sangweechie

18+ mdni please sometimes i write fics, often i reblog no fixed fandom would love to make moots so please interact with meee

[sanguinesandwich]

masterlist

I know the fuck about a share-a-thon - Patrick Zweig x Reader (Challengers)

Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your

Vices & Sublimation - Aaron Hotchner x Reader (Criminal Minds)

Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your

[cokezerovape]

[mariasont]

failure of imagination

you approach everything clinically, including poorly constructed sex scenes in books. dr langdon decides to take that as an invitation to give you a proper sex ed lesson.

pairings: nerd!reader x frank langdon

warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, reader reading smut, virgin!reader (kind of implied more than outright stated), innocence kink, corruption kink, langdon supplying reader with an sex book?, literally so freaked out and for what, female masturbation, phone sex, langdon talking you thru it!!!

wc: 6.2k

You’ve always had a somewhat fraught relationship with imagination. People say you lack it, to put it plainly. They say you’re too literal. As if being literal isn’t the reason airplanes stay in the air and bridges remain standing. 

But you just happen to find reality plenty beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Reassuring. There is dignity in a thing that can be tested, reproduced, and counted on.

Newton’s law. The sodium-potassium pump. Entropy. Even the grimmer systems at least are consistent if nothing else.

So naturally, medicine was what you pursued in college. Everything means something. Everything is attached to something else. Symptoms are not random; bodies are not whimsical.

Even if an answer is hidden, it exists, and if you are willing to stay with a problem long enough, turn it over enough times, peel it apart layer by layer and build it back from the inside out, eventually it reveals itself.

Fiction does not afford you that courtesy. Fiction wants you to tolerate blank spaces and gaps. You hate gaps. You love knowing.

Fiction gives you half a scene and waits expectantly, like congratulations, now you do the labor.

Build the room. Place the bodies. Infer the angles. Ignore, apparently, that the human body is not an abstract concept but a heavily regulated system of hinges and limits and gravity and very obvious spatial constraints. 

You are experiencing one of those gaps now, staring so hard at the page your eyes begin to sting a little, focus tightening to a punitive little point. You think if you look at it severely enough the scene might resolve into something you can understand.

The book says the woman is “on top,” which should be clear enough on its own, except the next sentence immediately ruins that clarity by describing angles that do not, as far as you can tell, exist in three-dimensional space. 

And you have so many questions.

Is there a bed involved here? A couch? A floor? Any surface at all?

You reread the line. Maybe you overlooked a prepositional phrase hiding in plain sight. A detail that will clarify whose leg is bent and why it apparently now has the range of motion of a paper clip.

Nothing. No luck. Still opaque.

Possibly more vague now, because repetition has begun to dissolve whatever confidence you had in your own reading abilities.

It is difficult to overstate how humiliating it is to be bested by mediocre smut. 

You sigh and look to your watch. 9:18 p.m. Late. The bus is always late. That’s why you have this book in your hand in the first place, wanting to turn dead time into something educational. Unfortunately that’s not how it’s going.

You blow out a breath as another gust of wind snakes over the exposed strip of skin between your socks and the hem of your jeans.

They used to hit lower on your ankle, but courtesy of your building’s shitty communal dryer, they don’t do that anymore.

“Interesting reading choice.”

It is not a voice you prepared yourself to hear. You weren’t prepared to hear a voice at all, really.

So when you hear the familiar pitch of Landon, your body overcorrects, sending you backward like a startled deer losing traction on ice.

You see the next ten seconds in a flash: the hollow thunk of your head on the pole behind you, the stuttering apologies delivered as your vision tunnels, the concussion protocols that will surely haunt you for weeks, months, possibly forever.

But those ten seconds never actually happens.

Instead, you cautiously peer up into the flat, coolly appraising expression of Langdon, whose hand is placed behind your head, taking the brunt of the impact.

“Oh. Hi. Dr. Langdon. I, um, this isn’t — I’m not —” You’re already floundering, trying to assemble something defensible out of a situation that is not defensible. “It was recommended,” you say at last, which is true, though not in a way that sounds remotely exculpatory once spoken aloud. “By Javadi. She said it was good, which I assumed meant, like, well-written, not — this. Which I know sounds — I hear it, I hear how it sounds, but I didn’t just, like, seek this out independently. I was curious from a clinical standpoint.”

Shit.

You just lobbed Victoria under the bus didn’t you? And unlike the literal bus, this metaphorical one arrived enthusiastically on time, probably even honked.

You add it to the growing ledger of things you owe her. Coffee, at the very least. Something artisanal, thoughtful, handcrafted.

A note, handwritten in apology, because email would be cowardly and texting would feel insufficient, and really — after what you’ve just done, you’re not sure anything short of ink, paper, and a tangible record of shame could suffice.

He removes his hand, the pressure at the back of your head disappearing as he shifts to rest it along the bench behind you instead.

“Clinical,” he repeats. His eyes flick briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you, unimpressed. “And what have you concluded so far, doctor?”

“Not a doctor yet,” you point out. Not sure why you do. “But, um, just that it’s just not very clear? Like, the scenes move really fast, and I feel like I’m missing steps in between, so I keep trying to visualize what’s happening and I just end up getting stuck on, like… where everything is supposed to go and —” You stop, frowning now. “You — you probably didn’t actually want an answer to that, did you?”

His mouth pulls just enough to suggest he’s entertained despite himself. “Not initially.”

You nod. “Okay, good, because I definitely wasn’t planning to provide detail. Just, you know — general plausibility stuff. Realism concerns.”

“Let me see,” he says, and before your frazzled brain can form an adequate objection, he's already reaching forward, extracting the paperback from your suddenly slackened grasp.

You stand abruptly, the bench scraping in a terrible sound against concrete as you reach for the book.

“You really don’t have to do that.”

A correct statement. Useless, however, as he lifts the novel out of reach without even looking at you, arm extending just enough to make it clear that this is not a negotiation, and also, somewhat insultingly, not even difficult.

You briefly consider climbing him. Scaling him like a distressed, socially compromised marsupial and retrieving the book by force.

It feels like a viable solution. You dismiss it only on the grounds that in the last five minutes alone, accumulated enough embarrassment to sustain a normal person for at least two lifetimes.

And theoretically there should be a cap.

There is not, apparently.

Because after a brief glance at the page, he starts reading aloud: “She sank down on him with an aching slowness, savoring the stretch of it, the sweet friction that made her pulse flutter faster with every roll of her body. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, keeping her there while the pleasure mounted in teasing waves until she was shaking with it, desperate and almost there.”

You feel the heat spark up your spine and towards you neck before saturating your face. The intensity momentarily blurs your vision.

Your hands tighten uselessly at your sides, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiling low in your stomach.

You try your very hardest not to let your mind start making substitutions. You try not to let the faceless bodies on that page acquire identifiable features. A chin dimple, for instance. You try not to let the voice in front of you fuse itself any further to the text than it already has.

You wrench your gaze upward, fixing it somewhere behind his left ear, hoping that physical distance might somehow dilute your newfound imagination that just five minutes ago you were bashing.

He closes the book with a snap, eyebrow arched. “Sounds perfectly reasonable.”

“I mean, maybe,” you respond, a little too quickly. “If there were just… more specifics? Like, about the positioning. The angle, or where —” You take a quick breath. “Never mind.”

“And exactly how would you clarify it?”

“I’d probably just… add another line,” you say. “Like, specify that her hips are lower, or that her weight is shifted forward so her center of gravity is closer to his. Just so it’s clear what’s actually happening.”

He doesn’t say anything right away and when his eyes flick forward again, they look a little different beneath the dark of the sky, the blue of them deepened into something richer. A little less straightforward, you think. Lapis held in low light, saturated in silver strips and a little too pretty.

You watch as his tongue drags across his lower lip, the briefest glimpse of moisture highlighting the subtle contours and fine, shallow ridges of texture there.

“If you’re that concerned with accuracy,” he murmurs, “I’m sure there’s ways to run a practical demonstration.”

You have a hard time understanding what he means by that and when your mind does attempt to furnish the words with imagery, you have to recoil from your own thoughts.

Does he mean with him?

No, surely not, that is not where he wanted this conversation to go, and besides, that interpretation feels reckless, egotistical even, considering he is almost certainly saying it in the most neutral, solution-driven sense possible.

If that’s what he’s saying at all. He might not be. You can’t tell.

He is offering a suggestion for you.

You are the one making it weird.

“Oh. Well, it’d probably end up being more complicated than it’s worth. I’d need a controlled setup, probably multiple attempts, and at that point it’s less a demonstration and more a full reconstruction.”

A muscle feathers along his jaw as he tips his face towards the moon-lit sky. He seems to do that a lot. Like he’s appealing to some higher power for fortitude to deal with you. Or maybe not you specifically, which would be preferable, expect it does feel rather like you are the central to the current crisis, you just aren’t sure how.

Then he exhales a small laugh, thin with disbelief, and shakes his head once. 

“You’re right,” he says, voice deadpan. “Clearly I wasn’t thinking this through. Practicality first.” He glances pointedly at his watch. “It’s late. I’ll give you a ride home.”

You accept his offer without arguing, you’d be a fool not to, and trail him out toward the parking lot. A step behind, then a half step, then back again. You can’t quite decide on the appropriate proximity.

When you reach the row of cars, you realize you’ve never seen his before.

It’s nice. Grey, practical, a four-door SUV that screams fiscal responsibility and weather-appropriate footwear, a vehicle with divorced-dad energy so specific you can practically invent the rest of the man around it: patient at youth soccer, quietly resentful in a grocery store parking lot, pretending not to be wounded by logistical disappointments. 

The interior only deepens the impression. It is clean, but not in a forbidding way, not scrubbed of personality.

There is a toy in the cupholder, a crumpled napkin tucked into the side compartment, a few fast-food receipts scattered near the floor like the residue of a life conducted at speed.

It feels lived in, which is somehow more intimate than if it had been spotless.

It is, disconcertingly, human. More human than you expected from a man who often carries himself like a sealed document. 

Nice, you think again, and then, unhelpfully, him, the two notions beginning to blur together before you can stop them.

It’s a relatively quiet drive to start. The radio tuned to some Catholic station it must have picked up nearby, murky and hard to decipher, while streetlights drift past in bands of orange and green, staining the inside of the car with color and then taking it back.

“Javadi really recommended that?” Frank asks suddenly, piercing the silence.

“Yeah,” you admit, then wince almost immediately. “Well, sort of. I mean, I probably should not make it sound like she shoved it into my hands in some kind of corrupting-the-youth campaign. She mentioned it, but I was already curious. It was not not my idea.” You glance down, suddenly very interested in your own hands. “I’ve just been trying to do a little research, I guess.”

His fingers tap once against the steering wheel.

“And what, specifically, are you hoping to learn?”

Your mouth presses thin for a second. You’re not sure if you should continue.

“I was mostly just trying to get a better sense of... how certain things work in real life,” you say, picking each word carefully. “As opposed to in theory. Or in whatever version of reality people usually pretend is self-explanatory.”

He says nothing at first. Then through grit teeth: “You mean because no one’s explained it to you?”

You glance over, caught a little off guard by the question. “Well, not in any useful sense.”

His jaw flexes. 

“And the alternative,” he says slowly, “was assigned reading.”

You wince. “When you phrase it like that, it does sound bleak.”

“When I phrase it like that, it sounds like you’re trying to teach yourself something most people learn by experience.”

“Well,” you mumble, “yes. More or less.”

The light changes and he brakes, the red wash from the signal pouring through the windshield and across his face, tinting his skin rose-gold.

He screws his eyes shut for a brief second, hands drawing tighter on the wheel before he exhales.

“In that case,” he says, opening his eyes again, “I’m not entirely convinced that’s the most reliable educational resource.”

“Why?” you ask, with enough sincere confusion to make it clear you are not arguing so much as requesting clarification. 

The light turns green.

“Because it’s not source material. It’s entertainment.” His tone stays level, but only just. “It takes whatever is most dramatic, most flattering, most appealing, and presents it like it’s standard. It leaves out the parts that are inconvenient or unsexy, which means if you treat it as educational, you’re going to come away with a very distorted sense of how any of it actually works.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “There were definitely sections where I kept thinking, surely that cannot be how that happens. Or at least not without significantly more preparation, flexibility, or orthopedic intervention than the text was willing to acknowledge.”

“So I gathered.”

You fall quiet after that, though not for lack of further questions. In fact the opposite is true, because now he has accidentally positioned himself as a person with knowledge of how sex works.

But that would be inappropriate on at least six different levels. 

He is driving you home as a favor, not volunteering to become some kind of after-hours consultant on the mechanics of sex, and there is no universe in which asking for elaboration would make you seem anything other than catastrophically unwell.

You almost ask him anyway. 

But before you can make what would almost certainly be the worst possible decision available to you tonight, the car slows, turns, and then stops. 

You stare at the windshield, disoriented by the fact that you are suddenly at your apartment.

“Right,” you say, gathering your bag with the abrupt, clumsy movements of someone trying to recover from her own thoughts. “Thank you. For the ride.”

He gives a brief nod, one hand still resting on the wheel. “It was no trouble.”

You do not believe that for even a second. Still, you murmur goodnight and let yourself out, hurrying inside with as much dignity as can be salvaged after a conversation like that.

A couple days later, you’re sitting in the breakroom with your head propped in your palm, devoting a frankly heroic amount of effort to not drop face-first into the laminate.

You are exhausted, which is surely unrelated to the fact that you stayed up too late conducting what can only be described as independent research.

There is, it turns out, an astonishing amount of positions.

More than seems necessary, honestly. Far too many names. Far too many diagrams. So many that appear to require either exceptional upper body strength or a level of mutual coordination that feels statistically unlikely in the average civilian population. 

Some are perfectly straightforward. Many are not. Several seem just down-right wrong.

The door opens and you glance up, prepared to offer some vague nod of recognition to whoever has come to interrupt your private collapse. 

Langdon.

“Oh,” you say, straightening a little too quickly. “Hi, Dr. Langdon.”

That seems to be your automatic response to his presence.

His eyes narrow. “Rough morning?”

You give a small shrug. “M’fine.”

“You’ll have to excuse my skepticism.” He drags the chair across from you and sits.

“Just stayed up too late.” 

You hope that doesn’t inspire follow-ups.

He slides something across the table toward you. A book. You stare at the cover. Then at him. 

“This,” he says, tapping two fingers once against the cover, “is at least designed to explain things.”

Slowly, as if touching it too fast might make this more real, you pick it up and turn it over.

The back is dense with tidy paragraphs about desire, arousal, and the science of how women’s bodies actually work, all written in the reassuring language of expertise, which would be comforting if your pulse were not currently behaving like it had something to hide.

“That’s… unexpectedly thoughtful,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

“Don’t make too much of it.”

“I won’t,” you say, which is a lie so poorly constructed it barely qualifies as one.

You are, in fact, almost certain to make too much of it later, probably in bed, probably while staring at the ceiling. 

Then the door opens again. You nearly jump. You pull the book against your chest like you are protecting classified material. Langdon’s eyes narrow a fraction.

Garcia steps inside a second later, pauses, and looks between the two of you.

“...Am I interrupting something weird?” she asks.

You stand so quickly the chair legs scrape against the floor.

“Nope,” you say. “Not at all. Nothing weird. Not even slightly.” You clutch the book tighter. “I do, however, suddenly need to go be elsewhere. For work-related reasons. Very legitimate ones.” You nod once. “Okay. Bye.”

It’s late when you finally start to read the book Langdon gave you. Your first mistake, really. You have to be up in four hours. Four.

But the book turns out to be more useful than expected. It has information. Real information. Terminology and diagrams and explanations that move in a sequence a human brain can follow, one thing leading intelligibly to the next instead of that gauzy, vague, everyone-just-knows-what-to-do, magical event nonsense.

And this all should, theoretically, be enough to satisfy you.

Except every answer you get splits open into three more questions, hydra-style, the whole thing multiplying the second you think you have a grip on it.

And yes, sometimes Google is enough. But sometimes it is not.

Too broad, too contradictory, too many tabs open at once, too many Reddit posts written by men with misplaced confidence.

So now you are sitting on your bed staring at your phone, typing a message, deleting it, retyping it, deleting it again. Because this is weird. It is weird to text him.

But then again, he did hand you the book.

He did, in a very real sense, amplify this situation. And maybe giving you additional reading material counts as tacit approval for further questions. A follow-up. Continuing education.

You hit send.

hi dr. langdon. sorry. i have a question about the book!

It takes only a couple seconds for him to answer.

Go ahead.

You sit up so fast the book slides off your leg and drops onto the bedspread with a soft thump.

You stare at the screen.

You expected eventuality, a response tomorrow morning maybe, sometime after sunrise, sometime under the polite cover of daylight when everybody involved could collude in pretending this was a normal academic exchange and not you texting a senior resident after dark about sex-adjacent material like you were requesting clarification on electrolyte imbalance.

You glance at the clock and frown.

What is he even doing up?

Surely you didn’t wake him. You cannot imagine he sleeps with his ringer turned up loud enough for that. No, he feels like a phone-on-silent, notifications-curated, emergency-contacts-only kind of man.

You spend four minutes composing the question. You send six words.

what does “building sensation” actually mean?

Need more context than that.

You photograph the page. You send it. You put your phone face down on the quilt and do not look at it for a full minute.

When you finally make yourself turn the phone over, he’s answered.

It’s the physiological buildup to orgasm. Increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, pelvic muscle tension. Sustained and constant stimulation. The sensation compounds on itself.

Your thumb catches idly on the hem of your pajama shorts, worrying the fabric back and forth while you stare at the screen. It takes a long amount of time to realize you’re doing it. You stop. Then start again without meaning to, fingertips slipping under the edge to press against your thigh. 

is consistency about location or pressure or both? the book implies they're interchangeable.  

Both. Generally location first, then pressure. If you keep changing where you’re touching, it’s harder to build anything. If the location is consistent but the pressure is erratic, same problem. They’re related, but not interchangeable.

Your free hand has drifted north to the waistband of your shorts, thumb pressing little crescent moons into overheated skin. Almost feverish.

Location first. 

An unfortunate instruction to receive while being aware of the exact location in question, muted now by two thin layers of cotton.

You should stop there. Obviously.

You should set the phone down, turn off the lamp, go to sleep, and revisit all of this in the morning when you are less suggestible. 

Instead your hand keeps moving, slow enough that you can perhaps pretend you have not consciously decided anything, slipping lower until it hovers over your underwear, where your clit presses back against the fabric. Swollen. And then lower than that, wet.

That startles you more than anything. From what, exactly? A sex manual? A few texts? Him?

No. That last one is inadmissible. Wildly inappropriate.

So you drag your mind back to the book instead, using it as a kind of corrective, something technical to blunt that he is, however indirectly, implicated in this. 

Start with indirect stimulation. Let the body acclimate. Don’t rush the thing. Let the thing, apparently, arrive on its own like a skittish woodland creature you are trying not to scare off.

Fine. Whatever. 

You press your thumb down and make a circular motion, sucking in a breath so sharply it almost hurts, mostly because the sensation is immediate and strange and good. You wouldn’t say overwhelming. Though maybe you would. You can’t think straight. Surprising, then. Concentrated.

Like pressing a bruise, except the complete inverse of that, if they lit up instead of aching. It makes you want to do it again.

So you do.

Small circles. Experimental. Testing the waters.

And it’s not like this is technically new. You have tried before.

But before was rushed and graceless and was the sort of thing done half-curiously and abandoned quickly, with no patience for your own body.

You were raised sheltered, and beyond that, serious. Preoccupied with things that seemed more pressing, more worthy of your attention, as though this part of yourself could be indefinitely postponed without consequence. 

You pick the phone back up with your unoccupied hand.

okay. that makes sense.

You stare at it, dissatisfied. Too final. Too capable of ending the conversation. You add another line before you can overthink yourself out of it.

and if the sensation is building, when are u supposed to switch? like to inner stimulation, i mean. or are you not supposed to unless what you’re already doing stops working?

The typing bubble appears instantly.

You don’t have to switch. That’s the first thing.

External stimulation is usually more important, especially early on. Inner stimulation is optional, not a required next step.

Little gasps keep escaping you as you refine the motion, not changing much, just enough pressure to sharpen it, back arching into the mattress.

It feels good. You don’t remember it ever feeling this good.

Maybe because before did not involve a very attractive doctor explaining your own body back to you in real time.

It is getting harder to text. Harder to think in complete sentences. Still, you manage, so if it’s working, is it better to not change anything? even if it starts feeling a lot more sensitive?

Your phone starts ringing.

You freeze when Frank's name flashes across the screen.

For a moment you can only stare. Your pulse jumps in your throat, fluttering there like something trapped, and then you are yanking your hand from your shorts and grabbing for the phone with fingers that suddenly seem to belong to someone much less coordinated than you.

“Hi —,”

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, though your voice already sounds guilty, chest rising and falling unevenly. “I’m — nothing. I’m just reading.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

You frown at the dark ceiling. “I hate the confidence with which you say things.”

“It’s usually earned.”

You make a face at that, even though he cannot see it.

“I wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz,” you mutter. “You called out of nowhere.”

“A call seemed appropriate,” he says through the soft buzz of static.

“Why?”

Your whole body feels keyed up now, strung too tight, humming with a surplus of energy like you have been plugged into the wall and simply left there to glow.

It's hard to keep still under the blankets. Harder with his voice in your ear, that low grain of it roughened by the hour, touched with that tired edge that makes him feel closer than he is. He sounds warm. He sounds half-undone.

You can picture him without trying. In bed. Hair rumpled from sleep or from his hand shoved through it one too many times, one stray piece fallen near his eyes. Maybe in pajamas. Maybe not. Either option is equally disruptive. You brain offers a shirt pushes up a little, one arm behind his head, a strip of stomach, a line of hair disappearing into plaid boxers.

You shift on the mattress. Your hand trails back down your front, fingers resuming their place on your underwear.

“Because your last text didn’t read like a theoretical question,” he says. “I wanted to hear whether I was right.”

The words move through you, like he has reached through the phone and pressed a hand flat to your lower stomach.

“And were you?”

Your hips shift on the mattress again, angling into your own touch.

You bite your lip around the small throb of pleasure that follows.

“Yeah. I was.” His voice comes through coarser now, the line fuzzing around it, but not enough to hide the change. “And if I’m hearing you correctly, you haven’t stopped.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“...maybe.”

There's a brief pause on the line. You hear the rustle of him moving, before he speaks again. “Tell me exactly what you're doing.”

“I’m, uh…” You mouth goes dry. “I mean, you know.”

“I can’t tell you what to do if you won’t tell me what you’re doing,” he says. “You need to be specific.” 

You swallow.

“I’m touching over my underwear,” you admit finally, the words coming out hushed and a little uneven. “Just with my thumb. I’m not really… doing anything more than that.”

A soft exhale crackles through the phone.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it feels good.”

Your lashes flutter at the words. Your thumb keeps tracing the same spot, a little more rhythmically now, and every so often your hand falters when the sensation catches unexpectedly bright, a live wire under your skin.

Flashing hotter and hotter and hotter until you can barely stand it.

Your thighs draw in on instinct, then ease apart again, restless, unable to decide whether they are trying to hold the feeling or escape it.

“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage. 

You start to picture him again. Existing in real time in the dark on the other end of the line now.

It sends the throbbing in your cunt up tenfold, sharp little bursts of color flying behind your eyelids, green and orange and something almost gold.

You use your imagination to conjure up the image of him doing the same. Him with the phone in one hand and the other moving in lazy unhurried strokes around his cock, like this is no great strain for him, like he is as controlled in private as he is everywhere else.

You wonder what it looks like. His cock. Probably big and pink and veiny.

You know, rationally, that he is probably not doing that at all. He is probably just lying there in the dark, listening, talking, being composed for both of you.

But it is a nice thought anyway. More than nice, really. Your body answers it before you can caution it otherwise, your clit going heavier and more swollen, as you move to touch yourself without the barrier of your panties. It’s more sensitive that way. And your whole lower half seems to lean vainly into your own hand, practically preening toward the touch.

“Now I’m, um, touching myself directly.”

“Alright. Want you to try something. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. A little too eager. “I can.”

“Good girl.” The praise makes your stomach tighten. “Want you to slide two fingers into yourself a little. Not all the way, just enough to get them wet, okay? Then bring them back to your clit and keep using your thumb, or your fingers if that feels easier. Same pace as before.”

You nod even though you know he can’t see it and slip two fingers down, enough to feel the sticky warmth of yourself, coating your digits.

You bring it back up, smearing it over your nub.

“Oh,” you mumble breathily.

“Yeah?” he teases quietly. “That better?”

“A lot.”

“Good. It’s easier like that. Less friction. If you’re getting more sensitive, too much drag starts working against you.”

He’s right. He’s always right. You feel a little strange and floaty now, like your whole body has narrowed down to one incandescent point.

“How do you know all this?” you prod.

A pause. Then, “Experience.”

“Right. That.” Another circle, another spark of pleasure down your spine. “I don’t exactly have that.”

“I gathered.”

Something in his tone makes you go a little still. Not enough to stop, but your hand falters, tightening around a thought before you can even identify it.

He notices immediately. He has some terrifying sonar for you specifically, some private frequency calibrated to every tiny shift in your breathing, every dropped beat, every half-second hesitation.

“Hey,” he says pointedly. “Don’t get in your head now. Never said it was a bad thing. Keep going. Think about something else.”

“Such as?” you whisper.

There’s the sound of breathing from the phone before he answers, “that’s up for you to decide.”

You suck in a sharp breath, squirming as you adjust phone closer to your ear

“Can you just… keep talking to me?”

There’s a huff on the other end, almost a laugh. “That’s not very specific.”

“I know.” You’re sure you’re not making much sense right now. “I just — don’t stop. Please. Just wanna hear you say anything.”

He’s quiet for a second, like he’s trying to decide what, exactly, you’re asking for. The problem is, you’re not entirely sure either.

You only know there’s a strange, tightening warmth low in your stomach, something gathering there, and his voice seems to nurture it instead of breaking it apart.

You hear something clang on the other end of the phone.

“Fuck. Okay. First need you to breathe, okay? You're tensing up, I can hear it. Relax your legs.”

You try to do as you're told.

In. Out. In. Out.

Each breath feeding the whole thing oxygen, driving you nearer and nearer to the vanishing point until your eyes threaten to roll back and your body feels like on extended nerve.

“I —” A breath. “Sorry, I just —” Another one. “Frank I think I'm — I'm close, I think, I don't — It's really intense and I don't know what I'm —” You lose the thought entirely. “I just don't know what I'm supposed to do when it starts feeling like this. Do I stop, or —”

“Shit baby, you've never gotten there before? Not even —”

“No,” you manage.

“Oh, poor thing.”Quiet. Almost to himself. “Okay. ‘S okay. Don't stop. I need you to stay with me and just let it happen, can you do that?”

“I think —”

“Don't think,” he cuts you off. “For once in your life, don't think. Just feel it.”

Something in you finally gives.

You feel all of it at once.

Your orgasm peaks so fast it almost feels like losing power everywhere at the same time, every room going dark together, and your back comes off the pillows and your hand presses harder before you even mean for it to and a gasp tears out of you, high and helpless and so unlike anything you have ever heard from yourself that for a second it barely sounds like yours.

“That’s it,” Frank says, low in your ear.

It rolls. That's the only word for it.

It rolls outward from your pussy in a slow, stunned series of tremors moving through your thighs, your spine, your chest, each wave its own distinct thing and yet not distinct at all, each one its own event, its own brief undoing.

You cannot do anything except lie there and take it, receive it as it passes through you, because there is nothing else available to you now, no other function left online, no thought, no dignity, no language, only this long bright aftershock and your body answering it whether you understand it or not.

Your breathing takes a while to come back to anything recognizable.

At first it is just air dragged in and let back out. Sweat has glued a few strands of hair to your forehead. Your hand has gone slack.

“You still with me?”

That is when your brain comes back. All at once. Hard. Fast.

Because now you are not just a body coming down from an orgasm.

Now you are yourself again. And Frank Langdon just talked you through getting off.

Frank Langdon, your coworker. Frank Langdon, your superior. Frank Langdon, whom you have just used as a combined anatomy instructor, practical demonstration guide, and live sex education resource.

“Yes, yeah, sorry.” You swallow, wipe at your forehead with the heel of your hand. “I'm here.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Your sensitivity's going to be elevated for a minute, so just let your muscles relax and let your breathing even out. If you feel shaky, that's normal. If you heart's racing, also normal. Get some water when you can. Sit up slowly if you're going to move.”

“Okay,” you murmur, because he sounds so certain that for a second it is easy to borrow some of it. You try to unclench by degrees, thighs, stomach, shoulders, one thing at a time. “I am a little shaky, which is good to know is normal and not, like, a sign that I’ve accidentally broken something."

“No,” he says, and there is that low note of dry amusement under it now, just enough to catch. “You didn’t break anything. If you had, trust me, we’d be having a very different conversation.”

“Right, no, I know. Though sex-related injuries are not exactly unheard of. Do you remember that girl in the ER who had a condom stuck in her for over two months and didn't realize it? That would suck."

"Mm. It would," he agrees. "Protection is important. Equally important to make sure it actually comes back out with you."

You let out a small giggle at that and shift on the bed, drawing yourself up a little slower this time, careful like he told you to bed. The quilt bunches under your legs.

A quiet opens up. And it might be comfortable if it with anyone else. But it is not with anyone else.

You break first.

“So what happens now?” you ask, trying for light and missing by a little. “Do we pretend this was a totally normal educational exchange and never speak of it again?”

“I don’t think you’re capable of pretending that,” he says.

You flush hot all over.

“And you are?”

A pause.

“No.” The room goes still around you. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, but he does say: “You should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Probably.”

You have to be up in three hours now. Have to see him in four.

Another beat. Neither of you hangs up.

Then, very quiet, very even, he says, “Next time, ask sooner.”

“Next time?”

“If you’re going to use me as a reference source,” he says, all dry composure again, though now it feels a little put on, “I’d prefer a more reasonable hour.”

Your cheeks heat with the power of a thousand suns.

“Oh, well, Dr. Langdon, I think —”

“Goodnight.”

The line clicks dead.

You lie there staring into the dark, phone still pressed to your ear, and understand with awful, perfect clarity that this has not ended anything at all.

More gaps in your knowledge.

And you really hate gaps.

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts 4 ten thousand yrs!!!!!!!! thinking about writing a part two but we shall see. anyway thanks for reading!! love ya always

YOU CAN FIND MY FRANK LANGDON MASTERLIST HERE

[cokezerovape]

[missreinarabbit]

[sar-per]

[sicknastyjr]

Your 20s are not about getting your life together they're about learning to escape the self imposed torture labyrinth you've built inside your own head

[xoxo-ben-xoxo]

enough mpreg. give him mpostpartum depression

[terpsikeraunos]

frankenstein (1818)

[imdrinkingmiso]

rage bait works on me because I was never meant to have a phone or see a screen of any kind

[orlovbats]

I bought Dr. Robby's green fleece (it's a Patagonia Better Sweater in the colour Torrey Pine Green), which arrived today. The fleece is great, but this post isn't about that. This post is about how a flyer fell out from the folds of the fleece which, upon closer inspection, I discovered to be an advertisement for an anti-suicide charity. Hilarious stuff.

[prompts-in-a-barrel]

"You don't know me. I'm not the same person anymore."

"That's okay. I'll get to know you again."

[californiannostalgia]

[di1fluvr]

it's better when you do it | m. robinavitch

med student!Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x reader

summary: another night of lackluster sex with your boyfriend leads you to Robby's door. who else would you confide in about your lack of pleasure than your closest friend. he's sure he can show you a thing or two.

tags/desc: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, AFAB!reader, implied med student!reader but it doesn't really matter to the plot, young!robby, med student!robby, sleazy!robby, college/med school AU, to close to be 'just friends' trope, smut, cheating— do not read if it makes u uncomfortable!!, dubcon (robby convinces her its ok to sleep with him), unprotected piv (no hat not cat yall!), fingering, oral (f!recieving), light hair pulling, petnames/name calling (baby, sweetheart, dirty girl, slut, etc), pussy pronouns (she, her), super vague 90s references (was not born in the 90s so i wouldnt know LMAO), slightly proofread

wordcount: 5.7k (literally wtf)

part 2

a/n: 13 google doc pages later and here we are. i feel like the end is kinda rushed but fuck it we ball + peep the new profile theme 😛| requests are open—!! reblogs are a writers best friend

“Yeah baby— I’m so close!”

The old wood of the twin bed creaked and bumped into concrete walls. Soft thuds echoing off the walls, mixing with the feverish grunts of your boyfriend. Plaid sheets messily sprawled around your body, undone from being pushed aside in an effort to peel your clothes off. 

It’s an unsightly scene, at least in your eyes. Your chest pushed into the mattress, his sweaty hands gripping on to the plush skin of your hips, pulling your bottom half up and bending you in half. Weakly pushing and pulling his cock in and out of your somewhat interested hole. The feeling of his sloppy rhythm against your ass. Like a fish flailing on dry land. A pace that only he could enjoy.

Boring. Yawning. Sloppy.

The three words that stuck to your brain throughout the entirety of 15 minutes. You were glad your face was pushed into the pillow and partially covered by your hair. Or else your boyfriend would see the flat expression that you couldn’t manage to cover up. Playing off your ‘pleasure’ with fake high pitched moans. It’s good enough to fool him, make him feel like he’s really doing something. 

“Oh gosh I’m gonna—!” He chokes on his words as his hips come to a halt. Forcing you deeper into the pillow and mattress as his hips stutter. Dumping another sad, sad load into the condom.

A deep sigh left your lips, as you rolled over on to your back. Your boyfriend pulled out and sat on his heels, panting like a dog. A stark difference in who really got to feel it tonight. 

This is how the routine went on. You enter his dorm room, while his roommate is gone for the evening. Laze around on the cramped bed, converse about your days, then go straight into the act. You grew to— you had to grow to get used to it. Did you enjoy it, like it? Like is a very strong word. Of course, you cherished every moment with your boyfriend. But after the ill-fated honeymoon phase passed, a deep pit had started to form in your stomach. One that screamed concerns from its very depths. 

But you aren’t shallow, never will be. You know there is more to a relationship than sex. He got you flowers on every date. Held doors open for you. You liked the way his fingertips felt when they ran over your scalp. You can learn to enjoy mediocre sex. Maybe he just had to be trained a little more. 

Who were you kidding? Why should you have to train your own boyfriend on how to make you feel good?

“So uh— did you finish too baby?” You cringed at the question. Sweet, simple Derrek. Too lost in his own pleasure that he couldn’t tell, in the last few weeks, you had not been able to finish with him at all. Forcing you to take the burden of saving his ego by lying to him everytime. 

“Yeah, yeah I did. Thank you, honey.” Forcing a soft smile on to your lips as you give his arm a soft pat. 

And on with the routine; exchanging a few kisses, pulling clothes back on, and getting ready to slip out the door. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah baby?” He asked, holding the door open. The dim light of the dorm hall contrasted with the bright, warm light of his dorm room.

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe. I might have to study extra tomorrow night for my microbiology exam on Friday. But, I’ll call your line.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re studying with Robby— You know I don’t like that guy.”

You turn your body to start walking away. Really to hide the massive eyeroll. “How many times have I told you not to worry about Robby?”

You finally slip away from the dorm. Hearing the heavy, wooden door shut behind you as you trail down the hallway, a deep weight lifts off your shoulders. Finally dropping the act that came with every intimate night. The act of pretending that you didn’t want to shake him and scream to finally make you finish. To listen to your needs for a change. Throw in a spank in or something. Call you anything but your name.

You float out of the building, walking through dark courtyards with students lingering around walking to the library or back to their own dorm. Not much is on your mind as you aimlessly stroll. Thinking about what to eat in your little stash of snacks. If it’s time to do laundry. If you’d have to let your fingers slip into your panties to feel some kind of release. Mundane. That’s all it felt like after evenings with your boyfriend. Not magical, blissful, or euphoric.

It’s not long until you are on the floor of your dorm room. Passing by closed doors, old flyers start to peel off the walls. As you approach your door, reaching into your bag for your keys, your eyes drift to the final door at the very end of the hall.

Resident Assistant | Michael Robinavitch 

Do Not Knock After 9 PM! - robby

Your lips curled up from its original thin line. You knew Robby would make an exception this one time. It’s only 9:07 anyway. He always knew how to lift your spirits.

Fleeting past 3 doors, standing in front of Robby’s. Knuckles rapping against cool wood. A muffled groan on the other side, followed by subtle padding of footsteps leading up to the door.

“How many times do I have to tell you people… Read the sign—” As the door opens, Robby rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. Stopped in his slight annoyance from your surprise visit. Leaning against the door as he softens.

“Well good evening to you too, Robert. Am I interrupting your 9 PM bedtime? ” you ask with a fake pout.

“Never sweetheart.”

The mere presence of you is enough to turn Robby’s evening indifference into something sweeter. Reciprocating your smile with a slanted smirk of his own. Jerking his head backwards, motioning for you to come in. l told you to stop calling me Robert, slipping from his lips as a mumble. 

Slipping your shoes off and dropping your bag by the door. Your body finds its new home in Robby’s bed. Falling back into the mattress, that is somehow more comfortable than yours, humming at the easing feeling on your back. And Robby is quick to flop right next to you. Lean arm folding under his head, giving him room to slide right next to you. Pressing your sides against each other. Your head rests on his arm as a cushion as you lean into his body.

According to other people (anyone that isn’t you and Robby), this is not how two friends hang out. Friends don’t cuddle, which you weren’t cuddling anyways. It’s for body heat, and dorm beds are tiny; there's only so much space to go around. 

Ok, maybe the both of you cuddle. Just a little bit. Locking arms, tangling legs, occasionally falling asleep in that position after long nights of studying. It’s for bonding! It’s hard to make meaningful friendships in med school. Everyone either is too busy to hang out, or lives too high up on a self-proclaimed pedestal. And that’s why Robby is your closest friend. Best friends even, that occasionally cuddle, sleep in each other's bed, and give the off handed kiss on the cheek. Completely platonic. Anyone who thought you were more was overthinking it. Especially your boyfriend, who was not too happy when you would catch you sitting too close for his comfort. 

“Friends don’t call each other honey and sweetheart!” Derrek would say.

Yes they totally can. 

“What happened to your night out with your boyfriend? What’s his name, Connor? Brian?” Feigning interest in his eyes.

“It’s Derrek, don’t be a dick Robby. And it ended a little earlier than I thought. So why not pay a visit to my second favorite guy?”

“You must have the wrong room because Freddie Prinze Junior isn’t in here.” You roll your eyes and bite back an annoyed smile. With the uneventful time you had with your boyfriend, you were not in the mood for more jokes. Rolling your body over to let yourself out.

Robby whines, grabbing at your forearm to pull you back in. Pulling you back to the position you were previously in; cradled into his side as you rest on his tricep.

“Heyyy, I’m joking. You know I have all the time for you. What’s on your mind?” He said while nudging your side with his hip.

With a huff, you sit up and press your back against the cool wall, pulling your knees to your chest. Shaking your head, searing denial into your brain. Robby was not the right person to talk to about your bedroom troubles. As much as you want to.

“It’s nothing. Just didn’t feel like going back to my dorm.” But Robby knew you better than that. He egged you on, pushing and prodding you to tell him more. What did you really have to hide from him? He told you everything and as did you. Even though he loved to tease and poke fun at you, he never tried to judge you.

Biting on the inside of your cheek, you look at him cautiously. “If I tell you this, you cannot tell it to anyone else. Like at all.”

“Oh, so I can’t tell Freddie Prinze Junior?”

You smack his arm. “I’m being serious Robby!”

“Ok, ok fine— What’s the matter?” Robby moves himself up, just like you did. Back against the wall and knees slightly bent. Taking a hand to hook under your bent knee and pulling your legs to drape over his lap.

You groan and lean your head against the wall. Squeezing your eyes shut as embarrassment began to creep up your face. As open as you are with Robby, admitting anything about your sex life with your boyfriend was hard. Maybe it’s because you were trying to be serious with Derrek. And vowed to not give Robby any ammunition in order to make him get along with your boyfriend. But the dull sex was weighing on you. You had no one else to vent to about it. 

“For the past few weeks, maybe a month… Derrek has not been able to…” your hands roll in motion. “Finish the job. My job, per say.”

Robby’s eyebrows scrunch, that smart doctor brain of his took a few seconds to catch your drift. His lips turned into that sickening smirk that you knew all too well. He was not going to let you live this down. 

“You’ve been letting that bonehead have sex with you and not let you finish?” He taunts the idea in the form of a deep laugh. You wanted to give him another swat on the arm for laughing. But, you knew better because you knew he was right to laugh. To develop an inside joke with you for later down the line with this new information. Something that will cause him to give you a knowing look anytime he is in the same vicinity as Derrek. A very, I know something you don’t know I know, look. One that came with a shit eating grin.

“It’s not that he’s not letting me finish, I just don’t think he really knows that I’m not finishing…”

Robby dips his head down to level his eyes with yours, eyes that have been avoiding his ever since the conversation started. 

“Are you telling him that you finished?” You nod sheepishly. He stifles a giggle behind his lips, shaking his head to shake away how much knowing your own boyfriend can’t satisfy you is elating him. 

Robby always knew that Derrek was not going to be good enough for you. You were a med student, top of your class during your undergrad. And he was just some guy. So uninteresting in Robby’s eyes, he didn’t know his major or care to remember his name. Robby can do a way better job, but he never really admits that to himself. Usually too busy with his roster full of other girls pawing their way to the top to even consider why he thought he would be a better choice for you. 

“So what— his dick too small? Or he’s a minute man?” Robby asks, another nudge with his elbow, egging you on for more. He is one of the nosiest men you know. But that’s because it was so easy to get the words flowing from you. So trusting of Robby you have no fear in telling him every detail.

“He lasts as long as he can! He kind of sounds cringey? When we have sex. I don’t know, hearing him grunt was not as hot as I thought it would be. He sounds like a pig. But any time we have sex, it’s just that. Not that exciting or freaky… It’s so vanilla.”

And there came the flood gates. Weeks of sexual frustration coming out in the form of broken words. Airing out everything to Robby. From how vanilla sex had been feeling, to how your boyfriend refuses to acknowledge foreplay as an important part of sex.

Just as Robby hypothesized; Derrek is fucking boring. He knew that from the very beginning. Hence, why he knew nothing about him, and didn’t care to know anything about him. And with this new information, he wanted to laugh harder than he should. Tease and rub it in your face that he knew all along that this guy was not right for you. To ditch him, find someone more in tune with your needs and intelligence. 

But Robby is a good friend, he wasn’t going to rub it in your face. At least not tonight, maybe tomorrow after a lecture. It hurt just seeing his best friend not get treated the way she deserves. He brings a comforting hand to your knee, rubbing his thumb over the fabric of your jeans.

“I just don’t know what to do! I don’t want to have to teach him how to have good sex. And it feels like it’s been so long since I’ve had good sex that I don’t even know what good sex looks like!” You whine. 

“What exactly are you missing?”

It felt shameful to admit, shallow. Admitting that you felt entitled to something more than a kiss and fuck.

“Well he doesn’t… he doesn’t do any of the things I want to do…” It’s too late to look sheepish in front of Robby. You were so willing to tell him about your bedroom troubles. He motioned you to keep going, more detail. Robby never liked vague details.

“He’s never eaten me out… or ever really does it the way I like too.” You get quieter with each word, shrinking into yourself. What a humiliation ritual, admitting to yourself and your friend how unsatisfied you have become in your relationship.

“And how exactly do you like it?” he pried, really interrogating you this evening.

“Like, toss me around or something! Pull my hair, I don't care!” Begging and pleading to the room. And Robby heard you loud and clear. 

“Poor girl, you really do have it the worst don’t you?” he said with a taunting frown.

“God, why did I even come to talk to you? What would you know…” 

A deep chuckle erupts from his throat again. Relishing how easy it is for Robby to push your buttons. You enjoy it though, enjoy that Robby doesn’t try to put up a nice guy act. He can meet you at your level and try to bait you into giving it back to him. 

“I’ll have you know I am a very generous person in bed. Always make sure the girl I’m with gets a chance to meet the finish line too.”

You narrow your eyes, mind whirling around how hard you found it to believe in his own words. Robby has always had a reputation of trying to sleep with any pretty thing that walked on two legs. You even had the misfortune of walking in on him and his fling of the week once or twice. He was known to sleep around. So, your mind wanted to fill in the blanks by thinking he was selfish in bed. Who can blame him? Robby was handsome and knew how to use his words well. As much as you want to be Michael Robinavitch’s number one hater, you heard the subtle whispers of girls talking about what he could actually do in bed. You refused to believe it, you know the real Robby.

“Really? Michael Robinavitch, the man that can’t seem to commit to one person for more than a month, has enough care in his heart to treat a girl right in bed?”

“Yeah, I’m wounded that you don’t believe me.”

“Because you’re full of shit.”

“Nope. If I was your boyfriend, you’d be creaming around my cock every night.” The way he said it so casually. Like it was just another passing thought in his mind. Talking to you like it would have no effect on you. It did have an effect on you, a big one. Widening your eyes in bewilderment, how could he just say that to you? Out of the blue?

You were put into fawn mode. Fingers freezing in an invisible grip, heat rising up your neck and flooding into the plush skin of your cheeks. Warm air catches in your throat, fighting with the urge to say anything back to him. The words are lost on you, he got you right under his thumb. Trapping you in a corner where you simply can’t move on from what he said. His forwardness and confidence gave your heart a little skip. As close as the two of you were, the topic of sex was never a hot one. Maybe a jab about being up too late because of sex. But this was new territory for you. 

“Yeah right… Ha ha very funny.” At this time of night, you weren’t really in a joking mood. Especially jokes at the expense of your own pleasure, which you had been seeking out for so long. 

“I’m not joking. If you’d let me, I’d show you a good time.” Robby’s hand that was once a comfort on your knee, slowly slid down to your thigh. His fingertips felt more of your warmth as they slipped to find comfort between your thighs. He managed to stay a respectful distance from your core, but close enough to make you aware of Robby’s growing intentions. Hooking his hold around your thigh, giving you a firm squeeze on your thigh. Your body instinctively pressed your thighs together.

“Stop Robby that tickles. Your room is so fucking dirty, you really need to clean it…” You were quick to try and change the subject. 

Robby was leaning in closer, eyes connecting with yours once again. His warm breath fanned against your face. A part of you was screaming inside to pull away, this is turning into a weird direction. You have a somewhat, semi-serious boyfriend. You pride yourself on loyalty. But that little devil on your shoulder was more convincing. Just hear him out. See what he has to offer. He’s your best friend, why wouldn’t he be telling you the truth? 

“You know I wouldn't lie to you sweetheart. Cross my heart.” His voice dropped to that boyish tone he would use to sway your opinion. A cute smile and a little sparkle in his eyes. Like a god damn puppy that was begging you to take them home. 

And before you could think further, his free hand reaches for yours, intertwining fingers. His large hand envelops yours as he pulls it to his lips. Goosebumps spread over your skin as warm lips press against soft skin. Traveling from the top of your hand, to the bottom of your wrist. A tender type of kiss you weren’t completely used to, especially from Robby. It powered down your defenses, tense shoulders relaxing. You were deprived of this kind of sweet intimacy, weakened by a need for more than the standard. Your eyes followed his movements, kissing your skin and petting at your thigh. Robby started leaning in closer, maneuvering his body to wedge himself between your thighs. Lips traveling up your arm, skipping to your neck. It sparked the long lost warmth in between your thighs that you haven’t properly felt in a long time. 

“Robby… we— I shouldn’t…” You stifle a mewl as he nips at the skin of your neck. “This isn’t right… ‘m with Derrek.” But your body betrayed your words. Softening underneath him as he slowly kissed up to your burning cheek. 

“I won’t tell, I know you won’t… just wanna show you what feeling good really feels like. It’s for science. ‘S that ok baby?” His voice is ringing in your head. Squeezing your eyes shut to try and rationalize it. “It’s not really cheating.”

For science, please. It’s so wrong, so so so so wrong. You crossed the line of cheating when he kissed your hand. Derrek has been nothing but good to you.But you’re buzzing with excitement. A slick forming in your panties that you were sure if Robby found, he wouldn’t let you live it down.

Robby hovered his lips above yours, a sliver of space between you. The slightest movement will close the gap, seal the deal of your betrayal. The logical side of your brain is telling you to stop and shake your head. Run away to your dorm and act like none of this ever happened. 

“Talk to me sweetheart. Do you want me to make you feel good?”

“Yes Robby… please…” 

Who gives a fuck, you’re a girl with needs. And Robby is offering to help you meet those needs. 

With no time to waste, Robby’s lips seal onto yours. Licking himself into your mouth, teeth scraping together as his tongue swipes over yours. The lingering taste of coffee and toothpaste trickling onto your tongue. It was delicious, more than you should like. Tasting Robby’s day on his tongue. Nervous hands reaching up to Robby’s stomach, feeling his body through the boundary of a loose cotton t-shirt he used for sleeping. You can feel Robby smiling into your kisses, amused how you were so in tune with him already. He pulled away briefly, making you whine softly as he pulled the shirt from over his head. 

You have seen Robby shirtless countless of other times. This setting should be nothing new, but it was daunting on your mind. His knees perched between your legs, forcing you to stay spread open for him. A growing bulge in Robby’s sweatpants rutted against the fabric. Physical proof he wanted this just as much. You didn’t know you wanted it too, more so you felt your body pulling you in Robby’s direction. Taking you further and further away from Derrek. 

Robby brought his lips back to yours, licking at the seam, pushing his tongue past your lips to take its place against your tongue. Your mind growing a fog you don’t realize he plucked the button of your jeans, pulling the garment down past your knees and over your ankles. An unforgiving wet spot forming on your cotton panties. The cute white ones with pink lace on the waistband. 

“It’s like you knew this was going to happen didn’t you? Wearing cute panties for me.” He teased, tickling his fingertips on your navel. Threatening to go lower and lower. 

“It’s not for you Robby.”

“Yeah, but I bet I appreciate it more than he does, right?”

Your silence was a good enough answer for him. Looping his fingers under the hem of fabric and pulling it down slowly. Robby watches intently as it glides against your smooth skin. Like nothing, the panties disappear behind him, into the void with your jeans. Robby lets a deep, content sigh escape his lips. Sitting back on his heels as he takes in the sight of your drooling pussy.  Priding himself on how easily he made you a dripping mess. His hand caresses the nook of your thigh, traveling up to feel the warmth above your pussy. Robby pressed his thumb against your aching clit. A firm press, before beginning slow circles. Using your slick as a lubricant to easily glide the pad of his thumb around your clit. 

The muscles of your legs tighten and shake all at the same time. It's as if he was using your clit as a joystick, stirring your body to be at his mercy. With a swift motion, Robby’s free hand pokes two fingers at the slit of your cunt. You gasp, finally moving your eyes to watch as he slides the long digits between your folds. Silent squelching as his thick fingers rub against velvety walls. Struggling to hold in a moan, pathetic whines fails you. 

“Does that feel good baby? When I rub your clit and finger your soaking pussy.” It was vulgar the way he was describing it to you. Forcing you to picture it every way you can. You want to shake your head no, just to prove him wrong and remind yourself your boyfriend will always have your heart. But you’re not a liar. It felt good, amazing even. The most you’ve felt in a very long time. 

“I think she’s enjoying it very much.” Robby answers for you. Easing the pace on your pussy, curling his fingers up against that particular spot with each thrust of his hand. “Pussy is practically crying for me. I think she wants more… What about you honey… Do you want more?”

Never in the months that you have been dating Derrek, had he ever asked if you wanted more. Watching as Robby toys with your heat, you nod your head slowly. Eyes never moving from his movements to not miss what he does to you for a beat. His smile widens, perking his cheeks up. Robby is eating up seeing you unraveling for him in a way he thought he would never have the pleasure of seeing one day. 

He dips his head down, a quick swipe of his tongue up against your slit. Collecting your wetness on his tongue. You groaned and rolled your head back. Robby filled the gap between your clit and finger-stuffed slit by sucking his lips against the free space. Overloading your senses, feeling all of Robby against your pussy. Using everything he could possibly have, with the exception of his dick. He tasted the tart fluid in his mouth, humming into your flesh with satisfaction. Not too sweet, but not sour at all. The right taste that spurred him on to eat more of you. Robby gave his thumb a rest, replacing it with this mouth. Sucking on the bud and rolling his tongue against it. 

It felt like hours he had been ravishing at your sex, dizzying your head and eliciting mindless moans and cries from you. Music to his ears, sounds that he knew your boyfriend never heard genuinely. It will be etched in his brain for the rest of his waking life. Shaking knees coming to a halt when Robby finally pulls away, wiping your arousal away from his chin with the back of his hand. It was over too soon for you. He got you so close to the brink, why was he pulling away now. Bringing yourself to your elbows, huffing as he pauses.

It was rewiring his brain, staring at your soaked cunt. He remembered how it pulsed around his fingers during each movement. He swooped in to save you from Derrek at the right time.

“That good, huh baby? We can go two ways; I keep sucking on your sweet girl and make you cum on just my tongue, or make you cream around my cock. Just like how I promised.” he proposed, leaning himself back in to loom over you. His hands started at your thighs, pushing up to your stomach, slipping under the top you had left on.

Any reasonable girl that loved their boyfriend would realize how wrong this was and stop it. You should have stopped it a long time ago. You were a broken record in your own head; screaming at yourself to finish this and go back to Derrek. Admit defeat and learn to love the sex you had. It’s a shame, everyone has their vices, and this was becoming yours. 

“Don’t break your promise to me now, Robby.” 

He smiles smugly, tugging his sweatpants away and letting them fall off the bed. No boxers, nothing to give you a moment to adjust the sight of him. Long cock bobbing in the air, rosy tip that had the smallest drip of precum. What a whore, of course he doesn’t wear underwear to bed. Robby was consistent in proving your own prophecies wrong. He was much more well endowed than Derrek had been. You pull your top over your head, reaching around to unclip and slip your bra away from your body. In all your naked glory, Robby celebrated in his head. Plush curves and supple skin, how could your boyfriend fail in giving your body the best is deserved?

Robby pumps his cock a few times, inching closer to line himself up with your slit. When his tip finally prodded your folds, it made a sickeningly wet sound. Coating his tip in all of your built up sin. He reveled in the feeling of your pussy on his cock. Rolling his head back as he sunk deeper and deeper. Hips pressing into yours, the most skin contact the two of you have ever made outside of cuddling. The depths that his cock was able to reach pulled out a noise you didn’t know you could make. Raw and hungry, mewling as he stretched you out to a new size. You braced yourself by grabbing on to his forearm. Pressing your eyes shut to see the white stars in your vision. 

Robby started to roll his hips into yours, pulling his cock out half way then burying himself back to the hilt. His well tamed bush tickles your skin. He grabbed under your thighs, splitting you out and open. A deep stretch in your hip joint as he gave himself a better angle to thrust into.

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck… Robby!” you try to keep your cries hushed, not wanting to rudely wake up anyone else on the form floor. 

The lustful sounds of skin slapping on skin as he deepens his stroke and quickens his pace. It echoed in your ears and pushed away any thought of your boyfriend. Large hand grabbing at your chin, squishing cheeks to get a good grip to guide your face up from the bed. 

“Open your eyes baby, you wanted this, why aren’t you watching?” A comforting stroke of his thumb as your eyes obediently open. 

Looking down to watch, the base of his cock disappears inside your pussy as he drags himself out and pushes back in. It was intoxicating, forcing yourself with the realization that this is what you were asking for. Begging the universe to give you one night of good sex. You held yourself up, eyes flicking from his face to your weeping cunt. It mirrored Robby, who was savoring the way you bit on your lip to stifle every little noise that came out of you. 

“Say it..” He managed to say between his own grunts and moans.

“S-Say what…”

“That I’m better.”

Smug mother fucker. He can’t just enjoy the moment and let you feel good. He has to keep rubbing it in that you’re willingly cheating on your boyfriend with your best friend. His thumb presses down on your clit, quick to make smooth circles around the needy bud again. Like pressing a button to get the words to come out of you. The sensations that brewed in your core were more than you were used to handling.

“Shit! Robby… you’re better!” 

He leans in close, the hand that was holding your face grabbing a fistfull of hair and giving it a taut tug. The mild pain on your scalp went straight to your core, walls squeezing down around him. A dark chuckle erupting from his throat.

“Better at what, dirty girl?”

He was stirring the pot with his words, berating and shaming you. You liked— loved it. Making you get off on your unfaithfulness. Another tug with his hand, the pressure of his thumb on your clit getting harder.

“You’re better at fucking me! You’re so much better Robby.”

“That’s my girl.” He praised. 

That long lost knot inside you grew tighter and tighter. Toes curling as he thrusted into you like he was on a mission. As that knot snaps, you finally come around his cock, that deep loss of dissatisfaction is no more. It’s fireworks in your core, writhing in his hold as he fuck you through your orgasm. He kisses your bare shoulders and necks, whispering praises into your ears as he chases his own high. 

“Such a good girl… Being a slut for me and letting me show you how good you can feel…”

His grip on your hair and thigh tighten, the edges of his fingernails sure to leave a mark later down the line. Rutting his hips into yours as his thrusts become uneven. Robby catches his release. Spurts of warm liquid flood your insides, painting your walls with his load. You couldn’t have cared less that he didn’t use a condom. It was worth it to experience the cloud you were floating on called bliss. Derrek is finally an afterthought. The shortlasting euphoria was worth it. Even though, when you lie awake tonight, you’ll remember what you have done.

Robby pulled himself away, a trail of your juices mixed together and coating his cock. A dripple of cum starting to leak from your slit. Catching his breath, he slides himself next to you, running his arm under your neck to pull you in close. A soft kiss on your forehead. For how wrong he was for making you cheat, he still made you feel good about it in some ways. Knowing he would be ready to comfort you in any way you’d ask when you eventually dump your boyfriend.

“So… what did we learn today?” he asks.

“It’s way better when you do it.”

a/n pt2: hello taglist i have not used in a long time LMAO

taglist: @kaylapfarr @xoxabs88xox @ilocuras24 @thisisjustmyface @cathrinexxxv @thisisjustmyface @starwberry11 @cosmosnkaz @tamzyn-xx @killora1708 @teenwolfbitches28 @midnitewaves @67-angelofthelordme-67  join my taglist!

[academic-vampire]

To the lady at the bookstore who bought a stack of banned books and told me, “I want my child to be able to read these in the future,” I see you.

[bluetimeombre]

DADS BEST FRIEND

── Jack Abbot x Robbydaughter! reader

synopsis Jack was just looking for an easy night, a quiet drink, but what he finds is so much better. You, sat in a seat that's his, fresh, new and young to the area, starting a new job with your dad. Jack just didn't think to ask the right questions... (5.2k words)

warning Smut MDNI! younger reader, older jack! Robby's daughter reader! oral (f receiving!) making out, language, protected p in v, dirty talk, praise king, reader is described to have longish hair, reader calls jack solider, peep the quin audio hints

authornotei locked tf in with this if i do say so myself. had this idea sitting in my drafts had to write it, if you like i would love to do a part two, the idea of dads best friend has me with a chokehold. i made up a small, tiny backstory for jack as we know so little. the beautiful jack gif credits go to @lovebugism (her fics are so good !!!!!)

pitt masterlist! another Jack fic!

Jack didn't have a specific place at the bar, but everyone knew where he sat. He got half way across the bar, dragging himself across the sticky floor before he realised there was someone else sitting in his seat. He could tell it was his stool from the slight wobble it gave side to side, and he could tell it was a young woman sitting in his seat from the sound of her laugh.

Terry, his favourite bar tender who'd seen him at his worst and best, caught a look at him and grinned.

“Hey! Just the guy I was talking about!”

Jack didn't know he was territorial about his bar. But he found himself sliding into another bar stool with a sulk. “Usual please, Terry,” he said, letting his backpack drop with a heavy thud.

“You got it, boss!”

A whiskey would soon be slid over the counter, chased by another and maybe another till a small fuzz clouded the edges of his mind and he could sleep easier. He forgot just how gruelling days could be.

But then he spotted you.

You were still smiling with the remnants of a laugh. One finger on your right hand was chasing the condensation down your emptying glass. He did a double take at you, looking past the hair falling to the smooth skin, doted with a mole or two.

You were young. The sort of young you didn't find in a bar- at least not alone. But this bar also wasn't the busiest, exactly why he liked it.

You didn't look like you belonged there. At the same time, you looked like there was nowhere else you wanted to be. Your chin rested in your other hand, your jacket was slung over the back of the stool and you weren't shying away from anything around you.

Jack's whiskey was dropped off in front of him and finally Jack got a look at you. Beautiful. There was no other way around it. He wasn't going to judge a book from its cover but he had a feeling your beauty wasn't the last thing to surprise him.

“Can I get you another drink?” he asked you once he held your attention for more than a second.

Your eyes widened, as if you hadn't expected him to talk to you. “Oh no, thanks, I shouldn't drink too much tonight.”

“What?” said Terry, pretending to wipe over a 'dirty' spot on the counter. “I thought you were celebrating, huh?”

Jack's brows rose. “A celebration?”

“She just moved to the city,” said Terry.

You smiled, bashfully. “I got a new job.”

“Congratulations,” said Jack. “And welcome, this is Pittsburgh's finest.”

“Thanks,” you said.

There was a moment passed in silence where the both of you seemed to understand the two ways the night could go. If you mutually decided to keep it there, a polite congratulations and a kind offer of a drink maybe you'd just remember him as the kind, older stranger.

You turned to him. “If the offer of that drink still stands I think I'd like to take it.”

Jack moved his body to face yours. He glanced at Terry, who waited happily. “Another one for-”

You told him your name and it chimed a bell in Jack's head, as if he'd been waiting his whole life to hear your name from your lips. He introduced himself and his fate was sealed.

“So, are you a native to Pittsburgh?” you asked, twirling a bit of hair between your fingers.

Jack lifted his shoulders. “Came her to settle down after some things.” He didn't want to get into the whole collage and tours and losing his leg and moving here after losing his wife. He didn't want to watch that pretty face of yours contort with worry or sympathy. “Are you new here, or?”

“Kinda. My dad's around her, parents divorced so I only see him sometimes,” you explained, flippantly.

“And now you got a job here?”

“Now I'm here.”

You told him where abouts you were living which had him worrying if he was any other random guy at a bar that you'd be telling him, putting yourself in (potential) danger. Or maybe Jack was special. It wasn't a very good area, the sort he never even looked at when he was moving, but he knew it was cheap.

“I passed this place driving in, looked good,” you said.

Jack chuckled and leaned in to avoid Terry's ears as he'd gone off to change the channels and some other guys requests. “Clearly your new around here. When I said it was Pittsburgh's finest.... it might have been an exaggeration.”

You laughed and Jack wondered what other stupid jokes he could make to have you laughing again. “Well, nobody's offered me the grand tour yet.” You took a swig of your beer.

There was an opening.

Jack didn't know why he was looking for one but it was out of his lips before he really understood what he was doing. “If you ever need a tour guide,” he said, gesturing to himself. Did he look dumb doing so?

You raised your brows. “You might regret that. I ask a lot of questions. I'm really into my history.”

“Good thing I know a lot about this place.” He did not, but he could read some stuff up.

“You know, you're quite the charmer, Jack,” you said, seizing him up.

He nodded his head side to side. “You've caught me on a good day. Any other day I'm an asshole,” he said, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. What was he doing? “I- that was a bad joke. I'm not an asshole. At least I don't think so.”

“I don't think so,” you said. “After all you're keeping a lonely girl like me company.”

“You moved alone?”

You smirked. “Are you asking me if I have a boyfriend?”

Jack usually came to this bar for a quiet one after work. At 6 am he'd nurse a whiskey, an un healthy habit he knew. Sometimes he was called in early and only had a couple hours to spare before his actual shift started he'd hang around, have a glass of water of a crappy cup of black coffee. He didn't come here to flirt with girls. Young girls who would probably attract some stares if he walked around with you on his arm.

Yet the idea of doing just that thrilled him.

“I guess so, yeah.”

A small dusting or blush rose to your cheeks. “Well, I'm alone. There was this guy back where I used to live but.... meh, he was stupid.”

Jack nodded, listening as if you were one of his patients. “He dump you?”

“He cheated on me.”

“Then he's the stupidest guy around.”

You smiled, laughing off your blush. “You know, you don't know me yet. I could be a massive asshole.”

“Well that's up for me to decide,” he said, as if he hadn't decided you were anything but.

It didn't take long for the place to fill up after that, people finishing work or deciding to end their nights of drinking there. It wasn't usual for Jack to be around at that sort of time, so the in flood of people surprised him, crowding the two of you at the bar.

That's how he ended up in a booth with you, an arm slung over the back of the cushioned seat as you sat in the ghost of his touch. You were almost leaning into him but keeping a conscious decision not to fall into his arm. The both of you were still nursing the same drink an hour later, sharing stories from each others lives.

Jack didn't ask about your new job and you didn't tell him.

“How long's your dad been out here?” Jack asked.

“Practically all his life,” you said. “But he moved when he met my mom, they separated when I was like five? He came back here so usually I'm just visiting.”

Jack nodded, briefly eyeing how close his hand was to touching you. So far he'd kept it polite. A hand helping you off from the bar stool (you did not need his help), a gentle hand on the small of your back as he led you to the booth, a finger brushing away lint that wasn't on your shoulder. He just wanted to touch you again.

“You close with him?”

You smiled, un-easy. “Well I'm about to be. I'm working with him.”

Jack made a wince and an O face.

Soon enough you were shuffling out of the booth, saying you needed to use the restroom. Jack knew stories about girls who went to the bathroom and didn't come back out, climbing through the window and leaving the guy to wonder what he'd done wrong.

He tried not to let his mind wonder. He checked himself, kept an eye on any guy wondering closely and tugged your drink closer to him, though the bottle was practically empty as well as his glass. He chucked a mint from his pocket into his mouth and chewed it down quickly.

He checked his phone once and then sat and waited.

When you got back to the table, you weren't alone.

Jack frowned as he saw the guy at your side, big enough to swallow you up and shirt so tight on him Jack had a suspicion he brought a size too small on purpose. He straightened at the pinch in your brows and purse of your lips.

The guy at your side was equally studying Jack.

The both of you stopped in front of him and you gestured down to Jack.

“Told you,” you said in answer to a conversation he wasn't apart of.

Jack didn't know what was going on and he wasn't picking up on any social cues. He lifted up a hand, grey hairs rising along his arms in a shiver. “Hi.”

“Oh,” said the guy. “That's cool, I guess. Maybe I'll see you around.”

You shrugged and took your seat next to Jack, this time tight into his side. He let his arm drape around your shoulder.

The guy took his cue and dismissed himself, wandering back to his buddies at the bar, looking back to you once.

“What was that about?” Jack asked, checking the guy one more time.

You didn't move from his side, only turned into him and he didn't move his arm. “Sorry, the guy was waiting for me to come out the bathroom. I told him I was here with... my dad.”

Jack had expected a lie you'd told the guy. Maybe you said you were already here with someone, a boyfriend maybe? “Your dad?” he chocked on his breath. Was he old enough to be your dad? Probably.

“I'm sorry, I panicked!” you said with a laugh.

It was infectious. Jack couldn't help but chuckle to, rubbing away at a wrinkle in his forehead. “I couldn't have been your partner? Or something.”

“C'mon, you think me saying I have a boyfriend will change him hitting one me?” you asked. “A guy like that?”

“You weren't interested in him?” Jack asked, looking over your shoulder to pass a small glare over to the guys. “Buff. Blonde. Young.”

You shook your head, pushing yourself further into his arm. “Nah. I like mine with meat on their bones. Darker... maybe greyer hair,” your eyes looked all over him, lingering at the lower part of his face. “Older.”

You were a treat dangling in front of him and Jack was starved.

He licked at his lips. “Well, I don't think dads do this-”

Before you could question him, Jack took a risk and kissed you.

You welcomed him warmly, your lips soft and eager against his. Where he tried to take it slow, you let him. His hand spread across your back, drawing you in as his head tilted, nudging you to be closer, closer, closer. His tongue traced the bottom of your lip and you opened obedient, tongue hot as you fought his, gasping into his mouth.

He felt the twitch of himself in his trousers, the tightening around his crotch.

Your mouth was warm, tinged with the bitter beer you'd sipped and something sweet on your lip-gloss.

He dragged himself away to catch a breath that his whole body burned for. Your lips chased his, body leaning into his.

Your lip-gloss was smeared down your chin and Jack was all too happy to swipe his thumb and wipe it off, savouring the sticky-ness of it and slight shine on his thumb.

Jack dared take a look at the bar where the guy and his pals stood. His mouth was slightly agape at witnessing the kiss and Jack was all to keen to keep his eyes on him as he kissed you again.

Jack couldn't tell which one of you was more ravenous. If his hands were fumbling with your jean buttons with more need than your own was trailing under his shirt and tugging it over his head.

He thinks it might be him but if you wanted the title he'd give it to you gladly, eager to please.

He had you leant back on the sofa left only in your pretty pink bra, your legs thighs thrown over his shoulders as he feasted upon you, boxes you hadn't un-packed building your own kingdom around you. He was a devout solider upon his queen, if anything.

Your chest heaved in a breath you just couldn't catch, gasping in the pleassure he was drawing out. “J-Jack-”

If he thought your lip-gloss smeared down your chin was a sight your arousal slowly making a mess of his face as he licked into you was a new delight entirety.

He wanted your slick mess to slide down his chin, down the greying hairs of his chest and all the way down to where his cock stood at attention under his trousers.

Jack's hips were bucking, chasing any small friction in his denim. “You like that?” he asked, flicking the tip of his tongue into you.

“Yes, yes, I do.”

He puckers his lips and slurps up your arousal, fingers digging into your thighs and keeping them open, supporting you as your hips bucked up helplessly.

He looks up, the bliss on your face a small indicator of your end coming soon. Jack lets you come, coaxes it out of you with avid sucks and licks.

You came on his tongue on gasps of his name. He'd heard his name yelled before, heard it whispered in dying urgency. Heard it snapped in anger but nothing was better than the sweet call of his name from your lips, drunk on your first orgasm.

He crawled back up you once your body had started to calm. Jack pressed his mouth into your own, sharing the taste of yourself as his hands were skilful in sneaking around your back and un-clasping your bra.

You sighed into him at the freeing feeling and his hands cupped you at once, messaging your breasts.

Jack kissed at you, moaning at the softness he felt in the palm of his hands. “You're so-mmph- so fucking beautiful.”

You toss your hair over your shoulder and look down to him, bringing him back up with your hands on his cheeks, his stubble rubbing into the palm of your hands.

He licked into you, groaning at the taste of your mouth. At every taste of you it was new, like he'd forgotten what you tasted like before and it was the first time.

“Wanna-” he said, breathless pulling away. “Wanna kiss you all the time from now on.”

“Is that a promise?” you said, grinning and pecking his lips.

Jack smiled too, your teeth clashing as he nodded.

He let himself be led like a dog to your room. There was a mattress on the floor, a suitcase or two pressed up against the wall and a box left open. Jack wanted to peak inside, wanted to see what else was about you. He wanted to know everything.

Your lips promised more, more, more.

Jack's hands fell useless at his sides as he felt the brush of your knuckles go to his belt. He closed his eyes, letting you work. He heard the clatter of the belt whipped off and thrown aside carelessly. He bit down on his lip with a smile.

He only opened his eyes as he felt you tug off his jeans, the fabric catching at his prophetic.

You looked at it for a second before looking up at him.

He hadn't felt insecure about his leg in years. It knocked on his consciousness then, keen to enter. He couldn't think of what to say. “Urm- yeah-”

He was calmed when you slowly sank to your knees and kissed over the lingering scars there, your nails scraping down his thighs. His cock twitched happily in his boxers and you could see the excitement leaking from him early.

“Come here,” he said with a rumble of his voice.

You were up on your feet and he was kissing you again, holding your mouth open to just taste you. He pulled off his boxers, kicking them away before his hands traced up the sides of you.

“I have- I have condoms,” you said, hands pushing him away lightly. “Make yourself comfortable, soldier.”

Jack was glad you'd turned your back to fetch condoms you'd packed luckily in the easy and already open box in the corner of your room. It gave him time to ease himself down on the mattress and watch as you bent over to find the condoms.

He was shocked he wasn't tasting blood as he bit hard down on his lip. If he wasn't so desperate to feel your warmth around him he'd have given himself a little tug, but he was too scared he'd come too soon.

Settling comfortable on your mattress on the floor, Jack tugged on the condom and sat himself up to brush your hair back.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

You nodded and leant into kiss him.

Jack wrapped a light hand around you neck and urged you back, looking in your eyes. You knew what he wanted.

“Yes, Jack. I'm very, very sure.”

He smiled and was ready to move when you stopped him with hands on his thighs.

“Can I... I want to be on top.”

Was Jack supposed to say no to you? You may as well have asked him to build your mattress, un-back all your boxes, re-paint your walls. If you'd asked, he would have done anything for you at that moment.

When you gripped the base of his cock he held his breath. When his tip was pushed into you he exhaled with a loud groan.

“Ssh,” you laughed. “I don't want to get noise complaints from the neighbours already.”

Jack held onto your hips, supporting you. “Fuck your neighbours.”

He focused on the feel of you as you lowered yourself all the way, his cock stretching you open.

“Oh shhiiiit... god,” Jack gasped, seeing where you sat flush on his lap, the head of his cock twitching inside of you.

Your head was leant back, eyes screwed shut in pleasure.

“No- look at me, look at me,” he said, lifting his hand to pinch your chin and drag your gaze back down. You opened your eyes that had turned dark with desire. “Yeah, just like that. Keep your eyes on me.”

And you did as you leant back onto your hands, slowly dragging yourself from him and then back down, setting a pace you were comfortable with.

Jack let you take the lead, lying there and taking it with mutters of encouragement and groans of disbelief. He laid his hand upon the bottom of your stomach, almost being able to feel him inside you. That- or you were driving him crazy.

When the sound of skin on skin sounds you switch your tactic, leaning over him and grinding down.

Your eyes were fluttering in pleasure, your mouth left open. You were still trying so hard to keep your eyes on him just as he'd told you to. “Oh fuck, Jack, it's-it's too much.”

“No it's not, honey,” he coaxed, brushing back your hair and holding your cheek in hand. “You're being so good for me. Just a- just a little longer.”

You whined, walls fluttering around him and sucking him in.

Jack didn't know where he was finding the restraint not to come from. It had been a while for him, since he'd talked to someone as pretty as you, since he'd been in a bed that wasn't his. Since he'd had something other than his own hand to come onto.

Your grinding became un-stable, your thighs squeezing around him. “Jack, I think- I'm gonna come.”

He wrapped an arm around you and drew you in till you were held against his chest. The sweat against your bodies rubbed and mixed with the saliva shared between your mouths in kisses where you both fought for dominance.

At the angle of you pushed down on top of him his cock was deeper. He was so close to you, so close in more ways than one.

Jack groaned out your name, his cock twitching inside of you, begging to be released. “Come for me, honey... come for me-”

With a loud moan into his neck you let go around him, walls clamping down on him.

Jack let go of his restraint, planting his good foot on the mattress and thrusting up into you at an odd but delicious angle, once- twice! Before he came, slumping down on the mattress.

The both of you laid there, his hands brushing down your back and bringing out shivers.

“I have never come like that in my life,” he panted, catch his breath.

You looked at him. “What? On your back, on a mattress on the floor with boxes piled up. Or was I just that good?”

He hummed and pretended to think about it. “How about all the above?”

The both of you laughed.

Once you'd both used the bathroom and had returned to your room Jack was still naked while you'd thrown on his shirt, drowning in the smell and feel of him. He'd never wished he was younger and could get it up quicker than in that moment.

You fell back down on your mattress, nodding and inviting Jack to lie down next to you. To stay the night. So, it wasn't that kind of one night stand. Good. He wanted it to be an every night stand.

Jack got down on your mattress but resigned himself to the bottom, slowly pulling apart your legs, taking his time like he hadn't been able to bring himself to do out in your living room.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him. “Jack, what are you doing?”

“Ssh,” he said, finding himself between your legs again. “We don't want noise complaints from the neighbours, already.”

Jack woke with his body like soup. His body was drifting in bliss, the sort one got after swimming all day, leaving limbs sleepy with exhaustion and the activities still sat in your bones.

His body ached with you. With the feel of your hands tugging at his hair as he had you coming on his tongue a second time, your hands on his chest as you moved on top of him.

He reached for you, finding an emptiness with nothing but the smell of you left on your pillows.

Jack inhaled sharply before he heard the shower turn off and door thrown open. A cloud of hot condensation and the scent of your shampoo hit him as you stepped out, wrapped in a towel.

Jack rolled over, peering at you through sleep. “Morning.”

“Hey. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, I was hoping to let you sleep in for... like, ten minutes,” you said.

“Don't worry about it. I'm an early riser,” he said, checking his phone for the time. Half six in the morning. It wasn't technically a lie. He was up at this hour, finishing his shift. “First day at the job today?”

“Yes, and I'm working with my dad so I cannot be late.”

Jack pushed himself up, finding his boxers. “You get ready. You want me to make some coffee? Providing you've un-packed it.”

You rose a brow, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “You trying to make a wife out of me, Jack?” you teased.

He smiled down at you when he stood, almost challenging.

“Coffee pots on the side, it was one of the first things I un-packed.”

Jack kissed your cheek before sleepily making his way through your place, manoeuvring with far less grace than lust had him moving the night before. He flicked on lights, started the coffee and took the extra couple minutes to peer into boxes that had been ripped open. There wasn't much, clothes, a couple trinkets and such. Text books that were so large and piled up he couldn't make one from the other.

He'd just caught a glimpse of you as a kid, hands in between two other people. One, a woman he assumed was your mother and the other he didn't get to see before he heard your trainers squeak on the floor and was backing up from the boxes.

He poured you a coffee and handed it to you, watching you take large gulps.

“Thanks. I'm sorry, I wouldn't usually do this but I really got to run,” you apologised.

“That's fine, I'll dress and I could give you a lift in?” he offered. “I'd really like to see you again.”

You smiled, cheeks popping. “Well, I'd really like that too. But you don't have to give me a lift in, I'll drive myself, otherwise I'd have no way of getting back.”

Jack was seconds away from offering to pick you up too. Any excuse to see you before he realised he was back on nights tonight. Would it even be plausible? To be able to spend more time with you?

He'd move heaven and earth to make it possible. He'd got his first sip of you and was addicted.

“Take your time,” you added. “Shower. Eat left over takeaway in my fridge. You can steal from me if you want but I warn you I have very little worth taking.”

Jack sighed playfully. “I'm sure I can think of something you'll miss. You have your phone?” he asked, holding out his hand.

You handed it to him, un-locking it first.

Jack typed in his number, adding his name as a contact and in brackets added- guy from bar/a good lay. Just in case you forgot. “You can call me when you want that tour of the place,” he said, as nonchalant as possible, wishing at once he'd slid his jeans on just to be able to slide his hands in the pockets.

You read what he saved himself as and laughed. “A good lay, you were a bit more than that, solider.” You slid your phone into your jacket pocket, hiding your inform or something underneath.

Jack smirked, leaning in. “Really?”

“Really.”

He leant in and kissed you. He wasn't forcing your mouth open, he wasn't grabbing at you although he wanted to do both. He knew, maybe more than most, the importance of getting to work on time. But he could almost imagine this was his life. Waking early to make you coffee and food, kissing you and sending you on the way to work. Coming home to find you waiting for him, his name laced on your lips.

“I really have to go,” you mumbled against his lips.

“Then go,” he said, kissing you again.

He walked you to the doors, quick kisses being shared, small touches he dared tempt himself with before you were fleeing, practically running away to not regret leaving.

Jack did take you up on your offer and had a very cold shower.

The rest of the day Jack thought about you, teased himself with you. He'd never felt so infatuated before. He returned to his place in the late afternoon after spending time just breathing your things in. His apartment felt shockingly empty, too neat even though Jack hadn't cleaned in a while. It didn't feel lived in, loved in. It was probably painfully obvious it was a bachelor pad.

However he didn't have to linger long. He showered again and dressed in scrubs, checking his phone once and finding a text from you.

I've been thinking, a good lay really doesn't cover it, a solid nine out of ten.

He smirked down at his phone, tutting.

Only a nine?

Your reply came almost instantly.

Well, there's always room for improvement.

I'll show you improvement. Maybe a nice dinner would get me to an 11/10?

Already got yourself a 9.5 solider :)

The smile that wasn't an emoji tugged at his heart strings.

Jack didn't know how he was supposed to take you to a dinner when he worked nights and your job was a day thing apparently but he'd work it out. You wouldn't have to worry a thing.

By the time he was clocking into work that evening he was so distracted in checking the best restaurants around (what had the best food, or the best views, which played nice music, which were expensive...) he was so distracted he didn't even notice he was in early.

“Brother!” Robby called, greeting him with a wide grin and hug.

Jack was slow in hugging him back. Hiding his phone in his back pocket from your texts before hugging him back, worry pulsing in his veins. A happy Robby always worried him. “Hey, you're cheerful.”

Robby pulled away, shrugging. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Nobody die today?”

“No, two people dead.”

Jack frowned. “And we're happy about that?”

Dana called his name from the nurses station, urging him over.

Robby's hand was steady with a firm grip as he led Jack over. “Glad you could make it in early, there's actually someone I want you to meet.”

“Someone, huh?” Jack wondered if Robby had finally decided to ditch his seven week itch thing and maybe try seven months, maybe even get to a famous seven years. Had he been waiting till it was serious to introduce him to the special woman?

“Picked them up from the airport yesterday while you covered my day, thank you.”

Jack had only just dropped his back at the counter when your name was called.

And suddenly there you were- glancing up at Robby in a way that gave no shock to hear him call you.

You looked at Robby then found Jack.

Scrubs. You were in black scrubs just like him, a navy top underneath. Your hair was scraped back from this morning, showing the expanse of your neck that he remembered nipping and licking the night before. Your eyes were plain, expression dropped as you stared at him, feet carrying you over to Robby on autopilot.

Jack watched as Robby's hand laid on your shoulder like it was always meant to be there.

And I'm working with my dad so I cannot be late.

Oh, god no.

“Jack, this is my daughter,” said Robby, saying your name with practised ease and a proud grin. “This is Jack Abbot, night attending. My best friend.”

Oh fuck, no.

taglist: @oldbaddies, @mafercita101,@tiddieshakeshownu

[derkleinekaefer]

two guy, indie-rock (mayyyybe punk?) band, they make music together and they scissor in their free time. which is most of the time.

[sanguinesandwich]

challengers

[5cor1u77]

the reason why Shawn said people would be suprised at how s3 of the Pitt starts because it begins with a one take scene from dennis’ perspective as he’s dressing up for work, after he has soaked jack’s face with his squirt and leaving the sleeping man blissed out and tucked in robby’s bed after a busy night shift.

we zoom out to see them on a phone’s camera feed, the chief attending looking down lazily and smiling at what he saw. he pull up his zipper as the subtle sound of a piss stream stopping (the first of five pissing scenes), get on the bike, pulls down his sunglasses, starts the vehicle and speeds back to pittsburgh as the series’ title transitions on screen.

the “yeahhhh” scream from csi:miami starts playing and we hard cut to the ptmc waiting room and begins episode 1.

[cuppydogshane]

that is actually my main principle of explicit fic is that the personalities stay On during sex.

[clytemnestraaa]

always such a struggle when you get to the sex scene part of the fic you're writing and you're not horny at all. i don't know. their things were touching. without ANY underwear. the end.