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@gublur
Genuine question
If I’m reading smut of any kind, sometimes they mention Person A nudging Person B’s legs open while they’re standing and to me that sounds like such an awkward way for Person B to stand. Can someone explain why this is a go to move in smut??
Okay but letting Pope panty fuck but tell him no penetration. He starts out so well(we all know he’s a panty fiend) but as he keeps going and sees your blissed out face, hearing his name on your tongue, he just ends up fucking you raw. Going so deep and until you’re crying his name and so cold drunk you don’t even care when he comes inside
this gave me chills a bit anon… i might love u… ♡
18+ minors do not interact !! cw: a bit of cnc
pope’s on top of you, mouth slightly open, pupils dilated as he watches his cock run through your pretty lace panties, smearing his precum all over your weeping pussy. he tries, really tries so hard to convince you to let him in, whining and pouting above you, taking his cock down to tease your hole.
“andy—fuck. be a good boy... only in the panties.”
he groans, placing his hand by your head, leaning down to kiss you sloppily. you love the way the head of his cock nudges at your clit, making your whole body tingle, making the biggest wet spot on your panties n pope. you’ve cum twice already, a bit fucked out as you moan, “doing so good for me, andy—“
he can’t take it anymore when you arch your back, telling him you’re so close, listening to the way his balls slap your ass, the way your sticky cum sounds as he grinds his cock through your folds. can’t help it when he moves down to your hole, shoving inside you in one go, loving the way you clamp around him, pulsing.
he throws his head back, grabbing your hips to pull you onto his cock harder, whimpering, “‘m sorry—feels too good, please don’t be mad at me—i’m sorry, fuck.”
you coo, stretching your arms out on the bed as you grind your hips, meeting his thrusts half way, “awh, andy—you were such a good boy for me, you can have me. deserve it.” that spurs him on, groaning a string of “thank you—thank you”s as he fucks you, losing himself in your pussy, becoming such a sweet, fucked out, subby mess. :((
s1 fresh out of prison!pope knows how to clear a room.
you’re sitting on the couch with the boys, and it’s a late, hot night. you all spent most of the day lounging by the pool, swimming & grilling in the hot sun, serenaded by the 90s rock playlist that your pope loved so much <3
smurf was away on one of her trips tonight, so that meant you were, essentially, mama bear. cooked dinner, collected the wet bathing suits (which craig threw out his door at you & was about to open his door completely, stark naked by the way, before andrew placed his big paw on the entrance with an eerily calm “are you fucking crazy?”) and even had to force them to shower before laying on the clean couch. but not andrew, no he’s too good. he showered before anyone got out of the pool (and instructed j to fire off a round if craig got too close/hj) and prepped the veggies while you showered. laid out the blankets on the couch while you cooked, and set the table so you didn’t have to. perfectly husband, perfectly domestic, it almost made your heart ache.
some random lil rom-com is playing on the tv & andrew knows you love it. he’s used to your devotion to hopeless romanticism— used to romance movies & your sweet, watery smile at the end of them. but today? after seeing you provide for his family? having you sit next to him smelling like coconut and vanilla? feeling the soft brush of your nightgown against his arm? he can barely take it when he hears you whimper and cry at something on the screen.
the boys slowly snap to attention, j giggling to himself at your reaction, deran letting out an amused “oh come onnnn, you’re really crying over this shit?” and craig, though half asleep, chortles out “yo stop whimpering, i’m tryna hear this. chicks love crying over movies dude. can’t we just watch top gun?”
and andrew, ever the under-socialized-from-prison-or-in-general-man, can’t help himself. eyes still on the screen, his hands grip the red couch as he sits perfectly straight. “‘s makin me kinda hard, actually”
all eyes whip to him, deran shaking his head in disgust but expectance; he knows how pope is. but craig is immediately offended “ew bro, stay over there”
little by little the boys get up to leave, j going to nicky’s and deran & craig hitching a ride home together. you finally turn to pope, a tad mortified but so, so tender for your sweet lover. “baby, you can’t stay stuff like that out loud” you giggle, scratching through his short, clipped hair affectionately. his hands come down to drag your knee up against his clothed cock, he soothes the bone with his thumb “couldn’t help it” he pouts to himself “jus’ wanted them to leave already.”
later that night, as pope puts you through the mattress, he’s stone faced as he laments “so pretty when you cry. so-fuckin-so fuckin’ pretty”
the older brother (one-shot)
summary: deran's your best friend. after a very difficult breakup causing you to move out of your ex-boyfriend's place, he invites you to stay at the cody residence until you get back on your feet. but what he didn't tell you was that his older brother, pope, was going to be there too. and well... you always did have a crush on him.
pairing: andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader content warning(s): EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ MDNI), age gap (canon age, so 10 year age difference - pope is 40, reader is 30), inexperienced reader (kinda? describing her as someone who's only ever been with one man), smurf is still alive here, best friend's older brother trope, brief mentions of alcohol / drug use, possessive pope, yearning, sneaking around, making out, dry humping, dirty talk, no use of y/n. word count: 4.1k a/n: tbh - i wasn't a fan of deran in s1 but man, he grew on me bc he might be my #2 favorite character (after pope obvi). anyway, i just have all these thoughts and ideas for pope, so i appreciate y'all reading it lol even if characterization is not even anywhere close. i'm so gone for this man it's wild. hope y'all enjoy <3 masterlist. || read on ao3.
“Just stay,” Deran said, handing you a beer that you declined with a shake to your head. “At least for a few weeks until you get settled.”
“Deran—”
“Smurf won’t care,” he interjected with a shrug. “You can even stay in my room.”
“So, what? I stay here without you? How weird is that!”
“Weirder things have happened here,” Deran laughed, leaning back against the couch in the living room. He had a cigarette between his lips as he looked over at you. “I’ll let Smurf know, how about that?”
“Why can’t I just stay with you?”
“Because,” he said. “I’m—I’m trying to make things right with Adrian.”
You sighed. “Fine, okay.”
“If I didn’t tell you yet,” Deran continued, exhaling the smoke. “You deserved better. Can’t believe you wasted five years of your life on that douchebag.”
You grabbed one of the pillows and tossed it in his direction, seeing him catch it with a quiet chuckle. “Whatever. I was young. He was my first love.”
“You ever been with anyone else?”
“You know I haven’t,” you answered.
“Guess now’s a good time as any then,” Deran grinned.
“Yeah? Is Pope available?” You teased, a small smile curling your lips. You always did have a crush on Deran’s older brother. He was quiet, reserved, liked to keep to himself, but his loyalty and protectiveness over his family shone through in the worst ways possible.
You’d been around the Cody family ever since you were younger—being Deran’s best friend meant being around Smurf and the rest of his brothers. Craig and even Baz tried to hit on you as you got older, but Pope was a different story. He’d stare at you, but would never make a move. He’d give you a simple hello before walking the other way.
He had always been mysterious.
Now, it was Deran’s turn to toss the pillow at you. You didn’t catch it though and it hit you square in the face. “Stay away from Pope.”
“I won’t do anything,” you said. “Besides, what kind of man would want to be with a woman who doesn’t really have any experience?”
“I’m serious,” Deran said. “He’s off limits.”
“Okay, okay,” you answered. “Besides, it’s not like he’s staying here. Last you said, he had his own place now.”
“He does.”
“Good. Then, you and I have nothing to worry about.”
Deran’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And if he does come by?”
“Then, I’ll look the other way. He’s never paid me any attention anyway, Deran. Relax.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You let it slip once that you had a crush on him.”
“I was young! He had this… strong, yet mysterious vibe going on. Who wouldn’t be attracted to that?”
“Okay,” Deran shook his head and put out his cigarette, standing up from the couch and extending your hand. “Let me show you to where you’ll be staying.”
“I’ve been here before,” you scoffed. “And I’ve been in your room too.”
“Yeah, well, I’m trying to be a great host.”
“Technically, Smurf’s the host—”
“What about me?” Smurf entered the living room. She had that same grin you had been so used to and immediately, you stood from the couch and walked over to stand next to Deran.
“Hey, Smurf,” he said. “She’s gonna crash here for a bit, that okay?”
“Of course, baby,” she smiled, walking casually over to the both of you. Her eyes lingered on you briefly before she turned to Deran. “How long?”
“Few weeks,” he answered. “She—Uh, she—”
“Caught my boyfriend cheating on me, so… I just had to get out there and leave,” you interrupted. “If it’s not okay with you, Smurf, that’s fine. I’m sure I can figure something out.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Smurf answered, turning her eyes over to you. “The house is a bit lonely without my boys.”
“You have J,” Deran said.
“And he’s barely around.”
“Few weeks max,” you chimed in. “Then, I’ll be out of our hair, Smurf… and if you need me to do anything, so that I can earn my keep, just let me know.”
Smurf chuckled. She glanced over at Deran who just shook his head before she turned back to you. “I’ll let you know, baby.”
“Right, okay, to your room,” Deran said. “Come on.”
“Thank you, Smurf,” you smiled, looking at the older woman with soft eyes. “I really do appreciate it.”
Later that week, you finally managed to get the rest of your things from the apartment you shared with your ex-boyfriend. He tried to plead with you to give him a second chance, that he just wasn’t in the right state of mind, that it wouldn’t ever happen again.
But you still left.
Even if he admitted that he was going to propose to you.
And now, you were sitting on the edge of the bed with tears trickling down your cheeks. Smurf was away for the day, something about getting things prepared for a party tonight, so you assumed that you had the entire house to yourself. You wiped your eyes, took a deep breath, and walked towards the bathroom to take a bath. Maybe that would get your mind off the fact that Deran was right—you did waste five years of your life with someone who never did deserve you in the first place.
As you opened the door, your eyes widened at the sight of a naked man stepping out of the shower. You cleared your throat, watched his eyes widen too, before he reached for a towel immediately to cover himself.
You diverted your gaze to the ground, staring at your feet, as your mind raced. Deran said that he had his own place. Even Smurf said that the house was empty except for J, who you barely saw come and go.
So, you were surprised.
So fucking surprised to see Andrew “Pope” Cody—naked and dripping wet.
The man you always had a crush on.
“Fuck, I am so sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here. I didn’t hear the water running and—”
He didn’t even respond. All Andrew did was tie the towel around his waist and retreat to the bedroom on the other side, the sound of the door closing was enough to pull you out of whatever was lingering in your mind.
The first thing you did was call Deran, who answered after the third ring.
“Hey, a bit busy right now at the bar and—”
“You didn’t fucking tell me that Andrew was staying here!” You whispered into the phone, shutting the bathroom door on the other side and locking it. “I just—Goddamnit, can this day get any worse?”
“What?”
“I just walked in on your brother stepping out of the shower, Deran. He was—”
You heard him sigh on the other end of the phone.
“Smurf didn’t say anything to me,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I think I should probably pack up and leave,” you sighed. “I’ll get a hotel or something.”
“What? No, stop, you’re fine,” Deran said. “Just—don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there tonight.”
“I really don’t feel like partying it up with a bunch of strangers, Deran.”
“Who said you have to be with a bunch of strangers?”
“We all know how these parties are,” you sighed.
“Fine, then just stay in the room, but don’t go anywhere, okay?”
“What am I supposed to do until then?”
“Figure it out. Surely, that’s not the first time you’ve seen a—”
“Deran!”
He laughed. “I’ll see you tonight. Just relax.”
You hung up the phone and looked up to stare at yourself in the mirror. You let out a quiet sigh and leaned down to splash some water on your face before leaving the bathroom and making your way into the kitchen.
Then, you saw him. His back facing you and the fabric of this shirt stretching over the back of him. His hair was still wet and you noticed some droplets of water trickling down the side of his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of you entering the kitchen and said, “You’re Deran’s friend.”
“Yeah, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you were here. I’ve only be here myself a few days and—”
“Why are you here?”
“What?”
“Why are you here?” Andrew repeated, turning to face you now.
“I’m staying here for a few weeks,” you whispered, biting your lower lip as you held his gaze.
“Why?”
You sighed and finally looked away and down at your feet, noticing that he was barefoot in front of you too. “Moved out of my ex-boyfriend’s. Needed a place to stay.”
“What happened?”
“With my ex?”
Andrew nodded.
“Just didn’t work out.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Physically? No,” you answered. “But as Deran likes to say, he wasted five years of my life, so lots of emotional damage there.”
He quietly huffed. Andrew looked over at you and watched you move your eyes back to his. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you sighed. “Anyway, if there’s going to be a problem with me staying here, I can find—”
“It’s okay,” he interrupted. “If Deran said that you should stay here, then… you should stay here.”
You nodded. “Can we—Can we forget about what happened earlier? I didn’t see anything.”
“Okay,” he said quietly. Andrew looked around the kitchen and sighed. The kitchen was a mess and he always did like things neat and tidy. “Smurf’s having a party later,” he whispered.
“Yeah, I heard,” you answered. “Not really my style,” you continued, walking over to the sink and putting on the yellow rubber gloves. “You?”
Andrew shook his head and let his eyes reluctantly take in you frame from behind, gaze lingering on your ass from the leggings that you were wearing. “No,” he said. “Too many people.” When he heard you turn the water on from the sink, Andrew stepped closer to you. “Hey, I can clean up—”
You looked over your shoulder at him and smiled. “It’s okay, Andrew.”
His eyes softened over at you then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll—Uh, I’ll be back later then.”
“And we’re okay, right?” You asked.
He nodded. “Nothing happened,” he answered.
You let out a breath of relief and smiled. “Thanks, Andrew.”
He nodded again and then walked around the corner, eyes lingering on you once more before he faced forward. Andrew would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t notice you whenever you would come around; the age gap and the fact that you were Deran’s best friend prevented him from making any moves on you anyway.
But you were older now… and vulnerable.
It was already bad enough that he had to be in the same vicinity as Smurf and now, he didn’t know how he would be able to live under the same roof as you.
“There’s a party going on, you know,” Deran said, leaning against the doorframe to see you sitting on the bed with a book on your lap. “You could—I don’t know, mingle?”
“I don’t want to mingle, Deran,” you sighed, setting the book on the nightstand. “I just don’t want to be around people I don’t know… and I really don’t want to be around people coked out of their minds either.”
“Oh, come on,” he chuckled. “This isn’t your first Cody party.”
“I know, but you know that shit never appealed to me,” you answered. “Besides, I just—I want to be alone, okay?”
“What did you find out?” Deran asked, walking over to you and sitting at the edge of the bed. He set down an unopened bottle of beer on the nightstand and watched you look over at him. “In case you want it for later.”
“He was going to propose to me,” you blurted out. “Begged me to take him back, said that it was a mistake.”
“Shit,” he sighed. “Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Well, I’m proud of you.” Deran said, gently tapping your knee with the end of his beer lightly. “You could’ve given him another chance, but you didn’t.”
“Wanted to, though,” you said honestly. “You don’t just… forget five years of memories that you shared with someone you love.”
“Yeah, but it’s also not a good reason to stay in a relationship where you’re not valued, you know?”
“I know,” you whispered.
“You really not gonna come out?” Deran asked, staring up at you with his deep blue eyes.
“No,” you laughed. “And trust me, those eyes don’t work on me.”
Deran smiled. “Will you be okay?”
“Yeah, Deran,” you answered. “I’ll probably head to bed soon anyway.”
“Okay,” he said. “If you need me—”
“I know how to reach you,” you finished for him. “Now go, have fun. I’m fine, Deran.”
“Lock the door,” he said. “So no one knows to come in here.”
You nodded and stood from the bed, watching him step out of the bedroom. He raised his beer in the air before turning on his heel to walk down the hallway. Just like he said, you shut the door and locked it behind you, sighing quietly to yourself as you walked back towards the bed.
Until you noticed Andrew stepping into the shared bathroom. His eyes met yours before they deviated to your exposed legs briefly. You cleared your throat and raised your hand to wave at him. He just gave you a curt nod before he shut the bathroom door on your side.
You sighed quietly, shaking your head to yourself. “Did I really just fucking wave?” You muttered under your breath, falling back onto the mattress and staring up at the ceiling.
The toilet flushed.
You heard the water from the sink running.
Then, after a few minutes, the door opened again.
Andrew stood there, staring at you with his hands to his side and his posture perfectly straight as always.
You sat up on your forearms and looked over at him, biting your lower lip when you noticed his eyes move back to your legs.
“Andrew?”
“You really meant it,” he said quietly, stepping closer to your side of the room but not quite stepping inside.
“About what?”
“The party,” he answered.
You stood from the bed this time, walking over to him slowly. “Oh,” you said. “Yeah, getting drunk and doing coke with a bunch of people doesn’t sound fun to me.”
“No? What is your definition of fun, then?” Andrew asked.
“Dancing,” you smiled. “What about you?”
“Nothing,” he answered.
“Really? Nothing at all?”
The corner of his lips lifted just slightly. “Swimming,” he corrected. “I used to love swimming when I was a kid.”
“Well, we can’t go swimming,” you said. “Too many people out there.”
“Why would we go swimming now?”
“Because it’s your definition of fun.”
He lowered his gaze. “And what about dancing?”
You let out a quiet laugh. “No offense, Andrew, but you don’t seem like the dancing type.”
“I’m not,” he answered. “But doesn’t mean you can’t go dancing.”
“What? By myself?”
He shrugged. “Do you always need someone to dance with?”
“It’s more fun that way.”
“Hm,” Andrew whispered.
“You know,” you said quietly, feeling a sudden surge of confidence. You stepped closer to him and noticed him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Deran said you’re off limits.”
“Off limits?”
“Yeah,” you answered. “We were talking about how… well, how my ex-boyfriend was the only person I’ve ever been with and he said now’s a good time as any to get out there,” you shrugged. “Then, I asked if you were available.”
“Me?”
You nodded. “He said to leave you alone.”
“He gave you some good advice,” he said. “You’re—well, you’re young.”
“I’m Deran’s age,” you said.
“Yeah, he’s also young,” Andrew replied. He reached up hesitantly and touched the ends of your hair, eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes. “I don’t think I’m the person you should… gain experience with.”
“Why not?” You asked. “I trust you. Would you suggest I go out there instead and find the first man I see and bring him back here?”
His jaw tightened. Andrew stepped closer—this time, crossing the threshold from the bathroom and into the room you had been staying at. “No,” he answered.
“Are you sure? Because I think I can do that.”
“No,” he repeated with narrowed eyes.
“Andrew,” you whispered. “Did you know that I always had a crush on you?”
His lips parted and he took another step closer to you; he could feel your body heat radiating against his. “You can’t—you can’t say things like that.”
“You know, Craig and Baz would hit on me all the time,” you continued. “But all I wanted was their older brother.”
Andrew let out a shaky breath. He felt your fingers hook through the belt loop on his jeans to tug you closer, causing him to collide against you as you fell back onto the bed with him. His eyes widened just slightly at the sudden position he was in—on top of you and settled between your legs.
His hands moved to rest on your mattress as he looked down at you. “Deran can’t know about this.”
“Well, yeah,” you smiled. “He’d kill me.”
“And me,” Andrew said.
“Then, it’s our little secret,” you replied, finally moving your hands to his chest and feeling the muscle beneath your fingertips.
He nodded and lowered himself just enough to brush his nose with yours. Andrew heard you inhale sharply as one hand above your head gripped the sheets on the mattress. His other hand moved to your hip before lowering it to hook your leg around his waist, brushing his fingertips along the side of your leg slowly. “And when you’re here… You can’t be wearing these shorts around me.”
“But I sleep in them,” you said quietly, feeling his lips brush across your cheek and down your jawline.
“And yet, you wear ‘em during the day and walk around like it’s nothing.”
“Didn’t think you noticed.”
Andrew pulled back to look down at you. “Oh, I notice everything.”
You felt his fingers move from the outside of your leg to the inside, brushing against your inner thigh. “Andrew…” you whimpered.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
“What?”
“Tell me what you want,” Andrew repeated, voice a bit louder now.
You smiled, moving your hands to the end of his shirt and slowly lifting it over his head. Once the shirt was completely off, you set it aside and took in his bare chest, clearing your throat quietly. “You, Andrew,” you answered. “I want you.”
A low growl escaped his lips. He felt your fingers run lightly down his chest and abdomen and back up, causing his muscles to flex.
“What do you want?”
“Doesn’t matter what I want,” he whispered.
You sat up on your forearms and looked up at him, lightly pecking his lips. “Yes, it does,” you said. “What you want matters to me.”
Andrew’s eyes narrowed. It shouldn’t have had that much of an effect on him—the words you said—but it did. He leaned in and pressed his lips firmly against your own as your hands moved from his chest to his thick arms, squeezing his biceps. You eagerly moved your lips with his, feeling him press his lower half against you.
One of his hands moved from your leg to your hip and further up your body underneath your shirt. His rough hand brushed over every inch of your soft skin until it covered your breast, squeezing it into his palm. Andrew parted his lips, feeling your tongue slide with his own, his hips rolling against yours again.
You gripped his arms and slowly moved him onto his back, straddling his waist instantly. You pulled back to look down at him, biting your lower lip as he moved (with you still on top of him) to sit against the headboard.
“You’re here for a few more weeks?” He asked.
You nodded, reaching down to pull the shirt over your head. “Until I get my own place.”
“Maybe,” he whispered, eyes moving to your bare chest now. “Maybe stay as long as you need.”
You smiled and moved your hands to his jeans, undoing the button and lowering the zipper as you lifted yourself just enough for him to push it down his legs until he was seated only in his briefs. “Do you want me to stay, Andrew?”
He nodded, feeling you firmly sit back down on top of him. His hands moved to your hips now, head leaning forward to press his lips on your collarbone. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Then, okay,” you said, hands moving through his hair until you locked them together at the nape of his neck. “I’ll stay.”
That made his lips curl into a smile.
“Oh, look at that,” you said quietly. “You can smile.”
His eyes narrowed as the grip around your hips tightened, guiding you along his lap slowly. You felt his hardened length between your legs, firmly pressing against your clothed sex. You were both half naked, the only parts covering your bodies were his boxer briefs and your shorts.
“Don’t go telling anybody,” Andrew said teasingly, though a quiet grunt escaped him. “Because I’ll only smile for you.”
You smiled to yourself and leaned down to kiss him once more. His hands moved from your hips and up your bare back before they came around to cover your breasts. You continued to roll your hips against his, chasing the friction, as your lips expertly moved with his. You could feel how hard he was too, the thin fabric of your shorts and his briefs only fueling you further.
Andrew pulled back to nip at your lower lip, thumbs brushing against your nipples before they began massaging your breasts into his palms. He looked up at you, watching you intently as you let out a quiet whimper at the feel of him.
“Yeah, you fucking like that, don’t you?” Andrew said, lifting you just slightly to pull your shorts and panties down your legs. He looked at you now, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. “Did you get all wet seeing me come out of the bathroom? Been thinking about that image all day, huh?”
You nodded, feeling his lips wrap around one of your nipples. He flicked his tongue against you as the other hand continued to massage your breast. “Andrew,” you moaned quietly, reaching up to cover your mouth.
“You can be as loud as you want,” he demanded. “No one can hear us, I promise you.”
“Unless they walk by our rooms and—”
“Want me to cover your mouth, then? That what you want?” He asked.
Your eyes widened.
His lips curled into a smirk.
“Oh, you do want me to cover your mouth.” Andrew pulled back and reached down with one hand to lower his briefs, his length bobbing against his lower half. You gasped at the sight of him before settling yourself onto him, the lips between your legs sliding along the underside of his manhood—skin to skin, no clothes interfering with it now.
“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down between your bodies.
You continued to move your hips forward and backwards, your slickness now coating his length. He was hot and so fucking hard, so you reached down to grab a hold of his base, your hips lifting just slightly as you notched him at your entrance.
“Condom?” He asked.
You smiled. “Who said you were going in me?”
Andrew furrowed a brow. “Well, you’re holding me like you’re about to sit on it,” he answered.
You leaned forward, forehead resting against his, as you whispered, “I don’t think I’ll want to do this with anyone else.”
“You better not,” he growled, feeling you stroke his base slowly. “We do this and you’re mine.”
“I think I like the sound of that,” you smiled, lowering yourself just enough to feel the tip of him slide into you.
Andrew’s lips parted.
Your eyes fluttered.
You lifted your hips again and slowly climbed off his lap. You didn’t know if Deran kept any condoms, but you were hoping that he did as you opened the drawer of the nightstand. With a relieved sigh, you grabbed the condom and handed it over to Andrew.
You watched him roll the condom over his length before you felt him reach for your ankle to tug you back to him. You laid back and felt him hover above you as he reached down to grab a hold of himself, running the head of his manhood along the length of your sex.
As he slid into you for the first time, his free hand came up to cover your mouth as a loud moan left your lips. His hand muffled the sound until he filled you to the hilt.
“Oh,” he groaned, resting his forehead onto yours and keeping his hand over your mouth. “You’re mine now."
— heat.
jack abbot x fem!reader
summary: a little harmless flirting never hurt anyone, right? you've been on jack abbot's mind a little too often lately and he's starting to suspect the feeling is mutual. after a late night out at the bar, you're determined to show him just how mutual that feeling is.
content/warnings: age gap, inappropriate work crushes, i don't even bother pretending like i know how a hospital works, jealous!jack, masturbation mentions, garsantos crumbs, alcohol consumption, smoking cigarettes, reader wears a dress/heels/make up, soft dom!jack, dirty talk (jack's got a filthy mouth), kinda degradation if u squint, praise, oral (f + m receiving), jack abbot is a munch duh, fingering, unprotected piv, some breath play, cream pie? NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 7.5k (got away from me lol)
notes: this is like the first proper thing i've written in several years and probably my first real smut ever, but i couldn't stop thinking about jack abbot's tits. purely self indulgent because i know for a fact that he talks you through it lol he's just so yummy. enjoy my old man brain rot
credit: gif taken from this set by ho-ii :)
—
Jack hasn’t been able to focus since you joined the night shift.
You seem to be everywhere. Ever since that first day, he hasn’t been able to shake you. Any corner he turns, every trauma room he enters, there you are. Even when he can’t see you, you still haunt him. He picks up the faint smell of your shampoo, sometimes. Hears your laughter ringing somewhere in the halls and can't help but turn his head towards it.
It’s worse when you’re next to him. You’re great at what you do, there's no denying that. But it's been difficult to work alongside you, elbows and arms brushing while you crowd over whatever patient is bleeding out on the table in front of him. His brain just can't keep up, sometimes. Not with the warmth of your body next to his. Commands come out a little slower than usual. He hesitates for a second longer than he usually does.
However, it's the worst when you’re batting your eyelashes at him when you finally have a moment of downtime. Handing him some coffee from the break room, letting your fingers linger on his for just a beat too long. Casually laying a hand on his bicep when you talk to him, leaving him tingling for an embarrassing amount of time after you leave. He knows exactly what you’re doing. That you know exactly what it does to him. He’s got scars older than you, but that doesn't stop his gaze from following you as you flit around the ER. And he knows you feel it. You’re real young, you’re real fucking pretty and you’re real fucking capable.
Which is why it feels like a cruel joke that you’re always flirting with him. Especially since he’s pretty sure you’d never actually see him in the way that he sees you. Honestly, it makes this inconvenient attraction he has towards you all the more complicated. Jack can't help but notice the way you chew your lip when you’re deep into charting. The curve of your neck when you adjust your hair. When you look up at him with those big eyes, just eagerly waiting for him to tell you what to do next.
Fuck, he’s hard just thinking about it.
His thoughts always wander in that direction when it comes to you. He finds himself at home, thinking of the way that you looked at him earlier in the day or when you swept a slow thumb over your bottom lip absentmindedly, lost in thought. Jack feels filthy when he thinks of you like this, but he still can't help but palm himself through his pants when the thoughts come. Which is more often than he'd like to admit.
When he thinks of you outside of that, however, he’s not entirely sure how he feels. It’s more than just something carnal. He wants to take care of you. And he does, sometimes. Leaves a protein bar by your hand when he hears you complain about how hungry you are, and steps in when patients start being rowdy or handsy with you.
It’s an entirely different feeling while he watches a doctor get handsy with you instead.
It's the early hours of the morning, and the day shift has started to trickle in. It was always interesting, crossing paths with them. The night shift attracted a certain kind of person. Someone who prefers working under the cover of darkness. Jack noticed that the people on the night shift always played their cards closer to their chests, had a little more hidden depth. Maybe that's why they all worked well together, moving like a unit, fluid and unspoken.
The day shift on the other hand was, well, bright, in a sense. They were all dazzling smiles and caffeinated energy, bouncing from one patient to the next. They clashed like nobody’s business, bold and brash. There were exceptions of course, like Mohan, who Jack had grown fond of and even attempted to convince to join the night shift on more than a few occasions. (She always said no.)
Then there were the textbook examples. And no one embodies the day shift more than Robby’s prodigal son, Frank Langdon.
Frank Langdon, who was standing just a little too close to you, elbow propped on the nurse’s station as he gave you one of his signature smiles. Jack was too far away to hear exactly what he was saying, but he didn't miss the way his fingers played with your badge, the light glinting off it as he fiddled with it and examined your photo. Jealousy twists in Jack’s gut, but he can't make himself turn away. He just grips his tablet harder, listening to you giggle at whatever Langdon had to say. It’s the same giggle that you give him when he's just a little too sarcastic in an attempt to make you laugh. That was his giggle.
A hand on his shoulder snaps him out of his daze.
“What'd the tablet do to you?” It’s Robby, looking at Jack expectantly to begin their hand off for the day. Jack can't curb his jealousy fast enough and the other man follows his gaze right over to you and Langdon. He can see the gears turning in Robby’s mind, piecing everything together until he barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re so screwed, brother.”
“I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jack grumbles, and Robby raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. He’s still gripping onto the tablet, probably moments away from cracking the damn thing in half.
“Right…” Robby has to basically wrestle it out of his grip and Jack finally drags his eyes over to his friend, who looks thoroughly unimpressed. “So you’re just here, burning holes into Langdon for no reason.”
“I’m not,” Jack says, a little too indignantly for his liking. “He’s married. He shouldn't be flirting like that.” Robby laughs at him again, which is really starting to get on his nerves. He knows that it’s a terrible lie, but his mind is too foggy from his overnight shift to think of a better one. He wishes his friend would cut him a little slack here.
“Sure. And it’s got nothing to do with her, I’m guessing,” Robby nods over in your direction, and Langdon is still there. He’s leaning on the nurses station, still talking away while you nod, full attention on him. Doesn’t this guy have a job to do? A beat of silence passes, and Jack doesn't answer. “Okay, well, good luck with that then.”
With that, Robby takes his leave, but not before he grabs Langdon by the scrubs, wordlessly hauling him away. You seem shocked at the sudden intrusion, waving goodbye to the dark haired doctor just a moment too late.
It seems like his best friend can cut him some slack, after all.
—
You’re already two drinks deep when Jack Abbot walks through the door.
You’re in the day shift’s favourite bar, squished into the booth seat next to Trinity. She’s yapping away and gesturing wildly to Robby and Garcia who are sitting across from you, looking equally as squished. Truthfully, you’d tuned her out a few minutes ago; it was a story about Dennis and the farm girl she’s told you a million times before.
Your eyes are wandering across the bar, drifting over your friends who are scattered around as if they own the place. Samira and Cassie are perched on stools at the bar, Parker is trying and failing to teach Dennis how to play pool. Movement catches your eye and your gaze drifts towards the door, where John strides in, with Jack in tow.
You can't even pretend to notice Shen, not when Jack catches your eye right away. He’s got his typical black shirt on, tight in all the right places. His hands are shoved into his pockets as he saunters in, looking confident as always. You swear that you’ve never seen him look out of place before. Everywhere he enters, it feels like all heads turn in his direction.
Well, yours does at least.
And it’s really irritating how fucking good he looks all the time. Scrubbed up, in his civvies and in that unbelievably hot uniform that he rolled up in on the fourth of July. He really has you feeling a lot of things you definitely shouldn’t be, considering that he’s your attending. But that still doesn’t stop your eyes from wandering across his broad frame, up his freckled arms to the grey stubble on his jaw. You practically have to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.
“Oh my God, drool much?” Trinity says in a low voice. She’s clearly stopped telling her story, as Robby and Garcia are now engaged in a conversation of their own. Trinity has caught you checking out Abbot on multiple occasions and she never gives up an opportunity to bemoan you about it. “He’s like, geriatric.”
“Not geriatric. Kind of like, silver foxy?” You laugh, shaking your head. “Plus, I thought we kind of had a thing for older people?” You gesture not-so-subtly at Garcia, who’s taking a sip of her drink and nodding along to whatever Robby is saying. Trinity rolls her eyes at your comment and slips past you, out of the booth.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna get another drink,” She tells you, waving her empty glass. Before she leaves, she sneaks a peek over her shoulder and then leans in closer to you, her breath tickling your ear. “He’s heading your way. So try not to cream your pants, huh?”
That makes you sit up straight as Trinity saunters off and Jack comes into view. He’s looking down at you in a way that makes you squeeze your thighs together. He stares, but only for a moment before sliding into the booth across from you, next to Robby. Garcia seems to have slipped off to get another drink as well. What a coincidence.
‘Well, look who finally made it!” Robby gives Jack a slap on the shoulder as he settles in, whiskey glass in hand. He gives his friend a nod, glass extended in an invitation. Robby accepts, clinks his bottle against his cup and both the men take a sip. You can’t help but be drawn to Jack’s hands, much like you always were during surgery. There was just something about them — the way his fingers were nice and thick maybe, and you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly they would feel like skimming your body.
You almost let your gaze trail down to his mouth, but you shake your head in a daze as Jack sets down his drink. He still catches you though, the ends of his lips quirked up in an almost smirk. Your heart pounds in your chest as you look down at your hands to avoid any further eye contact, but you can still feel the heat of his gaze on you. It’s dangerously enticing and fuck, are you enticed.
He opens his mouth to say something to you but Dennis plops himself in the spot next to you, interrupting. He’s looking around, beer hugged close to his chest. “I think if I missed one more time, Ellis would have actually killed me.” He says, and you glance over at the pool table where Shen has gracefully slipped into Whitaker's role instead, much to Ellis’ delight.
The conversation takes off again and you can't help but wonder what exactly Jack was going to say to you. He’s wrapped up with Robby and Samira, who has floated her way down to your booth and is looking as angelic as ever. She’s perched on the corner of the table, all long legs and sweet smiles. You watch the way Jack talks to her; smooth, easy and familiar. You’re sure your smile twitches and you give Dennis a tap on the shoulder.
“I think I’m going to get another drink too.” You say, both to Dennis and to no one in particular. You stand and Samira gives you just a bit of a liquored up grin as she helps you adjust your short dress. You thank her with a smile of your own, turning around. There’s hope blooming in your chest at what feels like Jack’s eyes on your back as you walk away, but you're too cowardly to look back and see for yourself.
Trinity is standing at the bar, looking about as dishevelled as you expected. She quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as you approach.
“Your drink is taking a long time, huh?” You nudge her with your shoulder and she just rolls her eyes. Ignoring her attitude, you rest your elbows on the bar, trying to get a look at where the bartender fucked off to.
“Don’t worry about it,” Trinity is reapplying her lipgloss and attempting to tame her hair, using her phone to assess her reflection. You try to help and she gives you a grateful smile in return. She nods towards the bartender, who is still kind of ignoring you. “I already got one for you.”
“You’re the best,” You’re still smoothing down her hair, giving her a big smile back. “Should we, like, kiss?” You fake going in for a kiss, and she pushes you away with a laugh.
“Please. You wish,” The bartender finally slides two drinks towards Trinity, who hands you one of the glasses. The chill from the glass is definitely welcome against your warm flesh, flushed from the drinks previous. Trinity shoots you a smirk as she grabs your hand to lead you back to the booth. “Besides, don’t you have a silver fox to catch?”
The two of you arrive at the booth and in the short time you’ve been gone, the people seem to have rearranged themselves. Robby and Whitaker have disappeared and Samira has taken your place, McKay beside her. On the other side is still Abbot, nursing his whiskey. Heads turn at your presence and the pair of you are greeting with excited chatter and big smiles from the girls.
It takes you a minute to realize that the only open spot is next to Jack.
Trinity gives you a small push and you claim the seat next to him. Trinity slides in after you and it’s a bit of a tight squeeze, leaving you thigh to thigh with the attending you definitely don’t have an inappropriate workplace crush on. You can feel the heat radiating off him — his arms, his thighs. You swear you feel him stiffen for a second, but the moment is over as quickly as it happened. He smells woody and warm, and it’s got you basically swooning. Is that just the way he smells, or is it cologne, body wash? You resist the weird, perverted urge to take a sniff of his neck and take a sip of your drink instead.
Conversation comes easy for you guys, especially as the drinks continue to flow. People come and go: Ellis, Shen, Dennis — everyone shuffles through, exchanging seats and manoeuvring around each other as easy as they do on the floor of the hospital.
You and Jack though, you don’t move.
Your two stay pressed together, even when Trinity is long gone. Eventually, everyone thins out and spreads across the bar instead, leaving you and Jack alone together. It’s getting hard to ignore the mirth swimming in his eyes, your faces just a little too close together for the conversation you two are having.
You trace what’s left of the condensation from your empty glass with your finger, savouring the feel of the cool water. Is it hot in here? Or is it just you?
“How about I get you another drink?” Jack offers, the timbre of his voice lower than usual. “On me?”
It feels like he’s getting closer, close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s probably inappropriate to want to kiss your boss, right? Especially one almost twice your age? The prospect of the situation makes you almost dizzy with want, especially when he’s looking at you like that. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol rushing to your head.
Yeah, it’s definitely just you.
“Actually, I think I need a smoke.” You manage to utter, like the responsible adult you are. You need to remove yourself from the situation, fast. He retreats from your space slowly, and you immediately feel the absence. It takes everything in you to suppress the urge to lean back into him again, instead giving him a shy smile as you exit the booth. Jack lets you leave wordlessly, and this time you’re certain his eyes are on you as you walk away.
The cool breeze outside is a welcome reprieve from the overwhelming heat inside and you take a moment to let it wash over you. You press your back against the brick of the bar and pull out your pack from your purse and stick a cigarette between your lips, fishing around for your lighter. After some digging, you finally find what you were looking for and you cup your hand around the cigarette, flicking the lighter on until you see the familiar cherry red at the end. Things seem a bit less hazy when you take a deep inhale and exhale slowly, grey smoke curling around the dark sky.
You close your eyes and rest your head against the wall, feeling the tension leave your shoulders. Taking another long drag, you review the night in your head. You’ve always enjoyed flirting with Jack, sure, but Jack also flirts with anything that has a pulse. You never really expected anything to come of it, except maybe something to think about later in the night while you were alone. Lately though, it’s been feeling different. He’s always brushing against you, placing his hand on the small of your back as he squeezes past you. The way he looks at you recently is glimmering with something you can’t exactly place. The way he looked at you when Langdon was trying to charm you.
You lift your hand to take another drag when the cigarette is suddenly plucked from between your fingers. Your eyes flutter open and there stands the subject of your thoughts, Jack Abbot, who has your cigarette between his lips now.
“Whiskey makes Jack a bold boy, eh?” You tease, watching as he takes a drag. It’s unfair how good he makes it look. He gives a small chuckle at your comment but doesn’t reply, letting silence settle between the two of you. Instead, he extends the cigarette towards you and you take it back. Something is painted on his face, like he’s mulling something over, but you don’t ask. You two continue this for a while, just enjoying each other’s company for a moment, taking turns until you finally hit the filter. It’s easy to admire him in the quiet you share. The flex of his biceps, the way he shifts his weight between his prosthetic and his good leg. He’s so broad and handsome, especially when he’s in his tight shirt and cargos. It’s got you wanting to drop to your knees right then and there.
You don’t miss the way he’s looking at you either, though. It’s common knowledge that Jack’s got a staring problem. It makes you flustered at the best of times and wet at the worst, but this stare was different. You can see the want in his eyes as his hazel eyes basically bore into your soul. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he was giving you bedroom eyes. Every so often his eyes flicker down to your lips instinctively, especially when they’re wrapped around the cigarette the two of you are sharing. You’re sure that you’re probably doing the same.
“So, can I buy you that drink now?” He asks huskily as you put out the smoke, tossing it into the garbage can behind you. Your eyes flick between the door of the bar and your phone; the numbers flashing at you indicate that you’ve been out longer than you’ve anticipated and it was late.
“I was actually kind of thinking of pulling an Irish goodbye. I live pretty close,” You say sheepishly, tucking your phone back into your purse. He almost looks disappointed, and you revel in the feeling. You’re not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the way that he was staring at Langdon like he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands for flirting with you the other day, but the words slip out of your mouth before you can really think it through. “Want to walk me home?”
Your tone is shy but warm, an airy lilt at the end of the invitation. Or at least that’s what you aimed for. Realization spreads across his face, until it’s replaced with a smirk. You know it’s an offer he can’t really deny. Even if he didn’t want to fuck you, Jack Abbot was nothing short of a gentleman. He’d never let you walk home alone so late at night. “Of course.”
“Why thank you, Doctor Abbot.” You give him a smirk of your own as you push off the wall, enjoying the way that he watches you move languidly. He scoffs at your joking use of the professional title you call him at work, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You adjust your dress and you two look at each other for a moment; him staring down at you with that obnoxiously smug look on his face, and you staring up at him half lidded like you don’t know what you’re doing.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.” He gestures with a sweep of his arm, breaking your staring contest. You start off in the direction of your apartment, shooting him a cheeky look over your shoulder as he takes a minute to follow behind you.
“Think you can keep up, old man?”
—
He hangs back, just for a second, to admire the view as you flounce away, your heels clicking against the pavement. He can’t help but appreciate just how good you look, dress hugging your figure in all the right places. It doesn’t help that he caught a glimpse of your panties earlier when you left the booth, and he’s been thinking about taking another peek ever since. He’s so distracted that he barely catches the words you throw at him.
“Watch it, kid.” He warns, starting off after you. The night is just cool enough that he can feel the alcohol flowing hot through his veins as he reaches you, matching your stride. The nickname was just a slip of the tongue, something he calls you when you’ve made the right call when treating a patient or when you’re offering to refill his coffee in the break room. You give him that look that you’ve been giving him all night, the one that’s got him in this mess in the first place. Blinking through your eyelashes, like you want to climb him like a tree. It does make him feel like a bit of an old man in a way, chasing after a girl basically half his age.
But you’re the one that invited him, right?
“I’m not sure what you mean.” You say innocently, another flutter of your eyelashes. He gives a chuckle at that, rolling his eyes. The night is quiet at this hour and the tension is thick between you two as you walk alongside each other. Jack’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, watching as you walk a bit unsteadily and he’s not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the shoes that you were wearing. Before he could ponder on it any longer, your heel skids and you stumble over a small lift in the sidewalk.
He grabs your waist instinctively, catching you before you go down. You’re closer to him now and the scent that he’s become so familiar with fills the air, masked a bit by the perfume you wear, all floral and ambery. The proximity between you two almost makes him stumble as well.
“Careful, sweetheart,” He says, voice low, still affected by just how close you are. “Don’t think you’d like to make a detour back to work before your next shift.” He hauls you upright and you give him another sweet smile. Jack can’t help but give you one back.
“Why would I need to?” You recover much faster from the stumble than he does, smoothing your dress down with the palms of your hands. “You wouldn’t patch me up? I’d be in very capable hands, no?” You tease, smirking. He knows you’re joking but the idea of getting his hands on you, being able to touch you beyond the feather light touches you have shared, makes his heart beat in want.
“Yeah, you think so?” He smirks and you slow to a stop in front of a building that he assumes must be your place. You answer his question with a small nod, suddenly shy. He can see you scanning his face, looking for some kind of answer in it. You press your lips in a thin line and finally speak in a small voice.
“Walk me up?”
He should say no. Any sort of gentleman would leave it here, say good night. Especially one as old as he is.You’re staring at him, not breaking eye contact as you await his response. He should definitely say no.
“Sure.”
Goddamn it.
You give him a smile as you turn, pulling the door to your building and he grabs it, holding it open for you. The climb to your place is quiet, the click of your heels against the stairs punctuating the terrible choice he’s making. But the choice doesn’t feel as terrible as it should when he gets to watch you climb the flights of stairs, getting the flash of your panties that he was desperately wishing for earlier.
You approach your door, fumbling with your keys for a second before he hears the soft click of the lock. He’s got his forearm resting against your doorframe, watching as you slowly pull the door open. Jack catches a glimpse into your apartment for a second before you face him; it’s a small studio, lived in and inviting. It smells like you.
You’re just staring at him for a moment and he’s staring right back. The thought that this is a terrible idea is swirling in his mind somewhere, but the heat pooling in his gut as you look at him seems to be all he can focus on right now. You cock your head and enter your apartment, door still wide open. Jack’s body moves before he can even think about it, one foot after the other, crossing the threshold. Something he can’t take back.
He closes the door behind him with a gentle hand, like any loud noise might snap one of you out of a trance. You’ve got your windows open and you’re bathed in the moonlight, the same way you were outside the bar. That exact vision of you has hijacked his better judgement tonight and landed him in the apartment of a pretty young girl. He tries to push the thought aside.
Jack opens his mouth to speak, maybe even tell you how bad of an idea this is, but you’ve already hooked your fingers in his belt loops, pressing your lips against his before he can get a word out. He can taste your lip gloss and it makes his knees buckle a bit, the words suddenly dying on his tongue. You don’t hold back, all dirty and desperate, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He can feel you sigh and pull him closer, hands resting at his stomach now. Your nails scratch against the skin above his waistband and it makes all his blood rush downwards.
You let out a shaky moan into his mouth and his resolve just breaks. His hands finally move and take what he’s been wanting, cupping your jaw for a minute before moving down, rough, skimming down and pulling you flush against him, hands coming to a rest on the curve of your ass.
It’s intoxicating the way you kiss him, like you just can’t fucking get enough. Your hands are wound in his hair, carting through the grey curls. You pull away all too soon, chest rising and falling quickly in an attempt to catch your breath. It sends a shiver down his spine when he sees the sultry look on your face and you grab his hand and pull him deeper into your apartment.
He lets you lead him and come to a stop at your couch. Jack must be drunker than he thought, because you barely push his chest and he lands on the couch behind him. It’s a sight to see when you drop down to your knees without a word, dress rucking up at your waist. He can’t help the moan that slips out from between his lips as you look up at him, the same way you do at work. Waiting for him to tell you what to do. His legs part involuntarily and you slip yourself between them.
“Fuck, baby,” He can’t help but take in the moment, cupping your cheek as you lean into his touch. “ You want to suck my cock that fucking bad, huh?”
You nod —eagerly, he can’t help but note— and he grabs a fistful of your hair loosely. He gives you a small nod, giving you permission to go ahead. Biting your lip, you trace a soft finger over the bulge in his pants and he can’t help but shiver. You take your time unzipping his pants and pulling him out, hand wrapped around the hard length of him. It’s fucking delicious watching you like this, pumping his cock slow, a wicked grin on your face.
You press a kiss to his tip and his hips stutter at the sensation and then you’re pressing the flat of your tongue against him, licking him from root to head. He lets out a loud groan, grip on your hair tightening ever so slightly. He takes in the scene in front of him, you on your knees just for him. It feels perverted in a way, like he’s way too old to be this undone, especially for a woman so many years his junior. But then you place him between your soft lips, lip gloss all smeared from the sloppy kisses you two had shared earlier and he can’t really bring himself to care. Your hands skim down the sides of his bare legs, not even pausing when you feel the heat of skin turn into cool metal on one side.
Your mouth is so warm and wet and it’s got him wondering what your pussy will feel like if your mouth already feels this good. Honestly, he can’t remember the last time someone has had him like this. Your hand is soft where it grips him at his base, spit dripping onto your knuckles and you take him deeper and deeper, until he almost hits the back of your throat.
“Such a good girl for me.” He drawls, voice shaking as you swallow around him. You’ve settled into a rhythm now and Jack is happy to hold you by the hair and let you take control. It feels so fucking good that he can’t help but thrust into your mouth, a crooked grin forming when you gag and drool for him. He can't help but praise you. “You look so pretty on your knees, drooling all over your tits like that.”
That earns him a moan from you and he can feel the vibration of it around his cock. He thinks it can’t get any better than this, and then you look up into his eyes, lips still wrapped around him and a guttural moan rips its way from his chest. This seems to invigorate you as you begin to suck harder, cheeks hollowed as your other hand sneaks its way up to his balls, rolling them in your palm. It’s sloppy and wet and loud —the only sounds in your apartment are the loud, filthy way you’re taking him deep into your throat, and Jack's soft pants and utters of your name. His brows are burrowed in pleasure and it takes all of his focus to not cum in your mouth. He’s basically dripping from your spit, wet all the way down to his balls.
He pulls you up by your hair, rough. You let out a small whimper, like you’re real sad that he’s not letting you suck his dick like you were trying to suck his soul out of it. His lips are parted and his pupils are blown with lust, the hazel of his eyes barely visible around the black. His voice is husky when he speaks next.
“Get on the bed, sweetheart.” The apartment is small, and the bed is just behind him. You’re still wearing your heels and the sound of them reverberates in the cramped space. You don’t bother to pull your dress down this time and he soaks it all in as he pulls off his shirt, trying his best to kick off his boots and pants that have pooled around his ankles at the same time.
He catches up to you in no time and he knows you’re teasing him, walking all slow and sexy like that. Then he decides you’re teasing just a bit too much and he grabs you by the waist and tosses you onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce on the mattress and he crawls on right after you, pulling you towards him.
He’s nosing at your pussy through your panties, the dampness forming for him to see. You smell so fucking good that it makes him throb and he can’t help but wrap a fist around himself and pump loosely a few times.
“You’re soaked for me,” He says gruffly and you mewl, desperate for him to touch you more. “Should I have a taste?”
Now he’s running his fingertips over your covered slit, and your hips buck. Jack can feel the heat of you just under the thin cloth, radiating through the lace and he briefly wonders if you’ll let him keep them after.
“Yes…” You breathe, and he takes a peek at you from between your legs. You look absolutely wrecked, propped up on your forearms, staring down at him through half lidded eyes.
“Why don’t you ask me nicely?” He coos and you groan, head tipping back. He loves having you like this, nice and pliant under his hands. You’re better than he imagined when he was alone, touching himself to the thought of you. “Tell me how bad you want it.”
“Please, Jack,” Your voice cracks as you plead, hips rolling, craving some kind, any kind of friction. “I want it so fucking bad, please…”
“You always listen so well to me, sweetheart. So obedient.” Jack can’t deny you when you whine for him all breathy like that, so he pulls your panties to the side and does exactly what he said he would do, taking a taste. He laps at your pussy like a man starved, your wetness smearing all over his chin, gathering in his stubble.
He feels your hands grip his hair as you pull him in deeper, wordlessly asking for more. Obliging, he dips his tongue into your cunt and you tighten around the muscle, making Jack’s eyes roll back into his head. He’s sure he’s moaning just as much as you are, one hand on your hip, the other one stroking his cock roughly.
Once he’s had his fill of fucking you with his tongue he lets his fingers take over, sliding two of them into your sopping entrance. Your hips buck again at the intrusion and he lets out a deep growl. “You taste so good, baby —could eat you all fucking night. You like having my fingers buried deep in your cunt?”
The whiskey has worn off by now but he’s drunk with lust, his head spinning as he ducks his head back down, sucking your clit softly. He can feel you fluttering around his fingers, getting tighter as he fucks you rough. He’s caught you staring at them more than once and your little comment about his hands earlier hadn’t gone unnoticed by him.
He can tell you’re close by the way you’re moaning and the way you’re gripping his fingers; he can barely pull them out. The pace he sets is brutal and then you’re coming on his hand and face before he even realizes. The taste of your cum is heady and he’s licking it all up like it’s his last meal.
You’re catching your breath and he flips you over without a word, ass up for him. His hands are rough and calloused on your soft skin, pulling down the top of your dress to expose your breasts. You both moan as he tweaks a nipple between his fingers, before palming your ass and yanking your soaking panties down your thighs.
“Fuck…” Jack curses. He’s rutting against you, coating his cock with your cum, moving infuriatingly slow. You’re pushing against him, pleas falling from your lips as he places a hand on your bare back, pushing you deeper into the mattress. Jack has half a mind to hope that your apartment walls aren’t as thin as he thinks they are. He’s busy trying to sear this moment into his memories to care all that much about it though; you’re under him, moaning his name, begging for him. “Still think I’m an old man? That I can’t keep up?”
He’s throwing your words back at you, the frantic shakes of your head as you rut back into him going straight to his ego and his dick. Jack can't resist the sight any longer as he drags himself up and down your entrance, tapping on your clit a few times and loving the way you jump at the sensation. He’s barely got the tip in when you start moaning for him again, breathy and desperate. Ignoring your begging for him to start moving faster, he pushes in nice and slow instead, mesmerized by the way your pussy just sucks him in.
Gripping fabric of your dress that has bunched up around your waist, he sinks in deeper until he’s fully bottomed out. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size and schooling his breathing so he doesn’t cum embarrassingly fast. You’re so tight and he can’t help but think you’re one hundred percent better than what he imagined and one thousand percent better than his fist that he fucks into when he thinks of you. Sharp pain interrupts his thoughts, your nails scratching at his thighs as you try to get him to finally move.
“Feels like you’re made for me, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me.” Thoughts are spilling out now, pleasure taking over and loosening his filter. As much as he wants to savour this, savour you, he’s on the fringes of his self control. You’re gripping his cock in a way that makes his head spin and your small pants have him feeling downright sinful. He tries to start slow, he really does, but he just can’t resist. He’s been thinking about having you for so long, the way you would look under him, and now that he has you, he’s not letting you think about anyone else again. Jack wants you to think about him every time you crawl into bed without him.
He fucks you in earnest, the wet slap of skin on skin just spurring him on. He buries a fist in your hair again, yanking your head up so you’re on all fours for him, back curved. The frame of your bed creaks quickly in time with his thrusts, the same way his thrusts are punching small gasps out of you each time. He loves listening to the noises you make and he pulls your hips up higher, balls slapping your clit as he buries himself deeper. Your moans are getting louder, walls squeezing him tight and he pulls out quickly before his vision goes white.
“Jack, please!” He can tell you’re getting tired of the way he’s been teasing you all night, thinking that he just might edge you all night. But really, he just wants to see what your face looks like when you cum around his cock. He flips you over easily, biceps flexing. Before you can even muster out a squeal he’s back inside you, filling you up to the hilt. Your lips part and your eyes roll back into your head, and he can’t help but smirk as he begins to move once more.
This time the pace he sets is punishing, determined to make you cum before even thinking about chasing his own high. Jack can tell by the way that you’re squeezing him like you don’t want to let him go that it won’t be long. He allows his eyes to sweep over your body appreciatively, your thighs, your stomach, the way your breasts bounce, how absolutely blissed out your face looks.
It’s hard to resist the temptation to splay a hand just below your neck, gauge your reaction, so he doesn’t. His hand is so large against the base of your throat and the way your eyes flutter in pleasure makes his dick twitch. He lets it rest there for a moment, then dips two fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around the tips of them like it was around his dick just a little while ago.
Leaving a wet trail down your chest, he makes his way down to your clit, drawing tight circles around with rough fingertips. He lets out a growl at the noise you make, deep and primal. He glances down, noticing the cream gathering around the base of his cock, his happy trail covered in your slick. His legs shake at the sight, his climax suddenly a lot closer than he anticipated. He can guess that yours is too, judging from the way your cunt is fluttering around him and that you’ve seemed to stop caring who can hear just how good he’s making you feel.
“You gonna cum on my cock, baby?” You’re nodding loosely, like you barely even registered the question. He loves seeing such a capable girl come apart in his hands like this. “Yeah? Cum for me then.”
And you do, as he should have expected, since you always do what he tells you to.
Your cunt is milking his orgasm out of him, and he can feel his hips stutter. He barely squeezes out the words, asking you where he should finish, half aware that he’s not wearing a condom. You look up with shiny wet eyes, fingers tangling in the curls at the base of his neck and he nearly cums at the sight.
“I want you to fill me up.” You say, and yeah, that makes him want to cum even more. A few more messy thrusts and he gives a low groan, spilling deep inside you. He’s hutched over your form, body shaking in pleasure, loving the heat that’s radiating from your body. After a few moments the haze of sex dissipates and you two are left chest to chest, your nipples brushing his chest with every breath.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”
—
Jack cleans you up, all nice and sweet, with a warm rag from your bathroom. The action is tender, especially compared to the way he just wrecked you. It makes you feel taken care of, which is not something you would admit aloud to him for now. You’re a little confused about the position that this puts you in with your attending. The only thing you can really make sense of is that the entire situation has gotten about a million times more complicated than it was eight hours ago.
But when Jack looks at you, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen before when you offer to help him remove his prosthetic, you decide that you don’t really care. You’d give anything to have him look at you that way again.
And now he’s here in your bed, freckled back to you and breathing even. He’d fallen asleep soon after you asked him to stay the night, which you thought was sweet. Old man was up way past his bedtime.
Your phone vibrates on your nightstand and you flip it over, squinting at the bright light. You’d pretty much ignored it when you left the bar with Jack, pretty one track minded. You’d miss a flurry of text messages from everyone else: Garcia asking if she could bum a smoke, Samira asking if you left and then following up asking you to let her know you got home safe, Robby wondering if you had seen Abbot anywhere, Dennis just sending you a blurry picture of the bar floor, which you assumed was a drunken accident.
Trinity has sent you the most recent text, sitting atop of your stack of notifications.
trinity: thank u for winning me the betting pool. will buy u a drink ;)
The Pitt Episode 7 - SA and SH timestamps
Hey friends. If you are triggered by any portrayal of SA or SH in media, I’ve collected time stamps for tonight’s episode and will be collecting more the next episode (this will more than likely continue). If you believe that anything needs to be reworded, please let me know in my inbox, as I don’t wanna cause any harm to anyone who may be going through this or has gone through this in the past. If you need/want details ahead of watching, please DM me, preferably off of Anon so it can be a private conversation, unless you want to make others aware. I will change anything in this post that’s needed. If you have watched the episode and feel that I’ve missed something, DM me please. I know that a few others might be posting these time stamps and our stamps might not match up, but I made sure to give some extra time in front and behind each scene for some wiggle room:
0:00-4:00 ~ mention of SA patient, meeting her (Ilana), start of assessment
8:43-10:38 ~ assessment
12:12-13:12 ~ doctor exam, Ilana starts to give description
19:50-20:41 ~ photo (one small graphic, on a small camera screen), black light examination with detection
24:58-25:50 ~ swab, brief
30:48-32:30 ~ finger nail swab, rep from advocacy group shows up
47:00-49:10 ~ rep leaves, pap starts, Ilana panics and wants to stop, mention of the assaulter and relationship to him, Ilana takes a break
Around 49:20 mark there is also healed SH scars pictured on a Resident Doctor
I have never done this before so if you have advice on how to word things, please let me know. I care about you and want you to be able to enjoy things without being triggered by the events that take place. If I missed a tag as well, please DM me.
writing goals for 2026 ✨
to write
STITCHED TOGETHER
PAIRING: michael “robby” robinavitch x female reader
RATING: explicit
WORD COUNT: 6.1k
SUMMARY:
after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.
TAGS/WARNINGS:
no use of y/n, dual pov, mentions of blood/wounds, mentions of domestic/child abuse (a case at the hospital), hurt/comfort, neighbors to lovers, baked goods as a flirting mechanism, explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), vaginal fingering, edging, oral - f receiving, light choking, praise kink, dirty talk, kissing, begging, p in v, multiple positions - missionary and cowgirl, a sprinkle of domesticity
Your hand pulses with pain. The dish towel you’ve wrapped tightly around your palm is now stained with blood. You raise your fist to knock on your neighbor’s door, hoping that he’s home. You don’t know much about Robby, but you know he works long shifts at the ER, always leaving the apartment with a thermos of coffee and coming home late with shadows under his eyes.
There’s no answer to your knock, no sounds of movement from behind the door, and you mumble a curse beneath your breath. You lift the towel from your palm to check the wound, the fabric sticking slightly to your skin and making you wince. It’s still just as deep as it felt and you’re pretty sure you need stitches but—
“Everything okay?”
You look up. Robby is standing at the end of the hall, the door to the stairwell closing behind him. He must have just finished at work since he’s still dressed in a pair of wrinkled scrubs, exhaustion dragging his shoulders down. You suddenly feel very guilty for bothering him.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reply, aiming for nonchalant. His eyes catch on your hand where you have it cradled close to your body. Something shifts in him, like a switch flips and suddenly he’s not Robby, your neighbor, but Dr. Robby.
“Did you hurt yourself?” He asks, long strides carrying him down the hall. He drops the backpack on his shoulder to the floor, all his attention zeroed in on your hand. “Let me see.”
You hold your hand out. He carefully unwraps the towel.
“It’s fine, really, I was just going to ask if you think I need stitches—“
“You do.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I guess I better—“
“I can do it.”
“No, no, that’s okay, I can just —“ Robby looks up at you, still holding your hand, and you feel your heart lurch at the sharp edge in his eye. The rest of your words fade away.
“Come on, I’ve got a suture kit under the sink,” he says, grabbing his bag and digging his keys from the front pocket. He unlocks the door to his apartment, leaving it open behind him in a clear invitation. After a second of hesitation, you follow him, shutting the door behind you.
Robby’s apartment is a mirror image of yours. Open concept, with the living room blending into a dining area that opens up to the kitchen. There’s not much in the way of decoration, but it’s clearly lived in — a stack of magazines on a low coffee table, a comfortable looking leather couch with a blanket draped over the back, and a small collection of empty coffee cups on the counter by the sink.
“Sorry for the mess,” he says, crouching down to fetch the aforementioned suture kit. “Bring your hand over the sink for me.”
You do as you’re asked, unwrapping the towel and setting it on the counter. Robby washes his hands and dries them with a paper towel before pulling on some blue gloves, his motions steadfast and efficient. He picks up a squeeze bottle with a long, curved tip and holds out a hand for yours.
He squeezes the contents of the bottle over your wound, using it to wash away some of the dried blood. When it’s clean, he sets the bottle down.
“Good news is that you didn’t manage to hit any tendons,” he says. “Bad news is that hand injuries hurt like a bitch.” He picks up a syringe, uncapping it and sticking it into a vial of clear fluid. “Some lidocaine will help while I stitch you up. When it wears off, you’ll need some Tylenol. You got any at your place?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
He sticks the needle into your palm and you resist the urge to flinch. Each time he repositions it, you hold your breath.
“You gotta breathe for me. I know it hurts, but when it kicks in you’ll feel a lot better.”
You take a deep breath, the exhale shaky. Finally, he finishes with the needle. The pain has eased considerably as the anesthetic begins to do its job.
“Have a seat at the table for me,” Robby says, tilting his head toward the dining area. You settle into one of the chairs and he drags another close to you, setting a sterile bag on the table before taking a seat.
Peeling the bag open, he methodically removes the contents. First the blue sheet that he unfolds and lays on the table, followed by the tray of utensils. He pats the sheet and you set your hand, palm up, on it.
“So, you gonna tell me how you did this?” He asks, opening a swab stained with brown liquid that he runs over the edges of your wound.
“You’re going to think I’m an idiot,” you reply, heat rising to your cheeks. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a little smile.
“I’ve seen some stupid stuff. Promise this won’t even phase me.”
You sigh. “I was cutting an avocado.”
“Did you mistake your hand for it instead?”
“Hey!”
“Sorry.” He rips open a small package, pulling out a curved needle with a length of string already attached. “Finish the story.”
“I was holding it and sliced a little too deep. Went straight through the avocado skin and right into mine.”
“I wasn’t too far off. First stitch,” he says, sticking the needle through the edge of the cut. “Good thing I got home when I did.”
“I would have just gone to the ER if you didn’t.”
“Yeah, and you would have been waiting a few hours to get seen.”
“I feel bad. You’re off the clock. I’m sure you had things you wanted to do.”
“Had a hot date with my shower and some pizza rolls. I think they’ll forgive me for being late.”
You laugh and his eyes flick up, watching you for a brief moment before returning to the task at hand. A comfortable silence settles between you and you take the opportunity to really look at Robby.
He’s older than you by a few years if the grey in his beard is anything to go by. His dark hair looks like it’s grown out a bit from a shorter style and is a little messy, like maybe he’s run his fingers through it a few times. There are faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that grow deeper when his lips curl up in a smile. He’s handsome, you’ve thought as much since introducing yourself when you moved in, but up close and hunched over your hand, helping you with a gentle touch, he’s nearly devastating.
“Done,” he announces, reaching for the surgical scissors on the tray and snipping the end of the suture. “These are meant to fall out as the wound heals, so unless you notice any signs of infection, you shouldn’t need any follow up.”
“That was fast,” you say, looking over the neat row of stitches appreciatively.
“Years of practice.” He wraps a roll of gauze around your palm. “Keep the bandage on for at least twenty-four hours. After that, you can take it off but keep the area clean. Don’t soak it in anything. Try not to move your hand too much so they don’t pop. Alternate between Tylenol and Motrin for the pain.”
“I really can’t thank you enough,” you tell him. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I try to be.”
Though he’s trying to make a joke, his tone sounds despondent. He clears his throat and busies himself with cleaning up the table, avoiding your gaze. You decide not to press him for an explanation. He hardly owes you one.
Later, back in your apartment and lying in your bed, you replay every moment of your interaction with Robby. The way he gently held your hand to check the wound, the confidence with which he moved, the sadness in his voice. You decide that you have to repay him for his help and you know just the way to do it.
Robby is half asleep on the couch when there’s a knock at the door. He checks his watch and frowns. It’s just after eight, the sky dark outside the window, and he’d taken an unexpected nap after his shift. His stomach grumbles, the aching hunger he’d felt when falling asleep returning with a vengeance.
He stands and stretches, rubbing the back of his neck as it cracks and shuffling down the hall to open the door. You’re standing across the threshold with a plate in your hands and a bright smile on your face.
“Hey! I hope I’m not bothering you,” you say, smile faltering as you take him in. “Did I just wake you up?”
“Just from a nap,” he replies, willing himself to look less grumpy. Based on the way your smile dips into a frown, he’s probably not doing a great job. “It’s fine, I promise.”
“I brought cookies. As a thank you. For fixing my hand.” You hold the plate out toward him and he takes it. The bottom is warm. “Chocolate chip.”
The scent reaches him and he nearly groans. “Thank you, but I can’t take these.”
“Are you gluten free? Shit, I should have asked before making something.”
“No, I just mean you don’t need to thank me.”
“Of course I do!”
At that moment, his stomach betrays him, audibly announcing his hunger. You raise an eyebrow at him, hands on your hips, and he knows he’s lost this argument.
“Fine. If you’ll come in and eat one, too,” he says. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, turning to head toward his kitchen and hoping you’ll follow. When the door shuts and the soft sound of footsteps grows louder, he fights back a victorious smile.
He sets the plate on the counter and pulls off the aluminum foil on top. A small pile of golden brown chocolate chip cookies sits on the ceramic. You stand on the other side of the island, watching him. He picks one of the cookies up and takes a bite, groaning at how delicious it is.
“Christ, that’s good,” he says, punctuating the compliment with another bite. “You made these?”
“Yep. Even used the good chocolate. The real secret is a sprinkle of fancy sea salt.” You reach across the counter and pluck one of the cookies from the pile for yourself.
“How’s your hand doing?” Robby asks. You hold the hand in question out towards him. It’s been a little over a week and some of the stitches have started to dissolve, two of them still hanging on near the deeper part of your wound. “Looks good.”
“Thanks to a good doctor,” you say. He snorts, the sound self-deprecating even to his own ears. You frown, but don’t try to dig, which is nice. He’s so used to being around people who want him to be an open book when he’d rather sit quietly on a shelf, handling things on his own.
“I need to order dinner.” He turns his back to you, rifling through his junk drawer for the menu of the Chinese place down the street.
“I’ll just—“
“You wanna stay?” He asks, cutting you off. Your eyes go wide with surprise and he begins to internally berate himself when your expression shifts, going soft and warm.
“Sure. What are we ordering?”
It becomes a thing.
The first batch of cookies was a thank you. The second batch was a recipe test. Your excuse for the third batch was that you just made too many and would he want some?
He never turns you away, even if he looks dead on his feet from a long shift. He perks up when he spots the plate in your hands and invites you inside, singing your praises as he tries the recipe of the week. At the rate you’re going through sugar and butter and flour, you’ll need a membership to one of those bulk stores by the end of the month.
Robby doesn’t knock on your door, never seeks you out himself, but he does ask you to stay whenever you stop by. Over dinner, he’ll ask you about your week and listen as you talk about your job or the plans you made with your friends. He doesn’t talk about his own work much, not unless he’s got a funny story to share. You have a feeling he keeps the difficulty of his job close to his chest, shouldering the concern on his own.
That changes on a Friday night.
It’s late, nearly midnight, and you’re reading in bed, a half drunk glass of wine on your nightstand. A sound breaks through your concentration and you pause your reading, listening for it again.
It’s a knock. Soft, so soft you can barely hear it, three taps against your door, followed by silence. You scramble from your bed, nearly tripping on the duvet in the process, and rush down the hall.
When you open the door, Robby is there. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you, and you know without asking that he’s had a tough night. It’s in the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw, the way he’s staring at you without really seeing.
“Come inside,” you tell him. He nods and walks past you, pausing in your living room. Compared to his apartment, yours exudes personality. Mismatched furniture and bookshelves full of memories, photographs and art on the walls.
He takes it in while you head to the kitchen, pulling together a sandwich from the contents of your fridge and filling a glass with water. You bring the plate of food and the glass to the living room, placing both on the coffee table and settling yourself on the couch, legs crossed under you. When he doesn’t move, you pat the cushion next to you.
“Eat,” you command.
Robby does as you ask and starts with the water. He drains the glass in a few desperate gulps and you refill it for him while he starts on the sandwich. You turn the TV on to fill the silence, putting on a nature documentary. You watch the show, your attention half on the eating habits of pangolins and half on the man beside you, concern creeping up your spine.
He still hasn’t said anything.
When the plate and glass are both empty, you start to get up to clear them away, but a warm hand on your wrist holds you in place. Your gaze locked with Robby’s, you slowly sit back down. He releases your wrist and you bring your hand up, settling it on the back of his neck and gently tugging him towards you, urging him to lie down. His head is on your lap, pillowed on your bare thighs, and he brings his knees close to his chest to fit the rest of his body on the couch.
You run your hands through his hair, fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp. The tension eases from his body, like a balloon slowly losing air. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a contented sigh.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask.
“Not really.”
“Because you don’t want to or because you think I wouldn’t want to hear about it?”
He sighs. “You don't want to hear this shit. Trust me.”
“We’re friends, Robby. You can talk to me.”
“Friends, huh?”
“Yeah. Friends,” you reply, despite the sudden dryness of your mouth and the racing of your pulse. He’s quiet for a long moment and you think maybe he still won’t open up but then he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.
“Lost a patient today. A teenager who got between his mom and his piece of shit dad that was wailing on her. The guy pulled a gun on his own son and ran.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He turns, lying more on his back. His eyes are wet with tears that have gathered but refuse to fall. “We did everything we could do. I know that. But I had to look that mom in the eyes that her husband bruised and tell her that her baby was gone.”
There’s nothing you could say to take the pain away, so you don’t. But, you sit through it with him.
Sometimes, that can be enough.
Robby paces the length of his apartment from the door to the kitchen. It’s been a week since that night in your apartment and he can’t get it out of his head.
First he was stuck on the way you took care of him, how you knew what he needed without having to say anything. You were the calm to the storm in his head, the one that raged despite every strong command given to his team in an effort to save the boy’s life that day. He tends to shoulder the responsibility and, subsequently, the guilt on his own but it had been surprisingly helpful to let someone else in, someone who wanted to be there for him without a shared trauma bond. He felt lighter when he returned to his apartment that night.
Over the last couple days, however, the fixation shifted to the way your hands felt on him. The memory of your fingers dragging through his hair, though soothing in the moment, has morphed into something more. It’s no longer a gentle caress in his mind, but a sharp tug while he’s got his face between your thighs, tongue diving deep and desperate.
Despite these thoughts, he’s hesitant to reach out again, especially with these new ideas for how to spend his time with you in his head. But you also hadn’t come over in a week and he worries that maybe you view him differently now that he’s let the wall down a little, he probably should have just—
“Achoo!”
Robby pauses, his attention gripped by the sudden sound that came from the direction of your apartment. He drifts closer to his living room wall.
“Achoo!”
Another sneeze, followed by a pained groan. Are you…sick? Is that why you haven’t come around yet? Before he can overthink it, he’s leaving his apartment and knocking on your door.
When you answer with a blanket held tight around you and a tissue clenched in your hand, he feels a conflicting rush of relief and concern. You sniffle loudly.
“Robby? What are you doing here?”
“I heard you sneeze.” You blink at him, wobbling a bit on the spot. He reaches out to steady you, hands on your shoulders. Gently, he urges you back inside your apartment. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
He leads you to your room, the same as his but infinitely more comfortable. While he furnished his apartment, he didn’t take care to really make it a home, not when he spends so many hours at work. He didn’t see the point. Stepping into your room, it’s the opposite, facets of your personality in every corner.
He sits you down on the edge of the bed. A pile of tissues has taken up residence on your nightstand and he gathers them up while you make a feeble attempt to stop him.
“That’s gross, don’t touch those,” you whine. “I can clean them up.”
“Lie down,” he commands.
“Bossy, bossy.”
Robby hides his smile by leaving the room to throw the tissues in the trash. While in the kitchen, he finds your cabinet of mismatched cups and fills one with water. Rummaging through the pantry, he finds an open box of crackers that he brings back to your room.
“Where’s your medicine?” He asks. You gesture towards the bathroom and he digs through the cabinets until he finds a bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out a few into his palm and brings them back to you. “Take these.”
“If I had a nickel for every time you told me to take Tylenol, I’d have two nickels.”
He laughs as he watches you swallow down the medicine and drink half of the glass of water. He hands you a sleeve of crackers.
“Eat a couple of those so that you don’t end up with an upset stomach.”
When you’ve finished, you set the remaining crackers on your nightstand and wiggle down the bed, bringing your blanket up to your chin. Robby sets a palm on your forehead and you watch him with an expression he can’t name.
“Am I gonna be alright, doc?” You ask. He smiles.
“Yeah, I think you’ll pull through.”
“Will you stay with me?”
Rather than respond, he walks around your bed to the other side and toes off his sneakers. He gets on the bed, staying on top of your blankets as he makes himself comfortable. You turn on your side to look at him.
“Thanks for coming,” you whisper.
“That’s what friends do.”
You wake to a heavy weight around your waist and warmth at your back. At first you’re confused until the memory of asking Robby to stay with you comes into focus. You remember him getting in bed with you, keeping himself on top of the covers while you snuggled underneath to fight off the constant chill your fever brought on.
You turn over slowly, careful not to disturb him. He’s still on top of the covers but he’s curled himself around you, his head nearly on your pillow in an effort to get closer. His chest rises and falls with deep, even breaths and his features are soft with sleep.
The shrill beep of an alarm breaks the silence and Robby wakes with a sharp inhale. You quickly close your eyes, pretending to be asleep as he moves around, presumably trying to get his phone out to shut off the alarm. The noise abruptly cuts off and you hear him let out a deep breath.
He shifts beside you. A palm is pressed to your forehead and his touch lingers for a moment, his fingers tracing your cheek as he pulls away. You fight to keep your breathing slow and even despite the fierce pounding of your heart against your ribs.
Robby gets up from the bed, the mattress creaking as his weight lifts from it. You hear his light footsteps around the room, followed by the quiet click of your door being shut. With him gone, you turn onto your back and stare up at the ceiling.
You know he had to leave, he probably had to get ready for work, but you wish he didn’t. A fantasy plays out in your head, one where he gets to sleep in and you wake up before him, sneaking into the kitchen to make coffee. He wakes up while you’re waiting for it to finish brewing, strong arms wrapping around your waist and his beard tickling your neck when he kisses your neck. The image fades as sleep catches up to your exhausted body, pulling you back into its embrace for the rest of the morning.
“Dr. Robby?”
Robby shakes his head free of his thoughts and looks to his left. Mel’s got a clipboard in her hands and a question in her eyes.
“Are you okay?” She asks in that blunt but empathetic way of hers.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks in return. She blinks.
“Oh, uh, it’s just…you seem distracted?”
He is distracted. There’s been a restless fire in his veins ever since he woke up beside you, holding you close. He hasn’t seen you in a couple days now, giving you the space to get over your cold, and it has him growing a bit desperate, though he would never admit as much out loud and especially not to one of the med students.
“Everything is fine, Dr. King. Whatcha got for me?”
Mel launches into a presentation on a twenty-three year old female that was triaged for abdominal pain. Robby listens attentively and joins her at the patient’s bedside as she delivers a diagnosis and describes the treatment plan. One patient turns into…somewhere around thirty, he thinks. He lost count.
Finally, he finishes his shift and heads out into the night. Back in his apartment, he showers, changes his clothes, and brushes his teeth for good measure. He’s rushing through the after work motions, an energy in him that he only feels when he’s making a split second call that could mean life or death in the ER.
Basic needs met, he gets his shoes on and leaves his apartment. Five quick steps have him knocking at your door. His pulse kicks into high gear when he hears your footsteps on the other side.
You open the door and your smile lights up your face when you see him and he knows you’re saying something but his focus is entirely zeroed in on your lips and how he desperately needs to feel them against his. He reaches out, framing your face between his palms. There’s a flash of surprise in your eyes but then he’s kissing you.
Finally.
“Hey! I was just about—“
Your words are cut off by Robby kissing you.
Robby is kissing you.
With his hands on your jaw, he urges you back inside your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him. One large palm moves cradles the back of your head, cushioning the blow when your back hits the wall and he presses his body close to yours, chest to chest and a thigh between your legs.
You’re in sensory overload, overwhelmed by the feel of his broad shoulders beneath your hands, the smell of his shampoo, and the faint taste of mint when his tongue tangles with yours. His hand settles on the side of your neck and you wonder if he can feel the way he makes your heart race beneath his palm.
When he pulls back, he traces a thumb over your lips, open admiration in his gaze. He presses down on your lower lip and you obey the silent command to open up, let him in, give him more. His breath stutters when you close your lips around his thumb and suck. He pulls it free with a lewd pop, dragging his hand down your neck, squeezing lightly at the base of your throat. Before you can react, his touch ventures lower and you gasp when he roughly palms your breast. Your hips flex against his thigh in a bid for friction.
All of a sudden, Robby steps back, taking your hand in his and leading you down the hall to your bedroom.
“Get on the bed,” he says, voice low and rough. You hurry to comply, crawling up the mattress and lying back on the pillows, anticipation and the hungry look on his face making the ache between your thighs nearly unbearable.
He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your legs, and runs his hands over your thighs and beneath the fabric of your shorts. You arch your back when his thumbs dig into the crease of your thigh, so close to where you want him, but not close enough. A whine escapes you.
“What do you want, baby?” He asks.
“Want you to fuck me,” you tell him, lifting your hips.
“Can’t do that yet.”
You frown. “Why not?”
Robby’s fingers curl into the elastic of your shorts, pulling the fabric down. You lift your hips again so that he can pull them off and toss them to the floor, leaving you in your underwear. His hand presses one of your thighs to the mattress, keeping you spread open for him as he drags his thumb over your pussy, starting at the damp spot near your entrance until he reaches your clit.
“You have to cum on my fingers,” he presses down against your clit, “and my mouth first. Think you can do that?”
When you don’t respond to his question, the deep pressure of his thumb is replaced by a light smack of his fingers. You gasp at the sharp contrast in sensation and try to close your legs instinctively, only to be blocked by his body and the firm grip of the hand still on your thigh.
“Answer me,” he demands, removing his hands from you and raising an expectant eyebrow.
“Yes,” you tell him. You’re pretty sure you would do anything this man asks as long as he touches you again. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk.
“Good girl.”
Those two little words are like a bolt of lightning straight to your core and he knows it, his knowing gaze making you feel hot and flustered. He removes your underwear and with the last barrier gone, he drops to his stomach and brings his face mere inches from your soaked pussy.
His breath fans across your heated skin and that’s the only warm up you get before his mouth is on you, his tongue circling your clit and lapping at your entrance. Your hands are drawn to his hair, fingers gripping the short strands. He looks up at you as he sucks your clit between his lips and groans when you pull sharply on his hair in response.
If you thought Robby would finish this quickly to get on to the main event, you were incredibly mistaken. The man between your legs brings you to the brink of release before dragging you back from the edge more times than you can count, to the point where tears gather in the corners of your eyes and you let out a pained groan of frustration.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks, lifting his head but keeping up steady circles of his thumb against your clit. Not fast enough to bring you off, just enough to keep your need simmering at the surface. You glare at him.
“Let me come already,” you say through gritted teeth. He laughs.
“You could try asking nicely. Say please.”
You stare at him, mouth opening and closing around words that won’t form. He brings his mouth back to your abused bundle of nerves, licking with broad circles that have you seeing stars. You’re so close, just a little more—
He starts to pull back. The pressure of his tongue grows lighter. You drop your head to the mattress and one of those trapped tears finally escapes, rolling down your temple. You’ve never begged a man for anything before but there’s a first time for everything.
“Please, please, please,” you gasp. “Robby, please.”
Two fingers press against your entrance and slide inside, the sudden stretch making you gasp. He curls them against your inner walls with each drag of his hand from your body. The pressure and speed of his tongue on your clit increases. Your thighs start to shake as the thread of tension in your core tightens until it finally snaps and you come with a strangled shout of his name.
Robby doesn’t stop touching you. He keeps his fingers buried in your cunt and his mouth busy by gently licking you through the waves of your orgasm. Finally, he sits up. You watch as he takes off his shirt and stands up quickly to remove his shoes and sweatpants. His cock bobs free and your mouth practically waters at the sight of it. Not excessively long but he is thick and if you thought his fingers were a stretch, his cock might just split you in half. A bead of precum has gathered at the slit and you watch him smooth his thumb through it before dragging his fist over his length with a groan.
“Condoms?” He asks.
“Top drawer.”
He grabs a foil packet and tosses it on the bed before crawling over you, settling his body over yours. He kisses you, deep and slow, grinding his hips into yours and dragging his cock through the mess he’s made of you. His lips deliver the taste of you to your tongue, earthy and erotic. You moan into the kiss when he drags against your clit.
Keeping himself balanced with one elbow on the bed beside your head, he uses his free hand to hitch your leg over his hip, opening you wider and bringing you closer. His lips find your neck, lavishing your sensitive skin with kisses and nips of his teeth. You need this man inside of you now.
“Robby, please.”
He nods against your neck, sitting up only long enough to roll the condom down his length before his weight is back on you, pressing you into the mattress. He flexes his hips against you but this time, the thick head of his cock catches against your entrance and he starts to ease inside, achingly slow. His eyes stay fixed to yours as he does.
“You feel so fucking good,” Robby says, face buried against your neck. You clench around him in response and he chokes on a groan. “Don’t do that, I’m trying not to embarrass myself here.”
You do it again for good measure.
He lifts his head, eyes narrowed at you, and pulls his hips back, his cock dragging against the same spot that made you come on his fingers. He thrusts forward with a sharp snap of his hips that punches the air from your lungs.
He sets a pace that has you seeing stars and moaning his name like a prayer. Your orgasm builds, coiling tight in your center, but you’re not ready for the release. You push against Robby’s shoulder and his expression grows concerned, a deep crease forming between his brows as he pulls back, allowing you room to sit up.
“Did I hurt you?” He asks.
“No, no,” you assure him. “I just…can I get on top?”
A boyish grin chases the worry from his face and he flops onto his back in the empty space on the mattress. You laugh as you straddle his hips though it turns into moan when you sink down onto his cock. The angle is deeper and there’s an added friction to your clit with every roll of your hips. Robby’s hands are everywhere, squeezing your ass roughly or pinching a tight nipple between his fingers.
“That’s it, baby,” he groans, head pressed back into the pillow, the long line of his neck on display. “Just like that.”
You place your hands on his chest for balance, the dusting of coarse hair tickling your palms. When you lean forward, he meets you in a kiss that’s mostly shared breath. Your pace slows and Robby takes over, his feet planted on the mattress to thrust up into you.
“Come for me,” he says against your lips. “I need it, sweetheart, come on.”
You drop your head against his neck, licking at the sweat damp skin as your orgasm returns, no longer a slow building wave but a tsunami that floods your nerves and leaves you drowning in sensation. Your walls tighten around his cock and he groans, dragging you down onto his lap and holding you there as he pulses inside of you.
Sweat cools on your skin. Your breathing slows. His hands trail up and down your back, the gentle touch and cold air of your room making your skin prickle. You lift your head and press your forehead against his.
“Jesus Christ,” you mumble.
“Just Robby is fine,” he says.
You lift your head so that he can see you roll your eyes before slowly getting up, a satisfying ache in your muscles and between your legs. You go to the bathroom and Robby comes in as you’re washing your hands, tossing the condom in the trash and washing his hands as well.
You return to bed, crawling beneath the blankets. Robby joins you, lying on his back so that you can rest your head on his chest, your eyelids already heavy with exhaustion.
“Will you stay with me?”
“You don’t even have to ask.”
Robby wakes to sunlight and the smell of coffee. He stretches before finally rolling out of bed and finding his sweatpants on the floor, pulling them on to follow the scent of dark roast straight to the kitchen.
He finds you at the counter, your hips swaying to a song that plays at a low volume from a bluetooth speaker on your dining table. A pan sizzles on the stove and you pour the contents of a bowl into it. He steps up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your neck. You turn in his hold and kiss him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He could get used to mornings like this.
When you turn back around, you pick up a knife and reach for the basket of fruit on the counter, plucking something from the pile.
“I hope that’s not an avocado.”
Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or commenting 💕
Masterlists
Slip Away
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Plus Sized/Curvy!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: Some mornings Bob hears you talking to yourself through the walls. He hears you judging yourself in the mirror, the shuffling, the throwing around of clothes to pick the perfect outfit that’ll hide all your insecurities. So one day he decides to confront you about it in the only way he knows how.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Reader is an oracle like character (they’re a part of the team they just don’t go out onto the field for missions), Takes Place During The ‘14 Month Lull’ lol, Reader is self-conscious about their body and there are comments that are made in regard to to their weight (made by themselves), There are body descriptors in this (stretch marks, plump bellies, cellulite, stuff like that for example), Reader does attempt to skip meals in this to lose weight (they are not successful at all for reasons…But I thought I’d mention it just in case), Reader and Bob are extremely close (due to them always being around each other when the rest of the team goes out on missions), Reader has a habit of pinching themselves hard enough to leave marks, Negative Self Talk
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Oral Sex (female receiving), Fingering, Face Sitting, Body Worship, Nipple/Breast Play, Sentry peeks out a few times, Biting, Scratching, Marking, Hair Pulling, Drooling/Spitting, Bob is a praiseful lover, Grinding, Use of Good Girl, Finger Sucking
Author's Note: This was difficult to write at first, I had a bit of a struggle with it but I hope this meets expectations, I tried to do what I could. Thank you <3
Word Count: 16,990
Waking up and getting ready was always the hardest task of your mornings. Not because you were tired–you were disciplined enough about your sleep, making sure to rest so your mind would stay sharp for the team. And it wasn’t because you dreaded the day ahead either–if anything, you liked your job and the work that came with it. You liked the quiet hum of the Watchtower, the steady chorus of keyboards and comms, and the satisfaction of pulling threads of information out of static and fractured signals. You liked being the one who could guide Walker with quick intel blurbs, give Ava an escape route when seconds mattered, steady Yelena and Alexei with things they couldn’t see ahead of them, or remind Bucky that someone was always watching his back. You liked being their lighthouse through the storm of their missions.
And then there was Bob, who wasn’t cleared for field mission yet, who kept you company in the Watchtower. His presence was a kind of comfort that you hadn’t realized you had needed. He noticed the things no one else did–when your coffee had gone cold, when your shoulders sagged too long over the monitors and you hadn’t moved to get food, and when the draft of the vents had you shivering without realizing it. He would appear instantly at your side to solve anything he noticed you needed; he would set a fresh mug of coffee within reach and take the cold one, or he would slip a plate of food in front of you with your favourite condiments, or he would tug a blanket across your shoulders with hands so careful it was like you were made of porcelain.
Even while he was trying to work on himself and heal from everything that happened–while trying to manage The Void and Sentry so he could clear himself for missions–he still wanted to care for you. And you could tell he liked it, because doing those small mundane things wasn’t a burden, but something he chose to do. And though you reminded yourself that he was like this with everyone, when it was just the two of you, it always felt different. Enough to feed the small, foolish delusions you kept tucked away like fragile glass, knowing you shouldn’t let yourself believe in them, but being unable to stop.
Still, none of that was what made mornings difficult.
The mirror was.
Waking up and getting changed meant facing it. And facing it meant bracing yourself for whatever reflection would stare back. Some morning you could survive it. Other mornings, the glass gutted you. It was like Russian Roulette–you spun the cylinder each day, not knowing whether you would walk away unscathed or end up picking yourself apart until nothing was left but the weight of your own disappointment.
Today, you lost.
The pale spill of dawn cut through the blinds, carving your body into stripes of light and shadow. Your gaze snagged on your stomach immediately–the soft swell of it, the way it curved outward when you turned even slightly. The silvery stretch marks that spread across it glimmered faintly under the sun, etched into your skin like threads pulled too far, reminders you could never smooth away no matter how much specialized cream you put on it.
Your hands rose almost on instinct, palms pressing hard into your waist, your fingers digging into the thick softness until the sting made your chest tighten. You squeezed, pinched, and tugged at yourself as though you could sculpt yourself into something smaller, something closer to what you thought you should be. But when you let yourself go, it all fell back into place unchanged. The only difference was the angry warmth and sting you left behind, the blooming imprints that were made by your own hands.
They joined the others that were already scattered faint and fading along your stomach, and your thighs. They were traces of every other time you had stood there and done this, and you knew this newest addition would linger among them like another ghost that you’d carry in secret.
A shaky breath slipped from your chest, unsteady.
”How could someone love something like this,” You whispered, voice fraying in the quiet, “When I can’t even find anything good about it myself?” The words fractured the silence, and suddenly they felt heavier than the room around you.
You turned to the side, studying your profile with a ruthless eye. The way your belly curved forward, the way it felt like it walked into the room before you even had a chance to, the way your breasts rested against it even when they were locked up in the cradle of a bra. The mirror was merciless and it gave back exactly what you didn’t want to see.
Your eyes squeezed shut, but the thoughts kept pressing in. All the ways you wished you could change yourself. All the versions of you that would never exist. Smaller, neater, easier on the eyes, with the kind of body that wouldn’t feel like a burden to carry, that wouldn’t make you feel invisible in the places that mattered.
The team never treated you like that. But the outside world did. Especially at the PR events–where the lights, the cameras, and the crowded eyes coagulated into a chaos of judgement. You could feel the way the attention slipped off you, sliding toward others without effort, while you stood in the corner like you didn’t belong in the same frame. And each time, the absence settled deeper. A quiet brand against your ribs: you weren’t wanted, or seen, and you weren’t enough.
Your throat closed around the weight of it all, and you shook your head, trying to scatter the thoughts like your brain was a jiggly etch-a-sketch, but they still clung like burrs. You tore your eyes away from the mirror before you could unravel any further, dragging yourself across the room toward your dresser.
The top drawer slid open with a low groan, and inside there were only a few soft, worn in sleep shirts. You pawed through them quickly, desperate for what you needed most–something baggy, something shapeless, something you could vanish inside, and something that would cover your thighs when you wore your shorts beneath it.
But the drawer was nearly empty.
You glanced over at your overflowing laundry basket, slumped against the wall like a monument to procrastination, and let out a groan. You knew you were behind–embarrassingly behind–but you hadn’t realized that it was this bad though. You’d convinced yourself you had at least one oversized shift left in your stash, one last safe piece of fabric to bury yourself in so you could replenish your stash. But evidently, you were wrong.
You tugged one of the sleep shirts from the drawer, unfolding it with a hopeful flick of your wrist–only for the fabric to drape short, cropped, the material clinging stubbornly to itself. You could see how it would mould against you, every dip and swell of your skin outlined without mercy. The thought of wearing it out at your workstation made you feel ill. If Bob saw you like that–if anyone did–you’d want the floor to swallow you whole.
Another groan escaped your lips. This one heavy, bone-deep. You balled the shirt up and threw it back down into the dress as if you were punishing it for even existing.
What now? You couldn’t wear that. And you couldn’t exactly sit around in nothing. Your teeth found the inside of your lips as your eyes flicked around your room, searching for a solution. They landed on your bathrobe. It was still damp from last night’s shower, the edges curling slightly from where it had dried unevenly, but it was long. Loose. Concealing.
With a sigh that carried more resignation than relief, you reached for it. Sliding your arms through the sleeves, you tugged the robe around yourself and cinched the belt tight, double-knotting it like you could bind your insecurities into silence. The fabric swallowed your bra and shorts, covering everything. A makeshift shield. Fragile, but it was better than nothing.
Except…It wouldn’t work for the day. You couldn’t sit hunched over your monitors like this, with the damp terry cloth clinging to your skin. And that left your with one option–one you had been trying not to think about.
Bob.
The thought alone made your cheeks heat up. He was the only person you could ask. You weren’t about to sneak into someone else’s quarters and rummage for a shirt like some shameless thief. The others wouldn’t mind, but you would. It felt too invasive, and wrong.
But asking Bob…That was no easier.
Because you knew what it would mean. His shirt would smell like him. That sharp, minty-lemon scent that reminded you of cough drops that melted in the heat of a car, sweet and clean and distinctly Bob. It was the smell that announced him before his voice did, a soft herald of his presence that lingered in a room long after he left. You loved it more than you’d ever admit–loved the way it clung faintly to your skin if he leaned too close, loved the way it settled into the fibers of the blankets he draped over your shoulders. Wearing it all day, pressed close against you though? The thought alone was intoxicating. Addicting…And terrifying.
You shook yourself. It would be better than parading around in the robe or in that clingy scrap of a shirt you wouldn’t be caught dead in outside of your bed.
So you made the decision to do it. You tightened the robe’s belt once more and shuffled out of your bedroom, feet whispering against the floor. The hallway stretched long and quiet, the weight in your stomach growing heavier with each step toward his door. When you reached it, you lingered for a second, pulling in a breath to steel yourself before raising your hand to knock. You did three quick raps, soft but certain, knowing he was probably sleeping still and you didn’t want to startle him. Then you stepped back, nerves sparking in your chest.
Inside, you heard the muted creak of his bed, the shift of weight, the scuff of bare feet against the floor. And then the door opened.
Bob stood there in the frame of it, rubbing his eyes with the kind of exaggerated fervor that was meant to sell the illusion of sleep. His light brown hair was mussed, and he looked a bit like he had his face pressed against the pillow for too long because a portion of his face was marked up by the wrinkles of it. He was wearing a green long sleeve crew neck with a pair of sweatpants, and you were amazed that he was able to sleep in that when he had told you he had always run hot…But he hadn’t been asleep. He never was, not really, not when your alarm went off. He always lingered in that liminal space between rest and awareness, waiting until you left your room before pretending to wake himself.
Because the truth was, Bob heard you every single morning. He listened for the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your dresser, the sighs you thought were yours alone, and the thoughts that plagued your mind and the cruel words you spoke to yourself. And all the while, Sentry’s voice prowled in the back of his mind, poking around, taunting, and urging.
“Go to her. Tell her she’s beautiful. Tell her she doesn’t need to hide herself…Show her what it’s like to be loved, show her she deserves it.” He ignored it, as he always did, jaw tight, chest aching, because as much as he wanted to do that he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable with his advances. But the second he saw you–wrapped in nothing but that robe, belt cinched tight, your collarbones peeking out slightly, with the cleavage of your breasts catching his eye, and the faint glimpse of your thighs at the hem–his breath hitched, and his eyes widened despite himself.
You felt the weight of his gaze instantly. Hot, heavy, searching. And shame flushed through you like fire. You thought he was cataloguing flaws–the slight gape in the robe that showed your thighs, the way the fabric strained across your middle, the evidence of every curve you tried to hide.
But Bob wasn’t seeing flaws. His eyes roamed you with hunger barely leashed, as though every detail was a brushstroke in a painting he couldn’t look away from. To him, you weren’t something to conceal. You were art. You were gravity. You were the only thing his world seemed to orbit.
Your lips parted, nerves sparking as you forced yourself to speak. “Hey…I was wondering if I could borrow one of your shirts. I have to catch up on laundry today and I don’t have any more to wear…” Bob blinked, caught in the force of you, and for the briefest moment he froze, and he felt Sentry’s voice cut sharp in his skull,
“Say no. Let her stay like this. Let her walk around in that robe all day. God, I would lose myself in her if she did. I could erase every bad thought she has about herself, and make her see herself the way we do. See the goddess she is…How much of an adequate mate she would be…How she could be ours.” Heat flared up Bob’s neck, spreading over his freckled face. He wanted to shove a fist into his own jaw, to knock the voice out of him, to claw it from his head entirely, because of the thoughts that Sentry spoke sometimes. The embarrassment of it scorched him, and he bared the evidence across his pale skin.
He swallowed, throat dry, and coughed gently to clear his throat, “Yeah, su-sure,” He choked out, voice cracking slightly under the strain, “I’ll grab you one. Just…Give me a second.” And with that, he turned back into his room quickly, heart hammering, while you stood in the hall nervously looking down at yourself, convinced his hesitation had been something else entirely–convinced that his widened eyes had seen too much, and not in the way you secretly wished they had.
He crossed to his closet, fingers brushing over a row of shirts–each one familiar, and in his constant rotation. He paused for a moment, hand hovering. He should’ve grabbed the first one he touched, and should’ve made it quick, effortless, and casual. That would’ve been the smart thing, and that would keep him from standing there like an idiot, imagining the sight of you wrapped up in his clothes as though it were something more than a temporary favor.
But he didn’t grab the first one.
His fingers settled on a blue crewneck. It was soft, broken-in, its cotton was thinned just enough by time and wear that it carried the comfort of a second skin. He had worn it on nights when sleep didn’t come easily, and on days when the weight of himself felt easier to carry if he hid inside the familiar fabric. If he gave you this one, you’d be giving it back with your own warmth folded into it. That thought alone lodged in his chest like a secret wish he couldn’t shake.
He had told himself it was selfish as he pulled it free from the hanger, folding it once over his arm as though smoothing its edges could calm the nerves that twitched through his body, because inside he hoped that maybe it wouldn’t be the last time he saw you in his clothes.
When he turned back to you, standing in the hall with your robe cinched tight, your eyes cast slightly down like you wanted to disappear into the floorboards, he felt a pang so sharp it almost made him wince. He held the shirt out to you, voice careful.
“Is this one okay?” You lifted your gaze, and the moment your eyes landed on it, your lips curved into the faintest flicker of relief. You nodded quickly, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction.
“That’s great…Thank you.” His answering smile was small, almost shy, but it tugged at the corners of his mouth before he could stop it. He handed the shirt over, watching as you folded it neatly and hugged it against your chest. The movement pulled your robe slightly looser at the collar, exposing more of your skin to his gaze. He shouldn’t have looked. He knew he shouldn’t. But his eyes roamed helplessly, devouring the line of your collarbone, the curve of your throat, the faint sheen of the skin of your breasts.
The air drained from his lungs for just a moment, before you tugged the robe over yourself, cheeks heating up. The silence stretched, taut and delicate, until a soft sound cut through it–your stomach, low and insistent, betraying you. Bob’s ears caught it easily, and despite his best efforts to play it off, concern rose to the surface before he could smother it.
“Do you want me to make you some br-breakfast?” He asked, his voice cracking a bit, as though he was trying too hard not to make the offer sound like he had been listening in on your body. You shook your head quickly, clutching the blue fabric of his shirt tighter to you.
”No, I’m okay…I’m probably just going to make myself a coffee and pick up where I left off last night with my files. I think Bucky and Walker are waiting on the information.” His blue eyes narrowed faintly, scanning you in that way that always made you feel like he could see far more than you wanted him to. Because it wasn’t like you to skip breakfast. He knew your routines. You were a creature of habit, grounding yourself in them. And right now? You were breaking them.
“Are you sure?” His tone was soft, almost coaxing, careful not to tread into pushy. “It won’t be a big deal. I-I can make you some eggs and toast…Or one of those omelets you like.” You hesitated, but the weight of his gaze pressed against you, too steady, too observant, and you forced a faint smile to cover the discomfort gnawing at your stomach.
“Really, Bob. I’m not hungry. But thank you.” He lowered his eyes, lips pressing into a thin line, nodding once. He didn’t believe you, but he wasn’t going to push.
“Alright. I’ll start a pot of coffee for you then.” That earned him a softer smile, small but genuine–appreciative.
“That would be very nice.” He nodded again, shifting past you gently, his arm brushing against you as he moved to walk down the hall. His long strides carried him toward the kitchen, leaving the faintest trail of that minty-lemon scent in his wake. You exhaled a long, shaky breath the second his back was turned. The hollow gnawing of hunger still scratched at your stomach, but the thought of eating made your chest feel tight. Shame settled heavier as you shuffled back into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. You leaned against it for a moment, clutching the shirt in your hands, before finally lifting it to your face.
The scent hit you instantly–minty, sharp, sweet, with that subtle warmth that was just him. You inhaled deeply, letting it fill your lungs, and a small, betraying sound slipped out as you exhaled again. God, it was like a drug.
Your robe slipped from your shoulders as you tugged it off, discarding it onto the bed. You pulled the shirt over your head, the cotton falling like a curtain around you. It swallowed you whole, the hem brushing just above your knees, the sleeves too long, hiding your hands. It covered nearly everything you hated, cloaking your skin in his presence, and for a moment it almost felt like safety. Your fingers brushed against the cuff of the sleeve, catching on the frayed fabric. The edges were ragged, threads chewed through in uneven little crescents–a nervous tick of his, a private quirk you’d noticed before. You ran your thumb across one of the bite marks, and your mind drifted before you could stop it.
What would it feel like, you wondered, if instead of cotton, it were your skin between his teeth? If those lips pressed into you–not fabric–leaving marks only you would know? Heat rushed up your neck, your thoughts stumbling into dangerous territory before you yanked them back, clamping them down with practiced cruelty.
Because reality was a different beast. Reality was your body, mapped with stretch marks, soft in ways you didn’t want anyone to notice, heavy where you thought you shouldn’t be. The fantasy burned away under the weight of certainty: he’d never want you like that. He couldn’t. Not when he could see all of that.
You let the sleeve drop from your fingers, the frayed fabric falling limp at your side. With a sigh, you pulled your hair out from beneath the collar and tried not to think about it.
From the kitchen, the low gurgle of the coffee maker filled the silence, the smell beginning to drift faintly down the hall. It was your cue. Time to get yourself together. Time to step back into the day.
You tugged the hem of his shirt lower as though it could hide you even more, and then slipped out into the hall–your heart hammering harder than it should for something as simple as wearing his clothes.
The kitchen in the Watchtower wasn’t sleek like the briefing rooms or as sterile as the medbay. It had been bent and molded into something warmer, lived-in by all of you. The overhead lights were softened by one of Ava’s tinkered filters, turning the harsh fluorescents into a gentler glow. A line of mugs, all mismatched and claiming their own personalities, cluttered the counter: Alexei’s enormous novelty one with a faded Soviet star, Walker’s ceramic mug chipped at the lip, Bucky’s plain steel thermos that never left the sink long enough to dry, and Yelena’s chipped enamel cup that still smelled faintly of peppermint tea even though it had been washed several times. The fridge was plastered with scraps–shopping lists scribbled by whoever last noticed you were low on eggs, magnets from cities the Thunderbolts had passed through during missions, a photo of the team crammed into a booth that someone had pinned there as a joke.
Bob stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up, methodically cracking eggs against the rim of a bowl. He worked with quiet precision, as though whisking could keep his thoughts steady. But the moment your shadow reached the edge of his sight, his whole body seized.
His eyes flicked over–and everything in him locked.
“Jesus Christ, Bob…Look at her.” Sentry’s voice slithered through him like oil, but for once Bob didn’t fight the command. He couldn’t. Not when you looked so good. Not when his shirt looked so right on you. Like it had been waiting for this exact moment. His stomach twisted tight, pulling into knots, and it was all he could do not to let one of the eggs slip from his hand.
You–blissfully unaware of his eyes–padded across the kitchen and reached up toward the cabinet above the sink. The crewneck shifted as you stretched, riding higher over your thighs, pulling just enough for him to glimpse a new swath of skin. He turned deliberately, pretending to rummage for a fork, but really it was an excuse to catch more of you.
And then he saw them.
The faint stretch marks curling behind your knees, delicate and raw against your skin. They looked so impossibly soft, so humanly beautiful, that something inside him nearly cracked open. His fingers itched, his chest tight with the sheer ache of wanting. He imagined himself kneeling right there behind you, pressing reverent kisses into them, letting his lips map each line until you believed him when he whispered how pretty they were. His jaw clenched so hard it ached, fighting Sentry’s scream in his head.
“Do it. Now. She needs it. You need it. Just do it. What’s the worst that could happen?!” His pulse hammered as he grabbed a fork, forcing his gaze back to the eggs, and whisking with an almost violent intensity. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not when a single misstep could send you closing yourself off forever. By the time you tugged your mug down, the shirt fell back into place, and the skin he had been devouring disappeared. Disappointment stabbed him, sharp and almost shameful.
The coffee maker beeped, its gurgle breaking the silence as you filled your mug. You moved around him again, his breath hitching when you brushed your body against his back, and then you slipped to the fridge for creamer. He wanted to reach out, to brush his hand over yours, but his arms stayed locked at his sides.
“I’ll be at my desk if you need me,” you murmured, tone easy but distant, as if you were already slipping into your workday.
Bob cleared his throat, “Say hi to the team for me…” You gave him a smile, the soft, quiet one that killed something inside him every time he saw it.
”Will do.” And then you were gone, retreating down the hall with your coffee, leaving Bob staring at the half-whisked eggs.
The Watchtower’s common room greeted you with a hush. You set your coffee down on your workstation desk and pressed the control that opened the long steel shutters. The curtains parted with a faint mechanical groan, letting in the deep bleed of sunrise. Orange and rose gold streaked the horizon, spilling into the room, gilding the steel edges with warmth.
You eased yourself down into your desk chair, the fabric of Bob’s crewneck shifting soft against your skin as you adjusted. The monitors hummed awake, filling the air with their low static buzz, familiar and grounding. You shifted again, trying to find that elusive “comfort spot” in the chair–only for the unforgiving armrests to bite into your thighs. The soft flesh spread against the rigid plastic, pressing until it squeaked under your weight.
The sound made you wince.
You shifted quickly, too quickly, cheeks burning with shame, as though someone had heard–even though you knew the room was empty. The chair groaned again anyway, cruel and merciless. Finally, with a resigned sigh, you gave up and settled into the pressure, the discomfort gnawing at you. The plumpness of your thighs swelled stubbornly against the armrests.
You tugged at the hem of Bob’s shirt, dragging it lower, as if fabric could erase the sound or hide the proof of it.
You turned on your monitors one by one, the screens blooming to life with a soft hum as the system rebooted. The glow painted your face in pale blues and whites, artificial light fighting the sunrise that spilled into the common room. You slid your headset on, the left cup perched off your ear so you could catch any sound from outside–habitual, precautionary. Bob rarely said much when you were working, but still…You always left yourself open for him. Just in case.
You logged into your profile, the familiar string of passwords tapping out beneath your fingers. A cascade of windows opened–encrypted folders, surveillance logs, reports waiting to be sorted. Your work from the night before blinked back at you in cold text and broken signals. With a sigh, you wrapped your fingers around your coffee and took a sip, the bitterness scratching down your throat, too sharp without enough cream to dull the edges. You set it down, cracked your knuckles, and leaned forward, letting yourself be pulled under by the routine.
The morning passed in fragments of conversations with the team. Crackles of comms brought Ava and Alexei’s dry humor, Yelena’s sharp quips, Walker’s impatient drawl, and Bucky’s quiet steadiness. They were scattered across the world but tethered to you by these thin threads of sound. Between check-ins, you slipped in Bob’s hello, and when the echoes came back–“Tell him we said hey”–you passed it along, a little smile tugging at your lips.
The files, though, were less generous. Nothing new. Nothing helpful. Just static and dead ends, information you’d already combed through twice over.
By the time the clock crept toward noon, your stomach was folding in on itself. The coffee was no shield against the hunger gnawing at you. Every pang came sharper, more insistent, until you had to curl a hand against your middle just to ground yourself.
And then came the smell.
At first it was faint, but it spread quickly–garlic sizzling in oil, soy sauce sweet and sharp, the faint burn of chilies waking the air. Bob’s cooking. Stir-fry. And not just any stir-fry–you knew that scent too well. Chicken, vegetables, and those crunchy chilies you’d once mentioned in passing that you liked. He had remembered.
It clung to the air, wrapping around you like invisible fingers, tugging you out of your concentration. You shifted uncomfortably in your chair, nails pressing into the armrest as if you could resist it. The growl in your stomach betrayed you again, loud enough you winced.
He was doing it on purpose. You knew he was. Bob wasn’t subtle when it came to taking care of you. He’d heard the hollow lie in your voice when you told him you weren’t hungry, and now he was trying another way. Coaxing, not demanding. Tempting, not forcing. And it was working, torturously.
You told yourself you could sneak by. You’d grab your notebook or take a break in your room, let the hunger pass, ride it out. It wasn’t the first time you skipped two meals in a row, and it wouldn’t be the last. If you moved quickly and quietly enough, you wouldn’t have to see his face fall when you turned him down again.
At half past twelve, you slid off your chair, the legs rolling softly against the floor. You padded toward the hall, attempting to make your steps light, and careful. But of course he heard you. He always did.
“Hey,” Bob’s voice called, smooth and warm, stopping you cold. “I plated you up some chicken stir-fry. Yo-Your favourite. I even used some of those crunchy chilies you like to give it a little kick.” Your body froze mid-step. The words tangled around you, pulling you tight. For a moment, your mind whispered its protest–you weren’t hungry, you didn’t need it, you shouldn’t. The familiar litany rose quick and bitter.
But before you could retreat or say an excuse, he was already moving.
Bob lifted the bowl from the counter, his broad hand cradling it steady, steam rising in fragrant curls. He crossed the room toward you, and your eyes tracked every step despite yourself. He stopped just in front of you, close enough that you caught that sharp mint-lemon scent mixed with the spice of chilies.
“Sit,” He said softly, holding the bowl out to you. His voice was smooth, but there was a weight beneath it, something that vibrated like embers caught beneath glass. “And have lunch with me.” You blinked up at him, throat dry, words stuck. His blue eyes caught yours, steady but burning faintly with something deeper, the little flicks of orange light peeking through the haze. You couldn’t tell if it was Bob or Sentry looking through them–or maybe it was both. Sometimes it was impossible to distinguish where one ended and the other began.
And yet…That fire wasn’t frightening. Not when it was turned on you like this.
You glanced down at the bowl, the bright vegetables glistening in the sauce, the chicken seared golden. Your stomach twisted again, traitorous, loud. When you glanced back up, his eyes hadn’t moved from yours, steady, watching. You let out a sigh, small and reluctant, but it seemed to loosen the coil in Bob’s shoulders instantly.
“Fine.” You reached out and took the bowl from his hands, the warmth bleeding through the ceramic into your palms. He gave a soft nod, as if sealing a pact, and turned back toward the counter to collect his own before following you. The two of you fell into step without thinking, moving toward the couch you always shared when lunch breaks aligned.
The cushions gave way beneath you, exhaling a faint puff of air as you sank down. Immediately, your hand darted to the hem of his shirt, tugging it forward, ensuring it still covered the parts of yourself you couldn’t bear to show. The cotton whispered against your thighs as you adjusted, your mind already flicking through the angles, through what could be seen, through what had to be hidden.
Bob sat at your side, careful as always, giving you space while still close enough that you could feel his presence. He lifted his fork, building the perfect scoop–rice, chicken, vegetables, sauce clinging in a glistening sheen. He slid it into his mouth, chewing slowly, savoring like a man utterly content with the simple ritual. Then came the sigh, soft and full, slipping from his chest before he spoke.
“Th-think I topped myself.” There was a boyish pride in his voice, sweet and unassuming. And somehow that was all the permission you needed. Your own fork rose almost shyly, hesitating for a fraction of a second before you took the first bite. It was divine. The garlic warm and grounding, the chilies sparking heat along your tongue, the soy sweet and sharp in equal measure. The chicken was seared perfectly, the vegetables still crisp, the rice pulling everything together into one perfect mouthful. It hit the hollow ache in your belly like a balm, and for a fleeting moment, you could’ve wept with relief.
And so you ate.
Each bite eased something inside of you, untangling the wires that had been coiled tight all morning. The gnawing ache dulled, your head stopped swimming, the gray fog that always gathered at the edges of hunger began to fade. Bob ate beside you, quietly, but his gaze flicked toward you every so often, watching with something almost reverent as life trickled back into your features.
To him, it wasn’t just lunch. It was proof that he could give you something good. That he could mend, if only in small ways. That he could keep you tethered here, safe.
By the time your bowl was empty, your stomach felt pleasantly full, your limbs heavier but steadier. You leaned back into the couch with a long exhale, the cushions embracing you. A sigh, almost blissful, slipped out.
“That was delicious.” Bob’s lips pulled into a smile, warm and unguarded, the kind that softened his entire face.
“Do you want some more? Th-there’s a little bit left…” The words hung between you, harmless, generous, but your gaze dropped to the bowl in your lap–and suddenly, it wasn’t harmless at all.
The food smeared along the edges wasn’t comfort anymore. It was evidence.
Your brain zeroed in, cruel and merciless, on the portions. On every bite you had taken. On the weight now sitting heavy in your belly. You thought of how it would bloat you, how it would cling to your body, how tomorrow morning the mirror would punish you for giving in so easily. The silvery marks already etched into your skin seemed to throb in your memory, ready to multiply.
You could already see yourself in the glass: tugging at your stomach, finding every flaw, cataloguing every inch you wished away. Angry with yourself, disgusted with yourself, furious at your own weakness. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Weakness.
You could’ve waited. Dinner wasn’t that far away. You’d skipped before, you could’ve done it again. But instead, you gave in. Easily. Pathetically. One smell, one gentle push, and you caved.
Weak.
Weak.
Weak.
The word pulsed like a brand, hammering inside your skull. And beneath it came all the old refrains, the quiet venom: You’re too big already. You’re nothing but soft edges and heavy lines. No wonder the cameras never want you. No wonder the world doesn’t see you. You’ll never be enough.
The thoughts twisted sharper, deeper, until your chest felt caved in under the weight of them.
And Bob heard.
The funnel of your thoughts slammed into him like a wave, brutal and unrelenting, every cruel word you whispered to yourself echoing raw in his mind. His grip on the bowl faltered, breath shuddering as the poison you carried bled into him. It was unbearable. Like swallowing glass.
Because to him, you were the furthest thing from weak. You were strength incarnate, forged not from steel or super-serum, but from the quiet resilience of someone who carried everyone else while drowning herself. He saw it in every late night at your monitors, in every calm word you spoke into comms while the world crumbled on the other side. He saw it in the way you endured the lights, the cameras, the crushing silence of being overlooked. And still you stood. Still you gave.
To hear you call yourself weak–even silently–was more than he could stand.
The word tore through him, unbearable, and before he could stop himself–before he could cage it down behind the walls he had built so carefully–his voice cracked open.
“You’re not we-weak…” The words broke the air like glass shattering. Fragile, trembling, but desperate. They lingered there between you, undeniable, and the second they left his mouth, Bob’s chest seized with the realization of what he’d done. Your head jerked up, eyes wide, lips parting as shock flared across your face. Because you knew. You knew those words hadn’t left your mouth. They had lived only inside your head, venomous and private. And yet he had answered them.
Your heart was pounding so hard you swore he could hear it. His words still floated between you, fragile as glass, impossible to take back. And then, as if on cue, Sentry’s voice uncoiled in Bob’s head, low and coaxing, dripping with heat.
“You’ve already revealed you’re reading her thoughts…You might as well double down, Bob. Tell her. Show her. Give her the truth she keeps starving herself of.” Bob’s throat worked, muscles twitching, fighting instinct. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like he was wrestling his own body. But when his eyes lifted to yours–wide, wet, startled–he caved. The thought of you believing those cruel whispers was worse than the danger of you recoiling from his truth.
He swallowed hard, voice breaking the air again, softer this time, low and deliberate. “I…I hear you sometimes.”
Your brows knitted, breath hitching.
“In the mornings,” He clarified, shame coloring his words, “I-I hear the things you say. About yourself. And sometimes–God, sometimes I even catch your thoughts when they’re… When they’re loud enough. The ones where you pick yourself apart over things that–” his voice wavered, his hand trembling slightly around the bowl, “–that make you the beautiful woman you are.” The word–beautiful–hit you like a strike to the ribs. Sharp, unexpected, and deep. Your chest ached with it, because you’d spent so long convinced no one could see you that way. And yet here he was, looking at you like the word was gospel.
Bob set his bowl down on the coffee table with slow, careful movements, as though any sudden motion might shatter the moment entirely. His body leaned closer, cautious but compelled, his hand lifting. You didn’t move, couldn’t.
His palm cupped your cheek, warm and broad, calloused but impossibly gentle. He held you as if your skin might bruise under the weight of him, his thumb brushing feather-light over the puffiness beneath your eye, as if he could smooth away every trace of fatigue, every tear you hadn’t let fall, and you found yourself leaning into the touch.
His voice dipped, hoarse but steady.
“None of this defines who you are, Y/N…”
His hand left your cheek, slow as a prayer, sliding down the slope of your jaw, over the curve of your neck, trailing heat down the length of your arm until it finally settled at your side. His fingers spread across the soft swell of your stomach, caressing carefully. He cradled the very thing you had tried so hard to hide, his thumb stroking absent circles against the plump flesh. Your breath stuttered, a tremor rattling through you.
Bob leaned in, the space between you narrowing until his breath mingled with yours, hot and unsteady. His lips hovered at the corner of your mouth, so close it made your skin buzz, but he stopped just shy–like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, savoring the drop before he fell. His voice was a whisper, raw with truth.
“But even if it does…” His eyes searched yours, desperate, pleading. “I love every single portion of it.” And then he tilted, pressing his lips softly to your cheek. A kiss so tender it broke something open inside you. When he pulled back, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his words spilled out in a low confession, pulled from a place he could no longer lock away.
“I’m…I’m enamored with you. With all of you. I think about you all the time, more than I should. The way your body moves, the little details I catch when you’re not looking–” His hand slipped lower, skimming down your thigh until it found the back of your knee. His fingertips tracing one of the raised stretch marks there, soft as a vow. His voice caught, thick with want. “–And the way I im-imagine how you’d feel beneath my hands. How you’d look…Letting me touch all of this, letting me love all of this.” You felt like your heart might rupture, every frantic beat ricocheting through your chest so violently you wondered how he couldn’t hear it. The weight of his words still hung between you, electric and unbearable, and then his hands adjusted, settling on your hips. His fingers flexed–testing, tentative–before he gave a gentle squeeze, grounding you in the heat of his touch.
“Bob, I…” The words tumbled from your lips before shattering into silence. You stopped yourself, throat closing around the rest. Because what could you possibly say to this? It felt like he had poured out every hidden confession in his chest, stacked one on top of another until you were drowning beneath the sheer gravity of it all. It was too much. Too much, and yet not enough, because some wild, aching part of you wanted to believe it. Your pulse roared in your ears, and your whole body quivered under the weight of his nearness. You couldn’t look at him–you couldn’t bear to see pity in his eyes, or worse, regret.
Bob’s chest tightened, and slowly, carefully, he lifted one hand. His fingers brushed beneath your chin, coaxing, tilting your face back toward him. The roughness of his calloused thumb against your soft skin was grounding, tender.
“You don’t be-believe me…Do you?” His voice cracked on the syllables, threaded with both hurt and desperate hope.
Your throat worked as you swallowed hard. The truth spilled out in a whisper, broken and ashamed. “No…I don’t.” The silence after was unbearable, thick enough to smother. His blue eyes searched yours, and for a moment you braced for him to recoil, to pull away, to realize the foolishness of baring himself so openly to someone like you. But instead, his shoulders sank. His eyes softened, luminous with something aching and unshaken. A quiet sigh fell from him, heavy with longing, but threaded with patience.
“Y/N…” He whispered your name like it was sacred, as though just saying it gave him some sort of strength to continue. “If you could see yourself through my eyes for one second…Just one…You’d ne-never doubt me again. I swear it.” His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, stroking as if he could erase every cruel thought you carried. “I’m not saying this to be kind. I’m not saying it because you need to hear it. I’m saying it because it’s the truth, and it’s eating me alive to kn-know you don’t believe it.” You felt yourself gulp, your throat tightening so sharply it almost hurt. Your pulse hammered in your ears, loud and unsteady, and for a moment you couldn’t breathe.
Bob leaned in closer, his breath brushing across your lips, his voice dropping to a low, trembling murmur.
“But…I can make you believe it,” He whispered, each word breaking apart with need and devotion. His blue eyes burned into yours, tender and molten. “If you’d let me.”
The confession unraveled you. Something inside of you cracked wide open under the weight of it, and before you could think, his lips were on yours.
The kiss was slow at first, achingly gentle, like he was afraid you might shatter if he pressed too hard. His lips moved carefully, sweetly, but there was heat threaded in the tenderness, a hunger he couldn’t disguise. The hand resting on your hip slipped lower, trailing over the hem of his crewneck where it draped against your skin. His fingers brushed beneath the fabric, warm and tentative, before finally curling into the plush softness of your upper thigh, right below where your shorts started.
You moaned softly into his mouth, helpless and unguarded, the sound muffled but undeniable. The moment it escaped, his whole body shuddered, like the noise had been a spark to dry kindling.
Your arms lifted almost on instinct, wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. Your fingers slid into his hair, threading through the mussed strands you had always wanted to touch, and the sensation was everything you hoped it would be and more–silken, warm, alive under your fingertips. Bob let out a broken sound of his own, part sigh, part groan, the sound spilling into your mouth as if he couldn’t hold it back.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, his lips followed yours instantly–chasing you, unwilling to let the space linger. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your cheek, soft and desperate, reverent in a way that made your skin burn. His mouth trailed lower, brushing along the line of your jaw, slow and lingering, each press of his lips a vow he couldn’t voice. You tilted your head back, giving him access, surrendering a little more to the pull of him. Each brush of his lips sent sparks running down your nerves, your chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven waves. Your nails scraped through his hair, tugging lightly against his scalp, and he groaned into your skin at the sensation, the sound vibrating against your jaw.
His hand slid higher beneath the hem of his crewneck, rough fingertips gliding over the soft curve of your side until they settled at your hip. He gave you a firm squeeze before smoothing his palm along the soft swell there. You felt the curve of his grin against your jaw when you arched into the touch, a sound escaping you that you hadn’t meant to make. With that, he tugged you closer, lips trailing fire over your skin, his breath hot and unsteady as though he was barely holding himself together.
Then his mouth left you for the briefest second, and his words spilled out low and rough, vibrating with want, “Come sit on my la-lap.”
The request hung heavy in the air. Your breath caught, your body going still. The thought of it made heat coil deep in your belly, but just as quickly, shame flared. Your eyes flicked down to yourself–the soft edges you always tried to hide, the weight you carried like an anchor–and hesitation rooted you in place.
“Bob…” You trailed off, but then his thumb stroked slow, soothing circles into your hip, his blue eyes meeting yours with patience threaded through the hunger. There was no rush in him, no demand. Just quiet, unshaken want.
”You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” He murmured, his voice sincere, “But…God, I think I’d be the ha-happiest man alive if you did.” Your chest tightened. The battle inside you–fear and longing, shame and want–waged for another moment. Then, slowly, trembling, you shifted. You swung one leg over him, so you were straddling his thighs. He leaned back against the couch immediately, making space, tilting his head to look up at you like you’d just stepped into the center of his universe. Your hands landed on his shoulders for balance, your body tense, waiting for regret to hit you. But it didn’t.
His thighs were firm beneath you—solid, unyielding, the kind of strength that made you feel both steady and feverishly aware of the intimacy of the moment. When you sank fully onto him, the heat of his body radiated through the thin barrier of fabric, and his hands immediately slid back under the hem of his crewneck. His palms found your hips again, broad and warm, and he pulled you in until your chest was pressed against his, until there was no space left between you except for the shallow, unsteady breaths you both shared.
And yet, in the back of your mind, that old fear needled its way through. You thought about your weight pressing down on him, about the way you felt too heavy, too much. Your body tensed slightly, the thought souring the sweetness of the kiss.
Bob broke from your lips just enough to murmur against the wetness left by his tongue, “I’m exactly where I want to be, Y/N.” The conviction in his tone snapped through your doubt, scattering it like smoke. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding you ever so slightly, coaxing you into a slow roll of your hips against him. You gasped softly at the friction, at the new, raw spark of sensation that bloomed between you. For a moment, you let him move you, his grip steady but tender. Then instinct overtook hesitation–you began to move on your own, finding a rhythm, grinding against him as the heat between you built.
Bob’s breath fractured. His head tipped back against the couch, throat taut, as he groaned low in his chest. When his eyes found yours again, they were blazing with a fire that made your stomach flip. He leaned up to kiss you hard, his lips urgent, needy, devouring you as though he couldn’t get close enough. He broke away only to gasp against your mouth, his words hot and trembling:
“You feel so go-good grinding on me like this…” Your body shivered, desire lancing through you. His hands slid higher, skimming over your waist, up your sides, memorizing every curve like scripture. One hand splayed over the bare skin of your back, holding you firm, the other caressed your hip with worshipful precision. He kissed you again, softer this time, slower, like he wanted to draw the moment out forever. When he pulled back just slightly, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth as he whispered:
“Your skin…God, it feels so perfect…And so fu-fucking warm.” The words made your eyes sting, your throat ache, because no one had ever spoken about you like that, not with so much sincerity threaded through their voice. He shifted beneath you, adjusting, and the hard length of him pressed against you through his sweatpants. The realization made you gasp, and your hips stutter, but Bob moaned softly and leaned forward. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you tight against him, chest to chest, like he couldn’t stand an inch of space between you.
His lips ghosted over your ear as he murmured, “I want to take you to your bedroom, Y/N. I want you…Wa-Want to see all of you, please…Let me.” His lips pressed to the side of your neck, hot and wet, nipping gently before smoothing the sting with the flat of his tongue. You shivered at the duality–the sharp sting and the cooling soothe of his saliva–your head tilting back instinctively to give him more. But your eyes flicked toward the glow of your monitors, guilt tugging at you even when you were wrapped up in the heat of his mouth.
“I’m still working…” You murmured, voice shaky, tethered between duty and desire. Bob hummed against your skin, low and indulgent, his breath washing over the damp trail his tongue had left.
“If they need your as-assistance…” He punctuated the word with another kiss, softer this time, “…I’m sure they’ll text you.” His fingers kneaded into your back, large and careful, melting the last of your resistance. Your teeth caught your bottom lip as his kisses turned into a steady stream along the column of your throat–each one patient until you were unraveling beneath the weight of his devotion.
“Bob…” Your voice was barely audible, a breath caught in the air. Then his hips shifted beneath you, pressing his hardness firmly against the thin barrier of your shorts. The sensation was so raw, so undeniable, that a gasp tore out of you before you could catch it. Heat coiled tight in your stomach, and your walls of hesitation fractured all at once.
“Okay…” You whispered, half a plea, half surrender, “Okay, let’s do it.” You braced your palms on his shoulders, intending to rise, to shuffle off his lap. But the instant you shifted, his arms banded around you, holding you firm against his chest.
“Where are you going?” His voice was quiet, but there was a thread of something feral beneath it–something that made your breath catch. A small laugh bubbled out of you despite the tension, disbelieving and giddy.
”I’m getting off you so we can go to my room like you said…” But Bob only shook his head, blue eyes blazing as his hands slid down the back of your thighs. In one seamless, startling motion, he pushed up from the couch. You gasped, your body jolting against his as he stood with you caged in his arms like you weighed nothing. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist, clinging as your breath fled you.
“Bob!” You hissed, the sound torn between alarm and awe. “Are you crazy? You’re going to hurt yourself.”
He let out a small laugh, the sound warm against your ear, before answering with a flash of sarcasm, “It’s not like I have a God living inside me that grants me superhuman st-strength or anything.” Your heart hammered wildly at both his words and the effortless way he held you, broad hands firm beneath your thighs, body steady as stone. He walked with the confidence of a man carrying his most precious possession, every step unshaken.
“That’s not the point, I–” You began, panic threading through the protest, but he cut you off gently, shushing you with a press of his lips to your temple.
“Don’t say it,” He murmured against your skin, voice low but absolute. “I’m fine. And I’m not going to hurt myself by carrying yo-you.” As if to prove it, his fingers flexed around your thighs, giving you a reassuring squeeze. Your chest tightened at the gesture–gentle, grounding, tender–as he continued down the hall.
Once he reached your bedroom door, Bob shifted you carefully in his arms, balancing your weight with an ease that made you dizzy. One hand left your thigh, broad fingers curling around the knob as he pushed the door open with a low creak. The threshold gave way, spilling sunlight across the floorboards.
Your room was bathed in it–golden light pouring through the sheer curtains, painting everything in a soft warmth. It looked different in that glow. Less like a cage, less like a place of battle. Still yours, but transformed into something entirely.
Bob stepped inside, moving slowly, deliberately. He carried you past the dresser, past the laundry basket slumped like a confession in the corner, and around the bed so he could ease you down with precision. The mattress dipped beneath your body as he lowered you, his hands steady until your legs finally unraveled from his torso. For the first time, you saw him look past you. His eyes locked on the mirror.
“Is that the mi-mirror you look at in the mornings?” His voice was gentle, but the question struck like a dart, pulling heat into your cheeks. You tilted your head back. Your reflection stared back at you, ghostlike in the glass–and just beyond, Bob’s gaze caught yours in that same frame.
“Yeah,” You admitted softly.
His lips pressed into a firm line, his jaw tight, but his voice came steady: “Good…” Your brow furrowed, confusion creasing your features.
“Why?” You asked, slightly concerned. He shook his head, eyes never leaving yours in the reflection.
“Don’t worry…Yo-You’ll find out soon.” And before you could press on the topic, he leaned down, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that stole the question from your lips. He crawled onto the mattress, his knees sinking into the bedding on either side of you. Your thighs bracketed his torso instinctively, pulling him closer until his chest pressed flush to yours. The kiss deepened fast, the tenderness you’d first felt now fused with a hunger that made your body burn. His lips moved against yours like he couldn’t get enough–soft pulls, then harder, more urgent ones following afterwards. You tugged lightly at his hair, threading your fingers through the mussed strands, and he groaned into your mouth, hips pressing down. His hardness ground against you through the barrier of his sweatpants and your shorts, friction sharp and maddening. A gasp spilled out of you, swallowed instantly by his kiss.
His hands–large, warm, and calloused–roamed over you. They slid up the length of your thighs slowly, like he wanted to memorize every mark on your skin that he could feel. When he reached the hem of his shirt, his touch paused, hovering at the threshold. His lips pulled from yours only far enough to breathe the question against your mouth, voice trembling with restraint.
“Can I take this off?” The words froze you, nerves sprouting fast and wild in your chest. Your throat tightened, fear threading into want, leaving you suspended between them. You felt the tremor in your body, the instinct to cover yourself, to hide. But then his hands shifted. Broad palms pressed steady against your thighs, grounding you back into the moment, into him. His voice was low, tender, breaking at the edges.
“I’ll keep my eyes cl-closed if you want me to…” He swallowed, leaning his forehead to yours as if to steady both of you. “…I just…I just want to feel your skin against mine.” Your heart swelled so sharply it ached, the sentiment catching you off guard. His words weren’t greedy or demanding–they were caring, raw. He wanted, yes, but not without your comfort, not without your trust. You reached up with your free hand, cupping his cheek. His faint stubble rasped against your palm, the sensation sending shivers up your spine. Your thumb brushed over the high flush on his skin, and when his eyes flicked open–blue, molten, waiting–you whispered softly, firmly, the word that sealed everything between you.
“Okay.” He gave you one more kiss, before leaning back just enough to give you room to sit up, your heart pounding as the cotton inched upward over your curves. He kept his eyes fixed on yours the entire way, his expression tender but burning with a restraint that made your chest ache, because you could tell he wanted to look so badly, but he didn’t want to go against his word. When the fabric rose high enough that you knew it would expose you fully to him, his lashes fell shut, sealing the promise he had made. He didn’t look–he trusted his touch instead, carefully peeling the shirt off the rest of the way, tossing it aside without hesitation.
The moment you were bare to the room, the sunlight draped over your body like a veil, warm and unrelenting. Before the nerves could spiral into panic, Bob leaned in, capturing your lips with his again. The mattress welcomed your back as he followed you down, his weight settling gently but firmly atop you, heat radiating from his body like a living furnace. You clung to his face, cupping his cheeks in both hands, your thumbs brushing over the flush on his skin as if to soothe him while his mouth moved against yours.
The kiss was consuming–slow at first, then hungrier. His lips coaxed yours open, his tongue brushing tenderly against yours before retreating, teasing, then deepening again. Every little sound you made seemed to pull him deeper, to make him press harder, linger longer, his breath mixing with yours until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began. His hands moved with the same careful hunger. They slid along your sides, broad palms mapping the slope of your waist, the plush softness of your belly, the full curve of your hips. He touched like he was trying to map out all the details he couldn’t see, squeezing gently as if reassuring you that what you thought were flaws were the very things he craved. His fingers pressed deeper into the softness, a reverence in the way he kneaded as though this was what he’d been starving for.
He finally broke from your lips, and you let out a shaky gasp you hadn’t realized you were holding. His mouth drifted lower, tracing kisses down the line of your jaw, then to your throat, the soft stubble grazing your sensitive skin. The sensation made you shiver, your nails curling against his shirt as you tugged lightly. He groaned, the sound rumbling low in his chest before his lips claimed the hollow off your throat.
From there, he made his way to your shoulder, his mouth warm and open as he lingered, pressing a kiss there that seemed to brand you. You felt the sharp graze of his teeth as he nipped at your bra strap, catching the fabric gently before tugging it down your shoulder with aching patience. When the strap slipped, his lips followed immediately, kissing the newly revealed skin as though he’d been waiting for the chance. He lingered, sucking lightly, drawing a blooming warmth to the surface before soothing it with another tender kiss.
Your breath hitched when he shifted to the other side, repeating the ritual. His teeth caught the opposite strap, dragging it down slowly, the fabric sliding helplessly against your arm. His mouth was hot against your collarbone, the gentle scrape of his teeth followed by a nip that made you gasp aloud. Your hand tightened in his hair, and he moaned against your skin at the contact.
Even through the haze of pleasure, your nerves flickered–you glanced down at him, searching, needing to know. His eyes remained closed, his brow faintly furrowed in concentration as though the act of keeping them shut required all his discipline. He was honoring his word. The realization made your chest ache in a different way.
And then his whispers began. Words breathed directly into your skin, scattering like embers with every kiss.
“So soft…” He murmured, kissing the slope of your shoulder.
“And perfect…And beautiful,” He breathed, lips dragging along your collarbone.
“Every inch of you…Feels like heaven beneath my hands.” A nip, followed by a soothing kiss.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this. How much I’ve dr-dreamed of kissing you here.” His words vibrated against your skin, threaded with awe and raw devotion. Each confession melted into your flesh as surely as his kisses, your body trembling under the weight of it.
Finally, he drifted lower, his mouth brushing across the tops of your breasts where your bra still clung weakly. He kissed along the swell of them, his lips moving with maddening patience. Then he nuzzled into you, pressing his face deeper into the pillowed softness. His nose buried into your flesh, inhaling deeply as a groan broke free, raw and almost pained.
“God, you smell so good…” He whispered against you, his lips pressing more kisses into the upper curve of your breasts. His words tangled with the heat of his breath, and his devotion soaked into you with every touch of his lips.
“Bob…” You breathed, the name spilling from you like a confession, and he stilled immediately, his lips halting against the top swell of your breast. His whole body tensed above you, his breath catching as he lifted his head slightly.
“Everything okay?” His voice was laced with concern, soft and wary, as though he feared he’d crossed a line he couldn’t come back from. Your hand slid up the middle of his back, smoothing over the fabric of his shirt.
“You can open your eyes,” You whispered, your voice shaky but deliberate. “I…I want you to.” For a moment, there was only silence. His lashes stayed lowered, shielding his eyes as if he didn’t dare trust what he thought he’d heard.
“Are you su-sure?”
“Yes,” you said, firmer this time, your heart pounding as you anchored yourself in the choice. Slowly, cautiously, his lashes fluttered open. The blue of his irises locked with yours first, searching, hesitant, as though he was bracing himself to find regret in them. But when he was certain you weren’t pulling back, his gaze dipped lower. And you saw it–the moment his breath hitched, his pupils dilated, and the sight of you stole the air from his lungs. His eyes traced the lines of your body in the warm spill of sunlight: the soft swell of your belly, the plush curves of your waist and thighs, the marks of life etched into your skin. You saw awe there, raw and unfiltered…But then you saw it shift. His expression tightened, concern flooding into those blue depths.
His hand lifted, tentative, as his fingertips brushing feather-light against the faint, angry half-moon marks marring the softness of your stomach. His brows drew together, pain flickering across his features, and then his eyes came back up to yours.
“What…What are th-these?” The world seemed to narrow in on that single question. Heat flooded your face, not the kind that thrilled but the kind that burned, sharp and suffocating. You’d been so wrapped up in him, in the heat of his mouth and the safety of his hands, that you hadn’t thought about them. Not once. But now, with them under his gaze, shame coiled through you like poison. You went to cover them, panic bubbling in your chest–but he caught your wrists, gently but firmly, keeping your hands in place.
“Y/N…” He said again, softer now, but no less insistent. “What are they?”
Your throat tightened. You bit into your cheek so hard you tasted iron, but the words clawed their way out anyway, raw and ugly. “I do it to myself,” You admitted, your voice breaking. “I just…I can’t stand seeing my body in the mirror, so I pinch the places that I hate looking at.” The word places fractured something in him. His gaze fell from your eyes, tracing lower, and you knew exactly what he’d see. The tops of your thighs, faintly mottled with the evidence of your cruelty. Slowly, with a care that felt like reverence, he pushed the hem of your shorts up. More bruises revealed themselves in the sunlight–ghostly fingerprints of your own hands. He let out a shaky sigh, his chest rising unevenly, and for a second you thought the silence would crush you.
Desperation made your voice crack when you whispered, “I’m sorry if…if it turns you off. We can stop–” But his reaction was instant. His brows snapped upward, his eyes widening with something like horror before narrowing with determination. He shook his head hard, the motion sharp, decisive. And then he shifted back.
For a moment, your heart shattered–you thought he was leaving. The weight of it gutted you. But then you realized…He wasn’t retreating. He was repositioning.
His mouth descended to your skin.
The first kiss landed against the faintest bruise on your stomach–wet, lingering, almost mournful. Then another, and another, until his lips scattered across every mark he could see, branding them not with shame but with tenderness. You shivered violently, your back arching as the sensations overwhelmed you. His mouth moved lower, finding a bruise on your thigh, his lips pressing to it with infinite care.
“I would never be tu-turned off by you,” He replied into your skin, the words vibrating into you. His fingertips slid along the silver ridges of your stretch marks, tracing them as though they were constellations. His tongue darted out, warm and deliberate, licking over the indents like he was trying to soothe them. He lifted his head only enough to look up at you, his blue eyes molten with sincerity. “But I don’t want you hu-hurting yourself like this ever again…Okay?”
Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes, the emotion breaking you open. You nodded, your voice shaking as you whispered back, “Okay…” He pressed one last kiss to your skin before sitting up. His hands went to the hem of his shirt, and in one smooth motion he tugged it off, tossing it aside.
The light of the room kissed him instantly. His pale skin glowed beneath the golden spill of sunlight, lean muscle shifting beneath the surface with every breath. He wasn’t carved like marble, but wiry and real–the soft slope of his broad shoulders, the faint dusting of freckles across his chest, the trim line of his waist and his muscular abs that you could run your fingers along and feel every one individually. And then, just below his navel, you saw them.
Silver streaks. Faint but undeniable, stretching across his skin.
Your jaw slackened slightly, awe striking you still.
“Increased metabolism from the Sentry Serum,” He murmured, almost sheepish. “Caused rapid weight loss.”
The corner of your lip quirked despite the lump in your throat. “We match…”
His answering laugh was soft, warm, and fleeting, but it cracked the tension in the room like sunlight breaking through clouds. Your hands reached out, trembling but steady, settling over the marks etched into his skin. Your fingers traced them slowly, reverently, as if you were memorizing proof that you weren’t alone. His breath stuttered as he looked down at you, something wild sparking in his expression.
“That’s why I think you’re perfect,” He whispered. His voice was clear, unwavering, sharp with conviction, and it was as if his tone had changed, “Because everyone carries their own little marks. And that’s what makes you…You.” You looked up at him sharply, from the marks, noticing the gaze that was looking down at you wasn’t just Bob’s anymore.
His irises shimmered faintly, flecks of gold peeking out through the dark blue. Molten threads of light glowed in the depths, they were undeniable–it was the telltale mark you’d only seen once before, when his excitement had gotten the better of him in the kitchen. This time, though, it was different. This time, it wasn’t Bob’s excitement alone.
“…Sentry?” You breathed, your voice catching on the name. He hummed low in response, his lips curving into a smile.
He leaned forward, his voice a velvet murmur that sent heat rolling down your spine. “Sorry for interrupting your little moment…” The tone was smooth, confident, edged with hunger. “…Wanted to see you myself.” Then he lowered his mouth again, pressing reverent kisses along your stomach, tracing every curve with a devotion that stole your breath. He lingered there, his lips wet and worshipful against skin you had always hated, until he stopped at the waistband of your shorts. His breath fanned hot against your flesh, his nose brushing the fabric.
“Can I take these off?” He whispered, voice like molten gold, each syllable reverent and aching.
You were still stunned at his presence, at the reality that the God inside Bob was looking at you, touching you, wanting you. Your body trembled, your breath caught, but you nodded without hesitation.
“Words, Y/N,” He coaxed, his voice dipping low, dangerous in its tenderness.
You swallowed hard, your throat working, and finally forced the words past your lips.
“Yes,” You replied, your voice breaking but certain. “You can take them off.”The sound of your whispered yes had barely settled in the air before Sentry’s golden gaze darkened, and his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. The fabric whispered down your thighs, slow and deliberate, until he tugged them past your calves and tossed them carelessly aside. His breath caught audibly in his chest, his lips parting as his eyes devoured the sight of you laid bare beneath him.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
For a moment, all he could do was stare. His chest rose with a ragged inhale, and then a sigh slipped out of him, reverent and wrecked all at once. His thumb grazed the swell of your thigh before he leaned back just slightly, his eyes molten with heat and awe.
“God…” His voice was low, frayed at the edges, like he was barely holding it together. “You look so fucking pretty like this…Spread out for me, glistening already just from my lips on you…” The way he said it made your body pulse with want, heat flooding through you. His eyes lingered between your legs for a moment longer, drinking you in, before he dragged himself back up your body with deliberate slowness. Every brush of his chest against your skin was purposeful, every kiss he left along the way–over your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts–was a brand of possession. By the time he reached your mouth, you were trembling, desperate for more. He kissed you hard, deep, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he wanted to taste every last sound you made.
Then he pulled back, just slightly, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath heavy and hot. One of his hands lifted between you, his fingers hovering close to your lips. His eyes flicked from your mouth to your gaze, burning with command and devotion all at once.
“Lick them,” He murmured, his voice sharp silk, every word deliberate. “I want to touch you.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. Obedience came naturally, helplessly–you parted your lips, your tongue slipping out to taste him. You dragged the wet heat of your mouth over the pads of his fingers, slow and trembling. His eyes fluttered half-shut, his breath shuddering out of him as he sighed, low and wrecked, like just watching you was almost too much. When he pulled them from your lips, there was a soft pop of wetness, and the sound made heat coil in your stomach so fast it nearly stole your breath.
“Good girl…” He rasped, his lips brushing yours again, quick and hot before he shifted his weight. He slid lower over your body, settling between your thighs, and then his fingers finally slipped down between where you needed him the most. He dragged them through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, coating them in your arousal. The sensation made your breath catch, your hips twitch helplessly. His touch was reverent but purposeful, dragging it upward until he found your clit. He circled it slowly, teasing, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.
Your lips parted, a whimper breaking free as your back arched off the mattress. He kissed you then, swallowing the sound, his lips hot and desperate against yours.
But he wasn’t content to stop there. His free hand slid beneath you, fumbling briefly before finding the clasp of your bra. With a quick flick, it came undone, the straps slipping off your shoulders as the cups loosened. He pulled the fabric away, tossing it aside.
The moment your breasts were freed, his lips broke from yours, and he let out a groan that rumbled low in his chest, primal and unrestrained. “Fuck…”
Then he was on them.
His mouth wrapped around your nipple, hot and wet, sucking hard enough to make your head tip back against the mattress. His tongue flicked against the sensitive bud, circling before he gave a playful nibble, his teeth grazing just enough to make your breath stutter. His other hand never stopped its slow, deliberate circles over your clit, the pressure increasing just enough to draw a sharp gasp from your throat.
“You’re so perfect,” He murmured against your skin, the vibrations making you whimper. He moved to the other breast, giving it equal attention–licking, sucking, biting lightly before soothing with his tongue. His praises spilled hot into your skin between kisses. “So soft…So beautiful…Fuck, I could worship you forever.” Your hips rolled against his hand instinctively, chasing more friction, and his lips curved into a grin against your breast.
“That’s it…Don’t hold back with me.” Then his fingers shifted, leaving your clit only to slip lower. He teased your entrance, circling, gathering more of your wetness, before pushing inside. One finger at first, slow and careful, then another, stretching you with deliberate patience. Your gasp broke the air, your body clenching around him, the sensation overwhelming and intimate all at once.
“Shhh…” He soothed, his lips brushing your nipple again before giving it a sharp suck. His fingers curled inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with each pump. “Just feel me, Y/N. Let me take care of you.” Your body squirmed beneath him, gasps and whimpers spilling out unchecked as his pace stayed slow, deliberate, coaxing every sensation to its peak. His thumb returned to your clit, pressing gently as his fingers worked inside you, the double stimulation making your whole body quake.
“Sentry…Please…” You choke, your hand reached to grab at his shoulder.
“Right here, sweetheart,” He whispered, his voice a rough promise as his lips kissed down your chest again. “I’ve got you. You’re so good for me. So perfect.” The pressure built fast, unbearably sweet, your body tensing around him as his fingers curled again, stroking deep and purposeful.
“Come for me,” He urged, his words hot against your skin, his pace quickening just slightly. “Give it to me. Let me feel you.” Your climax tore through you suddenly. Your back arched off the mattress, a loud, broken gasp ripping from your throat as your walls clenched tight around his fingers. The sensation burned through every nerve, white-hot and consuming, leaving you trembling and undone. He worked you through it, slow and steady, until the tremors began to fade. Then, finally, he pulled his fingers free, glistening with your release. His eyes, gold-flecked and wild, locked with yours as he brought them to his mouth.
The sound he made when he sucked them clean was feral–a low, guttural moan that vibrated in his chest.
“Fuck…” He rasped when he finally pulled them from his lips, his tongue darting out to catch the last of your taste. His gaze was molten, reverent and starved all at once. “You taste like you’re going to be my last meal.”
His words shattered what was left of your composure, heat surging through you all over again as his lips descended for another desperate kiss. His tongue slipped past your lips, hot and wet, letting you taste yourself on him. The salt, the sweetness, the heat–it was intoxicating, and your whole body shivered as he swallowed your gasp like it was his lifeline. When he pulled back, just enough to speak, his lips brushed yours and his voice came out low, teasing and edged with hunger.
“I think…” His tongue darted across your swollen bottom lip, savoring you. “…I want to get a better taste.” Before you could form a response, his hands slid to your waist, shifting his weight carefully until you felt the sudden change. With a slow, deliberate motion, he rolled you both, flipping the world beneath you until you were straddling him, pressed against the lean strength of his body while his back settled into the mattress.
You gasped softly at the reversal, your hands bracing on his chest. The change in position pulled you into a self-conscious awareness–you felt the heavy fall of your breasts, tugging with gravity. Almost without thought, your arm moved beneath them, pressing upward, as though hiding the natural sway you had always hated.
The instant you did, his golden-flecked eyes caught the motion. Slowly, he reached up, wrapping his hand around your wrist with firm gentleness. He pulled your arm away, laying it back against his chest where his heart pounded strong and sure. His gaze locked on yours, his voice steady, velvet with conviction.
“Don’t hide from me.” His thumb brushed your wrist, tender. “Not here. Not with me.”
Your chest tightened, emotion welling sharp and raw. But before you could answer, he continued, his lips curving faintly.
“I want you up here,” He said, low and husky. “I want you to sit on my face.”
The words froze you, heat slamming into your chest as your body stiffened. You shook your head instinctively, your voice trembling.
“No…I’ll…I’ll crush you.” A smirk ghosted across his lips, but his eyes burned with unshaken fire.
“That’s why I want you up here,” he said, voice deep and reverent. “I want to feel you. I want to look up at you. And I want you to use my face to get off.” Your breath stuttered.
”Sentry……I don’t know, I–” He lifted one hand, stroking soothing circles against your hip, voice dropping into a whisper so tender it seared.
“I’ll guide you…Just trust me.” The words struck something deep inside you, tugging hard against the hesitance knotted in your chest. You still faltered, your voice breaking.
“I don’t want to suffocate you…” His grin spread slow and feral, his golden gaze molten.
“It would be an honor if you did.” Your laugh came out a disbelieving choke, tears pricking at your eyes with the sincerity laced through his teasing. But then his hands gripped your ass, squeezing hard, grounding you in his raw want.
“Now…” His voice dropped, gravel low, “Come claim your seat.” Your pulse thundered as nerves spiked sharp in your chest. But slowly, with trembling limbs, you shifted up the bed, your thighs bracketing his face. He slid lower, positioning himself beneath you with deliberate patience until your heat hovered just above his mouth. His golden eyes flicked up, catching yours, steady and unblinking as he placed his hands on your thighs. His grip was firm but coaxing, urging you to lower.
“Come here,” he whispered, before pulling you down. The first contact of his mouth against you made you jolt, your breath tearing from your lungs. His lips sealed against your folds, his tongue diving in without hesitation, and you couldn’t help the startled moan that broke free. Your thighs trembled, your body threatening to pull away, but his hands squeezed you tighter, pressing you back down against his mouth. He groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your flesh, and his eyes fluttered shut in rapture. His face buried deeper, tongue licking broad and then sharp, alternating strokes that made your hips twitch. He devoured you, messy and unrelenting, his mouth slick and hot as he lapped at everything you gave him.
“Sentry…” You gasped, your hands flying to his hair, threading through the strands as you tried to steady yourself. Your thighs flexing against his temples, instinct pulling you back, “Are you–Are you okay?”
He broke from your core just long enough to rasp, breathless but certain: “I want you to look at yourself in the mirror.” Your gaze snapped toward the reflection beside the bed, your own wide eyes staring back at you, your thighs spread across his face. The sight made your stomach twist, shame trying to claw up your throat. His hand left your thigh, pressing gently but firmly beneath your jaw until your gaze returned to the mirror. His voice was low, dark with conviction.
“I want you to remember this every time you think about judging yourself. I want you to remember how you looked when you came on my face. I want you to remember my moans, my tongue, my mouth on you. Understand me?”
Tears welled hot, threatening to spill, but you nodded, voice breaking. “Okay…”
“There’s my good girl,” He murmured, before dragging you back down onto him. He dove in again, feral this time. His tongue licked rapid strokes against your clit, his mouth sucking hard enough to make your thighs quake. His hands gripped your thighs and waist, grinding you against his mouth as though he couldn’t get enough. One of his hands slipped up, seizing your breast, kneading the softness until you cried out. You cupped the back of his hand instinctively, grounding yourself in his touch as his other hand shifted lower, rocking you harder against his mouth.
Your hips began to move on their own, grinding, rolling, your moans high and frantic as his tongue fucked into you. Slick and messy, his groans hummed into your flesh, vibrating through you, making your body burn alive. He pressed his face up harder, burying himself in you, like he wanted to drown in your taste.
Your gaze stayed locked on the mirror, forced there by the strong grip beneath your jaw. And the sight–your flushed face, your trembling thighs squeezing his head, your hips rocking on his mouth–was overwhelming.
“Look at yourself, a fucking goddess” He groaned against you, his tongue never slowing. His words were muffled by your slick, vibrating into your clit, but you heard them as clear as fire. Your body broke. Pleasure tore through you, white-hot and devastating. You screamed, your thighs clamping around his head as you came hard against his mouth. He moaned into you, greedy, sucking and licking every drop, messy and wild, like he was starved.
He didn’t stop until the tremors wracked through you, until you sagged above him, boneless and undone, his golden eyes gleaming up at you through the mess of your pleasure.
He licked you clean with long, deliberate strokes, savoring every last drop, before finally allowing you to pull back off him, allowing you to see how wrecked he was beneath you with his wet lips, and his soaked face glistening in the sunlight.
His grin spread slow and wide, damp lips glistening as he drew in a steadying breath. His palms slid down, cradling your trembling thighs so you didn’t have to hold your weight alone. His voice came out low, a little smug, a little tender:
“Wasn’t that bad, right?” The laugh that bubbled out of you was shaky but real, your head tilting back as the aftershocks still rippled through your muscles.
“I’ve never had someone do that before…” Your voice broke into a soft, breathless laugh. “…So for my first time it was absolutely overwhelming, but…Amazing.” His smile softened, golden eyes glowing molten as he leaned in to press warm, wet kisses to the inside of your thighs. His chin was slick with you, leaving little smears of your arousal where his lips touched.
“Well…” He murmured between kisses, “…It won’t be the last time it happens. So I hope you get used to it.” The warmth in his tone struck deeper than the teasing edge, a promise more than a boast. You shifted slightly, your thighs twitching from the overstimulation, the afterglow leaving you languid and heavy. He felt it immediately, brushing his thumbs over your thighs with careful reverence.
“Here…Let me help you out.”
He guided you down his body with ease, your shaky limbs settling until you were straddling his torso once again. His chest was damp now, a sheen of sweat slicking the pale skin that stretched across his wiry muscle. When you leaned forward and pressed a grateful kiss to his lips, you felt the faint salt of sweat mix with the sticky taste of yourself still lingering there.
“Thank you, Sentry,” You whispered, earnest and trembling.
He groaned softly into the kiss, squeezing your ass as he whispered against your mouth: “You don’t have to thank me…We’ll meet again soon.” His lips brushed yours one more time, a promise and a farewell. “Bob’s coming back.”
A soft golden shimmer in his irises dimmed, fading until only the dark, blown-out blue remained. Bob blinked hard, chest heaving, before licking his lips. His gaze burned into yours with an awed hunger.
“Jesus…You taste de-delicious.” Your laugh was small, disbelieving, but warm. His shift in demeanor was immediate, visible in the bashful edge to his grin, the way he softened back into himself.
“Yeah…” You whispered, shaking your head fondly, “Sentry is…Wow.” He huffed out a laugh, leaning back a little beneath you.
“Overwhelming?” You nodded.
“But in a good way. He definitely knows how to make a girl feel wanted… Not that you don’t…You know what I mean.” Bob’s smirk tilted slowly and crooked, a faint flush rising to his cheeks.
“He’s an extension of me…Just with way more co-confidence and an ego to boot.”
“Good to know.” You hummed softly, leaning down to kiss him again. This kiss was different–slower, softer, sticky still from your arousal that was wetting his lips–but intimate in a way that made your chest ache. As you kissed, he shifted beneath you. One hand left your hip, moving down to adjust himself inside the confines of his sweatpants. You felt the thick, unrelenting press of him against you, the rigid line shifting beneath fabric.
“Sorry…” He muttered against your lips, his voice shaky with embarrassment. “…Little un-uncomfortable pressing up against the fabric.” Your bottom lip slipped between your teeth, heat rushing to your face as a new spark of boldness lit through you.
“How about you let it out then…?” His brows shot up, stunned.
”Really?” You huffed a little laugh, emboldened by the tension crackling between you.
“Well…It’ll be kind of hard to have sex with you if you keep your sweatpants on, so…” The faint blush deepened, his lips parting in surprise before curving into a disbelieving grin.
“Right…It would be kind of difficult to do th-that.” Both his hands slid to his waistband as he shifted beneath you, hips lifting. You felt the rub of his cock against you even through the barrier before he shoved the sweats down. The rustle of fabric was frantic, messy, dragging his boxer briefs down along with them and kicked carelessly aside. The sudden, bare heat of him made you buck on instinct, your breath faltering. He caught your gaze, a mix of nerves and raw need flashing in his eyes.
“Can I–uh–get on top? I want to…Be close to you.”
“Yes please…My knees were starting to ache anyway,” You admitted with a shaky laugh. He chuckled softly, the sound warm, before carefully shifting you off his lap and easing you back onto the mattress. He lingered there for a moment, scanning over your body. His lips found the dimples at your hips, pressing kisses into the soft hollows, before dragging up the swell of your stomach. His mouth mapped the sensitive flesh of your ribs with careful worship, each kiss soft but insistent, until he climbed higher. His body finally settled between your thighs, cushioned by your softness, your heat embracing him fully.
You tilted your head back against the mattress, catching the sight of him above you in the golden light. His hair was a wild crown, light brown strands mussed in every direction from your fingers. Sweat glistened down his chest in faint rivulets, cutting through the dusting of freckles and catching on the lines of muscle. His stretch marks were more visible now, silver against pale skin, but you were too high from your own pleasure to even think of your own insecurities. All you saw was him–breathtaking and raw and yours.
Then your eyes dropped lower.
His cock stood thick and heavy, flushed dark red at the tip, glistening with precum that smeared when his hand wrapped around the length. He gave himself a slow pump, spreading the wetness along the veiny shaft, his jaw flexing as he hissed through his teeth. The sheer size of him made your stomach flip, heat coiling sharp and heavy in your core. You knew he was big…But seeing it in reality was almost too much–you writhed against the sheets, anticipation gnawing through you.
“Ha-have I mentioned,” He rasped, leaning down to press kisses up the valley of your breasts before brushing your lips with a tender peck, “…How fucking stunning your body is?” Your cheeks burned, but your hand slid up to cradle his jaw.
“In multiple ways…Yes.”
His smile broke wide, breathless, before he kissed all over your face–cheeks, eyelids, jaw–murmuring between each one: “Good. Good. Good.” The blunt head of his cock nudged at your folds then, dragging slow along your soaked slit, spreading your arousal and teasing your clit. The sensation made your breath hitch sharply, your thighs twitching around his hips.
“You ready?” His voice was a low rumble, eyes locked on yours, waiting.
You nodded instantly, your chest tight with want. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your shoulder, before slowly pressing forward.
The stretch stole your breath. Both of you gasped, broken sounds spilling out as his cock pushed into you, inch by inch. Your nails dug hard into his shoulders, grounding yourself against the overwhelming fullness. He cupped your breast with one hand, squeezing softly as he let out a desperate whimper.
“Fu-fuck…Y/N…God, you feel so good…”
He kept moving slowly, watching your face for every flicker of expression. You moaned openly, your mouth falling slack as your body struggled to take him in.
“Bob…” You gasped, voice fractured. “…You’re so big…I don’t think I’ll be able to fit all of you in.” The words nearly undid him, but he held steady, lifting your thigh gently to adjust your angle. The new space eased the intrusion, kept him from pressing too sharply against your cervix.
“Are you ok-okay?” His voice cracked, desperate but careful.
You nodded quickly, leaning up to kiss the sweat-slick hollow of his collarbone. “I’m okay.”
The words melted into him, giving him permission to keep going. Inch by inch, he sank deeper into you, both of you trembling with every heartbeat as your bodies finally, completely joined.
When his hips finally pressed flush to yours–his cock seated as deep as your body would take him–he stilled. His forehead dropped down to yours, his sweat-slick skin sliding against your own as his chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. You could feel him pulsing inside you, every subtle twitch dragging shivers through your core, the sheer fullness of him stretching you to the edge of what you could take.
Bob groaned low, the sound breaking in his throat as though the weight of the moment crushed him. His big hand began to move over you, reverent and trembling, sliding across every curve he could reach. From the soft swell of your hip to the curve of your waist, up the plush dip of your belly to the slope of your ribcage–he mapped you like a cartographer desperate to etch every line into memory. Your fingers threaded into his messy hair, anchoring him to you, tugging gently when his touch made you quake.
His lips ghosted over your jaw, whispering against you with each uneven breath. “You’re…So perfect, Y/N. So beautiful…Fuck–I’m never le-letting go.” His words spilled raw and broken, worship lacing every syllable.
You tipped your head to press your lips against his temple, your voice unsteady but full of the same reverence, “You’re so good Bob…You’ve made me feel wanted in ways I never thought possible, and you’ve done it all so quickly.” A sound broke from him–half sob, half laugh–as he kissed you again, mouth desperate and tender. He lingered on your lips, pulling at them softly, then deeper, tongues brushing, breath tangling. The kiss stretched on, messy and consuming, until his jaw slackened against yours and warm saliva spilled into your mouth, unrestrained. You moaned softly, gulping it down without hesitation, craving every part of him inside you. His groan fractured, his body shuddering as though the act had undone something inside him. When he pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes were glassy, filled with a burning lust that overflowed.
“God…You make me fer-feral,” He confessed, brushing his lips over yours again.
You kissed until both of you were panting, until heat pressed so heavily into your bodies that you finally whispered against his mouth:
“Move, Bob. Please.” His breath hitched, and he nodded, kissing you once more before slowly, carefully, he drew his hips back. The stretch of his cock made you whimper, and then he pressed forward again–slow, deep, attentive. Every thrust was measured, his gaze never leaving yours, his body shifting with infinite care to avoid pressing too hard into your cervix. His hand slid into yours, lacing your fingers together tight, anchoring you both. Each push into you was tender worship, his hips rocking steady, deep enough that you felt every inch without pain. He murmured against your lips between kisses, his voice shaky.
“You’re my goddess…You’re he-heaven…Fuck, your body–it’s everything.” Your free hand cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing his flushed cheek.
“I’ve never…Never felt so safe. So wanted.” His breath stuttered, his lips pressing to your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your pulse. He sucked gently, nipped, then soothed the sting with his tongue, each action matched with a slow thrust that made your walls clench around him. You moaned openly, unabashed, and each sound drew another whimper from his throat, high and broken, like he couldn’t hold the weight of what he was feeling.
The build was steady, torturous in its sweetness. His pace never faltered, never rushed, each thrust a promise. Sweat slicked his chest, dripping onto yours, the sheets damp beneath you both as heat rolled between your bodies. When his lips found your collarbone and bit down softly, your back arched, gasps spilling from your throat as your climax began to climb. Your nails dug into his back, your walls tightening around him as the pressure snapped.
“Bob–oh god, I’m–” Your words fractured as you cried out, with pleasure ripping through you messy and devastatingly. Your body clamped down around his cock, milking him, and he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering as your orgasm dragged his closer.
“Cum inside me,” You gasped, the words spilling out raw and desperate. “I want it–I want to feel you dripping out of me.” His breath broke, a whimper tearing out of him as his hips stuttered.
“Fuck, Y/N–” His cock twitched inside you, swelling as the first hot ropes of his release spilled deep. He moaned, loud and wrecked, his whole body trembling as he emptied himself into you, thick and unrelenting. You felt every pulse, every twitch, the warmth flooding you until it began to seep out around him, slick and messy.
He shuddered, whimpering softly against your skin, before sighing out heavy and collapsing onto you. His weight was grounding, his breath ragged against your chest, both of you utterly undone. And then laughter bubbled up–breathless, disbelieving, but real. He lifted himself just enough to look at you, his blue eyes shining.
“I’m in aw-awe of you, Y/N.”
Your own tears broke then, spilling hot down your cheek. You cupped his face, your voice breaking as you whispered, “Bob…You’re so good to me.”
His eyes softened instantly. He leaned in, kissing the tears from your skin, his voice low and tender, “Are th-these good tears?”
You nodded, shaky but certain. “Really good tears…Fuck, I’ve never felt…I’ve never felt so wanted before.” His smile bloomed, warm and unshakable, as he pressed a kiss to your lips.
“Ge-Get used to it…‘Cause I’m not going anywhere. And I’ll never let you feel anything other than that.”
FLATLANDS
Hotch sends you and Spencer to Iowa to conduct a death row interview with an inmate. Thing is, there's not much to do in Iowa but fuck.
pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader
tags/warnings: 18+, wc: 5.9k, whew, smut, porn w plot, piv sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, soft-dom spencer ish, biting, praise kink, this is so self-indulgent muahahaha, discussions of a case, but nothing too bad it's canon typical stuff, iowa hate idgaf!!, drinking/getting drunk, i think that's it!
notes: this is likeeee. one of my first times writing longer smut. also i did in fact say i would re-upload old re-worked fics before posting anything new but alas! i am a liar! here is something brand new! i spent like. 9 straight hours on this yesterday. and it is currently almost 8 am and i just spent all night finishing it up instead of sleeping. ALSO i am in fact a philosophy major (future barista moment) and my fics get soooo. philosophy-esque. like. every single time. i'm sorry... i am who i am.
If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa.
You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.
Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.
You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends.
You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)
“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees.
“Hi.”
“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.
Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.
“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.
“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.
He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.
“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand.
“Why is your casefile in there?”
“Where do you keep yours?”
“I never put it away.”
“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”
“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects.
“You think she did?”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”
You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later.
You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list.
“He’s gonna focus on me,” you say once he reaches a lull in speech.
“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”
You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out.
“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”
“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”
“There’s not much out there.”
“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”
“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door.
The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.
It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.
–
Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.
The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent.
The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way.
If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.
The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin.
The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach.
You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants.
There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.
“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”
You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed.
“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes.
“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.
“My answer remains.”
“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.
“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.
“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”
“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.
“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.
“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”
“Right.”
It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.
The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven.
The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground.
You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.
Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”
“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”
You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”
“You sound like Hotch.”
You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”
“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.
“You fluster easily.”
“Do I?”
“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”
He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”
“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”
You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived.
“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer.
He smiles, shakes his head no.
Good, you mouth.
You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too.
—
Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.
“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”
“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”
“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”
You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born?
“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat.
“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”
“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. “But murder is.”
Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist.
—
“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs.
Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot.
The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down.
“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”
“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”
“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.
“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.
“Not a fan of Iowa?”
“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”
“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.”
“Ridiculous.”
—
You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.
Spencer.
You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa.
You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure.
“Hi?”
“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”
“Much nicer than yours.”
“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”
He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.
“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”
“It’s interesting.”
“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”
“You were asleep?”
You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”
You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”
He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you.
He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”
You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”
“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”
“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”
“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”
You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”
He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”
You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”
He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”
You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.
He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”
“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”
You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”
That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.
There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.
“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.
“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”
“Smart,” you say.
He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”
You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”
He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.
You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable.
You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”
Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”
You squint. “It doesn’t?”
“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”
You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”
“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”
“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips.
“God, no.”
You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”
He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”
“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”
“I sensed you were captivated.”
You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”
He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”
You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”
“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?”
“Hm?”
“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”
“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.
You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”
“What?”
“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”
“I’m not really flirting with you.”
You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”
“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”
You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”
It lands like a match.
“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.
“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”
He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question.
He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.
Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.
You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.
But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.
“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.
He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”
He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.
There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.
You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again.
Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you.
“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.
“Fuck?”
“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.
“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.
“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”
“My fucking pleasure.”
“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles.
He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.
His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.
“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him.
“I’m going to. Just stay like that.”
You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.
The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command.
When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug.
“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”
You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.
He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air.
“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.
“No?”
“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”
You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.
He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them.
Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”
He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good.
You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.
His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.
His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs.
When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.
He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm.
“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water.
“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.
“Spencer.”
“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”
“Mhm.”
“What did we say about using our words?”
“To… use them?”
“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.
There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you.
"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."
The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself.
When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.
“Do that again,” you whisper.
“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”
“Needed you.”
“Yeah?” he says. Your words seem to have made him snap his hips against yours a little harder.
He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might.
"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.
You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in.
Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.
Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner.
Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
“‘m okay. Are you okay?”
He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Hmm what?’
“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.
“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”
“Pee schmee.”
“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.
“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.
“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.
“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.
“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”
“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”
It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog.
“I would like that.”
Recently cleaned up Hades sketches from my backlog.
writer bitches be scrolling on tumblr knowing damn well they need to finish those drafts.
my brain has decided succession, severance, and leverage are all the same show and i still have no idea what any of succeverage is about
Welcome back superwholock
a writing competition i was going to participate in again this year has announced that they now allow AI generated content to be submitted
their reasoning being that "we couldn't ban it even if we wanted to, every writer already uses it anyway"
"Every writer"?
come on
Reblog if you're a writer who doesn't use AI.
okay
no surprise by radiohead in 1x9 is so good. i love that fucking song and it feels so perfect
walking into Josie's
fUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK
and FRANK???????
i didn't know how this season was gonna go
but this is taking a nosedive fast
whats terrifying me the most tho
is how much this show is mirroring the current political climate of the US. I may have cried looking at the similarities
and it sucks
also that last shot with the newspapers and the flashing red
fuck me up
i have so much to say about this episode
goddamn
hey chat
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK??????
Don't skip 🚨Emergency
My name is Mahmoud Al-Halaq, from Palestine - Gaza - I am 29 years old. This message is addressed to every person who carries compassion, kindness, and love in their heart. After 470 days of war on Gaza, the destruction that has occurred, the displacement we have faced, moving from one place to another, and the loss and death of loved ones and friends, I found myself alone without a home or place, and even the prices of food are astronomical. The world has changed so much that life has become gloomy and boring. Therefore, I ask for your help in rebuilding myself, my life, and my family's life anew. You are our remaining hope in life. If there were an opportunity to work, I would not waste a minute nor ask for help from anyone, but I urgently need assistance for my family, my children, and the women to rebuild what has been destroyed and crushed in this devastating and painful war. Thank you for your time and support; we draw our strength and resilience from your support. 🍉
✅vetted by@gazavetters,(#365)✅
Hello, my name is Kate. I'm organizing this campaign for Mahmoud Alhallaq, who's previous organizer on GoFundMe is in the hospital right now
