beautiful words

23

[captainfern]

Maekar headlock fucking? Anyone??

oh absolutely

18+ (smut, dirty talk, breeding!!!)

evening light came streaming in through the windows of your chambers, lighting the space in a soft yellow glow as the sun begins its journey behind the distant hills. dappled sunlight catches in your eyelashes as you blink from where you hunch over on the bed, writhing on your hands and knees.

your husband’s hands are tight on your hips, gripping the flesh as he splits you apart on the thick of his cock, grunting little obscenities as he ruts you deeper and deeper into the feathered mattress, your hands and knees pressing indents into the silk.

but you’re wriggling too much. you can’t help it. pleasure sits hot in the pit of your womb, a sticky sort of pressure in the base of your spine too, and you just can’t help the way you wriggle your hips to chase it away, or tremble on your hands and knees when it starts to be too much.

you can’t help it, but maekar can.

you pitch a whine from the back of your throat as his cock spreads the wet clutch of your pussy apart, dragging deep towards the plug of your cervix as he ruts into you, hips smacking against the flesh of your arse. but that’s when you feel it—the solid mass of his chest and abdomen as he leans over you, crowds you, then the thick, scarred column of his arm as it wraps around your throat.

you yelp when he hauls you up until you’re kneeling with him, your sweat-slick back flush with his chest. the corded muscles in his arm contract as he pins your neck into the crook of his elbow, his head coming to rest directly beside your ear.

you suck in a gasp at the new angle and the way the head of his cock pushes up deep inside you. the pressure makes you keen, moaning his name as he traps you against his chest. your hands find his arm, nails dimpling the sun-kissed skin, as he noses at the shell of your ear, his hips rucking upwards.

“you’re restless today,” maekar mutters, tip of his cock nailing that perfect spot inside you. you mewl, clutching his arm as your pussy flutters around him. he pants against the pulse point below your ear. “you just couldn’t kneel there and take it, could you? were you waiting for this, sweet girl?”

his cock hits deep, the velvet ridges along the length rubbing against the slick walls of your cunt. you take him so well, squeezing tight each time he thrusts in and out, slick dribbling from you as he takes what he needs.

you whine in response. “no, maekar, i’m—”

“s’alright, s’alright…” maekar coos, his other hand curling around your waist to press flat to the mound of your lower belly. “i’ve got you, sweet girl. can’t go anywhere now, can you?”

the strong mass of his arm presses tighter to your throat, and you suck in a sharp breath. you hold his arm too, anchoring yourself as he fucks you, your entire body shifting with each of his movements. he’s grunting in your ear, and a couple of damp, white strands of hair fall across his forehead and rub near your temple.

“that’s a good girl, that’s it,” he whispers, feeling your pussy flutter around him. he’s holding you firm against him, the space between you nonexistent and boiling hot. the hand on your belly presses in, the added pressure making you cry out his name. he kisses your cheek softly. “s’alright, don’t fuss, sweet girl. just take it—just fucking take it.”

you can’t do much but take it, really. you’re pinned to his body, heat radiating from him. the bed creaks softly as his hips slam up against you, and he groans right in your ear. you moan his name in response, the vowels stretched around a whine, and he kisses the heated skin of your cheek again.

“my sweet girl, my best girl,” your husband rambles, breathing harshly as his cock ruts in and out of you, the wet heat of your cunt sucking him in. he groans, “i think you’ll take my seed just as well as you take my cock, won’t you?”

you whimper, gasping through the sound as the head of his cock grinds up against that spot inside you that has stars exploding behind your eyelids. the heat in your belly and the pressure in your spine threatens to shatter within you, and you clutch maekar’s arm in support as he fucks you. he groans, revelling in the tight squeeze of your pussy and the way slick dribbles from you, wet across the seam of his balls as he moves.

“she’s begging me for it,” maekar utters, holding you tightly as you flutter around him. “she wants me to fill her, doesn’t she? she wants me to fill her, sweet girl, i can feel it.”

you moan. “maekar, please, please, please—”

“i know, i know, i’ve got you,” your husband mutters, kissing your cheek as the heat and pressure inside finally overwhelm you. he feels your body seize up, your cunt clenching vice-like around the thick of his cock, and he knows you’re on the edge. his hand on your lower belly presses down even firmer. “let me feel you.”

you splinter from the inside out, orgasm racking through you as heat bursts like stars in your veins, and the pressure in your belly dissolves into the marrow of your bones. you come with his name on your lips, moans filling your chambers as your body trembles against his, nails digging into the scarred skin of his forearm. he fucks you through it, trapping you against him as you tremble and whine, pleasure flushing through your veins.

“good girl, there we go,” he mutters, practically bouncing your spent body back onto his. your head rolls back onto his shoulder and he plants a wet kiss to the junction of your jaw. his hips snap, then snap up again, and he growls where he kisses you, his balls drawing tight. “gods above, you’re so fucking tight. she’s begging for a babe, isn’t she? cunt’s pitching a right fit—doesn’t want to let me go.”

you mewl softly, eyes closing as maekar barrels towards his own release. there’s a sharp pressure in the base of his spine, and you can feel the desperation of his movements as he chases that pressure towards its breaking point.

maekar groans, thick and rumbling. “i’ll spill inside you, alright, sweet girl? fill you with my babe—fuck, you always look so fucking good when you’re with child, when you’re round with my babe. yeah, fuck—fuck, my sweet girl, my perfect girl—”

he’s rambling now, and that’s when you know. maekar groans your name right against the shell of your ear as his hips stutter, the arm around your throat pinning you back as he spills inside you. the pressure in his spine snaps and spreads, and he moans deep from his chest as the heat of his orgasm crashes over him. his cock nudges deep inside, right at the base of your cervix, and paints you in thick, hot ropes.

being filled has you leaning back into his hold, whimpering across a sigh as he ruts a few more times, emptying himself completely as your pussy pulls tight, milking him. he kisses along your jaw, cradling you as his cock jerks, then softens where he’s buried, slick and seed drooling slowly from where you connect.

“there we go…” maekar whispers, large hand rubbing across your belly as if that’ll help the taking process. he kneads the soft fat there with calloused fingers. “nice and full, sweet girl.”

you whine, pliant in his arms, blinking the setting sunlight from your eyes.

he kisses your cheek. “always do so well for me—” another kiss, then another. “—i love you, sweet girl.”

[cherrysweets-world]

nipping at your heels

Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x fem!Reader

Summary: Foolish and afraid, you flee from your new husband. He does not let you get far.

Warnings: 18+, Maekar was plotting on reader from the moment he saw her, chasing, possessive Maekar, virginity mentions, female masturbation, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, brief breeding kink mostly unedited

Word Count: 4.8k+

targaryen masterlist

There was no higher privilege than marrying into the royal family. To bear royal children, Targaryen children. It was an honor.

At least, that was what you had been repeatedly told for the last few months.

Hard as you tried, you could not make the sentiment stick. No matter how many times your family told you of the honor you would bring them, no matter how much they praised you and talked smugly about you to others, you could not see it that way.

Not when the maids gushed about Targaryen beauty, and fantasized about how many white-haired children you might bear. Not when your father spent lavishly on you, paying attention to you for what felt like the first time in your life. Not when your mother cupped your face and told you about the secrets of the bedchamber, and how it wasn’t that bad, in fact, it could even be enjoyable.

No. Especially not then.

In the end, a mere three weeks from the wedding, you realized it did not matter how you saw it. As depressing as the thought was, it also bought a sense of freedom. The wedding was happening. There was no changing that. But you could change your feelings.

You resigned yourself to the reality of impending married life.

Aerion Targaryen did not have a good reputation. You had attempted to bring it up with your father several times, only to be hushed and scolded.

Aerion had a proclivity for cruelty and was rumored to be quite the brute. You got yourself used to the idea of him that way. Used to the idea of grabbing hands and blank eyes. You ran over it all again and again until you felt nothing more than a dull disdain.

You could handle the cruelty of a stupid boy, you decided. Even if he was a Targaryen prince. You would do your duty, no more, no less, and survive.

Two weeks before the wedding, your family journeyed to Summerhall. The journey was long and tiring and you hardly registered a moment of it.

The castle was grand, the grounds larger than comprehension and well kept. You had never seen so many staff, nor larger rooms and nicer furniture. You noticed it all with dim interest, your mind focused on the task at hand – marry the Targaryen prince. Bear him children. Live.

Aerion Targaryen was beautiful. They all were, of course. He had a rather delicate look about him, despite all the rumors that whirled around him. For a moment you thought you had been wrong in your assumptions – and then you saw his eyes. They looked like the eyes of a dead man, cold and distant and greedy.

Then and there, you made the choice that whatever children you would bear, would never grow up to be anything like him.

You were not sure what to expect of his siblings. The youngest, Aegon, stayed mostly out of the way. You wished you could have done the same.

His father, Maekar, had a habit of worming his way into your eyeline, into your mind and conscious. Tall, white-haired and stoic. You had met him for the first time on the day you had arrived, before you had even met Aerion.

He had looked at you intensely. It had made you want to scream. He knew what his son was like, more so than anyone else. How dare he drag you here as a sacrifice to placate the dragon?

Maekar had held your hand with surprising tenderness and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His beard had scratched at your skin, breaking the panic building in your chest. You had inhaled then, loud and clumsy, and he had held you for a beat longer than appropriate. The air had been heavy as you awoke from what felt like a dream, blinking as sensation seemed to flood back into your body. He had let you go then, but you had felt him watching you as you disappeared with the rest of your family.

With your mind practically turned into mush, you did not deign to notice much else. Aerion’s brothers were nice enough, even the one who was with a cup of wine more often than not. His youngest brother looked at Aerion with something that you did not care to name. If he was cruel to his family members, what hope did you have?

Marry the Targaryen prince. Bear him children. Survive.

But when the ceremony came, and you were stood opposite your betrothed, it was not Brightflame who lifted your veil and slid a ring onto your finger.

In your mind, Summerhall had been drenched in heat and stickiness. Always green grass, fresh fruit and long hours of daylight. No matter how you felt about your husband-to-be, you’d never been able to shake the fanciful image of a place suspended year-long in the peak of Summer.

Nestled in the window nook of your room, you laughed quietly to yourself. The weather outside was grey and dreary, and it had been drizzling for days. Not a proper rain, just a pathetic spattering that made you cold to the bone and lazy.

You twisted the ring on your finger, as you had been wont to do ever since the wedding. It fit you perfectly, despite supposedly being a family heirloom. It was an elegant thing, gold and studded with tiny, blood red jewels than glittered even in sparse lighting. You ran your fingernail over them, wondering who had owned the ring before you.

It had been your husband’s own pick. You liked it more than you cared to admit and had felt a little ashamed of the plain gold band you had shakily slid on your husband’s wedding finger. If he noticed the difference, or cared, he did not say. He had only watched you with the same intense eyes as the day you had first met him.

Aerion Brightflame would have cared. You could imagine it even now; the curl of his lip as he scoffed at the plain gold. He probably would have made some ugly comment right then and there, determined to get in one last public jab against you and your family.

Luckily your husband, his father, was not like that.

Maekar had pulled his hand away from yours as though he thought you might snatch the ring back. Maybe you should have. At the time, you had been startled by the man standing before you and had fallen into a shock you weren’t entirely sure you had recovered from, even now, a month later.

You had glanced over at your father, only to meet his encouraging, greedy eyes. No explanation, no apology. You had shut down then, following along with the rest of the ceremony as though your body was not yours. It wasn’t, really.

You had been prepared for a spoiled, callous prince. Not a man who had looked at you in the way Maekar Targaryen did. Like he was intent on peeling back every defence you had until he could touch the real you.

There had been one small relief in the back of your mind. It was unlikely that the expectation to bear him children would be quite so crushing. Maekar had been married before and had several healthy sons and daughters. Was there really need for more?

It seemed not, for the marriage still remained unconsummated, one whole month later.

You watched idly as rain spattered onto the stone and glass. You thought about that night often. With Aerion you had expected brute force and pain.

When Maekar had closed the door behind him, leaving the pair of you alone in his chambers, your heart had been on the verge of working its way up your throat.

The look in his eyes had been so heated that you could have sworn you felt fire burst along your skin. You had stood there, wide eyed and shivering, vulnerable in a way you did not know how to be.

He had approached you then, hand rising to hover next to your cheek as though he would cup your face and make you hold eye contact. It had remained there for a beat before dropping to the laces on your dress.

You had assumed that would be it. The marriage would be consummated. You had been wrong. Maekar had undressed you with a tenderness that had you near tears, and then redressed you in a nightgown and ushered you to his bed.

Never in a million years did you think you would have been able to sleep. Not when your new husband undressed and joined you, warm skin brushing against yours beneath the sheets. Sheer exhaustion must have kicked in at a certain point though, because you slept deeply, and when you awoke, he had been gone.

You had slept in his chambers for several nights after that. It was only after the third that you began to realise, he had no intention of touching you. Sometimes his hand would hover above your skin, fingers clenching and unclenching, but the only time he touched you was when he would help you dress in your nightgown.

It had made you angry. Angry then and angry now. His restraint was admirable and you held nothing against him for that. It was miles better than what you had built yourself up to expect.

You hated the way your stomach would clench in anticipation. The first time you had realised you wanted his hands on you, the room had seemed to spin. When you lay awake next to him, thighs clenching, nipples hard, you were furious. And afraid. This was not what you had prepared for.

At some point you had realised that was what he was waiting for. Reciprocation. So you hid your desire behind blank faces and shaky legs and tried to pretend that you did not want your husband. It was foolish and torture but you just could not make yourself take that step.

After a full week in Maekar’s chambers, you had finally built up the will to ask the maid to sleep in your own. You had had one full night to yourself before Maekar reappeared, now familiar hands helping you into your nightgown before falling into bed next to you. You had not had the heart to ask him to leave. Still, he did not touch you. Not in the way you wanted.

“My lady?”

You jumped at the sudden intrusion, near falling from your window seat as you whirled to face your maid.

“My apologies, my lady,” she continued, “dinner is ready. Your husband is asking after you.”

You got to your feet, brushing off imaginary dirt from your dress. Another of Maekar’s strange demands; every meal had to be taken together.

“Thank you, Mary, I will come now,” you said.

Your voice shook a little. Mary pretended not to notice.

The table was set beautifully, as always. More food and wine than your entire family could consume. Maekar did not sit at the head of the table; at least not when it was just the pair of you. Instead, he sat opposite you.

You curtsied and he waved you away. A little routine of yours. Mary pulled out your seat and you sat, eyed glued to the table. The servants left then. The first time that had happened, you had been entirely bewildered. Who would serve you, then? You had grown even more concerned when Maekar had been the one to fill your plate and top your cup.

He did so now, not stopping until there was more food piled on your plate than you could eat. You would have to finish most of it or he would look at you in that disapproving way of his. At first you had been mortified. At some point that had changed to mild amusement.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Eat,” he said.

The two of you had fallen into a routine of sorts. Nerves still buzzed in your stomach every time you saw him but you were not afraid. No, very much not afraid.

Some part of you warmed at the gentle command in his voice. There was some concern there. After the ceremony, you had eaten very little for two or so days. Still numbed by the shock of the sudden change in groom and the absence of your family. Maekar had sat with you for every meal, watching you carefully until you ate to his satisfaction.

Aerion probably would’ve shoved the food down your throat, if he cared at all.

“Do not think of another man when you are with me, wife,” Maekar said lowly.

You blinked. “I was –“

“Even when that man is my son.”

You inhaled sharply. It was uncanny how he sometimes seemed to read your mind. Embarrassed, you shot back, “I was his betrothed first. It is normal that I should think of him on occasion.”

“You were never his,” Maekar spat.

Was I yours, then? The words sat heavy on your tongue, almost spilling over. Scowling, you shovelled a forkful of potatoes into your mouth. If you asked that question, you were not sure you would be ready for the answer he would give.

Maekar always appeared in your chambers exactly when you began to get tired. You still hadn’t figured out exactly how he knew. You suspected he had maids reporting on you but you had never been quick enough to catch them in the act.

He always waited until you were sleepy and pliant. You did not mind.

It was easier, then, to allow him to maneuver you to your feet. To allow him to deftly unlace whatever lace held up your dress, to slowly peel layers from you until you were stood bare before him.

You liked it like this. When you were tired enough to be able to pretend your own fatigue was why you let him position you like a doll, raising your arms and nudging apart your legs as he admired you.

Your nipples stiffened under his gaze. Heavy lidded and near panting, you let him see you. His eyes focused on the tips of your breasts, hands fisting at his sides.

They dropped lower, then, to the tuft of curls between your legs. You were thankful for the slight coverage; that way he could not see how his gaze caused your cunt to leak, smears of arousal threatening to coat your upper thighs.

You kept still, core clenching. Any sign that you wanted it, wanted him, and it would be over. You knew he would not hold himself back.

You raised your arms as he lifted your nightgown over your head, sliding it down over your body. You hissed when the material caressed over your nipples, stepping back before Maekar could examine the sound.

You turned away from him and crawled into the bed, arranging yourself beneath the sheets as Maekar blew out the candles. You could still see a vague outline of him in the darkness. You hoped he could not see you, for you could not tear your eyes away as he undressed. He turned to the side and you nearly gasped out loud. You could see the hard shape of his cock bobbing before him. The image seared itself into your mind before he pulled on his own sleep clothes.

He joined you in bed and got comfortable. There was no telling how much time passed before soft snores echoed around your chamber. You relaxed at the sound.

Sleep refused to come. Instead, there was only a persistent throbbing between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together, breathing heavily at the sensation it provided. But it was not enough.

You glanced over at Maekar’s side of the bed. In the dark, you could only make out the vague shape of him beneath the covers. He was still snoring.

Emboldened, you let your legs part. You had touched yourself before but that had been leisurely, with the knowledge that you would not be discovered. Now, you let your fingers slide down to your swollen clit, teasing gently at it, all while your husband slept next to you.

There was no time for teasing, you realised. You spread your legs as far as you dared and began to rub in earnest, nearly crying out at the relief that enveloped you. You needed to get rid of the desperation, to take the edge of, else you were at risk of climbing atop your husband and taking what you wanted like some common whore.

The slick sound of your own fingers on your cunt was almost too loud. You bit down on your lip so hard that you felt blood well. You could taste the coppery slide of it on your tongue as you squirmed beneath your own ministrations.

Your orgasm shot through you, hard and fast. You clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your cry, yanking your other hand from between your legs as it became too sensitive to bear. Your toes clenched as the sensation wracked through you. You could feel the sweat on your upper lip and forehead, though the room was on the cool side.

It took a moment for you to regain your senses. Pleasure curled lazily around your bones, wanting to drag you down into your sleep. You almost nodded off, but then you noticed something. Or rather, the absence of something.

At some point, without your realising, your husband’s snoring had stopped.

Before you could panic, you felt a rough hand close around your right wrist. You yelped at the sudden contact and tried to pull away, but Maekar held fast, bringing your hand up to his face.

You realised your hand was still sticky. “No, wait –“

All protests died as Maekar slid those fingers between his lips. You felt your cunt clench around nothing as he used his tongue to thoroughly clean your digits, licking over and between them until he had chased down every bit of your arousal.

When he was done, he pulled your fingers from his mouth and pressed a wet kiss to your knuckles. Shock and arousal kept you silent.

“Sleep, wife,” he murmured.

There was no anger in his voice. It was something worse. A promise that he would not forget what had happened tonight, and your games would no longer be tolerated.

Maekar did not let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

Unlike other mornings, Maekar was not gone when you awoke. He pressed a meaningful kiss to your hand, the same one from before, the same one he had been holding all night, and did not leave.

He stayed when your maid came, who squeaked with surprise to see him sitting at a table in your chambers eating breakfast. He stayed when she ushered you behind the room divide and helped you wash and then dress. He did not leave until your heart was pounding with enough force to make you dizzy, and he told you that he would be seeing you later.

Later.

Dull panic lit a fire in your chest. With every intake of breath, your cunt pulsed. You spent the morning attempting to read a book, only to end up launching it at the wall with enough force that you bent the spine.

Your maid watched the incident with raised brows. She scurried from the room before you could say anything. You swore. No doubt she intended to report to Maekar.

It was a blessing for married couples to find one another desirable. Noble pairings, specifically, for they were so often formed out of duty and decades-old promises. It was a miracle to find love under such conditions.

But that was not what you had planned for. And your fragile state relied upon everything going to plan. Already things had changed when Maekar had been the one to put the ring on your fingers – and now for you to actually want him? It felt like your world was crumbling beneath your feet.

Then you would have to confront the fear that still lingered in your chest every time you so much as thought of the name Brightflame. You would have to think about the betrayal of your family selling you off to someone who was known to be a senseless brute. You would have to think about your siblings, who you missed dearly, and the fact that you might one day have children of your own and not hate the man who made up half of them.

Maekar Targaryen was kind, handsome, and gentler than you had ever expected. You had not prepared for that! He had wormed his way into your heart and you had been too preoccupied with the possibility of Aerion to see it coming. You were angry, betrayed, and now you were afraid.

The weather still hadn’t let up. If anything, it had begun to rain heavier. You tilted your head back, letting the fat drops fall on your face. They were ice cold.

You had used the opportunity of Mary’s absence to leave the castle. At no point had your brain kicked in and steered you back to the warmth of your room. Panic had full control over you.

You glanced over your shoulder to see if anyone was around. The grounds were clear. Chest tight, you began walking. You did not have a destination in mind – only away. Away from the man who made you dizzy and wet and desperate.

Summerhall was surrounded by dense forest that held all manner of beasts. The trees were packed so tightly that little light was able to get in, thus is remained in nearly year-round darkness. You did not think. You headed for the treeline and entered as though you knew where you were going.

Instinct still did not kick in. You picked up the pace, walking one hundred, two hundred, three hundred feet in. You stopped then and looked back. You could see the light of the treeline. You could just about make out the path you had taken.

Then, in the distance, you heard dogs. It wasn’t unusual. Maekar employed hunters who used dogs regularly when stocking the castle with meat.

They sounded different this time, though.

You could hear people in the distance, too. Back toward the castle. You began slowly walking forward again, put off by the noise. And then, you heard him.

“Where the fuck is she?”

You did not think. You only ran. Your shoes were not suitable for the terrain. Roots sent you sprawling before you regained your footing, only to nearly slip every few steps as you charged deeper into the forest.

A wild laugh bubbled through your lips. Rain pasted your hair to your forehead and trickled icily down your back. You felt crazy. You had felt that way for a month, now, and now you were acting in a way that matched your inner turmoil. You’d come too far to turn back now.

Suddenly, a hand was fisting in the fabric of your cloak. You gasped at the pressure against your neck as you were yanked back against a hard chest.

You were not sure how far you had gone. Not far enough.

Your chest was heaving, breasts near spilling from your dress. You did not need to turn to know that it was him. You could feel his heart pounding against your back, even through all the fabric of your clothes. Finally, you thought, he feels a little of how I feel.

“Where,” he said slowly, “do you think you were going?”

“Anywhere,” you answered, turning to face him. “It doesn’t matter.”

You placed your hands on his chest, intending to push him away, only to find yourself simply resting them there.

 Maekar’s cheeks were flushed in a way that made him look almost youthful. He grabbed your hands, keeping them in their position on his chest. He exhaled, warm air caressing over your cold cheeks. You shivered at the temperature difference.

“You make me feel crazy,” you finally admitted.

The words were heavy. You felt relief when they finally rolled off your tongue. Maekar stilled, eyes flitting around your face. The silence lasted only a beat longer before being broken by a laugh, of all things. His. It echoed through the surrounding area, raspy and loud.

“I have felt like that from the moment I first saw you,” he said lowly, bringing your hands to his face and pressing kisses to your frozen fingers.

“Since I first arrived here?” you asked. You had to know.

Maekar closed his eyes for a moment. “No,” he murmured, “before. It was perhaps a year ago.”

“What?” you choked.

“I saw you then,” he continued, “at the tourney. I knew my father had suggested you might be a good match for my son but I – I coveted you. I thought I might be able to bear it. Until you arrived here, and I realised I could not stand to see you by any other man’s side.”

It should have scared you a little. The idea of being on his mind for so long. The knowledge that, from the moment you had arrived at Summerhall, he had never intended for you to marry his son.

Your breathing was still heavy, but it had nothing to do with the running. Maekar still hadn’t let go of your hands. He continued pressing kisses to them before stopping on your right, gently squeezing.

His eyes met yours. “You touched yourself last night, wife.”

Your knees went weak. “I did.”

“You’ll never have to do that again.”

Maekar backed you against a tree. The damp from the bark immediately began seeping through your clothes, chilling your skin, but you hardly noticed. His words had turned your core into a molten ball of need, and the denial of the past month was quickly catching up to you.

“Pull up your skirts,” Maekar commanded. “I – I won’t have you here. Not like this. But I can’t leave my wife feeling needy. Not any longer.”

Each word made your temple pulse. Trembling, your fingers curled in your skirts and you began to pull until they were bunched around your waist. There was still the physical barrier of your undergarments. Maekar nudged your legs apart with a single foot, nestling his thigh against your core with a confidence that made you sway.

His fingers worked their way down the front of your undergarments until they found the thatch of curls above your core. He caressed you there.

“You’re so soft here,” he said, eyes narrowing. “It is a crime that you have kept this from me.”

It was still raining. You could not decide what sensation to focus on. You were torn between the water trickling between your breasts and the fingers stoking the fire at your core. You whined a little and tilted your hips, eager for his touch to delve deeper between your thighs.

“Please,” you paused for a beat, “husband.”

Maekar swore. His lips met yours at the same time his finger finally swept across your clit. You gasped against his mouth and he swallowed the sound, licking into your mouth with a practised move that had your knees weak.

He stayed there, tasting every sound you made as his middle finger began to circle your swollen flesh. Each swipe had you seeing stars behind your eyelids. It felt more intense than anything you had ever done to yourself.

He paused only to dip a finger into your hole, swiping up more arousal to lave over your clit. You let your head fall back against the tree, dimly blinking up at the canopy of trees above. Maekar pressed his lips to your neck, teeth grazing over your pulse point before settling onto the flesh between your neck and shoulder.

He bit down at the same time he pressed with his fingers, making you mewl as he rubbed your clit.

‘Fuck,” he rumbled, “I could hear you last night. Every godsdamned minute of it. You were wet then but I think you might be wetter now.”

You nearly sobbed as your orgasm began to build. You could feel your cunt convulsing, eager for your husband despite being out in the open. This was what he did to you, and there was no hiding from it. Not anymore.

Your orgasm hit so suddenly that your back arched off the tree, pressing your breasts into Maekar’s chest as caressed you through it. You were babbling through it, apologies and promises and pleading. Maekar kept his fingers on you until you were squirming, too sensitive and aching to withstand his touch.

Still, he did not remove his hand. He cupped your soaking flesh, gently rubbing his fingers over you until you were shuddering and speechless.

“I intended to see you round with my child,” he whispered into your cheek, “then you will understand that you are mine.”

“Yours,” you mumbled, delirious and soaked. You still could not feel the cold from the rain, only the heat the pulsed out from your cunt.

“Mine,” he agreed.

He pressed the hard line of his cock against your hip, reminding you of his earlier promise. Later.

a/n - so this is basically when you’re so horny for your husband it’s scary I hope you like it lol

reblogs/comments/likes mean the literal world to me, please don’t forget to leave them if you enjoyed♥️

dividers @pixopix

pics from pintrest

[lostrealityr]

Desperation is the lowest level of despair

Maekar Targaryen x Lannister Wife Reader - Spoiled Wife series

previous part: Dead people don't move Daeron

synopsis: Prince Maekar finally decides to act in favour of his marriage after much divide fell between him and his Spoiled Wife

word count: 1,659

trope: unhappy marriage alliance

warnings: smut, angst, p in v, hands, lots of touching, literally just pure smut really, Lannister reader but no features described, maekar is possesive, female reader, no use of Y/N, angst, marriage dynamics a lil fucked up, reader is a legal adult, nudity. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!!! REMEMBER - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA THAT YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME

DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold not rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.

✴︎

The last thing you had ever expected was to be sought out by your own husband, much less by it not being by a maid carrying his word, rather he himself being physically stood at the foot of your bed, lingering as if he were some silent thief waiting for you to notice he was stealing time in your presence. The moon was high hung amongst the stars, you slumbered peacefully. Days had since passed from the awkward encounter that was you bathing with your husband, and Maekar had thought of nothing but you since. He craved what you had not given in to, how you had held strong against him, not thrown yourself to him begging for his touch. You had silently accommodated what he had seemingly needed in that moment and given nothing more. You were tempting him, testing the very waters of his restraint, hanging the bait in the trap and waiting for him to pounce. And he had, only doing so when he knew you were vulnerable. Not for his selfish desires to hold that power over you, rather so that he knew you would be at the same level as he was. Desperation. The canopy curtain had been pulled back at the end of the bed, allowing him a clear view of how you slept. One pillow clutched in your arms, head resting against it, another between your thighs as you rested on your side. He had never been a man to wish for much, he got almost all he desired, yet it unsettled him as he succumbed to the realisation that that was how you would be sleeping softly against him, that was how you should be sleeping, against him.

He did not know why he moved onto the bed, dipping under his weight as his hand clutched the pillow that was locked tightly between your thighs. He pulled it, causing your eyes to flutter open, sleep heavily present within them. “Argh- what- husband?” You grumbled, allowing the pillow to escape you. “This little game of yours has been going on far too long. I am not playing.” Even still drowsy, you could not tug the satisfied smile from your lips. His hoarse voice sending shivers through your body, barely coated by a thin cerise nightdress, as you propped yourself up on your elbow to face him as he knelt. “I am not playing a game?” You feigned innocence, it irked him. How you had gone from such close, intimate proximity one night, to toying with him the following days had been nothing short of infuriating. “Not playing a game? You left me in that water, cold, and aching for more. But you knew that, which was why you did it.” His palm found your bent knee and he pushed it, forcing you to lie spread on your back beneath him, his own heavy eyes bore into your own in search of compliance- yet he found none. The slight curve of the corner of your mouth nearly caused him to recoil, yet he remained firm, his knee finding place between your parted thighs. “Is something the matter?” You hand toyed with the ends of his bedclothes, the baggy white tunic undone at the chest was enticing. You wanted to tear it from him, see him bare for all he was. But he had denied you for so long that now he wanted you, he needed to show you just how far he was willing to go or he would get just about nothing.

“You know exactly what is the matter, woman. Seven fucking hell’s you wanted my attention, you’ve fucking got it.” His hands caged your head as he near growled in your ear, the frustration overcoming him as you felt his true restraint begin to falter as his cock pressed against your leg through his thin trousers. Was he finally going to give you what had pent up between you for so long? Or would he be so cruel as to make you wait for it for being so insolent. “I am afraid, husband, you’ll have to be more specific for me to understand your seemingly dire situation.” Your tone was plainly innocent, laced with an undertone of bite. One he seemingly did not appreciate. “Have you lost your senses or are you choosing to ignore what you can fucking feel.” He pressed himself harder against you, the aching of his cock causing you to grow wetter against him, something that did not go unnoticed. An almost laugh escaped him as his hand brushed your folds, “Your body knows what she wants, do not let that pretty little mouth deny you what you know you need.”

“Seemingly you need more than I, otherwise you would not have broken into my bedchamber.” You challenged, watching as his eyes darkened, and his lowered hand pull away slowly. “How can I break into a bedchamber in my own fucking house? You think this bedchamber is yours? You think this dress is yours? Do you truly believe you belong to anyone but me? Everything you think you own, everything you think you are, is mine. I let you speak to me as you wish, I let you spend my coin on things you do not need, I let you leave me the other night because I knew you’d come back to me in the end.”

“How can I come back to something that didn’t exist in the first place?” He stilled at your words, lips caressing your jaw as you awaited his imminent anger. Yet it did not come in words, the intrusion of two of his fingers finding their way inside of you only spurred on your attitude. He was giving in to what you wanted, whether he liked it or not he was doing it, willingly. Slowly they begun to pump in and out of you, curling ceremoniously as his palm near slapped your clit. You hissed lightly at the feeling, air escaping between your clenched teeth as your eyes willed shut. “Fucking look at me.” His free hand clasped your jaw, forcing your eyes to snap open. “I have only given you what I thought would keep you content. If you want something, you need to speak up. Now, wife, what is it that you want?” He searched your face, all too composed for a man who was two-fingers deep inside of you. “I-” “I’m sorry I can’t quite hear you?” He cut you off, voice husky as he picked up his rhythm, “I said speak up, you had no problem doing so a moment ago.”

“I want you to fuck me.” You words came out fast and quiet, being so focusing on what his hand was doing to pull you apart, and keeping your eyes from clenching shut with every move that he made pushing you closer to what you had desired from his touch for so long. His smirk was haunting, he had released your jaw and lowered his mouth to your ear, his beard scratching at your cheek making you whimper as he got impossibly closer. “I’m sorry, wife. I did not quite catch that.” His pace grew relentless, harder, aching. Your thighs attempted to clamp shut to draw an even deeper pressure yet the knee he had planted firmly between them did not allow it. “Go on. Ask for what it is you want.”

“I want you to fuck me! Please- Maekar- Gods! Please I just want you to fuck me!”

The volume you produced in such dire desperation caught even you off guard as your cheeks grew hotter. “See? Was that so hard?” Your words were now only a mix of quiet pleas that he lapped up hungrily, tongue working at your neck as his teeth grazed the skin, marking you in harmony with his lips. Your plan was near ruined, he had managed to flip the entire narrative on its head and now you were begging him, when it had been him that you had wanted to see grovelling. He had kicked off his trousers with swift ease, releasing his thick cock to stand against his stomach. The size of him was something you had never forgotten, it was incomparable to anything, and irreplaceable to what you needed in your pleasure. You had managed to claw at his tunic enough in that moment that he had slipped it over his head and discarded it onto the floor, his hands finding the cerise linen and near tearing it in two in anticipation of seeing you as you were made to be. The groan that escaped him at the sight of your bare body was enough to near tip you over the edge, yet you did not give in. Your nails leaving red rivers across his chest before his mouth descended to one of your nipples, his hand squeezing the other untouched breast. You whined loudly as he entered you, stretching you impossibly wide as you threw your head back into the mattress. “I thought this was what you wanted? Was it not? Tell me. Tell me how much you want this.”

“I want this, I want this Maekar, I want you!” You cried, all self respect leaving your body as he begun to rut into you relentlessly, your nails tearing into his back without care as he quickened his frustrating pace. What surprised you most was how vocal he was, amongst his humourless teasing was unforeseen praise, how good you were doing, how perfect you were, how you must have been sculpted just for him. But with such a wild combination of sensations it did not take long for you to truly be coming undone against him, sensing what you would not speak- or could not speak rather, he let you finish freely as he buried himself to the hilt inside of you and released himself from his own restraints.

Your breath was hot and heavy against his shoulder, as was his own against your neck, before he lifted lightly to kiss your head, brushing back the sweaty stray hairs that led there. 

“Are you contented now, wife, or do I need to teach you again?”

A/N: bit of a shorter one but i just wanted to focus on only reader and maekar in this part. i think a smutty chapter between these two has been a long time coming, this is probably a bit out of character for maekar but like oh well. i hope this was somewhat readable and not cringy. anyway, as always: requests open, likes comments, reblogs and any interactions are always appreciated. take care everyone!!

general akotsk taglist:@noone1233nobody @antobooh @mikariell95 @kravitzwhore @vanillafan6 @ae-gax @galactict3a @aleemendoza2425-blog

maekar targaryen taglist:@mimistimesblog @thorins-queen-of-erebor @erinceles @danaaa21 @nanamin-chan @maximuminfluencerstarlight @pearldaisy @bog-devil @nymphthreshold @luvweezer @icebearcucumber @la2luna-blog

[rinsol]

SUNA RINTARO — "calm like you "

001. gatekeeping

a/n: im probably gonna mention this alot but i wholeheartedly believe suna would like listening to TLSP + interpol ugh

⋆

you had asked aran first. then atsumu. both people you considered friends. "friends" who immediately denied when you asked for suna's number.

so much for the power of friendship. you'd remember this next time they ever asked for your help. so you went to your last resort, the inarizaki volleyball team manager, tia. since you kept things real around here... you stated your cause. aka clout.

you needed that video. and while tia was wary at first, eventually, at your very honorable request, she finally told you suna's number.

all of which happened just a few hours ago.

right now, you finally had the video in your hands. absolute dogshit quality, by the way. you hoped that volleyball career worked out for suna because yikes. cameraman wouldn't cut it.

he could probably make it as a model though, the thought crossed your mind.

you would be lying if you said you didn't find suna attractive. who didn't. what's a girl supposed to do with a cute guy's number anyway? simply keep it on the roster to admire? you weren't crazy about him per se, he was more of a hallway crush. or a friend crush. an undeniably attractive person who you wanted to befriend, but didn't know how to.

even if you did try to hit up his roster, he had no obligation to even reply back. he'd left you on read more than once in a singular conversation. which. was personal, rather humbling, information you would be taking to the grave. maybe ask for another fight video? but who knows how many people ask him for those on a daily basis.

you don't even really remember how you befriended your current friends, it sort of just happened...? you'd gone to the same junior high as the miya twins. you were partnered up with aran for a few projects in biology. it was a strange play of fate that they ended up being in the same volleyball team. but as for the actual process of how the friendships developed.... you couldn't remember.

you were putting too much unnecessary thought onto the topic, so, after posting the shit quality video on your story, you decided to scroll on your phone for a few hours and answer some texts.

nonexistent texts. your phone was dry as fuck.

you loved aran and the twins, but especially recently, they were extremely busy with volleyball. from practice, to practice matches, to games, and preparing for nationals— it was hard to find the time to hangout or even get consistent replies from them.

you opened atsumus story, seeing a picture of a bus, with his teammates. but that's not what caught your attention.

your face scrunched up. this performative manwhore? the song he picked for the story was none other than calm like you by the last shadow puppets. you genuinely scoffed out loud, sliding up on his story.

<>

y/n : wtf do u know ab the last shadow puppets 💀

atsumu: SHUDDUP

atsumu: suna showed me the song

y/n: ???

y/n: nonono

y/n: WTF DOES HE KNOW AB THEM

atsumu: wait

atsumu: he says you have his number??

y/n: 😐😐

atsumu: WHAT

atsumu: WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN HOW

y/n: it happened AFTER u wouldnt give me his number

y/n: and i have my ways

atsumu: A WHOLE DAY

atsumu: AND YOU DIDNT MENTION IT

y/n: tsumu i genuinely only had one conversation w him and i only got shaky war footage out of it so

atsumu: LMFAOO WAIT

atsumu: hes reading yr messages over my shoulder rn

y/n: no he is NOT

atsumu: hes making a face

atsumu: he said yr hella weird

y/n: 🫩

atsumu: IM JUST REPORTING

atsumu: he said whys it such a big deal what he listens to

<>

technically, it wasn't a big deal, it shouldn't be. but you were the kind of person who got weirdly territorial over bands that felt like they belonged to you. it was a concept you felt only you could understand.

it was also something stupid to get stuck on. annoying, even.

and since calm like you was your favorite song from one of your favorite bands, you were gonna start thinking about suna rintarou's fucking face every time you heard it from now on.

so yeah, you didn't plan on replying to atsumu, well. suna's question. except, after a few minutes, your phone screen lit up again, with yet another notification from atsumu.

<>

atsumu: wait he fell asleep

y/n: its been like less than 20 minutes wtf

atsumu: he fell asleep hunched over LMFAOOOOO

atsumu: NO DEADASS ICB

y/n: why are you telling me this

atsumu: [1 attatchment]

atsumu: [1 video attatchment]

y/n: LMFAOOOOO

y/n: LMGKAKAJ WAIT OMG

y/n: SHUT UP WAIT HOW IS UR LOUDAHH NOT WAKING HIM.UP OMFG

y/n: UR KAUGH

y/n: wait pause the pic is kinda cute

y/n: 😳

y/n: wtf

atsumu: im pretending i didnt see that

atsumu: hes dead asleep man his phone buzzed n he didnt react

y/n: ok!!! wtv wake him up its probably important ;)

atsumu: hold on im gonna check it

atsumu: ????

<from sunas phone>

2:25AM

atsumu: ITS YOU

y/n: wait haha he saved my number 😳

atsumu: hold on hes waking back up

y/n: 😇😇😇

atsumu: you want me to put in a good word dont you.

y/n: no

atsumu: LIAR

y/n: i just think u should CASUALLY mention im not really that weird

y/n: but like dont tell him what i said js be my wingman yk

atsumu: HAHA WAIT

atsumu: i already said you think he looks cute sleeping

y/n: ATSUMU

y/n: WHY WOULD YOU PHRASE IT LIKE THAT

atsumu: THATS LITERALLY WHAT YOU SAID

y/n: i said the pic was cute.

y/n: not HIM

y/n: tell him the pic was normal

atsumu: "normal" 😭😭

y/n: blocked and reported IM NOT TALKING TO U ANYMORE

<>

gosh. and he somehow wondered why he couldn't keep a girlfriend...

with a long sigh, you exited out of instagram, ceasing the conversation with atsumu.

although it was 2am, you weren't tired. even if you were falling behind in biology and you could take advantage of your boredom by catching up with schoolwork, you appreciated the time after midnight where you got to sit and do nothing but doomscroll.

you had practically forgotten about the text you sent to suna earlier... until you received a notification from mr. rintarou himself.

⤷ 001, 002, 003, 004

a/n (2): bare with me guys,, it gets better from here. if it werent for tumblr's 10 image limit,, id be giving u guys everything in one go. i feel so ragebaited rn. but WHATEVER. give me your thoughts, opinions, concerns.. bla bla bla

p.s/ you could say this is how i genuinely feel about music alot of the time 😅

[thatfanficstuff]

Forgotten - Rabbot x Reader

Michael Robinavitch x Chronic Pain!Reader x Jack Abbot

synopsis: Your boyfriends are drowning in an understaffed ED while you drown in a pain flare

warnings/Notes: discussions of chronic pain and migraines as well as treatment. everyone's journey with chronic pain is their own. Flangst, my favorite. This is much longer than i intended.

wc: 5.4k

You hadn’t seen your boyfriend in three days, which was a feat really when you considered you had two of them and you all lived in the same house.

Flu season was a bitch for patients and doctors alike. You knew that. They were covering shifts for sick colleagues so you tried not to complain, tried not to add to their burden. But sometimes, just sometimes, you felt like you could disappear and they wouldn’t even notice. They hadn’t even sought you out to say hello or goodbye or thanks for the food. It was hard not to take it personally. Especially when you’d been in a pain flare for days and hadn’t felt like doing half of things you had been.

You sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through the texts on your phone. You’d noticed their responses to your texts getting shorter if they weren’t being ignored completely. As you scrolled you realized you were always the one that initiated the conversation, always sent the first message. Maybe you were just annoying them.

All of you had your own rooms, but you were used to them climbing into bed with you or dragging you into their rooms to sleep with them. Jack hadn’t been getting home until midmorning and Robby was closer to midnight some nights. You were already at work in the home office by the time Jack arrived home but he hadn’t popped his head in to say hello once. Hadn’t found you to say goodbye. You’d tried to stay up for Robby one night and woke up on the couch shivering in the chill at the two in the morning, telling you he hadn’t even noticed. A quick glance in his room showed him passed out in his bed. You could have crawled in with him, with either of them, but you weren’t certain they wanted you to anymore.

The last time you’d seen them, Robby had just seemed irritated that you were in his space and Jack hadn’t listened to a word you said before saying “That’s nice, sweetheart. I’m gonna get some sleep.”

So, you decided to stop. Stop messaging them first, stop seeking them out at home, just stop. The days passed and they didn’t seem to notice. You continued taking care of them for a few days, leaving food to make sure they ate, washing their scrubs, etc. You knew these back to back shifts were hard on them but you were hurting mentally and physically and just so, so tired. You knew you should talk to them, make them see you, but you didn’t want to burden them with anything else.

So, you called your best friend and packed your things, biting back your tears as you walked out the door.

Jack was the first to notice that something was wrong.

He came home just after ten from an extended shift. The house was quiet but that wasn’t out of the norm as you shut yourself up in your office to work. He opened the microwave and frowned at finding it empty. You always left them something, worried they wouldn’t eat unless you fed them. He checked the fridge only to find it devoid of a meal as well. Maybe you were annoyed that he hadn’t eaten the meals the last couple of days, grabbing something at work to combat the hollow feeling in his stomach during his long shifts. He grabbed a protein shake, too tired to do anything else.

As he headed for his bedroom, he paused outside your office, hesitating, wanting to see you, wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been up to cooking today. When your condition flared, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. But if that was the case, you were more likely to be curled up on the couch. He sighed and eventually moved on without knocking. He didn’t want to bother you just to say hello and goodnight. After a shower, he had just enough energy left to collapse into his bed and crash, far too exhausted to realize it was Saturday and you shouldn’t be working at all.

When he woke a few hours later, he went looking for you, wanting to apologize for not eating the meals you’d undoubtedly left him. Besides, he just missed you. These long shifts were killing him. You didn’t answer his gentle knock at your office or bedroom doors. A glance in the garage showed your car was gone. He looked in the kitchen to find no note. He frowned. None of this was like you. He glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He couldn’t worry about it now. Half an hour later found him standing by the hub talking to Robby.

“I’m telling you man, something’s not right,” Jack said.

Robby huffed. “Why because she didn’t make you breakfast? Maybe she just forgot.”

“Okay, but she didn’t leave a note. She always leaves a note. She knows we worry.”

Dana looked between them as they talked wondering how two incredibly intelligent men could be so fucking stupid. You’d been in her guestroom for two days now and they were just noticing something was up? No wonder you left their asses. Idiots. She made a sound of disgust.

Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “What?” they asked in unison.

She arched one brow and pursed her lips. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”

Robby and Jack turned to look at one another and reassess. Dana was your best friend. If she was pissed off at them, that meant you were as well. Shit. “Okay, well what did she say the last time you talked to her?”

“I think she told me to have a good shift,” Jack said with a frown, pulling out his phone. That had been five days ago and he’d responded with a terse thanx. “Uh, Mike, when’s the last time she texted you?”

He pulled out his phone to find much the same scenario as Jack. You usually texted them multiple times a day just to let them know you were thinking of them. “Oh.”

Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Did anything seem off when you saw her?”

Robby shook his head. “I’ve been too tired when I get home to do anything but shower and crawl in bed. My bed. Figured she’d come to my room if she wanted.”

Jack’s brain short circuited and he froze. “Michael, when is the last time you physically laid eyes on our girlfriend?”

Robby sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. Earlier this week? I’ve just been so fried I haven’t been seeking her out. What about you? What’s she been like with you?”

“I haven’t seen her either.” His voice was quiet, worried.

Robby’s gaze sharpened. “Like since when?”

Jack bowed his head as he thought. “Jesus. It’s been a week. At least. She sat at the table with me while I ate but I was too tired to even process what she was saying. I didn’t stress about it because I figured she had you.”

“And I was the same way. Fuck.” Robby’s eyes went wide and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck!”

Dana hummed in acknowledgment of their idiocy.

Jack turned to her immediately. “She’s obviously said something to you. What did she say? How mad is she?”

She glanced over the top of her glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Since when has that ever worked with me, Jack Abbot? You want to know how mad she is, try talking to her. If she’ll listen. I’m going home. You two better get your shit together.”

Handoff with Lena complete, Dana grabbed her things and headed out the door without looking back, Robby and Jack’s eyes trailing her as she went.

“Oh, our girl must be furious,” Robby muttered.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Robby left his shift when he was supposed to for the first time in two weeks. This matter with you was more pressing. Your car was still gone. He knocked at your office out of habit as he opened the door. Everything you needed for work was gone. Shit. His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall. He threw open the door to your bedroom to find a neatly made bed. Your suitcase and a large amount of your clothes were missing.

Robby pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He called Jack who answered immediately. “Is she home?”

“She’s gone, Jack.” Robby’s voice broke on the words. “Her office is empty. Half of her clothes are gone.”

“Shit,” Jack said. “Trauma’s coming in. See if you can reach her.”

Robby tried to call first. You sent the call to voicemail three times before he gave up.

Next, he sent you a text. Baby please pick up the phone. I want to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re alright.

I’m fine, came not even a minute later.

He heaved a sigh of relief. At least you responded. I don’t think you are. Please talk to me.

You haven’t cared if you talked to me in weeks. Why should now be any different?

God, you always knew exactly what to say to make your point in the sharpest way possible. Please. He didn’t know what else to say.

I moved out two days ago. You didn’t even notice.

Two days? That can’t be true surely. Jesus. He knew you well enough to know that he and Jack had been horribly wrong. You weren’t pissed. You were hurt. That was so much worse. They’d hurt you. They were going to lose you and they’d deserve it.

I don’t know what I can say to that. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.

Okay. Goodnight Michael.

No, no, no. That couldn’t be your response. This couldn’t be the end of everything. What the fuck had they done?

Baby please. Just meet us at least. Let us sit down and talk about this. Please.

The two of you will never have the time for that. I can say yes but it will never happen so why bother. I’m done talking.

Please talk to me.

Please don’t leave us.

I love you.

Just give us a chance

All four messages were left on read.

Jack tried next.

Robby hadn’t told him how things had gone until handoff, not wanting Jack to dwell on it all night. While part of him understood Robby’s reasoning, the rest of him was pissed off. If he’d known, maybe he could have gotten you to respond. It wasn’t logical, you weren’t any more likely to talk to him than Robby but Jack couldn’t just give up.

He sent the first text as he walked to the truck.

Honey I am so sorry. Please talk to us.

He tossed his phone on the passenger seat. When he pulled in the drive, he was disappointed to find no response.

I love you. I miss you.

He took a shower to scrub the day away. When he got out, he found that you had responded to his texts with a link. He clicked on it and was taken to a local housekeeping service that did cleaning and laundry. His brows snapped together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

What’s that?

Figured that’s what you were missing. You can probably find someone to make meals for you too. Or doordash.

Jack scowled. What the fuck? I don’t give a shit about any of that. I miss you. I want you. Not some fucking maid service. Why would you think that?

Are you telling me that you didn’t notice stuff wasn’t getting done before you noticed you hadn’t seen me? It’s been days Jack. Days.

Look I know things haven’t been ideal lately. Mike and I have both been working more than we should have. We just have to get through this and then things will go back to normal.

I don’t want normal.

What?

When was the last time either of you texted me first? Took me on a date? It was a long time before the flu.

Jack frantically scrolled through his texts knowing you had to be wrong. The two of you talked all the time. Another message from you came through.

You just got off shift. You should get some sleep. Goodbye Jack.

Jesus fucking Christ. Now he understood what Robby had been talking about. You were talking like this was over. He wasn’t ready for this to be done. Didn’t think he would ever be.

I’m fine Honey. I’m worried about you and hating myself for fucking this up.

I can’t do this anymore Jack. Not right now.

He tried to text you two more times before switching to phone calls. The third time he called he went straight to voicemail. He raked a hand through his hair and tossed his phone on the bed before dropping back to lay flat. He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. How the fuck were they going to fix this?

Two days passed of them trying to call or text and getting no further response from you. They’d managed to learn from Dana that you were staying with her and were ‘doing just fine. Now fuck off’. Jack and Robby stood at the hub just before seven going over the schedule, trying to figure out who would be willing to shift around so they could head over to Dana’s together to beg for forgiveness.

Dana hurried through the bay doors and made her way straight to them. Both of them turned at her unusual behavior. “What’s up with you?” Robby asked.

“I need you both to behave like fucking adults or I’ll get Gloria down here,” she snapped.

Jack’s brows shot up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

“Stow it, Abbot.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning the department. “Whitaker, grab a chair. Patient being dropped off in the bay.”

Both men straightened at that. “Dana,” Robby said drawing out the word.

She pursed her lips and sighed. “She’s been in a flare for days. Meds triggered an intractable migraine. Neuro told her to come here.”

“Is she okay?” Robby asked then immediately said, “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”

“How long?” Jack asked already heading for the doors.

She huffed out a breath knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “Three days.”

Jack stopped and turned back. “Three fucking days? And she’s just now coming in?”

“I can’t imagine why she would be hesitant.” Dana rolled her eyes as she moved past him to meet Whitaker at the door.

“What’s open, Lena?” she called over her shoulder.

“Five is all yours.”

Robby and Jack froze as you were wheeled inside. You had an icepack pressed over your eyes, the elbow of the hand holding it resting on the arm of the chair. You were curled in on yourself and had an empty bucket in your lap. Dana shot them a look as she pushed you past them and into your room.

As much as they wanted to invade the room, to check on you themselves, they waited. Dana emerged nearly twenty minutes later. “I’ve got her in a gown and got an IV started for fluids. She’s checked in and waiting for a doctor. She said you can come in.”

They stepped forward and she held up a hand. “Don’t upset her or I’ll kick your ass.”

Entering the room quietly, their eyes immediately fell on you. You were curled on your side, icepack still laying on your head. They split, each one taking a different side of the bed. Jack sat on a stool and wheeled it to your side, clasping your hand in his. You sucked in a breath at the contact and immediately started to sob.

Robby had pulled a chair up on your other side, placing a heavy hand on your back. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”

Jack touched the icepack to find it warm. He moved it aside so he could see your eyes. He wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, honey?”

“It hurts.” You practically whimpered the words. “It hurts so bad. Nothing is helping.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.

Before he could say anything else, Dana came back into the room hands full. She sat the tray full of medication aside and hung a bag of saline to run into your IV. “Doc Reynolds sent in the order for a cocktail.”

“What’s he giving her?” Robby asked as he put on his glasses and headed over to the computer.

Dana ignored him and started filling syringes with meds.

“Well?” Jack asked.

Robby glanced over with a frown. “Toradol, Reglan, Zomig, and Decadron.”

“Jesus.” Jack watched Dana inject the drugs into your IV. “Must be particularly stubborn, huh?”

Another tear ran down your face in answer.

Dana glanced at Robby. “You working or calling someone in?”

Robby ran a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

She nodded and moved to the computer to make her notes.

Robby went back to your side and kissed your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. Just let me get things settled out there.”

“I need to do handoff,” Jack said, looking between you and Robby.

You turned away from him, careful not to tangle your IV. “I’m fine. Just go.”

The pain in your voice pierced through him. “Honey—”

“Go!” you yelled then winced.

Dana’s gaze snapped over to Jack. “You heard her. Out.”

When he hesitated, she said, “Now.”

“We’ll be back,” he said at the door, turning back to look at you. Dana had her hand resting on the side of your face, talking to you in a low tone. He sighed and left the room, sliding the door shut behind him.

“I feel like we just failed a test,” Robby said, voice tired.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t want to be a bitch, to be unreasonable. You knew your temper was shorter because of your migraine, because of the pain that you had been drowning in for days. The truth was you’d been in a flare for two weeks at this point. You’d been careful with your meds but eventually they’d caused the headache you’d had since you left their house. Stress undoubtedly playing a large part in both the flare and the migraine. You’d only admitted to it three days ago. If Dana knew you were going on five days, she’d beat your ass.

But you’d told the neuro the truth. He’d told you if the cocktail didn’t work, they’d have to admit you for stronger meds. You knew that of course, this wasn’t your first trip to the hospital for a stubborn migraine, but you hated it. All you’d wanted from the beginning was to curl up with one of your men and let them take care of you.

You missed them and they always seemed to make everything better. Well, they used to. It’s why you’d told Dana they could come into the room. You’d hoped they’d choose you. Take care of you. Prioritize you. But once again the Pitt won.

It wasn’t rational. They needed to do their jobs. They were attending physicians. Lives literally hung in the balance. But you didn’t want to be rational. You were tired of always being understanding. Of always letting yourself take a back seat. You were tired of always being the second choice.

Your heart ached when you thought about how long it took for them to even notice you were gone. They didn’t need you. Didn’t want you. Not really. You’d been crippled with pain for days and they hadn’t known, hadn’t cared. Had never once asked how you were doing. Dana had told you that you could stay as long as you wanted but you knew you were wearing out your welcome. No one wants a permanent houseguest.

You wondered how much money was in your savings. You didn’t check the balance often as you were afraid you’d spend it, so you left it and just added to it when you could. You’d need enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent. Jesus, you hated apartment hunting. Hated apartments. You’d gotten used to the quiet neighborhood where you lived now. You didn’t want to think about it right now, it certainly wasn’t helping your headache.

Your head had that floaty feeling that told you the meds were working. Your thoughts were a little slow and time passed in weird increments but you were still aware.

Dana popped back in after almost an hour had passed. “How you doing, doll?”

“It’s definitely better, but it still hurts.”

She pulled you up on the computer. “Instructions here for another round. After that…”

“Yeah, I know.”

She patted your leg. “I’m going to get you some more fluids and something to drink. Need anything else?”

“Another icepack?”

“Sure. I can do that.” Her gaze ran over you as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They’ve stationed themselves in the hallway, you know.”

You frowned at her. You’d assumed they were working. Hell, Jack might have gone home for all you knew. “What?”

“I told them they couldn’t come back in, not after they made you cry.”

“They didn’t. I was crying because it hurt.”

She hummed in agreement. “And then you were crying because they told you they had to go back to work.”

“That’s not their fault.”

“It is. If they didn’t keep picking this place over you, you would be more understanding when they didn’t have a choice. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset. They fucked up.” She sighed. “But they love you. And you miss them. That’s okay too.”

Another tear ran down your cheek.

“Do you want me to send them in?” Her voice had taken on that mom tone of hers that always made you feel comforted.

“Yes, please.”

She nodded once and patted your leg again. She stepped past the curtain and out the door. You heard her say, “I’m getting another bag of fluids. She needs water and an icepack. I’ll let you deliver them. Don’t upset her.” Then she shut the door.

Jack appeared first, cup of water with a straw in hand. “Just chilled. Don’t want to shock your system.”

“Thanks.” You licked your lips before leaning forward to take a sip. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth was until then.

He sat it on the table when you finished, his hazel eyes running over you. His hands gripped the railing. “How are you feeling? You look better.”

“Still hurts but it’s better. Dana’s bringing me more drugs in a bit.”

Before he could respond, Robby came into the room. “Hey, sweetheart. One icepack as requested.” He snapped it to activate it and kneaded it before handing it over. You pressed it to the back of your neck with a sigh.

“Here,” he said and folded your pillow so it would keep the icepack pressed where you wanted without you having to hold it. Your eyes closed in relief.

“Where are you at on the pain scale?” Robby asked as his fingers found your pulse on your wrist.

You huffed out a breath without opening your eyes. “Already have a doctor, Robinavitch. If you’re going to stay, you can’t doctor me.”

You could feel him wanting to argue without looking at him. Could practically feel it vibrating under his skin.

“Okay,” he said instead, hand shifting to lay on yours instead.

You opened one eye to look at him in disbelief.

A small laugh fell from his lips and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Honey, I would do about anything you asked to keep you talking to me.”

You hummed and closed your eye. They settled to either side of you, each of them holding one of your hands. Jack kissed the back of the one he held, then Robby kissed the inside of your wrist on the other. Your lips twitched in amusement.

“You can talk. I meant it when I said I was feeling better. Another dose should kill it completely.”

“I’m going to lecture about one thing, then I’ll shut up,” Jack said.

You cracked your eyes to look at him.

“I don’t care how upset you are with us, you don’t wait three days to come to the hospital when you’re hurting like this.”

Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it. Damn it.

Robby’s gaze immediately narrowed. “How long?”

“It started before I even left the house.”

“What?” Jack snapped, the sharpness in his tone making you wince. “Sorry, sorry,” he immediately apologized, rubbing your hand with his thumb.

“Your doctor know that?” Robby asked.

“Yes.”

You could tell there was so much he wanted to say but he simply nodded once and said, “Okay.”

“I kinda like the you that’s trying to stay in my good graces,” you said. Guilt flashed through his eyes but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for your words. They’d earned them.

Dana came in and hung another bag of saline. Jack slid out of the way so she could give you the next dose of meds. She looked between the men when neither of them said anything before looking to you in question.

You grinned. “I told them they couldn’t doctor if they wanted to stay.”

She laughed. “Good for you,” she said before putting them out of their misery. “Same meds as last time. If it works, she can go home under supervision. If not, she’s heading upstairs.”

“Thanks, Dana,” Jack said, voice rough with worry.

She gave you a nod and left.

“Don’t you guys need to go back to work?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

“Nope.” Robby leaned back in his chair, hand still on yours. “We put in for some of our PTO.”

“And Gloria’s just going to let you do that?”

“She doesn’t have a choice. Told her to get some temps in if she needed,” Robby said. “Neither one of us uses our time. Plus, we’re way over the hours we were supposed to be working the last two weeks.”

Your eyelids began to feel heavy as the new meds swamped your system.

“Hey, open your eyes, baby,” Jack said.

You blinked at him.

“This round working? Can we take you home?”

“Yeah, Jack. Take me home.”

You weren’t certain how much time passed before you became aware of your surroundings again. As you blinked away the slumber, you realized you were in Robby’s bed. Huh. At least you weren’t in the hospital. Seeing a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. You were halfway done downing it when the door opened slightly, Robby’s head popping into the gap. His concerned expression melted into a relieved smile. “Hey, you’re awake.”

You didn’t answer as you finished your water. You felt so dehydrated which was stupid considering how much fluid they’d given you at the hospital. Robby stepped into the room tapping on his phone which he slid back into his pocket when he saw you’d finished the water. He took the cup from you and set it aside. His fingers instantly found your wrist but he paused, “Can I doctor you for a second?”

“Sure,” you said, a smile teasing your lips.

He’d just finished checking your pulse when Jack stepped into the room. His gaze ran over you, assessing before giving you a bright smile. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”

“Better. Much better.”

“Good.” He held a fresh glass of water out to you. “Mike said you were thirsty.”

“Thank you.” You took a drink then set the glass on the table. Your attention shifted to Robby who sat on the edge of the bed, fingers still on your wrist. “Will I live, doc?”

He nodded his head but didn’t look at you.

You tilted your head with a frown. “Michael, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your brow furrowed as Jack sighed. “I thought we were going to give her a chance to get her bearings before we got into this.”

Robby sniffed, finally releasing his hold on you only to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Let me go to the bathroom,” you said and Robby hopped up, offering you a hand to help you out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

You took your time in the other room, taking the chance to wash your face and feel a bit more human. Despite the obvious pain fatigue, you looked better than you had in days. Finally, you took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom. Both men stopped talking as you opened the door and stood from where they’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.

Robby cleared his throat after Jack nudged him. “I’m, uh, sorry about before. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “I’d rather get the conversation out of the way if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, thank god,” Jack said, shoulders dropping as tension flowed from him.

You pressed your lips together to keep from snorting a laugh at the incredulous look Robby gave him. He muttered under his breath while he shook his head. He took your hand and led you over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room. “Sit. We have a couple of questions and then several things to say.”

Your gaze moved between the two of them. “Did you practice this or something?”

“Well, you were asleep for almost twenty-two hours,” Jack said.

You were only slightly surprised by that information. The meds always knocked you out. Usually not quite that long but you’d expected it. Jack sat on the edge of the bed in front of you while Robby stayed standing.

“First, Dana said you were in a flare before the headache. How long?” Jack asked.

You sighed, knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “A couple of weeks.”

“Jesus, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything?” Robby said.

“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re incredibly busy at the hospital right now and barely have time to sleep but could you take care of me?”

“Yes,” Jack said without hesitation. He slid forward on the bed a bit. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”

You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, Jack.”

“I am.”

His tone was so sincere you could do nothing but look at him.

“I don’t know when you started believing that you were less important than us or our jobs, but you are not. And we’re so incredibly sorry for anything we’ve done that made you feel that way,” Robby said.

Hot tears rolled down your face before you could stop them. He swooped in immediately making hushing sounds as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll get another headache.”

You sucked in a breath and tried to regulate your emotions. “I know.”

“Listen,” Jack said. “Mike and I have talked about this. We don’t want to start over. We all have to much history for that. But we do want to prove to you that you’re still our priority if you’ll let us.”

You thought about it for a moment. You loved these men. Yes, they’d hurt you, but there was reason you’d fallen in love with them in the first place. Maybe you all just needed a reminder of what that was. Finally, you nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

And prove themselves they did. They cut their hours, focused on making your relationship a priority. As Robby said, the three of you were hopefully going to be together long after they retired. It wasn’t long before your relationship was stronger than it ever had been. To the point that, though you maintained your own rooms on the off chance you needed the space, you all slept in Robby’s king-sized bed most of the time, whether he was home or not.

And the next time you had a flare that lasted for longer than a couple of days, they took turns taking care of you the way you always did for them. They loved you, and they never let you doubt that again.

[spikedfearn]

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH

ONE-SHOT

pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader summary: You’re used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. Then Jack Abbot starts noticing too much. He pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something you’re too terrified to name.

Because the problem with Jack Abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. It’s that you want to let him.

wc: 12.9k

a/n: and here it is, the accidental sugar daddy abbot fic i started over a month ago!! was initially toying with the idea to turn this into a multi-chaptered story but eventually settled on a one-shot instead because i have way too many ongoing fics i need to finish at some point lmao. i really wanted to take the sugar daddy trope and make it feel more grounded and in-character for jack, less flashy billionaire fantasy, more quiet practical care that gets way too intimate before either of you knows what to do with it. not beta read.

warnings: age gap, workplace power imbalance, attending/resident turned sd/sb dynamic, class/money insecurity, possessive/soft dom!jack, semi-public sex, piv, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, biting/marking, daddy kink adjacent, public humiliation, no use of y/n

MASTERLIST

By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.

Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.

Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.

The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.

You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.

The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.

“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.

“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.

You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.

You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.

“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”

A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.

The machine beeped.

Approved.

You froze.

Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.

“Bag?” the cashier asked.

“No,” Jack said.

You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

He finally looked at you.

Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.

“What?” he said.

You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“That’s my lunch.”

“Looked like it.”

“You paid for it.”

“Sharp today.”

You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”

That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.

“Eat the sandwich,” he said.

“I was going to.”

“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”

You opened your mouth.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted.

You closed it again.

Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.

“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”

Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”

“I don’t faint,” Santos said.

“You got lightheaded during central line training.”

“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”

Jack looked at her.

Santos looked back.

The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.

“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”

Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”

Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”

Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”

Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”

Your face was still hot.

The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.

Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.

“I can pay you back,” you said.

Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.

“Don’t.”

“I don’t like owing people.”

“You don’t owe me.”

“That’s not how money works.”

“It is when I decide I don’t care.”

You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You should’ve let it go.

You really should’ve.

But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.

“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”

Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.

Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”

He walked away before you could answer.

You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.

Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.

“Oh, that was not nothing.”

“It was lunch,” you said.

Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”

You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.

Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”

Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”

“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”

You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.

It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.

But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.

He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.

Jack was worse.

Jack was practical.

He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.

Robby noticed before you did.

Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.

It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.

“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.

You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”

Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.

“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”

“He bought me lunch once.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And coffee.”

“Sure.”

“And maybe pasta.”

Robby’s eyebrows rose.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”

“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”

That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.

Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.

Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.

“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”

You swallowed. “I know that too.”

Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.

“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”

“There’s nothing to notice.”

“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”

You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.

Across the department, Jack glanced up.

For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

That was becoming the problem.

Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.

You wished he’d be less good at it.

You wished you liked it less.

The car thing happened on a Thursday.

You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.

Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.

Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.

The expensive one.

A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.

You shut the engine off immediately.

“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”

The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.

You tried again.

The sound came back worse.

A knock hit your window.

You screamed.

Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.

You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”

“No,” he said. “Just me.”

“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”

“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”

“It’s fine.”

Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.

“That’s not a fine sound.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“It shouldn’t do that ever.”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”

“You’re not driving it until then.”

A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

Your stomach dipped.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Something else.

Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”

“I don’t need you to—”

“Pop the hood.”

There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.

You popped the hood.

The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.

It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.

He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.

“Do not drive this,” he said.

You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Jack.”

He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”

You did not.

You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.

“I can call someone,” you said.

“Who?”

The question was simple. Too simple.

That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.

You looked away first.

Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want you fixing everything.”

“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”

You didn’t move.

Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.

“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”

That was how he won.

Not with softness. Not with a speech.

Heat.

You grabbed your bag and got out.

Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.

He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.

You noticed.

You hated that you noticed.

Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”

“Your leg?”

“I said yeah.”

“Right. Sorry.”

His jaw worked.

Then, quieter, “Long day.”

That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.

At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”

You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”

“I’ll call someone.”

“No.”

“You don’t know who yet.”

“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”

The light turned green.

Jack drove.

You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”

“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”

“Jack.”

“I know a guy.”

“Of course you know a guy.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re not that old.”

That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.

“No?”

“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.

“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.

Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.

The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.

Not brave.

Not independent.

Just exhausting.

He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.

You didn’t reach for the door handle.

“Thank you,” you said.

Jack nodded once.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”

“No.”

You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop noticing.”

“No.”

Your eyes opened.

Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.

Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

“I don’t know,” he said.

It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.

That made it worse.

You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”

The joke landed differently in the dark.

You felt it. So did he.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.

“You should go inside,” he said.

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.

You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.

“Night, Jack.”

His hand tightened once around the phone.

“Lock your door.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”

His eyes lifted.

There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.

“Don’t start,” he said.

You got out before your face could betray you.

The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.

Jack didn't tell you this.

The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.

Handled.

Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.

You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.

Squared it away.

You were going to kill him.

Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.

You had to wait.

That made you angrier.

By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.

Jack stopped.

Robby, behind him, stopped too.

Dana looked up from the desk.

Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.

Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”

“Oh, no, definitely here.”

Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.

“Coward,” Dana muttered.

“Experienced,” Robby corrected.

Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”

“You paid the mechanic.”

“Yeah.”

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”

“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”

You stared at him. “That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”

“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.

“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”

Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”

Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”

Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”

You barely heard them.

Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.

“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it done.”

You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”

“Usually.”

“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”

Jack’s gaze held yours.

“Doing what?”

The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.

“You know what,” you said.

For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.

Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.

“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.

Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.

He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.

“Friday,” he said under his breath.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Pick up your car Friday.”

Then he was gone.

Santos waited exactly three seconds.

“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”

Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”

Santos deflated. “Damn it.”

You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.

By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.

Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.

Your old ones were unsafe.

That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.

You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.

The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.

At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.

PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.

You hadn’t planned to go.

Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”

You’d said yes before checking your closet.

That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.

Your phone buzzed.

Jack:

Car still running?

You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.

You:

yes, dad

Jack:

Don’t.

You smiled despite yourself.

You:

thank you, by the way for the shoes too even though you’re insane

Jack:

You going tomorrow?

You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.

You:

maybe

Jack:

That means yes.

You should’ve stopped there.

Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:

You:

it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident

The reply took longer than usual.

Jack:

Show me.

You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.

You:

the dress?

Jack:

What else would I mean?

Your face went hot.

You:

don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Jack:

You have tomorrow off?

You stared.

Then stared harder.

You:

why

Jack:

Answer the question.

There were several smart things you could’ve said.

You said none of them.

You:

yes

Jack:

I’ll pick you up at 10.

Your stomach flipped.

You:

jack

Jack:

10:30 if you’re going to argue.

You:

you don’t even know what i was going to say

Jack:

I’m learning patterns.

You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.

The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.

Of course he did.

He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.

“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.

“You haven’t gone in yet.”

“That’s why I still have hope.”

He gave you a look.

You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”

“Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That was too easy.”

“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”

You stared at him.

He headed for the shop.

“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.

“It’s exactly a loophole.”

Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.

You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.

Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.

He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.

That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.

The saleswoman brought options.

You rejected the first three.

Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.

“No,” he said through the door.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw the sleeve.”

“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”

“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”

You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.

Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.

His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.

“No,” he repeated.

The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”

You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”

The fifth dress was the problem.

You knew it before you opened the curtain.

The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.

Confidence, maybe.

Or danger.

“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.

“You’re bossy.”

“Yes.”

“You admit that way too easily.”

“I’m old.”

You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.

This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.

That was the bad idea.

You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.

For a moment, he said nothing.

The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.

His jaw shifted.

Your fingers tightened around the curtain.

“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.

Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.

“No,” he said.

Your face fell before you could stop it.

Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”

The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.

“It fits.”

It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.

You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.

“It’s probably expensive.”

“Probably.”

“Jack.”

“You like it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my point.”

You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”

He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.

“I can do what I want.”

“You sound like a nightmare.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.

The thought went through you too sharply.

You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”

Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”

There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.

Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”

Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.

So you made it worse on purpose.

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.

“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”

You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.

The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.

Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.

Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.

“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”

“That’s never a good opener.”

“You look hot.”

“Santos.”

“What? I said don’t make it weird.”

Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”

Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”

You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”

“Because I’m invested.”

“You need a hobby.”

“I have one. It’s being right.”

You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”

“You too?”

“Me too what?”

“Nothing.”

Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”

“There’s not a thing.”

“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.

Dana smirked and walked away.

Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.

It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.

Robby said something to him at the entrance.

Jack answered without smiling.

Then his eyes found you.

Everything else blurred.

Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.

He walked over slowly.

“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.

“Hi.”

You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”

“I was going to say that.”

“You can still say it.”

“No.”

“Too generous?”

“Too easy.”

His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

You stared. “What is that?”

“Receipt.”

“For the dress?”

“For the car.”

Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”

“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”

You looked down.

Paid.

Your throat tightened.

“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.

“I still owe you.”

“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”

You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.

Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.

“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”

“That makes it worse.”

“I agree.”

Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.

“You look nice,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”

Jack gave him a look.

Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”

Jack didn’t move immediately.

His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.

“Don’t disappear,” he said.

Your pulse kicked.

“I’m working.”

“After.”

Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.

You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.

For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.

Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.

You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.

And Jack kept finding you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.

At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”

He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”

“I was.”

“Bad idea.”

“Because violence is wrong?”

“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”

You laughed into your glass.

Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.

You saw him catch it.

That was the dangerous part.

Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.

You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.

“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”

Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”

The man’s eyes shifted to you.

You felt it like cold water.

“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”

Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.

“This is—” Jack began.

The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”

His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.

Your fingers tightened around the place cards.

Jack went still.

The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”

“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”

The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.

“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.

Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”

The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.

The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”

“I’m not interested in what you meant.”

Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.

“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”

The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.

“No offense intended.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your breath caught.

People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.

You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.

You set the place cards down.

“I need some air,” you said.

Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”

But you were already moving.

You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.

You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.

You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.

Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”

You turned on him. “Made it worse.”

“They made it worse.”

“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”

His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.

“They don’t know what you are.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And what am I?”

The question came out too vulnerable to take back.

Jack didn’t answer right away.

Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.

He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.

You hated that you wanted him to say it.

You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.

Instead, he said, “Not that.”

A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got.”

“Great.”

Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.

You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.

“You bought the dress,” you said.

“Yes.”

“You fixed my car.”

“Yes.”

“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”

Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.

“What do you think people are going to call that?”

“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what you call it.”

The words took the air out of the terrace.

You looked at him.

Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.

Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.

All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.

Now Jack was standing there asking.

Tell me what you call it.

Your mouth felt dry.

“I call it confusing,” you said.

His expression shifted.

You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.

You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”

His voice dropped. “Like what?”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”

The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.

Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”

The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.

His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.

“But I’ve thought about it.”

The terrace went silent.

Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.

You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.

“What was I going to say?”

His eyes lifted.

“That we shouldn’t.”

The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.

You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.

“You’re right,” you said.

Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.

Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”

His eyes sharpened.

You took one more step.

“But it’s not what I want.”

For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.

Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.

“Say that again,” he said.

The words nearly undid you.

You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t.

His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.

“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “No?”

“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”

The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic at first.

That would’ve been easier.

It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.

You made a small sound against his mouth.

That was what broke it.

Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.

You grabbed his jacket.

He made a low sound, almost a warning.

You pulled him closer anyway.

The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.

His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”

“I know.”

“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.

“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”

Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

His eyes held yours.

“My car.”

The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.

Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.

Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.

Jack ignored all of them.

You loved and hated him for it.

The elevator ride down was worse.

Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.

In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.

Jack unlocked the car.

You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.

He saw the hesitation immediately.

Of course he did.

“You can change your mind,” he said.

The words loosened something in you.

Not because you wanted to.

Because he meant it.

You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He nodded once.

Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”

His face shifted.

“Do I what?”

“Know what I want.”

The garage seemed to hold its breath.

Jack opened the back door.

“Get in,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel.

Just low enough to go through you like a match.

You got in.

The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.

Then the opposite door opened.

He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.

“You still think this is about money?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

You shook your head.

“Words.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“What’s it about?”

You could’ve said care.

You could’ve said want.

You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.

Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”

Jack’s eyes flashed.

Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.

"Jack—"

"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"

You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."

He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.

"Look at me."

You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”

Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.

"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."

You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.

"Jack—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.

"Get on top of me."

It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.

He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"

He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.

"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."

You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."

He didn't.

His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"

He pushed inside you.

The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"

He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.

Then you moved.

Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."

You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.

"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"

"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.

"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."

You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."

He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."

You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.

"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."

"Jack—I'm close—"

"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.

"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"

"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."

He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.

Then he laughed.

A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.

"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"

"Stupid," you supplied.

"Reckless."

"A really bad idea."

His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."

You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.

"We should probably—" you started.

"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.

"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.

"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."

He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.

You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.

He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”

That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”

“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”

“He sounds unbearable.”

“He is.”

The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”

Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”

Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.

“Jack,” you said softly.

He waited.

You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”

For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.

“You get breakfast.”

“That’s it?”

“And your car.”

“Already got that.”

“And the shoes.”

“Also already got those.”

“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”

Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”

The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.

But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.

He was looking at you like something worth keeping.

And for what it was worth, you finally believed you were.

[madamechrissy]

somno with caleb

How could Caleb not wanna lick your pretty little cunt up while you're fast asleep?

It's not like you haven't mentioned it - him coming home so late from his work, sometimes four in the morning and you can't hold your eyes open for him at all. Yet he still held back just a bit - he loves to watch every expression on your pretty face as he drinks you up.

Yet something about you laying here all peaceful, murmuring his name when the bed gently dips underneath his weight. He sighs, tugging down the covers and watching your body tremble, your cunt soaking your slutty little shorts you have on.

All underneath his shirt that you're wearing - his.

You're his.

"All mine, honey," he murmurs, kissing up one of your thighs, lips darting across the smooth expanse of your skin. "Aren't you? Fuck, you're soaked."

Your pussy is just dripping right down when he eases those shorts off carefully, slick dissolving in little strands connecting to the cotton. He moans at the sight of your glistening cunt, leaned down so his head is between your thighs - just where he loves to be.

"Pips," he kisses right over your clit, filthy moan escaping his mouth as your juices flow. He peeks up to see your eyes fluttering, brows drawing together. His tongue swipes a filthy stripe up your slit, hands pressing in to those hips he keeps thinking about breeding.

God maybe Caleb would put a baby inside you tonight.

"Hah, breed you just like this," Caleb murmurs softly, tongue gliding between your puffy folds, your hands involuntarily grip those sheets, bunching up in your hands as Caleb hums against you. "Wanna be full of me so bad, did you miss me?"

"Mnh," your little hum just ruins him further, Caleb starts fucking his long pink tongue in and out of your quivering hole, positively slurping you up. You're trembling in his hold as he drags you further to his face, still blissfully unaware of what he's doing to you.

"Taste so sweet," he missed you this week, jerking off with your panties just doesn't hit the same. He's rutting his fat, leaky cock against the bed as he drinks you down his throat, whimpering softly at the friction.

Caleb wanted to take his time, but he's just too needy. He can't help himself from unzipping his pants, the sound echoing in the quiet room, kneeling just a bit so he can drag his pearly precum on your slit.

"Oh, honey you're already pulsing," he gasps out when you clamp down on his tip, gummy walls gripping so tight. He pauses when you shift underneath him, the rustle of sheets underneath your skin mixing with a filthy squelch of your greedy pussy sucking him right in.

He's easing inch by inch, fat cock bullying your walls that are just a bit lax from your sleep, you shift underneath him as he slowly fills you, shoving up that big shirt you're wearing to look at his bulge moving in and out of your tummy. He exhales at the sight, slowly filling you up and watching your pussy make his cock disappear.

"Look how good you take me, mnh..." Caleb's whispering as he presses a loving little kiss on your temple, one of his hands braced on the side of your pillow, the other cupping your face reverently. "Like you're made for it - you are made for me, hmm? Yeah, that's it, listening even in your sleep."

You're so good for him your thighs spread wider, just enough for him to hook one over his elbow, burying his cock to the hilt inside you. You gasp out when his tip kisses your little puffy cervix, thighs shaking as your lashes flutter. He pauses, smiling lazily when you open your eyes, dazed and dilated.

"Caleb..." You whine out when you realize he's buried his eight thick inches deep in your cunt.

"Your pretty pussy missed me, pips," he teases now, shoving your thighs higher and slamming his cock deep.

"Ah! C-Caleb... ngh!" You're barely conscious, the feeling of his veiny length gliding inside you too much.

"You missed me so much, didn't you?" You swallow and nod, seeing his violet, sunset gaze devouring you, his slightly chapped lips currently coated in what looks like your slick. "say it f'me, honey."

"I m-missed you, ah! S'much ... please! Close, close..."

"I'll give you anything honey," he whispers, all devoted with his soft brown locks falling over a brow, a little gleam of sweat breaking out on his chest and dripping down you while he folds you in half underneath him. "I'll fill you up over and over, hah - you want that, don't you?"

Your answer is a desperate nod, a gasp as his loud thrusts fill the room, the smacking of that sharp pelvis against the backs of your thighs, pummeling your needy cunt until you're about to shatter. "Please..."

"Fill you up with so many loads of my cum, you deserve it - being such a good girl," he whispers, lost in you - your scent, your taste on his tongue, how your thighs give underneath his fingertips. "Go ahead, cum f'me honey - I can tell you're close."

It only takes a couple sharp thrusts to have you squirting down his cock, legs trembling violently even as he holds you there, pinning you underneath his weight.

He's laughing just a bit as you struggle to come down, still full of him. "Squirting like that - did you listen, about not touching yourself while i'm away?"

You nod, throat dry, you hadn't at all even though you were soaking wet thinking of his return. He smirks just a bit, that sweet boy next door look was an entire facade for just how much of a freak Caleb truly was. "I listened - ah!"

"Good girl," he whispers, wrapping his arms around your head so you're buried against his chest, he's so broad he makes you feel small, fucking into your now messy hole even faster. "I'll give you so much you'll go back to sleep - hah, and then I'll keep going. I'll pump even more inside you while you rest, you deserve all of it."

****

caleb has me in a chokehold </3

[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.

[luvyizhou]

18+ mdni | gege caleb always comes home during exam season to help u destress

TW. fingering, massages

caleb always took time off from the DAA during your exams to make sure you were taking care of yourself. as much as you argued that you were an adult and didn’t need him, he knew you loved when he babied you. he could easily tell you liked it from the way your cheeks flushed every time he brought you food, patting your head and telling his “smart girl” to not work so hard.

plus, in a way it was a vacation for him. yes he was doing way more laundry, cooking, and cleaning—but it was for you. in skyhaven he was doing the same stuff but had been constantly thinking about where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. now he didn’t have to guess.

so every time you made a joke about him being a ‘house husband’, he laughed and happily agreed, saying it’s what he was born to do. you thought the label was funny, but caleb liked it because it extended his duties, and he made sure to follow through on them.

his favourite of all was after you finished all your exams and had him work out the knots that developed from stress. he was shocked at how tense you got, spending hours upon hours smoothing out your muscles with baby oil, relishing in the little gasps you let out every time he got close to where you really needed him.

“cmon sweets, try and relax for me”

“you’re so sensitive pips”

“already squirming and i haven’t even touched you properly yet”

after caleb felt you’d been teased enough, he’d finally move his hands to your tits, pinching your nipples before bringing his fingers between your thighs, eyeing the slick forming.

“looks like i don’t need to use any more oil here” he’d tease, finally circling your clit with the pad of his index finger, cock swelling at the way your hips jumped. he never made it about him though, this was for you. his fingers only sped up after you moaned his name, begging your gege to stop teasing.

two fingers dipped into your entrance causing your cunt to immediately convulse around the intrusion, clit throbbing as his thumb pressed down. when you finally let go for him and came with a cry of his name on your tongue, he moved your thighs apart, kneeling between them before starting the process over with his tongue.

© all work belongs to @luvyizhou on tumblr, 2026. do NOT use, repost, or feed any of my work into AI or other websites.

[j4ckr4bbits]

im thinking of jack waking reader up with sex?? or like taking care of reader when they start getting subby during rough sex?? 🗣️

also your writing is actually insane thank you for your service 🫡🫡

omg yes to both. idk how this got so filthy im sorry

perv!bf!jack abbot x fem!reader.

18+ MDNI! | content warnings: daddy kink, use of little one and eventually dada, DUBCON, somno (? he wakes reader up by groping them), a little name calling and a little praise, jack gets mean and rough for a second, a singular spank

but jack would wake you up with sex that pervy old man :( gets home from his night shift at like 8am and you're still tucked in his sheets all warm and cozy. the perfect prize at the end of a hard shift.

before he can stop himself, one of his hands is sliding under the hem of your shirt to grip at bare skin.

"little one," he murmurs gruffly into your ear. "wake up for me."

"mmmn— jack?" you stir with a whine.

"yeah, 's just me, baby. daddy's home." he kisses and gropes you for a while, stealing your heat while you whine and gasp under him: "wanna take care a'you. 'm all cold, warm me up, pretty one."

you're immediately fussy and grumpy at being woken up just to be pawed at. "nooo," you grumble.

he hums with amusement at that whining, the way you sound all groggy and bitchy and adorable. he knows you can get cranky when he wakes you up so early, but he can't resist the urge to rile you up right now. he squeezes the bare skin of your side, the one that he knows is a little ticklish. "come on, princess, wake up for daddy."

"whyyy?" you whine, burying your face in his neck as your legs kick in frustration.

"'cause daddy said so," he rumbles against your ear before nipping gently at the shell of it with his teeth. "he wants your sweet pussy right now."

"why now?" you whine again, petulant and overtired as you writhe in his arms.

"because i've been waiting for this all night," he seethes, his patience with your protests growing thin. his hand drags up to pinch at the soft curve of your ass through the fabric of your panties before adding gruffly: "... and 'cause i know my little one likes it when her daddy tells her what to do."

and it's true. you can't really deny that at all, that you're loving this as much as he is. "... okay," you acquiesce limply.

"good girl," jack practically growls, triumphant and impatient, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and yanking them down your thighs. "that wasn't so hard now, was it? bein' all bitchy for no reason, lemme show you what i want." his palm smacks against your bare ass once, making you yelp, before sliding between your thighs with a deep groan.

"goddamn," he mutters as his thumb drags between your dripping folds, the wet squelch louder somehow in the dim room. "why the fuck were you bein' such a brat n puttin' up a fight? you're beggin' for me."

"daddy," you whine, overstimulated already.

"yeah?" jack rasps, watching your face closely as he finds your clit with his thumb, rubbing slow circles over that sweet little spot. "you like it when daddy touches you like this? when i tease my angel 'til she's all messy and needy?"

you huff, kicking against the mattress in indignation. "i'm tired!"

your little kicks just make his grip on you tighten. "yeah, you're tired," he agrees as the edge in his voice darkens into a hypnotic command. "but you're gonna be a good girl and make daddy feel good right now. okay, baby?"

you huff again irritably, feeling a protest form in your throat. jack knows that sound, the way your shoulders tense as you get frustrated, the way your pretty little mouth starts to pout out into a sulk. his hand tightens on your hip.

"hey," he snaps, his tone suddenly rougher, more authoritative. "i asked you a question, little one. you gonna be a good girl for daddy and let him have that sweet pussy?"

"...yeah," you mumble back reluctantly, and that's enough for him. his thumb immediately drags down your slit and nudges at your fluttering cunt, just teasing, before sliding back up to your throbbing clit.

"there's my girl," he mutters as he feels just how wet and sensitive you are for him. his other hand grips your chin to tilt your face up toward his. his gaze is dark, prideful. "now keep them pretty eyes on daddy while i make 'em leak."

jack loves the way you look at him with those wide eyes, all needy and submissive and obedient. he's obsessed with you. your hips begin to rock into his touch, and when you let out those soft, sleepy, shy moans of not daddy, but dada, he grins.

"you gonna make a mess for dada?" he coos, his thumb still circling your achy clit as his eyes burn into yours. he is so madly in love. he leans in close, his lips so close to yours that his breath brushes against your mouth as he speaks. "you gonna make dada proud, little one?"

your whole body shivers. he's making you feel so good that all you're capable of replying is a whimpered "mmmn..."

he lets out a huff of a breath that's almost a laugh as his thumb speeds up, mercifully bringing you closer to your orgasm.

"use your words, baby," he murmurs, the roughness gone from his voice, replaced by something more tender as your body start to shake. "tell dada if you're gonna make him proud."

"... m make you proud," you manage out through a soft gasp as he pushes you over that sweet edge and pleasure makes your vision white out.

[popepout]

content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, f!reader, dumbification, brief oral mention (f. receiving), daddy kink, pet names, finger sucking.

you’re not thinking at all—

you haven’t been since andrew buried his face between your thighs and made you cum twice just because he missed you while he was “working.” that was the beginning of the end. you’re barely coherent as he maneuvers you onto your tummy before pulling your hips back to meet his, propping you up on your knees so he can slip his thick cock inside easy. you’re too messy for there to be any true struggle, but the reminder of how well he completes you always snatches the air from your lungs before you can get yourself to breathe through it.

clawing at the bed, you prepare yourself for him to move. the first thrust has you burying your face in his crisp sheets and whimpering, especially when he leans over you with a hand on either side of your dizzy head. the sound of his heated skin meeting yours is lewd, it makes your ears burn. your toes are already curling as he groans over you, feeling your soft cunt trying to milk him dry without even meaning to. one hand comes to grab your jaw, holding your head up to keep you from suffocating yourself in your state. he’s always amazed by how much he can break you down. you’ve always been a sensitive girl but when he has you like this, it’s a whole different level …

you babble, each movement knocking a few dumb hiccupy sounds and syllables out of you, “andrew, andrew— s’good— feels s’good, daddy.”

his heart stops. he’s too greedy to fully halt the rythym of his hips, but it comes to a slow grind that keeps you right where you need to be. blissed out and desperate. that word falling from your glossy lips was the last thing he expected. he didn’t know you had it in you to be so perverted. it forces him wonder how long you’ve wanted to claim him as your daddy. he nuzzles his face against the side of your own, feeling your supple skin and the shared heat between you two, “what did you just call me, baby? where did that come from, hm?”

you only whine in response, too gone to register what you’ve started. you lift your hips up in an effort to get more from him, pressing your ass against his hips and attempting to fuck yourself back on him. a groan claws up his throat, raw and raspy. and suddenly he’s pounding you into the sheets, still keeping your pretty face in his grip. you huff out little breaths against his thumb only to have the digit stuffed in your mouth, effectively muffling your squeals and sweet moans.

“i know, i know. don’t worry about it, should’ve known you were too fucked up to speak— let daddy do all the work, baby girl.”

[brhhyun]

JUST ONE BREAK╰⪼ BBH.

ᥫ᭡ content: 18+, fingerfucking, dom!baekhyun, baekhyun x f!reader, multiple orgasms, established relationship, oral (f!receiving), p w p, praise kink

ᥫ᭡ words: 1.1k 

ᥫ᭡ summary: unpacking boxes in the attic of your new house should’ve been simple… but the heat, the tension, and baekhyun’s attention turn it into something much harder to ignore.

ᥫ᭡ a/n: this is my first post here!! i’m super open to tips, requests… it might take me a bit to get used to posting on here since i write everything on my computer lmao, but i’ve sooo many ideas saved! that’s it for now, hope u guys like it!!

“I didn’t think there were this many boxes!” Baekhyun let out a low laugh, resting his hand against the wall as he made his way down the last step. The switch clicked sharply, and a dim light revealed the space. The attic was bigger than they expected. It smelled like old wood, with a few empty shelves and dust gathered in the corners.

“It’s kinda cute,” he commented, glancing around.

You stepped in right behind him, your light footsteps contrasting with the silence of the place. The soft fabric of your dress brushed against your legs with every movement, the delicate floral pattern completely out of place in such a rustic setting.

“Cute?” you raised an eyebrow.

“I mean… it has potential.” He shrugged.

You crossed your arms, taking a better look around.

The air felt warmer than it should, heavy. No open windows, no breeze. Just the constant effort of going up and down, dragging boxes from one side to the other.

“Okay… break,” you murmured, setting a box down on the floor with a bit more force than necessary.

Baekhyun laughed, running a hand over the back of his neck. You brought your hand up to your face, brushing away a few strands of hair stuck to your skin from the humidity. The light fabric of your dress wasn’t helping much anymore, clinging slightly to your body, outlining the slow rise of heat.

He watched you for a second longer than he should have.

You let yourself drop to the floor without much ceremony, resting your hands behind you as you bent your knees, trying to catch your breath. The light fabric of your dress rode up naturally with the movement, the floral material sliding along your thighs as if you didn’t even notice.

Baekhyun ran a hand over the back of his neck, clearly trying to hold onto control that didn’t seem so steady anymore.

“You should be more careful,” he said, though it didn’t really sound like a warning.

His gaze dropped again, this time without any hurry and when it returned to you, the decision was already there, clear in the way he stepped closer.

“We’re not gonna finish unpacking this attic anytime soon,” his voice came out lower now, almost like a warning on the verge of slipping away completely.

Before you even had time to blink, Baekhyun moved in, gently tugging at your hair as he guided you down onto the  attic floor, his other hand slipping behind your head to cushion the impact.

His hand gripped your waist firmly, and his kisses turned slower, more deliberate — trailing from the edge of your ear down to your neck.

“I need to—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Baekhyun lifted your dress in one smooth motion, not saying another word — because by then, he already knew exactly what he wanted.

His hands moved to your thighs, warm and firm as he massaged and squeezed them, his long fingers pressing into your skin, grounding you in place.

“I’m gonna make you relax,” he murmured, breath uneven, voice low.

Without hesitation, he spread your legs, guiding you open — and the moment his fingers found you, a sharp breath left your lips. His touch was immediate, deliberate, paired with light, teasing pressure that made your body react before your mind could catch up.

He looked beautiful between your thighs.

Baekhyun’s long fingers moved with practiced ease, drawing out reactions you couldn’t control. The pleasure came fast, overwhelming, and it only made it worse — or better — knowing you didn’t have to hold anything back.

There was no one else.

Just the two of you, alone in the  attic of your new house.

“You’re already so wet,” he said, voice thick, almost amused.

Your hips reacted instinctively, a small movement you couldn’t stop — and he noticed immediately. The look he gave you shifted, something more challenging, more intent, as his grip tightened slightly. Every time you moved, he adjusted, keeping you right where he wanted you.

His breathing grew heavier, lips brushing against your skin between words.

“I’m not stopping…” he murmured against you, voice barely steady, “until you fall apart for me.”

Your breath caught for a second at that.

Heat rushed through your entire body, sharp and sudden. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress near your chest, pulling it closer without thinking, trying to steady yourself — but it was useless with him this close, with his touch refusing to slow down.

And then he pressed deeper, more precise — finding that exact spot that made your entire body react instantly.

A louder sound slipped from your lips, impossible to hold back this time.

Your body tensed, then melted, clinging to him — to his shoulders, to the fabric, to anything — trying to keep up with the overwhelming wave building inside you.

“Baek—nngh…” you whispered against his ear, your voice breaking halfway through his name.

His hands held you tighter, more firmly now, and you felt your heart race even faster, trapped in a moment that seemed like it would never end.

It was too much — overwhelming. You couldn’t take it. You kept repeating his name like a mantra, eyes rolling back as you bit down on your lip, completely lost in the feeling. When he guided your hand and made you taste the mess left on his fingers, something in him shifted — like it only fueled him further.

“Again…” you pleaded, your voice barely steady, asking for more.

His hands moved over your body, exploring, squeezing and massaging your chest, giving equal attention to both as you gasped under his touch.

"Are you sure?" Baek asked, and you nodded in agreement. He aimed for your G-spot, pinching your nipples to make sure you were feeling pleasure.

Baek chuckled softly at your twisted words. Still with that provocative little laugh, he lowered himself once more, diving in to lick your clitoris and thrusting with great desire, making your feet twitch.

He was between your legs, so close that his breath made your skin crawl. The loose hem of your dress, made of light and soft fabric, fell around him, covering your head like a small refuge. The heat in your stomach became unbearable, and every time he noticed, he paused for a moment and looked at you, intentionally.

Finally, with your second orgasm, he licked you clean, all you could do was squeeze your arms tightly, causing your feet to contract. You were a little confused, trying to focus on him afterward, but ignoring how your muscles felt after that impact. “Wow…”

You turned your face toward him, a tired smile slowly appearing. “Wow, really.” For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You just stood there, feeling your own bodies slow down, the heat still present, but no longer suffocating as before.

Baekhyun looked at you again—this time with something much softer in his gaze. He reached out, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, the touch now calm, almost too careful for everything that had just happened.

“Are you okay?” he murmured. You nodded, still a little lost in the sensation. “I am..” He gave a small, satisfied smile, and then let his body fall to the floor beside you, letting out a long sigh.

Silence returned for a moment. Until he turned his head, looking directly at the stacked boxes around him.

“This can wait.”

You chuckled softly, turning your face to look at him: “Definitely.” Baekhyun let out another laugh, this time lighter, and closed his eyes for a moment, still lying on the attic floor. The new house could wait

₊⊹ @mywolrdisnini on spirit fanfics (br-port)  original work by brhhyun ©

[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.

[lovegoodlane]

The Fancying Farce - 2

Summary: Being Fred's fake girlfriend was making you feel a lot of things that you shouldn't be feeling about him. Would it be so bad if you just...got it out of your system? (Fred Weasley x Slytherin OC) (slow burn, she falls first/he falls harder)

Warnings: MDNI!!! Mentions of drug use (weed), sexual content, oral [female receiving], fingering, nudity.

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Thanks for the love on the first part <3 I'm enjoying this little fic a lot. The smut I have in this chapter is arguably my best yet...work of art. Enjoy ;)

Link to previous part, link to lovegoodlane's masterlist

----

You and Fred were on the quidditch pitch, staring up at the night sky. He had spread out a blanket for you, and you were laying side by side in comfortable silence. His friends were supposed to meet him here to smoke, and Fred had brought you along.

It had been a week since you had started "dating", and you were starting to get accustomed to spending time with him. It had been jarring at first to see Fred waiting for you after class or waving at you in the Great Hall, but now it felt like part of your normal routine.

You watched as a star shot across the dark sky. "Look!" you exclaimed, pointing it out to Fred. "Make a wish."

Fred chuckled at your excitement. "Do I only get one?" he asked.

You nodded, turning to your side and propping your head up on your hand so you could stare at him. "What would you wish for?" you probed.

He turned his head to look at you, pondering your question. "I'm not sure," he said. "I would probably wish to be smarter."

Your brows drew together, giving him a confused look. "Why that? You're already smart," you replied.

Fred let out a dark chuckle. "I definitely am not smart," he breathed out. "If I were, I would always know exactly what to do."

"There's a difference between being smart and being decisive," you said. "You're incredibly smart. You knew how to make the Calming Draught in Potions without even reading the procedure. Clearly there has to be something rattling around in that head of yours."

Fred laughed, and the sound warmed your entire chest. You loved making him laugh.

"Not according to my mum," he said, his smile dropping from his face. "It's impossible to live up to the standards that my older brothers set. No matter what I do, I'm a disappointment."

Your heart ached as you listened to his words. You knew about his older brothers and how they excelled at academics, especially Percy. You hadn't realized that this weighed so much on Fred.

"Fred, you're not a disappointment," you said, reaching across the space between you to put your hand on his arm. "Your definition of intelligence and success doesn't have to be the same as theirs. You get to do things in your own way."

Fred looked at you, his eyes soft. His gaze flicked from your eyes down to your lips and back again. He turned his head away from you, looking back up at the sky.

"Try telling that to my mum," he replied. "My definition of intelligence doesn't translate to a stable future or career."

His words settled between you as you thought about what to say next.

"If it makes you feel better, I'm a disappointment too," you said.

Fred turned to look at you again, confused. "How could you possibly be a disappointment? You get good marks, the professors like you, and you have the Flint legacy behind your name."

"I have a temper," you answered.

"Really? I haven't noticed," Fred teased, grinning at you.

"Shut it," you said, grinning back. "My parents think that I make rash decisions. And they're probably right, but they think that I'm not capable of making choices for myself."

"Why would that even matter? It's your life," he replied.

"It's just like you said," you explained. "I'm part of the Flint legacy. There are certain expectations for me. I'm supposed to be perfectly proper, keep connections with the other pureblood families, and arrange my life around having a pureblood husband and babies."

Fred looked shocked. "Is that even what you want?" he asked, looking at you with concern.

You shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know. I'm supposed to want it. I have to want it, I don't have much of a choice."

"Is it the same with Pucey? Does he have to want those things?" Fred questioned, genuinely curious.

"Most pureblood families have the same expectations," you answered. "The girls are supposed to be perfect wives and eventually perfect mothers. The boys are supposed to have successful careers to keep power and prestige within the bloodline. The Pucey family has always been close with mine, and our parents expect us to get married."

Fred's eyebrows shot up. "Married? Like an arranged marriage?"

"Not quite," you said. "There was never any paperwork, but there's an understanding between our families that we will get married after graduating. If we don't, we will both bring shame to our families. I've always been told that I was supposed to be with Adrian."

Fred just stared at you, processing everything that you said. He had no idea that you had these expectations to live up to.

"Do you really want to be with Pucey, or would you rather be with someone else?" he asked.

"I've never let myself consider someone else," you admitted. "It's always been Adrian."

"Damn," Fred huffed out. "And I thought my problems were bad."

You chuckled. "Neither of us live up to our parents' expectations. The only difference is that your parents are the cool kind of purebloods and mine are the culty kind of purebloods."

Fred laughed. "You're right about that."

There were voices in the distance, and they seemed to be approaching. It had to be Fred's friends.

He looked over at you. "Want to show them how much of a couple we are?" Fred asked, grinning.

"I think you just want an excuse to snog me," you teased, returning his grin.

"You wish," he teased back. "Enjoy snogging someone else before you're tied to Pucey for all of eternity."

You shook your head, trying not to laugh. You sat up, pulling Fred toward you. He sat up too, one of his hands finding your cheek as his lips landed on yours.

The kisses were slow and deliberate, and you were trying to stop yourself from smiling. Fred chuckled into the kiss.

"Stop being so happy about kissing me," he chided through your kisses, using his other hand to hold your waist and pull you closer to him.

"I wouldn't dare be happy about it," you joked back, your hand twining through his hair.

But you were happy about it. You enjoyed kissing Fred. Not only because he was good at it, but it made you feel things. Things that you didn't think you should be feeling.

You ran your hand up the back of his head, tangling into his ginger locks. He cupped your jaw, angling your head back before his tongue dipped into your mouth.

It was a surprise at first. Kissing with tongue didn't seem to be on the table, but now that it was an option, you weren't going to stop it.

Your own tongue licked into Fred's mouth, finding his. You could hear the chatter of his friends getting closer, but you wanted this moment to last forever.

A quiet whine escaped your lips as Fred's fingers found your hair, digging his nails into your scalp. You could feel him smirking through the kisses, pleased with himself for making you whine.

"Get a room!" George heckled as he approached.

You and Fred finally pulled away from each other, and you couldn't help the blush that spread across your cheeks. You were grateful that it was dark enough that Fred wouldn't notice.

Fred gave you a wink before turning to his brother. The rest of the group trailed behind George, made up of Lee, Angelina, and Alicia. Your eyes locked with Alicia's, and you noticed the muscle in her jaw pulled tight. She was not happy.

"Thank you for finally joining us," Fred teased, waving his friends over.

Fred opened his knees, pulling you against his chest between his legs. The Gryffindors joined you on the blanket.

"Everyone, this is Delia," Fred introduced, grinning proudly at his friends.

"We already know who she is, you git," George teased, slinging his arm over Angelina's shoulders. "The Slytherin princess in the flesh."

Angelina elbowed at George's side, making him wince. "Being a Slytherin isn't her only personality trait, Georgiana," Angelina scolded. "I'm glad you're here, Delia. Maybe you can keep Freddie in line."

You smiled at Angie. "I doubt it," you chuckled.

"This small talk is nice and all, but can we smoke now?" Lee interrupted, digging through his bag to retrieve the blunt.

"Oh Lee, you are ever the gentleman," Angelina commented, kicking her foot at him.

Fred laughed, his chest rumbling against your back. He played with your hair absentmindedly, running his fingers through it.

Lee lit the blunt, taking a hit before passing it to Alicia. The group chatted, passing the blunt around and making joking jabs at each other.

You listened quietly, settled against Fred's chest. Your own chest felt tight, unsettled by how comfortable you were being touched by Fred.

Your goal was to get Adrian back. You were supposed to be together. But Fred...

Fred made you laugh. He showed deep concern for you and did everything he could to bring you comfort. He wasn't the annoying prankster that you thought he was.

You couldn't have feelings for Fred. It was impossible. But as you rested against his chest, his fingers tangled in your hair, you couldn't think of anywhere else you'd rather be.

——

Fred led you through the portrait, bringing you into the Gryffindor common room. You had been in this room a couple of times before during parties, but you had never seen it in its normal state.

You admired the large brick fireplace and the couches placed around it. There was a group of younger students doing homework together by the fire, laughing and flicking biscuit crumbs at each other.

Your eyes panned to the corner, where you saw Alicia and Angelina working on a project together. Angie waved at you, summoning you and Fred over.

Fred took your hand, grinning down at you. "Ready to ham it up, my love?" Fred said, leaning down to speak into your ear.

Chills crept down your spine at the feeling of his breath on your neck. You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry.

You cleared your throat. "Of course, sweetie," you replied, forcing a smile onto your lips.

Fred brought you over to Angie and Alicia, his hand still holding yours.

"What are you two up to?" Angie asked, raising an eyebrow as she glanced between you and Fred.

"We're headed up to my room," Fred said, his tone nonchalant. Angie bit down on her lip, trying to suppress a knowing grin.

You could see Alicia's eyes narrow. "Sounds like fun," Alicia bit out. "Angie and I have a lot of work to do. See you later."

Alicia waved at you in dismissal. Fred shrugged it off, turning to lead you up the stairs to his dormitory. When you reached the door, Fred paused before he opened it for you.

"This is where the magic happens," Fred commented, waggling his eyebrows at you.

"Get off it, Fred," you said, biting back a laugh. He opened the door, showing you into his room.

It was pretty much what you imagined it would be. One bed was pushed up against the window, and the other was pushed against the back wall. He walked to the bed by the window, sitting down.

You scanned the rest of the room. There was a desk across from his bed covered in papers and various trinkets. None of it looked homework related, but that seemed about right for Fred.

"Mesmerized?" he asked, causing your eyes to snap to him.

You rolled your eyes at him. "It's neater than I thought it would be," you observed.

Fred raised a hand to his chest, pretending to be wounded. "You think I'm dirty? I can't believe it," he said dramatically. "Well, I am dirty. But not like that."

Fred shot a wink at you, the corner of his mouth quirking up. You rolled your eyes at him again. All of this flirting was making your stomach churn.

You looked at the walls, taking in the photos of Fred with his friends over the years. Various sketches were pinned to the walls of items that you recognized as some of the joke gifts that him and George had created. You made your way around the room, taking it all in. You eventually perched yourself against his desk, staring across the room at him.

Fred's brows furrowed at you. "Is everything alright?" he asked.

"Yes, why wouldn't it be?" you answered, your tone coming out snappier than you had meant it.

Fred stared at you from where he was sitting on his bed, a look of genuine concern on his face. "You just seem...unsettled."

You let out a dry laugh, looking away from him. "Because I am unsettled, Fred. You make me feel unsettled."

"What? How?" he asked, seeming confused. He wasn't accusatory; he wanted to make you feel better.

"This whole thing," you said, motioning to the air between you and Fred. "This is making me confused. I'm feeling things that I shouldn't be feeling. I don't...I shouldn't want to be around you."

You breathed out a frustrated sigh. Fred's eyes softened, finally understanding.

"Delia, of course you're going to feel things," he said, his tone gentle. "It's just the proximity. I'm feeling things too. I know that I love Alicia and that I still want to be with her, but that doesn't stop me from being attracted to you."

You finally looked back at Fred. Your entire body felt hot.

"You're...attracted to me?" you said, sounding disbelieving.

Fred chuckled. "Of course I am," he said, standing up from the bed. "You're funny, you're whip-smart, you have a mind of your own. And you're beautiful, Delia."

"So I can be attracted to you and still want to be with Adrian?" you asked, sounding shy. It was a thought that had never crossed your mind. The whole thing made you feel childish and inexperienced.

"Only you can know that," Fred replied. "I think that attraction and love are different. Attraction can be more temporary, and that's what we're feeling."

"Oh," you said. 

You hadn't really ever considered attraction. Being with Adrian was more about duty than it was about desire. It was hard for you to distinguish between the two. But with Fred, it was all desire.

"Once we get our partners back, it will fizzle out," Fred reassured. "In the meantime, I don't think it would be a terrible idea to get it out of our system."

His words sent a crackle of energy through your chest. Was he implying what you thought he was implying?

"What did you have in mind?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. You were nervous.

Fred took a step toward you. "Anything you want," he said, eyeing you from head to toe. "And we don't have to, it's only if you want to."

You gulped. You could think of several things that you wanted, and they all involved nudity.

"I..." you trailed off, trying to form a coherent thought. You could feel your cheeks flaming.

Fred smirked, continuing to approach where you were perched against his desk. "Don't get shy on me now, tiger," he said, his voice coming out like honey. 

Fred was only a couple of feet in front of you now. You let out a shuttering breath before you reached for him, pulling him into you by gripping onto his shirt. 

Fred stuttered forward, forcing you further back onto his desk. You opened your legs for him to stand between them, pulling him in close as you kissed him relentlessly. Fred muttered a spell into the kiss, clearing off the desk.

His hands immediately found your hips, pulling your chest flush with his. The kisses were hot and bruising, an intensity present that hadn't been there before. You reached into his hair, clawing at his scalp. Fred groaned, pausing the kiss to pull back and look at you.

"What do you want, love?" he asked. His chest was heaving, and his eyes were lidded with desire.

"I want..." you breathed out, your eyes searching his. "I need your mouth."

Fred smirked at you. He leaned down to place wet kisses along the column of your neck, working his way up to your ear.

"Where do you need my mouth?" he whispered, nipping at the shell of your ear.

You couldn't stop the gasp that escaped your lips. You arched into him, desperate for more of his touch.

"Anywhere," you answered, sounding breathless. "Everywhere."

Fred continued his kisses along your jaw, your nails digging into the fabric of his uniform shirt. One of his hands found your knee, slowly tracing a finger up the outside of your thigh. It felt like your entire body was vibrating against his touch.

Fred detached his lips from you. "You'll tell me if you wanted to stop, yeah?" he asked, looking into your eyes.

You nodded at him. Fred tsked at you, his hand gripping your thigh.

"Need you to use your words, love," he said, squeezing your thigh.

"Yes, Fred," you said, your words barely coming out as a whisper.

"Good girl," he praised, his lips finding your neck again. You let out a keening noise, tilting your head back to give him better access. 

"Yeah? You like being called a good girl?" he rasped between kisses. You keened again, squeezing your thighs tighter around Fred.

Fred reached for the knot of your tie, undoing it with ease while his other hand traced circles on the outside of your thigh. He released his lips from your neck, pulling back to look at you.

He tossed your tie onto the floor, his fingers starting to work on your buttons next. You tried to slow your breathing, but it seemed like your heart was pounding through your chest. You didn't want to want this, but it felt too good.

He popped the last button open, untucking your shirt from your uniform skirt and pulling it open. His eyes devoured you, roaming from your wide pupils and pink mouth down to your newly exposed chest.

Fred's fingers gently traced along your bare side beneath your shirt, making you shiver. He admired your black bra, his thumb running along the underwire.

"Did you wear this just for me?" he teased, a smirk spreading across his kiss-swollen lips.

"No, I wore it for me," you shot back, your own grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. You were finally finding your voice again.

His fingers played along the waist of your skirt. "I'm curious to know if it's a matching set," he said, his nose bumping against yours as he placed a kiss on your lips.

"Mmm, you'll have to find out then," you replied, winding a hand into his hair to pull his mouth to yours again.

Fred nipped at your bottom lip, both of his hands starting to pull at your skirt. You released your hand from his hair, using it to prop yourself up so Fred could work your skirt down your legs.

You were on his desk in only your undergarments, your shirt hanging open on your shoulders. Fred took a step back, taking you in. 

"Fuck," he muttered, his gaze flicking from your chest down to your black knickers. Of course they matched. You were a classy girl after all.

You leaned back on your palms, basking in his attention. You opened your legs wider, watching as Fred's jaw dropped open for just a second. You smirked at him.

"Are you just going to keep staring, or are you going to get on your knees?" you asked, your voice confident and sultry.

Fred's eyes snapped up to yours. He instantly dropped to his knees, his gaze never leaving yours for a second. He grabbed behind your knees, pulling you toward him. You let out a little gasp, and the sound made the corner of his mouth quirk upwards.

Fred kissed the inside of your knee, making a trail up your thigh. His fingers dug into the soft skin at the top of your thighs as he nipped at your sensitive skin. He was still holding eye contact as his kisses finally reached the fabric of your knickers.

"Please," you whispered, the word snagging on a ragged breath. You needed his mouth on you without any clothing in the way.

Fred pulled at the waistband of your knickers. You lifted your hips for him as he dragged them down your legs, tossing them to the side.

You were splayed out for him on the desk, your bottom half completely bare. Fred stared, licking his lips like he was preparing for a feast. You smirked down at him, feeling not even an ounce of shame about your nakedness.

Fred kissed your inner thighs, his hands gripping around your hips. He worked his way closer to your center, and your thighs clenched around his head.

He placed a delicate kiss on your center, a quivering sigh falling from your lips. His tongue began to gently lap at you, and your hands gripped at his hair for stability. 

Fred flattened his tongue, making long licks from your opening to your clit. He sucked your clit into his mouth and you cried out, your head falling back against the desk with a thump.

Fred continued working on you with his tongue, alternating making tight circles on clit and sucking on it. You pulled at his hair and he groaned, his eyes flicking up to yours.

Your eyes locked on Fred's, wordless communication passing between you. You were clearly enjoying yourself, and so was Fred. You had been wanting this since your kiss in the hallway, and from the fire behind Fred's gaze, so had he.

Fred's hand inched up your stomach, reaching beneath your bra. He found your nipple, pinching and rolling it between his fingers. The moans coming out of your mouth only got louder, and you knew you were close to finishing.

"Fuck, Freddie -- I'm gonna, fuck," you mumbled out, your words jumbling as they tumbled from your lips.

Fred continued exactly as he was, pushing you closer and closer to your orgasm. One of your hands cradled his face, and his fingers dug into your hips.

Your back arched off of the desk as you finished, your thighs tightening even more around Fred's head. He worked you through it, slowing his tongue as you rode through your orgasm.

Your chest was heaving as you came down, sweat beading across your chest. Fred pulled his mouth off of you, leaving a few gentle kisses along your hip bones.

You peered down at him, still catching your breath. "Where did you learn how to do that?" you teased, grinning at him.

Fred grinned back. "Lots of practice, my love," he replied, his thumbs massaging circles into your hips. "Think you can give me one more?"

Your eyes widened at him. Another orgasm? You were still recovering from your first one. This man was going to kill you.

"Fred..." you said, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Let me take care of you," he said, peppering kisses along your lower belly.

"Mmm," you replied, relishing in the feel of his delicate kisses. They felt adoring, a line that you and Fred certainly should not cross.

Fred's mouth began to lower down your belly, finding your center again. You gasped, still sensitive after your first orgasm.

One of his hands left your waist, a finger teasing at your opening. He peered up at you, asking for permission.

All you could do was nod and let out a keening noise that would definitely embarrass you later. Fred pushed his finger in, and you bit your lip at the feeling of the stretch.

Fred's mouth worked on your clit while his finger worked deeper inside you. Swears fell from your mouth as you tightened your grip on Fred's hair.

Your hips started to buck against his mouth, working in time with his finger pulsing inside of you.

"Yeah, love? You like fucking yourself on my face?" Fred purred. His filthy words made your cheeks feel like they were flaming.

He dove another finger in, and you clamped your thighs around him. "Take what you need. So good for me," he muttered into you, working his finger deeper.

Fred found a spot inside of you that made you lose your breath, your back arching off of the desk. He hit the spot again and again, and your legs quivered as he brought you closer to finishing for the second time.

"Come on, you can do it," he encouraged, curling his fingers in just the right way. "Need you to finish for me."

You loved the way he talked to you. It was filthy, it was praising, it was everything you needed. It took only a few more moments before you were falling apart again.

Fred slowed the pace of his fingers, watching you as you came down from your high. He looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world.

You were breathing hard, your legs trembling around Fred's face. He left a final kiss against your thigh before standing up, pulling you into his arms as he lifted you from the desk. He carried you to his bed, placing you on your back as you tried to catch your breath.

Fred laid down next to you, turning his head to look at you. "Did you get it out of your system?" he asked, his mouth quirking up.

You let out a breathy chuckle. "Maybe not quite," you said, lazily nudging at him with your elbow. "I could use you a bit more."

Fred laughed, bringing a hand up to trace along your chin. You looked at him, your heart swelling in your chest. Since when did he make you feel this way?

"I think the entire dormitory heard you, so you're definitely doing a good job of making them think we're a couple," he said.

Your smile faltered. Was that all this was? A way to get back at Alicia and prove that he had moved on? It was the point of your arrangement, but you were at least hoping that he enjoyed it as much as you did.

You sat up, looking around for your clothes. "I should get going," you said. "I'm supposed to meet Cedric in the library."

Fred got off of the bed, moving so you could retrieve your discarded clothing. "Will I see you at my quidditch match?" he asked, watching you as you pulled on your knickers.

"Of course," you said, grabbing your skirt off of the floor. "It's the one against Slytherin, right?"

Fred nodded. "Ooh, I have just the idea," he said, moving toward his closet.

He pulled out his Gryffindor scarf, handing it to you. "Wear this to the match, will you?"

You held the scarf in your hand, considering it. Wearing a Gryffindor scarf to the rivalry quidditch match? That was a bit of a stretch, but you knew that it would get under Adrian's skin.

"I would love to," you said, grinning at Fred. This would be just the ticket to make Adrian regret everything.

----

You found Lee in the Gryffindor stands, waving at him before you approached. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" you asked.

Lee shook his head. "Not at all, I've been meaning to interrogate you about Fred," he replied, sending you a devious smirk.

The quidditch stands were packed, split between green & silver and red & gold. The Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match was always the most anticipated face-down of the season.

You grinned at Lee, playing with the ends of Fred's scarf. You had already received plenty of glares from Slytherin students. They saw you as a traitor for rooting for your "boyfriend's" team.

"I'm ready for your interrogation," you said, sitting next to Lee on the bench.

"Are you and Fred actually dating?" Lee asked, cutting right to the question without any fluff.

Your eyebrows shot up in shock. "What makes you think that we're not?"

Lee shrugged. "You two are just so...different," he said. "And he really loved Alicia. I can't believe that he'd already be with someone else."

The tips of your ears were turning red, and you clenched your fists in your lap. Lee was right, but hearing the words made you feel unsettled.

"I don't know how to explain it," you started, fixing Lee with your most sincere look. "But we really connected during detention. We both had a lot of assumptions about each other, but once we actually spent time together alone...I don't know, everything changed."

Lee considered your words, puckering his lips. "I guess," he said. "I don't have anything against you, I just never expected Fred to date you."

You grinned at Lee. "I didn't expect it either," you said. "Fred has a way of growing on you. Like a parasite."

Lee laughed. You took a breath of relief, feeling like you escaped his questioning and passed the worst of his scrutiny. Lee was known for his lack of filter, and you felt lucky to have survived him.

There was more truth to your words than you expected. Your view of Fred had changed completely. You had thought that he was a careless troublemaker who only ever hoped to get under your skin, but now...he was so much more. You saw his sensitivity, his intelligence, and the pressure he felt to be someone extraordinary. It was endearing.

The teams emerged from the locker room, pulling your attention to the pitch. You spotted Fred, trying to catch his eye. He searched the stands before he found you, sending you a wink and a cheeky grin.

Your eyes flicked to Adrian on the opposite end of the pitch. His gaze was locked on you, taking in the Gryffindor scarf wrapped around your neck. He looked furious, and his fiery gaze was boring right into you.

You smirked to yourself, pleased to have made him so angry. You found Alicia on the pitch, her eyes bouncing between you and Adrian. She narrowed her eyes, trying to decipher what was going on. She seemed suspicious of you.

The teams lined up, preparing for the starting horn. You were nervous, hoping that Fred would pull through with a win for Gryffindor. It was the first and likely only time that you had cheered for Gryffindor during this matchup.

The horn blared and the teams were off, whizzing by on their brooms. You could barely focus on the match. A nervousness was brewing in your stomach. Was Alicia catching on? If Lee doubted your relationship with Fred, who else did?

If you really took the time to think about it, the whole situation made you feel foolish. Cedric's words echoed through your head, reminding you of how immature all of this was. Maybe it was a mistake to agree to this. But in a way, you didn't want it to end.

While you were still lost in your thoughts, the match horn blared again. Harry had caught the golden snitch. The Gryffindor team landed on the pitch, running to crush him in a hug. You and Lee were on your feet, clapping and whooping for the team. You were proud of them, even if it meant a loss for your own house.

You and Lee joined the students that were going down to the pitch to congratulate the team. You had barely gotten a foot onto the pitch before Fred spotted you. He rushed over, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug. He pulled you off of your feet, and you let out a squeak of surprise.

"My good luck charm," he said to you, spinning you around.

You laughed at him. "That was all you, Freddie," you replied.

He put you down. He was staring at you with a charged look, and he began to grin. "Since when did you start calling me 'Freddie'?" he asked.

You rolled your eyes. "Merlin forbid your girlfriend has a nickname for you," you said, suppressing your own grin. You hadn't even noticed the shift until Fred pointed it out.

"It's cute," he said, wrapping his hands around your waist. "I'm more used to you calling me 'arsehole'."

You laughed, reaching up to lace your fingers around his neck. "If the shoe fits..." you teased, your smile finally peeking through.

Fred smiled back for a moment before he leaned down to kiss you. It was a sweet kiss, full of tenderness and adoration. Nothing like what you had shared in his dormitory.

He pulled back, looking at you with a grin before giving you a quick peck on the top of your head. "I have to get cleaned up with the team, will you wait for me?"

You nodded, trying to fight the blush that you knew was forming on your cheeks. To your surprise, Fred didn't comment on it before he turned to leave. It was the adoring kisses like that that made your cheeks burn. Even though Fred had seen you almost completely naked, one gentle kiss could set you ablaze.

"You're really wearing that git's scarf?" Adrian said from behind you. You were lost in your trance thinking about Fred, and his words jarred you back to reality.

You turned to face him. "He's my boyfriend, Adrian," you said. "Of course I'm going to wear his scarf."

"But wearing Gryffindor colors to the rivalry match? You're practically a blood traitor," he said, his fury evident all over his face. "Not to mention your association with a Weasley."

You squared your shoulders, preparing for an argument. "You're one to talk about blood traitors," you spat back. "You've been sticking your dick into every girl at Hogwarts regardless of her bloodline."

Other students were turning to watch the confrontation. You didn't even notice; you couldn't see past the rage that was making your vision feel blurry.

"And don't you ever say a bad word about Fred," you said, balling your fists as you glared at Adrian. "He doesn't need status to prove anything. He is more than good enough on his own."

Adrian glared back at you. "Let me know when you're done being delusional," he said, turning to walk toward his locker room.

You felt like you were going to scream. Your nails were digging into your palms so hard that there would be indents left behind. 

What did you even see in Adrian? Had he always acted like this, and had you always just...accepted it? You didn't want to be anything like him or the purebloods who thought that they were superior. 

"That was wicked," Lee said, sidling up to you. He was grinning, clearly proud of your defense of Fred.

You let out a breath. "Adrian can be such a..." you trailed off.

"Wanker?" Lee filled in for you.

You laughed. "Yes, that sounds like a good word for it."

Lee knocked your shoulder with his. "Hey, you're alright," he said. "I can see why Fred likes you."

You thanked him with a smile. Selling the charade to his friends was exactly what Fred would want, but it was starting to make your stomach feel sour. The more time you spent with Fred, the less you wanted to be with Adrian. But Fred still wanted Alicia.

The whole ruse of dating Fred was the closest you could ever come to actually being with him. Even if he wanted to get back with Alicia, you still had time before she made her move. And you were intending to use that time very wisely.

[groovyangelkisses]

missionary with jack but you’re whiny and thrashing and he’s so close— almost there and trying to coo at his sensitive, cockdrunk girl. you’re almost crying from the pure adrenaline of a pulsing clit and the need for him to be close, he’s sweating as he gutturally purrs, “daddy’s here, kiss daddy baby, yeah..yeah” breathing against your mouth as his hips falter and he groans before dumping a load inside you; his shaking, placated girl <3

[bbuuunnyyy]

uncle!jack who finds out you haven’t had your first kiss, sitting you on his lap to teach you how to kiss like a big girl—squirming on his buldge, drenching your panties <3333

[bbuuunnyyy]

Hi bunny! Ugh the uncle jack teaching you to kiss thing was soooo !! Dying ! Anyways..how about jack who's so big you cant quite take him...and he's all sweet and okay about it and maybe instead fucks you over your panties? Like just rubbing his cock over your pussy making you feel good !

thank you sweetheart for the kind words 𑣲

18+ tw: daddy kink, fauxcest

“‘s too big, jackie!” you cry out, trying to scramble off of your uncle, who’s got you seated in his lap, holding onto the headboard, trying to get you used to taking his fat cock.

he holds your hips, stilling you— “okay, okay, baby. i hear ya, too big.” he sets you down on his lap, cock between your bellies as you wrap your arms around his neck, crying out little soft sobs. he rubs your back, “you can do it, honey. fucking right hole was pulling me in—but we’ll get you used to taking your uncle, don’t worry.”

you nod, kissing his neck, starting to grind your hips, slick pussy soaking the outside of his sock. he practically purrs, “yeah—you like that, baby? wanna fuck me like this?”

you give out a little “mhmm” as you watch yourself coat his cock, teasing his tip a bit. jack just holds you, groaning about how fucking good his little girl is being for him, wanting to train to take him fully,

you start to get needy, bumping your clit on his tip, arching your back as you cry out. “there you go, sweetheart. make yourself cum and we’ll try to fit you on your uncle’s cock again—sound good?”

your eyes are hooded, lower back tingling and you don’t even question it, moaning out a “yes, please.”