[lostalioth]

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

✶ match box 06 — 3k follower event.ᐟ

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[romantic-insomniac]

this was actually.... i have no words

[clleanlliness]

my leg hair has more personality than the majority of this fuckass town

[losergirlbackagain]

need my pussy ate and a shopping trip with someone else's credit card

[starisnepo]

no words

[redtearsheart]

Erling Haaland in...

⛓️ SELF CONTROL

Haaland amava o autocontrole que precisava ter na hora de te tocar.

[🤍AVISOS:] haaland namoradinho, muito size kink, muito strength kink, sexo sem proteção (não né xuxus), dacryphilia, cum, menção à anal, menção à oral e acho que é isso :)

— Notes: "Ai, mas eu tenho medo dele!" — amores, eu rio na cara do perigo 🫦✨️

Haaland amava o autocontrole que precisava ter na hora de te tocar.

Era alto demais, forte demais, grosseiro demais... Mesmo que as palavras fossem doces e o coração batesse somente por você, sabia que não poderia te foder com toda a força que tinha, ou machucaria a sua bucetinha linda e molhada, que já lutava para acolhê-lo dentro.

— Tá tudo bem, uh? — ele sussurrou, só para garantir.

— Uhum, não para... — choramingou baixinho, rebolando no caralho enorme.

Dava para ver na sua carinha manhosa que estava estufadinha como sempre sonhou, tão cheia de pica que precisava lembrar a si mesma de respirar. Agarrava os fios loiros como ouro enquanto sentia os lábios gordinhos marcando o seu pescoço, arfando… Erling tentava inútilmente se esconder no seu corpo pequeno enquanto metia rápido, mas numa intensidade atenta, cuidadosa.

E ele era obcecado com a tarefa de medir a força. Deixava-o mais sensível a tudo e o obrigava a reparar em cada detalhe da sua linguagem corporal — como sempre ficava molinha só com as metidas sutis, sendo que ele podia fazer bem pior. Como estava livre para esmagar o pau dele a cada contração, gemendo como uma putinha burra que não sabe o que fazer de tanto tesão, com os peitinhos e cada parte macia do corpo balançando a cada investida…

Ele podia ser o mais forte ali, mas era o seu corpo que o dominava. Sua buceta era a coleirinha que o impedia de cometer as atrocidades que ele costumava fazer em campo.

Ele ergueu o rosto tão vermelhinho quanto o seu, a boquinha ainda mais inchada de tanto chupar sua pele:

— Porra, você geme igual uma putinha…

A frase completa passou por sua mente, mas conseguiu balbuciar apenas duas perigosas palavrinhas:

— Só sua…

Ele abriu aquele sorrisinho travesso, as sobrancelhas quase imperceptíveis de tão clarinhas se arqueado em desafio:

— Tá falando que é minha putinha, é?

Seu rosto corou, seus gemidinhos ficaram ainda mais agudos… Mas você não negou.

Haaland riu:

— Então dá pra mim igual uma, amor.

Antes que pudesse sequer pensar em como, as mãos enormes agarraram seu quadril e te mudaram de posição como se pesasse menos do que as plumas dos seus travesseiros, te moldando como se fosse só uma bonequinha estúpida.

Mas o estúpido mesmo, em segredo, era ele te vendo de quatro, imobilizada com as mãozinhas para trás, dando o seu melhor para escapar do aperto dele por puro charminho. Esticando as mãozinhas para acariciar os gominhos do abdômen masculino enquanto fingia tentar se soltar...

— Que foi? É assim que as putas são fodidas, gatinha — brincou.

E você continuou com o teatrinho, como se não amasse ficar com a bunda empinadinha para o seu namoradinho:

— Mas eu quero te ver, Haaland… — o nome dele saiu de uma forma tão obscena da sua boca que ele cogitou seriamente em te colocar de joelhos para engasgar pateticamente.

Ah, seria tão facinho, tão delicioso te assistir tentando colocar pelo menos a metade na boquinha…

— Foda-se — te respondeu, revirando os olhos quando a sua risadinha satisfeita ecoou nos ouvidos dele. — Porra, você não tem noção do perigo? — sussurrou, a palma livre e enorme cobrindo uma das suas bandinhas. — Fica toda atiçada quando eu falo palavrão mas não aguenta nem um dedo meu nesse rabinho — apertou a carne macia de levinho, mas acabou deixando o contorno avermelhado dos dedos mesmo assim. — Se eu te tratar igual uma cadelinha vou ter que te carregar a semana inteirinha, sabia?

— Gosto de ficar no seu colo — sussurrou —, eu fico tão quentinha…

Erling piscou atônito com o quão atrevida estava rebolando aquela bunda pra ele, sentindo o pau enorme e pesado dando uma guinada, expelindo pré-porra só de pensar em como poderia te deixar com as pernas fraquinhas demais.

Mas, ele devia ser o sensato ali, não é?

— Aham, eu meto um pouquinho mais forte e você já chora…

— Você gosta.

— Não gosto, não.

— Quando eu te deixo lamber elas você até joga melhor!

Claro que virou o rostinho para trás para capturar as bochechas pálidas como neve ficando ainda mais vermelhas, num misto de irritação e tesão em ter que te ouvir falando a verdade. Observar as lágrimas escorrendo pelo seu rostinho tiravam ele de eixo, o fazia ter vontade de te consolar com mais pica e, merda, isso só te fazia chorar ainda mais… Era um ciclo vicioso que ele amava observar e degustar enquanto continuava se controlando pra não te partir ao meio.

Agarrou o seu queixo e te puxou para cima facinho, te dando um beijo molhado enquanto te sarrava por trás:

— Palavra de segurança, amor?

— Remo — sussurrou, abrindo um sorrisinho enorme. Claro que ele te daria o que estava pedindo!

Era tudo o que Haaland precisava para sorrir daquele jeitinho quase assustador e te atirar no colchão, estapeando sua bunda com vontade — uma técnica imunda para te preparar e fazer a sua bucetinha escorrer até pingar nos lençóis. Ah, e como ele ficava encantado com o seu jeitinho meigo de estremecer todinha e mas empinar para ganhar mais… O deixava com tesão pra caralho!

E quando ele meteu até o talo de uma vez, com a glande gordinha abrindo a sua bucetinha apertada sem nenhum aviso prévio…

— Grita mais, vai — ronronou no seu ouvido, o barulho alto das investidas fortes inundando o quarto e, com certeza, o hotel. — Grita a porra do meu nome igual quando tá torcendo pra mim, vadia!

— Haaland, caralho! — obedeceu imediatamente, mal conseguindo se agarrar aos lençóis ou se manter de quatro, pois as metidas faziam até seus bracinhos falharem.

E é claro que o norueguês riu do quão patética estava:

— Não pediu? Agora aguenta ser a minha bonequinha de foda — rosnou.

Agarrou seu quadril para continuar te fodendo como um maníaco, garantindo que o pau não pudesse nem escorregar demais para fora para te dar descanso. Os gemidinhos manhosos e desesperados dele combinando com a força, a vontade de te sentir em cada pedacinho da forma mais bruta possível, afundando até nos seus cantinhos mais sensíveis e insistindo neles para te fazer se contorcer de prazer. A cama rangia e, diante das suas experiências anteriores, corria um risco seríssimo de quebrar.

E é claro que suas lágrimas começaram a molhar o único travesseiro que restou ali:

— Ownt, tá chorando… — os lábios gordinhos capturaram uma gotinha da sua bochecha, os braços te cercando numa tentativa falha de te proteger dele mesmo.

— A-Amor… — manhou, mordendo um dos bíceps bem definidos.

— Vai gozar é?

Você nem precisava responder, ele entendia a sua linguagem corporal, a sua carinha ainda mais chorosa:

— Goza, minha putinha, goza enquanto eu arrebento a sua buceta!

Foi tão forte que pensou que iria desmaiar.

Seu corpo estremeceu inteirinho e suas pernas se fecharam embaixo dele, tendo o corpinho engolido no abraço dele e sendo assolada por um gritinho mudo enquanto os olhos se reviravam.

Linda pra caralho, foi impossível não jorrar dentro de você! O rosnado gutural te arrepiou da cabeça aos pés enquanto seu interior sofria deliciosamente para continuar aguentando o pau dele e segurar toda a porra quentinha que estava recebendo daquele homem delicioso e enorme. Os fios dourados cobriam sua linha de visão, ouvia os delírios de êxtase no pé do seu ouvido e a cintura latejava com os dedos enterrados ali, como se você pudesse desaparecer depois de ele te fazer todinha dele.

Foi virada de barriga para cima e sentiu os beijos cálidos por todo o seu rostinho:

— Eu te amo, caralho — ele sussurrou, ofegante.

— Também te amo, Erling…

O beijo doce destoava de tudo o que haviam acabado de fazer. Chupou a língua grossinha com tanto carinho que Haaland se sentiu um pervertido por estar ficando duro de novo:

— Gatinha… — sussurrou, te puxando para ver o gozo escorrendo da sua entradinha judiada.

Olhou-o desconfiada. Só era chamada daquele jeitinho quando o loiro queria alguma coisinha.

— Fala, amor.

— Se eu ganhar a Copa você me deixa foder o seu cuzinho, deixa? — Os olhinhos azuis brilharam para você. Ah, ele só tinha tamanho naqueles momentos…

Você tentou empurrá-lo para trás mas, obviamente, não teve sucesso:

— Nem pensar! Você vai perder pro Brasil no domingo!

— Não vou não!

— Vai sim!

— Uh-uh… — negou travesso, se deitando em cima de você.

— Uhum! — você insistiu, mas ele tomou sua boquinha de novo.

Haaland amava o autocontrole que precisava ter perder na hora de te tocar.

[hansolsticio]

( ✶. ) 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ── “𝐄𝐆𝐎.”

𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒆. “Em noites como esta, era impossível domar a 𝘀𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗮 sob suas unhas – nada seria capaz de apagar o sorrisinho presunçoso. Porque 𝗝𝘂𝗱𝗲 sabia exatamente o quanto você precisava do 𝗲𝗴𝗼 enorme dele.”

─── 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗼! 𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗵𝗮𝗺 × 𝗹𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗮. 𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗚✷𝗥𝗜𝗔: smut. 𝗣𝗔𝗟𝗔𝗩𝗥𝗔𝗦: 3333. 𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗦✷𝗦: tem castigo do monstro (denial), size kink (big dick jude), leve objetificação, cum play, dois centavos de pain kink, penetração desprotegida. ─── 𝗡✷𝗧𝗔𝗦: eu entrei aqui achando que era a disney e hoje em dia escrevo com jogador de futebol.

A abstinência sexual em atletas não tem efeito comprovado antes de competições. Você sabe disso. Jude sabe disso. Porém, saber nunca impediu as tendências antiquadas do homem que gostava do “certo pelo certo” se o assunto era a própria carreira — mesmo quando não havia base científica alguma. Na verdade, ele parecia especialmente se agarrar às coisas mais ilógicas possíveis por algum motivo. E te irritava que ele não tivesse largado a mão da superstição nem mesmo quando você estava se dando ao trabalho de desobedecer mais uma das crendices do seu namorado só por estar cheia de saudades.

Quer dizer, que homem em sã consciência larga a própria mulher toda fogosa e carente na cama dele e sai para jantar com os colegas de trabalho? Você ainda não tinha uma resposta concreta. A “tradição” nasceu logo após o jogo de estreia e o seu namorado se recusava a deixá-la morrer sob a justificativa de que aquele havia virado um ritual de vitória e, por mais que você quisesse contrariá-lo, parecia estar funcionando. Você não estaria sendo tão amarga sobre toda essa situação se Jude estivesse cumprindo verdadeiramente com as atribuições dele enquanto seu homem — a constância da vida sexual de vocês havia decaído drasticamente com essa história de abstinência, ainda que a libido permanecesse igual ou mesmo maior que antes.

Era incômodo o quanto tinha que esperar e se privar, pois só se via livre do hábito maldito quando seu namorado finalmente jogava e ficava “desimpedido” por pelo menos uma semana, só que isso estava longe de ser suficiente. E hoje deveria ser seu dia de sorte, porém a ocorrência infeliz, que, segundo Jude, realmente não poderia ser adiada, ainda estava de pé: a equipe precisava sair para jantar.

“Vem aqui fazer ‘pra mim, vida.”, o dono do seu mau humor repetiu o pedido pelo que deveria ser a terceira vez em menos de dez minutos. A voz vinha de dentro do banheiro e, ainda que o quarto do hotel fosse estupidamente grande, você jurava que sentia ela ecoar bem no seu ouvido. “Por favor…”, o modo exagerado de arrastar as palavras te arrancou um sorriso, Jude era dramático de um jeito caricato, mas não agia feito um bebezão na frente de qualquer um. “Só você sabe fazer como eu gosto.”

Você tentou não fazer alarde com os próprios passos quando se apoiou no batente da porta muito à contragosto, queria ao menos pegá-lo de surpresa quando aparecesse, porém Jude já estava olhando quando você chegou.

“Você não quer mesmo que eu vá, não é?”, se referiu ao seu jeito aborrecido de encará-lo e um sorriso provocativo surgiu na boca bonita.

“Não.”, nem ao menos tentou soar indiferente. Havia feito o seu drama no momento em que finalmente conseguiu ficar à sós com seu namorado, ele já conhecia o chão no qual estava pisando. Empurrou Jude pelo quadril quando se aproximou, mas somente o suficiente para se colocar entre ele e a bancada da pia. Apoiando as mãos nas margens sinalizou que precisava de ajuda para se sentar ali a fim de compensar a diferença de altura — durante toda a interação se recusou a falar propriamente, era uma mulher de poucas palavras sob frustração. O homem ergueu seu corpo ainda sorrindo, parecia se deleitar no jeitinho marrento.

Dar um toque final no cabelo dele foi o que te restou para fazer, afinal ele já havia adiantado metade do serviço nos dez minutos em que gastou resmungando sobre preferir que você o finalizasse. O excesso de água ainda escorria pelo pescoço dele quando tudo terminou, mesmo que você se esforçasse para recolher o líquido usando uma toalha de mão. Estava comicamente apática, nem o corpo gostoso do seu homem ainda úmido pelo banho parecia trazer luz aos seus olhos.

“Tô orgulhosa de você.”, murmurou, a atenção concentrada nos olhos dele.

“Você já disse isso.”, ele retrucou, tirando a toalhinha das suas mãos para fazer você abraçar o pescoço dele entre elas.

“E quero dizer de novo.”, deu de ombros. O biquinho natural que descansava na sua boca foi preso entre os lábios dele e a carência logo se rendeu entre os estalinhos molhados que encheram o cômodo. “Nem parece que você ‘tá com vontade de ir…”, sussurrou cheia de dengo, brincando com a pontinha da língua contra a dele.

“Tô esperando você tentar me convencer a ficar.”, ele riu de canto, uma das mãos se enchendo com o cabelo da sua nuca.

“De novo?”, se afastou rapidinho só para questionar numa incredulidade cínica. Ele quis rir mais, porém preferiu retornar à brincadeira gostosa das línguas de vocês dois. E, para quem era sonso o suficiente ao ponto de fingir que não estava a fim de foder naquele exato momento, Jude estava sendo fogoso demais. Os cantinhos da boca se esticavam num sorriso sujo enquanto ele chupava seus lábios forte ao ponto de deixá-los inchadinhos, latejando sob o toque. As mãos eram tão descaradas quanto, apertando cada canto só para te lembrar que o seu corpinho não era nada dentro do toque dele — era frágil, simples de quebrar.

E, porra, você tremia, rendia-se fácil. Os peitinhos já latejando sob a imaginação de serem engolidos com tanto gosto quanto sua boca estava sendo. Ergueu o quadril da bancada para buscar pelo dele, já tinha se melado inteira desde o momento em que cruzou a porta daquela suíte — não iria fingir o contrário. Esbarrou na toalha que cobria o volume avantajado, mas isso não te desencorajou a levantar o tecido da camiseta que você vestia, enrolando o tecido folgado como pôde. Tampouco quis disfarçar que a intenção era exibir a calcinha minúscula que havia escolhido só para ele, talvez fosse a última chance de conseguir qualquer coisa antes de se ver sem o homem.

“Você é linda.”, ele correu os olhos pelo seu corpo, ainda buscando fôlego ao afastar a boca da sua. E a doçura fingida de Jude fazia sua cabeça arder em afobação. Em qualquer outra situação esse não seria o caso, mas não sabia como evitar: não estava carente disso. O corpo claramente reclamava a falta de uma foda bem gostosa, de ser pega com vontade até cair exausta na cama.

Nem por um segundo achou que abrir a boca para argumentar seria a solução pro seu problema — tinha o fracasso das outras quatro tentativas pesando no seu julgamento. Jude não começaria nada contigo que não tivesse tempo para terminar e vocês dois sabiam que quando começavam nunca dava para parar. Você soltou o ar baixinho em chateação, suas opções esgotando.

“O que é essa carinha, hm?”, indagou num selo molhado aquilo que ele já sabia bem a resposta. “É ‘pra eu falar que você ‘tá sexy, amor?”, questionou outra vez, os olhos bebendo a expressão irritada no seu rostinho. “Você ‘tá sexy, bebê. Sempre ‘tá.”, pode ter soado até meio abobado, porque realmente era gamado no jeitinho que você agia quando ficava toda carentinha de sexo, parecia prestes a fazer de tudo só para conseguir um carinho mais safado. “Gostosa ‘pra caralho.”, afirmou como se fosse senso comum.

E Jude fosse inteligente o bastante saberia que ouvir isso era bom:

“Mas não é suficiente…”, ele murmurou baixinho, te conhecia bem demais. “Tá toda afobada porque eu não te comi ainda, não tá?”, a pergunta passou direto pelos seus ouvidos, focada demais em derreter dentro do aperto gostoso que não deixava a sua cintura. Mal registrou quando ele praticamente colou a boca contra a sua orelha: “Então tenho que falar que ‘tô louco ‘pra abrir essa xotinha inteira no meu pau.”, o sussurro fez a pele arder, é desnecessário falar que se contraiu completamente — quase gemendo só de escutar. “Que quero fazer essa boquinha de buceta e te colocar ‘pra me mamar a noite toda, bem gostoso.”, instigou mais um pouco, era um tesão do caralho. Seu coração palpitava dentro das suas orelhas quando ele se afastou. “É ‘pra falar assim?”, te olhou nos olhos, o tom de voz voltando ao normal. “É, amor?”

Jude tinha uma vocação fodida para ser arrogante e você todos os dias agradecia aos céus que esse não fosse realmente o caso. Quer dizer, é mais canalhice e provocação que qualquer outra coisa quando ele resolve te encher o saco. Não é novidade que o homem gosta de agir todo cheio de si só para te deixar molinha, o ego queimando nas chamas da adrenalina depois de uma disputa tão intensa — especialmente uma na qual a participação dele foi tão brilhante.

“Porra, você é um filho da puta…”, você protestou baixinho, porque a vontade sequer era de realmente ofender — só não sabia lidar com o quão corroída por tesão sua mente estava. A expressão de deleite do homem não fez nada além de sobrecarregar mais um pouquinho. Em noites como esta, era impossível domar a soberba sob suas unhas — nada seria capaz de apagar o sorrisinho presunçoso. Porque Jude sabia exatamente o quanto você precisava do ego enorme dele.

Deitou a cabeça no ombro largo, o corpo enfraquecendo só de sentir o volume tão apertadinho contra sua intimidade quando tudo o que conseguiu fazer foi forçar o quadril contra o dele um pouco mais.

“Me fode…”, implorou sem inibição alguma, até a voz de putinha que saiu da sua garganta não passou por filtro algum na sua mente.

“Você é tão teimosa.”, te recriminou como se não tivesse tornado tudo pior. Um filho da puta, você mesma já havia dito.

“Coloca em mim só um pouquinho.”, pediu mansinha, de um jeito quase sonolento. As unhas correram pelo torso forte até alcançar a barra da toalha, como se já soubesse que receberia um sim. “Eu gozo rapidinho.”, a boquinha molhada largou beijinhos desde o ombro até a orelha do homem.

“Amor-”

“Eu prometo.”, reforçou, os dedinhos já se enchendo com o caralho coberto pelo tecido. “Não vou te forçar a ficar. Só me come um pouquinho…”, já lhe faltavam forças para pedir, era insuportável quando necessitada desse jeito — não sossegava até conseguir o que queria. As sobrancelhas dele se apertaram junto com os olhos, a decisão provavelmente correndo nos pensamentos. Assistiu-o se esticar até o canto da bancada, dando dois toques na tela do telefone para checar o horário.

“Vai reclamar depois?”, perguntou ameno demais para alguém que não queria ter se rendido tão fácil.

“Não vou.”, você negou rapidinho com a cabeça, quase suspirando em alívio.

“Por quê não pede ‘pra eu te chupar, hm?”, os braços fortes te encurralaram contra o espelho, roçando a boquinha na sua. “É mais fácil.”

“Porque eu quero dar ‘pra você.”, soou penosa demais e isso fez o homem gargalhar baixinho.

“Justo.”, chupou seus lábios devagarinho, soltando a toalha da cintura enquanto te ouvia suspirar baixinho dentro da boca dele.

No entanto, a menção não havia sido em vão, Jude não dava ponto sem nó. Selou desde o seus tornozelos até a intimidade quentinha assim que finalmente te livrou da calcinha. Prendeu seu pontinho entre os lábios, grunhindo baixinho enquanto mamava. A cabeça se movia inquieta pros lados, esfregando o lugarzinho no processo. A barbinha fazia arder, mas era tão bom. Jude era frenético, esfomeado, abria a boca como se tentasse encaixar sua bucetinha inteira dentro dela. Ergueu os olhos para enfim notar o quão paciente você parecia, mesmo quando tudo o que conseguia fazer era choramingar pela sensibilidade.

“Já se melou ‘pra caralho, vida. Nem preciso mamar essa bucetinha.”, beijou seu pontinho com delicadeza uma última vez como se fosse algo puro, imaculado. Mordeu o interior de cada uma das coxas, lambendo a marquinha que os dentes deixaram. Subia aos poucos, nem o tecido da camiseta foi capaz de diminuir o calor que sentiu quando ele finalmente beijou seus seios, ou quando deixou uma lambida quente no seu pescoço. Mas foi a língua molhando a pontinha da sua orelha que te trouxe de volta a tempo de gemer baixinho quando ele voltou para sorver a pele do seu pescoço entre os dentes.

A distração te tirou o privilégio de ver ele esfregando a cabecinha melada contra as dobrinhas da sua buceta, os dedos experientes espalharam o melzinho no resto da extensão porque nenhum cuidado era demais. Estava tão excitada que nem reclamou quando ele forçou, o começo sempre deslizava gostosinho — o problema de verdade só começava quando passava da glande. Mal teve tempo para se enganar e fingir que aguentaria Jude inteirinho sem reclamar, a entradinha logo se apertou todinha, obrigando-o a parar por ali.

“Amor…”

“Shhhh… Eu sei…”, selou seu pescoço outra vez. Era versado naquilo, tanto que saiu com cuidado, voltando devagarinho só até onde a bucetinha deixava — estocando um pouquinho mais da metade. Acolheu seus peitinhos entre os dedos, puxando os biquinhos na tentativa de levar seu foco para outra coisa.

Porém não adiantava, o barulhinho molhado fazia suas costas se arrepiarem, sentia o estômago revirar só de pensar no quanto pingava por Jude. Quase deitou o corpo na bancada para apoiar um dos pés na borda e choramingou baixinho quando conseguiu suporte para se foder sozinha com muito esforço.

As coxas formigavam, manter as perninhas abertas estava te fazendo queimar. Mordia um sorrisinho safado entre os dentes, a entradinha ardia para tentar receber ao menos metade do homem — Jude realmente estava te deixando mal acostumada. Largou o peso do torso num braço só, a outra mão deslizando até o meio das coxas na tentativa de dilatar mais a bucetinha. Esticou a pele com os dedos o quanto conseguiu, precisava se abrir inteirinha para fazer ele caber.

Um engasgo sôfrego travou na garganta quando ele forçou mais um pouquinho da extensão. Tanto que mal conseguiu continuar rebolando, se rendendo a um movimento errático, meio ridículo — não conseguia parar, não dava para parar. Uma delícia, não era possível nem para se contrair direito. As perninhas agonizavam e não sabia como retomar o controle delas.

“Tá fraca, amor?”, apoiou os braços ao lado do seu corpo outra vez para te cercar contra o mármore. A proximidade fez entrar mais um pouquinho e suas coxas quase desistiram. “Não fecha.”, apertou a carne entre os dedos segurando-as no lugar.

“Vai machucar…”, resmungou rouquinha, o corpo tremendo num tesão nojento.

“Vai?”, ele mordeu um sorrisinho sonso. “Eu tiro então, minha vida.”, ameaçou cumprir com o que disse e você se desesperou.

Droga, estava tão molhadinha e ainda assim não dava para aguentar? Era injusto. Não era nenhuma virgenzinha estúpida, queria dar com gosto, ficar burrinha de pica. Irritou-se, mesmo frágil, queria tanto… as pernas se enlaçaram em volta do quadril dele, puxou num solavanco — a única sorte sendo que ele era forte demais para se deixar levar.

“Se eu empurrar aí é que vai machucar de vez.”, alertou cauteloso e isso pareceu te deixar ainda mais irritadiça.

“Faz caber então, Jude.”, resmungou, socando dois dedinhos na boca para molhá-los e logo esfregando seu grelinho com afinco porque queria se fazer relaxar a todo custo. “Porra, você ‘tá com dó parece…”, definitivamente saiu sem pensar, o desejo mexia com sua cabecinha de jeitos estranhos.

O homem ergueu as sobrancelhas e um sorriso desacreditado despontou na boca, não havia gostado minimamente de ser desafiado assim. Tirou o pau devagarinho só para assistir seu rostinho se contorcer em desgosto, as mãos calejadas castigando sua cintura para garantir que você não se movesse um centímetro sequer.

“Cala a boca.”, o timbre desceu num murmúrio firme, calmo ao ponto de ser desconcertante. “Não pede o que você não aguenta.”, forçou a cabecinha novamente, a entradinha babona se alargando mais fácil que da primeira vez. O carinho no seu pontinho se tornou mais letárgico, mais gostoso — conseguiu até mesmo voltar a se foder devagarinho.

“Você sabe que eu aguento.”, sussurrou burrinha, claramente não dava mais atenção ao que dizia.

“Aguenta?”, desafiou, forçando mais um pouco para dentro. “Me responde.”, socou lentinho, vendo seus olhinhos revirando por baixo das pálpebras.

“Jude, porra…”

“Sabe o que ‘cê vai fazer quando eu terminar, amor?”, indagou baixinho. Você, no entanto, estava ocupada demais se tocando, gemendo cheia de dengo. “Eu tô falando com você.”, estocou mais forte, fazendo seu corpo saltar, os olhos abrindo. “Sabe?”

“N-não...”

“Ah, você sabe sim, meu amor.”, o jeito que forçava o caralho melado em nada combinava com o quão atencioso ele soou. “Você vai ficar aqui quietinha me esperando.”, as mãos grandes envolveram seus rosto. “Esquentando meu travesseiro.”, se inclinou, mordendo seu queixo com carinho. “E vai abrir essa bucetinha bem gostoso ‘pra eu meter quando voltar, tá ouvindo?”, ameaçou selar sua boca, mas só o fez quando te viu confirmar com a cabeça. “Já deixei molhadinha ‘pra ajudar, não deixei?”, indagou baixinho, fodendo o quanto cabia com lentidão. Você concordou com a cabeça outra vez — estava estúpida ‘pra caralho, as perninhas tão fracas que sabia bem o que estava por vir. “Então se vira.”, deixou dois tapinhas leves no seu rosto. “Goza ‘pra eu não me atrasar.”

Tornou-se mais bruto, judiando da bucetinha sensível que não parava de expulsar o melzinho quente. Sua voz se tornou esganiçada, quase ininteligível, só sabia gemer e implorar. E o homem pareceu ter perdido a paciência enfim, pois substituiu seus dedinhos para fazer o trabalho inteiro sozinho — brincando com o grelinho que não parava de pulsar.

“Jude…”, soluçou contra a boca dele. “Me fode gostoso… assim, porra…”, soava perdida, meio embaralhado. A bucetinha se apertava inteira sem que você pudesse controlar, pulsando em volta do caralho grosso como se quisesse expulsá-lo. Jude saía somente o suficiente para ser capaz de socar a glande avantajada no fundo do canalzinho que não parecia disposto a se esticar mais para deixar ele entrar totalmente. “Eu quero mais, amor… Mais… Porra, isso…”, o chorinho se intensificou junto com o jeito que ele castigava seu clitóris, o polegar desenhando círculos cada vez mais apertadinhos.

Era quase constrangedor o quanto soluçava quando percebeu o orgasmo chegando. Maltratava os lábios grossos do homem num beijo afoito, babando ele inteirinho na tentativa de disfarçar a própria manha. Ele sorria abertamente, mal retribuindo o beijo, porque te ouvir soando como uma ninfetinha desesperada parecia muito mais gostoso. Foi parar no abraço de Jude quando terminou de se molhar por completo, tão entorpecida que nem ouvia mais os próprios gemidos.

Deixou um som esganiçado escapar da garganta quando o homem se retirou rapidinho, usando somente um dos braços para envolver sua cintura com firmeza e evitar que você caísse contra o espelho. A mão livre envolveu o caralho pesado num aperto rude, Jude parecia fazer questão de pincelar os lábios da sua entradinha enquanto se punhetava com força.

Você encarava a cena inerte, a mente ainda presa no estado que havia ficado sua intimidade. O local latejava por completo numa sensação vertiginosa, quente ao ponto de estar meio dormente; era confusa a sensação. Não precisava ver para ter certeza que estava tão esfoladinha que sequer conseguia se fechar propriamente quando pulsava, não seria necessária a preocupação em se esticar — com certeza ainda estaria larguinha quando ele voltasse.

Subiu para observar o rosto dele, não se surpreendendo ao encontrar o olhar fixo na sua bucetinha arruinada. Parecia claramente orgulhoso do estrago que havia feito, espalhando todos os resquícios do seu melzinho até alcançar as bolas cheias de porra. Apertou-as entre os dedos quando finalmente esporrou num gemido meio bruto, costumava soltar demais, porém ainda assim tentava jogar tudo no mesmo lugar — mirando exatamente no canalzinho judiado.

“Eu jogo na boquinha quando voltar, ‘tá bom?”, a promessa veio entre arfares, conquistando sua atenção outra vez, já que estava absorta demais em notar pela milésima vez que nem as mãos grandes do seu namorado davam conta da piroca pesada. “Mas tem que ser boazinha.”, a condição acompanhou um estalinho molhado na sua boca. Sorriu mansinha, tão cheia de dengo que parecia até mesmo bêbada. Ganhou mais alguns antes que ele se afastasse com pressa, provavelmente atrasado.

“Jude.”, chamou antes que ele atravessasse a porta. “Só uma hora.”, nem sabe de onde tirou forças para soar tão firme. Ganhou um sorriso sacana:

“Você quem manda.”

[dinofode]

conteúdo exclusivo

namorado!haaland x leitora ♡ smut [18+ menores não interajam] #avisos: sexo bruto, sem proteção e gravado :) penetração, size kink!!, haaland tem um pau ENORME, relacionamento estabelecido, gozando dentro, humilhação com carinho.

contexto da putaria: onde erling gosta que gravar você tentando levar ele inteirinho.

｡°⚠︎°｡ n.a: apesar de ser o segundo smut que eu posto com o haaland, reforço que ele não é fixo aqui, apenas achei que o tema pegava legal com ele. vocês são muito bem vindas no blog mas meu contéudo é majoritariamente bts e svt. haaland ou qualquer outro homem até mesmo do mundinho kpop são exceções!

deitada na cama você assiste seu namorado se levantar. os braços brancos marcados da sua unha, reflexo dos dedos grossos bombeando dentro de você minutos antes, ou como ele mesmo diz, "te deixando larguinha pro pau entrar mais fácil".

erling sempre foi grande em todos os sentidos, aguentar ele é um trabalho que leva esforço. com os anos de relacionamento vocês se acostumaram, às vezes apenas se esfregavam, às vezes se divertiam com as mãos, às vezes transavam devagar.

e às vezes o tesão os dominava por completo.

como agora. 

"que foi?" pergunta, ainda ofegante do orgasmo recente, orgasmo que haaland fez questão de te fazer sentir enquanto afundava os dedos grossos na sua carninha. 

"quero gravar você me engolindo, amor!" 

você ri, acostumada com seu namorado gravando vocês dois nesse momento. o loiro sempre gostou de gravar seus "gemidinhos de puta", a galeria do celular é cheia de vídeos dele te empurrando fundo. 

o aparelho parece minúsculo na mão grande, haaland sorri, dedilhando sua entradinha molhada, fazendo questão de sujar ainda mais, espalhando seu suquinho por ela. 

"biscate!" o tapa estala no seu rosto, e você ri em puro sadismo, sabendo e sentindo a marca vermelha que ele deixa. 

a cabecinha grossa se esfrega em você, latejando fundo doida pra te empalar. 

"a-amor" geme fraca, querendo ser torturada de outra forma. 

"pede, puta!" ri quase que maquiavélico. "adoro te ouvir implorar." 

a câmera dando um zoom na piroca babando na sua xotinha, sem entrar totalmente, te deixando manhosa.

"por favor..." suplica.

"por favor o quê, hein? desaprendeu a falar foi?" o tom firme fazendo seu corpo esquentar ainda mais.

"arrebenta minha buceta, amor" choraminga toda sonsa, a voz quase que enjoativa de ouvir.

erling ri. afundando a pontinha do cacete duro em você. 

e nos primeiros 15cm foram até fáceis, mas então ele insere mais alguns centímetros e ainda sim o pau não estava inteiro.

você engasga, sentindo as próprias paredes queimarem pra abrigar a rola do seu namorado, que continua te abrindo centímetro por centímetro, indo mais fundo. 

"olha que coisa linda," filma bem a cena profana. "essa bucetinha toda pequena levando meu pau. putinha treinada."

o norueguês força um pouco mais, e percebe que é o limite, a cabecinha batendo no colo do útero, fundo o suficiente para impedir que ele continuasse. 

seu corpo espama, apertando firme a rola gorda, as primeiras lágrimas correndo pelos seus olhos. 

"cheia, já?" debocha. "buceta tão pequena amor, nem aguenta levar tudo." 

"v-vida" manha no caralho grosso, seu corpo tentando expulsar ele a todo custo. 

ele força um pouquinho mais, fazendo você gritar quando finalmente raspa os pelinhos loirinhos em você. mas logo se retira um pouco, sabendo que é demais.

"nunca aguenta tudo né?" ri, filmando a parte protuberante que a piroca deixa na sua barriga, mexendo ali bem devagar, fazendo você se moldar nele, toda estufadinha de piroca. "tão fraquinha."

"g-grande demais." abre as pernas, a queimação doendo tanto quanto é gostosa. 

"e ainda sim você sempre leva, né, amor? sempre deixa eu arrombar essa buceta" a estocada devagar e a voz doce em contraste com as palavras sujas. "vai ficar toda dolorida amanhã." 

ele parece orgulhoso, ainda gravando sua buceta, mesmo que ainda sobre alguns centímetros, sabe o quão difícil é levar o pau dele. 

"vou arrebentar você princesa, posso?" ele pergunta delicado, as palavras te fazendo entortar o dedinho do pé. 

assente, abrindo mais as pernas, encarando as orbes claras. 

quando ele vai mais rápido você engasga, agarrando os bíceps já marcados enquanto geme. o cacete grosso acertando o fundinho do seu útero, o comprimento esticando toda sua bucetinha. 

"vagabunda. minha vagabunda." ele rosna, o celular filmando sua xota alargando, levando o cacete quase inteiro. 

"a-amor" chama ele, abrindo a boca.

se conhecem tão bem que ele sabe exatamente o que quer. rindo, a camera vai pro seu rosto, filmando bem a cuspida que ele da na sua boca, seguido do tapa estalado no rostinho frágil. 

"cadela! minha!" 

a câmera é largada em qualquer canto da cama, ainda gravando um pedaço de vocês. 

erling continua te fodendo, às vezes empurrando por completo dentro da sua buceta, te machucando de uma forma que você sabe que é masoquista, mas porra, tão gostosa. você grita, urra, morde o ombro dele enquanto finca as unhas nas costas branquinhas. 

o teu homem te domando tão bruto, tão forte, esticando toda a sua bucetinha, te usando como se fosse uma bonequinha, enlouquecido com o buraquinho quente levando pau.

"puta gulosa, você nem aguenta tudo mas não me deixa parar." o corpo grande empurra o seu, te fazendo gritar toda vez que ele passa um pouquinho do ponto e mete até o talo. 

lágrimas escorrem pela sua bochecha enquanto o norueguês te beija, desajeitado, bruto. "te amo, porra." e beija de novo, quase te devorando. "minha mulher. minha puta." 

seu buraquinho contrai, você tenta fechar as pernas em um puro reflexo quando seu ventre começa a arder, dessa vez não pela invasão. 

"gostosa. minha mulher é gostosa demais." 

"v-vida" choraminga no caralho grosso, o rostinho vermelho enquanto as lágrimas escorrem. "te amo." 

"cachorra. minha cachorra. minha puta. meu depósito de porra." ele beija seu maxilar completamente descontrolado. 

o caralho lateja dentro de você, o seu dedinho do pé começa a entortar, e o loiro tateia a cama procurando o celular jogado por ali. 

só pra poder gravar o seu orgamos, os gritinhos de biscate que você da enquanto ele segue te comendo. filmando o seu corpinho tremendo por baixo dele.

"vou esporrar em você, vida." continua metendo, buscando o próprio orgasmo. "vou encher essa xoxota gostosa." 

ele te beija novamente, agarrando seu maxilar enquanto te devora, em todos os sentidos.

a piroca acerta mais uma vez o fundo do seu útero, e você grita. 

e então haaland jorra. completamente dentro de você, faz questão de soltar jatos de porra dentro da bucetinha maltratada, não desperdiça nem uma gota, o pau até o talo. 

quando a respiração acalma ele te beija, um pouco mais dócil do que antes. 

afasta o corpo do seu apenas pra gravar exatamente o quão dentro de você está, rindo baixinho "sempre leva tudo, é a mulher da minha vida mesmo." 

ele mete mais algumas vezes, só pra te bagunçar, suas coxas ainda tremendo enquanto a câmera filma os espasmos. 

"te amo tanto, você é tão linda." o elogio dócil nem parece vir do cara que vai ser a causa da sua andada meio torta nos próximos dias.

e quando o pau começa amolecer e ele tira de dentro, sua buceta apertando o vazio, completamente aberta depois da rola grossa. 

"tão linda." o loiro abaixa a câmera, pegando exatamente o quão suja e usada você está. "toda arrombada pelo meu pau." ele diz carinhoso, passando os dedos entre o líquido pegajoso e a entradinha maltratada. 

você geme, o ardorzinho na buceta e no ventre te deixando fraquinha. 

"cê é a mulher dos meus sonhos." 

haaland desliga a câmera, ainda admirando uns segundos a bagunça que ele fez, a xoxota toda esticada e grudenta. 

"te amo tanto, porra!" 

beija sua testa. 

ele vai até o banheiro, pegando uma toalha molhada e uma pomada, te limpando inteirinha, com todo cuidado do mundo. mesmo que o loiro seja bruto por natureza, sempre é extremamente delicado contigo. 

depois de limpar passa a pomada, cuidando do buraquinho que ele mesmo maltratou. e então, vai até a cozinha, pegando uma bolsinha de água quente para colocar na sua barriga, ele sabe que mesmo que foram poucas vezes, ter batido contra o colo do seu útero deixará dores. 

chega a ser engraçado, o mesmo cara bruto que te destruiu na piroca ignorante, agora te cuidava como se fosse uma princesa, te distribuindo beijinhos por todo rosto enquanto carinha seu cabelo.

"a gente ainda vai casar um dia, viu?" sorri bobo.

talvez vocês curtam essa aqui também :) "desconta essa raiva em mim"

[imninahchan]

[oh-saints]

rough

erling is a very competitive guy, which means he hates it when he loses to someone else. which leads to why he’s currently fuming at the sight of you, his ex-girlfriend, enjoying the night with his new teammates. which leads to why he can’t wait to show you that you belong to him.

erling haaland x you

tw: dirty, dirty sex (hate sex; rough handling; bit of degrading kink; mentions of sex tape/taping kink)

wc: 2.1k

prompts: “protective erling” + “rough sex tape”

note: a highly coveted request coming out from the vault as the next post for smut week! sorry i fell asleep last night lolol & this is based on two asks here! pls bear in mind this is 18+ content therefore minors DNI! but as usual, I happen to write at dawn so it’s not beta-read yet.

“you need to relax, big guy.”

oh, if only he could… jack didn’t know how much erling had been wanting—no, needing—to relax throughout the party his club was throwing for their latest success.

but how could he relax when you showed up like a goddess sent by zeus to seduce every single human who possessed desire in this earthly realm? who invited you?

as far as erling’s knowledge goes, you didn’t know anyone in Manchester. it was probably one of the reasons why he picked the sky blue jersey instead of other offers when he decided to move on from his old life in Dortmund. when he decided to move on from you.

when he decided to forget the fact you broke his fragile heart big time.

but seeing you again, in flesh and blood this time, after almost a year, enticed all these forbidden feelings he was supposed to supress. he wasn’t supposed to feel the longing, he wasn’t supposed to miss you, he wasn’t supposed to want you again.

it should be forbidden too, the sight of your wearing a little black dress like that. so little that erling was sure everyone could’ve seen your panties if you were bent over a desk. thinking about the possibility really boiled the temperature of his blood.

so erling didn’t waste any more time to cut off the interaction between you and his teammates. you looked up because he was rude, your teammates looked up because they didn’t know you both knew each other.

“we’re going home.”

and before you could protest, he’d hauled you off his shoulder—without compromising your underwear, of course—and you were both outside of the club in less than a minute, thanks to his extremely long legs. you were too dizzy to figure out the upside down of your vision to even launch a protest to him, you had to wonder how the girls on those movies made it easy.

your buzzing head didn’t help you to digest the reality faster. all the sudden, erling opened the side of your door, waiting for you to come out rather impatiently, judging from the clicking of his shoes. so you pushed your featherlight body up to meet the giant’s eyes because you knew better than to test his patience, despite the months apart and despite the fact that you wanted to be mad at him for cutting short your temporary escapade.

“you got me home, erling,” you groaned as you noticed he was still following your tail. the last thing you wanted tonight was a giant intruding your home. “now go home.”

but he didn’t budge, for whatever reason. he didn’t even respond to your order and kept his distance behind you silently. he only cut down the Atlantic between you two when you were struggling with your keys, grabbing them and initiated to unlock the door.

still in silence, though.

with your questionable sanity, you couldn’t figure out if he was silent because he wanted to get this done and over with—getting you home, that is—or he was silent because he was angry with your slow motion. you could only hope the former because you shared the same sentiment.

you were about to say thank you as well as bidding him goodbye on your door step when he pushed you inside of your sanctuary. you wanted to bark at him for somehow barging in but he went straight for the fridge, fetching you a carton of milk and a glass of water.

“what erling haaland wants, erling haaland gets, huh?” you couldn’t stop the venom from your mouth, and you decided that it was a better response than to lash out at him. “what else can I get you?”

you were always a goody-two-shoes girl, you were the water to his fire… well, at least until you dropped a nuclear bomb in his head when you broke up with him out of nowhere without a single justification given to him. and now you were pouring him a sarcasm? the norwegian certainly didn’t appreciate the tone, at all.

erling didn’t hesitate to grab you by the jaw, rather harshly, when you approached him. he knew you were playing with fire by coming to him, testing his sanity that was barely hanging on the thread, and he saw that defiance in your eyes.

and it clicked on him.

you were purposefully trying to evoke his anger by coming into the party unannounced.

fuck your link—he’d bury whoever that was, but later when he was done with you. if there was one thing he hated than you possessing no more manner was that he hated anyone else looking at you like a pray, knowing you intentionally provoked them. back when you were a couple, you used to do it to prove you had no eyes but for erling and erling haaland only, but now…

the fire was still burning in your eyes, matching his fiery ones. while you were accustomed with his jealousy heat, the sight was rather new for erling.

while your eyes were sparkling with a rebellion tint, your entire posture was limp and powerless against his strong hold. how could someone so fierce, so… disobedient be so submissive and helpless in his hands? but as they said, new is always better. and god was he lying when you were sexier this way.

and to know that erling was the only one who could turn her into this vixen version of you?

fuck your link—he’d bury himself in you first for now.

erling didn’t waste any more time to dive into your lips, sealing them in a ruthless kiss that demanded your further obedience. but of course you didn’t give up to the point you could feel your teeth, your tongues, all clashed in the battle that was taking place inside the cavern of your mouth. not even a single space for you to catch your breath before he stole them away, probably as his ammo to keep your defences down.

the oral exchange was so hot that your body was slowly burning—from the heat of his body, his hands more over that you had to shed your clothes the moment he’d touched you there, everywhere. and before you could realise it, you were both standing naked at your kitchen. amazing you could do that in record time and record pace, considering your lips were still interlocked, keys to the locks were probably lost in the sea of pleasure by now.

erling pulled you by the nape of your neck, and you had to tiptoe your feet as you followed suit. the imbalance was utilised by erling to turn you around, folding your arms behind your back while his other hand was holding you in place by the throat. you could see your nipple rigid already by the mirror placed on your living room, and god you had never felt so sexy than at that point.

he dipped his head down, grazing dangerously lightly against the shell of your ears. you could feel his breaths—deep, slow, yet erratic breaths—brushing the soft bone before biting them gently, his tongue swirled the boneless lobules like it was a sour candy.

“enjoying this?”

but before you could answer that, the hand on your throat suddenly went away, only to comeback to slap one of your breasts, just right on top of your puckering nipple. you didn’t bother hiding your gasp at the sensation—the overwhelming sensation of having him everywhere without a way out. at least until erling was done with you.

“I’m sure you do, schnuppa,” erling’s teeth were now grazing the sides of your neck, down to your collarbone. “this is what a slut wants, no?”

like before, you didn’t have a moment to answer him before the same hand slapped your other breast. the sound was so crisp you couldn’t help but feel sinful if you wanted more. but erling was in a sinful mood so he alternated in landing you some blows between your boobs. left, right, right, left for countless times you forgot to count at this point.

so wrong of you, though, to miss the counting. because erling would always ask.

“how many times now?”

and of course, erling would always punish you whenever you struck the wrong number. his hand immediately went to smack your throbbing clit, even opening your mound to find the clitoris and spank the bud gently with his free fingers. how he did it—you didn’t know. heck, you didn’t think your brain could process so much information and sensation and emotions simultaneously like that.

“what would those boys think if they heard you making a mess on my hand like this, huh?”

erling’s mouth was back ghosting your ear, the other pair this time but the insane sensation was still the same. your folded hands were now placed against the kitchen counter before you were told to spread your legs so the hand that was staying on top of your pleasure central could have more access to you—to tease you, to play you, to fuck you.

“I’m sure they’d hate it, hmm?” you moaned so loud when erling pushed his cock gently on your back, you could feel the standing shaft between your butt cheeks. “they’d better be because this belongs to me,”

you didn’t bother to mask your wailing when he pressed his digits inside you, while his thumb remained tickling your clit and the budding bud. “fuck, erling!”

“oh I’m fucking you, baby,” you swore erling’s fingers were orchestrating in and out of you slower than Mozart and Beethoven’s slowest composition combined. “but tell me first, whose this pretty cunt of yours belongs to?”

you truthfully didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, and sensing this, erling immediately switched his pace into a mindfucking fast one. so fast you could hear yourself drenching his hand so disgustingly sexy, your wetness swiftly cascading down your inner thighs, and you could feel your legs slightly trembling. a sign you were this close to the edge.

but of course erling pulled out. he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction too.

you groaned in desperation, your legs had to be pressed closely against one another so you didn’t lose the last bit of your energy left. you were so focused on gaining back your vision due to the earth-shattering sensation that you didn’t realise erling had set up his phone somewhere that could catch the sight of you both fucking like rabbits, just like he planned to.

you gasped dirtily as erling pulled your hips towards his cock, telling you silently to get ready for what was coming. “who do you belong to, schnuppa?”

erling knew you were not giving in that easily so he pushed the tip of his cock lightly at first. like a prediction, you moaned at the sensation—because god damn it, it’s been a long while since someone entered you and the last person was erling months ago—but moaned even louder when erling pulled his shaft out. the giant repeated the motion and the question again at the same time, and you replayed your dirty whines like a broken record.

erling had to applaud your tenacity for not backing down. this new version of you was surely a challenge he’d love to conquer. but he knew you were nothing but empty threats at the end of the day.

his smirk grew wider as you whimpered pathetically, “yours, erling. it’s yours, fuck!”

“there we go,” erling finally thrusted into you, and he groaned inwardly because no matter how much he denied you, it was the best feeling to be buried inside of you. “god, you feel so fucking good. I bet the boys can only shit themselves when they see this video of us.”

you could only hope erling was kidding about the video because there was no way you could hold your head high anymore if they’d seen you cum for five times in five different positions.

[glossiercheek]

𖤓 SOMETHING BIGGER AND BEYOND BLISS ⁕ erling haaland 𝑥 𝒻!reader 𝄞 warnings: 18+ (mdni) + size kink(ish)? + you’re a little squirmy! >.<

you truly don’t know how you ended up here. the cover of the mattress awkwardly sticks to your sweaty back, your smaller hands holding onto erling’s bigger shoulders.

“you can take it,” he breathes above you. his cock is only halfway in, and you already feel so full. he looks at you with hooded eyes, lust-heavy breaths as he pushes you further into the soft mattress. “deep breaths for me, baby.”

the entire night, erling has been treating you as if you’re a porcelain doll. as if you’re made out of glass. your walls squelch around his length, the slick you’re producing not enough to accommodate all of him. you feel so full, and he’s not even fully sheathed in you.

“n-no—” you wince out, “just give it to me, i— please.”

erling lets out a small, but audible chuckle at your eagerness. he grabs your hand from his shoulder to press a warm kiss to the inside of your palm. “you’re clamping down on me, sweetheart,” he laughs, “gotta open up a lil’ f’me.”

his thick fingers slide to your clit, and the moment his digits start rotating, you feel your jaw grow slack. your thighs flex open a bit more, slick dribbling down on the — now soaking wet — sheets. “oh my—”

“just a little bit, yeah?” your boyfriend groans. and despite his build, his length wedged within you, his bulging biceps next to your face, he can’t help but shiver when he pushes himself further into your heat. “doin’ so good.”

and you actually squirm. it feels like he’s in your throat. “move— please, do something,” you plead again, trying to buck your hips upward.

erling grabs your knees all the way up to your shoulders. “last one, okay? then i’ll fuck you, nice and slow,” he presses a quick kiss to your knee, a stark constrast to the lewd position he’s put you in. “biiiig stretch.”

with one last, lengthy push into your pulsing pussy and a helpless whimper from you, his hips end up flush to yours. “ah, fuck,” the blond grunts out, and your eyes actually flutter shut at his intrusion. “s’tight.”

he gives you one experimental thrust, his overwhelming weight pushing you into the bed before springing you right back. his tip kisses your cervix, all warm and snug in your channel.

“y’good, honey?” erling asks, a hint of concern in his stare. you stretch your legs over his shoulders in the process to make yourself feel more comfortable, and your boyfriend’s hands immediately come up to caress your knees, the underside of your thighs. because where you quiver underneath him, he’s stable and sure above you.

“can’t take it?” he questions, acting like you struggling to take him is a joke. like you’re just something to play with.

at his bawdiness, you clench around his cock. all you can do is take it. let him have his way with you. he’s fucking everywhere: above you, inside of you. his big hands caressing your face.

you swallow, all soundless and out of breath as he feeds you shallow, careful thrusts. “you’re so— shit— big.”

erling’s amused face gawks back at you. “aww, baby,” he coos, gripping your chin between his fingers, your lips pouting. you can spot a glint of mischief, of pride in his eyes. “you’re doin’ real good for me.”

maybe it’s just in your hazy mind, but his thrusts go deeper now, sharper. and before your mind can process it, erling grabs your flabby hand and puts it on your abdomen.

fuck, you can literally feel his tip prodding under the fine fibres of your skin. it feels as if your eyes are going to roll out its sockets at any given moment.

“y’feel that, baby?” the only sounds in the room the creaking sounds of the bedframe lightly hitting the wall and your skittish whimpers. your boyfriend looks at you, adoration and elation mingled together in his gaze.

when you don’t respond at all — mind too hazy to even think of an answer — he breathes out a somewhat unnervingly obscene snicker. “‘m all the way in your guts.”

[redtearsheart]

miga do céu sempre que eu vejo você atualizando seu perfil minha mão soa de ansiedade pra ver muito do haaland por aqui 😭🙏🏼

Erling Haaland in...

⛓️SELF CONTROL II

Após a eliminação da Noruega, você precisa consolar seu namoradinho...

🤍 Notes: Missão dada, missão cumprida amores! Tentei misturar algumas coisinhas relacionadas a maioria das asks para não ficar repetitivo, mas também combinar com o resultado do jogo de hoje (eliminaram minha loira do tchan 🥺). Espero que gostem e muito obrigada de novo!! 🖤✨️

[⛓️AVISOS:] conteúdo adulto/+18, oral!masc, cum, dirty talk, bastante size kink, menção à anal, menção à trisal, romantismo pq é fic minha né e acho que é isso :)

Já era quase madrugada quando Haaland finalmente chegou. A frustração da derrota e o cansaço tiveram que esperar devido aos eventos de pós-jogo: entrevistas e satisfações sobre a perda para a Inglaterra, conversas com colegas do time sobre erros, acertos, pensamentos positivos e negativos… Caramba, tudo o que ele queria agora era mais um banho — quentinho, diferente da banheira de gelo que se enfiou para recuperar os músculos.

Te viu deitada, aparentemente adormecida, e preferiu nem acender as luzes para não perturbar o seu sono. A figura alta se inclinou sobre você e selou seu rostinho, arrancando as roupas do corpo às pressas.

Seus olhos se abriram.

Certo, já tinha captado como seu namoradinho estava.

Assim que ouviu o som da ducha quente sendo ligada desceu da cama, tirando o robe de seda vermelho e engatinhando até o banheiro. O vapor colidiu com seu rostinho, arrepiou sua pele, mas avançou mesmo assim.

Até os olhos azuis te acharem do outro lado do box.

Depois de horas difíceis, ele finalmente deu uma risada tranquila:

— O que você tá fazendo aí? — a mão grande afastou o vidro temperado que lhes separava. — O que você tá fazendo assim? — arrancou dele mais um riso incrédulo ao te ver nua e com a bunda empinadinha.

— Sinto muito pela Noruega ter perdido hoje, Erling — você falou, ignorando as perguntas.

Ah, mas ele negou com a cabeça e fez um bicão:

— Mentirosa, você jogou praga em mim por que eu eliminei o Brasil!

— Não joguei!

— Jogou, sim!

— Amor…

— Nem vem, ficou sem falar comigo por quase dois dias!

Bem, aquilo realmente aconteceu. Ainda se lembrava de ter sentado nele com raiva, segurando cada gemidinho manhoso e devotado que costumava dar, aguentando cada centímetro grosso dentro de você por pura birra… E ainda tirou aquele pau delicioso da sua bucetinha antes que Haaland pudesse te encher de porra como sempre.

Mas, quem tem boca vai à Roma. Seu namoradinho acabou com a sua raivinha no dia seguinte, te chupando com os lábios gordinhos até você esguichar e perdoá-lo por ter colocado seu país para fora da Copa.

— Mas eu te defendi pra minha família e para as minhas amigas, okay?! — ressaltou, pousando as mãos nas coxas definidas. — Te defendi com unhas e dentes, mesmo quando eu ainda tava puta contigo!

Haaland abriu um sorriso largo:

— Ah, é?

— Uhum… — mordeu o lábio inferior, assistindo o pau enorme guinar tão perto do seu rostinho. Foi impossível não agarrá-lo com uma das mãos, que mal se fechava na grossura. — Disse que você só tava fazendo o seu trabalho… — selou a glande vermelhinha, ouvindo o arfar pesado do loiro. — Que a Noruega nunca tinha chegado tão longe… — Espalhou mais beijinhos pela extensão cada vez mais dura. — Que a gente tem que aprender a dividir também…

— Igual eu te divido com o Bellingham, é? — debochou, tocando naquele assunto que fazia seu íntimo se contrair.

Tinha dois namoradinhos. A mídia surtaria se soubesse que aqueles “bons amigos” eram tão próximos que até dividiram a mesma boquinha, a mesma bucetinha, a mesma mulherzinha…

— Uhum, igual! — concordou, deixando mais um selinho estalado na cabecinha.

— Eu tô tão puto com ele, não sei se vou te dividir mais… — as mãos grandes já foram até o seu cabelo molhado, fazendo um rabo de cavalo desleixado. — Tava metido pra caralho no pós jogo, sabia?

— Eu vi, ele tava uma delícia… — provocou.

Haaland revirou os olhos e bufou. 

Prontinho, o suficiente para tentar enfiar o pau inteirinho na sua boca.

— Te amo pra caralho, mas cala a boquinha na minha pica, cala, amor — sussurrou.

Ah, mas você ficou caladinha com gosto!

Era meio obcecada em tentar engoli-lo inteiro, mesmo que soubesse que era impossível. Sabia que ficaria rouquinha de tanto forçar a garganta contra a cabecinha inchada, mas não ligava, babava na extensão com vontade e mamava olhando para Haaland com a maior falsa inocência do mundo.

O gosto da pica dele era viciante, assim como tudo o que o envolvia — num instante estava encontrando com um carinha engraçado num evento, no outro estava fascinada por futebol e por ele, com uma aliança no dedo e gritando “Haaland” a cada gol que presenciava. Mal conseguia respirar, mas algo em você tinha certeza de que morreria mesmo era se parasse de chupá-lo.

— Ei, ei, se controla!  — Erling riu, tendo que te afastar. — Você sabe que nunca vai caber.

— Vai sim!

— Sua boquinha é muito pequena, gracinha — acariciou seu lábio inferior, quase rosnando quando seus lábios inchadinhos capturaram o dedão dele, numa carência que quase o fez gozar. — Já pedi pro Jude te ajudar a engolir e nem ele você aguentou, lembra?

Injustiça! O pau do Bellingham também era enorme!

Contudo, você estava burrinha demais para debater naquele momento.

— Mas eu quero… — choramingou ao tirar o dígito branquinho da boca, com os olhinhos lacrimejando. — Eu preciso te consolar, Haaland…

Porra, você ainda o mataria chamando-o assim!

— Quer me consolar? — se abaixou, selando sua boca: — Chupa minha cabecinha igual uma putinha e me deixa esporrar nesse seu rostinho lindo, uh?

Você sorriu como se tivesse ganhado o mundo inteirinho, abocanhando-o de novo e masturbando o restante com as mãozinhas num vai-e-vem lentinho, apertando, fazendo Erling gemer seu nome como um gatinho adestrado — ah, ter aquele homem tão grande literalmente na palma das mãos…

Haaland precisou de mais autocontrole para não investir o quadril contra a sua boquinha linda. Sabia que podia te machucar, te fazer engasgar pateticamente várias e várias vezes… Ah, mas ele imaginou! Imaginou muito…

Você mal recuperou o fôlego ao ser afastada quando sentiu os jatos quentinhos e espessos de porra caíndo no seu rostinho úmido. 

Continuou punhetando, com os olhinhos fechados, a bucetinha carente ardendo de vontade enquanto o sentia gozar mais e mais — Haaland gozava pra caralho quando ficava estressado, era o segredinho sujo de vocês.

— Vem aqui… — os braços fortes te ergueram de uma vez para que ele pudesse ver o estrago que havia feito de pertinho.

A língua quentinha lambeu sua bochecha meladinha, a boca cheinha do seu namoradinho ficando suja com a própria porra.

— B-Beijinho… — você pediu, já fraquinha demais por ele.

Haaland te deu o que queria, enfiando a língua grossinha na sua boca enquanto dedilhava sua bucetinha, indo mais para trás…

Algo geladinho.

Separou a boca da sua, totalmente incrédulo de que a mulherzinha dele estava com um plug.

— Era só se eu ganhasse — balbuciou, não controlando o impulso de mover mais, vendo seus olhinhos se revirando.

— Você sempre vai ser… Meu campeão — arfou baixinho, se agarrando aos ombros largos. — Eu só preciso me preparar direitinho, né?

— Uhum, direitinho… — agora era ele quem sorria como se tivesse ganhado o mundo inteirinho.

Empinou mais, amando a atenção que estava recebendo onde nunca havia sido estimulada antes. Segurou o rostinho de Haaland, olhando no fundo dos olhos dele:

— Pode ser a sua vingança particular…

[imninahchan]

[butterrrcuppp]

The French Connection

Michael Olise x Teacher Reader

TW: slight angst

Summary: Michael's manager signs him up for a French course to improve his professional speaking.

a/n: Let me preface this by saying that I do not speak French, and I also know next to nothing about linguistics or psychology. The teaching methods and factual stuff that I used in this fic are complete bullshit ideas that I pulled out of my empty skull. That is all, thank you 😊

It’s not that Michael couldn't speak French, the words just didn't roll off his tongue the way they did with everyone else. His mother only spoke to him and his brother in French so he wasn't totally clueless, but there's a big difference between speaking French with your mother and speaking French at a press conference.

It wasn’t long before his manager scheduled him to see a French tutor. Michael expected the tutor to be someone intelligent that looked and sounded sophisticated and obviously: French.

When he knocked on the door of room 45, a girl greeted him. She looked like she was around his age, maybe a little younger with a dazzling grin that Michael mistook for obnoxiousness. The first thing Michael noticed was her distinct lack of a French accent. “Hey, nice to meet you!” “Nice to meet you too. I’m looking for Ms. Y/L/N.” 

She beamed at him and held out her hand, "That's me! You must be Michael.” He reached out and shook her hand. “Yeah. I’m Michael.” “Great! Come in, you're right on time,” she said, stepping aside for him to enter.

“You're not French.” Michael wasn't sure why he said it. It was obvious and yet he blurted it out anyways. “Excelent observation,” she replied with a laugh. “I just- how are you gonna teach me French if you're not French?” 

“I lived in France for three years and I have an associates degree in modern languages.” “But you're not French.” She blinked at him and continued smiling despite the ever so slight irritation that resulted from his doubt.

“I may not be French but I spent three years learning it in both a professional and recreational setting. You only have recreational experience which is why you're here.” Micahel clenched his jaw at her statement and watched her pull a notebook from her bag. 

“So, what are you struggling with?” “Speaking formally, like in a professional setting.” “Mhm, how are you on writing and reading comprehension?” “I’ve only written short stuff, like notes to my mum. I can read well but I mostly learned from reading my mum's grocery lists and stuff.” Y/N nodded as she made a note. 

“Okay, I think the best way to go about this is to begin with finding your weaknesses and then attacking them individually while also improving other parts of your speech. I’m going to have you take a benchmark assessment and then I have a few short articles that I’d like for you to read and then I’m gonna ask you a few questions.” 

The next hour passed by quickly for Michael. He expected the assessment to be self paced like the ones in school. Instead, she threw rapid fire questions at him, switching between French and English easily while Michael struggled to keep up. At one point, she even mixed the languages into the same sentence. By the end of the assessment, Michael's brain hurt. 

“That was good. Here is a paragraph from a peer reviewed article about how non-native species of fish are affecting the river Seine. Please read it out loud to me,” she said, handing him a piece of paper.

Y/N started a stopwatch to see how fast Michael could read it, noting any words that he mispronounced. “Great, give me a summary in English please.” “I just read it to you.” “Yeah, that doesn't mean that you actually understood what it meant though.” 

Michael huffed and attempted to restrain the frustration that was leaking into his tone. “What do fish have to do with learning French?” “Nothing, but you learn language by engaging in it. How many species of fish have a self-sustaining population?” “Six.” “Nope, the article says that six of them do not have a self-sustaining population. You didn’t understand what you read.” 

Michael sat up and squinted at her, his irritation making it increasingly more difficult to remain friendly towards this infuriating woman. “It’s an article about fish.” “It doesn't matter what the article is about, Michael. The problem is that you didn’t properly comprehend it. Read it again.”

Their first session ended with Michael slamming the door of his Audi and immediately calling his manager to request a new tutor. “She's the best French tutor in the area Michael. What do you mean you don't like her?” “She's irritating. She's making me read about fish, and she started eating ice-cream in the middle of the session. I don't even know where she got it from. Its freezing outside, who eats ice-cream when there's snow on the ground?"

Michal's manager laughed at his complaints while Michael glared at the phone. "I don't know what to tell you, Mike. She has amazing reviews, I think you just need to stick it out."

Michael groaned and rubbed his face. "Fine, but she better be good."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next session was even harder. She tested Michael’s ability to jump from topic to topic by asking rapid fire questions that had no relation. 

“Quel est le nom de l'hôpital où vous êtes né?” (What is the name of the hospital you were born in?) “Huh?” Y/N looked at him expectantly. “L’hôpital Sainte-Marie, je crois.” (St. Mary’s hospital, I think.)

“Quel est le nom de ton animal de compagnie d'enfance?” (What is the name of your childhood pet?) “Rocky.”

“Quel était le nom de votre enseignant(e) de première année?” (What was the name of your first-year teacher?) “Mrs. Baldwin.”

“Qui était le premier président des États-Unis?” (Who was the first president of the United States?) Michael wrinkled his nose at the question. “Comment suis-je censé savoir ça?” (How am I supposed to know that?) 

“George Washington. Quel genre d'animal est Mickey Mouse?“ (George Washington. What kind of animal is Mickey Mouse?) “Une souris.” (A mouse.)

“Très bien! En quelle année a commencé la Révolution française?” (Very good! What year did the French Revolution begin?) Michael squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to recall the date. “Dix-sept quelque chose. Je sais pas." (Seventeen something. I dunno.) "Tu as juste la première moitié." (You’ve got the first half right.) "Dix-sept cent quelque chose." (Seventeen seventy something.)

"Mille sept cent quatre-vingt-neuf. Quelle est la racine carrée de seize?” (Seventeen eighty nine. What’s the square root of sixteen?) "Plus lent." (Slower.) Y/N repeated herself slower so Michael could understand the question better. "Quatre." (Four.) 

As the questions continued, they became more complex. Y/N began working in harder words that Michael struggled with understanding when they were said quickly. Y/N was patient with him when he tripped over long words. She guided him through difficult concepts and encouraged him when he got frustrated.

As the weeks went on, Michael found himself actually learning from this strange girl. And what he found even stranger was the fact that she was growing on him. Sure she was still weird but in a cute kind of way? 

At first Michael felt like he was going crazy. He thought maybe her unusual teaching methods were affecting his brain and negatively impacting his thinking process. But after a week, he realized that she wasn’t what he originally thought of her. She was still weird, no doubt about that but she wasn’t annoying or obnoxious. He had mistaken her passion for her being pretentious and her curiosity for prying.

Michael soon began to understand her better, and the more time went on, the more he liked that wild look in her eyes. He never knew what she was going to say next. She could ask him to describe a childhood memory and then instruct him to narrate a video of a surgeon performing a heart transplant in the same breath. 

Her teaching methods were unorthodox but they were effective. Michael found himself understanding his mothers language at a different depth after every session. 

Today Michael was struggling a bit more than usual. After rereading the same question for the fifth time, Y/N put the cap on her dry erase marker and set it down. “Let's take a break.” Michael sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as Y/N walked over to a beverage table near the corner of the room. 

"Möchten sie eine tasse tee?” “What?” “Oh you can’t speak German either. Perfect,” she said sarcastically. “You speak German?” “I’m proficient but not yet fluent. I asked if you want tea.” 

“Yeah, if you don't mind.” Michael leaned back on the couch and watched her as she placed a tea bag in a paper cup. Michael had become more comfortable with Y/N but he still didn't know much about her and his curiosity was growing. “Is this your full-time job? Teaching people how to speak French?” 

“No, I just do this to make some extra spending money. I study psychology." “What made you want to study that?” “Many reasons. Serial killers, kleptomaniacs, musical prodigies. Stuff like that.” “So you want to become a therapist or something?” Y/N shook her head. “No, not a therapist. I’m more interested in figuring out how people’s problems develop than how to fix them.” “So you don't want to help people, you want to figure out why they need help in the first place.” “Yep.” 

A question popped into Michael’s head but he hesitated to ask it. “What’s my problem?” “Mmh, too soon to tell.” “Make a prediction then.” She turned around and mixed her coffee while staring at him. “I think there’s more to you than meets the eye,” she stated but Michael wasn't satisfied. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means you're more complicated than you’d like to admit.” “That’s just a polite way of saying you think I have issues,” Michael retorted. “No it’s not.” “Then tell me what you really think.” 

She pursed her lips and set down the coffee cup before speaking again. “I think you're a perfectionist. You reserve your time and energy for things that you deem worthy and put minimal effort into things that you think aren't. This causes people to assume that you're anti-social but you’re not anti-social, you just don't waste conversation on people that you dont value.” 

She hit the nail on the head. Michael was a little taken aback by how accurate her assessment was. They'd only known each other for a few weeks now and she read him like a book without even taking a moment to think and Michael didn't like it. He shrugged and pretended to be unbothered. “Or maybe I just don’t care.” 

“Maybe. Maybe you just pretend to not care because admitting that you do means that you’d have to face a plethora of emotions that result from situations you can’t control.” If her initial assessment wasn't blunt enough this one certainly was. “Maybe you're a shitty psychologist.” Many people would've been offended by Michaels statement but Y/N laughed, a real laugh that made her nose scrunch up and her eyes go squinty. “I never claimed to be a good one. Do you want sugar?” “Two please.” 

She mixed his sugar into his tea and then handed him the cup before sitting on the couch, her body turned towards him as she sipped her coffee. “You’ve made a lot of improvement.” "Doesn't feel like it,” Michael mumbled. “That’s because you haven't had a chance to have a real life conversation yet. When you go back to France for the national break you'll see the difference.” 

Michael looked over at her, her eyes filled with curiosity as she sipped her coffee. “What?” “Nothing.” “You're studying me.” “I study everyone.” Michael looked away for a moment but his eyes were drawn back to her. “You said you lived in France for three years. Why did you move to Germany?” “I wanted a change in scenery.” “People don’t move to a different country for a change in scenery. Did you move here for a man or something?”

An excited grin spread over her face as Michael made his speculation. “So now you have your own theories. Okay, keep going. Why do you think that?” “Did you?” “I’m not telling you yet, you gotta come up with something first.” Michael squinted at the ceiling, swirling his tea as he thought. 

“I think you were dating someone. He was probably French and then he cheated so you started hating living in France because everything reminded you of him. Then you decided to move to a different country and study psychology so you can understand why men cheat on their girlfriends.” Y/N titled her head and looked at him with an amused smile. “Interesting.” “Am I right?” “No.” Michael sucked his teeth and took another sip of his tea. 

“Am I close?” “Not even remotely. Wanna try again?” Michael almost said no. He didn't want to be the subject of a psychologist's mind game but something about the way she looked at him was enticing. “He didn't cheat on you. You met a guy in France but then he either lived in Germany or was moving to Germany so you left France to be with him.” 

Y/N stifled a laugh at the fictional narrative Michael had come up with. “How did you come to this conclusion? What behavioral characteristics do I exhibit that influence you to believe that I make major life decisions that revolve around my love interests?” She asked curiously. Michael didn't have an answer. “I dunno. You just seem like the romantic type I guess.” 

Y/N’s amusement seemed to double. “What makes you think that?” Michael shrugged. “You just seem… sweet. I guess.” “Hm. Fascinating,” Y/N said before setting down her coffee and leaning back. 

“There are a few things wrong with your theory. First of all: I have wanted to study psychology ever since I was in the fourth grade and not because my boyfriend cheated on me. Secondly: I’ve never had a boyfriend.” Michael made an unconvinced expression and set his tea down before turning towards her, fully prepared to accuse her of lying. “No, no I’m not having that. You've definitely had a boyfriend before.” 

“How would you know? We met 3 weeks ago.” "You've definitely dated someone before.” “Nope. I don't want to date anyone until I finish my degree. I’m focused on academics, no time for a boyfriend.”

“So you never dated anyone in high school?” “No. I didn't have much time anyways to find a boyfriend anyways, I was too busy studying and working on getting into the best colleges.”

“You've never been on a date before?” “Nope.”

"You've never been kissed?” “Yeah, I’ve been kissed. It was a guy from my AP English class. We were working on a project in the library and then all of a sudden, he kissed me. Then I got irritated because the presentation was due the next day and his half wasn't done yet.” Michael burst into laughter at the idea of her rejecting a guy over an unfinished presentation.

“Have you ever wanted a boyfriend?” “I’ve liked guys before but I’ve never wanted to have a relationship with one. They’re cute and all but my education is more important.” Michael once thought she was weird and nerdy but now he understood that she was just as dedicated to her passion as he was. Choosing to not have a love life required a type of discipline that Michael didn't see very often and it was admirable. 

“So you've fancied a guy before?” “Yeah, a bunch of them. I just didn't talk to them. Want to change your theory now?” Michael hummed and squinted at her. “Okay, maybe you actually wanted a change in scenery.” 

Y/N giggled at his admittance to being wrong. “Not quite. Moving to Paris was never my plan. I wanted to study psychology as soon as I graduated from high school but the director of the program wouldn't accept me because I was only 15. I had some time to kill so I decided to study language in Paris for a little while and then when I finished with my associates, the director accepted me into the program and I moved to Germany.” 

“Hold on, you graduated high school when you were 15?” “It’s not that hard,” Y/N said casually while Michael stared at her in disbelief. 

Michael should've picked up on it earlier. He knew she was smart but he didnt know she was a fucking genius. “You're an academic prodigy?” 

Y/N’s nose wrinkled at his words. “My teachers called me gifted but it's just a stupid way of saying I'm kinda smart.” “Kinda? People don't graduate high school at the age of 15 if they're just kinda smart.” Y/N turned her head away with a faraway look in her eyes.

“It's not all it's cracked up to be y’know. Nobody wants to be friends with a know it all unless they need help with their homework. That's part of the reason I never had a boyfriend honestly. None of the guys ever liked me and if they did I never noticed because I had my nose shoved in a book every waking minute of the day.” 

“Nothing wrong with that. You skipped all the awkward high school shit and moved to Paris to study something you love. You didn't miss anything, I promise.” Michael didn't mean for his words to come out with such an intimate tone, but they did anyway. The tension that filled the room wasn't unpleasant, at least to Michael. Y/N, on the other hand, felt suffocated.

This break was meant to give Michael a moment to let his brain breathe and somehow it had turned into her sharing her emotions to a guy that she had only known for three weeks. It was so easy to speak openly with Michael, and it was terrifying. Y/N quickly turned away and grabbed the papers she had been reading from before and took a deep breath to steady herself.

“Great. Let's take another look at the question from earlier.” 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Michael paused when he saw the familiar face sitting at a booth in the corner of the cafe. Her eyes were trained on the screen of her laptop while holding a half-eaten bowl of ice cream. When he was younger, seeing his teacher in public seemed like the most awkward thing in the world. Now, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to approach her. To see if she was just as strange in a normal setting as she was during their sessions. 

He contemplated what to say first. Starting off with hello sounded too simple. It would give her the chance to steer to the conversation like she had before but this time Michael wanted a turn. He approached her table quietly, she didn't notice until he put his hand on the back of the chair that was across the table from her. When she looked up, she smiled warmly at him and removed her headphones. 

“I don't think you're a shitty psychologist,” Michael stated before she had the chance to greet him. She looked surprised by his words but only for a moment. “What changed your mind?” She asked with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. Michael pulled out the chair and sat down.

“You were right, I am a perfectionist. That’s why I get so pissed off during lessons, because I’m frustrated. My mother worked so hard to make sure that me and my brother could speak French but sometimes I feel like I don't know it at all.” 

“Your mother did work hard, I can tell. There are many benefits to being multilingual, many reasons for a parent to teach their child another language. Job opportunities, connection to culture, being able to communicate with relatives. Scientifically speaking the reasons are endless, knowing how to speak multiple languages will continue to benefit you as you age, but one reason often gets overlooked.”

“What’s that?”

“Studies show that people often struggle to convey emotions through a language that is not their own. Your mother speaks to you in French not only because she wants you to know it, but because she loves you and sometimes words don't always feel as genuine in English. So, she taught you French so that when she tells you that she loves you, you understand and you know she means it. I’m sure that your effort to further develop your French means a lot to her.” 

Michael nodded and hummed. "Makes sense." "Everything has a psychological explanation." Y/N smiled when she said it because for some reason explaining the interworking's of the human mind excited her.

“Why do you like languages so much?” “Because I think they’re fascinating. It’s crazy to think that different groups of people not only attached meaning to sounds but also found a way to turn those sounds into symbols that can be organized and then created punctuation and grammatical rules.”

“So you like talking?” “Pretty much, yeah.” "Hmm, that’s ironic coming from the girl who refused to talk to guys." Y/N furrowed her brows at Michael. "I don’t refuse to talk to them, I just choose not to. I set my emotional and physical desires aside so that I can prioritize my education." "What’s the psychological explanation for that?" Y/N opened her mouth to speak but then closed it and clenched her jaw, squinting at Michael who stared back with a smug expression.

“The psychological explanation is that I’m a huge nerd and I don’t know how to flirt. I never learned how to when I was younger so now I have no idea what I’m doing,” she admitted. “It’s not that hard. You're a smart girl, you can figure it out,” Michael assured her with a teasing grin. Y/N felt heat spread over her cheeks at him calling her a smart girl. She looked down as her brain attempted to compute a response. 

She wasn't joking when she said she couldn't flirt. And not only could she not flirt, but she could barely speak to Michael at all. The only way that she was able to interact with him during their sessions was by reminding herself that he was a student and that thinking of him in a romantic manner was inappropriate. 

“What would you be doing if you weren't a footballer?" Y/N asked hoping to steer the conversation to into a territory that didn't make her heartrate skyrocket. "I have no idea," Michael answered honestly. "What would you be doing if you weren't studying psychology?" "Mmh, probably something medical. I like the idea of figuring out what's wrong with people, but I don't care that much about fixing it. I don't have a psychological explanation for that."

"I do." Y/N looked at him with an expectant expression and Michael leaned forward. "You have an avoidant personality. You're not interested in fixing problems because you want to figure out how to stop them from ever happening. If you can find a way to prevent problems, then you don't have to deal with the negative shit that comes with them."

Y/N looked at him with an impressed expression. "That's actually a really good theory. I'll have to look into that." Michael chuckled and crossed his arms. He didn't expect to like her this much, he certainly didn't expect the satisfaction that he felt when she showed approval for his idea. Of course Michael would choose to like the one girl that had zero interest in having a relationship. He might as well go ask a nun for her hand in marriage.

It only got worse over the course of the last few sessions. The tension rose with each playful comment until the final day. Y/N signed off on the document stating that he attended and completed a language improvement course.

She smiled as she put the pen down and handed him the paper. "Here you go. You're all done!" Michael tried to hide the disappointment in his eyes as he took the document and briefly looked over it. "Thank you. I learned a lot from you," he said genuinely. "You're welcome. I hope you know that I'm going to be watching your next press conference to check for grammatical errors," Y/N said as she walked Michael to the door.

Michael snorted and almost said goodbye but turned around to face her again. "One more thing." "Yeah?"

"Call me when you graduate."

Y/N tilted her head in the cute way she did when she was confused. "For what?"

"So I can take you on your first date."

[millermouth]

steady hands

summary: You love being part of the community of Jackson. But when you try to learn how to defend it, one humiliating accident makes you realize just how useless you feel with a gun in your hands.

smut MDNI 18+ shooting instructor!joel, Jackson!joel, baker!reader, gardener!reader, jack of all trades kinda reader, grumpy!joel, insecure!reader, biggggg joel miller, size kink, enemies to lovers, grinding, kissing, dirty talk (as always), f!receiving oral, fingering, pinv, missionary, outdoor smut, mean to sweet joel miller, some pussy pronouns used, irresponsible gun handling, nightmares, age gap mentioned but not specified, joel calls reader lots of pet names, tiniest bit of brat taming || a/n: guys I can't even lie this was inspired by the song ill make a man out of you from mulan....enjoy!!! wc: 11k

The woods were still crisp for early summer. It was something you'd come to appreciate about Wyoming, after all. No matter how bad winter had been, or how slow spring had sprung, you could always count on a beautiful summer, and even better summer mornings.

But this morning was far from beautiful.

You were sitting with a few others from town, mostly newer folk who'd settled in and were looking for work to do. The woods were quiet around these parts, a couple miles out from Jackson, where the trees thinned just enough to make room for the patrols to see into the valley. It had been a lookout since the beginning, or so you'd heard. A small cabin with a slanted roof, a fire pit out front ringed with blackened stones, a target range cut into the dirt nearby, and guns and ammo stored in the basement in case of emergency and training.

Why you were here, when you could be baking loaves of bread for folks getting out of Sunday worship or sending actual lookout shifts off with their breakfast freshly made, was, well…because you'd started to feel a little useless.

Not useless exactly. That was probably unfair. You did have multiple jobs. You were a part of the community of Jackson. You had a few close friends and plenty of acquaintances. You got along with almost everyone. It was nice, feeling like you knew who took their coffee black, who liked the butt of the bread, who always tried to sneak an extra roll into their coat pocket when they thought you weren't looking. You gardened and sometimes even helped with the horses or the livestock.

But still.

There was a part of you that knew, if anything ever went to shit, you'd never be able to defend your town, let alone yourself. So you'd come out with a group to train up on an early summer morning.

But you sure as shit were terrible at it.

Luckily, the ammo you used on the training grounds were empty shells, nothing actually being wasted on your awful, awful aim.

Because an hour later, the glass bottle in front of you remained whole and smug on the fence line, catching slice of sunlight along its shoulder while the wood of the fence several inches to its left had suffered greatly.

It didn't help that the man that was meant to be teaching you was a grade A Asshole.

Joel Miller was many things. Strong, capable, brave. So many epithets that could be used to describe him. You'd even dare to add handsome if he wasn't always frowning at you or cursing under his breath every time you managed to miss something standing perfectly still.

But the main thing you wanted to call him, was Asshole. Though…you thought if you ever did to his face, it might just be the last thing you ever do.

He was helping a kid down at the end adjust his stance when you heard an argument from beside you about a bet.

“Bullshit,” one of the boys hissed. Matthew, you thought. Maybe Michael? He was one of the kids from town you'd seen around the stables with hair too long, cheeks still a little chubby, and an ego too big. “You did not get Maisie Bell to kiss you.”

“I didn’t say kiss,” the other one said, and in the corner of your eye you watched as he lined up his shot, one eye squeezing shut. “I said she would’ve.”

“That ain’t a bet.”

“It is if I’m right.”

“You’re not right.”

“Two ration cards says I am.”

“For Maisie?”

“For Maisie,” he said, then nodded toward the line of town below the ridge, where you could almost see the church roof through the trees. “And the redhead from the kitchens. Sheesh what I wouldn't do to my hands on 'er. Oh, and that new girl Dina?" he let out a low whistle, "She is so goddamn fine I could—"

The heat that went through you had nothing to do with the morning sun. It rose hard beneath your collar, crawling up your throat until your jaw clenched around it. It pissed you off. Dina was funny and charming and more than a hot piece of ass for some stable boy to run his mouth over. Maisie and Riley were nice girls too, both in your book club, both worth knowing for more than the curve of their mouths or the sway of their hips.

“Maybe you two should spend less time betting on girls who wouldn’t touch you for a warm bath,” you spat, turning toward them, “and more time actually practicing—”

But you'd turned without lowering your gun.

Worse— you'd turned without taking your finger off the trigger.

A loud sound cracked through the clearing.

It wasn't like a typical gun shot, just a sharp, quick pop that punched the rest of your sentence out of your mouth.

Michael grabbed his shoulder and stumbled back, knocking into the rack behind him. A glass bottle tipped from the table and burst in the dirt by his boot, spraying green shards through the dust.

For one second, no one moved.

Then he said, “Ow—fuck!”

Your hands were still around the shotgun, finger still squeezing the trigger, your body stuck in shock.

The kid beside him lowered his own gun in a hurry. A low muttering started to rise from around you— someone else asked if Michael was all right, and Michael, pale and furious and embarrassed, said, “She shot me!"

"Think it's more of a graze—" someone was saying, pulling at the torn cap of his sleeve.

More voices began to overlap as people clustered around him, worry amplifying the noise until you couldn't hear anything because of the panicked buzzing in your ears.

"Give me that."

You blinked to your right. Joel Miller was looming next to you, a thunderous look over his features.

You looked down at the shotgun still in your hands, a gasp running through you.

Your fingers opened at once as if you'd been burned by the wooden barrel. The shotgun dipped toward the ground, and Joel caught it before you could swing wrong again. He took it from you with a look that made your stomach hollow out.

Your mouth open and shut, your voice quiet and lost to the rising murmur around you: "I'm—I'm so sorry—"

Joel didn’t answer. He checked the shotgun with a hard jerk of his hand, jaw tight, eyes not leaving the chamber until he was sure. Then he bent down, grabbed your pack from the dirt, and pushed it into your arms.

“Go.”

You froze with your hands around the straps. A burning, icy thrill ran through your spine, your skin lighting up in humiliation.

“I got no use for kids who don't give a shit about rules or make habits of gettin’ other people killed,” he said. “Go on now. No use to me here.”

You didn’t even think you could speak if you wanted to. You looked down at your backpack, torn and duct-taped in spots, the top strap sewn back down at least ten times since you'd gotten it.

You'd shot someone. What if it hadn't been a blank? What if it hadn't just grazed?

“I—”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Joel cut in. “Go tell Jesse you're done for the day. He’ll take ya home.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper and nodded, turning away.

For the next two weeks, you went back to being useful.

That was the word that seemed to dig its way into your head, after all. Useful. You baked loaves in the morning with flour dusted up your forearms and dough stuck beneath your fingernails. You wrapped bread in cloth and stacked it on the front table before the church bell rang. When you were done, you gardened the weeds that to creep into the squash beds and watermelon patch, and spent the late afternoons mucking stalls. You went to bed so exhausted you barely thought about what happened at the range.

Michael was fine, of course. He'd come by to apologize for his words the next day with Maria's stone face behind him. You apologized too, made sure he was really okay. Offered him a free bagel or two in exchange for maiming him.

Sometimes you saw Joel.

He didn't laugh or pat your arm understandingly the way the others did when retelling the story that of course made its way around town like wildfire.

He hardly looked at you at all, really. And at first you were grateful for it, too embarrassed to even meet his eye if he ever came by the stables for the horses before training or patrol up in the mountains. You'd run and hide before he even got the chance to spot you, truth be told. And when he came by the bakery, you'd disappeared into the back so fast that one time you’d knocked over an entire sack of rye flour in your haste to vanish.

But by the third week, it'd began to piss you off. Because it was one thing to be ashamed—and you were. But Joel was walking around town like you were something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. It began to put a sour feeling in your stomach, the fact he had so much power to make you feel so small. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid glare and his silent brooding.

You stopped hiding.

The next time he came into the bakery, you were at the front counter with your sleeves rolled up as usual, tying string around a parcel of bread. Ellie was next to him as they entered, talking with her hands, telling him some story about Dina and a loose chicken that morning.

“Morning,” you said when they sidled up to the counter.

Ellie looked over, her green eyes brightening. “Hey.”

Joel said nothing.

You pulled down the ration bread from the shelf with their name and house number written across the paper wrapping.

Ellie grinned as you handed it to her, "Do you have any of those sweet rolls from last week?"

You hazarded a glance at Joel, who said nothing again.

"Sure do. You staying for breakfast? I could make some coffee."

Ellie perked up, looking at him. “Can we?”

“No,” Joel said stiffly.

“Oh, come on—didn't you hear her say your favorite word, old man? Cofffeeeeeee!" she sung out before huffing a breath, "Do I need to get your ears checked by the nurse again?”

“We got work.” he grumbled, ignoring her jab.

“You always have work.”

“Funny how that happens.”

You reached for the tray beneath the counter and set a couple rolls out, taking your time. “There’s fresh icing too from this morning, I just need to drizzle it on.”

You went into the back, grabbing the small bag of sugary sweet icing you'd made, and began letting it fall in a steady cascade onto the sweet buns.

Ellie leaned both elbows on the counter. “See? Now we have to stay. It would be rude not to.”

You pretended not to notice how Joel's jaw ticked under his beard.

“She makes a good argument,” you said, sliding the small plate toward Ellie next to their wrapped weekly bread loaf.

Finally, those dark eyes landed on you. It was quick and could almost pass off as an accident. A muddling of color that shown in the morning light, his mouth flat. The same hard set to his face as always. But you smiled back anyway.

Because fuck him.

Ellie took one and barely hesitated before taking a giant bite, delighted. “Thank you.” she said with her mouth full.

You looked away quickly, back at Ellie. “Anytime.”

Joel reached into his pocket and set the ration slips on the counter. His hand was close enough that you could see the scar across one knuckle, the dust caught in the creases of his fingers. He took the parceled bread from the counter, leaving the second sweet bun untouched.

"Let's go, Ellie." he said stiffly. Before you could even call goodbye, they were walking out the shop, Ellie throwing you an apologetic glance and a wave of her hand as she stuffed the roll into her mouth.

You picked up the rations he left, and for a moment, thought about chucking that leftover roll at the back of his head as he disappeared from view.

Instead of learning how to shoot guns, you began learning how to take care of them.

Learn it from the inside out, you told yourself.

And to be fair, you picked it up rather quickly. Quicker than you’d picked up aiming, anyway. There was a comfort to it that shooting never gave you, all the pieces laid out on an oil-stained cloth in front of you, metal pins and springs and screws set in neat little rows beneath your hands. There was no bottle on a fence line waiting to make a fool out of you here in the small rec room of the cafeteria after the dinner shift had come and gone.

Tommy Miller taught the class every other night, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and voice patient and kind as he showed you and a few others how to take a handgun apart and put it back together. He had a way of teaching that was so different than his brother. He was patient, never made you feel stupid for asking questions. If a piece didn't fit, he'd simply say: “The gun’ll tell you what it needs most times. You just gotta quit arguin’ with it long enough to listen.”

And maybe, a small mean part of you liked the fact that the first time Joel Miller saw you there, he stopped dead in the doorway.

You'd bitten your cheek so hard to keep the smug smile from tugging your lips as he made his way across the room with a box of empty shells the night you were learning how to make ammunition. His eyes moved across the room to his brother, who patted him jovially on the back, and then the elder Miller's eyes came back to you. And you knew you didn't look very nice—smudge of grease across your cheek and your hair pulled haphazardly away from the gunpowder, thick work gloves that hardly fit and your plaid sleeves rolled up.

But he'd stared long and hard anyway. And then, as if nothing was amiss, his face went back to its hard, frozen state, and he walked out.

It was that night that you woke from an awful dream.

A horde of infected had broken through Jackson, tearing through everything you'd always loved and cared for. The gate was splintered open, the watchtower burned down to the ground. People were running through the street in their nightclothes, slipping in mud and blood, screaming names you knew.

You woke in a drenched sweat, feeling every bit as useless with a gun in your dream as you did in waking life.

But it was the kind of dream that didn't really feel like a dream at all. You'd felt like you were there, like the chill of night was actually on your face, like the roars of infected in your ears were truly bone-chilling. Your chest had filled with so much doom as you tried to fight back. But you couldn't. Every shot went wrong, every squeeze of the trigger sent another round into a fence post, a doorframe, the packed dirt beside an infected's rotting foot.

You could load the gun. You could take it apart and put it back together. You could clean the pieces until the metal shone beneath your fingers. You'd done it a hundred times now.

But you couldn't shoot.

In the dream, it had been all your fault. The deaths. Friends, loved ones, people who had waved to you from the church steps and leaned over the bakery counter telling you all about their latest town gossip.

Even Joel Miller.

He had died in the dream too. Because of you, and your awful aim, and your utter uselessness when it came to defending anything you cared about.

So, instead of trying to fall back asleep— afraid the dream might return—you got up and headed downstairs. Making your way through your dark house that was a small thing in the middle of town, you heard the floorboards creaking beneath your socks until you stepped into your boots properly.

You threw on your Carhartt over your nightclothes, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. It was just the start of summer now, but the mornings still could be biting. The mountains liked to keep their cold weather as long as possible, holding to it until the sun finally dragged it out when summer solstice came.

On the kitchen table, the shotgun you'd been working on for Tommy’s class sat wrapped in an old cloth, its oiled barrel catching a thin line of moonlight from the window.

You stared at it for a moment.

Then, decision made, you slung the strap over your shoulder and headed out.

Surprisingly, Joel Miller was awake at the odd hour as well.

As you walked down Rancher Street, you spotted him on his porch in the old rocker, one boot planted against the floorboards to keep the chair steady. A steaming cup of something was in his hand as he looked out onto the empty street. No one was up at this hour. You shouldn’t've even been up either. You wouldn’t have to open the bakery for another several hours, and the whole of Jackson seemed to know it. The curtains of the houses you passed were still drawn in the houses along the street, the chicken coops were quiet. Even the dogs that usually barked from behind fences must have been sleeping away the dawn with their owners still in bed.

It made your boots sound so loud on the road.

When his eyes caught the movement of your form coming toward the house, you saw him pause. His brows shot up high, then narrowed back into their usual glower. As you got closer and closer, it seemed so did his brows, threading deeper, causing harsher lines to form between them. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the east mountaintops, the sky beginning to let go of its inky blackness with only a pale line of light touching the surrounding rooftops.

Joel Miller didn’t say anything as you stepped up from the street onto the path to his house. Or as you walked through his front yard. But his eyes never left you.

You tried—very hard and very much in vain—not to care what he saw as you walked up to the porch. He was an asshole, after all. An asshole who had told you he had no use for you, dismissed you for one mistake, and ignored you for weeks after. You shouldn't care if he saw some clumsy girl with a gun too big for her hands, or the bags under your eyes, or the matching floral sleep set beneath your jacket, long sleeves buttoned to your wrists and matching cotton pants tucked messily into your boots.

"Good morning, Mr. Miller." you said, stopping just at the bottom step of his porch.

He took a long sip of his steaming cup before resting it between his hands on his lap.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, kid?"

In any other circumstance, that could’ve been a polite greeting. But the flatness to his voice, the utter disapproval or contempt that threaded through it, made it sound exactly as he meant it.

You stared at him for a long, long moment.

He just stared back.

The rocker gave a faint creek under his weight. You could just smell the contents of the mug—coffee, for sure then. Bitter and dark how he liked it. You shifted the shotgun off your shoulder and set the butt of it into the dirt beside your boot, one hand rested at the top so it pointed up towards the sky.

Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence as he sighed, getting up to stand at the railing, setting one large, calloused palm against the wood as he looked down at you.

"Kid, I don't know what yer—"

"Shut up."

Joel Miller, for the first damn time since he'd met you, seemed to be stunned. His eyes went wide in disbelief.

"Excuse me, young lady?" he scoffed, standing still on his porch.

"Shut up—" you said, and if your voice shook a little, he made no notice, "and listen."

His eyebrows lifted. Then he looked down the empty street, like maybe someone else had heard you speak to him that way and he needed a witness. But there was no one, of course. Not at this hour. Only the closed houses, the pale line of morning over the rooftops, and a dog two porches down watching through the fence with its nose pressed between the slats.

When Joel looked back at you, he only gave a small shrug, one palm tipping up from the railing.

Go on then.

"I am a baker," you said curtly, taking in a shaky, deep breath, "I am a gardener, I am a sewer, I've become a damn good gun cleaner. I've been in Jackson for two years. I deserve to be here."

"Never said—"

"—and I deserve to learn how to defend it too."

Joel's eyes never left you as he heard your case. His face didn't change much, but at least it wasn't glowering anymore. He made no move to dismiss you or walk back inside even if he'd have enough reason to.

"Just because I had a shit first day doesn't mean I can't still learn, old man." you said. It wasn't a term of endearment. "Just because I'm not shooting bullseyes or killing infected yet doesn't mean I can't try, alright? I— I'm brave and—and—" you took another deep breath, "And you're going to teach me how to shoot."

"Like hell—" he stopped, scoffing again, and then went on, shaking his head: "Kid, you and I—clearly, we ain't jivin', why don't you ask another—"

"No."

Joel clicked his teeth, shifting his weight between his feet behind the wooden balusters.

"No one is as…" you glared up at him, the words searing your tongue before you could force it out, "No one is as good as you. If anyone is gonna teach me, it's you Mr. Miller."

There was a long pause, and Joel set down his mug, the steam wafting in the chilly summer morning. You almost wished you hadn't come, that you could go back to ignoring each other for weeks. What was it to you, what this man thought of you? You knew you looked ridiculous standing here, asking for help. You should be shouting at him, telling him he's mean and grouchy like a dog.

"Christ," he sighed, "you don't give up do ya?"

"Nope."

He pulled in another deep breath, looking up and down the road again for a long moment, before his eyes found you once more. You saw how they roved over your figure, over the muck boots and the white blue floral set, over your tan Carhartt, and then onto your face, where he paused for a moment before saying:

"Well first thing, don't hold the damn gun like that."

You looked down where you were leaning your palm over the muzzle of the shotgun.

"Gonna blow a hole in your palm, then I wouldn't be able to teach ya shit."

Your face burned, but you moved to grip the barrel lower and pulled the gun carefully across your belly, holding it with both hands now, pointed well away from either of you.

He nodded, lifting his mug and taking another sip of coffee, watching you, The slurp of the drink filling his mouth held the silence while the birds began waking up around you.

"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asked finally.

You nodded.

"Alright. Let me get my shoes and we can hit the trails. Stay put."

You nodded again, and then—

"Joel?"

He turned.

"I um... I promise I won't let you down."

He took one more look at you, the harsh line of his mouth eased, eyes settling in a way you hadn't seen before.

He nodded once, and said: "I know, kid."

The sun was well over the mountain top by the time you made it to the ridge.

He hadn't taken you back to the training ground, whether it was to save you the humiliation of seeing the leftover shards of green glass on the ground, or because he liked the view better by the forgotten ranch, you weren't entirely sure.

It sat a few miles out from Jackson, tucked up where the land opened into a long slope of yellow grass and thin fence posts. One of the old checkpoint places, Joel had told you on the ride over. Not one people used much anymore, not unless they were cutting through on patrol or needed to seek shelter from a storm. There was a little graying house at the top of the rise with peeling paint along the porch rail and a tin roof gone dull from years of snow. Beside it, an old barn leaned slightly into the hill, its red paint worn down to bare wood in places, its door hanging open on a rusted hinge.

You barely registered the bird song that filled the skies as he set up a training course, the beautiful view of the mountainside and your horses grazing in pasture of the barn. Every now and then you saw one lift its head to look at you, ears flickering around, before bending down and resuming its peaceful morning loitering.

Joel was beside you, close enough that you could smell the pine of his body wash and the musk of sweat lining his shirt. He had been mostly quiet on the ride here, but not in the punishing way, you began to realize. Just quiet and focused as his is eyes kept moving over the land, the fence line, the barn, the empty windows of the little ranch house behind you.

“Lean just a little over now,” he said from behind your shoulder as you got into position by the wooden posts. “Use the fence as a brace. Easier when you got something steady under the stock.”

You shifted forward until the gun found the flat part of the top of the wood. The air was still chilly through the sleeves of your sleep set, the fence rough enough to catch on the ribboned cuff of your pant leg when you moved into it. Ahead, he’d pinned a target to the trunk of a tree, three rings and a bullseye in the center.

“First thing,” he said, “you don’t point that barrel anywhere you ain’t willing to put a hole through. Don’t matter if you think the thing's empty. Don’t matter if I told you it’s empty. You treat it like it’s loaded every second it’s in your hands.”

"I know, Joel."

"Repeat it," he said, a little firmer, and the way his breath brushed the side of your neck, it made you shiver. You didn't reaalize he'd gotten so close.

"Treat it like it's loaded." you muttered, leaning over the stock, looking down the line of the barrel.

"Good." he grunted. "Finger stays off the trigger til you're ready, keep both eyes open."

"You sure are bossy." you said under your breath.

"'Scuse me?" he chuckled, "Ain't you the one who dragged me out here at the brink of dawn?"

You rolled your eyes, but bent forward.

“Careful with that,” he said. “Eyes are useful for shootin’. Would hate for 'em to get stuck like that.”

You couldn't help the chuckle you let out—great, so he's got dad jokes too.

“Now stay where you are,” he said. “I’m gonna move the shotgun where it’s supposed to sit. Easier than tryin’ to explain it five different ways, alright?”

You felt your cheeks burn a little, but nodded.

He moved behind you, close enough that the warmth of him settled at your back before he ever touched you. One hand reached around yours, thick fingers closing over the fore end of the shotgun to shift it against the top rail of the fence, enough to settle it steady against the wood. His other hand came to your shoulder, guiding the butt of the stock into place. It was heavy, but bearable thanks to the support of the fence in front of you.

"Want it over your shoulder, not pushin' into the collarbone. S'gonna kick harder than a mule and you'll be hollerin' about bein' sore for days."

You scoffed a bit, but let the stock settle over the crest of your shoulder as he positioned it.

“Now press your cheek right here,” he said, moving his hand from the barrel to tap the side of the stock. You tilted your head, trying to place it right. You nearly gasped when you felt the thick press of his fingers on the other side your neck as he guided you into position without thought. Not rough or impatient, only warm, certain, his callouses catching lightly against your skin. "There ya go."

Your body became suddenly very aware of him from that one touch. The scrape of his jacket against yours as his chest came in closer, the weight of him behind you, the heat of him against your back.

"Stay still, you're squirmin'—"

"—am not—"

You felt the breath of a laugh over your shoulders, and it made your skin rise in gooseflesh. The target was becoming blurrier by the moment.

"Now—"

You held very still as you felt him line his body behind yours, his breath now against your neck, his voice low and gravelly like honey on hot asphalt.

“Think about all that bullshit you been carryin’ around,” he grumbled. “Starin’ daggers at me for weeks. Comin’ up on my porch tellin’ me to shut up, callin’ me old, actin’ like I decided you don’t belong.”

"Joel—" you protested.

"S'okay, didn't take none personal." he said as he stepped up even closer, one hand going to your hip. “Breathe in.”

You sucked in a shallow breath.

He clicked his teeth. “Try again. You know none of that is true, don't ya, darlin'? Let it all go here. Don't belong in that head a'yours.”

You closed your eyes, annoyed and a little embarrassed, and pulled air in deeper this time, taking in the smells of the open Wyoming air. Cold morning. Damp grass. Coffee on his breath. Mint from when he'd been chewing the sprig on the way there. Pine soap. The fence rail rough beneath the gun.

His breath was so warm against your cheek as he murmured: "That's it, now let it out."

You let the breath leave you, nice and long and through your mouth—and with it went the bickering on his porch, the shame of the range, the weeks of him not looking at you, the ugly little voice that kept saying you were useless no matter how many loaves you baked or horses you brushed or shotguns you cleaned.

"Open your eyes now, and squeeze that trigger." he murmured, lips brushing your ear. As he said the word, his hand pressed forward on your hip, long, thick fingers winding around the sensitive skin just under the waistband.

When your eyes opened, the sun felt a little brighter, the day a little clearer. The target sharpened against the tree, the black rings settling in your sight.

Your stomach dipped for one horrifying moment, and then—you squeezed.

The shot cracked across the ridge, echoing off the sides of the mountains. Joel was right—the butt of the gun kicked hard, but you only felt it jostle your body back into his, harder, the force caught by your shoulder instead of biting into your chest.

You gasped, everything happening so fast before you were blinking rapidly and seeing the paper on the tree ripped just left of center.

“Shit—”

“Not bad for a first try.” you heard him say.

"I wanna go again." you said, breathlessly.

“Jackson’s gonna be needin’ their morning bread soon,” Joel chuckled, but he didn’t move. “Tommy’s gonna be wonderin’ where his cinnamon rolls are.”

You smiled wide, the adrenaline of the shot still coursing through you.

As your breath settled, both of you were still leaning over the fence, your body pressed back into the hard line of his. His hand hadn’t moved from your hip. Neither had yours from the shotgun. It would’ve been easy, maybe, to step away. To laugh, to clear your throat, to make some comment about those cinnamon rolls or old men or how if he'd stop being so bossy you could've probably hit the bullseye.

But…you didn't.

You only tilted your gaze over your shoulder.

He was so close—so close you could see almost every gray hair in his thick beard like winter's snowy streaks in a dark sky. You could see every line on his plump bottom lip, the shining spot where his tongue had just passed over it.

"Thank you, Joel." you whispered, "For…"

You trailed off, because Joel wasn't looking in your eyes anymore. They were such a pretty hazel you'd never noticed, and were fixed on your mouth.

"You're welcome." he whispered.

Your lips parted lightly when he tilted his head over your shoulder, and he took that as invitation to lean in.

He was so warm.

Like kindled fire in a cabin, like the first morning of solstice. The prickle of his mustache brushed your nose as he took your lips with his, breathing you in so deeply it made your knees go soft beneath you. You let out a whimper, hands tightening around the barrel and grip of the shotgun, wishing so badly to put them in his hair, all over his broad shoulders and thick muscles.

He seemed to know exactly what you needed, his one hand coming up to take the gun from your hands, placing it quickly but carefully against the fence. He only broke the kiss to turn you fully towards him before his lips were on you again, hungrier and needier as he pushed his body into yours.

His hands were all over you in an instant, planted on your hips and squeezing you harder, making you whine under his touch.

Your tongue traced his bottom lip, teeth nipping, begging wordlessly for entrance, and he gave it so easily. So eagerly. He groaned, opening his mouth for you, letting you lick inside, suckling on his tongue before you nipped again at that nice bottom lip.

His hands were everywhere—under your jacket but above your cotton top, sliding up your waist and back down again, never settling for long. They were so big and broad, squeezing and groping anywhere he could hold.

Yours wound around his neck so you could drag him closer, breasts pushed to his chest, the layers between you suddenly unbearable. His jacket. Your sleep shirt. His flannel. It was too much fabric—too much of everything that wasn’t his fevered skin against yours.

How could you ever have thought he was such an asshole? This grumpy old man— this stubborn, bossy, impossible man, was just as needy as you. Maybe worse. All that silence, that staring. Those weeks of pretending he didn’t see you across bakery counters and barn aisles and muddy streets. He needed this as much as you did, someone to set him straight, yes, but also… to tell him he was needed and good, too.

You moaned when his hands traveled lower, both palms filling with the round flesh of your bum, dragging you up against him. One hand pulled up beneath your thigh so your leg was over his hip, opening you enough for him to grind the hard denim of his cock against you.

“Oh shit—” you gasped as your back got pushed into the rails of the fence.

He was thick. You could feel it even through his jeans, through the stiff seam and the metal of his zipper, the heavy shape of his length ground into the cradle of your legs perfectly.

Joel’s mouth left yours with a wet sound and moved to your jaw, then your chin, then the side of your throat. His beard scraped at your skin, his mustache rough beneath your ear.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he murmured, rocking into you again, slower this time, meaner for how much control he had over it. “Just needed someone to show you how it’s done, didn’t ya?”

Your nails bit into the back of his neck.

“Joel—”

“Been fightin’ me all mornin’,” he said, his mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing where your pulse beat too fast. “All damn month, really.”

You couldn’t even argue. Not with his hips pressed just right and his hand gripping your thigh harder, holding you open against the fence.

“S’okay,” he said, voice rough against your throat, tongue laving over your carotid. “I’ll show you how to take me just as good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” you breathed, already nodding. “Yes, please, Joel.”

"What good manners you have, baby," he cooed.

Luckily he couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at that, but your mouth fell open as he bit down on the tender flesh of your shoulder.

"Oh!"

He growled, pleased, the sound vibrating up from his rib cage and against your skin before he push his cock into you harder than before. The fence post pressed into your back, a little painful through your jacket, his hands holding you tightly between it and himself.

“Tell me,” he groaned. “How long?”

"How long what, old man?" you tried to clipped retort, but it came out more like a whimper as his hands pulled you closer, dragging your cotton-covered seam over him harder. You had one hand thrown back over the fence rail to keep your balance, the other fisted tightly in his hair. Your head fell forward to watch where his lap met yours, thin floral pajama pants bunched tight where his stiff denim pressed into them over and over, the friction making your thighs tremble around his hips.

"How long has this sweet little pussy been wet —since we got up here, hm?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, which only made him laugh.

His head came up to look you straight in the eye, one hand going to the side of your face, thumb against your cheekbone, the wide breadth of his palm covering your cheek. His fingers dug lightly into the side of your neck as he forced your gaze back up to him. It was shockingly sweet for how menacing his smile was.

“Your little act doesn’t work on me, sugar,” he murmured, staring at your lips. “C’mon now. Tell me.”

You glared up at him, though it was a weak thing with your chest heaving and your leg hooked around his waist. "You're such an asshole."

He bent down to nip at your nose, "'fraid I think you might like that most about me."

The both of you were very still now, though you'd brought both of your ankles up to lock at his lower back, fully relying on him for balance. Your chest heaved with fresh lungfuls of air, finally catching up to what had felt lost and shallow before.

"And what about you?" you asked, tipping your chin up. "You really hate me as much as you act like you do?"

“Could never hate’cha,” he murmured, leaning down again, his voice lower now, almost too soft for the way he was still holding you against the fence. “Only thing I hate is how fuckin’ bad you make me want you.”

You blinked up at him.

"Is it really that much of a surprise, baby?" he added when he saw your expression.

"I mean—you—"

He was beginning to kiss you again, your flustered state seemingly invitation enough to resume his affection, gentler this time. He kissed your mouth softly, then the corner where the seam of your lips met, then up your cheek and over your brow.

"—you said we don't get along, that I should find someone else to teach me—that, that you had no use for me—"

Joel pulled back one more time, looking down at you. The hand that had been hooked under your knee came up to your face too, until he was holding your head between both hands, palms rough against your cheeks, fingers cupping the bowl of your skull.

His eyes moved over your face, and for once, there was no glower there. No hard set to his mouth. Just Joel, looking at you like the words had been sitting badly in his chest too.

"Should'a never said that, I know. I'm sorry. I was an asshole up at the trainin' range that mornin'."

"Yeah, you were." you pouted.

“Only said them things on the porch ’cause I know I shouldn’t want’cha like I do.” He shook his head, jaw tight, the confession seemingly costing him something. “Can’t fuckin’ help it though, baby. I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

"You're too young—" he whispered, "—too sweet for me. You're right, I'm old, I'm mean as a dog…"

Your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick wrists, holding him there, keeping his hands on your face.

“Truth?” you offered.

He nodded quietly.

Out there, you could just hear the breeze over the open fields around you. The soft nickering of the horses grazes, the birdsong of the woods beyond. It was awfully quiet where just you and Joel stood pinned against the old fenceline.

"I've wanted you for so, so long." you murmured.

His eyes flickered between yours, narrowing, almost disbelieving. Your grip on his wrists tightened.

"I have. And…and… I've been wet since we got here. Thinking about this—being all alone with you and—even if I can't fucking stand you glowering at me like that—"

He pushed his lips into yours again, but this time, it wasn't only the flame of hunger and eagerness, but the gentleness of tender affection.

“C’mere,” he whispered into your lips, hands sliding down your sides.

His hands were back on your body, pulling you closer, slipping under your jacket once more before finally reaching under your cotton night shirt. You could feel just how rough-hewn his fingertips were, how calloused and worn they were against the tender flesh of your body. But they felt so right, like this was where they belonged all along.

“You’re so soft, baby. Wanna feel how soft you are under these.” His fingers hooked lightly at the waistband of your cotton pants. “Take ’em off for me.”

You listened, of course you listened. He let your wobbly legs down gently from his hips, one hand staying firm at your waist until your boots found the grass again. Your knees felt useless beneath you, weak from the heat of him, from the way his voice had gone low and syrupy thick against your mouth. You reached for the ribboned hem of your sleep pants with clumsy fingers, and Joel watched you like he was trying very hard to stay patient.

The cotton slid down your thighs, catching for a second at your knees before you stepped out of them and your boots. Morning air touched your bare skin at once, cool enough to make you suck in a breath.

You started to pull your coat off too, but Joel caught the front of it in one fist and held it closed around you.

“You’re gonna get cold, baby,” he murmured, bringing you back into his arms to kiss you on the lips once more. “Keep it on.”

He was soon bending, kissing your chin, the soft skin of your throat, down your top and lifting it just enough to lick into your navel, making you giggle and squirm. He threw you a knowing look when you bit back a laugh at the crack of his knees, and you nearly opened your mouth to say something rude before his lips found your skin again.

He kissed lower, down the soft slope of your belly, until his mouth was pressed just above your mound where your panties still covered you. Stupid sleep underwear, you chastised yourself, suddenly annoyed you hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Joel didn't seem to care. He kissed the little bow at the waistband, something slipping from his mouth that sounded awfully like 'how cute'.

Your breath caught in the crisp morning air when his tongue dipped out over your cotton panties, right where your clit pulsed beneath. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, one thick finger coming up to pull the cotton aside.

“Why don’t you spread these pretty legs for me, hm?” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Or do I need to teach ya how to do that too?”

You scoffed, still in your head enough to want to bite back a curse at him, but he was already moving your leg for you, pushing your knee toward the fenceline until your boot found footing on the bottom rail. His eyes never left the damp spot darkening your panties.

As he pulled the cotton aside fully, he sighed, face tilting a little as he looked.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, nervousness fluttering in your belly.

His eyes glanced up at you, and your heart ricocheted into your throat. You felt bare. Exposed. Ready for him to turn cold again, to go back to that surly look and stone quiet like he’d only just remembered himself.

Instead, his thumb stroked once along your thigh.

“S’just so pretty,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to take my time, is all.”

Your mouth opened in another quick gasp as his lips pressed onto the swollen bud of your clit. You felt his tongue dip out lazily, curled like a basin for collecting the arousal that had pooled for him. He licked up and up and up, before suckling on your sensitive bud again. He moaned with you when your head fell back, your fingers digging harder into the fenceline where you held yourself up.

"That's it, that's it," he cooed when he pulled away to blow gentle air against your pussy. "What a good girl you are, just want a little taste before I put my cock in ya."

Oh god, the old man really had a filthy mouth.

He was diving back in again, now with a finger to prod at your entrance. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly, hardly able to keep you standing.

He licked and sucked at your pussy like he’d been waiting for it, messy and hungry now, no patience left in him. His finger pushed inside, thick enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching down around it as he groaned into you.

"Ohhhh…" you chorused together.

"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed.

"Oh god, Joel." you said at the same time.

"I know, I know," he cooed again. His voice had gone dark and syrup-thick, coated in arousal, every word dragged rough from the back of his throat.

“Just gotta open ’er up,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking back at where his finger disappeared inside you. “Ain’t no way my cock’s fittin’ in here before I get you ready.”

“It will,” you chanted, hips undulating up into his mouth. “It will, it will—”

He moaned at your eagerness, crooking his finger before pulling it out to the first knuckles, and inserting a second finger. You gasped, stretched over his thick digits, the ache of it full and perfect and worse because he looked so pleased with himself. Because he knew exactly where to press, where to push, how to lave his tongue over your clit until your body was singing his praise.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, watching your face as his fingers worked deeper. “There you go. There you go.”

Your head tipped back against the fence post, wood catching at your hair.

“She gonna squeeze my cock this tight too, huh?” he murmured, mouth brushing slick over your clit. “She likes my fingers in ’er.”

"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered, your eyes hooded but forcing yourself to watch him. Your other hand carded into his thick graying hair at the crown of his head, nails scraping through, and he made a rough, pleased sound into you. Almost a purr. Almost a growl. His eyes fluttered for half a second before he looked back up at you, mouth wet, beard shining, fingers still buried inside you.

"M'so close, Joel, so so close, pleeeaseee…"

"There's those sweet manners again, baby. Why don't you go ahead and beg me some more? Maybe I'll let you come right now, and then I'll make you come again around my cock. Huh? Sound good? Let me hear your pretty little begging again, baby, go on now."

He said it all while panting, tilting his head up so his eyes could watch you. You put on your best pout, bottom lip sticking out so he could see how much you really really wanted it.

"Pleeeeease, Joel, please—" you mewled, "your fingers feel so good, so thick, please let me come. I'll be good, I'll be good."

"Good girl," he murmured, breath hot against you, "go on, let me feel her soak me. Come, baby,"

It felt like your belly had been waiting for the words. The overwhelming build finally tipped, the wave cresting hard before crashing through you all at once. Your body went molten as you locked up around his fingers, pleasure coursing through your veins in hot, licking bursts. Your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth falling open around a low, obscene moan you had no control over.

Joel rocked you through it, fingers pushing in and out, fucking you with them while his tongue pressed gently at your overstimulated clit until you were twitching and pulling away from his mouth.

When he pulled his fingers from your walls, you nearly fell to the ground, your legs unable to hold you up. Joel caught you before you could drop, hands firm beneath your thighs as he lifted you fully against him, both your legs winding around his waist now. Lazily, sleepily, you watched him shrug out of his coat and throw it down over the grass. Your eyes were still too heavy to take all of him in properly, so your hands did it instead—big shoulders, broad chest, thick arms built from hard work and long hours.

Just as much a part of Jackson as you were. Maybe more.

He could do everything. It made you a little sick with envy, even now, even with your body still humming from his mouth and his fingers.

Joel saw your face change, but he was busy lowering you onto his coat, easing you down into the grass instead of keeping you pinned against the fence.

“What is it, baby?” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head as he settled over you. “What’s in that pretty little head of yours?”

He was half watching you, half working open his jeans until his cock was freed from the denim, heavy as it bobbed, flushed red and bobbing thick between you as he leaned closer.

You licked your lips, reaching for him, but Joel caught you by the wrist before your fingers could wrap around him. You gasped in surprise, but he only brought your hand to his mouth, kissing each pad of your fingers one by one.

“Don’t think I’ll last too long if you start that,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You shook your head. “Nothing. You’re just…you’re so…”

You sighed dreamily, distracted by the feeling of his swollen, wet lips against the tips of your fingers.

“Old?” he offered. “Cranky? Rude?”

Your mouth twitched. “Yes, and…”

He laughed a little, but you went on anyway.

“I was just thinking about how perfect you are.”

Now he really smiled wide, shaking his head before nipping at your index finger. "Think you've got the wrong man, baby," he groaned a little, and then leaned over you.

You shook your head again, winding your arms around his neck, one hand cupping the nape of his hair while your nails scraped lightly along his scalp.

“Don’t think so.”

He hummed, kissing you again, and began to roll his hips against you so his cock slid up your belly, heavy and hot against your skin. The kiss deepened, lips slotting together, wet and tender, tongues sliding slow as your hands tightened in his hair and his weight settled over you.

“I don’t know if you’re gonna fit,” you whispered when he pulled his hips back too far and the head of his cock slipped up through the seam of your pussy.

He licked his lips, looking down at you. “Told ya I’d teach ya, didn’t I?”

You smiled, nodding. “M’nervous.”

“Don’t gotta be. I got ya, baby.” His thumb brushed along your hairline. “We’ll start nice and slow.”

He did as he said, sitting back a little just so he could grasp his cock in one hand, the other still cradling your head, petting your hair where it had fallen across his jacket. The head of him notched at your entrance, wet with arousal and spit, but the difference between two fingers and his cock suddenly felt impossible.

“Easy now,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “Take a breath for me, honey.”

You did as he said, for once without some retort, and pulled in a deep breath.

What started as control quickly turned into a gasp as he pushed inside.

“Oh fuck!” you squealed, clawing at his shoulders over his shirt.

He chuckled, and you wanted to slap him.

“Come on now, honey,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your open mouth. “You’re all tensin’ up. Curl your toes. Deep breaths. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

Your toes curled automatically, did your best to pull in another breath, and he leaned down to kiss you earnestly, swallowing the next rough sound that left you as he pushed in another inch.

His tongue licked behind your teeth. His chest pressed yours down into the coat. The weight of him made the ground feel farther away somehow, the grass cool beneath your hips, his jacket bunched soft and worn under your shoulders.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, rougher now. “Ain’t that so good, baby? How’s that feel?”

Your head fell back onto the collar of his jacket. “Soooo…full. Fuck.”

“Almost all of it,” he murmured, jaw tight. “Just a little more. Pussy feels amazing, baby. S’like heaven.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back a little, your mouth opening in a small, helpless shape when the drag of him caught every tender place he’d opened with his fingers.

“Yeah,” he sighed, watching your face. “There you go. She’s warmin’ up to me now.”

One of his hands slid from your hair to your throat, resting just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, only holding you there while his thumb brushed the jumping line of your pulse. "think she's even startin' to like me."

“You’re so corny,” you groaned, but your chastising cut off when he slid his cock in all the way, his heavy balls pressing against your ass at last.

“Oh—” you choked. “Oh, oh oh.”

Joel nodded like he felt it too, like he needed the confirmation just as badly as you did. Then he kissed you again, and you let him, loose and dazed beneath him, tongue sweeping out to taste his. You could still taste yourself there, musky and sweet on his mouth, and it made your walls contract around him.

Your body was starting to understand him now. The first sharp stretch softened into heat, your muscles loosening by degrees, letting him settle deeper until the fullness became less frightening and more necessary.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. “You okay? How’re you feelin’, baby?”

“So good, Joel,” you whispered, fingers flexing in the fabric at his shoulders. “So good. Please, please fuck me.”

He groaned, ducking his face into your neck. “Gonna give it to you good, baby.”

He started slowly. Though, you weren't sure if he was exactly gentle. He was so big and there was too much of him for anything to feel really gentle. But he was careful, controlled in the sawing of his hips that pulled halfway out, and then pressing back in. Each stroke was concise, your fingers digging harder into his shirt, each little hiccup of air pressed from you.

His coat dragged beneath your back, the grass brushing cold against your bare thighs. Your sleep top had ridden up beneath your own jacket, leaving your stomach exposed to the morning air, but Joel was warm over you, broad and heavy and panting against your throat. Every time he pushed in, your body shifted against his, the ground catching you, the earth taking what the fence no longer had to.

The open air of the field collected your simpering sighs and loud, mewling moans, the day warming around you so that you saw sweat beginning to dapple his forehead when he brought his head up to look at you.

“So pretty, baby,” he breathed. “Such a pretty girl takin’ cock so well.”

You cried out when he changed the rhythm, picking up speed.

“I know, I know,” he moaned, his voice catching rough in his throat. “God, you feel so good, baby. Pussy feels like it was made for me, huh?”

“Yes, Joel, yes—ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”

“She’s tightenin’ up on me again,” he panted, eyes dragging over your face. “Gonna come for me already? What a good girl you are. C’mon, I wanna feel it around my cock.”

Your eyes widened when Joel’s hand slid down your body again, over your thigh, hooking it higher until your leg was thrown up over his shoulder. Your body folded beneath him, his cock reaching deeper as he leaned down into you.

“Fuck!” you squealed, holding tightly onto his hair.

He looked down at you with a little pout, a mock-sympathetic expression pulling at his mouth.

“Doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Takin’ my cock like such a good girl, baby. Come on now, let me feel her again. She feels like fuckin’ heaven.”

“Jooooel,” you whined.

But that crest of a wave was swelling worse now, higher, blood coursing hot through the river of your veins, sparking as it flooded your belly. Your hips tightened. Your muscles locked. Your whole body seemed to pull toward him, toward that hard, dragging stroke, toward the pressure building so tight you could hardly breathe around it.

“Oh god,” you gasped. “Oh god.”

“Make your old man happy, baby,” he panted, hips snapping harder now. “Come on my cock. Know you wanna. Know your pussy loves it.”

“Shut up,” you cried. “Shut up, shut up.”

He grabbed your face again, mock pout gone, teeth bared with the strain of holding himself together.

“Where are those sweet manners you had not too long ago?”

You squealed as he built up a faster rhythm. His hand hooked around your neck, pulling you up just enough to make you look down between your bodies, where his cock was splitting you open over and over.

“You see that, baby?” he groaned. “She’s milkin’ me. Beggin’ me to let her come, ain’t she? Look how good she’s takin’ me.”

“So good,” you murmured between moans.

It was true. His cock was covered with your thick arousal and come, pearly white and glistening around the shaft every time he pulled out, only to swing his hips back into you again.

“So why don’t you use those good manners and ask me?” he rasped. “Hm? Too proud already? Or are you too cock drunk?”

You pushed weakly against him, and he let you lay back down fully, following you down to kiss you. His mouth was wet, his breath uneven, his body still working yours into the coat beneath you.

“Gonna make me beg for it now, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. “That it?”

You shook your head, too far gone to answer properly.

“I ain’t above beggin’,” he chuckled, though the sound broke wetly into a groan when you clenched around him again. “Wanna feel it so badly.”

He reached down between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit and strumming it with the perfect pressure.

Your eyes popped open, you didn’t even have time to beg. To ask. To tell him.

Your body locked up all at once, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure burst bright and black behind your lids. It tore through you in waves, hips jerking beneath him, thighs shaking where he had you folded open. Your mouth fell wide around a sound you barely recognized as yours.

Somewhere outside the buzzing of your orgasm, outside your own moans and the pulse pounding in your ears, you heard Joel groaning louder.

“That’s it,” he gritted against your cheek. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His thrusts started to lose their rhythm, turning deeper, rougher, his hips driving into you with less control each time. His hand tightened at your jaw, his forehead pressing hot to yours mouth open against yours, and then he pushed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

Joel groaned your name like it had been dragged from somewhere low in his chest, and then he filled you, cock pulsing inside you as his body went heavy over yours, his breath breaking against your mouth.

For a moment, neither of you moved. There was only breath.

Yours, thin, uneven, still catching in your dry throat when you tried to swallow. He felt heavy over you, his breath thick against your cheek. His weight felt good, like a blanket, though your legs had begun to cramp until he let your leg down.

The open summer morning moved on around you. It all came back to your ears eventually, the cricking of the open barn door, the horses in the pasture and the birds singing from far away. The field smelled like fresh grass and weeds and sunshine, Joel's coffee still faint on his breath.

You hummed against him as he kissed the crook of your neck, his mustache and beard prickly against you. He feathered his lips up your throat until they were over your own lips, which you pressed gently against his. He pulled back, just looking at you. And you did the same. You brought your hand up to his face slowly, tracing the line of his brow, down his sharp nose and over the bow of his top lip.

"You are so perfect." you said dreamily.

He breathed a little laugh through his nose, a crooked, disbelieving smile pulling his lips. A shyness you weren't sure you'd ever seen.

The heat between you had started to cool. Your skin prickled beneath your open jacket, the air finding every place his body didn’t cover. You shivered, and Joel noticed at once.

“Chilly?”

“Only a little.”

He sighed, like he hated that he had to move, then leaned down to press one more long, lingering kiss to your lips before sitting back.

You made a small sound when he pulled out of you, your body too sensitive for even that. Joel’s eyes dropped between you, his jaw tightening for a second at the sight of himself slipping free, slick and spent against your thigh.

"Poor baby," he said, his thumb reaching out to slide up your wet and abused folds. You whined at the touch, and he pouted down at you.

"Easy, easy, I know. Gonna take care of her when we get home."

He sat back on his heels and tucked himself away first, hands slower now, less steady than they’d been when he’d taken the rifle from you. Then he reached for your sleep pants where they’d been left in the grass, shook them once to knock off the loose dirt, and turned back to you.

You blinked up at him, limp and boneless, still spread over his coat.

Joel looked down at you for a second, one brow lifting. “Don’t make me do all the work now, baby.”

You smiled sleepily. “You seemed to like doing all the work a minute ago.”

His mouth pressed into a line, but it didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Smart mouth,” he muttered.

Still, his hands were gentle when he guided one foot through the pant leg, then the other. He pulled the cotton up your calves carefully, pausing when the fabric caught at your knee, easing it loose before working it higher. You lifted your hips only when he tapped them, and even then, barely.

“There ya go,” he murmured, drawing the waistband back into place beneath your rumpled top. He helped you sit up slowly in his lap, one hand braced behind your back, the other fixing the front of your coat around you. His knuckles brushed your stomach as he straightened your shirt, then pulled the jacket closed enough to keep the morning air off your skin.

You stayed like that for a moment, hiked up over his thighs, and he let your limbs fold around him again, hands back into his messy hair.

"I meant it—you—" you began, then licked your lips, staring up into his pretty hazel eyes again, "you're good, Joel. You're perfect."

He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed instead.

"Thank you for bringing me out here," you went on, "I'm sorry if I was mean earlier."

He smiled crookedly, "I was too."

You shook your head, "You had reasons to be."

He leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, "Bakery is gonna be wonderin' where you are, we better get back."

You held on tight even when he began to move, and a little mischevious smile twitched your mouth.

"What?" he asked, smile growing.

"One more shot?"

thank you so much for reading! I love youuu!!!

[utterlyvanya]

Gold or Silver?

Pairing: Jack Abbot x nurse!reader

Wc: 7k

Description: Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it. 

Tags/warnings: big age gap (r is in 20's and abbot is 50), "ive got tattoos older than you" gets said, yes he has tats bcos i said so, size diff, mentions of concussion, medical inaccuracies (idk shit), (1) allusion to reader having a choking kink (💀), r has a used to have a massive crush on him, made ellis a lesbian bcos ofc, abbot life's goal is to make fun of r's bf, flirting (so much), bit of yearner!jack & dom!jack vibes, gets dialogue heavy at the end, angsty fights & confessions, suggestive themes, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, i use loads of em dashes (dont even compare me to chatgpt bcos im better), pet names: kid, kiddo, sweetheart

Note: tysm for the love on my first ff, it means the world to me. Writing something longer made me lose all objectivity, and I genuinely cannot tell if it's good or great or whatever. Please give me feedback (PERSONALLY). Again, I tried to keep r neutral but you might see mentions of r having hair.

Enjoy. This is for the ones with a competency kink. And for the ones who def wanted him to call you “kid.” and the ones who love silver foxes (get checked) (ur girl incl)

1

“I told him not to take me here,” you mutter to Jack, who's checking for tenderness in your neck, his thick fingers pressing against the side, while you try not to think of his hands on your neck in a very different context.

“Let him. Something the boy can do right, hm?”

After checking for initial symptoms — making you walk in a straight line, and balancing yourself on a single foot, you're subjugated to the very hands-on physical examination. You're suddenly wondering how other patients remain composed when Dr. Abbot touches them like this.

Well, usually, attending physicians don't do a history check or a physical exam, but this one does. For you. Probably because you're his staff.

Focus. 

You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”

“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.

Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.

“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”

Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”

You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.

God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.

Handsome. Not rugged.

Competent. Doubtful.

Caring. Well, caring enough.

“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.

“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?” 

The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —

“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.

He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”

His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat. 

Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”

“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?

“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost. 

“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.

“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.

Jack huffs. “Just go.”

You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.

Well.

Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.

As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.

“Penlight. Incoming.”

You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.

You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.

The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.

Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him.

Fuck it. Too late for that. 

“So…” the man begins.

“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.

“Nick seems like a good guy.”

“Noah.”

“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”

You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.

“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”

“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”

A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.

“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.

“Yes, you just sai —”

“Only care about yours.”

That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.

Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.

You quickly regain your senses to retort.

“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.

The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”

You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.

Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”

"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."

"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.

"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.

"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."

He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”

“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after. 

“She prefers lattes, by the way.”

2

Bzzzzzzz 

“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”

Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.

Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today. 

“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.

“Yolanda, you listen to music?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”

Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second. 

“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”

Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.

“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.

“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”

Huh, Strange. 

***

The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —

Bzzzzzzzzz.

You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”

The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.

You hate loud. So much.

You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.

Look at you being fiscally responsible. 

“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you. 

Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.

“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys. 

“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.

“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks. 

In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.

You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.

Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”

“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”

Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”

“Only women?”

“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”

“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush. 

In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face. 

You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."

“Oh, I tried.” 

You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”

“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —

“Did he forget his Roblox password?”

You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.

“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.

Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”

You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.

You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.

You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.

You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.

Does he want you to hold…?

“Your phone, nurse.”

Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.

“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”

His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.

“You're not a teenager.”

“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.

Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.

Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.

“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.

He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”

With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.

Kid. 

You need a chair. 

3

“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.

“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.

Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.

You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.

“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.

Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”

“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.

Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.

“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”

You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.

“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.

“How much is a while?”

This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.

“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.

“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.

It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.

You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left. 

“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.

“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.

You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear. 

Is nobody watching this?

You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.

His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.

“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair. 

Oh. Oh. OH.

“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.

Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.

You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.

***

You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.

“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.

“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”

“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.

Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.

“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”

“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”

“Thanks, sir.”

A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”

“Hm?”

“Where he took you. Nick.”

“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.

“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”

“What?”

He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.

“I'm an anything person, really.”

Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.

“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.

Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.

“I know.”

He says your name.

Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.

Please say my name again.

“I know, kid.”

“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another. 

You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.

You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.

By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.

“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”

Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.

You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though. 

Desperation.

You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.

+1

“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.

You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.

The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”

“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.

Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.

Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.” 

For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.

No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.

You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier. 

Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.

Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?

As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.

Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”

The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.

9 missed calls from Noah.

“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.

“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.

“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”

“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.

“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”

You take a deep breath.

“What do you want?”

“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”

“No.”

“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”

That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.

“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears. 

When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.

You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”

“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.

You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.

This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!

Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.

You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”

The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.

“Jesus, Jack.”

“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.

Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.

“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.

“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”

“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”

“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.

“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.

“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.

In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.

“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”

He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.

“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.

“I know that. Do you?”

“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.

“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.

Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.

Nurse, there's people that are dying.

“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.

“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”

Sweetheart.

“You're killing me.” 

“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders. 

A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.

“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”

You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.

The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.

“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.

Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.

“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.

Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.

“I asked you something, kid.” 

You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes. 

And, oh.

His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.

He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.

“You can continue yelling at me now.”

In and out. Deep breath.

“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.

“As I said —”

“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.

A pause.

“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Jac —”

“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”

His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.

“Me? What about me?”

He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”

You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip. 

He thinks that?

Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.

“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.

He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.

“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.

“What? You're my senior, you're older —”

He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.

“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."

You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.

You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.

You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.

“Why haven't you sent it?”

“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”

Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.

“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”

With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.

His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”

Deep breath. In and out.

You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow. 

Send. 

You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him. 

You did that. You.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.

He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.

But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”

“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.

“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.

“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”

You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.

Fuck.

Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.

Just as you try to move your lips against his —

“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle. 

“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.

His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt. 

“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.

“That's a lot.”

“What can I say? I like paying for things.”

His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.

Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later. 

“One hand, wow.” 

“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”

He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.

He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.

You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.

“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.

“Yes, doctor.”

He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his. 

“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.

“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.

“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.

“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.

“Yes, doctor”

“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.

Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.

I enjoyed writing this sm, and i hope you lovely people do too. again, feel free to glaze me in asks, comments, and dms. likes and reblogs appreciated much <3

[domigoat]

can u do a smut one with michael where he’s been eager to fuck u raw and u finally let him

Trusting you

Michael Olise x f!reader

TW: Smut.

Note: thank u for the request!

It had been 4 months since you and Michael had started dating. And since then, you still didn't let Michael dominate you completely. It wasn't not for lack of trust, it was mostly because he was an athlete and the sex he gave you was already enough.

But today, you decided that you would finally let him use you. As you had studied his calendar for the week, you knew that he would come back frustrated from the social media day. But what would be his reaction to seeing you in lingerie?

You had put on a beautiful black bra matching with the underwear that already glistened from the moment you had prepared your little plan.

You put on his favourite perfume of yours, put oil on your skin so that it would be glowing and put on light makeup just to feel prettier.

Waiting patiently for him to come back, you sat on the bed doing nothing until you heard the door open. Michael called out your name as he waited for an answer.

"I'm upstairs Micky!" You shouted to be heard. And after 2 more long minutes of waiting for him, he finally walked inside your bedroom.

His eyes fell on you, half laying on the bed, almost naked except for your matching set. As you looked up towards him, his eyes had already hardened and his jaw twitched as he tried to keep his composure but it was already too late, you had seen his reaction, there was no going back now.

You felt his gaze on every part of your body except from one hidden place that you decided to finally reveal to him as you opened your legs slowly.

You heard him mumble a little something as he noticed that your panties were already wet. And this was when he realised what you were doing.

"Are you sure baby, I don't want you to feel uncomfortable" he asked you as he tried to tell himself you were probably joking.

"Yes, please fuck me Michael, I didn't put this outfit on for nothing." You told him as you crawled towards the end of the bed where he was standing.

Before he could answer you, you tucked his pants and boxer off, revealing his already hardened cock.

You took his member in your hands before stroking it slowly, the dick hardening more and more and the tip beginning to leak.

Michael grunted as you replaced your hands with your mouth, licking his tip coating it with your hot saliva.

You took his cock in your mouth inch by inch as his hands went to your hair, tucking it as he thrusted completely inside your mouth.

"No baby, today I am in control" he said as you chocked on his cock, tears brimming in your eyes. You parted from his dick as he finally let go of your head "I don't wanna come inside your mouth" he told you before getting on the bed and pushing you on it so that you were chest to chest.

His attack on your neck started almost instantly, biting the skin with his teeth making you cry out under him. His kisses raised more and more until he pressed a soft kiss to your jaw.

As he continued kissing you, his hand finally descended towards your underwear, twirling your still clothed clit between his fingers.

Feeling how soaked your panties were, Michael groaned in your ear "look at this baby, you're fucking wet and I haven't taken them off yet."

"Touch me please" you begged him as you took his wrist between your hands.

He hummed before tucking your panties to the side, your pussy finally revealed to him as he licked his lips at the sight.

You were wetter than he imagined and that was only because you wanted him to fuck you until you saw stars.

Michael had already understood that as he parted your lower lips with your fingers before inserting two fingers inside your cunt.

The squelching noises of his fingers pouding into your pussy filled the room. Your fingers went directly to his hair but he didn't like it as he took his free hand and placed your arms around your head blocking you.

His lips finally parted from your neck before going to your boobs still partly hidden by your lingerie.

He sucked the soft skin of your boobs, sometimes turning into hickeys before taking his hand that was still holding yours and freeing your breasts from the fabric. He flicked his tongue on your nipple as he continued pouding into you with his fingers.

Your moans filled the room as he entered a third finger inside you while he went to kiss your other nipple.

His pounding became faster each time he hit that spot that made you cry out until you finally arched your back signalling you were close.

" I'm close please don't stop" you screamed as your legs started to shake. Michael opened them as he held them.

When his other hand went to your clit, you came hard on his fingers, tears rolling down your cheeks, as your cunt clenched around him.

As your eyes closed and every other sensation was forgotten except the heat of the moment, you didn't feel Michael going down on you until his lips replaced his fingers.

Still overly sensitive, you squirmed under his touch as you sobbed "it's too much!"

His only reaction was to take his fingers that were before inside your pussy and placing them on your lips as he asked you his mouth still on your pussy "open for me baby".

You opened your mouth directly, his fingers went inside your mouth, you sucked them as you tasted yourself.

The sight of you sucking his fingers as he ate you out made him moan against you.

You had never seen him make this much noise before and to say it didn't turn you on even more would be lying.

And as your moans were engulfed by his fingers, you came on his tongue, as he drank every inch of your juices.

When he finally parted from your pussy, you looked like a mess, hair unruly, tears on your cheeks and saliva around your mouth.

He went back to kissing you, his tongue sucking yours as he gave you another taste of your cum.

"Get on your knees" he commanded as you tried to position yourself as he asked. But your body was still trembling from your orgasms as you couldn't stay still without his hands holding your hips.

You waited there as you heard him toss his shirt aside and take off your undergarments. He took a firm hold of your hips before you felt his cock align with your pussy.

He thrusted completely inside you, his dick already pressing your sweet spot as you moaned out his name.

"Fuck, you feel so good baby, so good under me" he praised you as one of his hand went to your hair, pulling it as your head was pulled closer to him.

He went harder and deeper each time, your moans encouraging him to go harder as he marked your hips with his fingers from how hard he was pounding into you.

You were completely lost in the pleasure and you didn't hear him tell you "you like it when I fuck you from behind right? Of course you do, you were made for me".

He slowed his rythm when he didn't hear you reply and added "do I fuck you to the point you can't speak anymore, answer me baby".

You tried to speak but your words were muffled by your moans. "Use your words sweetheart" he told you as his hand went from your hair to your ass, slapping the soft skin.

"Harder Micky, I'm gonna cum". You finally answered, your voice shaky from the overwhelming pleasure you received.

But Michael wasn't having it, and he told you "no, not now baby hold it a little longer."

You mumbled something inaudible and you didn't even feel him lift you from the bed as he sat down on a chair infront of your window.

You were seated on his lap, his cock still thrusting inside you, not even thinking about the fact that he had moved you elsewhere.

As his thrusts went even deeper because of the new position, one of his hands went to your clit, twirling the bud between his fingers as the other went to your neck, chocking you as your eyes closed.

"You look so good on top of me, taking me so well, I'm so close". He told you as he finally grunted and his thrusts became sloppy.

"Come inside me" you begged him as you opened your eyes and pressed a kiss to his lips, both of your moans muffled by your lips as you came on his dick, your walls clenching so hard on his cock making it twist under you until you felt his fluids inside you.

His hand left your neck as he held you in his arms, his normal behaviour coming back as he finally was sweet again, "did I go to hard?" He asked you, his dick still inside you.

"No you were incredible, I lost 4 months of good sex" you laughed as you buried your face inside his neck.

"We can still make up for the lost time" he told you as he put a wild strand of your hair behind your ear.

You laughed again before adding "next time, I'm riding you".

"Yeah, you wouldn't even be able to dominate for more than five minutes" he answered you as you both laughed inside each other's arms.

By @domigoat

[keytomylockhart]

sexy to someone

Jack Abbot x Reader

i want to be sexy to someone is it too much to ask? sexy to somebody, it would help me out – sexy to someone, Clairo

summary: you finally put yourself back out there and set up a date for your night off. to your utter humiliation, you get stood up. the night takes a turn when you see your attending, Jack Abbot, who suggests you have dinner together since you're already all dressed up.

tags/warnings: age gap (reader is a resident), oral (f + m receiving), dacryphilia, protected piv sex, dry humping, crybaby!reader, idiots in love, ER references because I can't help myself :), the tiniest hint of puppy play, discussions of jack's amputation,

wc: 10k

a/n: I'm realizing that I have a tendency to write about jack abbot saving reader from mediocre and shitty men... and you know what he would!!!! genuinely thought this would be a cute lil 5k fic and then... oh well!! being short-winded is not my thing lol

credits: gif credits to @wesandresons

8:21. 

You checked your phone for the millionth time. 

You were supposed to meet him at the restaurant at 7pm, and he was almost an hour and a half late. 

Well, you hoped he was late. You hadn’t yet accepted the probable fact that you’d been stood up. I mean, you were no stranger to chaotic schedules, unplanned overtime, and last minute catastrophes that had to be dealt with. Residency often rendered your social life moot; you could barely keep up with your commitments at the hospital, let alone a vibrant dating life. Maybe he had an equally demanding job; maybe there was a plausible excuse for why he left you stranded in this Italian restaurant without the decency of a “sorry, not interested anymore” text. 

You looked at your phone again–8:26. Okay, you’d give him 4 more minutes before you decide to pack it up. You try to subtly survey the restaurant for any sign of him, but are met only with the pitying looks of the waitstaff, who would, in all likelihood, be the only ones benefitting from this humiliation ritual. The hostess checked in with you at the bar regularly, the bartender had given you a glass of merlot on the house, and a very kind server brought you a charcuterie board to nibble on–had even brought you extra olives when you commented on how they were your favorite. They were all getting fat tips–or at least as fat as you could afford. 

8:31. Despite your best efforts you felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and your throat got that tight, achy feeling that precedes a sob. You felt so foolish. 

You looked up at the ceiling, blinking the tears away and tried to even out your breathing. 

You didn’t even want to go on this date. You’d all but sworn off of dating, the ROI not worth the emotional whiplash you were subjected to more often than not. It was becoming harder and harder as you got older to open up to people, expose your vulnerabilities and greatest fears, only to have them spit back in your face when things didn’t go their way. 

So you stopped with the apps, stopped the meaningless dates that were nothing more than a hookup vehicle for most. But your friends had convinced you that you needed to get back out there, that things would be better in Pittsburgh–the proverbial ocean filled with different, better fish than your hometown. And perhaps they were tired of hearing you wax poetic about the hazel-eyed night shift attending that you had no chance with. 

But you did want to find that person. As much as you were an independent, capable woman–doctor, even–the truth was you were lonely. Your days consisted of going to work, where you spent 12+ hours caring for Pittsburgh’s sickest, and coming home to microwave whatever sad frozen meal you had in your freezer. Sometimes you had the energy to join some of the night shift for post-shift breakfast, but that was about it. 

You wanted someone to share your life with, to ask about your day or if you’ve eaten. Someone who knew that your favorite flower was lily of the valley, but since they were too expensive you would settle for a bouquet of peonies; that you loved horror movies even though they scared the daylights out of you; that knew you loved olives but hated pickles. Someone who knew you, inside and out. 

There was a chasm in your chest that ached, that yearned for someone to take care of you–not financially, though you wouldn’t be opposed to that–but emotionally. To tell you that you were good, worthy, that you weren’t too much or too clingy. That wanted you as much as you wanted them. That felt the tension leave their shoulders when they looked at you, because you just being there made things better. 

Was that too much to ask for? 

It’d been so long since someone had even flirted with you, and even longer since you’d hooked up with anybody. Your dry spell was bordering on sahara levels of arid. Hell, at this point, you think you’d cum for the next guy who called you pretty. 

You shake yourself out of your pity party, dabbing your eyes with a napkin and gathering up the courage to ask for the bill, when you hear someone calling your name. Great. You’re halfway to a breakdown over some stupid guy who stood you up, and now you would have to sit through pleasantries with someone when you desperately wanted to go home and cry into a bottle of wine.   

You turned, fake smile plastered on your face.   

The person you least expect to see is the aforementioned hazel-eyed attending. He’s standing by the hostess stand, off to the side, dressed in dark blue jeans and a tight black shirt. It was unfair, really, how good the man could look in the most basic outfit. His shirt was pulled taut across his chest, muscles straining against the fabric and outlining the planes of his pecs. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his strong, freckled arms on display, and sinful thoughts ran through your head at how those arms would feel around you.  

You smiled and waved at him, reluctantly making your way over. It’s not like you can avoid him at this point, though these are less than ideal circumstances to meet him outside of work. 

“Small world,” he joked as you approached, a soft smile gracing his features. 

“I guess so,” you said sullenly, not up to your usual banter.  

“Big plans for the night?” he asked, eyes skating over your form, taking in the pretty red dress you’d donned for the evening, the light coat of makeup you applied, the hairstyle you wrangled your locks into. In any other scenario, you’d be preening under his watchful eye, giddy that he was eyeing you up and down.  

Now, though, you wilted under the attention. The humiliation from the night and the tingly feeling pooling in your gut at his gaze swirled together in some rancid amalgamation of emotions. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or cry or both, but ideally not in front of him.  

Your silence, apparently, concerned him. He looked at you seriously now, his eyes getting that clinical, assessing look in them as he took you in, “You okay?” he asked, genuine concern lacing his features.  

It was the one question you did not want to be asked. Because, for some reason, you could keep it all inside, bury the feelings as deep as they’d go, as long as someone didn’t ask if you were okay. The barest expression of concern had your lip trembling, throat tight as you managed to squeak out a meek, “I’m fine!” 

You could feel a tear tracing down your cheek, and you wiped it away furiously. Your eyes focused on a spot over his shoulder, unable to bear the pitying look that was undoubtedly on his face.  

“You don’t look fine,” he said softly, hand coming up to rest lightly on your upper arm.  

You shook your head, powerless to staunch the flow of tears now running down your face. “Sorry, I just, uh, I had a date tonight and he didn’t show, so,” you made a helpless gesture, your shoulders shrugging in feigned nonchalance. You felt ridiculous, crying over being stood up in front of your attending who was just trying to make small talk with you. 

You let out a garbled laugh, “Shit, sorry,” you hiccup, “this isn’t your problem, I don’t wanna interrupt your night any more than I already have. Have a good night,” you said, moving to push past him and scurry out the door.  

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but gentle, his body blocking your exit. 

“You’re not interrupting. I was just about to place a to-go order,” he said, a hesitant look crossing his face before he continued, “But, uh… would you like to have dinner with me instead?”

You're taken aback. It’s the last thing you expected him to ask you. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t thought about him in this context. On the contrary, Jack Abbot had been the subject of many a ‘boyfriend’ dream over the past year you’d worked with him. He was kind and generous and funny, his humor as dark as yours. He was steady in the face of chaos, a lighthouse in the foggiest of days–a man you could depend on when shit hit the fan. It’s part of the reason you switched to nights. You always felt calmer in his presence, more assured of your capabilities because he believed in you. 

And he was undeniably gorgeous–his fine wrinkles and graying curls set your body ablaze each time you looked at him, your panties soaking through in record time. You loved especially when he went a day or two longer without shaving, his scruffy cheeks looking like a delectable place to sit. 

Your mind was plagued by obscene fantasies of him, the sinful images assaulting you at the most inopportune times. You knew he’d treat you right, wouldn’t prioritize his pleasure over yours. He was older, experienced, not a kid fumbling around in the dark, searching for your most sensitive spots and coming up empty. You imagined the way his stubble would feel on your skin, his jaw scraping down your neck as he pressed kisses there, moving lower and lower until he was nestled between your thighs, mouth hot against your aching pussy. The way he would stretch you out and fill you up, have you desperate and begging for more. 

You’re snapped out of your lustful daydream when he says your name, an inquiring tone meant to prompt a response. Oh right, he asked you a question. 

You shook your head, not because you didn’t want to have dinner with him, but because you didn’t want to do so under these conditions; you didn’t want to be a charity case. 

“That’s very kind, but you don’t have to have a pity dinner with me. I’m a big girl, I can handle a little rejection.” 

“It wouldn’t be a pity dinner,” he shook his head immediately, “come on, you got all dressed up, let me at least buy you dinner for your trouble.” 

He cleared his throat, “Unless you really don’t want to, obviously, and I’ll let it go,” he said, “but I’d hate to see you go home cryin’.” And he looked so sincere, his pretty eyes so soft and squishy, all but pleading for you to accept his offer.  

You chewed on your lip, considering it. It wouldn’t be the worst way to spend your night. As of now your plans for the rest of the night were getting sadder by the moment. Things could only go up from here, you supposed. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure,” you nodded. 

“I’m positive,” he said, hand coming up to rest on the small of your back, guiding you back up to the hostess stand. “Table for two, please.”

The two of you were sat at a corner booth near the back of the restaurant, the section secluded and not too loud. It was a classic Italian restaurant–warm, dim lighting illuminated the space from antique sconces on the wall, the walls were a beautiful exposed red brick, and the tables were candlelit and laid with red and white checkered cloths. The leather of the booth was soft but worn, the cracks spidering out and indenting into the back of your thighs a sign of how well loved this place was. 

The booth forced you close together, your thighs not quite touching each other, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. His scent is intoxicating, all warm amber and oud, mixed with a hint of citrus and his natural musk. It took all your power not to burrow your nose into his neck and inhale deeply. 

You were lucky to have the same waitress that checked on you at the bar, though you did have to assure her that this was not the man who stood you up. You were honestly a little concerned at the death glare she gave him at first–a true girls girl. 

“So, Dr. Abbot, how was your day off?” you asked, fiddling nervously with the hem of your dress. Despite your easy rapport at work, it felt awkward to be sitting here with your attending, especially when you were desperately trying to keep your feelings for him at bay. 

“Oh it was fine, picked up a shift with the SWAT unit and didn’t get shot at, so, you know, all things considered,” he said, then waved his hand dismissively, “and please, call me Jack. We're not at work,” a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“Okay, Jack,” you laughed, the tension easing a bit as you threw formalities out the window.  

“I would ask you how your day off was, but I think I have a pretty good idea,” he said with a teasing lilt.

“Yeah, not my best moment. This is partially why I stopped dating, I hate getting my hopes up,” you said, a little more vulnerable than you intended but you supposed you were past that now. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I think whatever man decided to let you slip through their fingers is a fuckin’ idiot.” 

You sputtered a bit at that, your cheeks heating up. It was a kind platitude, and you wished that it made you feel better, but it did little to alleviate the pit in your stomach that made you feel small; that screamed that you weren’t good enough.

“But enough about that asshole. Do you want to order an appetizer?” he asked, scanning the menu. 

“Oh no, I’m okay, thank you.” 

“You sure? My treat, remember, don’t worry about prices.” he looked up, concerned. 

“I’m fine, really,” you bit your cheek, reluctant to spit it out, “our waitress may or may not have given me a pity charcuterie board at the bar.” 

His face was still for a moment before you saw the edge of his mouth betray him, quirking up in a suppressed smile. 

“Don’t you dare laugh,” you warned, your own resolve already breaking as you took in how pathetic the situation actually was. “It’s not funny!” you laughed, smacking him lightly on the shoulder with the menu. 

“No, no, definitely not,” he intoned, a look of mock-seriousness on his face before he broke out into a laugh, “I’m sorry! But it is objectively a little funny,” he hedged, hands held out defensively to block another menu attack.  

“It is not! It means that the poor waitress had to go talk to her boss and ask if they could comp an appetizer for the miserable sad sack at the bar!” 

“She probably didn’t call you a miserable sad sack. Maybe sad puppy dog girl, but not miserable sad sack,” he teased. 

You gasped exaggeratedly, “I am not a sad puppy dog girl!” 

“Oh yes you are. It’s the eyes. And the general obedient demeanor," he smirked. 

Oh. Your tummy twisted at that, but you quickly filed it under things that I simply do not have enough time to unpack right now. 

“You’re mean,” you pouted, lip jutting out and arms crossed. You weren’t really upset, but it felt fun to play it up a little bit.  

“Aww,” he pouted back at you, his tone just a tad condescending, “let me make it up to you. What do you say to some good wine and garlic knots?” 

You gnawed on your lip, considering his offer, “what the hell, let's do it. It’s not like I’m going to be kissing anybody tonight anyway,” you said, a little bitter, before realizing that was probably not an appropriate joke to make in front of your boss. 

“You never know, we could always pull a Lady and the Tramp,” he joked, not looking up from the wine menu. 

You were a little stunned at that. Was he… flirting? No. Definitely not. This was a strictly platonic date. Right? I mean, the puppy comment you could explain away, but this… this was different, wasn’t it? Who just jokes like that about the most romantic canine kiss in history? A joke, you settled on. Because you’d already gotten your hopes up enough for one night. 

Dinner was nice. Really nice. 

Conversation flowed freely, starting out in neutral territory with updates about patients, work gossip, whatever the fuck was going on with Robby. But you soon moved out of the work realm and into personal matters. You told him about your childhood–where you grew up, your favorite childhood pets, how much trouble you got into as a teen. 

And you learned a lot about Jack. That he came from a military family that moved around a lot, but spent a large chunk of time in North Carolina. He had two sisters, both older than him. One stayed in North Carolina and the other lived in West Virginia. Both married to military men, and both notorious for giving Jack shit about everything. But they were his rocks when he lost his leg, and then again when he lost his wife, and he was endlessly grateful for them. 

You both loved 90s alternative rock, which surprised you because you took Jack to be more of a classic rock fan, to which he merely glared at you and said that he wasn’t that old. You both had childhood crushes on Winona Ryder; his borne from her role in Heathers, and yours from Girl, Interrupted. He surprised you with the fact that he was a good cook, a fact that seemed unfathomable to you based on his general vibe. 

Now, though, you’d moved to med school stories, and Jack was regaling you with stories about him and Robby back in the day.  

“We must have been… god, I must have been a third year med student, and Robby was… an R2? and he had really pissed me off that night. I don’t even remember what he did, I just remember being so annoyed at him,” he laughed, shaking his head at the memory, “It was a quiet night, so he snuck off to the on-call room to catch a few hours of sleep, leaving me to do all the scut. So, I recruited the help of the charge nurse, Carol, and our attending, Mark, and we applied a cast to his right leg while he was knocked out.” 

He’s cackling now, almost unable to finish his story between wheezing gasps of air, “we paged him, like, 10 times until he answered, and next thing we know he’s bursting out of the on-call room and onto his ass before he even realized what happened!” 

You’re laughing hard now, too, trying to picture a younger version of Robby gracelessly tripping over an unnecessary leg cast in his hurry to answer his page. It sounded so unlike the self-assured, stoic version you knew him to be.  

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “how mad was he?”  

“Oh he was pissed. Not because of the cast, but because 5 minutes after we paged him, a 15-car pile up came in and he got benched until he could get the cast off. He had to wait for it to dry before he could saw it off, and the whole time he just sat there glaring at me.” 

“Did he get you back?” you asked, hungry for more crumbs of their life before you, before the Pitt as it was now.    

“Yeah,” he rolled his eyes, “the fucker taped nails to his shirt, took an x-ray, and switched out the real film for the fake before I noticed. I was freaking out to Mark, yelling about how this patient needed surgery before they perfed. Meanwhile Mark was in on it, and made me feel crazy when he pulled out the perfectly normal x-ray for my patient. He said, ‘I don’t know what they’re teaching you in school these days, but this looks like a perfectly normal x-ray,’” he said, in an impersonation you could only assume was Mark.

“That’s fucking crazy,” you giggled, “can you imagine someone doing something like that in the Pitt? I think Robby’d actually have an aneurysm.” 

“Yeah, the old man’s lost a bit of his whimsy over the years,” he shook his head. 

“Old man, huh? Those are fighting words from a man merely 3 years younger than him,” you teased, “and much grayer,” you added with a wink.  

“Watch it, missy,” he warned, then, quieter, “not too old to teach you some manners.”

Feeling emboldened by the wine, you leaned a little closer, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Tracing the rim of your wine glass, you looked up at him. You swear his eyes drifted to your lips, but before you could do anything about it, he cleared his throat, steering the conversation back into safer waters.  

“So, why did you get into emergency medicine?” 

You thought about it for a moment, considering how honest you wanted to be. “I wanted to meet people where they were at, help them in a real, immediate way. The traumas are great and exciting, and there’s nothing like making a pickup that saves someone’s life. But I like the less exciting stuff, too. The mundane care that doesn’t save a life, but makes someone feel better. Helps them get over a cold, or helps soothe a burn; suturing up a lac, or removing foreign objects from patients and not making them feel worse about their predicament. That stuff is just as important as the traumas.

Especially with how fucked healthcare is in this country, people come to us when they’re at their most vulnerable, and usually don’t want to be there. I just hope that I can make things less scary for patients when they come in, make sure they feel like they’re cared about and not being judged for coming to us.” 

It’d been a long time since you’d answered that question honestly. Usually, you had your stock answer that you pulled out, which was a more eloquent version of “I want to save lives!” And that was still true, but there was so much more to working in the emergency department than just saving lives. It was paperwork and insurance and bed shortages and nursing shortages and all the other fucked up shit in the world that inevitably contributed to the cases you saw come through the doors at the Pitt. 

“What about you? Was emergency medicine always it for you, or did you ever consider going into something else?” you asked. 

He shook his head, “Not seriously, no. Considered switching to critical care after my leg. I wasn’t sure if I was cut out for the hustle and bustle of the emergency room after that. But it was the only place I wanted to be, so I figured it out, did what I needed to do to get back to where I was before the accident.” 

“Well, for what it's worth, I’m glad you stuck with EM. I couldn’t imagine working at the Pitt without you. I don’t think I’d be half the doctor I am without you,” you said, looking up at him. 

You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten, his arm slung over the back of the booth and your thighs pressed against each other. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, you’d be amazing with or without me,” he said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “You know, I’ve taught a lot of residents in my years, and you… you’re really cut out for this. Not everyone is.” 

The praise made you preen, the proximity of his hand to your face doing nothing to calm your rapidly beating heart. For a brief moment, you think he might lean in, might press those pillowy pink lips to yours, kiss you until you can’t think stra–

“Hi, sorry to interrupt but we’ll be closing in 15 minutes. Here’s your check when you’re ready,” the waitress said, setting the check down and scurrying away. 

You checked the time on your phone: 11:15. Did you really spend almost 3 hours talking to Jack? It certainly didn’t feel like it. 

“I guess we should get out of here before they kick us out,” Jack said, sliding out of the booth and offering you his hand.

You’re giggling at another one of Jack’s jokes as you leave the restaurant, the bill graciously paid by him despite your best efforts to split it. Your limbs were loose from the wine, goosebumps springing up on your arms from the early summer air turned chilly. 

“Thank you for dinner. You salvaged an otherwise shitty night,” you laughed. 

“It was no problem, really. I had a nice time,” he said, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed.

You mirrored him, shoulder scraping against the gritty brick, and looked up at him. 

“Hold on, I think you have a little sauce on your face,” he said, and before you could grab a tissue from your purse, he reached out. His thumb gathered the sauce at the corner of your lips, going further to brush the pad of it across your bottom lip. The movement dragged your lower lip down slightly, your mouth parting involuntarily with it. You’re not sure why, but your tongue darted out, licked the pad of his thumb and the residual sauce.

Jack’s breath hitched, the sharp intake of air the only thing you could hear despite the sounds of car alarms and drunk party girls on a Friday night in downtown Pittsburgh. 

You looked up at him, tongue still pressed flat against his thumb, and searched his eyes for a sign that the heat building between you is mutual. 

Fuck it, you decided. 

Without thinking about it too much, you leaned up and pressed your lips against his. And god, did they feel nice. They were soft, but firm, and he tasted faintly of the wine you’d shared earlier mixed with the slight acidity of the tomato sauce from his dinner. Your hand tangled in the curls at the base of his neck, and they’re so soft, but also a little stiff. You wondered, briefly, if he uses mousse, or hairspray, or if he’s got a whole curly girl routine down before realizing that oh my god he wasn’t kissing you back. Oh no, oh fuck. 

How did you misread this situation so horrifically? You thought you were getting all the right signals, thought that he liked being with you, that he was flirting with you. But maybe it really was just a courtesy, a pity dinner. 

Your cheeks are hot when you pull away from him, shame sitting thick and heavy in your stomach, numbness prickling up your arms in staticky goosebumps. And Jack is just standing there, the dumbfounded look on his face doing nothing to assuage your embarrassment.  

You backed up, trying to create some distance, to lower the temperature between you that apparently only you felt. 

Looking down at your shoes, unable to make eye contact, you babbled out, “I-I’m so sorry, that was completely inappropriate and I don’t know why I-” your voice cracked and it felt like your lungs weren’t properly inflating with oxygen, “I don’t know how I misread things, but I guess I did so again, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna go home and pretend this never happened,” you said, turning around and starting down the street, despite the fact that you most certainly needed to Uber home, not walk. 

You’re trying not to cry for the umpteenth time that night when you hear him calling your name, “Wait!” 

He caught up with you, only a few strides away from where you were standing, and grasped your arm gently. “Wait, I’m sorry,” he said, a little breathless, “I just… you surprised me.”

“Surprised you?” you laughed, “I damn near sucked your thumb, Jack,” you said, genuinely confused how a man like Jack Abbot could be surprised that a woman would try to kiss him; that the next logical step from erotic thumbsucking would be a kiss. “And you flirted with me all night! You made a Lady and the Tramp joke! How else am I supposed to take that?”  

He rubbed at his jaw anxiously, a slight blush coating his cheeks, “I mean, yeah, I was surprised. I’ve liked you for a while now but then I heard you talking to Santos about how you didn’t want to go out with that cardiology attending and just assumed I didn’t have a shot,” he admitted sheepishly. “And maybe I got a little brazen with my flirting because I thought you didn’t see me like that anyway, figured it couldn’t hurt.” 

It’s your turn to be surprised now. You hadn’t realized he heard that conversation, or that he’d taken the wrong idea from it; the opposite idea, actually.   

You took a step closer to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers finding his curls again, “Well, if you recall, snoopy, I said that part of the problem was that I just didn’t want to fuck that cardiology attending,” you said, looking up at him and batting your eyelashes, “that isn’t the case with you.” 

He looked shocked, but recovered quickly, his confident air returning to him. “Oh, is that so?” he asked, lips quirking up into a smile as he backed you up against the rough brick wall. His hand rested on the wall next to your head, the other on your hip, stroking you through your dress. 

“In that case, please allow me to make up for my rude behavior,” he said, dipping down to kiss you properly this time. 

You’d pictured this moment countless times before, but nothing compared to the real thing. Jack Abbot is a no nonsense man–a wartorn vet who understands more than most the importance of not wasting time. You expected your first kiss with him to be hungry, maybe a little sloppy, but when his lips meet yours, he’s achingly tender. It wasn’t uncertain–there was no question underlying his kiss–it was deep and languorous, like he was content to take his time up against this brick wall and savor the slide of your lips against his because he knew he had you right where he wanted you, finally. 

He commanded you, his hand cupping your jaw to angle your head back, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you instinctively opened up for him. The slide of his tongue against yours was delicious, the slick muscle curling around yours before moving back to your lips, sucking at your bottom lip and biting down gently. Your mind felt fuzzy at the way he handled you, guiding and taking you how he saw fit.

Some of his restraint dissipated, your mouths moving feverishly against each other. You couldn’t get enough of him; you pulled him into you and hooked your leg around his waist to draw him as close to you as possible. Pathetic, embarrassing whines and whimpers escaped you involuntarily, your body unable to mask how this man was making a mess of you.

His hand fell to the thigh wrapped around him, calloused fingers sliding up under your dress and gripping the bare flesh. He pulled you close, his pelvis rolling against yours sinfully. You could feel the hard outline of his cock against your cunt, your hips thrusting forward to meet the friction. A frustrated moan fell from your lips at the clothes separating you, at the inability to feel his skin against yours. 

You pulled away only when air was necessary–and because you were very close to being cited for public indecency if things went any further. 

“Sorry, I probably taste like garlic,” you said dumbly, fingers tracing over your spit slick lips, numb and swollen from Jack’s attention. 

He laughed, forehead resting against yours, “you taste incredible,” he said, pressing a kiss to your nose, then your cheek, and then under your ear. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but my place is a couple blocks from here, if you’d like to come home with me.”  

You nodded, a giddy smile breaking out across your face, “I would very much like to go home with you,” you said, already grabbing his hand and dragging him down the street. 

The entryway is dark as you stumbled into Jack’s townhouse, the walk talking longer than it should have due to your need to drag him into searing kiss after searing kiss every dozen or so steps. 

Jack navigated the two of you through the dark, your bodies unceremoniously plopping down on his couch. You fell onto his lap, knees sinking into the leather cushions and thighs stretching over the wide berth of his hips. Your kisses had devolved from slow and deep to fast and hungry, teeth nipping and clashing against one another, your breathing ragged from the exertion.   

He was rock-hard and throbbing under you, the outline of his cock pressing deliciously against your pussy. The only articles of clothing separating you were the thin, lacy excuse for panties you were wearing and his jeans. Your eyes fluttered closed as you ground your hips down on him, the combination of rough denim and the drag of his cock on your aching cunt forcing loud moans and whimpers from your lips. 

Jack was just as loud, his hips canting up to meet your rolling hips. His hand travelled to the back of your dress, fingers playing with the zipper, “this okay, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. You nodded, too caught up in his lips to give a verbal answer. 

He chuckled as he pulled the zipper down, easing the sleeves down next and pulling away to get a look at you. He let out a sharp breath, the air stolen from his lungs as he took you in, hands gripping your waist tight and rolling his hips hard against you.  

Your pretty tits were held up in an unlined white bra, your hardened nipples peaking through the barely there lace. He threw his head back against the couch, pupils blown wide as they fixated on your chest. ““My pretty, pretty girl. Was this all for him?” he asked, thumbs running in circles around your areolas. You nodded shyly, a bit embarrassed that you’d put on your good lingerie for some random guy. But it wasn’t all for nought, if Jack’s reaction was any indication. 

“What a fuckin’ idiot,” he mumbled before enveloping your nipple between his lips, sucking the bud through the lace. He captured the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging and pinching it, then soothing it over in soft circles. The sensation was dizzying. His mouth was hot and wet against your skin, and he knew exactly the right pressure to ride the line between pleasure and pain.

But the lace was getting in the way; you couldn’t feel the scratch of his stubble like you’d dreamed of for so long. You unclasped your bra, tugging on his curls and pulling his face back just enough to let the garment fall down between you. 

A guttural sound left him as he dove back in, lips suctioning onto your nipple and sucking hard, cheeks hollowed out and tongue swirling around the bud. Your hand tightened in his curls, arching your back and pushing your chest against his mouth. He alternated between the two, sucking, licking, and biting at one and kneading, flicking, and pinching the other. You could finally feel the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin, your eyes rolling back in your head as your hips doubled their effort, grinding hard against his cock. 

He released your nipple with a wet pop, “you know how hard it’s been keepin’ my hands to myself, pretty girl? and all this time you’ve been hidin’ this pretty set of tits under your scrubs,” he shook his head in disbelief, “don’t think I’ll be able to think about anything other than stuffin’ my face between these tits when I see you at work.”  

His lips returned to your chest while his unoccupied hand moved under your dress, his rough palm gripping the fat of your ass and guiding you over his length faster. Every grind of your hips had your clit bumping up against the head of his cock, the pressure exquisite. Your slick was dripping down your thighs and seeping into his jeans, the schlick schlick schlick steady background noise among your moans and groans.  

You didn’t realize how fast your orgasm was building until you were nearly on the precipice of it, letting out a strangled moan and, “I’m gonna–” before the wave crested. Your thighs trembled, a dull ache forming from keeping them stretched around Jack’s bulk, but it only added to the pleasure that zipped through you. That staticky feeling radiated through you, your pussy contracting and fluttering around nothing. 

You’re panting into the crook of his neck as you ride out the aftershocks, your hips still grinding against his clothed cock, your lips letting out tiny gasps and whines. 

“Did you… did you just cum, sweetheart?” Jack asked, a stunned look on his face. 

You could feel how hot your cheeks were, shame curling through you because yes, you did cum from a little nipple play and grinding on his cock. 

“I-i’m sorry, it’s just been a long time and no one’s touched me in so long and you feel so good, I didn’t think that would happen so quickly,” you said, panicked, “I’m sorry if I ruined things.” 

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he said, thumbs brushing away the embarrassed tears you weren’t even aware had fallen, “you didn’t ruin anything, okay? I was just surprised, is all. I’m sorry if anyone’s made you feel that way, but you don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me. Never,” The sincerity of his words triggered a new bout of tears. You buried your head in the crook of his neck again, his scent a calming balm to your nerves. 

“Plus, do you know how much of an ego boost it is to know I had such a pretty girl cummin’ on lap in under five minutes? That’s the stuff of dreams, baby,” he teased, pulling you out from your hiding spot and pressing kisses to your cheeks.

You laughed, still sniffling a bit, “gosh, I’m sorry I’ve been such a crybaby tonight.” 

“It’s okay, honey,” he said, then, teasing, “but I can think of much better reasons for you to be cryin’, and none of them have anything to do with you being sad or embarrassed,” he said, kissing you properly now, tongue licking deep into your mouth. 

You moaned into his mouth, then squealed as he hoisted you up, carrying you to his bedroom. He set you down at the edge of the bed, then properly removed your dress from where it was awkwardly gathered at your waist.

He didn’t waste any time, dropping to his knees and parting your legs, pushing them up toward your chest. “Hold 'em there for me, baby, wanna take a good look at you,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the damp fabric between your legs. You did as he told you, hooking your hands under your knees and spreading yourself open for him. You felt exposed, but the awestruck look in his eye as he examined your pussy sent shockwaves through your body. 

“This all because of me?” he asked, thumbing at your center over the fabric, pressing lightly against your clit with each stroke. Your panties were soaked through, the tiny scrap of fabric doing nothing to obscure your puffy folds that were sticky with a mix of your slick and cum. “What a mess you made, honey. Guess I’m gonna have to clean you up,” he said, pulling your panties to the side and licking a broad stripe from your hole to your clit.

You moaned, hips lifting off the bed and chasing his mouth. The contrast of his hot tongue on your cool flesh was blistering. His hands grabbed the back of your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin there and stopping any movement of your hips. You whined at the restriction, your hands fisting in the soft sheets instead.

“Waited so long for this honey, shit, fuckin’ dreamed about how you’d taste,” he moaned into your pussy, mouth lapping and sucking at your folds, gathering all the spend and slick and swallowing it down like nectar. His face was nestled deep into your cunt, tongue exploring every crease and crevice your cunt had to offer, licking, sucking, biting–and taking note of what made you scream. 

And once he discovered it, he didn’t just eat you, he devoured you. He was a man possessed, with no regard for his own need for air. His tongue assaulted your clit, alternating between rubbing tight circles around it, short kitten licks, and long, languorous licks that had him shaking his head between your thighs. Every now and again he wrapped his lips around your clit and suckled it, the light leaving your body every time. Your hips rocked against his mouth despite his hold on you, wrecked moans falling from your lips.  

“Fuck, jack, please–r-right there!” 

“That’s it, baby, let me hear you, tell me how good I’m makin’ you feel,” he said, pulling back just far enough to spit onto your cunt before running two fingers up your slit, pushing them in without preamble. The stretch was delicious, his thick fingers curling deep into your wet heat and finding that sweet spot in no time. He exploited it mercilessly, massaging it with the pads of his fingers. His lips returned to your clit, sucking harshly now, giving you no reprieve from his ministrations. 

“Feels so good Jack! Never felt this good before!” you cried. 

The slurping and squelching was lewd, your moans and breathless cries of his name intermingled to create an obscene symphony that you’re sure the entire population of Pittsburgh could hear. 

“You gonna cum on my face, honey? Gonna give me another one?” he asked, fingers massaging your g-spot. “Wanna–fuck–wanna feel this tight cunt squeeze my fingers when she cums.” 

“Y-yes, please Jack, ‘m gonna cum, feels sosososo good” you cried out, your second orgasm crashing over you. Stars burst behind your eyes, back arching uncomfortably off the bed and walls clenching so hard around his fingers you’re not sure how he hasn’t lost circulation. Your legs clamped around his head, trapping him there as you rode out your orgasm, hips rutting against his mouth and fingers. He didn’t mind, licking and sucking you through it, his fingers keeping pressure on your g-spot until you were pushing him away.

He peppered your body with kisses as you came down, starting at your thighs and making his way up over your tummy, ribs, and breasts. He came to rest above you, a dopey smile on your face as you pulled him in for a lazy kiss. His face was soaked with your spend and you could taste the tang on his tongue when he kissed you. 

“You’re stupidly good at that,” you whispered, body still boneless and floaty. 

“Yeah? Want me to show you want else I’m stupidly good at?” he asked while finally shucking his shirt off. 

“Yeah?” you said absentmindedly, eyes glazed over at the majesty that was Jack Abbot’s chest. You immediately began pressing kisses across the newly exposed skin–to his neck, collarbone, pecs, and tummy. You’re even able to scrape your teeth across a nipple before he holds you back at arms length, laughing.   

“Yeah, honey,” he laughed between your frantic kisses, “but you gotta let me breathe for a sec, gotta take care of my leg.” 

“Let me,” you said, slipping down to the floor and sitting back on your heels. You ran your palms up his thighs, hands coming to rest on his belt before going any further.

“You don’t have to do that, honey.” 

“I know,” you said softly, “but I want to. If you’re okay with that.” 

He cradled your face in his hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You turned into it, kissing the palm of his hand to assure him that you wanted to do this. 

“I care about you Jack, and this is part of you. I just wanna help you, wanna make you feel good,” you said earnestly, giving him your puppy dog eyes.

“Yeah. Okay, honey, go ahead,” he nodded, sitting back on his elbows to watch you. You grasped his belt again, unfastening the buckle and pulling the belt through the loops, discarding it somewhere behind you. You moved to the button of his jeans, deftly popping it open and hooking your fingers into the waistband, tugging them down with Jack’s help. 

Your breath hitched at the sight of his dark gray boxers, a wet spot front and center that made your mouth water. You learned forward and kissed the damp fabric, moaning at the slight taste of precum that danced across your lips. 

“Careful, sweetheart…” he warned, but there wasn’t much heat behind his words. 

You just grinned up at him before getting back to the task at hand. Your fingers travelled down to the sleek metal attached to him, getting a feel for the mechanism before unlocking and twisting it off. The liner came next, tossed to the side before you pressed your fingertips into his skin, massaging the skin to get some blood flow back into the residual limb. You pressed sweet kisses to his flesh, from the front of his knee to the scarred flesh of his leg, tongue dipping out to trace the prominent scar just above his amputation site. 

Jack breathed heavily above you, tiny groans escaping him unbidden. A look flickered across his face, and you think, briefly, that this may be the first time you’ve seen him truly vulnerable. It wasn’t a secret that he’d lost the lower portion of his leg in the war, but he didn’t flaunt it either. You wondered if there was an insecurity that lay deep within him, despite his overt confidence; if other women had reacted differently, cruelly even to the sight of his prosthesis. It made your heart ache to think about it, to think of someone doing anything but worshipping his beautiful body the way he deserved.  

“So pretty, Jack,” you whispered, kisses inching higher up his thigh now, “wanna taste you now.” 

When you’re met with the sight of Jack’s cock, you’re well and truly speechless. You knew he was big from your time on the couch, but seeing it was different. He was thick and veiny, the tip flushed a deep red and leaking precum furiously. It rested against his belly, curving slightly to the left. And did you mention that he was thick? Mouth agape, you wondered how you were going to fit him in your mouth. Or pussy. 

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there, hands perched against his thighs, just staring at his cock, until Jack tilts your head back, fingers tightening in the strands of hair at the nape of your neck. 

“Thought you wanted a taste, honey. You just gonna sit there and stare at it all night?” he asked, a smug smile on his lips. 

“Maybe,” you mumbled, tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

Before you can do anything of your own accord, his hand is guiding your head forward, the head of his cock pushing gently against the seam of your lips. You take over from there, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his tip, the precum gathered there salty and sticky against your lips. Your tongue dipped out to caress the spot just below his head, running the flat of your tongue along it before moving back to his head, spitting a glob of spit onto him and wrapping a hand around his base. You started with long, slow strokes, squeezing and twisting on the upstroke, your hand meeting your lips where they suckled at his tip. 

You moaned at the steady stream of precum invading your mouth, “taste so good Jack,” you said before taking more of him into your mouth. You're only about halfway down and your lips are already stretched tight around him, spit leaking from the corners of your mouth in filthy waterfalls. You hollowed your cheeks out, bobbing your head up and down his shaft, your tongue massaging the underside of his cock. 

“Fuck, baby, who knew you had such a filthy fuckin’ mouth on you,” he groaned, hips rutting up slightly. 

His tip occasionally hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag and tears to prick behind your eyes, but you don’t care; the feeling of him weighing heavy on your tongue is reward enough. 

You feel a light pressure applied to the back of your head, “deeper, baby, know you can take it,” he groaned. You obliged, breathing deep through your nose and sinking down further onto his cock until you felt him hit the back of your throat and your nose was nestled in the trimmed grey curls at his base. Your hand grappled for his where it was perched on your head, using it to push harder against your head, trying to convey to him that you wanted him to take over; to fuck your face. 

He groaned, hips jerking involuntarily as he realized what you wanted. He gathered your hair in his hands, hips shallowly trusting into the wet heat of your mouth. His mouth was slack, grunts and groans loud as he fucked your face. His pace builds, his cock roughly pistoning in and out of your mouth. Tears are falling freely now, your mouth stretched to capacity and throat being used and abused by his fat cock. 

“See? These tears are much prettier, baby,” he huffed out, thumbs brushing the trails where they fell. “So fuckin’ pretty, crying with my cock in your mouth.” 

You moaned around him at that, the praise and shame swirling in your tummy. Your hand came up to cup his balls, massaging and squeezing them gently between your fingers. 

You’re suddenly pulled up off his cock and into his lap, spit stringing from your shiny, swollen lips. You whined at the loss of him, your mouth feeling uncomfortably empty now. 

“Fuck–you feel too good, honey,” he grunted, setting you back against his pillows, “can’t cum in that pretty little mouth tonight, need to be inside you.” 

He grabbed a condom out of his drawer before moving back to you, sitting back on his knees and rolling the condom on. You let out an annoyed whine. You’ve never hated the more rational side of your brain more than you do right now. You craved to feel him bare inside you–to feel him cum deep inside you, the hot white ropes painting your walls. And while you trusted him implicitly, you knew safety was of the utmost importance, so condom it was. 

“Don’t worry, baby, soon as we get tested, you won’t be able to stop me from fuckin’ this pussy raw,” he groaned, settling between your spread thighs. His body was a soothing weight above you, the warmth he emanated relieving any anxiety you had. 

He gripped the base of his cock and ran it through your sopping folds a few times, the tip catching slightly on your entrance on each pass. “Please, Jack, need to feel you,” you moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him close. 

He cursed before giving in, notching the head of his cock against your entrance and entering you slowly, letting you feel and adjust to every inch on its own. Your head fell back into his plush pillows as he sank fully into you, your mouth open in a silent scream. Your walls were tight around him, clenching viciously at the intrusion–you’d never been stretched so wide, or filled so thoroughly. It felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs and replaced by his cock. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your short nails biting at his skin. 

You were still for a moment, both your chests heaving as you adjusted to the feeling of one another. Then, once Jack composed himself, he started to move–slow, shallow thrusts at first, your pussy still clenching tight around him, sucking him in greedily with each thrust. 

“Relax for me, honey, that’s it, doin’ so good for me,” he grunted, eyes closed, “pussy feels so good.” 

You willed your body to relax, for your muscles to go lax around him. You shifted your legs up higher, the heels of your feet digging into the soft flesh of his ass. 

“There you go, so good for me,” he moaned, “knew you’d be so good for me.” 

He pulled out again, easier this time, until only the tip remained inside you, then snapped his hips forward. His thrusts were slow but hard, his hips slamming against you each time he bottomed out. The drag of his cock against your walls felt so good, his thick, throbbing length rubbing up against every sensitive spot. You felt every thick vein and ridge, as if they were imprinting into your walls, making a home there. You moaned at the thought of eternity, of Jack making your pussy his again and again and again. 

He was watching you with a wondrous look on his face, his eyes flitting between your blissed out face and bouncing tits. “So fuckin’ sexy, baby, you don’t even understand how fuckin’ gorgeous you are,” he groaned, hips picking up speed, fucking you faster and harder. 

The adrenaline and emotions from the night came crashing down around you. The feeling of his cock dragging through your walls mixed with the sweet words he was whispering into your ear had you feeling exposed and vulnerable, made you feel seen. Your hands were frantic, running over every bit of skin you could get your hands on, needing to feel his skin against yours. You pulled him impossibly closer, his chest now flush against yours, the friction it provided to your nipples dizzying.  

You didn’t notice the tears until Jack was kissing away the salty tracks, his tongue sneaking out to lick up the length of your cheek. “You’re my little crybaby, aren’t you?” he asked, a sweet hint of condescension in his tone, “just can’t help babbling over my cock, huh, baby?” 

You could only whimper at that. The words should feel shameful, degrading, even, but the fondness on his face, the constant reassurance he’d been giving you all night only made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Because you weren’t a crybaby, you were his crybaby. 

The coil in your stomach tightened, your orgasm fast approaching. He was fucking you hard and fast now, his balls slapping against your ass with a wet smack. “Jaack, I’m gonna–fffuck–I need–” you gasped at a particularly hard thrust, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

But Jack knew what you needed before you did, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles against it, and you were done for. Your toes curled, heels pressing harder into his ass as you came, white-hot sparks shooting through your body. Your walls spasmed wildly, your orgasm crashing through you in waves. You were absolutely drenched, your pussy gushing around his cock, leaking down your ass and onto the bed. 

Jack wasn’t far behind, his hips stuttering as your walls seized his cock in a vise grip. “F-fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, so fuckin’ good,” he grunted, his hips going into overdrive now, chasing his climax and fucking you hard and deep.

"Cum for me, Jack, wanna make you feel good," you cried.

He ground his hips into one last time, cumming with a loud moan, cock buried deep inside you and hips pressed flush against yours. 

He collapsed on top of you, head resting on your chest. He pressed lazy kisses to your sternum, collarbone, the soft flesh of your breasts–whatever he could get his lips on from this angle. Your fingers carded through his curls, the motion soothing as you tried to catch your breath. 

Eventually, though, you had to part. 

You whined as he pulled out, your cunt empty and cold now that he’d taken his warmth away. He grabbed his arm crutches, disposing of the condom and retreating to the bathroom. He returned with a warm washcloth and began cleaning you up, gently wiping at your swollen pussy and sticky thighs, making sure you were comfortable before tossing the rag in the hamper.  

He slid back into bed when he was finished, laying on his side and pulling you close against his chest. Your head was cushioned by this arm as you curled into him, your sweat slick bodies cool to the touch now that the heat had dissipated. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he said, fingers brushing up and down your ribs, the touch featherlight.  

“Mmm probably as long as I have,” you said, snuggling closer to him.

“Really? When did you realize you wanted to kiss me?”

You didn’t have to think about it at all. “My birthday, on the roof. I gave you a cupcake and you got frosting all over you,” you giggled at the memory, “and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to kiss it all off of your stupidly handsome face.” 

He laughed with you, the creases around his eyes deepening as he did. He was so pretty, you thought for the thousandth time that night. 

 “I remember that,” he smiled, “I remember being so proud that I made you laugh that night.” 

“What about you?” you asked. 

He thought about it for a minute. “I think the need to kiss you has been simmering in me since I met you, but the first time I had the conscious thought was when you patched me up after that patient clocked me in the head,” he said, his hand now on your cheek, stroking the bone there, “you were standin’ between my legs, stitchin’ up my forehead, and all I could think about was pulling you close and kissing you until I couldn’t breathe.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

He sighed, “I’m your superior and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable if you didn't feel the same way.” You knew he didn’t want to delve into the ‘superior’ thing right now, didn’t want to have the long, complicated conversation that was sure to come in the following days. 

“And I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself once I started,” he said, lightening the mood a bit. 

You giggled at that, rolling your eyes affectionately. But something nagged in your head about what he said. 

“Wait…” you said, piecing together a timeline, “that was nearly a year ago! You’re telling me we could have been doing this for a year!?” you exclaimed, slapping him on the chest lightly. 

He shook his head at you, a sheepish look on his face. You were both idiots. 

“Well, I guess we have a lot of lost time to make up for, then, don’t we?” he said cheekily, capturing your lips again and pushing you onto your back, determined to make you a very happy woman.

a/n: thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it <33

taglist: @ficcyyfics

[iheartshawn]

I don’t know if you’ve done this yet. But Stepdad Jack filming while he absolutely mutilates you. Like I’m talking cum everywhere, sheets coming off the bed, scratches allll over his back. Like I’m talking Tommy Lee & Pamala Anderson. (If you know what I mean)

nonnie i've def not written something like this before 🫣 ngl you got me worried about the usage of 'mutilate' here lolll

i never watched that video nor i ever plan to but based on your description i got the vision ! this is giving me such aged up, much older jack vibes. this might be my most disgusting piece of writing yet

𓊆 cw: big hefty age gap, daddy / papa kink, rough sloppy messy sex, sub!reader, he calls her 'little girl' and 'little miss', dirty talk, roleplaying, overstimulation, facial, swallowing, scratching, manhandling, gets soft at the end, aftercare 𓊇 ‧₊˚ ┊ wc: 1.4k

you're currently seated on jack's lap, grinding on his cock. you can feel the mixture of both his and yours' sweat (and amongst other fluids) sliding off your back, his strong pectorals and the softness of his belly rubbing against you at every movement. the wetness left large stains scattered across the sheets, courtesy of the five orgasms he's given you (and counting) and he's not going to stop any time soon. you don't have the faintest idea how long you two have been going at it. your bet? it’s probably been hours.

how'd this old man approaching his sixties didn't shoot his load the moment you unzipped his pants?

jack brushes some loose hairs away from your ear before licking the back of it, he whispers — "look at yourself."

you look up to see the LCD screen of the camcorder he got from god knows where deep in his basement that's obviously seen better days.

you can see a little bit of jack's mostly salt than pepper hair, you can see him looking at you through the screen with a lustful gaze, you can see how his frame is almost swallowing you due to how fucking big he is compared to you. seriously, no one's grandad should look this sexy. and you. . .

you look fucking sinful. your mascara has run down your cheeks — you've been crying a lot because you're so goddamn tired but jack's been making you feel so good to beg him to stop. your lipstick has completely rubbed off of your lips. you can also see some drool and snot sticking to your skin. disgusting. but fuck, you can't deny how hot you look right now. the way your hips are winding on his cock, and how it drives the old man crazy. his head keeps tilting back, yelling and groaning up at the ceiling, eyes rolling to the back of his skull — like a man possessed.

jack hazily stares back at your eyes through the screen, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards. "a throne for a princess."

now it's your turn to cry out of pleasure, the loudness echoing off the walls.

"jesus– fuck!!" your voice was strangled, nails digging into the meat of jack's thighs.

he hissed, then he taunts you. "why? you gonna cum again?"

you didn't answer him. instead, you grumbled in a weak objection. that's a clear enough answer.

jack gets up from the bed bringing you with him. he's still balls deep inside of you when he looks at the screen to make sure he's getting the right angles. he takes hold of both of your arms and pins them behind your back before he starts to pound hard in and out of you.

are his joints not on fire? his back must be killing him too but his determination to make you come for the sixth time outweighs his own needs. 

the camera captures the recoil of your breasts from the force of jack's thrusts. you can't speak at all, you think that's what he wants — your only role in his film was to act as his personal pornstar, someone who doesn’t have to speak or think. someone who just moans and acts slutty — and fuck, you love it. 

he sneaks a hand around your body to play with your clit, you start to squirm away from him from overstimulation. he’s everywhere. his cock, his breath, his scent. . . you’re drowning in him. 

“squirt again for me, baby. squirt all over this floor until your smell is stuck in this room for days.” 

you unhinge your jaw with a silent scream as you spray your juices one. . . two. . . three. . . four times. you can not hold your entire body up by yourself, jack has to maneuver you into a bent over position by the dresser where the camera is placed. 

jack presses himself on your sweaty back, then breathes against your hairline. “what do you say, beautiful?”

it takes everything in you to moan out the words, “siiiixxxxx. . .” you sob, “thank you for making me feel good. love you, daddy.”

“love you too, baby.” you can see him smile fondly at you, there’s genuine love and adoration in his eyes — a stark difference compared to that first time he bent you over his knee, when there was only lust.

“ready for the next one? lucky number seven?” 

“. . .dunno.” you think you’re at your breaking point and you’re really tired. 

his demeanour changed into concern, “just say the word, baby. we can stop. you’re the boss here.”

you can’t stop the single tear that escaped your eye, jack swiped over it with his thumb before tilting your head to face him. he gives you a sweet kiss on the lips. 

he may be the 'daddy' or the 'papa' but you got him wrapped around your finger. he has always spoiled you but you think you should do the same to him because he deserves it as much as you. 

a wide smile breaks across your face. jack returns one of his own.

with a single nod, “i’m okay, papa. let’s do it.”

he carefully pulls out of you, takes the camera and hands it to you. you clutch it to your chest as he picks you up in a bridal carry and carries you back to the bed. 

he retrieves the object back from you and sets it on the bedside table. he makes a few adjustments on its angles and your positions. 

you are sprawled on the mattress, your limbs feeling like jelly. he pushes your legs apart then hooks them around his waist. 

you place a hand on his thigh. you softly ask, “your leg still okay?” 

he simply smiled, “i’m okay.”

you hummed with a pout, unconvinced. your expression makes him huff a laugh. “i promise.” 

jack takes hold of his still hard, heavy cock. he gives your cunt a few ‘love taps’ before he pushes in you again. he’d been inside you all this time and yet the stretch still knocks the air out of your lungs. 

he draws himself closer to you, brushing his lips against yours. he starts pounding deep and hard. this will be orgasm number seven — he has to make it so fucking good for you, you pass out. 

he’s not giving you enough time to breathe, you can’t help but to just close your eyes shut and take what he’s giving you. you also don’t realise that you’re scratching down his back, your nails are surely leaving marks deep into his skin. 

jack grunts in pain but he keeps going. he’s so close to reaching his peak. 

“give it to me. fu– fucking squeeze the fuck out of my cock.” 

you let out a high keen, “i’m cumming! aah–!” you start to convulse beneath him, still leaving marks not only on his back but on his beefy biceps as well. 

not letting you recover, he drags you to the edge of the bed and lets you drop to the floor. his hands shove you into a kneeling position. 

as if on autopilot mode, you open your mouth wide, sticking your tongue out. jack pumps his dick with quickness, “that’s a good little girl. fuck, you’re so pretty.” he moans long and loud, “staystillstaystillstaystill. take alllll of your papa’s cum. c’mon.”

some of the first spurts landed on your forehead and cheeks, you angled your head to catch the remaining spend. 

when he’s sure he squeezed out all of it, he tells you to keep his cum on your tongue and stay in place. he briskly makes his way over to the bedside table to grab the camcorder. he returns standing in front of you, pointing the lens to your face, and zooming in. 

“swallow.” 

you obey, your eyes close at the delectable taste of your old lover. 

jack sighed, in awe of you. “show off those manners, little miss.”

you giggled, “that’s seven. thank you for the gift, daddy!” you bite your lip, hoping to come off as flirtatious in the video. 

“you gonna meet up with old men you talk to on the internet at hotels again?” 

“nuh-uh.”

“that’s a good girl. . . you’re gonna be my new favourite plaything.” he caresses the side of your jaw.

recording ends.

jack carelessly chucks the camcorder on the bed. 

he runs both of his hands through his curls, wiping the dripping sweat off his face in the process. and like a switch, “i’ll run a bath for us then room service?”

you inch closer to his right kneecap to give it a gentle kiss. you rest your cheek against it, you look up at him. “then a massage?”

“deal.” as he starts to lean forward to help you up, he hisses and rubs the skin of his lower back. “maybe a full body massage?" ♡ 

[lavenderozan]

Hello! I loved your fic about mbappe! I was wondering if you could write something about him where reader is a famous popstar and she’s been publicly supporting France (and lwk crushing on mbappe) during the wc and fans think they’d be really cute together and then sometime after they’re both coincidentally single at the same time so they do end up going on a date or something and being caught by paparazzi

Sorry if this is too long no pressure to write it ofc!!

alchemy

CONTENT. kylian mbappe x popstar!reader , fluff , not proofread , 681 words

𝒏. i’ll admit that i was feeling a little lazy but i finally got around to writing it. i decided to combine it with another request since they seemed similar. enjoy ෆ

Are you single?

That seemed to be the question everybody wanted to know the answer to.

Every interview, whether it was subtle or outright, always seemed to fall back on the topic of your relationship status.

You'd never had the greatest luck at love, despite it being the thing most people recognized you by. Your stupid love songs.

Of course, writing about love was easier than actually engaging in it. You had to be wary of who you got close to. You'd gotten your heart broken so many times that you found it hard to connect with other people, fearing that they would betray you.

You made a promise to yourself that you would stop chasing after love—not unless it was real. How hard could that be?

So when you got invited to go to a World Cup game, you didn't think anything of it.

You were there to have fun, to have a good time, maybe ogle at some players, and in particular, one had happened to catch your eye.

Kylian Mbappé. France's captain. Their star player.

No. Immediately no. That would be a PR nightmare. You could hear your manager's voice scolding you internally, telling you to look away, but you couldn't.

When his eyes caught yours, as if you were in some sort of movie, you swore you felt your heart stop.

You looked away first.

You had no reason to reprimand yourself for finding him attractive. After all, that would never happen. He probably didn't even know you existed.

And yet, you found yourself in another predicament when you received a dm later that night.

k.mbappe: hey I saw you at the game. It was cool to see you. I'm a big fan of your music, only it's a shame that I didn't catch you before you could leave.

As big as you were, you were star struck at the message. He was a fan of you. Just play it cool.

You: thank you so much! You played well, congrats on the win

k.mbappe: you were supporting France? I didn't see your shirt

You: oh I don't have one lol

k.mbappe: I think I have one I can give you

Smooth.

Like before, you found yourself at France's next game, but this time, wearing a bleus shirt. Kylian had taken the liberty of sending you one, my present written on the note card.

You didn't let yourself get too excited. Not yet. You had a heart to protect—two if you counted your manger's. It would probably explode if he found out who you were crushing on.

But that was all it was. A harmless crush.

Or, it was supposed to be.

Despite your previous sentiments, you couldn't help but be drawn to Kylian. He had a way of making you feel like the only girl in the world, and you couldn't remember the last time someone made you feel so wanted.

He kept inviting you to his games, and you could never say no, eager to see how he'd play, so captivating, a force you couldn't take your eyes off of.

And your support certainly didn't go unnoticed.

It seemed as though the internet had a new obsession—you and Kylian.

You were never one to entertain those kind of rumors, but seeing people say the two of you would make a good couple amused you. The idea itself had your stomach fluttering with butterflies.

When your new song came out a month later, with lyrics like, "where's the trophy? He just comes running over to me," people had an inkling suspicion that it was about Kylian.

The attention only ramped up when you were spotted leaving a restaurant, Kylian following right behind you.

You hadn't confirmed nothing yet, and you didn't need to. You didn't owe anyone personal details about your relationship.

And besides, they probably got the hint, watching you cross the field after Kylian won a game, taking you into his arms. Worth more than any trophy he could win.

It was you.

And his love was all yours.

© lavenderozan 2026, all rights reserved.