Bite Me Bitch

Call me bubbles 25 Just a fic obsessed non-binary boglin at your service •They/them he/him she/her it/it’s•

[fxlthyangxl-deactivated20240122]

website

[hesbythecampfire]

StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that everyone should benefit from technology, free from harm. Founded in 2000, SWGfL works with a number of partners and stakeholders around the world to protect everyone online

Sounds legit

[songue85]

StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that all should benefit from technolog

[gt-wierdo]

Intersex fairies with wings like this

[total-killer-brainrot]

You and Johnny had a lot in common.

You had both joined the military at the same age. You both much preferred a fruity cocktail to a pint. You both had an unhealthy obsession with your lieutenant.

You both had tiny cocks.

Ok maybe tiny was exaggerating. They were below average. Johnny's slightly thicker than yours, but shorter. Something you held over his head every chance you got. But compared to the rest of the team, you both were minuscule. Not that you were looking or anything. Johnny definitely hadn't caught you staring slack jawed at Ghost in the locker room while he changed. Heavy length hanging between his thighs. Bigger than any you'd ever seen even soft.

That was where your obsession had started. Johnny had been madly infatuated for years now, and was very happy to have someone share his fantasies with.

"Come over. Now."

You assumed the text meant something bad. Johnny had gotten in trouble, or even hurt. Hurrying to his room. Only giving Simon a quick nod as you passed him in the hallway.

Just as you were about to knock, the door opened next to you. Not Johnny's room, Simon's. The scot standing there with a grin on his face. You did a double take when you saw the toy he was clutching in his hands. A beast of a fleshlight. Leaking what was definitely cum down its length.

"He didnae get the chance to clean up... 'ad a meeting..."

Johnny had told you plenty of times, in great detail about how much he heard when sharing a wall with Ghost. To the point where you knew the mans schedule. He must have been really pent up. Normally he wanked right before bed.

You never imagined that your little crush on your superior would lead to you in Johnny's room. Pressed against the other man, mouthing at his neck as you rut your cock against his in the toy.

You both fit so easily. Room to spare. You could picture Simon using the toy, stretching the silicone to its limits. Even with both you and Johnny together you didn't come close to his size.

Ghost's cum made every thrust slick. Obscene wet noises sounding as Johnny jerked the two of you off with the toy. Tugging you by your hair to meet his lips. Tongue curling against yours while you panted into his mouth.

"Si..." You whined. Chasing your orgasm. Every twitch of Johnny's cock against yours sending you closer.

"Lt... please..." Soap responded. One arm snaking around your waist to keep you close.

"Fuckin' nasty. The both of you." Ghost grunted from the doorway.

[simply-curiosity]

Well hot damn

[unfetteredautism]

i decided to give jack abbot a middle name that starts with an r so he can be jack r abbot aka jack rabbit and therefore he had the nickname bunny when he was younger and maybe he let his wife and/or robby call him that too

and let's be real his military buddies probably found out about it so if he ever walks into a VA it erupts with a chorus of war-hardened veterans happily shouting out "BUNNY RABBIT!!"

[rawme-price]

Ghost's favorite position, hands down no argument, is prone bone.

Him on top, of course, one arm nestled under your torso and holding you close. The other slung above his head, forearm resting just above you in a lazy sprawl.

You've learned that this is his go-to position after eating. Something about a fully belly and feeling safe, warm in your presence just makes him too tired for the more ambitious stuff you usually do. Ghost would much rather lie on top of you, squishing you under his massive figure.

"Fuckin hell— hold still, lovie." Ghost groans when you squirm at a particularly harsh thrust. Not like you could actually go anywhere when he completely settles his weight into you and switches from thrusts to grinding.

"W– what–? Si...c'mon, baby you promised...!" You groan, huffs because he had promised to fuck you earlier!

"I'm inside you, ain't i?" He grunts, slinking the other arm under you too for a proper cuddle, the heavy thickness of his cock still deep inside.

"Yeah, but you know thats not what I— uh....simon? Si...? Oh my god—" steady snoring above you.

Of course he decided now was the best time to nap. Fucking food coma again.

...Hopefully he gets a wet dream and you get that fucking you asked for.

[rawme-price]

John "christ, kid, slow down—" price who can hardly keep up with his younger partner in bed. He's gotten used to distracting you with his mouth or hands, you even broke his pride down enough to invest in toys after begging for a fourth round in a day. He's old and hasn't exactly prioritized his health, which means he often ends up on hid back breathing through his teeth while you ride him to your heart's content.

Vs

Simon "another? C'mon, please love I'll be good–" riley who even in his forties has the energy and want to bend you over every surface he can manage. Seriously, you're pretty sure his dick his permanently half-chubbed. You, the one nearly half his age, have to shove him away and whimper before he lets up to go take a cold shower. He says its all the love he has for you, you're pretty sure he's just a freak.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Enable me

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Rough tough Steve with a reader with arthritis (self-insert imminent)

[thezombieprostitute]

Already wincing with sympathy pains.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Well, he can be gentle if we're good...

[simply-curiosity]

Uhm yes please!! Like also imagine arthritic reader pushing themselves to much trying to get cleaning done, rough Steve comes home and pampers reader while handling the cleaning.

All right I’m done

[jackabbotsgf]

kidnapping, stockholm syndrome with pope

andrew knew it'd take time, but he can't help but feel his heart swell as he watches you, making dinner for him like a goddamn housewife. he truly was the luckiest man alive.

he remembers the day he first took you home, the way you kicked and screamed, even spat in his face like a fussy brat, which definitely didn't make him hard. he tried everything, making his voice as soft as he could, no sudden moves. but you still fought him.

even when he showed you the hairbrush he bought at the store, with hair ties and clips in your favorite colors, offering to do your hair for you to...how did he put it again? bond.

"c'mon, baby, it'll feel really nice. n you're hair's all messy from kicking around, ill be gentle, promise."

the look of disgust on your face almost made him feel bad for taking you away, but he reminded himself that this was necessary, the two of you were soulmates. you just didn't know it yet.

clearly, when you screamed at him, crying, "'m not your baby! you're sick, andrew!"

like he said, it took time, and eventually you let him feed you, and later, even dress you.

and now look at you, those same hairclips he bought placed carefully in your now, much longer hair.

padding over to him, sweetly kissing him on the corner of his mouth, telling him that dinners all ready, honey.

letting him pick you up and place you on the counter, lifting your dress, letting him slide his thick cock into your ready cunt, and even begging for him to cum inside, to get you pregnant for him, so you can be the perfect wife n give him a family like he's always dreamed about.

look how far you've come, baby. ♡

[rawme-price]

Imagine being price's kid that he hardly seemed interested in raising, right? [CHECK THE TAGS]

He liked the idea of having a sweet little kid to keep in his wallet and show off to his work buddies, but he wasn't so fond of actually having you around. Since you could remember you've been fighting for your dad's attention, begging for a "good job, kid." or at least you used to.

That whole dream died when he couldn't be arsed to show up after you landed in the hospital. You spent the last days in that house hardly speaking to your father, then moved out the second you could. You celebrate your 25th birthday alone, finding it difficult to make friends, but it's still more comfortable than any birthday in that house was.

And now you're here.

In a shitty bar, trying to feel anything close to something. It probably says something about you that all of your partners so far come from the kind of bars full of veterans and men old enough to be your dad.

Which, ironically, hadn't meant you expected to see him tonight.

Your dad, captain john price.

...you don't know what compels you to slide up next to him, but whatever plan you had is instantly destroyed when he rests a hand on your hip, mutters a deep "hey there, lovie. Wots a soft thing like you doing here?"

Holy shit.

...your own dad doesn't recognize you. He's looking at you without a hint of recognition, eyeing you up like he's assessing if you're worth the effort of flirting with.

You shouldn't. You really shouldn't. That's your dad, your literal fucking dad.

....john still has the same bedsheets he had when you moved out. His body bowed over yours, panting and groaning as he ruts into you. Fuck, it feels good. It feels wrong and horrible but this is the most your dad has looked at you in years.

"So good for me, love. Fuck– mgh– doing good–" you've never heard your dad say that before, and in your mind you store that memory and scrub the context around it clean.

Some sick part of you loves this, loves the attention and the praise and the usefulness. You can pretend he loves you when he kisses your lips and bites bruises into your neck.

You almost wish he wasn't wearing a condom when he groans, hips stuttering. Now this is what you've been waiting for.

You arch your back, clench down on him in a way that doesn't need to be faked, and moan out "fuck! Yes, dad! Dad!!"

For a moment price just grinds into it, believes it's some little fantasy for you. You can feel the exact moment it clicks, price pulling back to stare at your face.

The disgust at realizing what he did, the horror when he realizes how much he enjoyed it.

Let him try to ignore you now, you're not letting go.

[lifeofriley69]

Midsomer Maidens

[the-endless-fox]

Let's sing and dance and do everything women were born to do 🎶👭🎀🤸🏼‍♀✨🌙

[carbonfiction]

Heatwave

Summary: some filthy, nasty pervy boyfriends dads Rabbot thoughts that stemmed from me melting outside tanning in this current heatwave

(Jesus forgive me for i have fantasized about them eating younger pussy... Again.)

Warnings?: 18+ content including taboo relationships (boyfriends dads rabbot) they're pervy here, age gaps, potential dubcon depending how you view it (though it was written with drunk reader in mind!!) alcohol, mentions of intoxication, fem!reciveing oral, pussy pronouns, fingering, nipple play, overstimulation, one single robby referring to himself as daddy moment aaaand an 18+ twitter link! think thats it but feel free to correct me!!

Thinking many thoughts about this little clip and just how rabbot coded it is.

Maybe even, and walk with me here, boyfriends dads rabbot.

Maybe you’re staying with your boyfriend for a little while over summer break. Maybe some of those days said boyfriend still has tennis or perhaps soccer training meaning he's out for the majority of the morning/early afternoon.

And on those days, the only people still home just so happens to be his two hot, older dads.

You get along, always have since you first met the pair, but that doesn't quell the fuzzy feeling in your gut whenever they interact with you.

The pair find it endearing really, the way you'll slip sometimes, calling them Mr Abbot and Mr Robinavitch instead of Jack and Robby (or Micheal if you'd prefer it). You struggle to keep eye contact with them too, even more so when you trip your words up when responding to questions about yourself. Your degree, your hobbies, what you enjoy to eat, hell, they'll even how your relationship is going with their boy- they're just interested thats all!

But the thing that gets both Jack and Robby chubbing up in their pants like perverted old bastards the most?

How you've spent your time bouncing around the Robinavitch-Abbot household in what must be the skimpest of summer clothes. That bikini that barely covers your tits as you soak up the sun in their garden, or the denim shorts that hardly hides the line of your panties as you sit on the couch reading.

Theres guilt, of course there is, the pair of them perving over their sons girlfriend. But not nearly enough to make them stop thinking about you in ways they shouldn't be. Like how wet you get when worked up or how beautiful your body must be truly bare.

Robby always thinks your lips would look stretched around the girth of them, while Jack ponders the perfect whines you'd let free as you cum.

Its after a long day of sunbathing does everything finally come to a head though

Your skin glistens with a mix of sunscreen and sweat, heart thudding in your chest from the heat. You're boyfriends gone again, has been all day, leaving you, Jack and Robby at home soaking in the summer sun in the backyard.

At lunch you learnt Jack knows a thing or two about making cocktails, by almost dinner you're pretty confident he's got a mean pour.

The world floats by as you lounge on a chair, watching Robby stood by the grill cooking steaks with his own sweating beer. The glass on the table next to you half full, your.. Fourth? Maybe third? Fruity Margarita abandoned as you giggle about something that feels funnier than it is.

Thats the last thing you properly remember- the gruff laughter, the sundrunk haze, Jack and Robby drinking, grilling and hosting like regular older men.

When your eyes blink open again (did you shut them on purpose or did they flutter without you knowing?) the scene is vastly different.

Grey curls sit messily between your plush thighs, hazel eyes peering up lustblown and dark. It hits you then, the intense pleasure of a skilled mouth lapping and lavishing your pussy.

Its hot, wet, perfect and utterly wrong all in one, legs desperate to close around the older mans ears to little avail. Jacks big hands hold you open though, palms flat on your inner thighs, panties of your bathing suit crooked to the side and held steady by two thick fingers.

Your back arches from the lounger, a ragged, breathless gasp ripping from your heaving chest. "O-oh my god!"

The tongue flicks playfully against your clit, before plump lips suckle lewdly, a voice you recognize as Robbys chucking as he sits crouched beside you. "Mm, not quite sweetheart. You wanna that try again?"

The moan breaks with your voice, a hand flying down to those mused salt and pepper curls, tangling tight. "J-jack oh f-fuckk"

"Yeahhh, There you go" he grins wolfish, "s' he makin you feel good kid?"

The nod is jerky, the response even more so. Your hips bump up despite Jack's grip, brain unsure if to run or relish in the overwhelming feeling between your legs; at how fuckig wrong it is to let it continue. "M-mphm y-yeah"

Jack offers some reprive just a moment, unlatching his mouth for just a moment to gravel out "Got you squirmin like no ones done this before, s' our boy holdin out on you honey?"

The question only serves as a reminder these men are your boyfriends fathers, men decades older than you and him. Its wrong, sick, absolutely fucking vile to do to the man you love.. But fuck, his dads devouring you like your sloppy, slick pussy is the only thing left on earth to sustain him. Hes licking you with experience that only comes from enjoyment, suckling like every gasp and whine gives him air.

But in this moment, your hot. Hazy. Utterly drunk of bliss. So you mewl out the truth, jerking your hips to hump at Jack's face like the pleasures the only thing that will keep you alive. "M-mhm.. Says he.. He doesnt like it- fucking shit- that s' not enjoyable-"

"Doesn't like eatin this pretty pussy up, Christ, where'd we go wrong mi- mphmn" Jack murmers incredulous again your folds, stubble rubbing a heavenly kind of pain on your most intimate of areas, fumed point cut off by Robby reaching over a hand that pushes his partner back into your pussy so tight its a wonder he's able to breathe.

"Shhh jack, jus' keep goin. Shes gettin close huh honey?" Robby grins, hand sliding beneath the cups of your bikini top. Your nipples pert and tight as his calloused thumb offers a delightful friction. "Sides, we've gotta correct that bullshit ourselves hm, apologize to that sweet little pussy for everything she's been missin"

Your head is thrown back, hair mused against the chair, your body quivering as the bliss only draws tighter in your gut. Your eyes struggle to stay open between the now setting sun and the onslaught of pleasure. Those plush, still glistening thighs tremble against Jack's touch, one of his hands sliping down to press one, then two, thick digits inside.

You can feel the cool edge of his wedding band bump your hole with each slickened drive, every curl managing to rub at your g spot in a way that only pushes you closer to crumbling.

Then, as quick as Jack's mouth had appeared at your pussy, another sensation has your spine arching almost painfully. Robbys somehow pushed the cup of your top to the side, mouth hot on your skin, his own tongue flicking and teasing at your nipple. His peppered beard making you shake as it rubs your skin with every move he makes.

Its that combo that sends you over the edge with a wail of their names so perfect their chubbed up cocks throb and leak inside the confines of shorts now way too tight. It takes your breath away near violently, the orgasm hitting you so hard you're almost convinced you'll never come back down.

They both keep it up until tears slip down your cheeks, until you're pushing them off and your body is overwhelmingly sensitive. Blood thunders in your ears, hazing over the praise the pair murmer to you.

Jack rises with a groan, shuffling himself forward to meet your mouth in a messy, filthy kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, feel the dampness on his stubble, letting yourself drown in the dopamine a moment longer before you know you'll have to address everything that's just happened..

That is, until hot breath fans over your twitching clit the same but different, you're eyes wide as you dart between Robby who you didn't even realise had moved and Jack.

Robby grins wolfish again, shuffled between your shaking thighs, a large hand pressing on your still heaving belly. Your eyes must look like saucers, lips pouty and bitten raw, peering down with the most doe- like expression.

"Nawh whats that look for?" he coos, pitiful and mocking, inhaling the sweet, musky scent of you in a way that makes your insided lurch. "S'it too much t' take sweetheart? Two old men wantin to lick your sweet pussy?"

"mhm.." you mewl, hand reaching blindly for the loungers edge- for Jack and some semblance of safety. "R-robby please..cant.."

The chuckle is mean, a rumble you feel in the deepest parts of you, hips shifting preemptively to little avail. Robbys gaze drops, as does his wiry haired jaw, his sentiment cut between a broken moan and the envelopement of your puffy clit into the cavern of his mouth.

"Ah ah, no cant n' no runnin.. You'll manage, cause Daddy's got some apologizing left to do; poor little thing.

[ickology]

𓏵 ┊ younger girlfriend squirting with jack abbot . 18+

you tell jack who’s been knuckles deep inside your pussy for the past hour that something feels weirder than usual, as you’re sitting in between his legs — your back pressed against his chest with your thighs parted giving him the perfect amount of access needed to pleasure you.

“what’s wrong, baby?” he murmurs against your temple with a gentle kiss as his calloused digits are rhythmically plunging in and out of your hole. curling his fingers sweet into that spongey spot inside of you, it’s almost cruel the way he knows exactly how to make you lose it. “it feels weird.” you testify, eyes fixated on the recurring disappearance of your boyfriend’s fingers inside of you.

“yeah? tell me what feels weird, hm.” he hums, feeling you shift and squirm against him as he holds one of your legs open by the backside of your knee. and you can barely utter the words from your mouth, “your fingers keep pressing against my bladder, its making me feel like i have to go— go to the bathroom.” you bite down on your bottom lip.

every time jack’s fingers plunge back inside you, it feels as if you’re peeing yourself already. as if the motion of his fingers are forcing that specific release from you. “that so?” you feel his chest rumble against you as he lets out a gruff chuckle, “that’s good then. that’s the feeling you want when it starts feeling good, sweetheart.” he reassures, as your walls pulse around his fingers.

you whine, throwing you head back against his shoulder. each drag of his digits bringing you closer, and closer towards the edge as you let out soft moans.

jack let’s out an impressed whistle once he starts to feel your hips rock into hand. “fuck— it feels good.” you moan warm against the side of his neck, “so good i might actually pee.” which earns a low, amused groan from jack.

“mhmm, you gonna make a mess on my hand?” he lifts his thumb up, before pressing mean against your swollen clit making you jolt. “w—wait!” you stammer, throwing your hands towards jack’s forearm in attempt to halt his movements as he shakes his head in disapproval. “uh-uh, can’t have you telling me to stop now.” he rasps, pressing circles around your nub as it twitches under the pad of this thumb.

“c’mon and show me how messy you can get.” his breath fans warm against your cheek, before your body’s involuntarily letting loose. your body is shaking, and your walls are caving in around jack’s digits as you’re whimpering. “thaat’s it, baby— give it to me.” he groans, targeting that sweet spot inside of you, before you’re making a wet mess all over yourself.

“mmgh, jack— jack.” you’re whimpering as slight humiliation fills your chest, though the pleasure is far too euphoric as he coaxes every last drop out of you. “atta girl.” he nudges his mouth against the side of your head to whisper in your ear. “i love nasty girls.” he groans.

[crashingcryptid]

It started off because Nikolai wanted to fill the small guest bedroom. It was nice having you around, especially since they slowly got you feeling more comfortable around them.

Your favorite food and snacks never ran out. Your rent never went up, and there weren't any restrictive or crazy rules that they expected you to follow. At least, you didn't seem to think so.

"Ah, phone. Now." Nikolai scolds, snapping his finger in your face. "Should we set a new limit on apps? It's outside time right now." You pouted slightly as you make a half-hearted effort to grab your phone back.

"Papa! It's too hot to go outside right now." You protest, but you still follow him when he walks outside.

"Oh, you poor thing. Arms up." He orders, not missing the way you glance nervously at the guests. "What? They have seen you in your underwear before. They've seen you in much less, too." He chuckles as he strips you down and tosses your clothes aside.

"Why don't you go run around in the sprinklers?" John suggests from his place at the grill, smirking at you between the billows of smoke. Nik gives you a pat to the ass, sending you off into the backyard to run around.

You could feel the eyes on you as you jumped through the long streams of water. It was fun after a few rounds, giggling as the cold water cooled your hot skin. It wasn't long until John called you back to the porch for lunch, holding your plate.

"Sit down." Simon orders, patting his leg. "I don't see the little one often... nice to see they behave themselves." He chuckles as you plop down on his lap, legs spread over his large thigh.

"Thank you, Dad." You take your plate with a smile; your burger already made the way you liked it. "Can I have dessert after?" Simon squeezes your waist tight, hand wandering down to cup your crotch.

"Only if you finish your plate." John smirks, watching Simon's fingers disappear into your underwear.

[belleeebelleee]

Jack Abbot (The Pitt) x fem!reader

Jack tries to romance you. Somehow, it always goes horribly wrong. Luckily for him, you're a lil gone for him.

The first time Jack Abbot tried to romance you, he accidentally pepper-sprayed himself in your apartment hallway.

It was two-thirty in the morning.

You had opened your door to the sound of violent coughing and the kind of swearing that suggested either a murder or a plumbing emergency. Instead, you found your neighbour bent over in the corridor wearing navy scrubs, one hand braced against the wall while tears streamed from his eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” he wheezed. “Don’t come closer.”

You blinked sleepily at him. “Why?”

He lifted a hand.

Pepper spray canister.

“Oh my God.”

“I was trying to put my keys away,” he rasped. “Grabbed the wrong pocket.”

He sneezed so hard his shoulders folded inward.

You stared at him for one long second before bursting into helpless laughter.

Jack looked offended by it.

Which only made it worse.

“You think this is funny?”

“You maced yourself,” you choked out. “In front of my door.”

“I’m aware of the sequence of events.”

Another cough overtook him. His eyes were bright red now, his greying curls dishevelled from dragging his hands through them. He looked deeply miserable.

And, unfortunately for your dignity, still ridiculously attractive.

That was the problem.

Jack Abbot was fifty years old, permanently exhausted, sarcastic enough to qualify as medically dangerous, and somehow the hottest man you had ever seen in your life.

You’d noticed him the day he moved into the apartment beside yours.

He’d carried boxes upstairs alone, jaw clenched, old band tee stretched across broad shoulders, forearms lined with veins and faded scars. Tired eyes. Heavy posture. Wedding ring absent. A man who looked like he belonged to another era entirely.

Then you’d learned he worked nights in the emergency department downtown, and suddenly everything about him made sense.

The dark circles.

The strange hours.

The haunted look in his eyes sometimes when he came home just before dawn.

The fact he drank coffee like it personally offended him.

You’d developed a crush quickly.

Horribly.

Embarrassingly.

And Jack, apparently, had decided to make your life impossible by being unexpectedly gentle.

He carried groceries upstairs for you without asking.

Fixed your kitchen sink at four in the morning after hearing you threaten it violently through the wall.

Knocked on your door during a storm because your power had gone out and he “didn’t trust the wiring in this building not to kill you.”

You’d fallen harder every single time.

Unfortunately, Jack seemed entirely unaware of how attractive he was.

Or perhaps he was aware and cursed by fate.

Because every time he tried to flirt with you, disaster followed.

After the pepper spray incident came The Soup Catastrophe.

You got home from work late one evening to find him sitting on the floor outside your apartment with a takeout bag beside him.

“You okay?” you asked cautiously.

Jack looked up with the expression of a man abandoned by God.

“The soup exploded.”

“What?”

“The soup exploded.”

You stared.

He gestured tiredly toward the container beside him. “I brought you dinner because you said you’d had a rough week. I hit a pothole. The lid came off. Tomato bisque all over the passenger seat.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are absolutely laughing.”

“I’m trying not to.”

He sighed deeply. “I cleaned up as much as I could.”

“You still brought it?”

“You like grilled cheese.”

Your chest did a dangerous little squeeze.

Because there he was — exhausted ER attending after a twelve-hour night shift — sitting cross-legged in the hallway holding slightly traumatised grilled cheese sandwiches like an offering.

You crouched beside him.

“That’s actually very sweet.”

Jack looked startled by that.

Like genuine kindness still caught him off guard.

“Well,” he muttered gruffly. “Didn’t want you eating cereal for dinner again.”

Your smile softened.

“You notice that?”

“You leave the boxes in the recycling.”

Right.

Of course he noticed.

Jack noticed everything about you.

He noticed when your migraines got bad because you closed your blinds too early.

He noticed when you were anxious because you cleaned compulsively.

He noticed when you skipped meals.

He noticed when you cried.

That one had been particularly unfortunate.

You’d had a horrible phone call with your mother and wound up sitting on the fire escape behind the building trying to quietly pull yourself together. You genuinely thought no one had seen you.

Then the fire escape door opened.

Jack stepped outside carrying two mugs.

No questions.

No awkward pity.

Just silent company.

He sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched lightly.

Held out a mug of tea.

And stayed.

That was it.

That was all.

But you’d looked at him under the pale orange glow of the security light — tired face, rough hands curled around cheap ceramic, eyes soft with concern — and realised with absolute horror that you were already half in love with him.

The third romance attempt involved flowers.

Technically.

In practice, it involved blood.

You opened your apartment door one afternoon to find Jack standing there holding a bouquet of sunflowers and a paper towel wrapped around his hand.

“…Are you bleeding?”

“Minor injury.”

“You’re dripping on my welcome mat.”

Jack looked down.

“Ah.”

You immediately grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside before he could protest.

He followed in stunned silence while you marched him into your kitchen.

“Sit.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Jack.”

He sat.

You unwrapped the paper towel carefully.

“…Did you cut yourself on the flowers?”

“In my defence, florist scissors are apparently sharper than surgical equipment.”

You stared at him.

Then laughed so hard you nearly cried.

Jack groaned.

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry, it’s just— you’re supposed to be saving lives.”

“I do save lives.”

“You lost a fight with a sunflower arrangement.”

His mouth twitched.

That was another problem.

Jack smiled rarely.

But when he did, it ruined people.

Especially you.

Because suddenly he looked younger. Warmer. Less weighed down by the world.

You cleaned the cut while he watched you quietly.

“You didn’t have to buy me flowers,” you murmured.

Jack shrugged one shoulder.

“Saw them. Thought of you.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“You thought of me?”

“Frequently, actually.”

The words came out absentmindedly.

Like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

Silence filled the kitchen.

Jack slowly lifted his eyes to yours.

You forgot how breathing worked.

Then his phone went off.

Of course it did.

Jack swore viciously under his breath.

You burst out laughing again.

And somehow that became your thing.

Jack failing spectacularly at romance while you fell more in love with him every single time.

He tried cooking for you once.

That ended with the fire department arriving.

“To be fair,” Jack argued while the alarm screamed overhead, “the recipe said broil.”

“The recipe did not say cremate.”

“I got distracted.”

“You’re an emergency physician.”

“Yes,” he snapped. “Ironically.”

The firefighter walking through the apartment looked deeply amused.

Jack looked like he wanted to die.

You, meanwhile, were leaning against the counter laughing so hard you could barely stand upright.

The worst part?

Jack could cook.

Usually.

You’d eaten meals he’d made before during exhausted post-shift mornings when neither of you wanted to sleep yet. Omelettes. Pasta. Perfect pancakes at six a.m.

But apparently the second he intentionally tried to impress you, the universe intervened violently.

Still.

The evening ended with both of you sitting on his balcony eating takeout noodles from cartons.

City lights glowing below.

Cool wind moving through the dark.

Jack slouched in his chair looking deeply annoyed with himself.

“I used to be smoother than this.”

You snorted.

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“I was.”

“Sure.”

“I had hair down to here in med school.”

“Oh my God.”

“Women loved me.”

You looked him over slowly.

Grey threaded through dark curls.

Strong nose.

Rough jaw covered in stubble.

Broad shoulders stretching his Henley.

Large hands scarred from years in emergency medicine.

Tired eyes that somehow still looked gentle when they landed on you.

“They still do,” you said quietly.

Jack stilled.

The air shifted.

You realised what you’d admitted approximately one second too late.

Your face burned immediately.

Jack looked at you with an expression so soft it physically hurt.

Then—

His chair snapped underneath him.

You shrieked laughing as he crashed backwards onto the balcony floor.

Jack stared up at the sky like he was reconsidering every life decision that had brought him here.

“I am being punished,” he informed the universe.

By month four of being disastrously, helplessly in love with your neighbour, you and Jack had developed something dangerously close to domesticity.

You spent mornings together after his shifts.

He drank terrible black coffee while you made fun of him for reading medical journals recreationally.

He fixed things around your apartment without being asked.

You fell asleep on his couch more often than your own.

Sometimes you woke in the middle of the night to soft knocking on your door because Jack had brought leftovers home from work and “there’s no point ordering enough for two if you aren’t eating with me.”

It became easy.

Too easy.

The age difference should have felt strange.

It didn’t.

Not really.

Jack never treated you like you were immature.

Never talked down to you.

Never made you feel lesser.

Sometimes he forgot there was twenty-five years between you entirely.

Other times, though, you caught it in the way he hesitated.

The way he looked at you too long before pulling himself back.

Like he wanted something he’d already decided he shouldn’t have.

You hated that.

Because you knew exactly what he was thinking.

He thought he was too old for you.

Too tired.

Too damaged.

Too much.

Which was ridiculous.

You wanted him so badly it made your stomach ache.

You wanted his tired smiles and rough hands and dry humour and the way he always checked if you’d eaten.

You wanted the man who carried exhausted nurses through panic attacks at work and came home with blood on his shoes and still somehow remembered your favourite tea.

You wanted all of him.

Unfortunately, Jack seemed committed to suffering.

The final romance attempt happened on a Thursday.

You remember because it had been raining all day.

You got home soaked through after work and found your apartment dark.

Before panic could settle in, there was a knock at your door.

You opened it to find Jack standing there holding a flashlight.

“Building lost power,” he said. “Come next door.”

Simple as that.

You followed him into his apartment wrapped in a blanket while rain hammered against the windows.

Candles flickered softly across the kitchen.

Your stomach flipped.

“Jack…”

He immediately looked nervous.

Which, for a man who routinely handled trauma patients without blinking, was almost impressive.

“I know this probably seems stupid,” he muttered. “And statistically my track record here is catastrophic—”

You started smiling already.

“—but I thought maybe dinner. Properly this time.”

The table was set.

Real plates.

Wine.

Pasta that did not appear burnt.

And flowers.

You eyed them suspiciously.

“No blood involved?”

“I bought them pre-cut.”

“Smart.”

Jack huffed a laugh despite himself.

You ate slowly while thunder rolled outside.

And for once, nothing went wrong.

No kitchen fires.

No accidental chemical warfare.

No collapsing furniture.

Just Jack.

Relaxed gradually by candlelight.

Talking about medicine and music and the little vineyard town he grew up in.

Listening to you like every word mattered.

You realised at some point that he kept looking at your mouth.

And every time he noticed himself doing it, he’d glance away immediately.

Your pulse fluttered harder each time.

Eventually the storm worsened.

Rain battered the windows so violently the whole building seemed to shake.

You wandered toward the balcony doors to watch it.

Jack joined you a moment later.

Close.

Very close.

“You scared of storms?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Power in this building’s unreliable.” His gaze slid toward you. “If the lights go out completely, I’m making a move.”

You laughed softly.

“Jack Abbot threatening romance. Terrifying.”

His expression shifted.

Something warmer.

More serious.

“You think I’m joking.”

The air changed again.

Slowly, carefully, he reached for your hand.

Your breath caught immediately.

His palm was warm.

Calloused.

Steady despite the tension you could see in his shoulders.

“You know,” Jack said roughly, “I have treated gunshot wounds with more confidence than I’ve handled trying to date you.”

“You’ve been trying to date me?”

He stared at you.

“You cannot possibly be serious.”

You bit back a grin.

“I don’t know. The pepper spray felt ambiguous.”

Jack groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh my God.”

“The fire department definitely confused me.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I really am.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And suddenly the humour softened into something achingly vulnerable.

“I didn’t think you could want this,” he admitted quietly. “Me.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Jack.”

“You’re twenty-five.” His voice was low. Careful. “You’re bright and beautiful and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. And I’m—”

“Mine,” you interrupted immediately.

He stopped.

You stepped closer.

“So incredibly mine, actually.”

Jack stared at you like you’d knocked the air from his lungs.

“I don’t care about the age difference.”

“You should.”

“But I don’t.” Your fingers curled tighter around his hand. “I like you. God, I like you so much. Even when you nearly poison yourself with pepper spray.”

His laugh escaped softly then.

Disbelieving.

Fond.

You reached up carefully and touched his face.

The stubble against your palm.

The warmth of his skin.

Jack leaned into it instinctively before catching himself.

“You deserve someone uncomplicated,” he murmured.

“I deserve someone kind.”

His eyes closed briefly.

That one landed.

Because beneath all the sarcasm and exhaustion and self-deprecation, Jack was unbearably kind.

You saw it constantly.

In the way he stayed late for frightened patients.

In the way he remembered tiny details about everyone around him.

In the way he treated your feelings like fragile things worth protecting.

You’d never wanted uncomplicated.

You wanted him.

Thunder cracked overhead.

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then died completely.

Darkness swallowed the apartment.

There was one beat of silence.

Then Jack muttered:

“Well. Guess I have to make a move now.”

You laughed right before he kissed you.

And maybe it should have been awkward.

Maybe it should have felt strange after months of near-misses and disasters and tension wound too tight.

Instead it felt inevitable.

Jack kissed like he did everything else — carefully at first, like he was afraid of hurting you.

Then your hand slid into his hair and he made this rough, wrecked sound against your mouth that nearly took your knees out.

Suddenly he was pulling you closer with both hands.

Warmth everywhere.

His heartbeat hard beneath your palm.

The storm raging outside while Jack kissed you like he’d been trying not to for months.

Years, maybe.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You know,” he murmured, voice rough, “this is probably the first romantic thing I’ve done around you that hasn’t ended in property damage.”

As if summoned by the universe itself, something crashed loudly in his kitchen.

You burst into helpless laughter.

Jack looked toward the sound with exhausted resignation.

“Unbelievable.”

Still laughing, you grabbed his shirt and kissed him again anyway.

[simply-curiosity]

This had my giggling and smiling like a school girl, I loved it

[rawme-price]

Inspired by [this] post by @soapcloth

Imagine asking your friend soap to do you a favor when you finally decide to go out drinking and meet some people, right?

"Please, johnny? Just, if anyone is weird I need you to come pretend to be my boyfriend and pick me up." You pace your apartment, picking out clothes while soap groans teasingly.

"Aye. I'll handle it, yeah? Just enjoy yourself and stay off the news."

That's the end of it. You have a backup incase anything happens, you've never known johnny to be the guy to leave you hanging.

It's not until you actually need said lifeline that you begin to curse him. Some guy you thought just wanted to hear about your latest hobby wouldn't take the hint after you shoved his hand off your thigh, so you played up all the disgust you could muster and said "I have a boyfriend, dude. He'll be here soon."

You send the text to soap, praying to god he's quick because the creep is now going on about keeping secrets and—

"Hi, lovie, who's this?" A voice you don't recognize interrupts, and you look up to see a giant, terrifying beast of a man. He's six foot fuck-off and as wide as a damn doorframe.

"Uhm–" you try, stuttering over your words. What the hell do you say that won't end poorly?

"Who the hell is this, then?" The stranger asks, glaring at the creep who's suddenly gone pale. He stumbles in his hast to vacate the seat next to you, muttering something about freaks in masks.

You think, for a moment, that the gods may pity you and the stranger will leave. To your horror, he takes the now empty seat and grunts "you okay? Didn't drink anything?"

"Who the hell are you?" You send another text to soap, because what the fuck where is he??

"Simon. Johnny sent me." The stranger rolls up his mask, takes a sip of your drink then grimaces and pours the rest of it on the floor "good thing you didn't drink it."

....what the hell.

"The one time I go out," you groan, rest your face in your hands, "and I think some guy wants to talk about bugs– and– instead this happens."

The man perks up, pulls his weird skull-painted mask back down, and says eagerly "what kind of bugs?"

By the end of the night, you and Simon are swapping bug photos and forgetting about any worries from earlier.

[simply-curiosity]

I love this, I love this, I love this, and did I say I love this?

[cat-skull]

imo the term "walkable" in "walkable cities" should be understood to mean "wheelchair accessible" as well, not just literally "possible to walk in". the act of walking in a city doesn't automatically make it walkable

[soapcloth]

Laswell checking in on her wife even if you don’t know about that arrangement.

CW: 18+ mdni, somno, breaking in, stalking, fem terms used for reader

She was checking up on you while you were sleeping, movements unnaturally clumsy for a woman like her all because she saw an online order for a new toy that would have arrived while she was tying up some loose ends from her last op.

It’s bigger than whatever you’ve ordered before and she had been curious what sparked this sudden upsize, finding the chance to check your browsing history around the same time she was wiring you your monthly funds she had fabricated some distantly-related lawsuit beneficiary story for.

Turns out nothing in your late night stress-relief browsing had changed. Maybe you were just curious? Well, she could entertain curiosity too.

It would have been easy to get lost and just sit on the edge of your bed for the entirety of her allotted ‘wife-time’, carding diligent work-worn fingers from your temple to your crown as soft breaths puffed out of your parted lips. You were perhaps the most beautiful person she had ever seen.

It could be argued you were even more beautiful as she fucked you on your shiny new toy—grateful as always for your heavy sleeping habits. She was hunched over you where she sat on your bed, one leg on her lap and the other drawn up and to your side, sleep shorts hooked around the ankle, laying you bare.

Her hawk-like eyes watched your every sound, movement, and spasm, well aware of the looming threshold that might wake you were she to get carried away. It wasn’t like she had gone in raw, her hasty prep pavloving you into a syrupy mess she would have happily savoured any other night—but this thing was new and big, easier to be described as a little battering ram rather than a ‘toy’. She had to be careful.

She could feel her eyes dilate and glaze over as your folds struggled to spread around the intrusion, parting around it pathetically. With the brutal stretch, her attention had been drawn over to your clit where it sat at the apex, begging to be touched.

Her analytical mind gave in a little and with it, the leeway she would allow herself to give some much needed attention to your touch-starved clit. It was risky, the only close call she had to you waking up being the night she found out just how sensitive it was.

Her lust-clouded mind reassured her as her thrusts slowed and deepened, if you woke up, she always had the uncanny ability to recall pressure points—coupled with the honed reaction time of a viper? Surely just a little attention to detail would be fine.

There had been a shamefully short time between making contact with the nerves and you clenching and whining in your sleep. It almost felt like a triumph over the toy and there was a smug lilt to her voice as she popped it out of your stretched pussy.

“That’s my girl.” She cooed cockily, cleaning you up and tucking you back in. “Even your body knows who’s in charge here.”

She busied herself re-sanitizing the toy before taking a walk around your place, floor layout burned into the back of her eyelids while she checked for hazards and safety.

As per routine, she had grabbed a few souvenirs to keep her sane during the next few weeks on her way to put the toy back where it sat before her intrusion.

There was the ghost of a kiss to your forehead and the whispered promise she’d come back safe for you before she slipped out.