licking and sucking at the salty skin of jack’s neck while he sleeps. his eyes squeezing tight before softly fluttering open as he graps your arms in his big, heavy palms. rough ‘n gruff, his voice scratches out, “what’s got you so riled up, girly?”
“want you. now, jackie?” while his hand comes to rub and palm at your ass. you keep up your endeavor, licking a thick stripe up his taut, freckled skin as you inhale his smell. cedar, firewood, and man.
he’s still half asleep, but he’s in a perpetual state of chubbed up around you. jack’s lips puff with sleep as his eyes close once again, “g’head take me out, we can play a little. then we’re sleeping, got it?” faux stern as he presses the back of your head further into his neck– silently begging you to continue your minstrations.
he’s the happiest man awake at 3:23am on a sunday<3
coming up behind jack while he does naked yoga in the morning. arms to his side as he focuses on his breathing, his eyes squeezed close when you feel the heat radiating off of his strong back. wrapping your arms around his thick waist and dragging your nails across his stomach so he shudders. smug, but still feeling goosebumps overtake his body, “feelin’ needy this morning, sweetheart?”
➶➴ after the tension in the truck, you follow jack inside still determined to test his confidence. he seems more than willing to prove a point.
➶➴ content: [mdni] age gap, first-time hookup, dominant jack, bratty!reader, power play, praise, teasing, hair pulling, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), masturbation, riding, unprotected sex, facial, prosthetic leg mention, aftercare & questionable bedside manner.
wc: ~3.7k
╰┈➤ part one
jack pushed his door open and walked around, pulling yours open before you could even reach for the latch. his hand wrapped around yours, guiding you down onto the concrete floor with steady, unhurried pressure.
inside, the house was dimly lit, clean and warm. jack walked straight through the entryway without a word, heading for the kitchen. you stood by the narrow hallway mirror, watching your reflection—your skirt bunched up near your hips, your hair messy from the truck, your chest still heaving with an ache that wouldn’t quit.
jack returned a moment later carrying two cold glasses of water, holding one out to you before you could even open your mouth.
“drink this,” he said simply.
you took the glass, your fingers brushing his, and took a slow, obedient sip, realizing only then how dry your throat felt. your eyes flicked down to his right leg as he shifted his weight.
he noticed you looking as his gaze dropped lower—straight to your feet, where you were still teetering slightly in the high heels that had been murdering your calves all night.
“sit down,” he murmured, gesturing toward the edge of the low entryway bench.
you raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft, dry scoff. “you really can’t go five minutes without giving orders, can you?”
jack didn’t take the bait. “i like giving directions,” he said quietly. “and i like when they're followed.”
he knelt down in front of you on the hardwood, right between your knees. his hands wrapped around your ankle, and before you could protest, he slid your right shoe off your foot and set it aside. he repeated the motion with the left, tossing the second heel to the floor.
then, his thumb pressed directly into the tight knot in your calf where the muscle had been aching. the sudden, sharp pressure of his thumb digging into the exact spot made your breath hitch. it was infuriatingly attentive—purely practical caretaking that somehow felt more intimate than anything else he could have done.
“how did you—” you started, your voice cracking slightly.
“you had to hold onto me outside the bar,” he said softly, his thumb working the muscle with steady pressure before he finally stood back up.
before you could answer, your phone buzzed aggressively from inside your bag on the floor. you groaned, reaching down to fish it out. it was a string of frantic texts from your best friend:
“did he show?”
“are you okay?!”
“send proof of life or i’m calling the cops.”
you sighed and stood up, typing back a quick defense, but jack stepped close behind you, looking over your shoulder at the screen.
“did your date reach out again?”
“no, my best friend.”
“what are they saying?”
“they’re asking for proof of life,” you muttered, raising the phone up toward the mirror so he could see the stream of demands.
jack let out an exhale through his nose, his chest pressing warmly against your back. “that’s a good friend.”
“they're also asking for your name and where we are.”
“give it to them,” he said, unbothered. “you're in good hands.”
you typed out a fast response, watching him through the mirror as his hands found your hips. “creep-dar went back up?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting.
“it’s fluctuating,” you admitted, locking your phone and setting it on the table. “i don’t actually know anything about you except that you’re a swat physician who rescues people from dive bars on his days off.”
“that’s a pretty comprehensive summary,” jack said, stepping closer and sliding his fingers up into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to look up at him. “what else do you want to know?”
“how long has it been since you brought anyone here?”
jack’s eyes flicked down to your lips, his thumb stroking a circle against your jawline. he didn’t answer right away, the silence stretching between you until the weight of it hummed in the narrow hall.
“too long,” he finally rasped.
he reached out, pulling the zipper on your skirt down in one smooth motion, letting the fabric fall and bunch at your ankles. he grabbed the hem of your top. “up.”
you raised your hands, but you rolled your eyes in the reflection, letting out a small, dramatic huff. “you know, please usually works pretty well.”
jack’s brows lifted just a fraction in the glass, amusement crossing his face as he lifted the shirt over your head and tossed it onto the bench. he took in your lace bra with a calm expression. he brought his lips up the side of your neck, placing a warm kiss that made your breath hitch despite yourself.
he used his right leg to nudge your feet further apart. as his leg pressed against your inner calf, you felt the distinct, unyielding firmness of a prosthetic.
he took your hands and placed your palms flat onto the small table in front of you, pulling your hips back to arch your spine. as you rested against the table in just your lace bra, damp panties, and bare feet, the command from the bench clicked into place.
“so this is what you meant by giving directions,” you murmured, your voice a low, testing drawl.
jack offered a brief hum of acknowledgment.
“heard this before,” you purred, tilting your head back slightly to catch his gaze in the mirror as you forced a smirk onto your lips, “it never lives up to the talk.”
jack let out an amused huff. his grip on your waist tightened just enough to anchor you against his chest.
“something tells me you’ll change your mind,” he murmured.
you blinked, playing dumb, tilting your chin up with a petty little pout. “i doubt it.”
jack’s mouth curved into a grin.
“look at me,” he said, his tone smooth.
you held his gaze in the reflection for a split second before slowly dragging your eyes away, staring down at the polished wood of the table instead.
“you’re one of those, huh?”
without missing a beat, jack’s hand slid up, winding his fingers into your hair at your scalp and pulling your head back. the sting made your back arch instantly, your chest heaving as your eyes snapped directly back to his in the glass.
“you sure enjoyed when i told you to spread these legs in my truck.”
the sharpness made your thoughts stall out, a hot flush spreading over your chest. “jack—”
“keep talking,” he said softly, his free hand sliding over your panties, his bare fingers pressing against your clit, unmoving.
“mnh!” a sharp, embarrassing sound broke from your lips, your brain short-circuiting as the physical pleasure crashed over your attitude.
“what was that?” he asked, his fingers dragging over the damp fabric with a single swipe.
“i... i don’t—god,” you breathed out, your mind going blank, all your clever little comebacks evaporating into needy, disjointed thoughts. your eyes fluttered, glossy and wide in the mirror as you stared at how easily he was undoing you.
“see?” jack murmured, a pleased expression settling on his face as he watched you melt into mindless bliss. “much better when you stop trying to be clever, sweetheart.”
he noticed the frantic string of texts still glowing on your phone. jack reached down, picked it up, and tapped the screen to open the camera from your lockscreen.
“proof of life?” he asked, holding your phone up so the camera framed the two of you in the glass—his face near your neck, your flushed skin, the reflection of the hallway behind you.
you let out a breathy, reluctant huff, glancing back at him in the mirror. “take it.”
jack’s mouth twitched with amusement as he snapped the photo. “pretty girl.”
he set the phone back onto the table, his hand sliding back down to rest flat against your hip.
he kept one hand anchored on your hip and the other against the small of your back, guiding your trembling steps out of the entry hall straight into the kitchen.
gripping you by the hips, jack lifted you, setting you down onto the granite of the kitchen island. the cold stone against your skin sent a shiver straight up your spine, making you gasp.
jack grabbed a barstool, setting it right between your open knees and sitting down so he was perfectly eye-level with your lap.
his thumbs traced lines up your skin, his gray-dusted stubble scraping over your shins as he leaned in, pressing a hot kiss to the hollow of your inner knee.
exposed in the lit kitchen, a wave of embarrassment washed over you. you tried to pull your knees together.
jack’s hands snapped to the outsides of your knees instantly, forcing them apart again with pressure, anchoring your legs wide open against his sides.
“why are we in the kitchen, jack?” you whispered, your voice small, breathy, and trembling.
he leaned forward until his face was hovering inches from your center, his eyes locking onto yours. “you wanted me to walk you through my diagnosis,” jack murmured. “this height is perfect. plus, i am the one starving now.”
jack leaned all the way in, burying his face directly into your crotch. through the thin, damp lace, he dragged a long, wet swipe of his tongue straight up your core, soaking the fabric completely with his spit and your own arousal.
“ah—mnh!” a loud gasp tore from your throat, your back arching off the granite as your hands flew back to grip the edge of the island beside you.
jack pulled back just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of your panties. he dragged them down your thighs, pulling them completely off your feet and tossing the soaked scrap of fabric onto the floor beside him.
he sat back on his stool for a long beat, taking his time to stare at you. your pussy was glistening, puffy, and thoroughly slick, bare under the kitchen lights.
“patient presents with an elevated heart rate and extreme, and i mean extreme moisture,” jack stated in a clinical medical tone, looking you dead in the eye. “terrible prognosis.”
“you need to work on your bedside manner,” you scoffed.
“this is a severe case.” jack buried his head between your thighs.
he took his time, settling into an unhurried, rhythmic pace. he lapped lazily at your inner thighs, kissing the soft skin right where your legs met your hips until you were squirming with anticipation. when his tongue finally met your slickness, he used broad, wet strokes, dragging his tongue up from the bottom, coaxing every drop of moisture out of you before pressing his warm mouth against your center.
he rested his breath against your swollen skin, letting you get used to the friction. gently, he parted your sensitive lips with his thumbs, opening you up completely to the cool air before his tongue began a circle around your clit—teasing the edges, keeping you on the verge of a deep burn.
“jackie... mhn...” you cried out, your head rolling back against the cold granite as the deliberate pace built a heavy heat deep in your belly.
you reached down, your fingers tangling tight into his hair, holding his head crushed against your pussy. jack let out a low breath against your skin, accepting the pull. “jackie? yeah? i like that, sweetheart.”
he reached one hand up your torso, his thick fingers hooking inside the lace cup of your bra and yanking it down beneath your breast. he cupped the weight in his palm, his thumb and forefinger rolling your hardened nipple to match the pace of his mouth.
for long, quiet minutes, he worked you over. he drew long, flat licks straight up your slit, alternating between gentle suction on your clit and wet laps that coated your skin. he let the tension build layer by layer, driving you crazy with how patient he was, ignoring your small hitches of breath as he enjoyed taking his time.
only when you were trembling and whining under his mouth did jack slide two thick fingers straight inside you.
you were so slick he buried them to the knuckle in one deep push. the sheer stretch of his fingers filling you up made a whimper break from your lips.
jack let out a sigh against your core, his eyes fluttering shut for a second as he felt how tight and hot you were around his hand. his mouth maintained its steady pace over your clit while his curled fingers rested inside you.
feeling bold through the haze of pleasure, you pushed yourself up on your elbows. you dragged your feet up, placing the soles of your bare feet flat on the edge of the granite counter, holding yourself open and gripping his curls tight to pull his head back just an inch to break his suction.
“look at me,” you panted softly, echoing his earlier command.
jack’s eyes snapped open, a chuckle vibrating straight through his chest and into your fingertips.
“look at you,” he said against your wet skin. his thumb came down to press heavily onto your clit while his fingers began to pump in and out of you—curling upward with every deep thrust. “holding yourself completely open for me.”
he ramped up the pressure, keeping his pace steady until the friction built into something unbearable.
“ja–jackie—i’m gonna—ahh, mnh!” you sobbed out, your thighs violently trembling on the counter as the tension coiled into a tight knot.
“yeah? let me see,” he commanded softly, his fingers working deeper, driving inside you with precision.
a fierce orgasm crashed over you, your internal walls clamping down around his fingers as you moaned into the kitchen. jack didn't pull back; he drank down your mess, sucking hard on your clit and riding out every wave of your release until your body went limp against the stone.
he drew his fingers out of you, slick and shining under the light. he licked his fingers clean right in front of you, his eyes holding yours with an intense glint, before he stood up from the stool.
jack grabbed the hem of his black t-shirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion and tossing it onto the floor. his freckled chest, shoulders, and abdomen were bare. he stood there in his tactical pants, his chest heaving as he looked down at you. “holy shit,” you breathed, exhausted, but your pussy aching for more.
he stepped close, reaching out to grip the back of your neck with a warm palm, pulling you into a heavy kiss. you tasted your own slickness on his tongue as he dragged it over yours, the intimacy of it making your head spin. with his free hand, he reached behind your back and popped the clasp of your bra, pulling the straps down your arms and tossing it aside.
he lifted you off the counter. your bare feet met the cold floor, and you stepped backward until your calves brushed against the edge of the low couch, and you dropped down, straddling his lap.
jack broke away, looking at your naked body. “i could get used to this,” he said, biting his lower lip.
you looked down at his chest, his arms, and then his pants. the contrast between your bare skin and his pants made your stomach burn. “me too.”
without thinking, your free hand snaked down between your own legs. your fingers found your clit, pressing into it and rubbing circles while you leaned down to kiss him.
jack’s entire body went rigid. his jaw ticked hard, a sharp exhale escaping his nose as he felt your fingers moving in circles trying to mimic his tongue.
“sweetheart,” jack protested, his voice tight as his hand shot down, grabbing your wrist to yank your fingers away. “i haven’t even gotten my pants off and you’re trying to get off again.”
you ignored his command completely, letting out a muffled, bratty hum against his mouth.
jack exhaled through his nose, his restraint cracking with annoyance as he felt you disobeying him.
he gripped your waist, pulling you up to sit next to him, forcefully pulling your hand away, undoing his pants, pulling them down to mid-thigh, and freeing himself.
he started stroking himself with a few lazy strokes, his head tipping back with relief.
your legs parted again. “don’t.”
“please,” you whined.
“you need it, don’t you?” he stroked himself slowly, toying with you.
you nodded, pressing your thighs together. “severe case, remember?”
he smiled as he grabbed you by the waist, pulling you back into his lap so you were straddling his thighs, sitting right over his hips again.
he gripped your waist with unyielding hands, guiding your body down until the thick head of his cock was resting directly against your wet, aching entrance.
“since you can't listen to simple directions,” jack whispered against your ear, his voice low, “you’re going to get me off with that pretty pussy.”
“this is a punishment?” you asked, your hips starting to grind, his length sliding between your lips, hitting your clit just right.
“if it were one, you’d be the luckiest girl.”
your eyes shut, and your hips kept moving; if he was speaking, you couldn’t hear him. each movement built the heat in your nerves all over again.
he lined himself up and pushed in easily, your relaxed muscles giving way around him as a moan slipped from both of you.
“mhm—the luckiest,” you said, your hand resting on his chest, looking down at him. your words made his brows scrunch and his mouth fall open slightly. a low whimper slipped past his lips.
“you like how much i need this?” you groaned, your hips picking up the pace as jack exhaled roughly, reaching up to cup your breast.
“yeah—i do,” he said, bringing his hands back behind his head to rest on the back of the couch, letting you have your way with him.
his shoulders drew taut and his arms bunched, making you gasp, throwing your head back as your hips kept pace.
“you’re so, fuck—,” he groaned out, his face flushed. “so perfect.”
you reached for his arm, pulling his hand toward you. wrapping your fingers around his thumb, you guided it down between your thighs, pressing it exactly where you needed him. he let you position him, his fingers resting across your lower abdomen as his thumb began moving side to side, working you back toward the edge alongside the relentless friction of your hips.
his other hand came down and grabbed your waist, guiding your movements. your bodies were slick with sweat. you brought your mouth down to kiss him, your tongue swiping at his, causing you both to groan, your breath catching at the corners of your mouths.
you pulled away and rested your head near his shoulder, your body still grinding against his. he grabbed your hair and pulled your face back to look you in the eyes. his gaze dropped from your eyes to your open mouth, then lower to the way your breasts moved with every bounce of your hips. sweat glistened near his graying curls.
“shit, you’re so good,” he praised, watching your brows furrow tighter, his thumb picking up the pace on your nerves before he wrapped his hand over yours, helping you guide your own rhythm while keeping his other hand anchored firmly on your waist.
“show me how you touch yourself.” you matched the pace he had set, your vision blurring. the sight of his crow's feet and muscular torso put you right on the edge.
your movements were slowing down, becoming uncoordinated. “come on, pretty girl,” he strained, and a wave of heat flooded your body, your legs tensing as your breath hitched on the release. you were still riding him, your pace slowing as he helped guide you.
then, with a sharp breath, he pulled out of you, dropping his hands to his length to stroke himself fast. you knelt on the floor in front of him, leaning in close.
“yeah?” he rasped, right on the edge.
“please, give it to me,” you panted, holding his gaze through your eyelashes as the release came in bursts against your face and tongue.
“christ,” he said, breathless, composing himself for a beat before standing to get something to clean you up. “i’ll be back,” he said softly, planting a kiss on your forehead as you stayed on the floor.
he came back a moment later with the waters and a damp cloth, dropping down right there on the floor beside you. he gently wiped your face, tucking hair behind your ear.
you looked up at him through the lingering haze. “still all talk, old man.”
jack’s mouth twitched into a slow smirk as he tossed the damp cloth down.
“all talk,” he echoed, “and yet, you’re still catching your breath on my floor.”
too blissfully exhausted to argue, you let him pull you up from the hardwood, guiding you over to the low couch. he settled beside you, pulling a warm throw blanket over your shoulders while stretching his broad arm along the back of the cushions behind you. his thumb brushed lightly against your bare skin, the casual, possessive weight of his touch grounding you completely.
the water he handed you a moment later felt like an absolute lifeline. you took a long, unhurried sip before setting it on the coffee table.
“i’ll admit,” you murmured, looking over at him, “the resume checked out.”
jack let out a huff of laughter, reaching into his pocket to grab his phone. after a beat, he unlocked it and handed it to you. the font was blown up to a comical size—he had already opened a new contact card with the name: “sweetheart.”
“can i have your number and that photo of us?”
➶➴ a/n: stayed up until 5am revising this purely for the love of the game. jack abbot you will answer for this.
༝༚༝༚ @hollowreprints | masterlist | banner photoshopped by me; no ai.
content warning (minors do not interact) — fem!reader (descriptions of longer hair, curvy waist, etc.), ‘girl next door’ trope, CLICHE ROM-COM VIBES, sammy willing down a boner, em dashes (not ai, i promise i just love them!), pervy!ben sherman <3
song recommendation — won’t go home without you by maroon 5
sammy bryant was a lot of things. a father, a police officer and former detective, a best friend, an ex-husband. and a gigantic idiot, most of all.
you had met through his partner ben, a semi-scummy p2 with a pension for hooking up with artsy girls, and never calling them back. but not you. actually, when ben moved into your cozy castaic cul-de-sac on that humid, late august afternoon, the last thing you were thinking about was jumping into bed with him.
his partner, the stocky, auburn haired man with a crooked smile, however...
sammy was lugging some boxes into ben's home, when you first crossed paths. moaning under his breath "how much fuckin... bathroom supplies does he need? jesus..." as you tapped on his shoulder.
do you know that feeling you get when you notice something has shifted in your life? like really, changes course of who you are? whether it's a movement of your eyes, or the drop in your stomach when you see a handsome man who really, really likes you.
the kind eyes of sammy bryant granted you all of this at once. honestly, it's hard to think about what life was like before he looked at you, and found you staring right back in pleasant surprise.
"hi! i'm- i live next door!" you smile widely, ponytail bouncing a little with the peppy movement of your head. he's unamused, it appears. or is he just...strange? either way, he nods at you silently— recognizing you spoke, but not processing how to respond. he licks his lips once he realizes it's his turn to speak. "that's... next door is nice!" he stammers out, fumbling the cardboard box in his hands and having to stabilize it with his knee in a quick recovery.
he remembers your giggle the most, and the way you immediately turned your head to save him further embarrassment; like if you looked away, the grueling, bumbling actions of the 33 year old man in front of you would cease to exist. God, he wishes.
"yeah, thank you! i like to think so.." you agree, warm-faced as you gaze at the older man. introducing yourself, your manicured hand sticks out for a handshake before your own embarrassment catches up. but unlike sammy, you're a tad smoother in the execution. he's still holding a box labelled "bathroom supplies: hair products" in both hands. "oh, well your hands are full," a sweet trail off echoes down the street as your face warms, yet again, and you lower your hand down to your side.
if dropped from the same height, what falls faster? a brick, a pound of feathers, or ben sherman's very expensive haircare routine? right on the ground, sammy's dropping the box with a smile and extending his corded forearm, swallowing with the slightest press of his neck forward. a gulp, morelike.
another breathy giggle, and sammy knows he'll really remember that one forever. "i'm sammy, and i swear i don't own 2 boxes full of hair supplies." his eyes shift across your face as his hand holds yours firmly. his wrist cracks with the handshake, praying you don't hear it as he tries to puff up his chest.
it's been a long, long time since sammy had tried to be impressive to someone. tammi found his work suits and clean shaven face pretentious, always clowning on him for "selling out to corporate regalia" when their relationship was founded on illicit activities. but then, she hated his soft polos and "dad jeans" even more. he could never win, in all honesty, but he tried not to let it effect him. but he can't lie, the heather gray t-shirt he's currently sporting, coupled with his baggy umber zip-up he's had since his academy days have him feeling unsatisfactory compared to you.
you and your soft, high ponytail and your fuzzy sweater and your cotton floral dress and your little white sneakers. fuck, he thinks to himself, your hand is soft.
"a simple outfit on a fuckin' knockout, i swear to god, i almost died, sherm. i think i just met my wife" he tells ben later, sitting slumped on the plastic covered couch as he cracks open his second stella artois of the night. after your gleeful little interaction next to the uhaul, sammy nearly tripped up the steps as he lugged ben's final boxes in. he watched you retreat into your cozy home, turning to smile at him one last time before you closed your door. his muscles twitched from the weight of the box, but his posture was straight. and confident, more than anything.
a confidence that rolled through him for the first time in years.
from then on, anytime tammi had nate for the weekend, sammy found himself at ben's door. hoping for a glance of your sweet smile, or a smell of your sticky caramel perfume. sometimes he'd see you dancing through the opened curtains of your kitchen, headphones on as you twirled— the silver of your ipod catching in the settling sunlight. he crossed his arms as he watched you, briefly, as he waited for ben to open the front door.
it was entertaining and strangely intimate to see you sway in your oversized, faded-green football jersey t-shirt, the white number 8 stretched across your chest. it was entirely domestic, too. for a minute sammy let himself be taken away by the idea of coming home to you, just like this.
your smooth legs on display, a dinner you'll both share on the table. a chair big enough to fit his spread legs and the comfortable weight of you on top of him. you craning your neck to the side so he can kiss at you in between bites. of you and the food. your thighs, soft under his hands
"yo sammy!" ben calls for him, leaning against his heavy wooden door and staring at his best friend. "what're you doin? stop creeping on my neighbor." "i wasn't-" he gets defensive, "shut the fuck up and let me in." no use in hiding it, especially not when sammy was... technically... creeping on the pretty neighbor.
sometimes he'll get to ben's and find you sitting on your step, holding a steaming mug of something comforting and waving over to him. "hi sammy!" snaps him out of his trance, finally realizing that he'd just been staring at you for a solid minute while you read.
"hey, honey. whatcha reading?" he tries, shoving his nervous hands into the pocket of his jeans— a habit he's yet to shake since high school.
he looks so handsome in the fading autumnal light; a mix of burnt orange and honey swirling across his soft jaw and strong nose. sammy's sweatshirt clings to his arms, the mossy green making his eyes shine as he smiles down at you from the curb. what a dream, you're sure there's at least 5 taylor swift songs about this guy.
you chat about your book as he waits for ben to answer the door, flipping to your favorite pages and asking what he likes to read. within a few minutes, sammy finds himself sat on the stair beneath you, picking at the wildflowers growing in your yard as you speak. vaguely, you register the feeling of his thumb and forefinger tugging at the hem of your jeans; rolling the fabric between his fingers, transfixed.
the conversations flows from literature, to the weather, to how his day went, to nate, back to the weather and all over. if you asked sammy, he'd tell you it was perfect. you had so much to say and so did he, though it somehow felt he knew what you meant before you even opened your mouth. one of the special instances of human connection, you know?
for a minute, sammy basks in the domesticity. it's been so long since someone wanted to sit on a stoop with him and just... talk. not speak, where one party insists and the other abides. talks, like each member is equal and valued. you speak with your hands, but you talk to him with the kindness in your easy eyes and nods.
eventually, ben comes to his door with wet hair and a towel around his waist. ever the charmer, he tries it with you, he really does. "hey beautiful, you keepin' him occupied for me?" a smirk so cocky that sammy wants to shove him back inside the house for even thinking you'd go for him.
you giggle, and sammy's heart skips. that's not his giggle, the one you give him when he's bouncing around topics and can't seem to stay on track as you scoop your hair to one side in your usual restless movement. no, this is entirely different. subdued. polite. he smiles the entire time he walks into ben's bachelor pad, turning to you with a small smile and a flick of his head up, "have a good night."
though losing him for the night is a sickening disappointment, you're met with the reward of a muttered "you're whipped, bro" from sherman and a loud "keep walking dickhead! what man takes a shower that long anyways?!" from sammy.
the leaves in castaic change earlier than the rest of the state, it seems. or has sammy really gone 2 weeks without seeing you once? not without effort! he's tried to peek over into your yard, maybe to get a glimpse of you decorating or sunbathing. oh god, how he hopes to see you sunbathing. but nothing, not even a whiff of your perfume to settle his nerves.
on night eighteen without so much as a flash of your face, he lounges on ben's couch while they watch a game. a pizza box slides off the couch as they endlessly stare, unblinking, as their team tackles the other. sammy finds himself crossing his arms and falling asleep, looking at the vacant street for surveillance— unfortunately, his desire to protect and serve doesn't cease when the punch card stamps for the night.
it would be a peaceful nap, very fitting for a father to take with his legs propped up on the coffee table, if it weren't for the sound of your door slamming shut forcefully. instantly, sammy's up, pulling his shirt down and opening the door in excitement even though ben protests. it's autopilot, a need to see you that's completely out of his control.
once outside, sammy sees you looking through your purse, huffing to try and find your house key in the bulky bag. his eyes travel up your legs, settling on your thick thighs and the tight curve of your dress on your hips. makeup makes your face glow more than usual, your lips shimmering with a juicy maroon that has sammy feeling just as red. your jewelry clacks, your hair bounces, your chest heaves and sammy gets a view of your lacy bra underneath the thin fabric.
where the hell were you going looking like that?
"oh hi sammy, how've you been? i've got a date tonight!" you chirp out, smiling when you finally grasp your key and turn it in the lock. did he say that out loud? did he mean to? either way his stomach churns, he's used to embarassing himself in front of you.
"oh that's- well you look great." you whip your head up, a little flake of insecurity and excitement in your voice as you straighten up, "really, you think so?" biting at your lip, your eyes widen as you await his response.
he flushes, briefly looking down to gain strength before signaling you to spin with a twirl of his pointer finger. from across the stoop, you smile, spinning slowly to give him a full view.
"oh yeah, you're a total fuckin bombshell." he agrees, feeling flirtatious and shy all at once.
his hands are once again shoved in his pocket as you walk down your front stairs, a little shaky from the height of the heels. but always perfect to sammy. only then does it really hit him— you're going to meet another guy, looking like that. a wet dream, his wet dream since the day he first swiveled his head and saw you. the cop in him acts before sammy does.
"where'd you meet 'im?" his feet sway with the weight of his question, carrying him down the steps to walk towards you. "at work! he's been asking me for a few weeks now, so i thought 'what the hell, it'll be fun,' which, honestly, is totally unlike me." you explain, smoothing your dress down your thighs as you face him. he's so easy to talk to, it's not hard to reveal these parts of yourself to him.
your sammy, is quite endearing at all times.
sammy nods again, a staple in his conversations with you, before asking, "you sure you wanna go? ben and i put the game on and we've still got some pizza... could be fun..." he tries, desperately to get you to stay in. put on your soft halloween pajamas and take off.... take off the polyester dress that you once told him irritated your skin beyond belief.
"oh, that sounds so nice sammy..." you think, biting at your lip in genuine thought before scrunching up your cheek in a wince, "but i already told him i'd meet him at the restaraunt in 15 minutes."
you're going to him. separate cars, smart, safe girl. "ah fuck that guy" he says with a bit too much bite to be platonic before correcting himself "at least let me drive you, can't have you causing an accident in those heels." he jokes, hoping to have successfully covered the disgusting, bitter jealousy seeping out of his pores. he doesn't, but you can let him dream, can't you?
his desperation to keep you close is just as palpable as your own, and you find yourself nodding before you can think. handing him your keys, you saunter over to the passenger side, leaving him standing with a smile. "come on officer bryant, i could get used to a police escort!" you tease, but sammy has to close his eyes before getting in the car.
church, baseball, grandma, tammi, church, baseball, grandma, tammi… tammi at church watching baseball with grandma.
the car ride is mostly quiet on the way into town, sammy's divorced dad-rock station drowning out your anxiety and his inability to sound charming without sounding miserable at your excursion. but it's comfortable, the air simmers with adoration on both parts. but both parties are entirely unaware of the extent of love. how formulaic.
"you sure he's inside?" sammy finds his voice, sneaking a glimpse over at you as you get out of the car. leaning down to speak to him through the passenger window, you smile. "mhm, thank you sammy. i'll call ben if i need you, or him! obviously." you correct yourself. but sammy feels his heart sink at the idea that you don't even have his number.
totally out of his league. a bummer beyond belief.
dipping his head, he tries to keep the energy light. he doesn't want you thinking that you're leaving this pining, out of practice, father of 1 up waiting all night, happily even if it means you come home and barely spare him a glance. even though... you will be.
"alright young lady, be smart. make sure he pays. you sure you don't wanna come back? i can make sherm go to bed if you just wanna stay up and watch one of those medical shows you're always watching."
his laugh erupts out of you, "i'll see you later, sammy." you smile, a mix of excitement and the horrible need to open the car door back up and throw yourself inside rising in your throat. skipping into the restaraunt, he watches you go. feeling equal parts weighed down by the weight of things unspoken, and crushed by his inability to speak them.
by the time sammy gets back to ben's and drops off your car, leaving your key under the mat, though he's begged you time and time again to not do, he's exhausted. moody, angry, pent-up and annoyed. he plops back down on the couch, and reaches for a beer when ben's phone rings with your contact. sitting up, sammy looks at his best friend, "answer it, she needs me."
ben rolls his eyes, scooting his butt forward to grab it with a sigh, "what's up beautiful?" sammy's hand stretches out to punch his chest in agitation, he told him to cool it with the nicknames. ben's face turns serious as listens to you, "wait a minute, wait slow down. he what? i can barely hear you, you gotta catch your breath." and even sammy can hear the softness of your voice over ben's phone, "can you put sammy on?"
before the next beat of his heart, sammy's reaching out to steal the phone and press it to his ear. "hey sweetheart, what happened? are you alright?" he's a flurry of emotion as he grabs his keys, standing up and grabbing his coat before he walks out with ben's phone; fuck it, he'll give it back later.
"he, like, totally stood me up sammy. i look so stupid, everyone's staring." anger swirls in his chest, any slight relief at hearing you be alone is instantly squashed. how could anyone hurt a girl like you? god, if that son of a bitch could only see your dress... he'd be fucking crawling to come meet you.
"alright stay right there, i'm coming to get you, okay?"
sammy.... prince charming... who would've thought?
you swirl the wine in its glass, sniffling as you look at your plate, utterly humiliated in front of the wait staff. your cell phone sits on the table ahead of you, glittering in the soft light of the upscale restaurant. disassociating seems like the best idea in this situation, so you find yourself thinking of the gruffness of sammy's voice.
the protectiveness in his stance, the bulge of his crossed arms when he first asked you to stay back. the cockiness of his smile when he knew, he knew how much you liked crappy medical dramas. you don't know exactly how sammy bryant worked his way into your life, but you hope he never walked away.
the chair in front of you scuffs, and there he sits. heaving, wide eyed and scooching forward, sammy bryant has come to your rescue.
the sweetest sight, his hands drum along the table as he settles in— desperate to appear natural in the upscale setting.
oh, but the poor thing sticks out look a sore thumb in his paint-stained LAPD sweatshirt and work tie thrown haphzardly over top. he knew it was a fancy place, probably far above what he could afford, but tonight he'd make it work. he had to.
in a relationship founded on being embarassed, he had to take the load of this off of you. and if that meant wearing a satin, blue-striped tie over his holey sweatshirt, so be it.
he beams across at you, "night's not over yet, pretty girl. what do you wanna eat? they got good wings here?" as calm and neutral and casual as if he was in the YSL suits nate used to wear. the confidence, the fluffy, adoring intentions behind it.
all of it makes sammy bryant the most irresistible man you've ever met.
your watery smile cracks his heart, and he tightens his tie one more time just to make you laugh as the waiter starts to come over. "listen, i may not make it through the night with all this fancy shit, but i wanna try. let me try? for you?" he whispers, hand coming to lightly touch yours across the table.
there's no need to speak. you've got an entire night of talking, really talking ahead of you. so you place your hand on top of his, running your thumb across the calloused skin, and he sighs in relief.
sammy never, ever got the girl. but this time, he did… and he's not going home without you.
"how's it going boss, what's the wing situation here? mild, medium? oh! and for my lady, some more wine… please.”
currently working on a super cute, autumnal late 200s cliche lil rom-com "sammy gets the girl" blurb based on "won't go home without you" by maroon 5. i'm aliiiiiveeeee
i need your thoughts on pope’s hands shaking when he tries to undress you during your first time having sex :((
like having to verbally calm himself down because he’s so excited and so grateful to be able to touch youuu
mwah💋🍒
oh he'd be sososo nervous,,,i mean he was already so shy with Amy their first time and she made it clear Pope couldn't touch her at first.
but you let him touch you, plead and whine and beg him to actually, and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't making him all sorts of flustered to actually indulge.
can picture him almost shaking, mouth trembling against your own, hot puffs of breath hitting ur face, hazel eyes looking into yours with a mixture of fear and pure yearning. hands finally settling on your waist where he squeezes, his thumbs pressing into the supple skin almost hard enough to bruise and his fingers splaying over your ribs.
"You really want to...? with me?" Pope asking breathlessly, lips brushing yours in a silent plea for connection, a small sigh escaping his chest when you take the hint and kiss him back. His cheeks flush pink enough to make his freckles stand out, hazel eyes all dark n glassy eating you up.
He swears he melts when you nod, jaw tightening at your answer. "Uh huh. You okay, honey?"
"Yeah- y-yeah i'm...fine." and that 'fine' is a bit too high pitched to be believable and followed by a swallow that gives him away more than the bulge of his arousal currently pressed hot between your legs. Pope squeezes your waist again as if making sure you’re real to touch, blushing more when you giggle. “S’not funny..” he mumbles, wrenching his eyes shut.
You have to coax him more than a bit for things to finally get moving, poor baby’s just frozen solid, mumbling to himself to go slow and be gentle the entire time he’s undressing you, laying you down on his bed like you’re fine china before his broad figure covers yours. And even after he’s in you, it’s a million questions pouring from his mouth while Pope rolls his hips into yours, hands cupping the backs of your thighs tight and chest pressed to your torso like you might slip from under him at any second .
“This feel good?”
“You okay?”
“Am I- f-ffuck…bunny…feels s-so good…”
Well, he does get a little distracted from his worries eventually…
content warning (minors do not interact)— p in v sex, yoga positions, daddy kink, proofread (but by a very sleepy cherry), needy!reader & obsessed!jack <3
this all started with stretching on your pink yoga mat with jack, go figure. he’s lightly pressing your back in frog pose, sade playing softly in the background of your bedroom.
jack’s wearing a soft pair of gray sweats and white socks, house slippers abandoned the second he came back from the kitchen with your mugs and saw you. “‘s that good baby? you feel that stretch, hm?”
a burn, as pleasant as the first time you took jack’s fingers, settles into your tummy. swells up to your neck, a warm stretch of muscles as your knees dig into the plush mat.
your wavering breath & eyes fluttering closed have jack huffing a bit as he pulls over his favorite stool. sleek, deep mahogany with a bar running across the bottom for him to alleviate the pressure of his prosthetic. his big hand smoothes up and down your back— jack knows yoga is an emotional release just as much as it is physical.
which is why it’s no surprise to him when you turn, teary eyed and a bit breathless from the stress and tension melting away, whimpering a question with no verbal answer, “jackie?”
monday morning yoga should always end this way, you think. with jack pushing you into the mattress, thick bicep wrapped around your throat as he holds you in the frog pose once again– knees outward, hips up. his chest plaps against your back, sweat and devotion; a combination so powerful that your body trembles with the headrest.
jack, the comforter, the lover, the provider, can’t help himself as he kisses at your cheek. he knows the stress you carry, not just in your hips, and he knows when to step in. never needs to be asked. “get all those thoughts outta your head, only want you thinkin of daddy, ya hear me?”
your shuddering breath is his answer, hands coming up to clutch his forearm as you slobber on his freckled skin. with kisses to the back of your head, now damp with the early-morning movement, jack’s other hand comes to hold onto your hip. three squeezes, i, love, and you simmer onto your warm flesh, a wail of pleasure bubbling out of you.
clit kisses, jack’s middle and ring finger reach around to paw at you as he pushes his cock deeper, if possible. the slick noise has both of your jaws dropping, sensuality and shaking knees erupting out of you both. “i found ‘er, i got you baby… that’s the spot, huh?” jack drops his head into your hair, squeezing his tricep as he tries to maintain his composure.
your warmth, your smell, the way the softness of your tummy presses into the top of your thighs– the perfect nook for his spit (he makes a mental note to lick on the crease, later), it’s all too much.
“yeah, you’re gonna cum baby, gonna feel so good. you ready? you ready, honey?” jack’s earnest adoration into your ear is met with your own gasps as you smack at his tightening forearm in warning.
two more swirls of the thick pads of his fingers and you’re crying out– limp in his hold as he comforts you through the waves of pleasure. “oh, that’s my good girl. let it out, such a– fuck, such a good fuckin girl.”
sloppy thrusts and a lick to your cheek, your salty sweat mingling on his tongue, and jack’s finishing on top of you with a loud groan. despite his exhaustion, the heavy weight of him the warmest blanket, he eases your hips out of the pose. big hands kneading the fat your thighs as he settles on top of you, hands covering your ears so you can bask in the feeling of his love.
and it’s bulky, and thick, and creamy, and adoring and all consuming– a mirror to the military man kissing at the back of your neck now.
