good job tumbler you've showed me every single fic about that man x reader and now I'm refreshing like an abandoned dog looking for its owner hoping that maybe someone just posted another fic.
it's 3 am rn and I can't sleep without reading. I'm an addict yeah.
summary: when your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise visit to ptmc, your boyfriend and the rest of your co-workers realise you might have a type…
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader & ex bf!mark sloan x fem!reader
warnings/tags: established relationship, implied age gap between abbot & reader and mark & reader, flirting, fluff, swearing, mark don’t give a fuck that the reader is in a relationship, but reader is respectful of boundaries, defs a bit of jealous and insecure Jack if you squint
notes: hot hot hot hot hot give them both to me now thanks!! also massive shoutout to the anon that requested this 🙂↕️
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
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masterlist
“Ew.”
The word left you before you could stop it as you sunk your teeth into a granola bar.
You grimaced as you turned over the wrapper, examining it like it might explain why you felt like you were currently eating a stick of glue.
“Are these expired?” You asked through the mouthful.
McKay barely glanced up from where she had half her body buried in the fridge, rummaging past several abandoned containers and a suspiciously wet paper bag.
“Nope, they’re just a by product of the drywall factory down the road.” She answered.
You stared at the bar for another second, trying to muster up enough willpower to finish it given you hadn’t eaten lunch.
After abandoning that mission in under 10 seconds, you leant over the bin and spat out the mouthful with as much decorum as you could before unceremoniously dumping the rest of the bar after it.
“Those things aren’t that bad.” Whitaker mused as he wandered into the breakroom with Santos hot on his heels.
“That’s because you were raised on hay.” Santos remarked dryly.
“They’re raspberry flavoured.”
“That’s not helping you Huckleberry.”
You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.
He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.
You: Are you coming in early today?
JA ❤️: Always.
You quickly typed out another message.
You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible
The reply came almost instantly.
JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.
You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.
JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.
You: are you psychic?
JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.
Your smile widened as his reply came through.
You: thank u 🩷
JA ❤️: 👍
“What are you smiling at?”
You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.
“What?”
“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”
“Nothing.”
Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.
Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”
“What?”
“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.
“That?” Whitaker supplied.
“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”
You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.
“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”
Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”
You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”
Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”
Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."
You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.
“Never give your triggers away Santos.”
“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.
You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.
You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.
“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.
“You all good?”
“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”
“Not for a little while.”
“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”
“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”
You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”
Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”
You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”
“Apparently so.”
You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.
Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.
“Hey.”
You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.
“What?” You asked warily.
Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”
“The what?”
Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.
“Absolute smoke show.”
Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”
Your brows knitted together.
“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.
“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.
You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.
At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.
And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.
“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.
You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.
Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.
Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.
“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”
By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.
“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”
Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.
“Well I’ll be.”
That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.
“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”
Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.
“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”
“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”
“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.
He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.
"Someone has to."
Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.
“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.
"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.
“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.
“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.
Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"
Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.
"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"
"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"
"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."
McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.
Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”
You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.
“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”
You snorted. “Please.”
“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”
You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”
He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."
He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”
You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”
“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."
"No."
"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”
“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”
"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.
“Wait let me guess.”
Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.
His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”
He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”
From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”
Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.
Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.
For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.
Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”
Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.
“I’m right."
You didn't answer.
"I am."
“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”
“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”
“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”
Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."
"He also has excellent aim."
"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."
And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.
"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.
“You’re happy?”
You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.
“I am.”
“He good to you?"
You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”
Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”
For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.
You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”
“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.
"So the usual then?"
“The usual.”
He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”
“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."
Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”
“Sloan.”
The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.
Mark's grin returned instantly.
“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.
"A lot less hair since I last saw you."
Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”
Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.
Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.
“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”
“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”
“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”
Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.
“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”
Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”
McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”
“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.
Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”
The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."
Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.
“You two know eachother?”
“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.
“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.
Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”
You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.
“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“
“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."
Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."
“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”
Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.
You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.
He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.
"Ex?"
You sighed. "...Ex."
Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”
“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”
Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.
You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.
“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.
Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.
You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.
When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.
“Don’t you dare say a word.”
She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”
You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.
For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.
By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.
“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”
You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.
“The old lady with the chest pain?”
“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.
You frowned. "That sucks."
“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.
“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."
Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”
Your eyes narrowed.
"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.
"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."
"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.
"I hate all of you."
Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"
Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.
You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.
You waited a couple minutes before moving.
The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.
A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So… that’s your ex.”
“That’s my ex.”
He nodded. "You left out a few details."
"Such as?"
His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.
“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”
Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"
Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."
Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”
“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”
“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”
“You’re not.” You insisted.
Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.
You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”
“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.
Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.
"Jack."
"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”
You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.
“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.
“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.
“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”
You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”
Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.
“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”
His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”
“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”
The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”
“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”
His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”
Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.
“Well, lucky for him it worked.”
The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.
He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.
“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”
You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”
“Yes.” He answered plainly.
You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”
Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.
“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”
You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”
Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”
Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.
“Did you eat?”
You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”
Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”
“I will.”
“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”
Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”
“Of course.”
You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”
His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.
“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”
You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.
You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”
You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.
“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”
Jack raised a brow.
“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”
“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.
“I know I am.”
“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.
You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.
Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.
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Pairing: pervy!oldman!joel Miller x cheater!female!reader
Summary: you bring apple pie to Joel Miller's porch, telling yourself it's nothing; just a visit to your boyfriend's older brother. But uncle Joel has been lingering in your mind since the night you heard him say it. This is a tale about something more than apple pie—the sweet pull of longing, care and the making of cream pie.
Warnings: 18+, Smut, MDNI, huge age gap (20s and 60s), pervy!joel, cheater!reader, FAUXCEST, Joel calls himself uncle, reader cheats on Tommy, sub/needy!reader, pinv, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, praise kink, slight nipple play, slight degradation, no outbreak
A/N: It’s too hot to function and my brain is mush, so here's a "little" draft while I melt and work on a million other fics. Check the warnings, SCROLL if needed, it's really easy peasy. Drink water, my dear pookies <3
The throbbing started in your belly.
It was a deep, insistent pulse radiating outwards in slow, heavy waves that settled right between your thighs. Heat hummed relentlessly against your center, leaving your skin feeling tight and feverish. Slowly but surely, that dull ache migrated to your lower belly, then to your mound, before finally landing squarely on your clit.
And it was all because of two words:
Uncle Joel.
Your mind hadn't stopped circling those words for the past week—a constant, agonising reminder that echoed in your mind, your belly, your cunt, and even deep in your thighs.
The desire was as stubborn as the man himself; it refused to leave you. But then again...maybe you didn't want it to leave.
"Hell, you should bring her over to Uncle Joel sometime. I'll give her somethin' that satisfies her proper."
You could still remember standing there, just inside the screen door, heart hammering against your ribs and thighs pressing tight together as every filthy word Joel uttered sank straight between your legs.
The heat had pooled low in your gut, your cunt throbbing with every perverted suggestion Joel tossed out oh so casually—completely ignoring the fact that your boyfriend, Tommy, had simply asked him for tips on how to handle your high libido.
You couldn't even bring yourself to care once Joel started talking.
It started with, "Jesus, Tommy. You complainin' about good pussy?" before spiraling into explicit instructions on how to break a woman. "Well, sounds to me like you got yourself a girl who knows what she wants. Ain't nothin' wrong with that. You gotta treat that pretty little thing right, boy. Show her who's in charge. You gotta work that pussy like it's the last one on earth. Fingers, tongue, cock—whatever it takes. And when she starts shakin', don't stop. Push her right over the edge till she's squirting all over your hand, your face, your sheets. That'll settle her down proper."
Heck, you knew he was a pervert.
It was no secret. Even Tommy called him an old, perverted bastard.
But that didn't change the fact that he was older, bolder, and possessed large, rough hands that gestured emphatically as he spoke. Those were the same hands you'd watched grip tools and beer bottles—and the same hands that had, once or twice, brushed against your waist a little too long.
His eyes always lingered on your tits and your ass, looking at you as if he was already imagining exactly what he'd do to you if his pissy little brother didn't exist.
Since that night on the porch, your hand hadn't stopped wandering down to your cunt. Your fingers wouldn't stop rubbing that twitching nub until you came all over yourself, shivering with the forbidden thoughts of your boyfriend's brother—or as you desperately wanted to call him:
Uncle Joel.
And now, three days later, you stand at his door, pie in your hands warm, the heat seeping through the dish into your palms, grounding you, reminding you why you're here—you baked it, you told yourself, because you're a good neighbor, a good sister-in-law, because it's what a good woman does, brings pie to her man's brother, a gesture of kindness, of family, of nothing more than that.
But that lie tasted like bitter ash on your tongue, so you swallow it down, and you knock...
When the door opens, the world already narrows to the shape of him. Big. Board. Frame like a wall of stone, chest rising and falling beneath that old flannel shirt, the buttons straining across his big belly and smelling like musk or something unwashed in the best way.
It makes your nostrils flare and your thighs press together of their own accord, a slow, wet shift of muscle and fabric that you can't control, that you don't want to actually control.
A slow, crooked smile spreads across his lips.
"Well, well, well," he says, and his voice is exactly as you remember it from that night on the porch, from the endless, aching hours when you pressed your fingers into yourself and imagined this moment, this exact moment, here, now, with him looking at you like you're something to eat, something to savor, something to devour slowly, filthy, until there's nothing left but the memory of pleasure. "Look what the cat dragged in."
He leans against the door, arms crossing over his broad chest, letting his gaze wander down your body and back up again, taking his sweet time; savoring every inch of you, from the curve of your hip to the swell of your breasts to the flush on your cheeks. You feel naked under that gaze, stripped bare, even though you're wearing a dress, a simple cotton thing, light blue, that falls just above your knees. Chosen unintentionally, or not?
"Hello there, honey," he says. "Did my brother treat ya so bad you come to uncle Joel?"
Uncle Joel...uncle Joel...
He says it like a joke, a teasing jab, but the word uncle hits you square in the chest, soaks into your belly, and your thighs press together involuntarily. And oh, you know he sees it.
You know he sees everything, because his eyes flick down to your hips, to your thighs, and his smile widens, deepens.
You clutch the pie tighter.
"I...I made pie," you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended. "Apple. I thought you might like some."
His grin widens, and he pushes off of the doorframe, stepping aside with a sweep of his arm, a gesture that makes the flannel stretch across his shoulders, and you catch a glimpse of that hair on his chest, thick, dark and curling, and you want to press your face into it, to breathe him in, to taste the salt on his skin.
Jesus Christ, what was wrong with you?
"Apple pie?" he says, voice full of amusement. "Lord, girl, you know the way to a man's heart. C'mon in, c'mon. Don't stand there like a stranger."
You step past him, and the door closes behind you with a soft click. There's no going back now, no pretending you came here for pie, no pretending you're anything but what you are: a hungry woman, a desperate woman, a needy, shameless woman who has come to her man's brother to be filled, to be claimed, to be taken the way she's always wanted to be taken.
A worn sofa the color of dried blood sits against the far wall, the cushions sagging in the middle, shaped by the weight of his body.
He gestures for you to sit, and you do, sinking into the cushions, the pie still warm in your lap.
Joel disappears into his tiny kitchen, and you hear the clatter of plates, the running of water, the soft hum of a man moving through his space. He returns with two plates, two forks, a knife, setting them on the table with a soft clink.
Then he drops onto the sofa besides you.
He doesn't sit far away, doesn't leave a polite distance between you, nah, he sits close, his thigh brushing yours through the fabric of your dress.
"Alright, alright," he says, reaching for the pie. "Let's see what we got here."
He cuts three generous slices, the knife sliding through the crust with a soft crunch, and he slides one slice onto your plate, two onto his, then picks up his fork and digs in like a starving man.
"Oh, fuck me," he groans, closing his eyes, and the sound is raw, almost sexual. He chews, swallows, shakes his head slowly, his eyes still closed, his jaw working, and you watch the muscles in his throat move, watch the way his Adam's apple bobs.
"That's..." he says, opening his eyes. "That's real good, sweetheart. Real good. You got a gift."
You flush, the heat rising up your neck, spreading across your cheeks so you look down at your plate.
"Thank you," you say, your voice is small.
He takes another bite, and another, and you watch him eat, watch the way his lips close around the fork, the way his tongue flicks out to catch a crumb, moaning around the taste.
He sets his fork down and leans back, one arm stretching across the back of the sofa behind you, his fingers brushing your shoulder, tracing the line of your collarbone through the thin cotton of your dress, a featherlight touch that sends shivers down your spine, that makes your breath catch in your throat.
"C'mon," he says, and his voice is lower now, a purr that vibrates in his chest. "Tell me what's botherin' ya. You don't usually come over alone. Not without Tommy."
You look down your plate, pushing a crumb around with your fork.
"Nothing," you say, and the lie is thin. "Just...wanted to bring you something. That's all."
His fingers trail down your arm, featherlight, tracing the curve of your elbow.
"You ain't the type to make a pie and show up for no reason," he says, and his voice is patient, knowing. "I know ya, girl. I've seen you grow into a woman. I've seen the way you look at things." He pauses, and his fingers still, resting on your wrist, his thumb pressing against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat of your heart. "The way you look at me."
Your heart hammers against your ribs, and before you can even process what he says, you're already trying to escape the situation.
"I should go," you say and you start to rise, but his hand lands on your knee, firm; squeezing once.
With that, magically, your muscles relax, your hips sink back into the cushion, your thighs open slightly, just slightly, an invitation maybe.
"Sit down, honey," he says, and his voice is gentle, but a command wrapped in silk behind it.
So you sit.
He leans in closer, and his breath is warm against your ear, smelling of apple and cinnamon.
"Is it Tommy?" he asks. "He can't take care of you?"
You loved Tommy. God, you loved him.
You shake your head, a tiny, jerky movement, "No. That's not—" your throat tight, your mouth dry, your heart pounding so hard you can hear it in your god damn ears.
"Because he told me something the other night," he says, and his voice drops lower. "Complainin' about how much you need it. How he can't keep up. How he's exhausted. And I gotta say, I felt sorry for you."
You swallow.
"A woman with that kind of hunger," he continues, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on your knee. "All alone in her bed, touchin' herself while her man sleeps. Thinkin' about what she could have. What she deserves."
He pauses, and the silence stretches.
Until—
"Thinkin' about me?"
You can't answer. Your mouth is full of cotton and want, your tongue is tied, your throat is closed, and all you can do is just sit there, trembling, your thighs pressed together, your hands clenched in your lap, your eyes wide and wet and desperate.
"You wanna show uncle Joel?"
A whine bubbles from your throat. You immediately feel yourself nodding like a desperate little puppy excited to get treats, making him chuckle.
"Words," he says, and his voice is patient. "I need words, babygirl."
"Yes," you whisper. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please...uncle Joel."
He chuckles again, and the sound vibrates through you, settling in your bones, in your blood, in your cunt, and you feel yourself clench.
"That's a good girl," he says. "Now stand up for uncle Joel. Right in front of me. Let me see you."
You rise with shaky legs, thighs trembling, and you stand before him, your hands at your sides, your heart in your throat, your cunt aching wet and ready.
He stays seated, looking up at you, his dark eyes hooded and patient, like a wolf watching a deer wander into the clearing...like a predator who knows his prey is already caught.
"Now pull that dress up," he says, and his voice is soft—a gentle command. "Slow. Let me see what my brother's been wastin'."
Your fingers tremble as you gather the hem of your dress, lifting it inch by slow inch, the fabric sliding up your thighs, revealing the skin of your legs, the soft curve of your hips, and then the oh so wet, slick fabric of your panties. The cotton clinges to your folds, almost translucent with arousal, a dark stain spreading across the pale blue.
Joel exhales slowly, a long, low breath that seems to come from somewhere deep down his chest.
"There you go," he coos. "Keep goin'. Let me see that pretty pussy."
You pull the dress up to your waist, exposing your ruined panties, the glistening outline of your cunt hidden behind the soaked cloth.
He reaches out immediately, hooks his fingers in the waistband, tugs them down, and the fabric slides over your hips, past your thighs, down your legs, and you step out of them, standing before him completely bare from the waist down.
"Well, would you look at that," he murmurs. "Ain't that the prettiest thing I've ever seen. All wet and ready for me. And Tommy, that dumbass, he can't even handle it."
You whimper, the sound escaping your throat before you can stop it. He starts spreading your labia with his thumbs, gentle; exposing your slick, pink flesh, the small nub of your clit, the opening that clenches and releases with your breath.
"Would ya look at that, honey." his voice barely above a whisper, and he leans in, closer, closer, until his breath is warm against your cunt. "Glistening like a goddamn jewel. You're so fuckin' sweet, baby. You know that? You know how fuckin' perfect you look right now?"
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee, then another kiss, higher, on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and another, higher still, his beard scraping against your skin.
Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the salt and pepper strands, gripping him, holding him, wanting to feel his mouth on your cunt, but he doesn't go there, he just keeps kissing your thighs, your hips, the soft skin of your belly, until you're trembling, shaking, your knees weak, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"Please," you breathe. "Please, Joel."
"That's uncle Joel to you," he corrects, his voice a gentle growl against your thigh as he looks up at you.
"Now c'mere, sweet pea..." he says, and he pulls you down onto his lap. "That's it, right where this old man wants ya."
You straddle his thighs, your bare cunt pressing against the rough denim of his jeans, without much thinking you grind against him, a slow, desperate movement, a plea of want.
His hands slide up your sides, under your dress, palming your breasts through the lace of your bra. He finds the clasp, unhooks it with practiced ease, pulls the straps down your arms, and the bra falls away—your breasts spill free, full and heavy, your nipples peaked and aching.
He cups them quicky, his thumbs circling your nipples, sending sparks of pleasure down your cunt.
A whine escapes from your throat.
"Oh, I know," he murmurs, his mouth against your neck, his lips brushing your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "You're my good girl."
He kisses your neck, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. You arch into him, pressing your breasts against his chest, grinding your cunt against his thigh.
Then his hand slides down, down your belly, down through the soft nest of hair between your legs. His fingers find your cunt, and he doesn't tease, doesn't play, doesn't dance around the edges—he plunges two fingers deep inside you, making your hips grind at him and your back arch.
"God damn," he groans against your throat. "This pussy's so hot and slick, clenchin' every time I push in deeper."
He pumps his fingers in and out, a steady, rhythmic rhythm.
You hear it: the wet, sucking sound of your own arousal, a rhythmic schlick schlick that fills the quiet room, that echoes off the walls.
"Tommy don't know what he's got," Joel murmurs, curling his fingers, hitting that spot inside you, that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and you feel the pressure building, the heat rising, the pleasure coiling in your belly ready to snap. "He don't know how to take care of a woman like you. But I do. Uncle Joel knows."
He kisses you then, his tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting of apple and cinnamon, and you moan into his mouth, your hips rocking against his hand, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"Christ, you're suckin' 'em in like you don't ever wanna let go. Keep those hips still, baby girl, or I'll have to hold you down while I work 'em deeper." he says, pulling back, his forehead against yours, his breath hot on your lips.
His thumb finds your clit then, circles it, presses down, gently at first, then harder.
"I'm gonna—" you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs trembling, your cunt clenching around his fingers, "Joel, I'm gonna—"
"Mhm, let go for me, honey." he commands, soft but firm. "Cum on uncle Joel's fingers. Show me how good I make you feel."
And you do.
You shatter. A cry tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, waves of pleasure crashing through your pelvis, your thighs clamping around his hand, your cunt clenching and fluttering around his fingers, the release slowly going through your body as he works you through it, slowing his rhythm, gentling his touch, murmuring praise after praise.
"There we go," he says, his voice soft, tender. "That's a good girl…let it happen. You're making such a mess on uncle Joel's hand."
You slump against him, boneless, panting, your forehead resting against his. You can feel his smile, feel the satisfaction in his chest.
But before you can catch your breath, before the aftershocks have even faded, he's lifting you, shifting you, laying you back on the sofa, and your head hits a cushion, your legs hang over the edge.
He unbuckles his belt, and unzips his jeans, the sound of the zipper a slow, deliberate rasp, a sound that makes your cunt clench hard around nothing.
He pulls his cock free, and your breath catches in your throat.
It's thick, hard, the head glistening with a bead of pre-cum already, a vein running along the shaft like a river on a map. It's bigger than Tommy's; thicker, fuller.
"Look at that," he says, stroking himself slowly, his hand a rhythmic pump, and you watch his hand move, watch the way his fingers wrap around his shaft, the way his thumb swipes over the head, spreading the pre-cum.
"Cunt clenching around nothing. You hungry, sweetheart? This pussy hungry?" he asks. "You want uncle Joel inside you?"
You spread your legs wider, your pussy still clenching, still dripping, still hungry for more, and you look up at him, your eyes wide, your voice a whisper. "Inside. Please. Please, uncle Joel."
He positions himself at your entrance, and you feel the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds. You hold your breath, waiting until he pushes in, and when he does you gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the way he opens you up.
He is so much bigger than Tommy, thicker, fuller that you feel a moment of panic; can I take this? Can I really take this?
But then he's soothing you, voice soft and gentle.
"Shh, shh, easy now," he says, and his voice is a balm. "Breathe for me. That's it. You can take it. You can take all of uncle Joel. Let it in nice and deep."
He pushes deeper, inch by agonising inch, a slow, but huge invasion, and you feel every ridge, every vein, every inch of him sliding into you, stretching you, filling you in a way you've never been filled before.
"Feel that?" he whispers. "Feel how good we fit together? Tommy never made you feel like this, did he?"
You shake your head, tears sliding down your cheeks, and you can't speak, can't find the words, can't do anything but feel, feel, feel.
"No," you whisper, and your voice is broken, cracked, raw. "No, never."
"Because he's a fool," Joel says, and his voice is tender, loving, even as he pushes deeper, even as he fills you completely, even as he buries himself to the hilt. "A fool who don't know how to handle the treasure he's got. But I ain't a fool. I know a good thing when I see it. I know a hungry woman when I see her."
He is buried to the hilt now, letting you adjust to his grit, letting you feel the weight of him inside you, the stretch, the ache, the pleasure, and you feel your cunt clenching around him, trying to pull him deeper.
"Atta girl…there it is. I'm allll the way in. Gonna keep you pinned nice and deep, grindin' slow so you feel every throb, every pulse." He says softly.
Tears start to prickle in your eyes when he starts to thrust. Slow at first, deep, each thrust a drag against your walls, a wet slide that makes you moan, and his hips meet yours with a soft, wet slap.
"Listen to those messy sounds—Christ, you're drippin' down your thighs already." He murmurs, making a sob erupt from your throat. "Oh, I know, that's my girl. Takin' me so good, aren't you? So fuckin' tight. You like being filled by your uncle, hm?"
"Yes," you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders, the pressure rising, the coil winding tighter, ready to snap again. "Yes, yes, yes."
"Say it again, honey." he demands softly. But his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more urgent, and you feel the couch creak beneath you.
"Uncle Joel," you gasp. "Please. Please fuck me."
He groans, his head dropping to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, and his pace quickens, his thrusts become harder, deeper, more urgent, and you feel the pleasure building; rising, the coil winding tighter and tighter, ready to snap.
"Goddamn," he grits out. "you're perfect. You're gonna make me cum, sweet pea. You gonna cum with me? Cum with uncle Joel?"
"I don't know—" you gasp, your vision blurring. "I'm close—it's too much—"
"It ain't too much," he says, and his voice is firm. "You can take it. You're a strong girl. A hungry girl. Let go for me. Let me feel you break."
He drives into you harder, faster, and you feel the coil snap, the pleasure explodes and you shatter again. A broken cry tears from your throat as you cum, your inner walls clenching around him, fluttering, pulsing, milking every last drop from him.
A guttural groan leaves his lips and he follows a moment later, spilling inside you in hot, thick drops—filling you up with a warmth that spreads through your belly.
Your cunt still works around him as he collapses on top of you, his breath hot against neck.
After a long moment, he stirs, lifts his head and presses a soft, tender kiss to your lips.
"You did so well, sweet pea," he murmurs. "Took everything right into that cunt of yours."
He pulls out slowly, and you whimper at the loss, the sudden emptiness a hollow ache.
He fetches a damp cloth from the kitchen and cleans you up with gentle hands, wiping between your thighs, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, whispering: "We made some cream pie, didn't we?" and you feel like crying, like laughing, like giggling.
"You gotta go home soon," he says. "Tommy'll be back in an hour."
You nod as you sit up, and reach for your panties, but he stops you, his hand on your wrist, his eyes dark and possessive.
"Leave 'em," he says, and his voice is a firm command.
"What?@
"The panties, hon." he says. "Leave 'em here. I want to know you're walkin' around without 'em. Thinkin' about me. Feel my cum drippin' down your thigh."
You blush, a deep, burning flush that spreads across your cheeks, but you don't argue. You pull your dress on over your bare skin, leaving your soaked panties crumpled on his coffee table like a trophy.
He walks you to the door, and as you step out into the fading light, he calls after you.
"Come back tomorrow," he says, soft. "I'll have the pie warmed up."
You smile, and your thighs are still slick with his spend, and your cunt is still sore and full, and you know, with a certainty that settles into your bones like honey, like syrup, like warm apple pie, that you will.
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