Robby has never been a fan of birthdays. This year, loneliness drives him to download Tinder on an impulse, only to come across the last person he expected to find there: his favorite resident.
As some of you may know, I tried posting this fic twice and it got mistakenly flagged both times. Since then, I’ve been getting advice on things that might help prevent it from happening again. I’ve tweaked some of the pictures, adjusted a few hashtags, and I’m hoping that does the trick.
Tomorrow, I’m going to try posting it one more time. If it gets taken down again, then I’ll post a version with a link to read the full fic on AO3 instead. Either way, one thing is certain: tomorrow this fic will be available one way or another.
You had told Sammy at the beginning of your friendship way before you even started dating back when he was still with Tammi you mentioned that you hated how loud fireworks were.
You loved the colors but the sounds that came from them just hurt your ears so much you always ended up have a headache and ear pain the next day or even a little while after they were fired. So most of the time you stayed in whenever whoever you were with wanted to do them.
He understood, that first year he went out and bought you a pair of noise canceling headphones so you would be able to sit with everyone. At the time he didn’t understand why he felt so hollow at the thought of you sitting inside watching them, but now he does.
He started to fall in love with you then and didn’t even know it.
This year is different compared to that first year. For the first time in 6 years you cannot find those headphones.
The sacred item that sat on your head every year like clock work by the time Sammy got off work. He would see you with them on and understand that it meant it was time.
You started to spiral sitting down on the edge of the bed in the room that has become yours as well over the years.
You try to retrace where they could be, they’re not very small bright red something that you thought was laughable over the years but at the moment making you want to cry because you miss seeing the color.
Being so lost in thought you don’t hear your boyfriend walking up the stairs after announcing he was home. Walking in the room he doesn’t expect to see you with bloodshot eyes and rocking yourself ever so slightly.
Approaching slowly Sammy crouches in-front of you. Reaching up he slowly tilts your face towards his. Seeing the worried look on his face is all it takes for you to spilling your guts about the headphones.
Letting out a breath Sammy stands up from his squatted position dragging you up with him in to his arms.
Hugging you making you feel better but not great and almost as if Sammy can sense this he’s leaning down whispering exactly what’s going to happen then Since the headphones are gone.
He tells you to strip and get in the middle of the bed but to get on all fours and have your ass up.
Once you do as he says you hear him drop his clothes and climb in after you. Leaning over you he tells you he’s going to fuck you through the fireworks and every-time you hear one he’s going to fuck you harder and faster.
Giggling at that you don’t believe him, the first couple have Sammy going at a slow pace that actually has you begging for more.
Around the 55th one you both hear he is going so fast the bed frame is slamming against the wall. He’s hitting spots that has you rolling your eyes to the back of your head, whining so loud you wonder if you can be heard over the fireworks.
When you’re cumming Sammy doesn’t stop his pounding he rides you through it. He is a man of his word he is going to fuck you through all of the fireworks faster and harder even if your both going to be overstimulated.
author's note: imagine how you want but in my head this is chubby sammy. based on real life events, the heat here is so fucking bad im sleeping topless. this is a mess sorry its like 4 am if u see errors no u dont.also ive only seen the first ep of southland lmao.
divider: @/pixopix
it's late when sammy comes home, the house is dark except for the living room where you left a lamp on for him. he's tired. today had been one of the more stressful ones, a case got out of hand and when they finally got that over with, he had papers waiting for him on his desk. safe to say he was eager to finally get home to his wife.
sammy finds you asleep, as he expected, in your bedroom. but what he didn't expect was your clothing—or lack thereof.
there you were, sprawled on your navy sheets, topless. from where he stands, sammy takes in the image of you; on your stomach, your bare back in the open, one leg hiked up. and listen, he's just a man! he's not exactly sorry that he can't keep his eyes off your ass, clad in just your underwear.
just like that, sammy decides he isn't tired anymore.
he really shouldn't be surprised. you've been complaining the entire week about the heat, been taking showers like twice a day, and wearing less and less clothing as you walk around the house. he guesses tonight you've finally had enough of it. and fuck, was he grateful.
he gets on the bed slowly, crawling to your side, and lays his hand on your back, lets his fingertips slide up your spine and watches as you shift a little at the touch. pressing soft kisses on your shoulder, he gently turns you over on your back. he smiles as you hum, aware of his presence now.
“hey, honey.” he mumbles on your skin.
“hi, sammy.”
he presses his lips on yours, sighing as he finally feels you again, your soft lips, your hands on his cheeks—feels he's home again.
“missed you so much today.” you whisper against his mouth.
“yeah?” he hums. his lips move lower, starts to trail kisses from your jaw to your neck. he shifts so that he's more ontop of you, covering you with his weight, tits pressing up against the fabric of his shirt and the stiffness in his pants rubbing on your thigh.
“sammyyy, it's hot.” you whine, he was practically a blanket of heat on you.
his hand runs up and down your waist, the coolness of his wedding band a contrast to the warmth of his palm.
“i know, honey, 'm sorry,” sammy cooes, “how 'bout a cold shower together after, hm?”
his tongue on your neck sends a shudder through you, “okay.”
“atta girl.”
moving his head down, you gasp as he takes your nipple into his mouth, hand flying to his head to bury your fingers in his curls.
“fuck, baby,” your back arches into him, seeking more, his hand playing with your other breast.
sammy pulls off with a wet pop, eyes meeting your own as he shuffles down between your legs. “so gorgeous, y'know that? my gorgeous wife, sleeping all pretty and naked in our bed, christ, you drive me crazy.”
“you knew what you were doing, honey, didn't you?” he says as he kisses your thighs, ignoring the place where you desperately need him, “knew i was gonna come in and see you like this, and you were gonna get what you want.”
“no, i promise! it was hot!” well, maybe you knew what you were doing, but sammy didn't need to know that.
“y'don't have to lie, you know i know when you do. i'll give you anythin' you want, won't even make you wait.”
pulling your panties off, sammy hooks your legs over his shoulders. true to his word, he doesn't make you wait any longer. his tongue licks a stripe up your cunt before fully burying his head between your thighs to devour you properly.
“fuck, sammy!” your head hits the pillow, back arching off the bed while he groans into you, his tongue coming up to your clit, flicking and swirling on the sensitive little nub.
sammy's hands leave your thighs to find yours, pulling them off the sheets you were fisting to intertwine your fingers with his. the act makes your heart warm.
with how hard you're squeezing your thighs around his head, you're surprised he's still breathing. but sammy's not letting up, instead he doubles down, his mouth is making a mess on you, both his spit and your wetness smearing everywhere.
he's moaning against you. in the midst of your pleasure, you barely notice the way sammy's humping his clothed cock against the mattress. you just look so pretty and sound so sweet, he can't help it!
“feels so good, sammy, ngh-”
it doesn't take long for that coil inside you to tighten and threaten to snap, not when your husband was devouring you like it was the last time he'll be able to taste you.
you almost scream when he slips two thick fingers inside you, curling them and pressing into that spot that makes you see stars. “im so close, please, please-”
“yeah, honey?” he murmurs against your pussy, “y'know what to do, don't you? if you wanna come,”
the death grip you have on sammy's fingers was surely cutting off circulation. “can- oh fuck! can i come, please, sammy, please?”
“good girl, honey, yeah you can come” he moans before sucking your clit into his mouth, fingers fucking into you faster.
you come with a loud cry of his name, hips lifting off the bed and thighs shaking, sammy keeps his fingers moving as the high washes over you.
and they don't stop.
“baby- too much, it's too much!” you whimper as the overstimulation creeps in.
you try to close your thighs around his hand but he beats you to it, the hand that was previously holding yours moving to force your leg down on the bed.
“nuh-uh, pretty, you're gonna gimme one more, okay?” though his voice is gentle, the command is there, and there's no way around it.
keeping the pace of his hand, sammy is over you again, mouthing at your chest, your neck, and up to your lips, tongue breaching in to meet yours.
you're moaning into his mouth, barely kissing back, as his fingers keep fucking into you, almost painfully now, but despite that, it still feels so damn good. sammy knows that, sees the way your hips move, chasing him.
seeing the tears threatening to spill from your pretty eyes has him grinding his cock into your thigh.
“come on, sweet girl, you can do it, can't you? i know you can 'cause you're my good girl.” he cooes against your lips.
the second orgasm crashes in with little to no warning.
sammy swallows your cries and whimpers as you come around his fingers for the second time.
“fuckkk, there ya go, honey, that's it..”
when he finally takes his fingers out, you're twitching and panting, eyes closed as you come down. you miss the way sammy takes his fingers into his mouth, sucking your juices off.
opening your eyes again, you grow aware of the sweat covering your body, wincing as you feel the dampness of the sheets under your back.
“m'all sweaty now” you grumble.
your husband chuckles, brushing his nose against yours, “m'sorry, honey.”
he plants a soft kiss on your lips and removes the stands of hair that stuck to your forehead due to sweat.
“gonna have to suck it up though 'cause we're not done yet.”
...on his sexy single neighbor that just moved in next-door to him and Tammi again and how just your presence has tormented this poor man day and night ever since.
it's not like he sees you that often. he started work pretty early and you did a pretty good job at mostly keeping to yourself, but the glimpses he did catch were enough to make him feel all flustered and ashamed of himself and his helplessly wandering eye.
because he can just tell you're trouble. you, in your sparkly flip flops and stupid cropped tube tops that let your tummy pudge peek over the hem of your too short denim miniskirt, plump ass bouncing and thigh fat jiggling as you walked your mean little dog (who hated Sammy with a passion); without a care in the world that he could see your chubby lovehandles begging to be squeezed or your perky nipples poking through your shirt. because of course you'd go braless, and of course Sammy looked despite him trying his best to ignore you and be a good husband.
Sammy Bryant was a weak little man who's eyes betrayed him any time you were around, really. zeroing in on any bit of exposed flesh you have busting out your tiny little outfits.
you're just a slut looking for attention, Tammi's words not his, and god does he give it to you.
when you show up at his door all pouty and looking worried sick, still in your nightie, claiming that your sink was leaking like crazy and you needed his help cause "it's wet alll over, Sammy please".
when your car shit the bed (a miracle your little fiat even held on that long) and you'd asked all syrupy sweet if Sammy could "take care of me, please Officer?".
even when your IKEA furniture came in and you needed "someone big and strong" like him to assemble it for you because you'd just gotten your nails done and couldn't afford breaking one.
and he'd willingly play along, frowning all unsure and going "eh…I dunno, sweetheart…" only to show up as soon as his wife was out of the house.
it was perfectly neighborly of him to help you, an upstanding member of his community. or at least that's what he reasoned with while he mowed your lawn on a hot-ass Sunday afternoon while Tammi was out of town.
all while trying his best to ignore how good you looked all splayed in your lawn-chair and little bikini, lips pursed around the straw of your fruity drink as your heated gaze raked over Sammy's buff, chubby body. the unforgiving July sun had made his white tee stick to his sweaty torso like saran, and you'd lapped up every detail like you'd owned him. his meaty, defined pecs, the outline of his belly pressing against the drenched fabric, the strain of his sleeves fighting against his flexing biceps…
Sammy couldn't possibly know you wanted him, but your looks were hungry, eyes voraciously gorging on every detail as he stopped mowing to stretch his back. his hand came up to wipe the beads of sweat dotting his brow and rolling down the side of his pink, plump cheeks. a small resigned sigh escaping him as he hesitantly tugged at the hem of his shirt.
"It's soooo hot…" you whine in your comfy seat in the shade, lower lip caught between your teeth in view of his thick triceps and back muscles flexing. good god was Sammy Bryant wide. built like an ox, broad shouldered and burly under a healthy layer of chub, and you wanted nothing more than to take a bite out of him. or three. "why don't you take your shirt off, honey?"
the suggestion seems to have hit a nerve, Sammy straightening up like a meerkat, his head whipping to your direction nervously. "wh-what?" he squeaks before clearing his throat. "i mean- i-…no, no i'm fine. no one wants to see the fat guy shirtless."
he doesn't understand why you look so confused at his self depreciating comment, brows pinched and nose ever so slightly scrunched as you slide off your seat and walk over to him. "That's mean, Sammy," you say, grasping the hem of his white tee to slowly peel the sticky, offending garment off his soft pudgy belly and broad chest. "I wanna see you shirtless." you admit to your married neighbor without a lick of shame. "'sides, it's hot out."
and what the fuck is he supposed to say to that except babble out a confused "thank you?" and ignore the pink flush moving from his cheeks down to his neck at record speed?
you giggle in response, clearly unfazed, or perhaps delighted, and reach up to squeeze his biceps. They're firm under your manicured fingers, a bulging vein jumping when you stroke it with your thumb. "You've got sooo many freckles!" you coo, the tips of your nails trailing down his chest like the world's horniest game of connect the dots. "Lemme get my sunscreen and I can do your back, yeah?"
any other man would probably have enough sense to push you off and hightail it to his home that he shares with his wife, but Sammy finds himself sat at the edge of your sun lounger with you kneeling behind him, almost trembling as you slather sunscreen on his freckled shoulders and back.
"Ooh..see, you're already turnin' pink, honey" you chirp, voice all sweet and bubbly. god, you sounded like you didn't have a care in the world, let alone worried that Tammi might catch you two. your hands take the opportunity to grope Sammy for all he's worth, naughty fingers grasping at his back muscles and sides with the excuse of "getting every inch!", even going as far as to pinch his love handles and laugh in his face when poor Sammy squeaks. "Goodness, you're jumpy officer!"
"Tammi…my wife…" Sammy starts, his protests melting into a soft whimper as you cup and knead his pecs, sunscreen forgotten.
"What about her?" you hum in return, peeking over his shoulder to look at his flushed face and puppydog eyes.
"Well.." Sammy starts, voice unsure "She won't be happy if you keep touchin' me like this, sweeth-heart," he stammers when you move down to rub down his pudgy belly, digits digging into the fat possessively. "Um…just worried, I guess. Don't want her to come fight you or-or something-"
you stop him in his tracks with a bold kiss to his shoulder, lipgloss staining the skin a glistening strawberry pink. it's completely out of order, a step far removed from your thus far mostly innocent flirting, and it makes Sammy's pulse thrum when he should be pushing you off.
"Oh I can handle Ms. Tammi, honey," you throw back, unperturbed by the possibility of Tammi rightfully getting in your face or even getting physical. "So you can tell her she's welcome to come over and try somethin'"
"Or," your purring voice is music to Sammy's ears as you lean in closer, breasts pressed to his bare back. "You can tell her to forget the dog and keep a tighter leash on her husband. Naughty thing keeps getting in my yard, officer." you look at his trembling lips, parted in anticipation of your own blanketing them, then back to those wide hazel eyes staring into yours before pulling back completely with another innocent giggle. "Now, how about some lemonade? i'm melting!"
Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Summer Barbie!Reader
WC: 6.6k
Summary: Dr. Robby has to clock in on your first vacation together, thanks to an overeager jellyfish.
Contains: 18+ MDNI, smut, p in v sex, oral (m and f receiving), dirty talk, sex on a boat <3, domestic dr robby, reader gets stung by jellyfish :( probably medical inaccuracies, very vaguely proofread and a horrifically rushed ending, lmk if i missed any!
A/N: divider from @/pxrce-lain ! pt. 2 of my summer barbie!series <3 i hope you guys love it! this can also be read as a standalone <3
Meet the Reader! | Series Masterlist | Part One
An early morning sun shines on a sparkling sea, the salt air flooding your senses through the open window. Rubbing sleep out of your eye, you flail your hand around the mattress, not entirely surprised at the lack of Robby that greeted you.
It's the second morning of your first vacation together, and you've already come to notice some new things about your boyfriend. For one, he's a morning person, even when he doesn't have to work. That. you'll never understand.
You glance at the digital clock on the wall, 8:47. Groaning, you stuff Robby's long abandoned pillow over your face. Still too damn early. The darkness that the cologne drenched cushion almost allows you to fall back asleep. The real Robby isn't so kind.
He lifts the pillow gently from your face, and you crack open an eye to see him giving you a sweet smile. You can't help but return it, eyes falling shut once more.
A quiet 'mmph!' escapes your lips as he presses a sweet kiss to them, the point of his long nose lodged against your cheek. Your hand finds the nape of his neck, keeping him there for a moment longer.
He gives you one, two, three more kisses as his hands find the bare skin of your thighs peeking out from your nightgown. His long fingers fiddle with the flimsy fabric, lifting it higher and higher until he exposes your panties, your tummy.
Your belly is warm, butterflies occupying the space as you squeeze your legs together. His touch is soft, and, for the most part, pretty innocent. He rubs his hand on your tummy, giving the plush skin there a little squeeze before placing another kiss to your lips.
"C'mon, angel," he says, punctuating with another pinch, now to your inner thigh. "Up, let's go."
With two sharp claps of his hands, he pushes the curtains wide open. This elicits a long groan from you, desperately attempting to save your sleepy state with two hands over your eyes. The cawing seagulls and bright light still manage to will away any hope of returning back to your former state, and you accept defeat.
You sit up, finally getting to take in your boyfriend. He's dressed for the day already, which, in Cape Cod, has been a strict uniform of unbuttoned shirts and swim shorts.
His round glasses frame his pretty, big eyes, a cup of coffee hiding the small smirk you still see as he takes a sip. Your heart skips at the sight, the sweet domesticity that a life with Robby provides.
Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you pad over to him. You wrap your arms around his generous waist, head planted firmly in his chest. His free hand finds your hair, still a bit mussed from your sleep, running his soothing fingers down your head.
"Good morning, angel," he whispers into your hair, and you mumble a greeting of your own into his body. He laughs at this, at how grumpy and tired you most definitely sound. He loves to tease you when you're tired, and unfortunately a beachside vacation is no exception.
"Coffee's still on, baby, left it for you in case," he mutters, giving you one more squeeze before letting go, making his way over to the little kitchenette. "Want cream and sugar?"
You nod, sliding onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Chin in hand, you admire how he flits around the kitchen, how pretty he looks painted by the early morning sun as he pours sugar into your mug.
"You're pretty," you mutter, and his head shoots up.
His brow is cocked, a small smirk lifting his lips.
"Yeah?" He asks. It's sarcastic, and you hate it. "Not as pretty as you, love bug."
He presses a sweet kiss to your head as he hands you the mug, your legs wrapping around him to keep him in place.
"Don't do that," you point a strict finger in his direction, the rest of them clutching the warm, pink mug. His brow raises, and you continue.
"Don't deflect," you clarify. "You love to do that. Makes me sad," you jut out your bottom lip to make your point, but he just kisses your pout away.
"How do you know me so well, baby?" He coos, question still laced with his dry, sardonic humor.
"Because," your gaze follows him throughout the small cottage, "I actually listen to what you say and pay attention to what you do."
He stops at this, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. You study him, what this might mean. It doesn't take long for you to conclude his face as a desperate plea to keep tears at bay.
Your heart cracks, still not entirely used to how sensitive Robby really is. His facade is strong, something that had you fooled, albeit very briefly, at the very beginning of your relationship.
At the end of the day, though, there's a small boy in there that just wants to be loved. It breaks your heart that it took him so long to find it, but you're grateful it gets to be you.
"Hey," you prompt, and it seems to help. He shakes his head a little, and you know he's trying to actually shake his thoughts away. "I love you, you know that, right?"
His familiar self-deprecating smile stretches across his face, and he refuses to make eye-contact. Still, he nods.
"Good," you hop off the stool, closing in on him with an intense gaze. "You're pretty. Now what do you say?" You ask, hooking a finger under his chin and dragging his gaze to meet yours.
"Thank you," he mumbles, cheeks pink and lips trembling.
"Yay!" You squeal, planting a sweet, sloppy kiss on him. "You're welcome!"
He barks out a sardonic laugh at the change in tone, rolling his now teary eyes at your devotion.
"Y'gotta stop making me cry, sweetheart, it's bad for the brand," he croaks, and you can't help but laugh yourself.
"Who told you about a brand?" You ask, wrapping your arms around him once again.
You both get lost in each other for a moment, lips ghosting over each other, noses grazing. Against your lips, though, he speaks.
"Dana did," he mumbles, and you can't help but laugh. "Her and Trinity. They told me everybody has a brand, said mine was 'grumpy old man who somehow bagged a woman way too pretty for him'."
His words are blanketed in finger quotations, and you rear your head back.
"What?!" You scoff. "You made that last part up, no way they said that."
"Oh, I'm serious, baby. Ask them the next time you come visit me. They'll be happy to relegate the information," he croons, placing a sweet kiss to your lips.
Your mind goes a bit hazy at his lips on yours, allowing him to swallow your senses for a brief moment in time. When his words really process, though, you quirk a brow.
"Wait, so, if that's your brand," you start, brows furrowed, hands on his chest as you pull away, "why am I bad for it? Is that not, like, exactly what has transpired this morning?"
He rolls his eyes at this, unable to hold back his. now genuine, smile. It sparks your own, and soon you're just smiling into each other, like two fools.
"See this?" He flits a finger between you. "This is what I mean. 'm not grumpy at all anymore," he slinks his arms around you as he talks, your chest pressing into his. "Got me smiling too much, baby," he grumbles, his nose dragging up and down your neck.
You close your eyes, fingers finding his scalp and giving him a soft scratch. He shivers at this, and you smile.
"Oh, I'm sooo sorry baby," you drawl. "Guess I'll just go make another man smile then."
You make a show out of walking away from him, but his fingers grip your wrist in record speed. He pulls you into him once again, your back to his chest, planting a kiss to your temple.
"Don't you fucking dare," he growls in your ear, and you shiver as he gives you one last pinch to your backside. "Get dressed, we're going on the boat."
-
When you'd arrived in Cape Cod three days ago, the first thing Robby did was rent a boat for the two of you. He's eager to show off his newly acquired boating license, and you're never one to turn down drinking on a boat.
Your wedge sandals clunk on the wooden dock of the marina. Robby's close behind, carrying your bags for the day. He's bogged down by a cooler, and both of your beach bags. You'd insisted on taking at least one thing, but he refused, his strong arms slinging them onto the parked boat.
You jut a hip out, leaning all your weight on it as your jaw goes slack. It's blatant, the way you ogle the little show he's putting on for you. He can deny all he wants, can make his cheeks flush that pretty pink that makes you weak in the knees, but deep down, he knows exactly what he's doing.
The drive on the water is a perfect sequel- his strong arms and large hands steering, his effortless leadership butterfly inducing. About halfway to your "surprise destination"- his words- he turns his head to rest on his shoulder.
"I can feel your eyes burning a hole in the back of my head," he teases, and you scoff in faux-annoyance.
"Am not!" You chirp, standing from your spot to stand behind him, resting your hands on his shoulders.
He reaches back, offering a hand to you, keeping the other on the wheel. Your smile is large as you enclose both of your own around it, bringing it to your mouth for a sweet kiss.
"Are too!" He bites, returning the favor.
"It's not my fault I have a hot boyfriend," you murmur, pressing your cheek into his shoulder.
He tenses a little at this, and you squeeze his hand. This helps, but he continues the rest of the ride in silence.
He parks the boat in a secluded little cove, the perfect amount of sunlight peeking through. He's beautiful in this light, it breaks your heart he doesn't see it.
He moves from the driver's seat, going down the few steps to grab a bottle of wine in the little drink fridge. You're about two sips in when you start to feel it between your legs, a blooming heat that Robby is doing nothing to quell.
He's leaning on his two palms, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, tummy on full display. It's mouthwatering, damn near pornographic.
With another big gulp, you mount your steed, thighs encasing his own, hands resting on his shoulders.
He's a bit surprised by this, setting his own glass down and clutching your waist in his hands. His eyes are wide, but excited, genuine. A light laugh escapes him, too. Your heart flutters.
"Oh- hi honey!" He coos, a sweet smile on his face. "How's the weather up there?"
You laugh at the dad joke, sinking your weight fully onto him. This knocks the wind out of his proverbial comedic sails— a groan erupts from his chest at your full weight, his cock already hardening.
"Hi, handsome," you drawl, scratching at his scruff with your nails.
He tenses again, averting his gaze. You don't let him escape you, following his gaze with your face.
"Hey," you press a quick peck to his lips. "Start with thank you, how about that?" Another kiss.
He blushes. "Thank you," he murmurs against your lips, pressing a short one to you now.
You kiss him deeper, then, and it takes him a moment to adjust. He does this, sometimes, like his body is still moving on touch starved autopilot, still not expecting your affection.
You've never once made him feel bad for this, pressing sweet kisses to his face as he warmed up, truly let himself go. It just makes you crazy that he's been made to be so guarded. You want to send the person responsible to that godforsaken ER of his.
Your hands slide down from his cheeks to his neck, his shoulders, finally pushing down the linen sleeves that have taunted you all morning. Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, your hands continue their journey down, down, down, halting at the swell of his tummy.
It's a necessary pit stop, reveling in the little gasp your touch elicits, and the moan that follows. Your lips follow in suit of your hands, sinking down in front of him, ass perched up as you pepper kisses over the skin there.
"Fuck," he whispers, reaching to grab your ass.
He's still a bit too gentle with you, still too closed off. You have more work to do, most definitely.
"When are you gonna believe how pretty you are, hm?" You ask, fingers tracing the waistband of his swimsuit.
Your lips are still hard at work, now lazily slugging over his skin, sinking your teeth in every now and again.
"Never-ah!" He jumps at a particularly hard bite. "Never been called that before you," he punctuates his confession by sinking his hands into your hair, tugging on your scalp a little.
This is good, he's letting a bit more of his inhibitions go. You're still not done.
"That's such a shame, honey," your coo, your lips now following your hands as they tug down his shorts.
Your mouth rests on his pubic bone, nose buried in the little hairs decorating the skin. You press more kisses into him, desperate to get your lips on any piece of him you can.
"Can I show you how pretty I think you are?" You ask, and he nearly whines out a 'yes'.
You reward him by grazing his balls with your nails, juggling them when he gasps. You don't break eye contact as you open your mouth around his head, tongue splaying on the underside of his cock.
He gasps, and you let him go with a little pop! A hand wrapping around his length, you bring his tip to your open mouth, smacking it against your tongue.
He groans, and you sink your mouth down on him. It's only halfway, as you're still working on taking all of him in one go.
It gets the job done all the same, punching a low moan from his chest as you hollow your cheeks. His hands sink in your hair, helping you take a bit more of him.
"Thaat's it," he breathes, his chest heaving. "Ooohhh, fuck, that's it, baby."
His free hand finds your ass once again, laying a harder smack this time. It spurs you on, finally taking him to the hilt. Tears prick your eyes as you let him stay there, taking deep breaths through your nose.
"Oh my God," he whines, bucking his hips up and down, up and down. He finds a rhythm soon enough, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each thrust.
He collapses after a few, but you maintain the pace, using your hands as an aide. His head hangs in bliss, and you reach a hand up his chest. You grip his skin, play with the hair there.
Swirling your tongue, you bring him all the way out once more, a string of spit connecting you to him. Selfishly, you take a moment to stare at it.
His tip is a deep red, his generous length curving upward. It's dripping, little beads of pre-cum adding to the mess. You circle your thumb around the tip, and he jerks his hips.
"Baby, baby. stop!" He gasps, and shoves your hand away. "That was…so good," he says between deep breaths. "Too good, didn't wanna cum yet," he remarks, laying you on your back now.
He unties your bikini top, lips attaching to the plush skin in record time. His kisses are sloppy, lazy even, reminiscent of the love you'd given his tummy. Your heart swells thinking about it, pushing your chest further into his face.
"So pretty, honey," he murmurs into your chest. "Love this body," he kneads your skin in his hands, leaving little slaps every so often. They don't hurt, they're not mean. Just little reminders of his love, in his own, special, fucked-up-Robby-way.
You preen, leaning into them with an open heart- and open legs, but that's neither here nor there- before he moves lower down your body. His lips make a trail down your own tummy, leaving you with your own little marks by the time he's untying your bottoms.
He nearly cries at how wet you are, at how you flutter around nothing. He tells you so as he moves a finger up and down your folds.
"So pretty…" he coos, his fingertip catching on your clit. "Love how wet you are for me," he presses a kiss to your pussy at that. "Love how eager you are for it."
He sinks in the tip of his middle finger, making your hips jerk in his hold. His free hand pinches the skin there, another slap accompanying it. You whine, and he furrows his brow.
"Ooh, I'm sorry baby," he leans down, presses a kiss there. "I'm so mean, aren't I? Such a mean old man with his finger in your cunt."
You squeal at his words, carding your fingers through his hair. His cheek is resting on your tummy, gaze trained on how your pussy reacts to his fingers.
"Good girl," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your skin once he's knuckle-deep. "That's so good, so good for me, hm?"
You nod, and his mouth attaches to your clit.
"Michael!" You gasp, pulling on his hair.
He groans into your pussy at this, and you tug harder.
"I know, honey, so good, isn't it?" He asks, and you nod. "Tell me, honey," he pulls his finger out, only to thrust back in, ring finger now in tow. "Gotta hear words."
His free hand finds your mouth, thumb tugging at your lip. You wrap them around his digit, a gentle suck reminiscent of your earlier activities. He pulls his thumb out, pinching your cheeks in his big hand.
"It's so good," you splutter through pursed lips. "You're always so good, Mikey."
He dives back in at the nickname, tongue pressing flat against your clit as his fingers resume their work. You arch into him, wiggling your hips against his. He shushes you at that, pushing you down.
"Easy, easy, baby," he coos, placing sweet kisses to your clit, giving it a few kitten licks.
"Just so good, honey," you whine, and he groans into you. "Yes!" You squeal.
The vibrations tighten your stomach, a familiar bright heat growing with each thrust of his fingers. He wraps his lips around your clit, and sucks.
His fingers find your sweet spot, pressing into it again and again and again. The coil in your tummy twists even tighter, and you pat his head, his shoulders, desperate to tell him.
"I know, I know," he mumbles into you, pressing two sweet kisses before opening his mouth on you again. "Gonna cum for me?"
You nod, not caring if he can't see it.
"Gotta tell me, princess, you know how this works," he takes his fingers out, circling your opening to tease you.
"Mikeyyy!" You draw out, kicking your leg up and letting it fall on his back.
He slaps your thigh at this, and you can't help but kick again, another squeal leaking from your lips.
"Hey!" You whine, tears burning your eyes as he continues his merciless teasing.
"Are you gonna tell me what I wanna hear or are we gonna stop? Your choice, princess," he rests his chin on your mound, wide eyes looking up into you.
You whine, letting your head fall back in defeat.
"Please make me cum, Michael, I wanna cum on your fingers so, so badly," you wiggle your hips, his absence already unbearable. You're surprised you'd made it that long, actually. "Please, I'm so wet," you beg, your voice watery. "It's all for you, Mikey."
"Ooh, poor baby," he wraps his lips around your clit again, and you almost scream. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he inserts his fingers back where they belong, and tears stream down your face. "Didn't mean to make you beg so much, you know you always have me, you know that, right?"
"Of course," you mutter between deep breaths, knowing he'll stop if you don't use your words.
"Good girl," he murmurs against you. "Always got me, okay? Any time you want, you have my fingers, my tongue, my cock."
You're teetering the edge at his words, your entire body tensing up.
"Gonna give you that last one next, hm?" He asks, and you grow even tighter around him. "Ooh! You like that idea, huh?" He mocks, and you wail. "Like the idea of getting pounded by my cock after stretching you out on my fingers?"
This does it, the coil snapping, shockwaves rippling over you as his mouth refuses to let up. Trails of fire speed up and down your veins, warming you from the inside out.
You dissolve into the pleasure, putty in his hands as he helps you through it, the waves ebbing as you go.
"Good job, wooow, look at all that, good job," he whispers, pulling his fingers out, only to collect your release, and push it back inside you. His tongue nearly lolls out of his mouth as he watches it seep out of you again, bringing his fingers to his mouth.
"Great job, princess, feel good?" He asks, and you nod.
"Yes, Mikey," you whine, and he hums in approval. "Thank you."
He settles on top of you, and your arms wrap around his neck in greeting.
"Hi, honey," he smiles. "Never gotta thank me, okay?" You nod, and he lets you get away with it this time. "Always wanna make my girl feel good, yeah?" He lines himself up with your entrance as he speaks. "It's my job, 'm not being a proper boyfriend if I can't make you cum."
With that, he sinks his tip in. You both freeze, just for a moment, jaws slack, eyes wide and boring into each other's. You're tense, shivering a bit, even, as he continues to bully his thick length into you.
"God," he groans, eyes trained on where you meet. "Doesn't even matter how much I stretch you out, 's always hard to take me, isn't it?"
You nod, tears springing up once again as he sinks in even deeper.
"Yes! God you're so big, it's always so much," you whisper, planting your feet flat on the floor so he can spread your knees even wider.
"Yeah?" He whines, bottoming out inside you. "Always so big, hm? I'm sorry, honey, sorry that it makes you so dumb, that I can see it in your tummy right now, that it's gonna make you scream and shake and cum."
You're speechless, your body following suit, as if it could hear him. Your legs begin to tremble around him, a shit eating grin on his face when he feels it.
"Already so close? Fuck," he throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as he pulls out, and thrusts in. "I absolutely love how desperate you are for me, y'know that?"
You nod, displaying your widest, prettiest eyes. He bites his lip, picking up his speed, only a little. The pace is torturous— long, slow drags of his hips against yours.
"I love you, Mikey," you whimper, bottom lip jutting out.
He rolls his eyes, biting back another wide grin.
"I love you, too, princess," he lifts your legs over his shoulder as he talks. "Even when you pout to get what you want."
It's only when you whine, paw at his chest that he fucks you in full, the way he knows you like it. Butterflies bloom in your tummy as he slides in and out, in and out, your orgasm sizzling deep within you.
There's a wet slide as he moves, and your cheeks heat up. Plopping your palms on your face, you receive a slap to the outer thigh.
"Look at me," he pleads— not strict, but desperate, almost wanton. You open your eyes to find his shiny, but bright all the same. "There she is," he coos. "Prettiest girl in the entire fucking world and I get to put my dick in her," he picks up his speed at his words, bliss taking over.
"Michael!" You squeal. "You're so filthy."
"You love it," he mutters, hips unstoppable as he continues to pound you.
You tighten around him, and this catches his attention. He stops, thrusting all the way in and staying there. The friction of the hair littering his pubic bone against your clit sends electricity flying through you, your release just out of reach.
"God, please!" You wail, grasping at his biceps.
"Not God, just Michael," he jokes, picking up his hips again.
"You're the worst," you roll your eyes, a big smile on your face.
He leans down, his thrusts are once more ruthless, maybe even more so than before, as he plants a sloppy kiss to your lips.
"Let go, baby," he encourages, sneaking a thumb to your clit. "You can do it, c'mon, I'd be so proud of you."
This does it, and you arch off the floor of the boat, into his chest as white noise takes over. Time stops, your head falling back as your orgasm rips through you.
It's electric, lightning bursting through you with each shockwave. The ripples soon slow, but the bliss you feel is still intense.
"God, it's still going, isn't it?" He huffs out a laugh.
You nod, completely lost in it and uncaring of how desperate you look. He kisses you at this, muttering how he's 'so fucking close, just keep being good for me.'
You nearly dissolve into the pleasure, Robby's thrusts growing sloppy, his own release not too far behind.
Coming down around him, your pussy flutters as he pistons inside of you, throbbing with the threat of his own release. Gripping his bicep, you reach your lips up to his ear to whisper sweet nothings.
"You got it, Mikey," you press a kiss to his lobe. "I love you so much, you always make me feel so good," a kiss to his neck. "Taking me on a fancy trip," another kiss, "driving me around on this boat," and another. "God, you looked so fucking hot behind the wheel of this thing, I almost couldn't wait till we got here."
That does it for him, a guttural groan escaping his chest as you feel him twitch, his hips stilling against yours as he spills himself inside you.
Scraping your nails up and down his biceps, you revel in his goosebumps as he shakes and shivers and moans.
"Good job," you whisper, and he nearly sobs. "I'm so proud of you, Mikey, love you so much."
Another cry wracks his body, and you rub your hands up and down his skin as he collapses into you. Dampness floods your neck, as well as little kisses he presses there.
"I hope these are happy tears," you say, pulling his face back so you can really see him.
He's teary, as expected, but he's also…lighter. He's smiling, a carefree one that takes over his whole face. It prompts your own, and you bring your mouth to him, kissing him slow and sweet.
"I love you," he mutters against you, sliding out slowly.
You whine at the loss, making grabby hands for him as he sits back on his haunches.
"Sorry, princess," he coos, extending a hand to you. "Gotta get you cleaned up, hm?"
You shake your head, not quite ready to leave this little reprieve you guys have created for yourself.
"Nuh-uh," he insists, giving you one last swat to the thigh. "C'mon, gotta go pee, honey."
He scoops you up, clutching your trembling form to his chest as he carries you down the little steps, into the teeny bathroom. He's not far as you clean yourself up, reveling in the proximity.
Your legs are soupy as you climb up the steps, Robby not far behind. His hands splay against your backside to help prop you up, or so he says.
To your delighted surprise, he's even packed a little lunch for you two— something light, to accommodate your desire to go swimming.
He forces you to wait 30 minutes after eating, rolling his eyes when you insist that theory has been debunked. You pretend to mind, pretend to be annoyed at the extra time you get with his hand on your belly, your back to his chest.
You don't get a lot of time like this when you're home, the school year and hospital typically in full swing. Leaning your head on his shoulder, you tell him this, how thankful you are to have this time with him.
"You're sweet, princess," he coos, rubbing his nose against yours, pressing a chaste kiss there, too. "We can do this more often, y'know."
You sit up a bit, turning toward him with big eyes.
"Mikey, you know I won't be able to afford that. I can't ask you to spend all this on me more than once, I already feel bad enough about this trip as is," you say, and he just waves a hand.
"Please," he insists. "I haven't had anyone to dote on, I don't think ever," he confesses. It roils through you, like it always does when he opens up more of himself, of his lonely past. "I want to, would you let me if I said I really want to?"
You secede, nodding your head and settling back into him.
"I guess so," you mutter, hands gripping his forearm that's wrapped around your body.
"Mainly, I just want to see you in a bikini more," he jokes, and you slap his bicep. "And fuck on a boat again. That cannot be the only time we do that."
Your laughter launches you from him, back arching off his chest. Flopping on him, you see his own smile in your periphery.
"No, I'd have to agree there," you muse, looking around at him. "That can't be the only time."
"It was too good…" he trails off, his fingers skimming the waistband of your swimsuit.
He doesn't get far, though, as your fingers wrap around his wrist, halting him in his tracks. You turn to him to see a little pout, and you kiss it off.
"Nice try, horn dog," you roll your eyes playfully, standing up to make sure he gets a good view of your ass in his face. "Come on!" You twist at the waist, looking down at him. "I still want to swim!"
Without waiting, you jump off the boat, swimming out of the cove and into the large body of water you've parked in. The cool water rushes through you like a drug, your veins coming back to life in the brutal summer heat.
He's not too far behind you, and you're eager to cling to him. Wrapping all your limbs around him, you're like a koala as he takes you two further out, the boat getting smaller in your line of vision.
He's hesitant to let you go, careful as he does so. With a soft push, you float backwards, kicking your feet and paddling your arms.
It's then that you feel it— a sharp, burning pain along the expanse of your shin. You squeal, unable to control the guttural noise ripping from your throat, the tears that spring to your eyes.
Robby moves immediately, his shift into 'doctor mode' practically visible at this point. He's got you in no time, shushing your cries and smoothing your hair over with his hand as he holds your face in his hands.
"What is it, sweet pea? What hurts?" His eyes are worried, scanning all over your body to find the cause of your tears.
"My leg," you croak, lips trembling with more tears.
He wraps his arms around you in record time, lifting your leg out of the water. Lo and behold, an iridescent blue is sticking to your skin— an unfortunately beautiful creature pumping its venom into you.
"Ohhh, angel, I got you, let me peel it off, okay? Might hurt," he coos, ensuring each tentacle and needle is as removed as possible. "There's still a bit more in the skin, baby, let's get back to the boat and I'll take care of it, okay?"
You nod, thanking whatever powers are above for giving you a doctor boyfriend.
"Good girl," he croons, and you just cry more.
A gentle hand lowers your leg into the water once more, another rush of pain sweeping through you.
"Oww," you whine, squeezing Robby's hand. "Michael, 't hurts."
He's nearly tearing up at your words, working overtime to get you back to the boat.
"I know, angel," he affirms, "but the saltwater is good for it. It'll kill the venom."
You trust him, you think you'd follow him to hell if he said it'd take the pain away.
"It hurts so bad, Mikey," you whine, nearly lifeless as he helps you onto the boat.
Once you're on flat feet, it's an immediate collapse. Robby's quick to protect your head, a gentle hand coming up behind your neck and lowering you the rest of the way down.
"You're okay, you're okay," he whispers, and you can't stop crying. "I'm gonna go get the first aid kit, I'll be right back, okay?"
You nod, biting your lip. Fear fills you as you watch him disappear, but you already feel clingy enough. You let him go.
Thankfully, you're just dramatic, and he returns in record speed with a white plastic box. Propping it open, he finds a pair of tweezers.
"I'm gonna pick out the rest of the needles, and then we're going straight back to the cottage, got it?" He instructs, and you nod, feeling like one of his interns.
It hits you, then, that he's essentially had to clock in on vacation. More tears spill, a shaky cry accompanying your woe.
"What is it, honey?" He murmurs, thoughtful, but concentrated. "Talk to me, does it hurt?"
"No," you blubber, hiding your face with your hands. "I'm making you work. I'm so sorry."
Your apology is punctuated with a few more cries, and he lifts the tweezers from your shaking frame.
"Hey, hey, hey, sweetie, deep breaths," he mimics what he'd like you to do, and you follow suit. "Can't help you if you're fussy," he resumes his work, but keeps talking to you. "I don't want you to worry about me, baby. I'd take care of you if it was the apocalypse and a zombie was actively eating me. This is nothing compared to that!"
You laugh at this, watery but light. It triggers his own smile, and a smooth, 'there's my girl.'
He speeds a bit on your way back, your leg propped in his lap so he can 'keep an eye on it'. Docking at the marina, he runs you to the cottage with an efficiency that only comes with 25 years in an emergency room.
You fluff his hair with your fingers as he carries you, prompting a little look from him.
"I love you," you sigh, resting your head on his shoulder.
"Feeling's mutual," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips and kicking the door open.
He sets you on the couch, leg extended while he puts a pot of water on the stove.
"Okay, now that we're back, we need to immerse it in boiling water, and hit it with some vinegar. I'm going to get a rag for the water, okay? Don't wanna burn you even more," he assures at your wide eyes.
You nod, still unsure, and he kneels down to your eye level.
"You're gonna be okay, do you hear me?" He asks, and you can only nod again. "You know that's not what I want," he growls, and you tear up again.
"I understand," you croak, and he tugs on your bottom lip with his thumb.
"Good girl," he praises, moving to the stove once more.
"Are you sure you're not upset? I totally ruined our day," you mutter, looking to your lap in shame.
"Baby, you didn't ruin anything, it was that damn jellyfish," he laughs, moving the now bubbling pot to a different burner.
Dunking a rag in it, he holds his free hand underneath as he brings it over to you.
"This is gonna be really hot, okay?" He looks up at you for confirmation, and offers you his hand. "Here, squeeze if it gets really bad."
You do, a sharp, prickly burn pumping up and down your limb at the touch. Sucking air in between your teeth, your head falls back onto the arm of the couch.
"Mikeyyy," you whine, and he kisses your injury-free leg.
"You got it, it's okay," he coos, dabbing the rag once, twice, before going to get more water.
"Gotta kill the venom, baby," he informs, resuming his previous work.
"But it hurts!" You kick your good foot, and he holds it down with his hand.
"Do you wanna try that again?" He asks, and you immediately shake your head no. "I know it hurts, princess, just gotta be a little patient, okay?"
Tears prick your eyes again as he continues to work, leaving the hot cloth around your skin while he wanders back into the kitchen.
He returns with vinegar and cotton pads, the application near immediate. It stings again, this time, surprisingly, is worse than before. You wince, doing your best not to kick and cry.
"Yeah, I know honey. It's killing that venom, baby, it's helping. I know, I know," his coos are endless, and the tears spill anyway.
"We smell like salad now," you whine, as he reaches into his emergency bag for hydrocortisone cream.
He laughs, gentle fingers applying the ointment to your still-burning skin.
"That's okay," he murmurs, still concentrated on you. "I'd rather smell like salad than let you get an infection, or worse."
You shudder at the thought, tears finally subsiding as he puts all his materials away. He plops down next to you, your bad leg up on his lap. He strokes the top of your foot, up to your ankle, stopping just below the injury.
"Are you okay, angel? That was scary, huh?" He asks, free hand smoothing over your cheek.
You nuzzle into him, eyes closing as he pinches your skin.
"Yeah, hurt really bad," you grip his forearm with both hands, giving him your prettiest eyes.
They work every time, and now is no different. He pouts, cooing as he pinches your cheek even harder, leaning over to press a kiss on the afflicted skin.
"You did so good, sweet pea, so brave," he praises, and you let it wash over you.
You feel the cortisol and adrenaline flush from your body, your heart rate returning to normal.
A moment's silence falls over you, like a blanket on a chilly night. Your eyes drift shut, already tuckered out from today's fiasco. How Robby does this everyday, you think, you have no idea.
Your thoughts are interrupted, though, by a low growl coming from deep in your belly. Robby laughs at this, his hand squeezing your tummy next.
"Hungry?" He asks, and you nod, eyes still closed. He reaches in his pocket, fishing out his phone. "We're getting pizza. Sound good?"
uhhh omega reader who really really really likes könig
you admire him so much, this absolute unit of a man, a colonel, who sometimes will look at you with a soft look, almost like he thinks you’re nice or maybe like he enjoys your company
the fucking size of him, his scent, the way he grunts freely in the gym when he trains, the way his shirts are always tight around his shoulders and the way sweat drips on his skin, fuck
the way his eyes look behind his mask and his incredibly soothing and warm voice, except for when he’s barking out orders for his fellow soldiers, or when he’s debriefing people for the next mission, but still so fucking attractive, it rubs your brain a certain way and you always feel your heart skipping a beat when he yells
what könig doesn’t know is that sometimes you steal his clothes, you just- you need them! they smell so much like him and his scent is both so deeply comforting and raw alpha that every time you take a whiff of it it’s like he’s right there with you, holding you in his arms, thick muscles flexing as he touches you, rough hand slowly, so slowly going south until it meets your pants, his voice right against your ear as he whispers depraved words-
you used to do it once a month, scurrying into his private bedroom and grabbing whatever you could, a shirt, a hoodie, his hood, some underwear
but lately you’ve been getting needier and needier, it’s been three weeks and once a week you would sneak in his room and grab some clothing article
what you weren’t expecting was könig walking into his room right as you were grabbing one of his shirts, one of the dirtiest and most covered in sweat, looking down at your kneeling figure with a little bit of surprise and curiosity
you panic, before he can speak a word you quickly grab a metal pole (why the fuck is there a metal pole close to his bed) and hit him on the head, effectively making him lose consciousness
you gasp as he hits the floor, pole clattering to the ground, hands snapping to cover your mouth as you stare at the unconscious man laying on the floor in front of you
you don’t know what else to do so you end up calling nikto and begging him to fucking help you, you’re going to die if könig wakes up in his own room, he’ll fucking kill you in the slowest and most painful way he can think of
nikto ends up helping you, pulls most of könig’s weight until the austrian behemoth is in your own room, tied up against the bed with chains that nikto pulls out of who knows where, and you thank him, tell him you’ll help him with his favorite boy after you have things under control, he just mumbles something about you ‘never having things under control’ before walking out of the room and leaving you alone with the source of your love
könig wakes up after a while to the noise of you mumbling to yourself, walking back and forth in your room, one hand at the back of your neck and the other against your mouth where you nibble at a nail in anxiety and worry, mumbling about needing to fix this before könig finds your stash of his clothes
well, könig thinks, you finally made a move after all his hard work at courting you, schatzi, guess he’ll just lay back and relax while you tire yourself
thinking about sitting on jack abbot’s thigh, lazily rolling your hips and leaning into his chest, just enough for stimulation but not enough to actually get anywhere.
jack’s wearing his dumb cargo pants, his work phone shoved in the pocket you’re currently sitting on. you learn rather quickly that jack (the old man he is) has his phone set to vibrate. you also learn that someone is very intent on getting a hold of him.
jack realizes his phone is trapped under you, undulating and grinding into the new sensation. grins when he discovers, yes, you are wanton enough to treat his vibrating phone like a pseudo sex toy, grinding harder every time a call or text comes through.
“i should probably get that.” he murmurs, not actually making any effort to dislodge you from his thigh. you just double down, arms around his neck, pussy directly on his dumb cargo pants that you hate so much, clit catching on the rough fabric and the corner of his phone, chasing the periodic vibrations.
“gonna let me get that baby?” he teases, grabbing your hips to lift you up. you retaliate by sinking your teeth into his shoulder, fighting his grip to get your wet cunt back on his thigh.
“oh, she’s feral today,” he comments, smacking your ass once in response to the bite - jack knows it’s gonna leave a mark.
you don’t even react, focused on wiggling your way back down onto his thigh and phone, which is still vibrating through his pants. you were so close, and jack is being so mean, making you hover over the embarrassingly large wet spot you left behind.
“you’re gonna water log my phone,” jack notes, following your eyes to the wet patch. “gonna have to stick it in rice after this. how am i gonna explain to IT that my work phone is broken? tell them it’s because i have a very demanding little girl at home with the world’s wettest cunt? and that she sat on my phone like a little slut, using the vibrations to get off?” jack paused, grinning at the long whine you made, embarrassed and turned on by the idea, hips still wiggling. “is that what i’m gonna have to tell them?”
you don’t respond, mainly because you’re not sure if you can form words at this point, and finally win the war against his grip to drop back down to his thigh, cunt once again pressed hard onto the cargo pocket. you immediately start humping, only further proving jack’s point. you don’t care - you’re so close.
jack leans forward, stubble brushing your ear as he growls, “maybe i should make you tell them. call them and apologize for ruining my phone with your wet, selfish cunt. what do you think about that?”
you come - embarrassingly hard, hips stuttering against him as you continue to soak his pants, vaguely aware that jack is cooing and encouraging you as you do so.
“atta girl, so easy for me. coming just from a few calls and texts from robby,” jack rubs your back, letting you collapse into his shoulder, bright with embarrassment and exhaustion.
after a couple of minutes, jack works his hand into his pocket, slowly removing his phone, making a point to wipe the sheen off on his shirt before checking it.
“hm. lucky girl. robby said they got a hold of shen,”jack tips your chin up so you look at him, stupid smirk on his face, “he apologizes for all the calls.”
Jack Abbot who gets a text from pregnant!reader telling him that her water broke and her sister is driving her to the hospital. He does a sexy, cowboy like howl of excitement that startles a half asleep Santos, and exclaims to EVERYONE in the emergency room, “My baby’s having my baby!!!” And fucking yeehaws up to Labor and Delivery with the overnight bag he’s had ready in his work locker for over a month - the same place he keeps every ultrasound you’ve had throughout your pregnancy, taped on the inside door to look at when he needs hope during a rough shift 🥹
summary: After Richter won't leave your side while you're sick with a stomach bug, some google searching says you might not be sick at all. And when you tell Sammy your family might be growing from three to four, he falls head over heels for you all over again.
warnings: all fluff; pregnancy, mentions of throwing up and being sick, no tammy!au, Richter is part of the fam, Sammy being the sweetest. sigh... I have a thing for big men in uniform and their troublemaker dogs.
notes: it's baby fever central over here. this was supposed to be a drabble but somehow it kept getting longer and longer lol.
It's late afternoon. The lazy kind where the television is playing softly, something you're not really paying attention to. The windows of the house are all open, letting in the warm breeze and sunlight.
You're on the couch relaxing, trying to take it easy and hopefully rid yourself of the stomach bug that had been plaguing you the past few weeks. An off and on sickness that left you feeling lethargic and zapped of all your energy, vomiting like this was some lame rendition of the exorcist.
Your legs are propped up on the extra couch pillows, Richter laying between them. The dog's wet nose presses against your palm as you scratch his ears, snout burrowing into your side as he whines. You sigh, a tired you’ve never known settling into your aching limbs.
“We're a sorry pair today, huh,” you scratch the top of Richter’s furry head. The dog replies with a sneeze. You cringe, turning away as your stomach churns. “That’s gross buddy.”
The tv keeps playing, some romcom Sammy had rented along with the big stack of other cheesy movies he'd gotten from Blockbuster in the hopes of keeping your spirits up. He's been really worried about you lately, constantly giving you a sympathetic pout or feeling your forehead with the back of his hand to make sure you're not burning up.
It was strange.
Whatever bug you'd caught wasn't like the typical cold you've had before. It left you feeling sick and exhausted, but there was no outward symptoms besides the vomit. No fever or snot or sore throat. Just an upset stomach and an exhaustion that made you want nothing more than to curl up in Sammy’s arms and sleep the day away.
From the coffee table, your phone rings, Richter’s ears perking up as he turns to look at it. You reach over for your baby pink Nokia buzzing against the surface. The muscles in your arms ache in spite of you having done nothing much all day, fingers tingling as they brush the vibrating object.
You finally get a hold of it, leaning on your elbow as you flip the phone open, pressing the accept button. You hear the click of the line opening, Richter’s paws digging into your thigh as you shift on the couch.
“Hey,” you yawn into the phone, already knowing who's on the other end of the line.
“Hey. You doing okay?” Sammy’s soft voice crackles. You can practically picture your husband, leaning behind some filing cabinet, hiding from Nate who's probably got a hundred case files to sort through.
“I’m okay,” you hum, settling back into the couch.
“Still not feeling good?”
“Eh,” you shrug, watching Richter adjust his snout against your thigh. “It's a bit better. I managed to keep down some crackers this morning.”
“That's good,” Sammy says into the phone, not doing a good job of masking the worry in his voice. “You sure you don't want me to come home for lunch? Just to check on you?”
“No no. It's okay, really.”
“I can. I’ll bring you that chicken noodle soup from the grandma’s diner down the street.” You groan, stomach churning at the thought of the greasy diner food Sammy often frequented.
“Oh gosh, don't even mention chicken.”
“No?”
“No. Bleh,” you shiver, feeling sick just at the thought of meat. “That does not sound appealing. At. All.”
“Okay, alright.” You can hear the amused smile in his voice. You sigh, scratching Richter’s furry head again.
“How's your day been?”
“Oh,” Sammy sighs, his tone shifting more seriously. “You know. Just another day in paradise over here.”
“I’m sorry,” you frown.
“It's okay. We got a bad drug deal case we're working on right now. It's a mess.”
“That sounds awful."
“Yeah… You sure you don't want me to come home?” You smile.
“What, is Nate giving you a hard time over there?”
“Nah. But I’d happily spend the rest of the day taking care of you than going through these records.”
“Aw, Sammy,” you grin. “I love being your scapegoat.” He laughs with you.
“But really, I’m okay. Richter’s keeping me company. Won't leave me alone actually.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He practically breaks down the door when I try and pee.”
“Huh,” Sammy huffs into the line. “Weird.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Richter hadn't exactly been the chill dog he was acting like when Sammy had first brought him home.
He'd been wary of you, barking when you wore certain perfume, chewing up your favorite pair of shoes. Constantly butting against your calf in need of attention, barking defensively when given said attention.
Sammy had told you he'd get used to domestic life. That after years of always being alert, the dog was probably unsettled by the quiet and calm of your home.
The dog had definitely adjusted, practically singing a new tune not long before you first got sick.
From the other side of the line, you can hear a voice calling Sammy’s name. There's a rustling, voices muffled as Sammy covers the receiver and then a loud clang of a drawer
“Sammy?” You frown.
“Hey sweetheart, sorry. Listen, I gotta go. Nate just got a call we've been waiting for.”
“That's okay. Thanks for checking on me.”
“Of course. Got to make sure my girl’s doing okay.”
“I’m fine. Now go crack that case detective Bryant.” Sammy laughs.
“Alright. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
The line clicks and you shut your phone closed with a tired groan. Richter makes a noise, a low whine vibrating against your leg. He almost sounded worried, big brown eyes watching you. You smile, patting his head.
The contents of the fridge stare at you mockingly and you shut the door with a groan. Nothing sounded appetizing or even remotely appealing.
If you were being honest, you could really go for a fat slice of cherry pie with melty french vanilla icecream. Specifically the pie the wife of one of Sammy’s detective buddies brought to a function last year.
But the sugar would probably do you in further, if you were being honest.
You pout, opening up the same cabinets you'd been looking at for the past week.
The same boxes of cereal and pasta and random snacks Sammy brought home. They all rested on the shelves with mockingly bright packages and names that sounded delicious, but made you sick to even think of biting into. You huff, leaning against the counter, your already small energy levels diminishing as you stand around the kitchen.
Richter is right there at your calves, tongue lolling as he looks up at you expectantly. You smile at him, grabbing the bag of dog treats on the counter and tossing him one. He scarfs it down, lips smacking over his pointy canines, immediately going back to watching you. You snort and shake your head.
“What is with you lately Richter?”
The dog just watches you. You sigh, rubbing your forehead with frustration.
“I swear this is not what I meant when I said I was thinking about losing some weight.” Richter barks, and you nod. “Right. I’d rather run a mile than have to throw up again.”
You sigh tiredly, just wishing your stomach would settle enough to eat something. Anything. Nothing sounded good. Not between the disgusting smell the leftover steak and macaroni was giving off in the fridge and the sheer desire for that stupid cherry pie you were feeling.
You wander over to the fridge again, opening it to the same disappointment you were greeted with like the last three times. The sound of Richter’s nails against the tile follows you again and you glance at him.
“What is with you, huh? You’re acting all clingy. What am I dying…”
Your laughter trails off as you pause. Richter looks up at you, tongue still lolling happily. You stand there frozen, a sudden worry carving its way through your heart.
Something Sammy has said to you once about K-9 dogs and training their smell.
“You know they’re training dogs for all kinds of stuff too. Not just drugs.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know. Cancer and health stuff. Heard they’re trying to catch illness early.”
“Wow. That’s crazy. Can Richter smell that stuff?”
“Dunno. His sniffer is a little on the fritz. S’ why he retired.”
“He still knows when dinner is ready.”
“That’s just cause your cooking is great hun.”
“Aw, Sammy-”
Richter’s wet nose bumps against your shin, bringing you back to the present. Your mouth is dry when you try to swallow. The dog looks up at you, eyes big and wide.
Did he know something you didn’t?
The house feels too quiet, the desert neighborhood surrounding you less peaceful and more eerie. Suffocating at the thought something might be wrong. You crouch down beside Richter, hands fluffing the fur around his torso.
“Is there something wrong Richter?”
The dog doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t, dogs don’t talk. But the worry is making you feel nauseous again, and you don’t know if you can wait for Sammy to get home to have your worries quelled.
You stand up with a quiet grunt, trudging down the hall to Sammy’s office room, the dog right at your heels again. The sunlight shines in through the big room, painting the bookcases crammed full of binders and books in soft light, illuminating the messy and crowded desk Sammy was always complaining he needed to organize.
The boxy computer the station lent him fires up with a loud hum, the equally boxy housing system whirring at your feet. You settle into Sammy’s big office chair, the leather worn and comfy, smelling like your husband’s cologne. Richter spins, settling on the floor next to you, eyes still trained on your slouched frame. Like you would disappear.
You laugh in spite of your newfound worry.
The computer screen finally blinks to life and you straighten to attention, fingers clacking against the clicky keyboard. You fire up the search engine system, the big blocky GOOGLE appearing.
Your fingers quickly begin to input questions, your eyes scanning the results as they appear.
Dogs and throwing up.
Can dogs smell you being sick?
Dogs smelling illness.
Dogs and-
You pause as you read the third result.
Dogs and pregnancy.
The chair creaks as you lean back, like the result personally offended you.
Like the thought that crossed your mind wasn’t totally and completely crazy.
No.
That wasn’t… that couldn’t be.
You glance down at Richter who’d become very interested in sniffing at one of Sammy’s ties he’d left draped over the chair’s arm. You blink and click on the search bar again, your searches beginning to change. The hope settling in next to your fear becomes almost as overwhelming as the sick feeling still etched into the walls of your stomach.
Can dogs smell pregnancy?
The question was absurd considering you hadn’t even touched the possibility at all these past few weeks. Although now that the door had opened, it seemed almost the perfect explanation.
You rarely got sick in a normal year and never as bad as the past few weeks had been. Hormone pills weren’t exactly your favorite form of protection and Sammy had a bad habit of reassuring you he was the ‘gun drawing’ champ. Of course, you knew in the back of your head your less than consistent protection methods weren’t exactly full proof.
And maybe.
Just maybe.
There was a teeny tiny part of you that didn’t mind.
You and Sammy had talked about starting a family.
Plenty of times.
You’d watch diaper advertisements with a big smile or pass by little onesies in the store with longing glances. Sammy was always talking about the kids involved in his cases, how he often felt paternal over their situations. It was one of the first topics that had risen during those early stages of dating. There was no doubt that a baby was something you both wanted.
But you? Pregnant right now?
“I can’t be pregnant,” you laugh as you stare at the screen. “I mean that’s- that’s…”
You trail off, looking down at Richter. The dog is staring up at you again. Looking slightly bored as he chews on Sammy’s tie idly.
“It’s crazy Richter. I mean, don’t pregnant women get sick later in pregnancy. And doesn’t everything else get… bigger?” You gesture questioningly to your body. Still the same as it had been.
There was only one way to really tell. If you were spiraling or not.
You push away from the desk after shutting down Sammy’s computer, padding down the hall towards the bathroom. Richter barks, scrambling up onto his paws and following you.
He pushes through the ajar door as you begin rummaging through the toiletry basket beneath the sink, looking for the familiar pink box. The dog sits unashamedly at the door as you hurriedly toss the toilet lid open and make quick work of the pregnancy stick in your hand.
You set the test down on the counter and step back, waiting. It’s the longest three minutes of your life. The clock ticks mockingly slow, your eyes glued to the moving hands as you sit back on the toilet.
“It won’t be positive. It can’t.”
Richter’s tail flops against the bath mat as he sits patiently. Your leg bounces against the porcelain lid.
“I mean,” you chuckle, “It’s flu season. I probably just have a really bad case, y’know.” You look down at the dog. He doesn’t look all that impressed with your reasoning. You sigh and lean over to ruffle the scruff of his neck.
“What if it is positive Ricky? What am I gonna do?” Richter licks the palm of your hand, whining. “I know, I know. Sammy and I have talked about kids. We both want them. But he’s been so busy lately. And the economy is kinda in shambles right now and to bring a baby into all this…”
You trail off with a defeated sigh.
“I just don’t know.” Richter licks your forearm, like he’s trying to help. You smile, glancing up at the clock.
“Wel… it’s time.”
You stand and nervously look at the test, reaching out for it with shaky hands. The stick feels heavier than before. Like just knowing it now carried the results for your future made all the difference.
You swallow thickly, flipping it over-
Your heart sinks as you stare at it.
One pink line.
Your brows furrow, mouth pulling into a frown as you reach for the box, checking the instructions again.
“But I thought…” you trail off, the words lost as you stare at the test.
The negative test.
Richter stares up at you, waiting for you to say something else. But you don’t.
You’re not sure what you’re feeling right now. You should feel some semblance of relief. Weren’t you just saying a baby wasn’t exactly the best plan right now? Weren’t you just sick with the worry of what bringing a baby into the world right now would mean?
But something in your heart pulls, twisting into something resembling disappointment. The small and not so secret part of you that really did want a baby. In spite of all the trials it would bring and the aches and pains. You had actually been waiting to see that positive-
Richter whines, making you blink back to reality.
“I’m sorry boy. I just… I really thought....”
You shake your head, stuffing the test into the box and tossing it in the trashcan with a quiet clang. A chill runs down your back and you shiver, sighing as you realize how tired you felt, the sickness you were still dealing with not relenting.
“Come on Richter,” you gesture towards the living room, trying to pretend like you were fine. “Let’s go back and watch some tv.”
Everything was fine. It was fine.
A negative test was a good thing. Right?
You were just sick with the flu. Richter was finally adjusted to being a member of the Bryant household.
There was no baby.
But as you lay on the couch again, the dog settled against you comfortingly, your heart broke a little at the thought.
The house is dark as he quietly sneaks into the living room, the messy evidence of the day’s battle with your illness still strewn about the house. Sammy doesn’t even really have the heart to pick any of it up, the ache in his back pulling his mind towards his bed, the low rumbling of his empty stomach guiding him to the kitchen.
Sammy sets down his briefcase and coat, kicking off his shoes before he beelines it to the fridge. He pulls out the first container of leftovers he lays his eyes on, grabbing a piece of silverware from the dish rack.
He shovels a few bites of cold mac and cheese into his face while he stares blankly at the tiled backsplash. It’s so quiet in the house, rightly so for it being close to ten.
Although Sammy is surprised Richter hasn’t come running.
A little high strung and wary of any visitors, the dog is always the first one to check out who’s coming through the door. Sammy can see from his position against the kitchen counter that Richter is not in his dog bed like usual. The plush and cozy bed is empty, save for the chewed and abused rabbit toy you’d bought for him. The one with the leg chewed clean off.
Sammy’s too tired to dwell over it. He tosses the container back into the fridge, throwing back an alka seltzer tablet before he pads down the hall towards the bedroom.
The hardwood floor creaks beneath his weight, the soft moonlight illuminating through the half closed door. Sammy nudges the door open slowly, standing in the doorway for a moment as he loosens his tie, watching the rise and fall of your chest.
You were tucked cozily under the covers, Richter curled up against your backside. Sammy can’t help but smile at the sight, even if his heart hurt knowing you weren’t feeling good.
You barely move when he pads into the room, the soft smell of chamomile tea long gone cold filling the room, Richter’s soft snores making everything feel together. Stitched like a homey portrait; a scene of perfect domesticity, it made Sammy’s heart ache even more.
Because every night he got to come home to something soft and wonderful and so unlike the violence and horror his job threw at him day after day.
All the awful things LA tried so hard to hide, the awful aftermath of fights gone wrong, kids who didn’t know actions had consequences, people who just wanted to find a way out only to fall into the wrong hands.
But here.
Here in his bedroom, with a closet filled to the brim with your pretty skirts and his collection of mediocre suits, the bed with mismatched sheets and a cozy chair the two of you had found at an estate sale not too long ago.
Here, everything was as it should be.
Warm. Quiet. A kind of peace that couldn’t be tucked into concrete apartment complexes or busy freeways.
It was the heart of everything that Sammy loved about this place.
You.
Sammy smiles tiredly as he slips his belt off, setting it carefully on his nightstand so the holster didn’t clatter. He nudges Richter, trying to get the dog to wake, sighing when Richter just turns away from him, snuggling closer against you.
“Richter,” Sammy whispers, slipping the straps of his suspenders off his shoulders. “Hey, come on bud. No dog on the furniture, that’st he rule.”
Richter just puffs at the reminder, eyes glowing in the dark. Sammy makes a face, trying to tug at the dog’s collar. Sammy, as much as he loved the dog, had a hard rule about the animal sleeping in bed with the two of you. It was his job to keep you company at night, not the dogs.
But tonight, Richter didn’t budge.
In fact he growled lowly at Sammy, turning over further into you.
“Rick…” Sammy sighs. You mumble groggily into your pillow at the sound, your hand coming up to brush a strand of hair caught in your mouth.
“Sammy?” You whisper tiredly. Sammy’s face softens as the mattress dips beneath his weight, his hand reaching out to brush the hair away from your face.
“Hi baby. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers.
“S’ alright,” you blink, leaning into the kiss he presses against your cheek.
“You feeling okay?” Sammy asks. It was a casual question. Almost routine after you being sick for so long.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” There’s a pause in your voice. Almost imperceptible, but Sammy catches it. He frowns, noting the way the soft lines of your face almost look sad in the dark.
“You sure?” He asks, thumb brushing along your hairline comfortingly. You give him a smile, opening your arms wide in a silent request as you speak.
“I promise. Just missed you.” Sammy obliges, lowering himself into your arms, being careful to not crush you beneath his big frame.
“Yeah? I missed you too pretty girl.”
You hum, the sound vibrating against his chest. Sammy chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You turn your head away from him, eyes closed as you hum quietly again.
Peacefully. The content sound of everything being as it should be.
“You need a shower,” you whisper.
“Wow. That’s your best greeting?”
“I’m tired Sammy,” you chuckle. “It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs into your hairline. “Me too.”
“Well hurry up then,” you push him away, your hand lacking any real force. Sammy just shakes his head and peels himself away from you, giving Richter a resigned pat to the side.
The shower is cool against Sammy’s broad frame, refreshing after the hot LA sun. The water runs off of his freckled face and shoulders, washing away the grime and grim tension of the day’s events.
Sammy is hanging his towel on the rack, dried and changed into an old academy shirt and a clean pair of boxer shorts, when he accidentally knocks his watch off the sink. It falls in the space between the toilet, bouncing off the little trash can there.
Sammy grumbles, too tired to deal with it. But he does. It’s his only watch, the one you’d spent way too much money on as a gift for his 30th birthday.
Sammy crouches down, water droplet still dripping off his damp hair as he reaches for the watch. He pauses, his eye catching something in the trash.
A familiar looking box.
He pulls it out by the ripped cardboard flap, the flimsy material pressed between his index and middle finger.
It’s a pregnancy test box.
Of course it was, he’d recognize the magenta and pink box anywhere. It was hard to miss in your mostly drab bathroom. Sammy frowns, forgetting the watch for a moment as he fully pulls out the box, curiosity getting the better of him.
He can’t help but rifle through it, looking for the used test. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you to tell him these kinds of things. Of course he did.
But Sammy had a bad habit of sticking his nose into places it didn’t belong. Nate says it’s what made him a good detective. Curiosity helped find answers.
Save lives.
In this case, curiosity revealed that Sammy Bryant was about to be a father.
Sammy stares at the test, squinting at the double pink lines.
The second one was faint, barely glinting beneath the light. But it was there. Any semblance of being tired is zapped as he blinks at those two lines, his mouth falling agape in shock. You were pregnant?
Something clicks in Sammy’s mind. The sickness you’d been fighting. The way Richter had been acting. Like pieces of a puzzle finally laid into a full picture.
Sammy shakes his head, sitting back on his haunches.
But… you hadn’t said anything.
You hadn’t even given him a hint that something else might be happening. That you might be hiding this perfect little secret. In fact, you had almost seemed… sad.
Were you sad? Did you not want this?
Something tightens in Sammy’s chest, a hint of doubt. Maybe he should just ask you about it. The station’s couples counselor always says ‘communication is key’, and Sammy knows even the hardest conversations are part of maintaining a healthy relationship.
Sammy sits on the bathroom floor for a while, thinking, thumb tapping against his lip, leg bouncing nervously.
Nervous. He shouldn’t be nervous.
Who was Sammy kidding? He was practically buzzing at the idea of being a father.
Sammy finally grabs his watch, standing with the test and padding back down the hall to your bedroom. You let out a soft noise when Sammy gently prods your shoulder, head lulling against his forearm.
“What took you so long?” You mumble quietly, not opening your eyes.
“Honey… can we talk?” You crack your lashes open, blearily staring into the dark at him.
“Wha-” Sammy holds out the test.
He knows you can’t see it, eyes straining to focus in the dark. He reaches over for the lamp, giving you a quick apology as he flips the switch on, the room bathed in a soft orange glow. You moan, covering your eyes.
“Samuel-”
“I know, I know.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. But this is kinda important honey.”
You blink, sitting up in bed. Richter isn’t pleased as your legs jostle him, the dog puffing as he rolls over to Sammy’s side of the bed, legs splayed out over the comforter. You squint at Sammy, your hair mussed from sleep, licking your lips as you half glare at him.
“What’s so important?”
“This.” Sammy holds out the test for you.
“Oh,” you say, something sad crossing your face. “I was gonna tell you tomorrow.”
Sammy scoffs, a mixed sound of amusement and disbelief as you take the test from him.
“Tomorrow? You were gonna wait that long?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not like it’s gonna change anything.”
“Not gonna change… WHAT?!” Sammy half hisses, confusion written across his face. “What do you mean this isn’t gonna change anything. Of course it does.”
You frown, making a strange face.
“Sammy… what on earth are you talking about? It was a negative test, of course I wasn’t going to tell you about it at 11 at night.”
Oh.
You had taken the test earlier and it had been negative.
Oh.
Sammy bursts into bright laughter, the sound echoing off the walls. You don’t look even half as amused as him and Sammy doesn’t blame you at all. Not even when you try to push him away when he cups your face and presses a wet kiss to your face.
“Sam-”
“Honey, I think you need to check the test again.”
You pause, frowning.
You glance down at the test, squinting. Sammy watches, his smile brightening further the moment he knows you see it. Your eyes widen slightly, your hands quickly bringing the test beneath the light.
And there they were. Two pink lines.
“But…” you trail off, mouth searching for the words. “It wasn’t- these weren’t there before.”
Sammy grins, his hand reaching out to rest against your thigh.
“I think you’re pregnant, baby.” You don’t say anything, just stare at the lines. Sammy tries to catch your eye, but you refuse to look at him. He thinks you might be in shock. “Honey?”
Sammy shakes your thigh gently, finally drawing your attention.
“I don’t… I don’t even know what to say.” He frowns.
“Do you not want to-”
“No,” you interject before he can even finish the sentence. “No, of course I want a baby. I really do. It’s just- earlier when it was negative I thought something was wrong with me.”
“Oh, honey.” Sammy pulls you into his arms, your legs curling beneath you as you settle against him. “You’re okay. We’ll be okay.”
You look down at the test and then back up at him.
“What if it's a false positive? Those can happen.”
“They can?” He frowns.
“I mean, it wasn’t positive before. Maybe-”
“Well, just take another test. There’s no harm in that, is there?”
“Sammy,” you tilt your head. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Sammy smiles and kisses you softly.
“I’m always looking on the bright side of things honey. If it really truly is negative, then maybe it’s time we start trying.”
“Really?” Your eyes brighten.
“Really,” Sammy nods as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “I think it’s time for a baby.”
You smile brightly. You still look tired and exhausted from being sick all day. But you’re eyes are sparkling. And Sammy doesn’t think he’s ever loved you more than he does right now. At the prospect of you carrying his child.
Richter’s snout pokes between the space of your bodies and Sammy throws him a glare. The dog pushes him away from you, pressing his furry body against your torso. Sammy pouts.
“Although I really don’t think it’s negative, sweetheart.”
You laugh.
“I think he’s just nosey. Always needs to be a part of things, huh,” you scratch Richter’s ears fondly.
You stand in the front of the fridge, the door open as you stare.
But you’re not staring into the lit insides, the cold air seeping through the fabric of your dress. Your eyes are directed upward, glued to the ultrasound photo pinned to the metal surface by a giftshop magnet.
A baby.
Three positive tests and a doctor's appointment to confirm it.
Sammy reaches out to squeeze your hand on the fridge door, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he passes by you.
“You’re gonna waste the electricity just standing there baby.”
You hum in question, not really listening. Too busy thinking about the future baby Bryant and not enough about the cold bowl of cherries had come over to grab.
“What was that?” You ask dreamily.
“I said-”
Sammy turns back to you, going to repeat his statement. But he pauses, taking in how beautiful you look standing there. The slight glow you had, the pure and excited thrill that washes over him as he looks at you.
You were pregnant. He was going to be a dad.
You turn to look at Sammy, reaching into the fridge for the bowl of juicy, red fruit.
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.
Ormund discovers his wife’s secret journal, revealing your hidden desires. Your restrained marriage ignites into a fierce, intense connection as he claims you fully, blending passion, power, and vulnerability in a charged, private moment.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒; dark!ormund, possessive behaviour, explicit sexual content, this is intense and fuck, very, very much explicit, so minors dni.
I wrote this whilst waiting in court, do not blame me, I was bored.
Ormund Hightower did not mean to find it.
The library was his sanctuary, not yours. You preferred the gardens, the solar, the bathhouse with its steam curling against the stone—anywhere the books were not. And yet there it was, tucked between a crumbling copy of The Seven-Pointed Star and a history of the Conquest he had not opened in years.
A small leather-bound journal, soft from handling, smelling faintly of jasmine and something warmer beneath.
Your scent. He knew it the way he knew prayer.
He pulled the journal free and the spine fell open in his palm, as though it had been waiting for him. The pages were filled in your looping, impatient hand, you had never taken to the septa's lessons on penmanship, and he meant only to close it, to set it back, to forget he had ever held it.
Then he read the first line his eyes found.
I dreamt again of his hands. Not the careful ones he offers me at table, not the ones that brush my cheek like I might break. The others. The ones he keeps locked away when he thinks I am not looking.
His breath stopped in his chest.
He read on. He could not have stopped if the library had caught fire around him.
Tonight at supper he did not look at me once. Not once. He spoke of tariffs and the harvest and whether the new maester would arrive before winter, and I sat across from him and wanted him to push the plates aside and take me across the table like a man takes what is his. I wanted the wine to spill. I wanted to feel the wood against my back and his weight pressing me into it until I could not breathe for wanting him.
The words blurred. He blinked, and the ink sharpened again, merciless.
I have been his wife for two years and he has never—not once—
“Fuck,” a single line remained below, and he did not finish reading it.
He closed the journal.
He set it on the table with a care that surprised him, given the way his hands were shaking, given the way the blood had gone from his face and returned somewhere lower and altogether more dangerous. He stood very still for a moment, the way a man stands before he does something he cannot undo and then he let out a breathless laugh, rubbing a hand across his face.
“You fucking little minx.”
Then he went to find you.
You were in the solar, as he had known you would be. The afternoon light came through the narrow windows and caught in your hair, and you were bent over some needlework you did not care about, your needle moving in that restless, impatient way that meant your mind was elsewhere. You did not hear him come in. You did not hear him cross the room.
You heard nothing until his hand closed in your hair, not gently, because that was not what you wanted, “You are a rather good pretender, my little sweetling.”
You gasped as the needlework fell, and your head was snapped back with a violent jerk, forcing your spine to arch and your throat to expose itself to the harsh afternoon light. A sharp cry of shock escaped your lips, but it was quickly stifled as he tightened his grip, winding the strands of your hair around his fist to ensure you couldn't pull away.
He leaned down, his breath hot and smelling of iron and leather against your ear. He didn't speak, as the silence of the room was now filled only by your ragged, panicked breathing and the soft thud of the embroidery hoop rolling across the stone floor.
With a sudden, cruel tug, he pulled you further back, forcing you to look up at him. Your eyes were wide, shimmering with a mixture of terror and a dark, forbidden thrill that you couldn't suppress. He stared down at you, his expression cold and possessive, his eyes scanning your trembling form. “Do you have any fucking idea what you have just done to me?”
Without warning, he shifted his weight, slamming you forward against the heavy wooden table. The impact knocked the wind out of you, and the scattered threads of your needlework clung to your skin like webs. He didn't let go of your hair, using it as a handle to keep your face pressed hard against the wood.
His other hand moved with predatory speed, gripping your hip and bruising the flesh as he hauled your backside up and back, pinning your chest to the table.
“Ormund!”
The rough fabric of your gown bunched up around your waist, leaving you vulnerable. He pressed his hard, demanding heat against the curve of your ass, letting you feel the rigid length of his cock through your clothes, marking you as his before a single garment had even been removed.
He bent lower, burying his face against the curve of your throat where the pulse hammered wild and frantic. He inhaled, deep, deliberate, the way a man drinks when he has been dying of thirst and the scent of you flooded him.
Jasmine and the faint salt of fear-sweat, because beneath it, the unmistakable honeyed musk of your arousal, already blooming between your thighs because of what he had done to you.
“Filthy,” he breathed against your throat. The word was almost a prayer. “You filthy little whore.”
You made a sound, half sob, half something else entirely and he felt your body shudder beneath his hands.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the grin that spread across his face was not the grin of the careful husband who brushed your cheek at table. It was something older, something that had been locked away in the same place as the hands you had written about. It was the grin of a man who had found what he was looking for and meant to take it without apology.
He had no intention of being gentle. “Go on, admit it. Tell me that this isn't what you wanted? Tell me that you have not imagined me bending you over a godsdamned desk like some fool desperate to get his cock wet?”
The hand in your hair twisted, wrenching your head to the side so that your cheek ground against the rough grain of the table. You whimpered, a real sound, not one of your careful sighs at supper and he felt something savage and satisfied curl through his chest at the sound of it.
“Two years,” he said, and his voice was low and rough, nothing like the voice he used in the great hall. “Two years you've been writing that you wanted this, and you never once had the courage to say it to my face.”
His free hand found the laces at the back of your gown and pulled, not carefully, not with the patience of a man who yearned for his wife's desperate mewla.
The laces did not give so much as surrender, threads snapping, fabric tearing, the sound obscene in the quiet solar, cool air hit the skin of your back and you arched against it, because at that moment, Ormund didn’t give you a moment to recover.
He reached down, his fingers hooking into the fine silk of your undergarments. With one violent, decisive rip, the fabric tore, the sound echoing like a war horn in the quiet solar. He didn't care for the cost of the lace, he only cared for the access it granted him.
He shoved you further onto the table, sweeping a vase of lilies and a stack of parchment to the floor with a crashing thud. He didn't let go of your hair, keeping your head pinned, your cheek pressed against the polished oak. He could feel you trembling, a fine, rhythmic shudder that told him you were terrified, but the way your hips instinctively tilted back toward him, seeking the friction of his cock, told him you were starving.
“You wanted this,” he snarled, his voice a low, guttural rasp. “You sat across from me and fantasized about me breaking you. You wrote it down like a little secret, thinking I would always be the gentle lord.”
He released your hair only to slam his hand down onto the small of your back, pinning you flat. His other hand reached between your legs, his fingers diving deep into your soaking heat. He didn't tease, not now, not when he ached to devour every inch of your skin as he drove two fingers inside you with a brutal thrust that forced a loud, sharp scream from your throat.
He felt the tight clench of your walls around him, the desperate, wet grip of a woman who had been dreaming of this violation for years.
“Look at you,” he hissed, his fingers curling and pumping inside you with a ruthless rhythm, stretching you open. “Dripping for me. You're nothing but a craving, aren't you? A little hole that needs to be filled by a man who doesn't care if he hurts you.”
He withdrew his fingers with a wet pop and moved with a sudden, predatory urgency. He fumbled with his breeches, freeing his cock, thick, pulsing, and engorged to the point of pain. He didn't use any lubricant other than the overflow of your own arousal.
He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, leaving marks that would turn purple by morning. He positioned the head of his cock at your entrance and, without a word of warning, drove himself home in one singular, devastating plunge.
You shrieked, your fingers clawing at the wood of the table, your back arching violently as he bottomed out inside you. The impact was jarring, a collision of flesh and bone that left you breathless. Ormund groaned, a sound of pure, possessive triumph, as he felt your tight heat wrap around him, squeezing him with a desperation that nearly broke his resolve.
He didn't give you time to adjust. He began to fuck you with a savage, unrelenting pace. Each thrust was a claim, a violent punctuation mark to the silence of your marriage.
He slammed his pelvis against your ass, the sound of your bodies colliding—slap, slap, slap—filling the room. He was no longer the husband, but rather now he was the master, and you were the vessel for every dark impulse he had suppressed for two years.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice shaking with lust, his teeth sinking into the soft meat of your shoulder, drawing blood. “Tell me you're my whore. Tell me you want me to ruin you.”
“Yes!” you sobbed, your voice broken and high, your head tossing from side to side. “Please... Ormund, please! Fuck me... break me... yes!”
The admission acted like fuel to a fire. He reached around, his hand finding your clitoris and grinding against it with a cruel, heavy pressure even as he continued to hammer into you from behind. The dual stimulation was too much as you began to peak, your internal muscles pulsing in violent spasms around his shaft.
Ormund felt his own climax rushing toward him, a tidal wave of heat and aggression. He gripped your hair again, pulling your head back so he could see the agony and ecstasy etched onto your face. He accelerated, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, and punishing, driving you further and further into the table.
“You're mine,” he growled, his voice thick. “Every inch of this filthy, wanting body is mine.”
With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself as deep as he could go and erupted. He felt the hot, thick jets of his cum flooding you, filling you to the brim, marking you internally just as he had marked your skin.
He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, his chest heaving, his weight crushing you into the wood, letting you feel the slow, rhythmic throb of his cock as it began to soften.
He didn't pull out immediately. He leaned down, kissing the back of your neck with a sudden, jarring tenderness that was almost more frightening than the violence.
“I read your journal, my sweetling,” he whispered, his voice returning to that smooth, noble tone, though the edge of cruelty remained. “And I think we shall spend the rest of the evening ensuring every single one of your dreams comes true. Whether you can stand for it or not.”
Ormund didn't let you linger in the afterglow. He withdrew from you with a wet, sliding sound, leaving your legs shaking and your pussy leaking his seed across the polished oak of the table.
Before you could even draw a full breath, he gripped your arm and hauled you to your feet. You stumbled, your ruined gown clinging to your thighs, your body humming with a mixture of exhaustion and desperate, lingering hunger.
The look in his eyes, cold, commanding, and utterly possessive told you that the game had only just begun.
He spun you around and marched you toward the nearest stone wall, his grip on your arm like a shackle. When they reached the cold masonry, he slammed you back against it. The impact jarred your teeth, and you let out a small, startled whimper, your palms flattening against the rough stone for balance.
Ormund stepped into your space, his massive frame blotting out the afternoon light. He didn't touch you with his hands this time, but he pressed his chest against yours, pinning you firmly to the wall, his hard, semi-erect cock rubbing against the damp silk of your dress.
“You’ve spent two years pretending to be the dutiful, delicate lady,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your skin. “And you've spent those same years writing filth about your husband in a leather book. I think it's time we reminded you of exactly what you swore to me before the High Septon.”
He reached up, his hand wrapping around your throat, not to choke you, but to tilt your head back, forcing you to look into his eyes. His thumb pressed firmly against your windpipe, just enough to make you swallow hard.
“The vows,” he commanded. “Every single one. Recite them. Now.”
You trembled, your breath coming in shallow hitches. “Ormund... please...”
He tightened his grip on your throat, his eyes narrowing. “Do not 'please' me. Recite the vows, or I will find a much more painful way to make you remember them.”
Tears of arousal and fear pricked your eyes as you began, your voice shaking. “I... I take you to be my wedded husband...”
“Louder,” he snapped, his other hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hoisting it up and hooking it over his hip, forcing your legs open and exposing your dripping heat to the cool air of the solar.
“I take you to be my wedded husband!” you cried out, your voice cracking.
“And?”
“I... I promise to honor you... to cherish you... in sickness and in health...”
As you spoke the words of devotion, Ormund’s hand moved from your thigh to your center. He didn't use his fingers this time, he used the heel of his hand to grind hard against your clitoris, crushing the sensitive nub against the stone wall. You gasped, your words dissolving into a moan.
“Finish the vow,” he hissed, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear.
“In... in poverty and in wealth!” you sobbed, your hips bucking instinctively against his hand. “Until death do us part!”
“And the vow of obedience,” Ormund reminded you, his voice dropping to a guttural rasp. He released your throat only to grab both of your wrists, pinning them high above your head against the stone. He leaned in, his lips brushing yours, though he didn't kiss you. “The one where you swear your will is my will. Your body is my property. Your pleasure is my gift.”
“... I swear my will is yours,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering shut, your body sagging against him as you surrendered completely to his dominance. “My body... is your property.”
“Good girl,” he breathed.
He shifted his weight, his hand sliding back down to grip your ass, lifting you entirely off the floor. He pinned you against the wall with the sheer force of his body, his cock positioning itself perfectly at your entrance.
“Now,” he growled, “let's see if you can recite the prayers to the Father while I fuck the lies out of you.”
The cold stone bit into your back as he pressed you harder against the wall, the heat of his body searing through the thin fabric still clinging to your skin. You gasped, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips as he lifted you higher, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Your breath hitched at the pressure, at the promise of being filled, claimed, taken.
He didn't push inside, not yet. Instead, he held you there, suspended between the rough wall and his iron grip, his eyes boring into yours. The dark intensity in them made you feel small, worshipful.
“Pray,” he commanded. “The first one. You know it.”
Your mind was hazy, drowning in the scent of him, the weight of him, the ache between your legs that pulsed with every heartbeat. You swallowed, your throat dry.
“Oh Father, who watches from the sky...” you started, your voice trembling, barely a whisper.
“Louder,” he snapped, his hand coming down on your ass in a sharp crack that echoed off the stone. You cried out, your body jolting against him, the sting blooming across your flesh like fire.
“Oh Father, who watches from the sky,” you repeated, your voice stronger, steadier, even as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “Guide my hands, guard my heart...”
He thrust into you with one brutal, seamless motion, burying himself to the hilt. Your words dissolved into a moan, your head falling back against the stone as he stretched you, filled you, claimed the deepest parts of your body. He didn't move, just held himself there, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing inside you.
“And I will walk in Your light,” you gasped, forcing the prayer out through ragged breaths.
“Don't stop,” he growled, his hips beginning to move, slow, devastating with each stroke as his cock dragged against your walls, pulling pleasure and pain in equal measure. His grip on your wrists tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh like brands. “Pray.”
“And I will walk in Your light,” you repeated, your voice breaking as he picked up the pace, fucking you harder now, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the space between your broken verses. “I will kneel... before Your throne... and offer... my devotion—oh, gods, please—”
He slammed into you, cutting off your plea. “Finish it.”
“Offer my devotion... until the stars... fall from the sky,” you sobbed, your body arching into his, your cunt clenching around him as he drove you toward the edge you could feel building, coiling, unbearable.
His forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “The second prayer. Now.”
“Father of storms, Father of steel,” you began, the words scraping out of your throat like glass. “Harden my spirit... make me... unbreakable...”
“Good girl,” he hissed, his rhythm faltering as his own release approached. “One more verse. One more.”
You clung to him, nails raking across his shoulders, your body trembling on the verge of shattering. “And when I fall... let me fall... upon Your mercy...”
He came with a guttural groan, his hips driving deep and holding, his cum flooding you in hot, thick pulses. You shattered, your climax tearing through you like a crack of lightning, your vision white, your scream swallowed by his mouth finally claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.
When he broke the kiss, you were limp in his arms, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Your eyes were glassy, your body slick with sweat and his seed dripping down your thighs.
He pulled out slowly, watching you wince at the loss, and lowered your feet to the ground. You sagged immediately, your knees buckling, but his arm kept you upright, pinned against his chest.
“You will learn,” he said, his voice low and rough, his hand stroking your hair like you were a thing to be soothed. “Every prayer. Every verse. Every word of submission. And you will mean them all.”
You nodded, your lips parted, your mind empty of anything but the taste of him, the feeling of being owned so completely that nothing else in the world mattered.
He tilted his head towards the bed, “Now pray to the Mother for mercy, for I will have none. You little fucking vixen,” Ormund murmurs as he smooths down your hair, tilts your chip up and huffs, “such a good girl, my sweetling. You will never, ever, keep your thoughts from me again, do you fucking understand?”
You nodded, the movement small and unsteady.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Ormund searched your face for the slightest trace of defiance. Finding none, the hard line of his mouth eased, though his gaze remained unwavering. His hand lingered against your cheek for only a heartbeat before he let it fall.
“Good,” he said quietly. “I would sooner have your honesty than your obedience, sweetling. Remember that.”
Your throat tightened. Shame, relief, and something far more complicated tangled together until you could scarcely breathe. You lowered your eyes, unable to bear the weight of his stare.
“I understand.”
“You will not hide from me again?”
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation this time, and he gave a single curt nod, as though the matter had finally been settled. The silence that followed was heavy, but no longer sharpened into a blade.
It was the silence left after a storm had spent itself, leaving only two hearts to reckon with what had been said.
Product of brainstorming with 🌺 anon mwah! Goes into some pope and sweets lore, including self esteem and body image issues. Canonical Derran and Adrian violence.
Sweet! readers introduction to the fucked up world of the Cody’s wasn’t actually Pope, but her best friend, Adrian.
You and Adrian met when you got a job at his shop. You were a couple years younger than him, fresh out of highschool back then, and didn’t know fuck all about surfing. But he didn’t hire you to fix boards, he hired you to work retail, and that you could do.
You didn’t know how to surf but he taught you how to understand the business side of surfboards, and customers really would never know otherwise. He taught you what kind of common problems people come in with and what kind of timeline the should expect and how much to charge them for the repair or work. He taught you what people should look for when buying a board for what reason, height, skill. He taught you what kind of wax is better for what, and what kind of mods and replacement fins people would want. Clothes, swimwear, shoes, sunscreen, that you could handle on your own too.
And outside of you being a good worker, he just liked your vibe. You were funny and lovely and chatty. He liked your company. It wasn’t hard for your friendship to leave work fast. Between the other girls he hired at the shop, and your old school friends, you quickly became a little group.
And then Derran happened.
Adrian was cagey about him. About his closeted boyfriend from a kinda seedy family. You respected that the poor guy was in the closet so Adrian had to be really discrete, you empathized and ached for them. But you didn’t like some things that happened.
Worried that Adrian was biting off more than he could chew with this guy. Told him this guy sounded dangerous and you were worried.
Then the J incident happened and you were horrified. Absolutely disturbed. You knew this guy was bad news. You were the person he texted from the ER. You were the apartment Adrian camped out in and cried into a pint of cherry garcia in. You put together that it was the blonde guy who comes in for business stuff quickly after that happened but didn’t say a word. Adrian knew you figured it out, but you left it unsaid.
Then Derran went after Adrian’s new boyfriend and you were horrified. “He sent his psycho brother to beat him half to death” Adrian told you. “What the fuck?” “That guy is bad news. He’s the one they use for the family’s dirty work. Super fucked in the head. Definitely killed someone before.” “Adrian… what if he sends the brother after you?” “He wouldn’t…”
They got back together. And you worried. But minded your own business. Derran seemed better this time from what you heard. And Derran was an adult, you supposed he could handle himself.
And so a few years later, you start seeing this guy. You, innocent sweet you whose never dated much. Adrian’s already skeptical when you say he’s older. But I promise, guys. He’s really sweet. He’s a little quiet but he’s very nice, I’m serious. I like him a lot.
And the more little casual things you say, the more he gets unnerved. The more this guy seems like he’s got a lot of skeletons. But you’re so innocent and sweet. You’ve got no clue. But all your friends are looking at eachother in concern.
Then the birthday party happens. You’re so excited! Andy’s coming, you guys are gonna finely meet him! You gush about your actual birthday. How he made you breakfast, and then a round between the sheets, and you went to the aquarium becuase you mentioned you hadn’t been in a while and it was a surprise! And how then he took you to the nicest dinner that night, and then you walked the beach after, and then you made out on the beach for a while when the sun was setting, but then you came home- Andy would never ask you to do anything in public, he’s too sweet to do that. Showed them the pretty A necklace he got you, and the little heart shaped locket you didn’t open and show them. And a blinding fucking tennis bracelet too. The guy went out. Which was a little bit of a red flag if you ask Adrian.
… and then he didn’t show.
He had every intention of coming. Corse he did. He swore he wouldn’t miss it for the world. He was afraid your friends would hate him but he still was gonna show up. Then… he just couldn’t. Last minute job went sideways.
And Adrian and all your friends watched your pretty little doe eyes loose hope. Party died down and cleared out and just you and your best friends were left as you sniffled, that you don’t know what’s going on, Andy said he’d be here he never bails on you, never.
So sparks an impromptu intervention. This guy, Adrian says gently, sounds kinda sketchy. Look. We know you don’t date much, and I know- I know you never slept with anyone before him and that was a big deal for you but… maybe, maybe he’s not the right guy. Won’t introduce you to his family, bailed on meeting your friends, spends a little too much money on you for a girl he’s been seeing less than a year, no offense, and you’re not even all too sure what he does for a living. This guy makes me nervous for you, Y/N. This is me repaying the favor, I’m not saying it’s the same but I think this is your Derran.
“But- but you and Derran are so happy now!”
Sigh.
“I love Derran. But I also know he railroaded my life. I don’t want that to happen to you.”
Then comes the knock at the door.
Everyone freezes.
Another knock, a bit more insistent.
Then “Y/N, baby. I’m so sorry baby, I can explain. Please just- just let me in baby, I’m sorry.”
You all freeze. No response. You look at them, for someone to tell you what to do.
More knocking. A bit more insistent.
“Honey I know you can hear me. Please baby. Please let me in.”
He sounds desperate. And it puts Adrian on edge. What will a desperate man do? Desperate can be dangerous.
He also… almost sounds familiar but he can’t place it.
“Please. Just- I know I fucked up baby I know, but please let me explain I’ll make it up to you I swear I will.” The guys wrecked. And not going anywhere.
You’re so weak. You go to get up and Adrian shakes his head. “I’ll get it.”
He may be gay, but he’s still a man. And atleast that’s a little something when it comes to a pushy boyfriend.
He opens the door slowly, and his blood stops in his veins.
“Pope?”
“Adrian?… you’re her Adrian.”. It’s neutral, just surprise.
“You’re her Andrew” it’s terrified.
“Andrew?”.
They both turn to see your sad little face. You musta been so pretty, pope knows, before you were covered in tears. He drops his I’m sorry roses to the floor. He’s so prepared to grovel.
“Baby I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Family emergency, I didn’t have my phone. I’m so fucking sorry I came here the second I could you’ve gotta know I mean that.”
Yeah Adrian knows what that means. He bites his tongue.
You looks so broken. So conflicted on your pain and your anger and your empathy.
Adrian’s processing it all.
Older… shit. Hell of a lot older.
Nothing he knows about Pope Cody matches the picture you’ve painted of a gentle sweet man. Pope Cody is a fucking psycho. Who the hell is this guy trying not to cry as he kneels infront of his best friend and begs for forgiveness?
That night passes, and eventually your friends are all back at your place, a few days later, with a new game plan. Talk some fucking sense into you. A very gentle sit down of print outs of Andrew “Pope” Cody’s criminal record, mugshots, and everything Adrian has even been told about the man.
Poor sweet sweets, you’re so confused. None of it makes sense. Your Andy, your sweet Andrew… 3 years in Folsom, multiple aggravated assault and battery charges? It doesn’t make sense. Andrew couldn’t hurt a fly.
“Y/N, sweetie. I know you have a huge heart. I know you like all the scary animals you should be afraid of. But for all the time I’ve known Derran, I’ve known that his oldest brother Pope is batshit fucking crazy. Multiple screws loose, had trigger, mad dog wild card guy. He’s the guy who beat the hell out of Dave. He’s bad news.”
“He’s so sweet with me… he’s different with me.”
“He’s also, fucking 40. Look. Guys like that don’t date women their age because the know what’s wrong with them.” “Well guys my age don’t like me either.”
Adrian sighed, becuase he knew. He knew where this was going now and it was going to hurt like it did every time.
“Look, Andrew loves me. He does, I’m not stupid, he loves me and I know that for sure. He loves me. And he- he actually likes my body. Doesn’t complain about it and tell me to loose weight but he’s not weird about it either. And he knows about my weird hobbies and he doesn’t make fun of them. He didn’t make me take my stuffed animals off the bed and learned their names. He- he actually likes me and I’m never gonna find that again, okay?”.
Adrian knows. Knows the war is lost. That this is it. You’re too far in to get out, just like him.
But he tries anyway. Very gently. “He’s a 40 year old felon, Y/N. And you’re so young and sweet you still have stuffed animals.”
He sighs. “You’re not gonna leave him, huh?”.
Wet eyes, you shake your head.
“Okay” he laments gently, pulling you into a hug.
Now you’re as deep in it as he is, huh? And it’s not even his fault you got here.
Eventually you and Pope will talk about it. About what he did to Dave. About Adrian. About what you learned. About his family. But right now, you’re on your livingroom floor with your friends, as they accept your fate.
you like jack. jack likes samira. samira likes you. it should be simple. right?
cw: 18+ !!! mdni. threesome 😛, lowkey sub!jack / dom!samira / dom!reader, jack’s an eater, no actual sex but lotsssss of foreplay and other things, lowkey just kinky, alcohol/drinking, porn with little plot, come-swapping SORRY
wc: 3.7k
You like Jack. Jack likes Samira. Samira likes you.
It should be simple, really.
One attending, one doctor, and one resident.
Where Jack thrived during night shift and Samira tolerated the day, you found your perfect place in the middle slot. Twelve to twelve.
You got to spend the first half of your shift with Samira and the second half with Jack.
With the way the little triangle works, nothing should ever be disrupted.
If no one acted, it would be a perfect harmony.
And yet there were lingering looks, playful teasing, and quiet charged comments.
When you bring Samira her forgotten badge, you clip it on for her and smooth your hands over her scrub top. Your fingers linger as you breathe out “there. Now you’re perfect.”
Or especially when one of those weird overlaps where Samira and Jack are given a patient together. He’s showing her how to do an incision and drainage in a spot she’s never seen before. The embarrassment of admitting she doesn’t know how is quickly replaced by a flutter in her stomach where Jack stands close behind her. His big hand envelopes her as they begin to make the incision.
Or when a patient lunges at you during night shift. There’s no injury but your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of you. Once the patient is taken care of, Jack takes you to an empty call room and insists he does a full check-up.
Like stated, charged situations that were disrupting the harmony of it all.
And something was bound to snap.
A scheduled coworker outing mixed with copious amounts of alcohol was basically a recipe for a disaster.
You pregamed with Samira and Santos. It was fun and flirty and once Santos pulled out the tequila for shots, you knew you were fucked.
Samira was all dolled up, curly hair pooled around her shoulders, and dressed in a top that was flowy enough to expose the maroon lingerie underneath.
It didn’t help that Samira kept checking in the whole time. She would rest her hand on top of yours and push out her bottom lip to ask “You okay?”
Yeah. You were okay. Except you trying to hide the wetness pooling in your blue lacy panties that you picked specifically to wear out tonight.
The bar is crowded when you arrive. Santos disappears almost immediately leaving you and Samira to battle the sea of people. You reach to lace your hands together, effectively gluing you together. And then you squeeze, just slightly to make sure she’s still with you. She squeezes back.
Strike one.
The various members of PTMC were scattered across the bar. You already said hi to a couple unfamiliar faces before spotting your exact target.
Jack has positioned himself in one of the booths while he nurses a beer. He has one of his plain black shirts on that you swear he buys in a size too small.
Samira leans down close to your ear. “Mind if I split off? Wanna say hi to Clem from pedes.”
You nod. “Come back to us.”
“Always will.”
You cross the bar before sliding into the booth next to Jack, knees bumping against his but make no effort to move.
“Hi Jack!” you giggle.
“Woah sweetheart. You drink before this?”Jack places a hand on your knee to settle you.
You nod. “Sami and Trin and I did shots. Didn’t know the vibe. You know you gotta drink sometimes to make it through these things.”
Fuck, you’re drunk rambling.
“You want something else? I’m buying,” Jack offers. “For you and Samira.”
Oh.
“Drinks on Dr. Abbot tonight?”
Jack leans down to whisper in your ear. “Only for my favorite girls.”
Strike two.
Warmth climbed up your neck and reached your face in one rush. Favorite girls.
“What’re you gonna drink?”
“Maybe a tequila and soda?” you offer sheepishly.
Jack shakes his head with a smile, patting his hand on your knee twice before sliding away.
“With lime!” you call out.
Jack returns with your drink. His hand instinctively finds itself back on your leg.
It’s a blur after that of people who stop by to say hello or chat for a bit. Dana brings you another drink and Whitaker and Santos sit to talk about the insanity of the earlier day shift. HIPAA approved, of course.
A bit into the conversation, you made the move to interlock your fingers with Jack’s under the table.
Innocent enough.
You're giggly, flushed, and holding hands with Jack. What else could you want? Well, there is one thing.
Samira floats through the room, somehow making the dive bar glow with her presence. Your silent prayers are answered when she makes a turn towards your table.
“Was wondering when you’d show up Samira,” Jack huffs out.
Samira rolls her eyes. “I’m being social, Dr. Abbot. Wasn’t that what we talked about?”
“I can maybe recall that information.”
“Besides,” Samira starts. “Heard drinks were on you tonight.”
You press your lips together to hide your smile. “Said he was only buying for his favorite girls.”
Busted.
“Dr. Abbot,” Samira gasps. “I thought attendings weren’t supposed to have favorites?”
Jack leans forward. “Only on the clock.”
You feel Jack’s hand tighten in your grip, a tell-tale sign of the effect her words are having on him.
“Mind if I steal your girl?” Samira inquired.
There it is again. A possessive little word. Hers.
Jack puts both his hands up as you blush.
“You wanna dance?” Samira inquires.
You nod eagerly. “Why not?”
Samira grins and reaches down to tug your hand away from Jack’s. “Sorry Dr. Abbot.”
Once you get to the dance floor, Samira’s hands rest gently on your hips, fingers fully splayed against your ass.
“This okay?” Samira murmurs.
You press your body to hers. There’s a lot of places you want to touch her but unfortunately the resident got her first pick. You lace your hands around her neck.
Your eyes haven’t left hers. She’s impossible to read. You hope you aren’t making a fool of yourself with how needy, how desperate you’re feeling.
Thankfully the bar is crowded enough that the entirety of PTMC doesn’t have their eyes on you.
Samira glances down at your lips. Your gloss has faded as the night went on.
You twist your fingers around the curls at the nape of Samira’s neck. She was intoxicating.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” Samira finally speaks.
You blush, head falling to hide the flush in your cheeks. It doesn’t help that the alcohol already has casted a rosy hue over your skin.
“Stop,” you giggle. “Making me wanna kiss ya.”
The confession spills out easily from your lips.
Samira squeezes your hips almost instinctively. “Do it.”
Strike three.
Jack still sits in one of the booths, now half listening to Santos argue with Whitaker and Robby about something unimportant.
But his eyes remain locked in the center of the room where through the sea of people, he can spot Samira pressed up against you.
To his shock, Jack watches as you surge forward to kiss Samira hard.
Her heart is beating out of her chest. She’s finally kissing you, soft lips messily and hungrily slotting against hers.
It couldn’t have been more than five seconds the two of you were kissing but the damage was done. His face heated the second the two of you touched.
Samira leans down to whisper something in your ear before two heads promptly turn and meet the eyes of the already staring attending.
Uh oh. Busted.
Jack can’t remove his gaze. He feels like a pervert for getting half-hard from watching you two kiss. An otherwise private moment.
Samira brings a finger up to wipe the corner of her mouth, her look as intense as when she takes lead on a trauma.
And you? You wink at Jack.
For a second, the tension stretches tight across the space between you, heavy with the weight of being caught in the act. But instead of pulling away, the thrill of his undivided attention only feeds the fire.
You break the heavy silence with a soft laugh, untangling yourself from the intimate hold to close the physical distance between the three of you before the spell can break.
Samira slides in the booth, hand tugging yours to follow in after.
Jack greets you both right away. He clicks his tongue. “You ladies have fun?”
The resident beside you leans forward to fix something on Jack’s shirt, her fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of his chest.
“We were actually thinking about heading out,” Samira murmurs.
You loll your head off or hers to meet Jack with a look that is already driving him crazy.
“You coming?”
Jack’s jaw clenches. “You sure?”
You shoot him a coy smile. “Positive.”
An irish goodbye is silently decided. People have been slipping in and out of the bar all night. Besides, the three of you getting caught leaving together was bound to spark some questions.
The second the first breeze blows outside, you’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you forgot a jacket.
Your personal space is enveloped by the attending. His fingers run over the cold bumps on your arms. Jack drapes his big jacket over your shoulders.
“Coulda told you it’d be cold,” he states.
You purse your lips.
“Jack,” you whine. “Jackie.”
Samira’s off to the side, holding Jack’s phone as she handles booking the ride home.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
You lean out to reach for his hand. “Will ya kiss me? Been thinking about it alllllllll night.”
“You seemed to have plenty of fun on the dance floor,” Jack chirps back.
Your face flushes. “Just wanna kiss you.”
The older man takes his face in your hands, thumb swiping across the top of your cheek where some of your mascara has started to run.
“Not here baby,” Jack starts. “Wanna kiss you properly at home.”
You deflate as you drunkenly pout. “Not even a little something to hold me over?”
“Don’t be a brat,” Samira interjects. “Uber will be here in five minutes.”
It had been a mutual agreement to go to Jack’s place. No roommates, big space, big bed. All you needed.
The uber might be Jack’s own personal hell.
In a desperate attempt to reduce awkwardness, Jack opens the back door for you and Samira. He himself takes the passenger seat.
As Jack makes small talk, you can’t help yourself. It’s dark, you're buzzed, and the mere thought about the situation you found yourself in was really getting you going.
Jack hears the shuffling in the backseat as you slide over to the middle seat. Naively, he thinks it might just be the fact that you classify yourself as a clingy drunk.
That thought goes right out the window as he watches your nails ghost over Samira’s leg.
“Sami,” you whisper.
The resident grabs your hand before you can move it any closer to her danger zone.
“You’re a problem, you know that?”
You grin. “You gonna punish me?”
“Careful,” she clicks her tongue.
As if sensing what you need, Samira’s lips attach to your neck. Your fingers interlock with hers as she works her away up your jawline until she finally finds the spot that makes your breath hitch. Bingo.
She stays there the remainder of the ride, kissing and sucking and grinning as she watches you writhe.
“Ladies,” Jack interjects. “We’re here.”
There’s a charged energy as you and Samira stumble into Jack’s place. He silently leads you both through the house until you finally reach the main bedroom.
It’s silent for a moment. You had done all the foreplay and flirting to get here, now someone has to act.
“Time for that kiss Jackie?”
“Told ya she’s greedy,” Samira hums.
Jack takes one big stride before grabbing your face between his big hands. He finally presses his lips to yours, setting a slow passionate rhythm. He was savoring this.
Samira slinks up behind you, stomach pressed to your back as her hands roam your body.
It’s a mutual agreement that you’re all wearing too many clothes.
Jack breaks the kiss to reach for the hem of your shirt. He pulls it off quickly, a groan leaving both his and Samira’s mouth at the sight of you. You want to flush with embarrassment at being undressed but then their hands are back on you grabbing and squeezing and kissing.
“So beautiful,” Jack muses, hand coming up to cup your breasts that are already spilling over your bra.
Jack’s thumb brushes over your nipple through the lace, his heat grounding you even as your mind starts to spin. Across from you, Samira catches your gaze, her breaths coming just as short, her eyes dark with a hunger that mirrors your own. The weight of both of them pressing into you is almost overwhelming, desperate desire takes over.
Leaning back from Jack’s touch with a breathless murmur, you slide off the edge of the cushions, dropping to the floor between them.
You're on your knees, slowly pulling Samira’s jeans down her hips to expose the most gorgeous set of panties you might have ever seen. It’s impossible to resist.
You kiss her everywhere: thighs, stomach, hips.
“God Sami,” you groan. “So fucking beautiful, isn’t she Jack?”
“Never been so angry I can’t kneel,” he murmurs.
You look up at him, offering a small, knowing smirk at the raw frustration in his voice. Samira lets out a soft, breathy laugh from above you, her hands resting gently on your shoulders as she looks between the two of you, clearly thrilled by the undivided attention.
“Go,” Jack commands. “I wanna watch.”
You don't need to be told twice. Slipping her panties down her long legs, you press your hands firmly against her inner thighs, pushing them wide to open her up completely for both you and Jack.
You lean in closer, the scent of her arousal hitting you instantly as you press a soft kiss to her sensitive inner thigh. She trembles under your touch, letting out a soft sigh that only makes you hungrier to taste her. You part her gently with your fingers, exposing her softest skin to the cool air of the room before finally leaning down to press your lips against her.
Your face is buried in Samira’s cunt soon after. Her thighs are a mess with the mix of your saliva and her arousal. She was sweet and you were absolutely taking your time swirling your tongue through her folds.
Samira hips stuttered, her fingers tangling tightly into your hair as she arched off the surface beneath her. A sharp, breathless cry broke from her lips as her muscles suddenly clamped down, shaking violently with the intense wave of her orgasm. You stayed right there, drinking in every shuddering tremor of her release until her breath finally slowed to a ragged hum.
It’s a silent agreement between you and Samira that it’s Jack’s turn.
You crawl up to him first, hand grabbing his chin to pull him in for a bruising kiss. He hums when he tastes Samira’s release on your lips.
Samira makes quick work of his belt. She tugs his jeans down, cock springing free against his stomach. The tip is already glistening with precum.
His breath hitches as the cool air hits his bare skin, his hips twitching slightly in anticipation. You slowly break the kiss, leaving his lips wet and flushed, your gaze dropping down to the length Samira has just freed. Jack lets out a ragged exhale, completely at your mercy. His eyes turn dark as he watches the two of you. Samira looks up, offering a quick, wicked smile that says everything you need to know
You slink back to kneel beside the resident.
And then both your mouths are on his cock.
Jack almost finishes right then and there when you grab the base and tap it on Samira’s waiting tongue.
Samira takes him first, eyes fluttering shut as she begins sucking. Her mouth is full of his cock, her head bobbing up and down in a desperate attempt to take all of him. You focus on what she can’t take, tongue sliding up and down the shaft.
“Fuck, god, fuck” Jack groans.
Jack grabs a fistfull of your hair, pulling you away from his cock to bring you to him.
“Come on baby. Please ride me.”
You tilt your head just slightly. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
You position yourself so that your knees are slotted on both sides of Jack’s head. You’re facing Samira, arousal growing as she takes Jack’s cock deeper.
A gasp escapes you as he wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling your dripping pussy right down to his waiting mouth. He was relentless. His tongue was somehow everywhere.
Your fingers tangle in his damp hair, riding the intense waves of heat his tongue is driving through you. Every lap and swirl makes your knees tremble, forcing you to lean heavily over him just to stay upright. You arch into his mouth, completely undone by the friction, but your eyes remain wide, hopelessly locked onto Samira.
She meets your blown-out gaze, a low hum vibrating in her throat as she picks up the pace. Watching her take him while he worships you sends a sharp spike of adrenaline straight to your core. The sheer sensory overload pushes the tension in the room past the breaking point, and Jack's hands tighten their grip on your thighs like a vice, his muscles coiling dangerously tight beneath you.
The relentless friction of Jack’s tongue paired with the intoxicating sight of Samira finally snaps the last thread of your control. Your vision blurs as a fierce, blinding orgasm crashes over you, pulling a loud, shattered cry from your throat as your hips arch helplessly against his mouth. You clench your fists in his hair, riding the explosive waves of your own release just as Jack’s hips jerk upward, his choked grunt indicating that your undoing has nearly pushed him right over the edge alongside you.
Jack clenches his jaw, head thrown out as Samira takes his full length. There’s something so beautiful about seeing her plump lips take all of him.
“M’ not ah!” Jack grunts. “Not gonna last much longer.”
Samira rests her lips on the tip with a smile. He’s absolutely wrapped around her finger right now.
“You wanna cum?” She bats her eyelashes up at the older attending. Sickening.
You’re still eating her out relentlessly. You lick up into her, collecting all of her wetness on your tongue. She feels you everywhere: her clit, her folds, her hole.
“Maybe you should make him say please,” you murmur. The vibration on her cunt sends sparks throughout Samira. God she’s close too.
Your tongue flattens against her as you circle her clit. Samira tightens around your head.
Being suffocated between Samira’s thighs might be your ideal place to die.
“I think-“ Samira starts. “Ah!”
You insert two fingers into her, curling up at the knuckle point.
“Come on Dr. Mohan. Tell Dr. Abbot what he needs to do.”
You slow down to forgive her swollen clit. You keep your fingers inside of her, instead flattening your tongue against her pussy to drink her in.
“I think,” Samira starts again. “Dr. Abbot needs to say please.”
You hum. “Good girl.”
Jack feels like he’s gonna explode. He’s been in war, lost his leg, and seen the horrors of the emergency room. But somehow, watching the dominance of you and Samira was absolutely killing him.
And all he needed to do was say please.
Jack reaches forward to pull Samira closer. She twists her body to allow you access while still making Jack finish.
“So? You wanna cum?”
The attending’s hips buck.
“God. Yes. Yes please.”
Samira pats his leg before taking the tip of his aching cock in her mouth, tongue swirling around the slit.
It doesn’t take long after that for either of them to finish. Samira is already immensely overstimulated and cums all while sucking down Jack.
Jack lets go with a bitten off moan. His eyes squeeze shuts as holds Samira’s hair with one hand and the bedsheets with the other.
Samira takes every drop, continuing to work Jack through his orgasm with a mix of her mouth and hand.
Finally, she sits back on the heels of the foot just as you slither in to kiss her.
First her hips, then her stomach, and finally her boob. You wrap your lips around her nipple, a whimper leaving Samira at the sensation.
You’re perfectly fine to stay latched where you are, swirling your tongue around the buds and grabbing at whatever you can.
But when Samira grabs your chin and lifts your head up to face her, you’re putty in her hands. She presses her thumb down on your bottom lip.
A silent ‘open up’.
Your lips part.
Samira spits Jack’s release, gravity taking it down right into your waiting mouth.
You accept it eagerly, waiting until the lost drop for you to close your lips and swallow.
Jack strokes his softening cock at somehow the freakiest but hottest thing he’s ever seen.
Samira pats your cheek. “Good girl.”
The exhaustion begins to creep in. You were all spent. Multiple orgasms and a long night of drinking was taking a toll.
You finally clamber up to the top of the bed.
Jack’s arm loops around you as you duck down to kiss his bottom lip.
The mattress shifts once more as Samira’s weight is added. You rest your head on Jack’s chest as the resident opts to curl around you. Samira kisses the back of your neck as she reaches over to hold Jack’s hand.
The resident ducks down close enough she can whisper. “You know I own a strap.”
The confession mixes with the haze of the room. Jack’s head snaps over. He lets out a low whistle.
The words send a delicious shiver straight down your spine. Your mind races with the mental image, already aching for how wild the next time will be.
But for now, clean-up can wait.
Sandwiched between Jack and Samira is the only place you ever wanna be.
