sound. “I don’t recall.”

Liar, you think, but only to yourself, because the scene is seared onto the backs of your eyelids: big palm, slick with sweat; your own pulse popping under his thumb.

“Convenient,” he says. “Concerning, too. Memory loss at your age.”

The urge to fire back — your age, grandpa — sparks under your tongue, but you swallow it, knowing you’ve already won.

He’s picturing that night, too. You can see it in the way his jaw resets, in the way his fingers flex like they’re aching to reprise the role of impromptu gag. 

“Memory loss and melanoma.” Your fingers skim your collarbone, then your shoulder, making a tiny show of your poor exposed skin. “That’ll be on your conscience, and you have so many sins already, Jack.” 

Jack’s glare fractures, concern muscling past amusement. 

“Turn around,” he orders.

His palm resignedly lands on your back and the first sweep of cool lotion is an instant balm, a hush in every raw, sun-tight cell that’s been screaming since day one of this self-inflicted separation.

Water to a dying flower. Oxygen after a held breath.

The peppermint chill kisses the nape of your neck, then fans outward in broad strokes, each pass ironing the ache right out of your skin. 

Three whole days without his hands, seventy-two hours of pretending you didn’t need this, and now his thumbs slip beneath your bikini straps like they own the territory, tracing the warmed skin that’s been begging for him with every salty breeze. 

“Missed you,” you murmur under your breath, words a little wobbly and petulant.

He huffs a soft laugh and bends to brush his mouth against your shoulder blade. “Yeah, missed you, too, angel.”

He smooths another cool ribbon down your spine.

You angle yourself towards the grill to allow him better access only to see Robby nudging the spatula at Mateo like a relay baton. Take over, man.

Mateo blinks, grabs the grill tools, and Robby wipes his palms on a dish towel as he starts striding across the sand.

Panic sparks hot in your belly. Abort, abort —

Jack’s fingers press reassuringly at the base of your neck. “Easy.”

Robby arrives, squinting against the glare. 

Jack doesn’t miss a beat, straightening just enough to greet him over your head, palms still settling the lotion. “Need a second set of tongs, man? You were talking about that pineapple glaze.” 

“Yeah, figured you could baste while I flip,” Robby says, oblivious.

“Sure thing.” Jack rubs the last of the lotion on your shoulder before flicking the cap back on the bottle. 

Robby tips his chin at you, hooks an arm around Jack’s neck like a big brother claiming turf. “And watch it, man. Give her an inch and she’ll have you painting her toes next.”

Jack shoots you a wink. “Wouldn’t put it past her, bit on the spoiled side, isn’t she?”

You don’t get to be alone with Jack again until later that evening.

After a twelve-hour gauntlet of being herded from one little duty to the next, karmic punishment apparently being less fire-and-brimstone and more Robby glued to your elbow, Samira asking about plates, Dana hunting for towels.

The house had stayed swollen with noise, doors opening, voices carrying, bodies constantly moving through every room, leaving nowhere private enough to breathe, let alone get a second with your secret boyfriend. 

And you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like torture, spending the whole day brushing past Jack close enough to catch bits and pieces of him but never close enough to keep it, catching his stare across the deck and breaking first because if you hold it too long, even for one more second, your face will say everything your mouth has forbidden to.

By the time you get into the shower, you’re wound so tight you feel one wrong move might split you straight down the middle. Steam flattens the bathroom, fogging the mirror in milky layers while condensation beads along the floor beneath your heels. 

The water comes down nearly scalding over skin still balmy from the sun, rinsing the day off you in slow, glittering streams. Salt, sunscreen, sweat, sexual frustration, little crescents of sand, all of it spiraling together toward the drain. 

You brace both palms against the wall and hiss when the spray finds the tender knot tucked between your shoulder blade and spine.

You don’t have time to decide whether the sting is pleasure or pain because suddenly the door latch is clicking.

You spin, palms crossing over your breasts, ready to apologize for… something (what, exactly? You’re not sure, because last time you checked you weren’t the person barging into an occupied bathroom.) 

But then the silhouette resolves into Jack and the apology dies on your tongue.

He shuts and locks the door with a soft snick, arching a brow through the haze.

You hiss under your breath, “What — Jack, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks. His gaze drags leisurely, like a hand down your body, over your breasts, the water-glossed dip of your waist, the slick shimmer on your thighs, then hovering at your bare pussy before climbing back to your face. 

He looks utterly unhurried. A man content to feast with his eyes first and speak when the hunger becomes unbearable. 

Fire pools low in your belly and you shift, thighs pressing together in a useless bid for modesty. “Seriously, what if someone saw you come in?”

He closes the distance until your breath clouds a small circle on the glass pane between you.

“Just grabbing my razor,” he says, offhand, like you’re the one overreacting as he tips his head toward the shelf behind you. “Promise I’ll be two seconds. In, out.”

You give him a long, squinting once-over, as though you can spot the lie on his skin. He just wiggles his fingers — see? Harmless — so you huff a tiny laugh and shift aside. 

“Fine. Two seconds,” you mutter, watching him carefully.

You pull the slider door open.

The instant rush of cooler air leaves gooseflesh in its wake, and Jack’s shoulders seem suddenly much broader than you remember as he steps through. 

“Appreciate it, honey.”

He ducks under the spray, and the stall feels two sizes too small.

Jack plants himself in front of you, torso filling your peripheral vision, trunks plastered to powerful thighs.

He doesn’t touch you, but the warmth radiating from his body seems to crowd every spare inch of space.

When his chest rises you feel the ripple in each breath through yours.

“You okay?” His tone drips false innocence as he reaches around you for the razor, the damp fabric of his trunks gliding over the sensitive swell of nerves between your legs in a feather-light pass.

You suck in a harsh breath.

He straightens as if nothing happened, twirling the razor between his fingers, eyes glinting with pleased mischief.

Dick-Face.

Your vision goes momentarily starry, the lost friction leaving you empty.

You rally with a shaky grin. “‘M fine.”

“Mind if I shave in here, then? Better water pressure and keeps the sink hair-free. Know you hate that.”

You squint up at him, water streaking your lashes. 

“Jack…” One elongated syllable loaded with I know exactly what you’re doing. 

“Relax, angel. Two seconds,” he reminds, though the slight tilt of his hips say otherwise. 

He angles the razor at his jaw, drawing the first careful stroke. You watch the silver path he leaves on skin, the way tiny beads of water race after the blade. His face, stripped of stubble in increments, is almost too handsome. Straight nose, freckles you could count, lips made for kissing yours. 

He catches you gawking and smirks. “Gonna nick myself if you keep staring like that.”

You tilt your chin, droplets collecting at the curve of your collarbone, mustering your usual sparkle, “Then focus, doctor. I won’t be held responsible for self-inflicted injuries.”

He lets the razor dangle forgotten at his side as he studies you a beat longer. His hand slides forward, knuckles skimming the silky bloom of your hip, then dipping inward to follow the hollow where muscle meets bone.

A shiver flutters through you. He feels it and grins, this slow, predatory spread of lips.

“Focus is a tall order,” he says, thumb brushing a streak of water off your stomach. “Pretty as you are.”

Your breath stutters as his thumb skims lower, and you grab his wrist. “Uh-uh. Hands to yourself, remember?”

“Don’t make me beg, sweetheart.” The husk in his voice slips through you from head to toe. “Because I will, if that’s what you want — say please a thousand times, just to prove how badly I need you.”

Before you can answer, he sinks to his knees.

Once again he doesn’t touch, free hand splayed on the grout, but his mouth hovers near the crease of your hip, close enough that every exhale fans liquid fire over your pussy. 

His eyes flick to yours, desperate, waiting for the single syllable that will break every rule you set.

“I can keep my hands to myself, if that’s the rule. Just let me use my mouth, please. Need to taste you, angel.”

“I — Jack, we said —” 

Your grip on his wrist feels fragile, ceremonial.

“That a yes, baby? Gotta hear the word.”

Steam curls between your bodies and it’s almost suffocating now, filling up your throat and nose and ears until you start to feel a little dizzy.

Rules clang in your skull — not here, not now — but the week-long ache in your belly chants louder: need, need, need.

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, eyes slipping shut.

When they open again, the answer is already there, shining in resignation. “Yes. Please — yes.”

He doesn’t waste another second.

He dives in like a man reprieved from drought. Three days and three nights and water turned to wine in his tongue. He presses it flat, dragging through your folds until your knees threaten to buckle.

The first targeted flick to your clit punches a helpless cry out of your throat and the second has you clawing for purchase on the handlebar to your left.

Jack mumbles something that feels like so sweet against you, vibration sparkling up your spine, then seals his lips and sucks hard, alternating pressure in prodding intervals.

You don’t think you’ve ever gotten to that blissful edge so fast before, seconds away from splintering, vision tunneling as pink and blue stars flare behind your lids.

It all comes crashing down when a brisk tap-tap-tap cuts through your near-climax.

Jack freezes, mouth still full of you and hot on your cunt but now motionless, eyes snapping up to meets yours. Beautiful eyes with pupils blown.

Santos’s voice filters through: “Whoever’s in there, hurry up!” 

The pulse that was about to break erupts into silent, aching stasis instead. You bite your fist, whole body trembling on the cliff-edge he’s left you hanging from. 

You choke back a whimper and call, “Be out in a sec!” 

And like you said, you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like pure fucking torture.

Jack tries to remind himself that he has, by every measurable standard, survived worse things than this.

War, for one. Heat that cooked straight through the soles of his boots, nights sawn open by rotor blades and gunfire. The terror of deciding who needed his hands first when everyone needed them at once.

He lost a leg and learned how to walk again, then somehow went back to medicine because apparently nearly dying had not cured him of the instinct to run toward other people’s emergencies. He has cracked chests, led resuscitations, talked shaking interns through their first patient death, spent his free time embedded with SWAT because golf had always seemed both dull and something he wouldn’t thrive at. 

He knows pressure. He understands discipline. He has built an entire life around refusing to be governed by fear, pain, adrenaline, or lesser impulses. 

None of those facts seem to feel reassuring right now as he watches you from across the bar.

You’re burrowed into the center of a brand-new constellation of people you just met, telling one of your well-worn stories with the same sparkling conviction you gave it the first time, chin tipped up, bracelets chiming as your hands sketch the scene into the air.

Jack knows every beat.

Knows when your eyes will widen, when your mouth will pull into that scandalized little O, when you will pause just long enough to make everyone lean closer before delivering the line that sends the table into laughter.

And they do lean closer. Even the bartender’s polishing rag pauses mid-swipe.

That is the thing about you. You make strangers feel chosen. Make a whole room feel handpicked, lit from within, as if you opened the door just for them and meant it. Then you’ll drift away, leaving them there in the aftershocks, still facing the space you occupied like worshippers after the god has already one.

Jack knows exactly how dangerous that is because he has made that mistake himself.

More than once.

Sat across from you and read too much into every smile, every soft little lock of your focus, every gooey, honey-thick stretch of your attention. Mistook being seen by you for being chosen.

And then life, perverse as ever, let him be chosen after all. Let him earn the real thing. 

Which only makes watching other men bask in the counterfeit version feel worse.

The feeling metastasizes when one of the men catches the opening after your final line and moves into it, all expensive veneer-looking teeth and effortless posture, bending toward you as though the room has naturally made space for him there.

He says something Jack cannot hear over the bass, punctuates it with a small, self-satisfied shrug, and wears the expression of a person who thinks being near you is already a kind of accomplishment.

Jack studies him. 

Young. Smooth. Unscarred, at least where the world can see. A body that has probably never needed to be negotiated with before something as simple as walking barefoot across a beach. No prosthetic to strap on before dawn, no phantom pain flaring where flesh ends, no inventory of what still works and what must be accommodated. 

He looks right beside you. No one would glance twice, no one would do the math. Robby could clap him on the shoulder, laugh at his jokes, maybe even approve.

Certainly wouldn’t have to excavate a grave under the rental deck. 

Jack counts that as strike three.

“Jack.” Robby’s voice breaks across the table, dragging him back by the collar. “Tell ‘em I’m not making this up.”

Jack blinks, wrestles his gaze off you, and pretends he’s been part of the conversation all along. Dana and Baran blink back at him.

“You’re usually making something up,” he says and it earns Victoria’s laugh, though he hasn’t the faintest idea what improbable tale he’s just failed to corroborate.

It seems to be enough of an answer for Robby though, because he laughs too, his hand thumping Jack’s shoulder hard enough to slosh the liquor.

Jack drinks anyway, holds the bourbon like a tongue depressor to his worst instincts. Swallows. The burn chars every jittery nerve that wants to turn around and see if Mr. Linen Shirt is still siphoning oxygen out of your orbit.

But he wants to know. Wants to know whether the man has moved closer, whether you’re still smiling, whether Jack is about to make a decision that leaves the bastard sipping his own drink through a wired jaw. 

He shouldn’t go that far. Healing hands and all. But he can make exceptions.

He lets boredom rasp across his tongue as he clears his throat. “Your sister know those guys?”

Robby looks over on reflex. Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. Robby’s face will tell him everything. “What guys?”

“Dunno. Thought one of ‘em looked familiar.”

Robby squints past the crowd.

“Nope. Don’t think I recognize any of them.” Robby decides, pushing a tired breath through his teeth, knuckles rasping over two-day stubble. “She does this everywhere she goes. Draws attention like wildfire. I swear, half my blood pressure medication is because of her.”

Jack’s arteries would corroborate that, but he lets the confession smolder unheard behind the rim of his glass. 

“Well, can you blame ‘em? She looks like that.”

And Dana’s comment is the invitation he’s been waiting for. Lets him gorge on the sight without raising suspicion.

The little dress, the glossed-up lips, the endless stretch of your legs under the bar light. Your hair falling loose around your shoulders, your face animated as you talk, every feature sharpened by laughter into something almost indecently alive.

A cherry-red straw clacks against your teeth when you sip your rum punch, each drag leaving a perfect lipstick crescent on the plastic rim.

You are beautiful in every standard category and several highly specific ones Jack suspects may exist solely to inconvenience him. 

“Don’t mean she needs a swarm,” Robby grumbles, waving his bottle at the cluster around you. “She treats everybody like they’ve known her ten years, then acts shocked when half the room starts trailing after her. And somehow I’m the prick when I tell ’em to give her some space.”

“I don’t mind being the asshole,” Jack pipes up. Across the table, Dana’s attention narrows, and Jack realizes, half a beat too late, that he may have sounded a little too willing. So he adds, “If you’re tired of the job, I mean.”

Robby snorts. “You’d scare the hell of ‘em.”

“That’s generally the point.”

He lifts his bourbon before the thought can show on his face, lets the rim conceal the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.

Robby, thankfully, is already smiling, visibly seduced by the prospect of outsourcing his least charming brotherly obligation. 

“Be my guest,” he says. “Tell her I sent you.” 

Jack tips his glass, drains what remains, then taps the rim against the tabletop.

Signal received. Assignment accepted. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

By the time he is halfway across the room, you’ve already noticed him.

Your eyes flare with a brightness he can feel from here, and whatever polished little nothing Mr. Smooth is feeding you dies unattended between one word and the next. 

He keeps talking anyway, poor guy, unaware that you’ve left the conversation without moving an inch. By the time Jack reaches the bar rail, your attention has funneled to one point, him, and nothing else.

It stirs something dormant in him, the same dark pull he felt in the shower, his pants suddenly tighter, less cooperative. He sees exactly what he would do without the table of coworkers and one eagle-eyed best friend behind him. 

He would hook a hand around the back of your neck, pull you flush to his chest, and kiss every little thought clean out of your head. Kiss you until the gloss smeared, until your lipstick feathered over his mouth, until your lips went swollen and every polished stranger nearby understood, without needing it explained, who had put that dazed look in your eyes. 

Instead, he leans one forearm against the bar and says, pleasantly, “You drinking enough water, sweetheart?”

“I could be persuaded to drink more.” Your lips curl around the straw again, eyes fixed on Jack with a private little shine.

The younger man follows your attention to Jack and gives him an affable nod. “Man, your dad’s on top of it. Mine would’ve let me dehydrate out of spite.”

Jack nearly coughs up his previously swallowed drink.

He can feel every one of his years arrange themselves in descending order between you. The gray at his temples. The scars. The apparently paternal concern over your fluid intake. 

Fuck’s sake.

He parts his lips to correct the record, a dry little execution already waiting on his tongue, but you beat him to the trigger. 

“Oh, he’s the best,” you gush, peering at him sideways. “Always checking on me. Sunscreen, hydration, curfew. Super over-protective.”

Jack gives you a long, level look, one that says he knows exactly what you’re doing and plans to deal with it later.

“She keeps me busy. Full time job, most days,” he finally says, playing along.

And it is a full-time job.

Just not remotely in the way this poor kid is imagining. You are a twenty-four-hour on-call position with no protected sleep and an astonishingly generous benefits package.

You need to be kissed before he leaves the room, touched whenever he passes within arm’s reach, listened to with grave concentration while you explain some internet drama involving some show he’s never watched and a man named Sincere he will never meet.

Then there is the other hunger, the one that wakes beside him already stretching toward his body, that has you squirming into his lap after dinner or whispering again against his mouth when any reasonable person would be asleep.

Jack is always on his toes with you, anticipating needs you have not articulated yet, figuring out whether a pout means hungry, horny, tired, or all three braided together.

It is exhausting in the way a life worth living is exhausting.

He has never minded work when the work matters, and taking care of you has become the most selfish labor he has ever loved.

The younger guy clears his throat, trying to recapture the momentum. “Anyway, like I was saying about the jet-ski tomorrow —”

“Actually,” Jack interrupts, “we’ve got to get back. Curfew, you know.” He aims a polite nod at the man, who now looks decidedly dejected, then drapes a guiding hand along the back of your stool in perfect over-protective-father form. “Appreciate you keeping her company.”

Your mouth twitches around the straw. Jack can already tell you’re going to make him suffer for this. The prospect improves his mood considerably. 

He starts to walk you back to the table, when he spots Robby, who’s laughing much too loudly at something the new intern just whispered in his ear.

The girl is angled toward him, smiling with that shy, pleased little tilt people get when they think they’ve successfully surprised him, and Robby, miracle of miracles, looks genuinely interested. 

That is information worth preserving. Worth interrogating later, too.

But for now he takes that opportunity for what it is and herds you into a corner out of view.

As soon as you’re tucked between a stack of surfboards and the dim EXIT sign, his fingers close over the curve of your backside, giving a quick pinch.

A startled “hey!” pops out, alcohol-loose and breathy, and you bat at his knuckles.

He catches your wrist, holding it against his chest as amusement darkens his gaze. “You’re testing me, angel. Missed me so much you had to start getting other men’s attention just to see if I’d come take you back?”

“Missed who? The pervert or the overprotective dad?”

Jack clicks his tongue and leans in until the tips of your noses nearly touch, crowding the joke right back into your mouth. 

“Hated every damn second of that. Couldn’t lay a finger on you while that kid flirted his ass off. And you knew exactly what you were doing. Wanted to see how fast you could make your old man lose his cool?”

“Thought you liked being challenged?” You tilt your chin, lashes dipping. “Besides, you’d been ignoring me all night. What was I supposed to do, sit there looking pretty for no one?”

“You know that isn’t how it is. I’ve been following the rules you set, angel. Your rules.”

“Yeah, well, last night kind of blew those up, don’t you think?” You lean closer. “The line’s already smudged. Seems silly to keep pretending we can still see it.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve got no attachment to that line. I’ve wanted my hands on you from the second I saw that dress.” He leans closer, voice dropping into something meant only for you. “But you’d better mean it. You don’t get to rile me up all night and then act surprised when I collect.”

Your eyes flick toward the neon Restrooms sign, then back to him, lashes heavy. “Meet me by the bathroom in sixty seconds. If you’re late, I’m starting without you.”

One quick sweep confirms the coast is clear.

“Bought and paid for, angel. Be there in fifty-nine.”

You giggle, turning on your heel with a bounce that sets your dress fluttering. He tracks every inch as you stroll off, head cocked like you know he’s staring; the last thing he sees is the curve of your ass rounding the corner.

He waits just long enough not to make it obvious, then starts toward the hall, pulse already ticking off the seconds.

Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.

“Jack.”

Shit.

Dana catches him mid-stride. When he turns, she is watching him over one lifted brow, empty glass raised loosely in her hand. “You getting another round?”

His gaze flicks toward the corridor before he can stop it. Mistake. Dana follows it, then looks back at him.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says.

“Could’ve fooled me. You look like you’re on a mission.”

And what can he say to that?

Yeah, Dana, good eye. I am on a mission to follow my girlfriend into a seedy beach-bar bathroom and fuck the living daylights out of her before Robby notices either of us are gone. By the way, she is his little sister and young enough that, from a distance, strangers apparently assume I helped raise her.

So Jack does what any sensible man would do under pressure.

He lies. 

“Just gotta take a leak.”

Dana lets out a low hum, the kind that says she believes exactly none of him. “Sure.” And Jack thinks that’s it, but suddenly she shakes her head. “Just do yourself a favor and be careful.”

“Careful about what, exactly?” Irritation flicks hot across his scalp, mostly because it coats the thin, unfamiliar ache of fear. 

She tips her chin, eyes dull with shift-long exhaustion, offering him nothing but that tired little smile that says You already know. 

“Don’t make me say it out loud.” Her gaze dips toward the restroom sign, subtle enough that anyone else would miss it. Jack doesn’t. “I don’t care about the sordid details. But secrets like this don’t stay contained forever. People get hurt when they come out.” Her expression softens by a fraction. “And she has more to lose than you do.”

He doesn’t get the chance to answer before Dana slips past him, already lifting two fingers toward the bartender and calling for another round. 

She has more to lose than you do.

Jack knows that. Or at least, he should’ve.

He is established. Difficult to shame in any lasting way. People already know who he is, have decided what sort of man he is, and most days he can live with that. 

You, meanwhile, are still being decided. Every room you enter is another jury, every mistake fresh evidence for peers and others alike. 

And men tend to survive a scandal differently.

Jack might lose Robby, take a hit to his reputation, become the subject of a few whispered conversations at work. Then the weeks would pass, another crisis would arrive, and people would remember he was useful. 

The world permits men to outlive their mistakes.

It does not extend women the same courtesy.

You would be remembered through it, reduced to it. People would search backward through every bright smile and short skirt as if the proof had always been there, call you foolish where they called him weak, promiscuous where they called him lonely.

Even the people defending you would talk as though you needed defending from your own decision.

Jack suddenly feels sick because Dana is right, and because somewhere along the way he let himself pretend the risk belonged equally to both of you.

Half his, half yours. Fair.

It never had.

Jack lets the sixty seconds expire and stays exactly where he is, rooted with his hands by his sides and the first honest understanding of what protecting you might actually require.

Tonight, when you go looking for Jack, your intentions are not merely ill.

They are terminal. Premeditated. Your conscience is nowhere to be found, certainly not sparkling, certainly not clean enough to eat off.

Whatever small moral voice usually lives in you has been smothered beneath a white-hot blend of anger and a bruised ego, two things currently holding hands and skipping merrily through your bloodstream. 

The house has only just begun to settle after several hours of drunk postmortems, everyone still riding the bar’s momentum and apparently determined to delay sleep through sheer noise pollution alone. Somebody had thrown up in the upstairs toilet, although nobody was admitting to it and Whitaker had somehow staggered into Jack’s room and passed out starfished across his bed, fully clothed, one shoe still on, leaving Jack exiled to the downstairs couch.

It’s almost completely dark when you creep down the stairs.

A small lamp glows beside the sofa, casting a little island over Jack and the book open in his hands.

The rest of the room dissolves into shadow, cluttered with the aftermath of everyone else’s good time: cups lined along the coffee table, half-empty glasses, plates abandoned with crusts and smears of dip.

You ghost past him without a glance, feet soundless on the hardwood.

Only when he murmurs, “Can we talk?” do you pause, but only long enough to throw a breezy, “Later — busy,” over your shoulder.

Jack pushes off the sofa, trailing you a step. “Busy with what, exactly?”

Busy making your life a living hell, you think, scrubbing dried food from a plate. Busy returning the favor. Busy ensuring he experiences even a fraction of the private humiliation you swallowed in that bar bathroom, standing beneath a flickering light panel while sixty seconds stretched into two minutes, then five, your invitation curdled into foolishness.

And when you had finally emerged, Jack was back at the table with the others, but every stiff line of him betrayed where his attention really was. Fresh drink in hand, barely touched. Shoulders set. Gaze locked on the corridor.

He had chosen not to come, but he had not stopped watching.

Jack would sooner lose his other leg than abandon you tipsy in a strange bar, and even furious, you knew that. He had been keeping vigil over the door, tracking who went in, who came out, waiting for your face to appear. But that garnered no brownie points from you.

When you approached, confused and annoyed and still stupidly hopeful, he had only leaned close enough to breathe, “Later,” against your ear.

As if it were of no significance. You were of no significance.

You snatch up another abandoned cup and tip its watery remains into the sink.

“This,” you say. “Some of us respect shared spaces.”

“Mm. At two in the morning?” Jack leans one hip against the counter, arms folding over his chest. When you dont stop, he adds, “All right. Scoot over. I’ll help.”

Jack has never encountered a mess, emotional or otherwise, that he did not believe could be improved by putting his hands on it. A wound, a crisis, a woman mad enough to scrub ceramic like she means to erase the glaze. Same instinct. Reach. Steady. Fix.

You turn before he can.

Dishwater slips from your fingers in clear little tracks, the oversized sleep shirt grazing high over your thighs as you square yourself toward him. 

“No, thank you.” Your gaze stays fixed on his. “I’ve learned I can manage without help.” 

He comes closer, and closer still, until your damp fingers have nowhere sensible to go except flat against the edge of the sink. 

“That’s very independent of you, honey,” he says. “Always loved that about you.” His hand lands beside your hip, bracketing you in. His gaze searches your face, lightening at the edges. “But I don’t think we’re talking about dishes anymore, are we?”

You tip your chin up, refusing to let the gentling in his eyes sand down your irritation. “No, we’re not. We’re talking about you saying one thing and doing another. Apparently promises are more of a loose suggestion when they’re coming from you.” 

“Give me a chance to explain, sweetheart.” The words slip out on a breath, softer than the rattle of the faucet.  “You can be mad after. Hell, you probably still will be. Just hear me out first.” 

You do not want to hear him out.

Explanations are unpredictable things, doors that open both ways, and you already have the sickening suspicion that whatever is waiting on the other side will hurt worse than not knowing. 

Because yes, objectively, Jack failing to follow you into a bathroom means very little.

No fidelity breached, no grand betrayal, no concrete proof of anything beyond bad timing and worse communication.

But the small flutter in your stomach does not care about what your mind tries to litigate away. 

It knows this feeling. Knows this small retreat before someone leaves, the subtle cooling, the moment affection starts becoming obligation. 

Maybe he has simply had his fill of you. Maybe the novelty wore off and now you are no longer the bright, entertaining little thing he wanted to sneak around with, only a woman who talks too much and needs too much and has begun expecting permanence from something built in shadows.

And maybe now he has seen enough of the real thing to know he cannot imagine building a life around it. 

So you do not give him the chance. 

“Nothing to explain,” you say, seizing the sponge and escaping the cage of his arms for the opposite counter.

You start cleaning with theatrical diligence, collecting bottles, stacking plates, wiping crumbs into your palm as though the fate of the rental deposit rests entirely on you. 

But you did not come downstairs to rescue countertops. You came because you need proof that Jack still wants you.

Any kind of proof. Emotional, physical, desperate, selfish. You would take whatever he gives you.

And if you cannot bring yourself to ask whether he still sees a future with you, then you can at least find out whether he still wants to put his hands on you.

So when you bend to retrieve a fallen fork from the ground, you let the hem of your sleep shirt climb unchecked over the backs of your legs until it bares you completely, exposes that you are wearing no underwear, your thighs parted just enough for Jack to see every soft, private inch you left uncovered for him. 

Cool air brushes your pussy.

His stare burns hotter.

“Jesus Christ, honey.” The words leave him rough and disbelieving, dragged up from the well below his throat. Behind you, the counter creaks faintly beneath the sudden weight of his hands. “What the hell are you doing?” 

You count to one before straightening. 

You turn with the fork still balanced between two fingers, arranging your face into its sweetest approximation of confusion.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Right,” he murmurs. “Must’ve imagined the whole thing.” 

You drop the fork into the sink with an accusing clatter. “Probably. Memory goes with age, remember?”

He steps in behind you before you can turn away, chest brushing your back, one palm flattening over your stomach while the other slides beneath your shirt.

His knuckles skim the soft inside of your thigh, then settle exactly where you’re naked. 

“Yeah,” he growls against your ear. “Didn’t imagine a damn thing.”

A whimper threatens and you bite it back so hard your jaw aches. In that stilled heartbeat the fight drains out of your muscles and your body answers him first, arching back, begging in the only language it trusts. 

But the panic bubbles back up in fiery waves.

“Please don’t,” you say, and the plea is not the one he expects.

Jack’s hand freezes.

You close your eyes. 

“If you’ve changed your mind about me, just say it.” Every word hurts your throat. You turn your face just enough for him to see what the anger has been hiding all night. Fear. “If you don’t want me anymore, then don’t touch me like you do. Don’t make it harder than it already is.” 

Jack’s hand vanishes so abruptly from beneath your shirt, your knees dip with the loss.

Then he’s turning you, big palms framing your cheeks, thumbs parked just under your cheekbones. Your own slick glosses his knuckles. He tips your chin up so you can’t look anywhere but straight into the brown storm of his.

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about, baby?”

Your mouth opens, but what escapes first is a wet, hitching breath.

The tears rise fast, flood-waters breaching the levee before you can blink them back, Jack’s outline smearing into watercolor.

“I don’t know,” you hiccup, which is not true at all. You know too much. “You left me there. And then you acted like I was being dramatic for expecting you to show up when you said you would.” Your fingers curl around his wrists, not pushing him away, just holding on. “And maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s about how easy it would be for you to wake up and realize I’m not… serious-person material. I’m fun, I know that. I’m pretty and I make you laugh and I’m good in bed, but that’s not the same as being someone you actually want a life with.” Your lips tremble. “People always like me better at first.” 

Immediately his face caves, all the structure in it imploding: brows hitching, mouth parting, a stricken slackness that makes him look ten years younger and infinitely more breakable.

“Don’t say that,” he says, too sharp at first, then immediately dampens. “No, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Say whatever you need to say. I’m just…” He shakes his head, jaw tight, eyes shining with something close to a fear that matches yours. “I hate that I made you feel like that.” 

His hands slide from your face to your shoulders, holding you there as if he needs you to understand this with your whole body. 

“You are serious to me. More serious than anything I’ve let myself have in a long time.” He exhales shakily. “You think I don’t picture a life with you? I picture it constantly.” 

You just stare, lungs cinched tight, tears marooned mid-cheek as though gravity’s on pause. The room narrows to the pulse thudding in your ears. 

“You’re… you’re serious about me?”

Jack makes a quiet, wounded sound. His hands come back to your face, thumbs stroking the wet tracks beneath your eyes. 

“Christ, baby. Yes. Of course I am.” He bends closer, as though proximity might help drive the truth into you. “I don’t know how I let you believe otherwise… I didn’t follow after you tonight because I got scared for you, not of you. I should have told you. I should have found you, explained, apologized. Instead I left you alone with your worst thoughts. That was cruel, even if I didn’t mean it to be. Please let me fix it.”

Another hiccup rattles through you as you try to process the words at face-value. “Scared for me how?” 

“Because if this blew up, I didn’t want you caught in it.” He says it simply, like there is no question which of you matters more. “I don’t give a damn what people think of me, baby. I care what it does to you.” 

You shake your head inside the cradle of his hands.

“I don’t care what people think either. I don’t care about any of it.” Your voice snags, but you push through. “I love you, Jack. That matters more.” 

His eyes close for half a second, like the words are almost too much to take standing up.

When they open again, he kisses you senselessly soft, both hands still holding your face as though you might vanish.

He kisses you once, twice, a third time, each one a little messier than the last.

“Love you too, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Love you so much it scares the hell out of me.”

The brine of your tears slick the seam of your mouth. Jack doesn’t flinch, drinks it in like proof of living.

You surface for one ragged sip of air, barely enough, your lips still grazing his, fists knotted in his shirt like ballast against weightlessness. 

“You mean it? You’re really serious about me?” you whisper again, softer this time, almost shy with it. 

Jack lets out a low, guttural sound and grazes the corner of your mouth. 

“So serious, honey.” Another kiss, deeper now, his hands sliding from your face to your waist, pulling you flush. “Want to put a ring on that pretty little hand. Want a house with your clothes everywhere and your shoes in places I’m gonna trip over.” His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your gasp before he adds, rougher, “Want a kid, if you want one. You want a baby with me, angel?” 

“Yes, please, Jack.”

The words are still warm in the air when he fits his mouth to yours, a groan vibrating through both of you.

His palms squeeze your waist, then lift, your stomach swooping as he sets you on the cleared stretch of counter. Cool laminate kisses the backs of your thighs, shocking against the furnace heat of him stepping between your legs.

Your sleep-shirt scrunches between his hands, creeping, creeping, until the hem gathers at your hips and you’re bared to him again.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You’d give me that?”

You nod so eagerly the room tilts, fists in his collar, yanking him closer. “Anything.”

“My perfect girl,” he breathes, kissing you again, softer now, as if the tenderness makes what follows any less filthy. 

His hand slips beneath the gathered cotton at your waist, fingers gliding south until one settles between your folds. He drags the wetness up in a lazy sweep, humming appreciation that burns brighter than the touch itself.

“And what’s all this, hm?” he asks, studying your face while his finger toys idly with your clit. His eyes darken, attention dropping to where his hand disappears between your legs. “You sittin’ here imagining me filling you up with a baby, sweetheart?” 

Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, chasing pressure he has no intention of giving you yet. 

“No teasing,” you whimper, breath breaking around the words. “Please, Jack. I need you inside me.” 

Jack swears under his breath, hand leaving your clit only long enough to undo his pants. The zipper drops. Fabric loosens. Then he is back between your thighs, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds once, twice, gathering the wetness you have made for him.

The sight of him nearly makes you stupid.

It has only been a few days, which is nothing, really, barely enough time for a normal person to miss anything, but your body has become accustomed to him, used to the heavy stretch of his cock at least once a day, sometimes twice when neither of you has somewhere to be. 

You’re practically drooling, inner muscles fluttering around emptiness while he takes his sweet, sweet time wetting himself in what you’ve made for him. 

You shift on the counter, thighs widening of their own accord, a needy sound slipping free when the head catches against your entrance and pulls away again. 

“I know, honey. I know.” His voice roughens as he traces the head up your inner thigh. “Should’ve given you what you needed hours ago.” 

Then he finally does. 

He braces one hand at your hip and pushes forward in one long, steady stroke, the thick head breaching you first, then every heavy inch following.

Your cunt flutters, welcoming, molding around him until there’s no space left unexplored. 

The counter shudders with the low sound that tears out of both of you. 

The inexorable pressure sutures the empty ache that’s haunted you, stuffing it full until there’s no room for jealousy, no space for worst-case scenarios.

There is only Jack.

Your thighs cinch hard around his waist, heels gouging into the backs of his legs like spurs demanding more.

He doesn’t stop until pelvis meets pelvis, forehead thunking against yours while both of you gasp as if you’ve sprinted a mile in the sand. 

He retreats a heartbeat’s width and your walls seize around him, possessive. He curses under his breath.

“This tight little cunt missed me, didn’t it?” he asks, already driving back in.

He starts pumping into you at a saint’s tempo, each drag of his cock thick and thorough, his hips grinding flush against you at the end of every thrust.

Your arms lock around his shoulders as your body rocks with him, bare thighs trembling against his sides. 

Pleasure gathers everywhere at once, starting at your pussy and climbing until your whole body feels tuned to the rhythm of his hips.

You try to tell him that. Try to say yes, missed you, feels so good, but what comes out is a breathless spill of syllables, half his name and half a sound you would be embarrassed by if your brain were still capable of embarrassment. 

His hand slips between your bodies, two fingers finding your clit. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you? All mine,” he growls, cock still working inside you. “And I’m yours. Never gonna be anybody else’s, you hear me?”

Your answer is a helpless chain of nods and breathy mewls, but he isn’t satisfied with that.

He catches your jaw, thumb pressing your cheek until your eyes snap to his. 

“Look at me. Hear me.” 

“Y-yes, Jack… yours — love you, love you s’much,” you babble.

“Love you, angel.” He presses a kiss to your trembling lips. “Want me to fill this pretty pussy up? Want me to leave every drop inside where it belongs?” 

“Yes, please. Need it — need you — m’so close.”

The first warning licks up your spine. A trembling in your calves, nipples pebbling hard against your shirt.

Pleasure stacks in breath-stealing layers, so heavy it feels like quicksand pulling you under. 

Jack’s tells flare with yours. His hips snapping hard, hands tightening on your waist until his knuckles blanch.

Sweat beads at his hairline, drops down to your skin, and your walls clamp down in greedy pulses, each flex beginning for the flood he’s a second away from letting go.

“Keep looking at me,” Jack pants, curling a hand from your waist to the back of your neck. “Need to watch you fall apart.”

“Can’t — can’t hold it,” you whimper, thighs shaking.

“Don’t hold a damn thing,” he growls. “Give it to me, come on, baby.”

The quicksand finally liquefies and the world folds to white noise.

Jack breaks with you, a strangled — fuck — on your lips, thrusts turning short as he empties himself in thick bursts.

You cling to one another, quake for heartbeat after heartbeat, until the tremors fade into breathless, boneless warmth. 

When Jack’s breathing finally steadies, his mouth roams in slow increments. First your collarbones, up the column of your throat, over the quiver of your lips. 

He eases back only to reach for a paper towel, thumb already swiping at the mess seeping down your thighs. 

“Don’t,” you plead, catching his wrist. “Wanna keep it.”

Jack huffs a low laugh before moving to kiss away your protest. “Sweetheart, you’re not making it five steps up those stairs with that sliding down your legs.” 

Even as he says it, he dabs gently between them.

The light friction has your hips ticking forward, little whimpers breaking free. 

“Sensitive, huh?” he tuts. 

“Thought you wanted to put a baby in me?” you argue.

Jack’s thumb circles your thigh. “Oh, I plan on it — but not until there’s some extra hardware shining on your hand. One thing at a time, yeah?”

Old-fashioned as he is, you probably should’ve expected that.

Jack Abbot is the kind of man who still opens doors, calls restaurants instead of booking online, and apparently requires jewelry before intentional procreation. There is probably a proper sequence filed away in that stubborn head of his: ring, vows, house, baby. 

You find, to your own surprise, that you do not mind the order at all. 

You tap his chest with a teasing finger and dopey smile. “I can live with that. I do love shiny things, after all.”

What he does not tell you is that the shiny thing already exists, hidden in his sock drawer, waiting for the right moment. 

You won’t find that out for another two months, until after the two of you finally sit Robby down and tell him everything, until after Jack takes one clean punch to the face without even trying to dodge it, because fair is fair, and until after Robby’s anger burns itself down into something survivable. 

By the time Jack slips the ring onto your finger, his lip is healed, your brother is calling him Jack instead of Dick-Face (you can’t be sure where he learned that insult from), and the future no longer feels like something borrowed.

It is yours. 

MARIA NOTE this lowkey was supposed to be like 1k words and the ideas just kept flowing and it turned into a full psychological case study on why making ur brother's best friend jealous is both a terrible idea and, unfortunately, very effective. also jack saying ring first, baby later made me briefly black out. hope u enjoyed!! <3

YOU CAN FIND MY JACK ABBOT MASTERLIST HERE ⭑.ᐟ

[groovyangelkisses]

it always feels like pope’s in your stomach when you’re his girl. the memory of his cock stuffing his way into your cunt isn’t something you can usually shake.

it’s similar to the feeling of watching his large, bulky frame bend over to pick something up off the couch and seeing a sliver of his toned back when his shirt rides up. a deep twist, almost like hunger… an empty tummy when you should be satiated.

he was in your guts about 2 hours ago but still… the slow grind, pulsing palms mashing against each other and spreading heat and want and the heady scent of yearning.

when he lifts back up he turns to look at you in surprise, “ya alright?” his flighty eyes drag across you & then the room awkwardly– he can practically feel the heat and pulsing of your belly from where he stands.

vascular arms, tight t-shirt, broad shoulders cutting through the air as he straightens up. your hand presses to your stomach as your half lidded eyes take him in.

press, press, press. but nothing mirrors the sleeve of you cradling his cock closer & closer into your stomach.

depraved, you shake your head and whisper “wanna feel you again.” “n-now?” “now, please.” “b-i… what if you’re still sore?” “don’t care andrew, please now.”

it doesn’t take long for him to decide, especially not when he sees your smaller palm pressing into your stomach in thrusts; mirroring the rhythm he had you in this morning.

scooping you up like an angry bull, breathing heavy through his nose as he walks you into the bedroom and lays you out for the second time this afternoon.