dr. robby’s girl ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

dr. robby’s girl ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

[sweeethearts]

welcome to sweeethearts ᥫ᭡.

liliana ₊˚⊹ ౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ she/her . 19 . latina . virgo . infp-t . graphic design student . horny tumblr girl . smut writer . dilf lover!

he holds me in his big arms

❥*ೃ˚ currently invested in a 54 year old man with bambi eyes

✮ guidelines ✮ masterlist ✮ ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ .ᐟ.ᐟ ©2025

[sweeethearts]

hellooooooo

id loveee to go to a small town diner! im gonna take a chocolate bar with me im driving there with my windows down and im gonna buy myself a fridge magnet!

not a date, right? // 1.1k follower celebration

hiiii :) back again with another blurb (ofc it had to be robby cuz i needed to be self-indulgent!!) also just wanted to let you guys know there’ll be some incoming gaps in between the remaining requests…just trying to take some time for myself before the summer break ends!! anywho, hope you enjoy luvs! <3

living beneath robby means you’ve become intimately familiar with the soundtrack of his life.

you know when he’s home because his hiking boots hit the stairs in the same steady rhythm every evening.

you know he’s eating something when it lingers underneath your nose before you’ve even decided what you’re having for dinner.

you know when he’s had a particularly rough shift because the shower upstairs starts almost immediately after his front door closes, running long enough that you imagine the hot water is doing its best to wash the hospital off of him.

he claims he can tell when you’re home, too. not because he hears you, as he insists you walk quieter than a mouse. but it’s because your laugh carries. it settles somewhere beneath his ribs, warm enough that he catches himself smiling before he even realizes why. then, somewhere along the way, he'd even started waiting for it without meaning to.

somewhere between walking into each other's apartments to borrow ingredients without asking, fixing your heater during the dead of winter after your landlord was "unavailable during the holidays”, hauling bookshelves and vintage dressers down impossibly narrow staircases and even narrower doorframes, and dropping takeout at each other’s doors with nothing more than a “figured you forgot to eat”, the lines blurred so quietly neither of you noticed until it was much too late.

you kissed. more than once.

enough that you know exactly how soft his hair feels when you tug your fingers through it.

and enough that robby has caught himself standing outside your front door after already saying goodnight, hand hovering for a second too long wondering if he should knock one more time.

yet neither of you has ever been brave enough to ask what, exactly, the two of you are doing. somehow, you’ve become the sort of neighbours who kiss each other breathless against kitchen counters and still pretend there’s nothing to address.

maybe that’s why your sister cancelling on you tonight settles a little deeper than it should.

Rain check? Milo surprised me with reservations. I’m SO sorry!!!!!!!! 🥺

you stare at the message for another second before letting your phone fall against your thigh. “fucks sake” you whine. typical.

all that time spent working hair cream into your strands so it’d bounce every time you turned your head. picking out the one dress you’d almost forgotten lived in the back of your closet—the first one you’d willingly worn in years. even sitting in front of your bathroom mirror long enough to convince yourself mascara wasn’t “doing too much”.

all for another friday night to be spent alone—sulking at home.

but it's only then, sitting on the front steps, that you realize you haven’t gone back inside yet.

instead, you’ve been lingering just a little longer than necessary, eyes drifting toward robby’s window every couple of seconds, wondering whether he’ll come out before you retreat downstairs and change back into your pajamas.

as though the outfit you’d spent far too long trying on had ever really been about dinner in the first place.

you stand up from the steps, your purse slung over your shoulder, just as robby exits to lock his door above you. he catches sight of you, eyebrows lifting almost immediately.

“you goin’ somewhere?”

“my sister bailed on me,” you hold up your phone with a dramatic swing. “apparently dream boyfriends outrank baby sisters.”

he laughs under his breath. “harsh.”

“i know.” you pout. “and i took far too long getting ready for her to ditch 10 minutes after the time she promised to pick me up at”

his eyes drift over you before he can stop them. the flowy patterned dress. the earrings. the gloss on your lips sticky as you talk.

you look…jesus.

“…we could still go.” the words leave him before he has time to think them through.

you blink. “go?”

“dinner.”

“oh”

“only if you don’t want to lose the reservation that i assume you guys already had.”

there’s this painfully long second where neither of you says anything. because dinner sounds suspiciously like a date. and neither of you is stupid enough to call it one.

you clear your throat first. “okay, but i’m gonna change. you’re wearing a henley and jeans and i’m…” your words drift off. “well i look too much”

“no.” the answer comes so quickly it startles both of you.

he shakes his head, almost as fast, already smiling to himself. “i’ll change.”

“oh no you don’t have to––”

“enough. give me a second”

your stomach does the most embarrassing little flip. a few minutes later he’s back downstairs in a button-up he’d very obviously dug out because it was probably the nicest thing he owned. something we probably only ever used for galas and conferences.

and now, you.

his hair seemed scruffed upwards with slightly damp fingers, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’d given this whole thing far more thought than he intended to.

he always looked unfairly handsome, but now just a little more like he belongs next to you.

he catches you looking, and chooses to glance down at himself as well. “figured i should at least try to narrow the gap, just enough to look like i got lucky they let me in.” he says with a lopsided smile, like he hasn’t quietly spent years convincing himself he never quite belongs beside someone like you.

you respond with a soft chuckle. but that’s the thing about robby, he’ll compliment you every chance he gets, but somehow every compliment comes at his own expense. and you hate it.

though if you opened your mouth right now, you’re half convinced the unfiltered truth of your feelings toward him would tumble out. so you do the only thing you really can: you smile.

“you look good, robby” soooooooooo good

his ears go just a little pink. “c’mon.”

he then does that thing he always does whenever his own thoughts get a little too loud. his warm hand finds your arm with an ease that’s become second nature, turning you toward the parking lot with gentle insistence before either of you has the chance to think too hard.

it seems like an innocent touch, he’s done it a hundred times before.

helping you over ice in the winter. guiding you around the back of his SUV when he stumbled upon you on the street with your arms full of groceries. steering you away from the dripping ceiling when your apartment flooded only three months after moving in.

except your thoughts have never once returned the same demurity.

not when he crowds behind you to reach into a cabinet, and you’re suddenly so painfully aware of how much bigger he is than you. his chest hovering at your back, his arm braced over your shoulder while you forget entirely what you were doing in the first place.

not when his hand finds the small of your back to guide you through a doorway, his thumb settling so naturally into the curve just above your hip that it feels like it was always meant to fit there.

not when he cups your cheeks, drawing you in until your lips hover only a breath apart, close enough to catch the lingering taste of the beer someone had tossed him in the park after another brutal shift, just before he closes the distance and kisses you. again and again and again.

it’s ridiculous how easily he unravels you.

one absent-minded touch from him and your imagination is already sprinting ten steps ahead, wondering what would happen if neither of you bothered with dinner at all.

if, just for once, one of you stopped pretending there was nothing that couldn’t blossom from this. if you caught the front of his shirt in your fist, laughed, and tugged him back toward the townhouses instead.

towards his bed where you’ve heard all those blissful cries he’s pulled out of his seven week itches.

toward all the words neither of you have ever been bold enough to confess.

your pulse flutters anyway and his touch lingers enough that he has to remind himself to let go before he starts believing this really is a date.

because it isn’t.

it absolutely, definitely isn’t.

…which is probably why he insists on opening the passenger door for you anyway, right?

[sweeethearts]

hiii, congrats on the 1.1k !!! 🎉

this is such a cute idea! i'd love to plan a trip to the beachside, eat some popsicles for the heat, drive with the windows down... maybe buy a postcard, but i leave that for you to choose 🐚🪸

voicemails // 1.1k follower celebration

hiii cuties!! sorry for the sudden delay in answering the requests, unfortunately i think i’ve hit a bit of a roadblock in my inspiration & motivation…(i thought i still had a few more months before it would happen,,, lol rip <///3) so apologies if this is kinda messy (and a lil bit angsty), but i’m pushing through and i’ll get to the rest!!!! xoxo

going out is supposed to help. well, at least that’s what your friends tell you as they convince you to join them on saturday night. that you need to stop spending every single minute thinking about frank langdon. that you need to stop wasting your twenties yearning after a man who still technically belongs to somebody else.

so on your next day off, you let them dress you up for it. tiny skirt, black lace pantyhose, lip gloss sticky against your mouth, perfume sprayed onto your throat. but the whole time you’re getting ready, all you can think about is him.

half-asleep last tuesday, rubbing a tired hand down his face while you handed him the bad lounge coffee. the way he takes it with a smile anyway. you think about the dark circles under his eyes. you think about how fucking unfair it is that somebody can love him once and then decide they don’t want him anymore.

and all the while, still refuse to let him go.

the club is hot and sweaty, loud enough to rattle your ribs. your friends disappear into the crowd almost immediately, occasionally circling back long enough to shove another strong drink into your hand or drag you toward the dance floor before vanishing again.

you try to let yourself enjoy it, you really do. a guy buys you a drink at some point. he’s cute enough, has an easy smile. his hands settling politely on your waist while the music pounds loud enough to blur the thoughts in the meantime.

you let him pull you into the sea of bodies. let him spin you once beneath flashing lights. let his body press against yours, until something in your chest twists painfully.

because it isn’t frank.

doesn’t smell like him. doesn’t feel like him. his hands don’t settle against you with that same calming steadiness frank always has around you.

your thoughts hit so hard it makes your stomach turn. you pull away too fast.

“i’m sorry,” you blurt, already backing up. “you’re just—i-i just can’t”

the guy looks confused as you shove yourself through the crowd, mortified, heat flooding your face instantly.

you shake your head like that’ll somehow fix what just came out of your mouth, your phone already in your hand by the time you reach the hallway near the bathrooms.

frank doesn’t answer your call, or the second. despite the buzz in your head, you know his phone is silent in his scrub pants and he can’t stop to answer. so you start leaving voicemails instead. your thoughts spill out in messy fragments every time the beep sounds.

“i don’t understand frankie,” you mumble into another voicemail, words dragging together as your forehead presses against the cool brick of the wall. “i don’t understand why she gets to keep you if she doesn’t even want you.”

you swallow down a shot at the bar before calling in another message. “i can’t understand if-if you love her too much to not have already served her those stupid fucking papers. or maybe you don’t ‘n’ i’m jus’still not enough of a reason.”

you move to the stairs near the exit, body heavy as you slide down the wall to sit on the sticky floor. “i hate when you go home to her.”

your voice cracks around the rest of the words. “not even because i think you’re doing anything together. i just—every time you leave work and go back there it feels like she wins again…in a way you know?”

another call rings to his phone. “you came back from rehab and everyone treated you like shit or weird except me. you don’t even know how fuckin happy i was to see you, how relieved, i-i waited for you frankie.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. “and-and now it’s like we’re stuck in this almost-thing where i can’t even call you mine yet cause you’re still fucking married and i don’t know what to fucking do cause i want you, i—i want you so bad”

“i’m sorry. i know i’m being annoying i-i know i’m being insane. you’re probably gonna hate me tomorrow, i just need to shut upppp—”

the alcohol makes every thought louder. by midnight, your head feels heavy and airy at the same time, your eyes blurring as you look around the room. your friends are somewhere on the floor when you slip outside again, needing air more than anything else.

you don’t even mean to leave them, you just need to stop feeling like your chest is caving in.

the cold night air hits your body hard enough to make you sway. “oh fuck,” you whisper.

your stomach rolls violently. streetlights smearing across your vision while you lean against the brick wall, trying desperately to steady yourself.

your phone hasn’t vibrated with a response all night, instead continuing to show your own messy reflection back at you through the dark screen.

you vaguely remember sharing your location with frank, tucked between your mumbled words sometime after your sixth unanswered call.

you think it was some pathetic, drunken impulse to prove you were out having fun without him. or maybe a cry for help. either way you kind of regret it.

not because you don’t want him to know you miss him—everyone knows you’d give anything to see his name light up your phone right now. but there’s something humiliating about knowing you’re sitting outside a club, drunk enough to barely remember what you’ve said, leaving desperate voicemails for a man who’s your coworker.

you hate that you’ve become this person. that girl who can’t go one night without talking about him. that girl who gets dressed up just to spend the entire night wishing she was somewhere else.

that girl who knows she should be embarrassed… and still hopes he comes anyway.

you push away from the wall too quickly, the sidewalk tilting underneath your feet. your heel catches against uneven concrete and suddenly your balance is gone completely.

your knee slams into the curb first—hard. pain bursts hot through your leg before the rest of you crashes sideways onto the pavement.

your phone skids out of your hand into the street. the screen cracks sharply on impact. “oh my god,” you whine.

your tights are shredded at the sight of impact, the delicate lace torn apart around angry scrapes already beginning to bead with blood.

for a second you just stay there, feeling stupid and dizzy. too drunk to coordinate your limbs properly.

the club door opens somewhere behind you before headlights sweep across the curb. a car door slamming not a few seconds after.

langdon reaches you fast enough it almost feels unreal. one second you’re on the pavement trying not to cry. the next his hands are under your arms, steady and warm and careful.

“easy,” he murmurs quietly. “easy, baby.” you barely look up before grabbing onto him.

his scrub pants brush your bare and throbbing knees when he crouches beside you. he smells like mint and musk, with a faint lingering scent of that crappy coffee you’re all subject to live off of during your shifts.

you bury your face in his neck as he pulls you upright. your legs wobble like jelly, weak from the pain radiating through your joints. not to mention the too many tequilas you’ve drowned down your throat.

your skirt rides dangerously high from your fall, as he moves to adjust it automatically. you finally blink at frank as you rest against him, his arms snug tight around your back, not wanting you to ‘eat shit’ on the sidewalk again (as he would probably word it).

his hair is messy like he drove over here far too fast. the hem of a t-shirt peaks out from under one of his pull-over hoodies, while you see the concern carved deep between his brows.

“i mm’sd you” you slur against his chest.

he hums and you can feel the vibration of it through your temple. “i know, baby. let’s go home, huh?”

you nod as he moves you to his side, his eyes peering to either side of the street before beginning to move forward. “my phone” you point out below you.

frank picks it up from the street in a swift movement, jaw tightening at the shattered screen before he slips it into his pocket. then all his attention settles back onto you.

always you.

you both make it to his car parked haphazardly on the other side of the street. your knees throb with every step, and you hiss quietly once when your heel catches wrong again.

frank immediately slows. “i got you” he says under his breath, taking you around to the passenger side before opening the door gently.

his broad hand cups gently beneath your jaw, turning your face toward the streetlight while he checks your pupils with tired eyes.

you cling harder, frank only exhaling through his nose in response. one hand slides behind your head automatically, fingers spreading carefully through your hair while he keeps you upright against his chest.

then his lips press softly against your forehead and something inside you breaks.

because you have spent the entire night convincing yourself that you’re asking for too much. that maybe you’re foolish for wanting more from him. that maybe you’re embarrassing yourself by loving a man who can’t fully choose you.

but then he holds you and it feels like every quiet moment you’ve stolen together in the hospital hallways and empty break rooms and late-night drives home are worth it.

your chest aches and your arms tighten around his neck, because in some way this is the part that hurts the most. drunk or not, confused or not, you know one thing with absolute certainty: you would rather have this impossible piece of him, wonder where you stand at all with him, than having nothing at all.

“you’re bleeding. i’ll need to clean you up at home.”

home. the word echoes in your head.

“i’m okay frank” you murmur, head falling against his chest again.

“you’re drunk is more like it” he replies, with a small smile.

“oh god i know” you groan, knowing the consequences you’ll have to endure tomorrow morning. he shares a soft chuckle.

you laugh weakly at everything and nothing at all, before feeling tears burning behind your eyes. “i think i’m losing my mind,” you mumble.

frank says nothing at first, taking off your purse before tossing it in the backseat.

the words start spilling out before you can stop them. “i hate this,” you whisper. “i hate not knowing what i am to you.”

langdon turns you carefully, settling you down onto the passenger seat, your legs still dangling out the door. the streetlight catches the scrape on your knee fully now, raw skin and torn lace tights, small gravel dust sticky against the streaks of blood trailing down your shin.

“i know it's complicated and i get that but i keep thinking maybe if i mattered enough you would finally do it,” you ramble. “like maybe if i said it out loud enough times you’d finally see what she’s doing to you and stop letting her keep you stuck there.”

frank lowers his eyes briefly. he stays silent, instead opting to just listen. his hands swoop under both your calves, helping lift your legs into the car.

his grip tightens slightly around your thigh. you keep talking anyway, your voice shaking harder now. “i love you, frank.”

“i love you so much it actually makes me feel sick sometimes,” you whisper. “and i know that should sound insane but i don’t care anymore.”

your fingers twist weakly into his sleeves. “i can’t stand the thought of you feeling alone and i’m so proud of you, you know. i hope you know that”

frank closes his eyes briefly, you barely notice as you continue mumbling to yourself. “don’t be mad at me, im sorry i jus’feel like an idiot. oh fuck” you whine as you rub your hands over your face.

he reaches across you, one forearm braced carefully beside your hip while he pulls the seatbelt over your chest. the buckle clicks softly into place, while his fingers linger for one extra second against your shoulder after.

you stare up at him as he moves back, still drunk and aching and still hopelessly in love.

“you know i don’t hate you, right?” langdon replies, arm resting against the roof of his car as he looks down at you.

“you totally can,” you whisper, while a sad little smile creeps onto frank’s face. “i wouldn’t blame you.”

but langdon knows you.

he knows you don’t say things like this just because you’re drunk. the tequila might have loosened your tongue, made the words spill out messier than you ever would’ve allowed yourself to admit sober, but it didn’t put them there.

the alcohol didn’t create the feeling. it only quieted the part of you that was still so afraid of just how much you loved him.

and that doesn’t scare him. it never did because somewhere along the way, frank realized he had been carrying the same weight you had. the same longing and impossible want.

the only difference being that you were brave enough—or rather drunk enough—to finally say it first.

and he wishes he could give you those very same words back. wishes he could tell you that he heard every single voicemail on the way here. that every slurred confession of yours and broken little apology followed him through every red light until he found you sitting outside that club.

that he knows exactly what you’ve given him these past three months—besides the years you’ve already known each other. that everything between you was never just some meaningless fling or a way to fill the hurt after work. but marriage is complicated, and he refuses to give you another piece of himself that you have to share.

because at first, frank told himself this was temporary. that you were just a good person who saw him at his lowest and wanted to remind him that he was still worth something.

that maybe he was lonely, and that maybe you were too.

but somewhere along the way, it stopped being just that. because god, does he love you too.

he just needs to fix this first. because the moment he says it back…there is no going back. and he refuses to give you anything less than all of him. not this time.

he can’t fuck up anymore.

[dollicits]

happy father’s day peepaw come home and lemme crack that .

[se7entyrell]

supercut of us - prologue.

The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.

warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with pregnancy, discussions of abortion and medical complications, explicit sexual content, slut-shaming (not by jack), reader is robby's step-sister, they are not related biologically, and reader's appearance is not described at all. in this chap - underage drinking, smut, protected pinv

main masterlist // jack abbot masterlist

August 27th.

Senior year is supposed to be a breeze. Jack’s put in the work, done the MCAT, and now he just has to wait for the interviews for med school to roll in.

After a year of being President of Sigma Chi, he’s dropped to a less strenuous role this year - Academic Rep. It’s a role he takes with a healthy dose of irony, mostly spent chasing underclassmen to ensure their collective GPA doesn't tank the house’s social privileges before graduation.

He sits on the worn leather sofa in the fraternity common room, a lukewarm coffee in hand, watching a pair of freshmen argue over a video game. Last year, this room was a minefield of budget crises, noise complaints from the dean, and brotherhood disputes that required the diplomacy of a UN peacekeeper.

Now? His biggest administrative headache is convincing a nineteen-year-old sophomore that failing Intro to Macroeconomics will directly result in a ban on the upcoming Halloween celebrations.

It’s a glorious, low-stakes existence, and Jack intends to ride this wave of absolute mediocrity straight through to May.

His only other role in the frat this year is party-planning, and Jack has no problem dedicating time to that.

Tonight's festivities - their annual Hippies vs. Cowboys party. A legendary night that requires him to dust off his old presidential authority to keep the drinks flowing and spirits high.

Planning it is always an exercise in absurdity. Jack spends the week leading up to the party negotiating borders in the backyard, dividing the lawn into a "Saloon" and a "Commune." He has to veto the freshmen's increasingly dangerous ideas for a homemade mechanical bull, while simultaneously confiscating suspicious bundles of sage that the "hippies" want to burn inside a house with centuries-old wooden beams.

Everything is set up. Now, his only concern is trying to salvage the guestlist when Robby decides he’s not coming out of the blue.

"Come on, man, it’s Hippies and Cowboys," Jack argues, propping his phone against the mirror. "You can literally just wear some denim. I have an extra hat. It takes zero effort."

On the screen, Robby looks thoroughly exhausted, surrounded by thick textbooks and empty coffee cups. "I'm in med school, Jack. My brain is leaking out of my ears. You’ll understand next year."

As one of the only academically-inclined members of the team, he and Robby had become fast-friends in Jack’s first year, when Robby was a senior. Now an MS3, he’s been a life-saver when it comes to applying to med school.

"Which is exactly why you need to get drunk in a basement. Savour this before you’re pulling fourteen hour shifts every day.”

"I am not traveling all the way up from the medical campus just to watch a bunch of freshmen pass out on a mechanical bull," Robby groans, rubbing his temples. "The commute alone will kill me, and I start my Psych rotation at dawn. Go have a beer for me.”

“Loser,” Jack hollers.

“Whatever. Try not to torment the female population of Cornell tonight, and I’ll see you at the first game.”

*****

The bass from the speakers downstairs is already vibrating through the floorboards when the front door officially opens. Within an hour, the house is packed to capacity, a sweaty, high-energy blur of denim, suede, flower crowns, and flannel.

Jack takes his role as host seriously. He moves through the crowded living room with easy, senior-year confidence, high-fiving guys from the lacrosse team, directing people toward the kegs, and making sure the hired DJ actually keeps the crowd moving. He plays the part perfectly, laughing at jokes, keeping the peace, and flirting where necessary.

He may also be looking for someone to hook up with.

He argues that it’s only natural. First week of the semester, you’ve got to start how you intend to go on. And Jack intends to have fun. Unattached, zero strings fun.

When Chloe walks in, it feels a little like a sign.

A Communications major, they’ve been hooking up on-and-off since sophomore year. She catches his eye, gives him a slow, familiar smile, and begins to make her way through the crowds.

Normally, Jack would meet her halfway. Tonight, though, he just isn't feeling it.

The thought of going through the usual routine - the standard small talk, the familiar rhythm - suddenly feels entirely unappealing. He gives her a friendly, casual wave instead of a come-hither look, deliberately stepping into a conversation with a group of hockey freshmen to break her line of sight. He needs something different tonight. He just doesn't know what it is yet.

He’s lamenting his lack of options, when one literally falls into his lap. There’s a slight commotion that he’s not paying attention to, before you’re pushed, stumbling slightly before hitting the side of his legs and losing your balance entirely.

If Jack is expecting some kind of slowing of time, prolonged eye contact and shy smiles, he doesn’t get any of it. Instead, you toss him a brief apology, before you’re back on your feet to yell at the guy who pushed you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Normally, Jack makes it a rule to not get involved with fraternity drama. One of the more sober brothers can deal with it. But something about you has him getting to his feet, arms crossed as he situates himself between you and your assailant. He glances at the guy, vaguely recognises him as someone who’s caused trouble before.

Doesn’t tend to understand the word no.

“Is there a problem here?”

“I told him I wasn’t interested, and he fucking shoved me!”

That’s all Jack needs to hear. For all the issues that Sigma Chi may have, they certainly don’t allow creeps on their premises. All it takes is one rumour of the frat not shutting it down properly, and they can kiss their squeaky-clean reputation goodbye. “Right, you’re done,” He starts, a hand on the guy’s chest as he waves for security by the front door.

“What?” When the guy speaks, his voice is slurred, his cheeks flushed. He’s totally wasted, to the point where it’s a miracle he’s even standing upright. “S-She came on t’me.”

“I’m positive that’s not true,” Jack replies, taking one look at him. Unkempt hair, noticeable body odour, and a shitty attitude. You could definitely do better. “What’s your name?”

“Why d’ya w-want t’know?”

“We’re offering you an award,” Jack replies dryly. “Because I’m banning you from the house, dumbass.”

The guy goes to reply, tries to make a half-hearted swing at Jack, when security take an arm each, and begin to haul him out backwards.

“Check his ID, and give me his name at the end of the night!” Jack calls after him, before turning his attention back to you.

You don’t look scared, or distressed, or even annoyed. Instead, you look almost amused by the entire situation.

“Jack,” He offers you his hand, and you tell him your own name. He tries it out, likes the way it sounds on his tongue. “You want a drink?”

You’re nodding, and he’s leading you through to the kitchen to grab a beer. Your nose scrunches a little as you take it. “What - you don’t like beer?”

Which is how, for the first time in his college career, Jack finds himself mixing up a margarita in the middle of a frat party. You’d insisted you’d be fine with some vodka and coke, but he finds himself wanting to impress you.

“So… was your inspiration Manson-Family-Chic?” He asks, raising an eyebrow while you snort, into your cup. He doesn’t know why he’s ragging on you, given you’re one of the only people here who looks like they could’ve fallen out of the sixties. The neckline of your dress is high, leaving everything to the imagination, but the hem falls high on your thighs, to the point where one wrong move would have everything on display.

Most other guests took the hippie theme to mean lingerie with some over-sized glasses and a peace-sign necklace.

He likes that you took it seriously.

The way he checks you out is far from subtle, hazel eyes trailing down your form, all the way down to your white go-go boots.

“Do you know what the Manson Family were wearing on a day-to-day basis? Because it certainly wasn’t vintage Biba.”

Somebody bumps into you from behind, and Jack takes the opportunity to hook an arm around your waist and pull you into him for the second time that night. Now chest-to-chest, you’re looking up at him through darkly-lined eyes, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to say.

“Does the white knight thing normally work for you?”

He lets out a laugh, low and genuine. “It’s never hurt.”

Over the next few minutes, Jack learns more about you than he knows about some of his own teammates. You’re on the pre-law track, but because you were such an ‘annoying overachiever’ in high school, your plan is to chill for the rest of college. You also play bass and sing back-up in a band, but were supremely embarrassed by any kind of suggestion that you might sing for him sometime.

“So… you’re what - some kind of rockstar?” He asks, obviously out to charm, and you snort.

“Definitely not as sexy as that. Bassists don’t normally get that much love.”

“I don’t know, sounds pretty sexy to me,” His head is dipped, his nose almost touching yours. “Hot girl, guitar… pretty sure I had wet dreams exactly like that in high school.”

You laugh before you can help it, the sound getting swallowed by the music and the noise of the party around you.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Too much?”

You glance up at him, trying to decide your answer, when the music shifts, and the opening chords of Layla waft through the frat house. He watches your face visibly light up, and bites back a smile.

“Clapton fan?” he asks.

“Let me guess - you’re in charge of the music tonight.”

“Unfortunately, the rest of the team think that the nineties counts as retro. Do you dance?”

“You asking?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You any good?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Perfect.”

Before he can react, you grab his wrist and tug him toward the centre of the room.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He uses your grip on his wrist to pull you flush against him, completely eliminating the space between you. His large, calloused palm settles firmly against the small of your back, guiding you into a breathless rhythm.

You look up, completely caught in his orbit as he spins you out and pulls you right back against his chest. At this distance, the rest of the frat house completely blurs out. Jack dips his head, lips brushing your neck in the briefest kiss.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.

The lyrics echo in his head, and for the first time in his life, they don't feel like hyperbole. If Clapton hadn't written it fifty years ago, Jack is pretty sure someone would have to write it about you tonight.

Begging darling please, Layla

He catches Chloe’s eye as his hands drop to your waist, and he immediately glances away.

They're not dating. They have zero obligations to one another.

So why does she look so pissed?

Darling, won't you ease my worried mind?

The guitar solo is screaming through the speakers, matching the frantic, heavy rhythm in Jack's chest. He looks down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes, and realises he is completely text-book losing his mind. A freshman bumps hard into his shoulder, but he barely registers it. He is entirely done with this crowded room, done sharing the way you move and the sweet smell of your perfume with a hundred drunk strangers.

Pulling you into him, he lowers his head until his lips brush the warm skin just below your ear. “Come upstairs with me,” he murmurs, his voice tight with an impatience he doesn't even bother trying to hide.

He doesn't offer a lame excuse. He just pulls back to look down at you, waiting.

Instead of answering, you slide your hand up his neck, tilt your chin, and press your lips directly to his.

Jack lets out a quiet, defeated breath against you, his hands instantly sliding up your back to anchor you against him. The kiss is intoxicating, tasting like the drink on your breath and the heat of the room, completely shattering his usual composure.

When you finally break apart, both of you breathing a little harder, you finally slide your hand down into his open palm and squeeze it gently. “Lead the way, hockey boy.”

*****

You catch the back of his neck and pull him into you, allowing him to walk you backwards until the back of your legs hit the bed.

Jack's been known to rip some clothing in his time, but he takes surprising care with your dress. As soon as it’s draped over the back of his chair, the rest of your clothes go in a frenzied rush. The dancing was the foreplay, and neither of you can stand a single second more of not being as close as possible.

There's a layer of sweat covering Jack's skin, glittering under the light from the lamp on his bedside, and you allow yourself a second to admire his abs.

He catches you looking, and a familiar, cocky smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He follows you down onto the mattress, his weight a warm, welcome pressure that drives every remaining thought of the noisy fraternity house right out of your head. His hands are surprisingly gentle as they frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair while his mouth finds yours again.

“You up for this?” He breathes, and you find yourself oddly charmed. He checked on you twice on the way up here - and while, sure, it’s the bare minimum, it’s not something you’re hugely used to.

“I wouldn’t have let you bring me up here if I wasn’t,” You mumble back, between kisses, anticipation in your chest tripling as he reaches for a condom.

You're not usually one to be bossed around, but there's something intoxicating about the way Jack manhandles you. A few small giggles escape as he flips you onto your front, pulling your ass back to meet his hips.

“Something funny?”

“I guess that depends on your performance.”

“You’re a tough critic. Noted.”

With that, he’s sinking in, and your fingers grip helplessly at his sheets as you try and ground yourself. “Shit.”

You’d rather die than tell him, but he’s big. Thicker and longer than your ex.

“Doing okay down there?” You can hear the smirk in his voice, and realise he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“Just fine.”

He starts to move, movements slow at first as his hands settle at your hips, gripping tightly. The stretch soon gives way to pleasure, and you’re more than a little embarrassed when you whimper.

You don’t whimper.

Not at all.

Except tonight, it seems.

Must be the alcohol.

“J-Jack, oh my god-”

An arm loops around your front, pulling you upwards until your back is pressed to his chest. With it, the angle changes, and you can feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Good girl,” is groaned right into your ear, and you think you might be seeing stars.

Maybe hockey players do know what they're doing.

You're suddenly very glad for the blaring music downstairs drowning out the sound of skin slapping, and the way Jack is moaning behind you. If you weren't close before, his hand dropping between your legs to circle at your clit throws you over the edge.

You tilt your head upwards, catching his lips in a sloppy kiss as he works you through the orgasm.

Normally, this would be it. A brief kiss pressed to your shoulder, before your ex curled up in bed and left you hanging.

Jack, however, appears to have exactly the stamina you'd expect from a varsity jock, and you’re on your back before you can even orient yourself. His face is buried in the crook of your neck as his thrusts resume.

Nails digging in to the meat of his back, your mind is totally cleared of anything that isn’t Jack’s name. You don’t even know his surname.

You wouldn't have pegged him for an eye contact guy, but as his movements become more erratic, he’s pulling back to hold your jaw, keeping your gaze fixed on him.

“F-Fuck, I think I’m gonna-” With a final groan, he climaxes, dropping his head to rest against yours while his hips start to slow. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” You breathe. “Holy shit.”

“You okay?”

You nod quickly, lip between your teeth. The last thing you want to do is give him an even bigger head than he already has, but it slips out before you can stop it. “I’ve never cum that quickly before.”

“What can I say? I’m a pro,” He replies, a lazy grin on his face as he presses one last kiss to your temple before he pulls out, and gets to his feet to reach for the trash can.

Condom discarded, he pads back over to the bed, his shoulders so broad that he takes up half the space.

“Are you one of those guys that can't have girls stay over?” You ask, chest still heaving a little as you try and regain your senses.

“M'not gonna kick you out at-” He checks his phone. “3am. What kind of a monster do you think I am?”

“Well, you are on the hockey team,” You start, trailing off in a fit of giggles when Jack digs his fingers into your side, tickling mercilessly. “Hey!”

“I've got practice in the morning, though. So I'll be out at like six.”

You understand what he's getting at. Jack is not in the relationship business.

You don't have a problem with that. You wanted some variety in your life, and you got it. “S'okay. It was good sex. No point in trying to make it something it isn't.”

“You're my kind of girl, princess. You ever thought about coming to the hockey games?”

You snort, shooting him a glance. “Are you trying to recruit me to the Puck Bunny leagues? Yeah, I think I'll pass on that one, thanks.”

“Oh, come on,” Jack groans, throwing a heavy arm over his eyes, though a smug little smirk still tugs at his lips. “It’s peak entertainment.”

“And you’ll have CTE by the time you’re twenty-five.”

“Technically, I’m more likely to lose teeth. If we’re talking statistics.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Gross.”

“Besides,” He continues. “This is my last year playing. I’m going to med school next year.”

“Really?” You gape, turning onto your side to get a better look at him. He’d told you earlier he was a biology major, but you hadn’t given it much thought. You’d figured he was probably just trying to avoid as many essays as possible.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” He grumbles.

“I’m just keeping your feet on the ground, hockey boy. Someone’s gotta do it. Good for you, though - I thought hockey players lost all their braincells from the fights.”

“Going to sleep now,” Jack singsongs, shoving lightly at your shoulder, and you laugh again.

You slide down into the mattress, turning your back to him and pulling the blanket tight around your shoulders. You expect him to stay on his side, but after a minute, the mattress shifts. Jack moves closer, his chest pressing against your back, his large frame bracketing yours to block out the chill of the room. He doesn't say anything, and neither do you. His arm slides carefully around your waist, holding you still, and despite the biting comments, you let yourself sink backward into his warmth as you both drift off.

taglist (supercut) CLOSED! - @proudlyvastlake @delicatepointeofview @voidsagent @katcoquette @therainbowexpress @prettyflowerlily @mayawainfleet @pedritosgfreal @wcibn @funkywonnie @ty4eve @nataliagianna01 @sick2mystmch @spectersgf @maccymoon @hannahwestt @cerberus101 @girljusttrying28 @missabsey @heartz4chucky @thehockeynerd30 @gennywennypenn @dumblani @aleemendoza2425-blog @snake-in-a-flower-crown @ilumxna @jjklesbianism @redhooduwu @kamalymaly @fanggq3 @liliana-rose1 @4ria790 @tomsleftarmhair @ducks118 @sweeethearts @cats-coffeeandbooks @gardenofolive @sophiek222 @teenwolfbitches28 @yaansu @poseidons-lovechild @solastasims @sofianotvergara @lilvampirina @leah0011 @sorenscatharsis @777bambi777 @generation-zero

[sweeethearts]

FRAT HOCKEY BOY JACK ABBOT I LOVE YOU

[sweeethearts]

saying yes to helping my brother move, in this heat, may actually very well be the end for me

[sweeethearts]

hihihi!!

please may i go to a haunted hotel with some trail mix and pepperettes while listening to backseat lullaby?

tysm and congratulations!!

illicit affairs // 1.1k follower celebration

this immediately struck me as an opportunity to play around with stalker!titus, so feel free to indulge in this scenario that’s been stuck in my mind…

the first dream feels innocent enough, just hormones making things up. at least, that’s what you tell yourself afterward.

they always start blurry. warmth finding you. a pair of hands sliding slowly up your thighs while a deep voice murmurs something low against your neck. you can never really make out the words when you wake up, only the feeling they leave behind. possessive and devoted. like whoever he is already knows every inch of you.

and god, the way he touches you. not rushed or vain, but deliberate enough to make your breath hitch every single time.

his mouth drags along the sensitive spot beneath your ear and your body arches instinctively into him, needy little sounds escaping your throat before you can stop them.

you never see his face clearly. just flashes of dark eyes. the shape of a grin against your skin. a deep intake of air against the middle of your breasts. the feeling of being completely and utterly surrounded by him.

it makes you feel safe. which should probably concern you more considering you already have a boyfriend.

still, every time you wake up flushed. all dizzy and damp between your thighs, and the guilt only lasts for a few seconds before something else settles in its place.

longing.

because the dreams feel more intimate than anything you’ve shared with liam in months.

the realization hits especially hard one morning when you wake tangled in your sheets, chest still heaving slightly from the remnants of another dream only to find the other side of the bed cold and empty.

again.

your phone lights up beside you.

Left early for the course. Don’t wait up tonight.

no heart. no i love you. nothing.

you stare at it for a long moment while your skin still buzzes from the ghostly touch of someone who you believe doesn’t even exist.

so instead of choosing to rot in shame and remorse, you close your eyes and try to remember the sound of that voice. the feeling of being split open and kissed with a sick amount of obsession. 

your fingers slip between your thighs. anything to keep the remnants of this dream going. 

—

you first met titus danforth three months ago at his father’s golf club.

liam practically worships the place. talks about it like it’s heaven on earth every time his corporate buddies drag him away from you, keeping him there for weekends on end. 

meanwhile, you mostly spend your time wandering the massive halls of the accompanying hotel alone, while the men disappear for six-hour golf games pretending business deals can still happen on turfgrass.

that’s where you saw titus. standing near the entrance of the clubhouse in all black despite the summer heat. both hands tucked into his pockets while people subtly avoided looking directly at him, his stare piercing enough. 

you remember thinking he looked intriguing. too handsome in a way that immediately put you on edge. 

liam had waved vaguely in his direction another time. “that’s chester danforth’s son, weird fuckin’ guy.”

weird didn’t begin to cover it, because when titus looked at you—really looked at you—something cold slid down your spine.

and what’s worse? the fact that you looked back. which, apparently, is the worst thing you can do with men like titus danforth.

because looking at him feels a little like staring directly at medusa. everybody else knows better. everybody else drops their eyes immediately, keeps walking, pretends he isn’t there at all.

but you held his gaze, and the corners of his mouth had twitched so subtly, like he found something amusing about your curiosity. like your attention alone was enough to entertain him for a while.

that was the thing about titus, it's the unsettling sense that once he becomes interested in something, he doesn't really know how to let it go.

and somehow, after that weekend, he lingered in your brain longer than he should’ve.

long enough that sometimes, half asleep, you’d feel those same dark eyes watching you before those dreams of yours ever started.

long enough that, somewhere in the back of your mind, you started wondering if the man in your dreams had been him all along.

—

a couple months later, you join liam back at the club again. another golf weekend. another dinner alone while he goes off to drink overpriced whiskey with his coworkers, all of them laughing too loudly while complaining about their girlfriends or wives. 

you’re making your way towards the massive hotel pool when the ballroom doors suddenly swing open nearby. a crowd spills out onto the hallway almost immediately. women in glittering dresses, men in suits laughing over each other, workers slipping out on their way to the break room. 

someone bumps your shoulder hard enough to knock you slightly off balance. a large hand catches your waist instantly. firm and warm.

“excuse me, beautiful.”

the voice brushes low against your ear and something inside you nearly stops. your entire body locks up instantly because—you know that voice. somewhere deep in your bones, you know it.

heat flashes through you so suddenly your head almost hurts.

the dreams.

your pulse thunders violently now as your mind immediately throws you back into your dark room. heavy breathing and hands gripping your hips as a mouth devoured between your thighs. that same voice murmuring a string of praises against your pulsing clit.

your head whips around too fast, breath catching sharply in your lungs, but the hallway behind you is already empty now. the crowd disappearing into the rest of the corridors, distant music and muffled voices echoing faintly in the distance.

yet the scent of expensive cologne still lingers faintly in the air beside you and you can practically feel his mouth at your throat. taste those lips again. that same gravelly voice spilling nonsense into your skin while you writhe beneath him in aching pleasure.

what the fuck.

“titus?”

the name leaves your mouth instantly. thoughtless. automatic. like for some reason your body already knows the answer before your brain can even catch up. because of course it would be him. of course he would be here to tease you. 

you think back to the way he looked at you that night, like him infiltrating your mind was just something inevitable.

silence only answers your call. 

but somewhere above you, in a hidden corner behind the second-floor balcony overlooking the hall, titus smiles to himself. slowly, because there you are, finally catching up. 

it’s cute, really. the way your mind keeps trying to soften titus into something safer. turning the weight of his body into dreams. his hands into phantom touches. those intruding late-night visits into blurry fantasies you can wake up from flushed and confused instead of terrified.

your poor little brain trying so desperately to protect you from the truth.

you never hear the creak of the floorboards. never wake frighteningly when the mattress dips slightly beneath his weight. never see the way he stands over your bed sometimes just watching you breathe.

and god, the things he’s learned about you this way. which position makes you fall asleep the fastest. the soft whines you make when he sucks on your breasts. how easily your body opens for him from just one experienced touch. 

too asleep to catch him prying through your drawers and jewelry boxes. too distracted to notice him six steps behind you on your way to the grocery store. too busy clinging to a man who barely looks at you anymore to see the one who already treats you like something precious.

the thought of liam alone ruins titus’ mood every time he sees him. all that meek build hidden under a facade of corporate bro confidence. all those weekends spent ignoring someone men should kill for. well, someone titus would certainly murder him for. 

if liam had any idea what was happening inside his own bed at night, he’d probably lose his fucking mind. but that’s the best part. you think these little ‘dreams’ are your secret. you think you’re the only one waking up breathless from them, that your mind is making it all up. 

meanwhile titus knows every single sound you make when you come apart on his cock. the way your walls clench around him with such frantic need. leaving you more pleased than that kid could ever fathom. 

and if titus is lucky, he sticks around for the encore—finds a place to stand and watch the way you whimper into your pillow still chasing the high only he, so proudly, can give you. 

his forearms rest against the balcony railing as his gaze follows you below, amused by your confused little glances and shallow breathing while you still try to piece things together.

he’s obsessed already. there’s no denying it now.

he imagines silk dresses bought specifically for your body, hanging in closets bigger than liam’s entire apartment. your laugh echoing through the gilded age hallways while diamonds catch the light every time your hand reaches for his. your body tucked into expensive sheets while the danforth house echoes your angelic cries.

like you were always meant to belong there, with him, and underneath all that ugly yearning sits the simplest thought of all: how easy it would be to get rid of the boyfriend entirely.

you just don’t know it yet, but you will. soon enough.

[sweeethearts]

May I participate in your celebration?🥹 HAPPY 1.1K FOLLOWERS BABEEEEE IM SO HAPPY FOR U!!! You deserve them all and more💕🫶🏻

Small town diner + chips + golden hour + hoodie pleaseee🥹🫶🏻

check-in // 1.1k follower celebration

thank you sm for requesting rue!!!! sending you so much love, strength and support 🤍 mwah, hope u enjoy!

the garage smells like motor oil and warm air. your dad’s tools are scattered around the driveway, robby utilizing the evening sunset as his last rays of light.

he’s been under your car for what feels like hours now, sneakers sticking out from beneath it while he mutters to himself every now and then, wrench clanking against metal.

one of your cats sits nearby, tail flicking lazily against the concrete as it watches him work beneath the car like a curious little supervisor.

your textbook is open in your lap…sitting pretty and unread.

mostly because you can’t think straight whenever robby’s around and that feels like a far more entertaining distraction than your exam.

another one of your cats is curled against your stomach, his purrs vibrating against you as you're sunk into a lawn chair.

you sit crisscrossed in robby’s jacket—the one he peeled off hours ago when he got too warm peeking into the hood of your car. the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely while you lazily lick on a rocket popsicle.

your dad’s voice from two days ago still rings in your ears.

“do you mind checking in on her while i’m gone? she’s got finals and she’ll forget to eat if nobody reminds her.”

robby had barely glanced your way. “yeah, man. of course, no problem.”

no problem, meanwhile he’d kissed you stupid and bent you over the kitchen island not even an hour after your dad left for the airport.

something the two of you seem to eagerly fall into whenever you get the chance lately.

your dad and robby have known each other for years now, paths crossing through hospitals and conferences with robby in emergency medicine and your dad settled comfortably in family practice.

you mostly grew up in seattle with your mom after the divorce. but after getting accepted into the university of pittsburgh, you figured you’d give the city a shot. besides, your mother had started driving you a little insane and pittsburgh was considered a “new ivy” anyway, as your dad put it.

might as well make something of yourself.

so suddenly robby was around more often. coming over to watch hockey or football games with your dad, invited to barbecues, showing up with jake sometimes because he figured you probably got bored sitting around listening to middle-aged men talk about medicine and taxes all night.

and somewhere between sarcastic banter over dinner and robby driving you home from parties you definitely didn’t tell your father about, something shifted.

the lingering. the staring. the way his hand would settle a little too low against your back. the way you started finding excuses to be alone with him.

and now?

now you try not to think too hard about what any of this means, and you know this should probably feel more complicated than it does.

but lately, it’s been easier to stop worrying about the future and just enjoy whatever this is while you still can.

another metal clang sounds from under the car and it takes you out of your head.

“got it” robby grunts.

a second later he rolls out from beneath the frame, hair messy, face streaked with grease, green t-shirt clinging damply to his chest with sweat.

you try not to ogle, try so very hard to ‘catholic guilt’ yourself into not thinking those thoughts.

but then—because of course—robby stretches slightly and the shirt rides up just enough to reveal the trail of hair over his belly. your eyes tracing how it disappears beneath the waistband of his cargo pants, and suddenly passing this last exam for your degree feels significantly less important.

one brow lifts, “what?” he asks.

you smile innocently, taking another nibble of your popsicle. “nothing.”

robby snickers quietly, rolling the mechanic board he was laying on closer to you. “uh huh.”

your cat immediately abandons your lap the second robby gets too close, hopping down with an offended little meow.

“traitor!” you mutter after it. robby just smirks.

you hold the popsicle out toward him. “want some?”

he looks at you, then at the melting popsicle, and back towards you. there’s that look. that dangerous, amused little glint in his eye that always makes your stomach do stupid flips.

instead of taking the popsicle, robby reaches for your wrist. his fingers wrap around it, dirty and warm. before you can even ask what he’s doing, his tongue swipes over the sticky and sugary drips running down your hand.

your breath catches sharply. the feeling makes your whole body tense, while he leans back against the board with a lazy smirk.

“it’s melting.”

you stare at him, mouth absolutely useless as it gapes open a bit. heat rushing straight to your face.

he’s trying not to laugh now, lip tucked between his teeth like he’s way too pleased with himself.

but then you start giggling. real giggling, the kind that makes your shoulders shake. robby’s expression changes almost instantly—or rather softens is the word—like that sound does something to him every single time.

“c’mere,” he stands, arms sliding around your waist and lifting you clean out of the chair like you weigh nothing.

you yelp, dropping the remaining piece of the popsicle onto the tarmac below. “robby!”

“shh,” he mutters, already glancing toward the neighboring houses, scanning the street carefully. “don’t think you wanna explain to mrs. wilkinson why i’ve been stayin’ over more than your dad asked me to.”

you bury your face in his shoulder, body still high on giggles. “she already thinks you’re hot,” you mumble. “i think she’d understand where i’m coming from.”

robby just shakes his head at your comment, though you catch the smile tugging at his mouth as he carries you toward the house anyway. one arm hooked beneath your legs, muttering under his breath while you cling to him.

he pauses long enough to hold the door open with his foot, both cats immediately trotting past him into the house like they own the place.

the front door then shuts behind you with a soft click. quiet settles around the house. just the hum of the air conditioner and the distant tick of the kitchen clock.

robby keeps carrying you up the staircase. “where are we going?” you ask, arms looped lazily around his neck.

another creeping smile appears on his face. “much needed shower,” he murmurs.

you grin immediately, already knowing exactly what he means. “for you?”

robby’s laugh is low and warm, vibrating beneath your cheek. “i’d like for you to join me.”

you bite back another smile, squeezing him a little tighter as he reaches the top step. “whatever you say, doc.”

[sweeethearts]

Hi I’m back for more because I’m greedy

I’d love to go to a national park, with a popsicle to snack on, and So Easy (To Fall In Love) by Olivia Dean on the stereo (if that’s not available, then the golden hour mixtape pls!)

xoxo

we’ll fall into us // 1.1k follower celebration

addie!!! (ignore me answering your second request first before your first one lols) okay so this came to me in a whim while listening and i decided to just go for it <3

the fan hums lazily in the corner of the room, doing little against the late-afternoon heat that clings to everything.

the sheets are half kicked off. the last bright rays of sunlight spill across the bed in rose gold stripes. somewhere outside, kids are playing soccer, car tires hissing down the street, bikes rolling into forest trails, the whole world moving peacefully in that summer way.

jack is stretched out over you, freckled skin and soft hair and sleepy eyes, kissing his way down your body like he’s got nowhere else to be. he starts at your neck, lips brushing slow beneath your jaw, lingering at your collarbone before moving lower.

a kiss over your chest. lips tracing the curves of your breasts before catching on your perked buds.

another handful over the swell of your stomach.

mouth soft over the stretch marks that curve along your hips, the skin you once used to instinctively cover without thinking.

jack never skips them, god forbid ever rushing past them. he kisses them like they belong there.

like they were never something to apologize for in the first place.

further down, he presses wet little pecks over your thighs. instinctively, jack parts them, giving a gracious lick through your folds and eliciting a sigh from you.

his mouth continues to move down your legs, running over the faint hairs that have started growing back. you haven’t shaved in a few days and, for once, you don’t care enough to apologize for it.

at first, months ago, you used to tense when jack did this. used to squirm and laugh it off, try to pull him away, cheeks burning. now, all this love and attention makes you bite your lip, fingers slipping into his curly salt-and-pepper hair while he kisses over every part of you like he’s committing them to memory. like he loves doing this, without you even asking.

his lips pause over the wide birthmark on your calf, pressing a slow kiss right in the center of it. something in your chest twists.

you look down at him through the haze of heat and sunlight. he glances up, mouth still resting against your leg, eyes soft. and suddenly, the question slips out before you can stop it.

“do you believe that thing people say about birthmarks?”

jack smiles a little against your skin. “depends. what thing?”

you feel stupid the second you ask it, like maybe this is too embarrassing for a lazy summer afternoon. but the thought has been stuck in your head for weeks now, ever since you heard someone say it offhand once, like it was folklore.

“that birthmarks,” you say quietly, looking at the ceiling instead of him, “are where your lover used to kiss you in a past life.”

the room stills in silence.

oh no.

you laugh awkwardly before he can answer. “i know, it’s stupid, never mind.”

“no,” jack says softly. his thumb brushes over your calf, right beneath the mark. “i don’t think that’s stupid.”

it makes your chest ache in that terrible, butterfly way he always seems to manage. because the truth is you don’t even know if you believe in past lives. don’t know if souls really find each other again. but ever since jack, you’ve started wondering…

because no one should feel this familiar. no one should fit this easily into the quiet corners of your life. the way he moves with you, laughs with you, reaches for you in his sleep like his body already knows your his. bring out feelings you didn’t know existed before this summer dream.

sometimes, when he looks at you too softly, you can’t help but think that maybe it just took you longer to find him this time around.

jack studies you for a second, thumb tracing absent circles against both your calves. then he smiles. that little smile that always looks like he’s trying not to fall harder than he already has.

“i dunno,” he says quietly, eyes flicking back down to your leg. his mouth brushes over the mark again, slower this time. thoughtful. “maybe.”

you blink down at him and jack glances up at you through his lashes, lips quirking again. “i mean…” he begins, fingers move back up and digging lightly into your hips, making you squirm beneath him. “thats why kissing you feels like second nature.”

a laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. jack grins wider now, lip caught between his teeth, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes him look unfairly handsome. like some old man hopelessly in love and entirely unbothered by it.

he kisses the birthmark again. then your ankle. before bending your leg up against your chest, dragging himself back up. you feel his softening bulge against the plush of your thighs and you bite up a small moan.

“so,” he murmurs against your lips, voice muffled by a smile, “if that saying’s true…” your mouth welcomes in his tongue eagerly, before he continues. “…you’re gonna come back next time covered in birthmarks at my rate.”

you giggle again as your arms wrap around the man’s neck, fingers tugging on his curls. “jack!”

“what?” he says, already laughing too, fingers tightening around your hips. “i’m just saying,”

he presses himself against you again, lips caressing your cheek, nibbling on your jawbone. “future me has excellent taste.”

“oh my god,” you groan, covering your face with your free hand, chest still vibrating with a chuckle. jack just hums into your skin, all warm and pleased with himself. his forearms bracket your head as his cheeks pinken from heat and affection and being so embarrassingly sincere without even trying.

“it really does feel easy, huh” you murmur into his hair. eyes fluttering shut as jack etches another mark into your pulse point.

because that’s the scary part, isn’t it?

how easy it was. how somewhere between the sunburnt afternoons and tangled sheets and homecooked meals and laughter echoing out the windows, you stopped thinking of jack as something temporary.

stopped bracing for the end. stopped calling this a summer fling in your head because somewhere along the line, it became something greater than that.

something steadier. the kind of love that settles, until one day you look up and realize it’s everywhere.

you can’t help but think maybe that’s what love is supposed to feel like. just two souls finding each other again and slipping back into place like they were always meant to.

[kaizsche]

SHAWN HATOSY as STAN ROSADO THE FACULTY (1998)

[sweeethearts]

lemme lick it neow

[sweeethearts]

ahhh!!! congratulations on 1.1k!!! i NEED beachside with popsicle and windows down please🥹

midnight dip // 1.1k follower celebration

and to the beach we shall go! also peep my first time writing for frankie boy :,)

“you ready?” frank asks as he shrugs on his hoodie, quickly shoving his phone into his pocket while the automatic ER doors open behind him.

you grin immediately, lifting your bag onto your shoulder. “i packed the goods.”

his eyes flick down your body knowingly. “the bikini?”

“the one you bought me, yes.”

frank smirks at that. a little cocky, completely satisfied with himself. “worth every penny.”

you roll your eyes, bumping his shoulder as the two of you slip out into the warm evening air together. already given out quick goodbyes to the rest of the day-staff still lingering around the hospital.

you guys made sure your exit wasn’t suspicious or obvious. at least…not to people who didn’t quite know the two of you all that much. but the knowing looks dana keeps giving the both of you lately are starting to feel a little more dangerous than the two of you might like.

the second you guys arrive at the parking lot, frank reaches over and snatches your car keys from your hand.

“hey—”

“you’re not driving,” he denotes casually.

you scoff immediately. “why? afraid i’ll kill us?”

“no,” frank says as he unlocks your car with ease, “i’m afraid we’ll get there sometime next thursday at your speed.”

“it’s a little something called safe driving.”

“your speed is painfully safe, baby.”

you slide into the passenger seat with an offended gasp. “okay well excuse me for not wanting my obituary to read: young and beautiful ER resident launched into lake erie by divorced man having a midlife crisis.”

frank barks out a laugh instantly. a real one, head tipping back against the seat for a second while he shakes his head at you. “okay thirty-three is not a midlife crisis.”

“mhm, sure. but that’s what the beach trip at nine p.m. on a wednesday is giving though”

“and you coming along is…?”

“me, supporting your healing journey.”

“so i should say thank you then?”

“exactly!” you state, with a smile from ear to ear.

that gets another giggle out of him as he starts the car, still grinning to himself like an idiot.

and god, you love that sound. that easy, boyish laugh had gotten rarer after rehab. after the divorce papers. after the worst winter of his life carved exhaustion into every corner of his being. but lately? well, lately you’ve been dragging it out of him again, little by little.

maybe that’s how this whole stupid summer pact happened in the first place. one drunken night after shift change. both of you exhausted and buzzed and sitting on the hood of his car on a hill overlooking the city, complaining about how miserable adulthood turned out to be.

frank finalizing divorce papers. you ranting about another terrible date.

“i swear to god,” you’d groaned dramatically, “i just wanna skip all the introductory bullshit and already know someone. take some weight off my shoulders, y’know?”

frank had glanced over at you then, beer balanced against his knee. “yeah,” he’d said after a second, quieter this time. “think i’m a little tired of starting over too.”

that was what did it. somewhere between the cheap beer, the city nightlife shining below you, and both of you feeling a little too lonely.

perhaps it’s a poorly constructed agreement, but enough to agree to stop acting miserable for at least one season.

no isolating after shifts.

no rotting in your apartments.

no pretending life ended just because residency sucks and your youth didn’t turn out the way you thought they would.

instead, they’d be replaced by late-night drives and stupid adventures. beaches at midnight, gas station junk food, bad decisions but good stories.

and maybe—though neither of you said this part out loud—using each other as a distraction from everything else hurting in your lives.

because it started innocently enough. a couple drunk kisses after work. frank’s hand resting on your thigh a little longer than it should during drives home.

one night…turning into two. then suddenly you were wearing the bikini he hand-picked for you last week. waking up in each other’s beds, tangled under the sheets and driving in to work together. not to mention the hoodies he’s purposefully left at your apartment—is it in hopes this arrangement can quietly become something bigger beneath all the teasing? well, we’ll never truly know.

because for now, it's not dating, and it's definitely not serious.

just two people who already knew each other all too well, trying to feel alive again for the summer.

—

frank looks down at the pile in his arms—cheap gummies that are far too sweet, neon sports drinks, some questionably cooked gas station hot dogs—before shrugging. “i have two kids and unresolved emotional issues. why is my survival diet any news to you?”

you snort, grabbing a bag of trail mix off the shelf. “please. your kids probably have a more refined palate than you. don't drag them into this.”

“you’re losing your whimsy, you know. tough loss for the club, we were really rooting for ya”

a sudden laugh escapes you, rattling the silence of the store enough that an older woman near the coffee station glances over disapprovingly.

frank grins immediately. “see? that laugh right there? worth public humiliation.” he whispers near you.

“oh my god, shut up.” you reply, ushering him further away from the lady.

“no seriously, keep laughin’ like that and people are gonna think i’m funny.”

“you are funny.” you say so matter-of-factly, like it was already known information.

that gets him. it’s subtle, but his entire expression softens around the edges. caught somewhere between pleased and almost shy, like the compliment lands deeper than it should.

because frank’s used to people rolling their eyes at him. used to being too loud, too sarcastic, too much. but you laugh at every stupid joke with such genuinity and for some reason you look at him like he’s worth listening to.

it gives him the dumbest fucking heart-eyes imaginable.

“okay, screw the slushie” you mention, staring at the machine, not seeing the blue raspberry flavor and immediately feeling disappointed. “we can get soft serve on the way”

“with fries to dip?” frank mentions, pulling out his card at the till.

“finally something we agree on!” it earns you another earnest smile from the man.

by the time you finally reach presque isle state park, it’s almost midnight. the two of you walk through the bike trails until you begin to hear the waves hitting the shore.

your feet dig into the sand below as you both settle your things on a picnic bench. the space is empty, except for the two of you, just old footprints as evidence of the life the beach encountered earlier that day.

“alright,” you say, already tugging your shirt over your head. “turn around.”

frank lifts both hands in surrender immediately, pivoting toward the water. “yes, ma’am.”

“no peeking.”

“your standards of me are so low”

that earns a quiet laugh from you, legs shimmying out of your shorts as you tug your bikini into place as quickly as possible. your fingers fumbling a little in the dark, “okay, done.”

frank glances over his shoulder just in time to catch you sprinting toward the shoreline. bare legs kicking up sand behind you, giggling as you feel the cool night breeze against your face.

and well, frank knew he was an ass man, but good god. he shakes his head to himself, smiling despite it, shedding his own shirt as he follows after you.

the water is freezing. absolutely fucking freezing, but oh it feels so good.

“holy shit,” you breathe out, feeling a shiver run up your body. “are we gonna get hypothermia?” you ask, slowly walking further in, feeling the waves hit your calves.

“guess we’ll wait and see,” frank replies, before grabbing your wrist and bolting deeper into the water.

“frank—”

the man yanks you down with him in one violent splash. you scrunch your eyes shut as the water crashes over your face, your whole body shaking from shrieking laughter.

“LANGDON!” you shout, sputtering out the water from your mouth. even so, you wrap your arms around his neck as he sits on the pebbled floor of the water, all smug and proud.

“you are such an ass” you retaliate, matching the grin on his face.

“you’ll warm up, don’t worry,” he replies, that boyish crooked smile making your heart flutter.

you brush the wet hair out of his face. “i hate you.”

“no you don’t.” another wave crashes into both of you, swaying the two of you deeper into the water.

the cold surrounds you even more and you can’t help but gasp. instinctively, you press closer against langdon, clinging to his shoulders while the cold tears another small shriek out of you.

frank just laughs, hands steady at your waist now to keep you upright. “c’mon,” he says, quieter this time. “get used to it.”

you glare at him through chattering teeth. “i’m gonna drown you.”

“i knew you’d be the death of me” he murmurs, placing a quick peck on your collarbone. “i’m just glad it's you.”

the words hit you strangely hard. dangerous territory, especially for two people pretending this is all temporary.

his hands squeeze your hips, his body warm even in the conditions you’ve both put yourselves in. the waves keep lapping around the two of you. midnight air pressing cool against your wet skin. you stare at the man in front of you, so close up you can see the droplets caught in his eyelashes.

he looks at you like he’s waiting for something, or maybe just making sure this is all okay. so you don’t think about it too hard, you just grab the back of his neck and kiss him.

it starts a little clumsy because you’re both still half-giggling, mouths a little cold and slippery from the lake.

frank soon makes this small sound against your lips before kissing you back with more determination. one of his hands slides up from your waist to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek while another wave crashes him further against you. his lips slip away from you as they fall to your shoulder.

“ow” he whines quietly as you laugh into his hair.

“real smooth,” you mumble, pulling his head back in front of you.

“shut up,” he murmurs back, smiling into the next kiss.

and this one, it lingers. not rushed, just frank kissing you in possible hypothermic temperatures at midnight like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

suddenly you understand why people fall in love during summers like this. because nights like this trick you into remembering that life is more than the things that exhaust you.

more than the hospital lights and divorce papers and bad dates and rent payments and alarms set too early and not enough coffee in you while you’re getting ripped a new one by your attending.

sometimes it’s this. freezing lake water and gas station hot dogs and laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

it’s frank langdon kissing you like the world isn’t so heavy for once.

and maybe that’s what makes it dangerous: realizing you deserve moments like this, too. realizing how easy life starts to feel when he’s looking at you like that.

[abbotcoded]

[miracle-and-wonder]

emotionally compromised over a 36 year old man’s bed head and silly shirt don’t call don’t text

[se7entyrell]

supercut of us prologue sneak peak!

The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.

Jack’s lamenting his lack of options, when one literally falls into his lap. There’s a slight commotion that he’s not paying attention to, before you’re pushed, stumbling slightly before hitting the side of Jack’s legs and losing your balance entirely.

If he's expecting some kind of slowing of time, prolonged eye contact and shy smiles, he doesn’t get any of it. Instead, you toss him a brief apology, before you’re back on your feet to yell at the guy who pushed you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Normally, Jack makes it a rule to not get involved with fraternity drama. One of the more sober brothers can deal with it. But something about you has him getting to his feet, arms crossed as he situates himself between you and your assailant. He glances at the guy, vaguely recognises him as someone who’s caused trouble before.

Doesn’t tend to understand the word no.

"Is there a problem here?"

“I told him I wasn’t interested, and he fucking shoved me!”

That’s all Jack needs to hear. For all the issues that Sigma Chi may have, they certainly don’t allow creeps on their premises. All it takes is one rumour of the frat not shutting it down properly, and they can kiss their squeaky-clean reputation goodbye. “Right, you’re done,” He starts, a hand on the guy’s chest as he waves for security by the front door.

“What?” When the guy speaks, his voice is slurred, his cheeks flushed. He’s totally wasted, to the point where it’s a miracle he’s even standing upright. “S-She came on t’me.”

“I’m positive that’s not true,” Jack replies, taking one look at him. Unkempt hair, noticeable body odour, and a shitty attitude. You could definitely do better. “What’s your name?”

“Why d’ya w-want t’know?”

“We’re offering you an award,” Jack replies dryly. “Because I’m banning you from the house, dumbass.”

The guy goes to reply, tries to make a half-hearted swing at Jack, when security take an arm each, and begin to haul him out backwards.

“Check his ID, and give me his name at the end of the night!” Jack calls after him, before turning his attention back to you.

You don’t look scared, or distressed, or even annoyed. Instead, you look almost amused by the entire situation.

“Jack Abbot,” He offers you his hand, and you tell him your own name. He tries it out, likes the way it sounds on his tongue. “You want a drink?”

You’re nodding, and he’s leading you through to the kitchen to grab a beer. Your nose scrunches a little as you take it. “What - you don’t like beer?”

Which is how, for the first time in his college career, Jack finds himself mixing up a margarita in the middle of a frat party. You’d insisted you’d be fine with some vodka and coke, but he finds himself wanting to impress you.

“So… was your inspiration Manson-Family-Chic?” He asks, raising an eyebrow while you snort, into your cup. He doesn’t know why he’s ragging on you, given you’re one of the only people here who looks like they could’ve fallen out of the sixties. The neckline of your dress is high, leaving everything to the imagination, but the hem falls high on your thighs, to the point where one wrong move would have everything on display. He swallows heavily, and ignores the way his cock twitches in his jeans.

Most other guests took the hippie theme to mean lingerie with some over-sized glasses and a peace-sign necklace.

He likes that you took it seriously.

The way he checks you out is far from subtle, hazel eyes trailing down your form, all the way down to your white go-go boots.

“Do you know what the Manson Family were wearing on a day-to-day basis? Because it certainly wasn’t vintage Biba.”

Somebody bumps into you from behind, and Jack takes the opportunity to hook an arm around your waist and pull you into him for the second time that night. Now chest-to-chest, you’re looking up at him through darkly-lined eyes, and he suddenly doesn’t know what to say.

“Does the white knight thing normally work for you?”

He lets out a laugh, low and genuine. “It’s never hurt.”

add yourself to the taglist for this fic HERE! 18+ only, please read the descriptions.

[se7entyrell]

supercut of us (a jack abbot college au fic, coming soon!)

OR: the one where jack abbot accidentally knocks up robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.

this is NOT a social media AU fic, but i just wanted to do something a little bit different to introduce the universe :) reader is given a face claim here but is not described at ALL physically during the fic. she is robby's stepsister and is therefore no blood relation, and looks however you want her to look.

youruser made a post

liked by vanhorn.jesse, m.robinavitch, and 212 others

youruser took hippies vs cowboys VERY seriously if you couldn't tell

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m.robinavitch You're literally twelve stop ♥︎ by author

⤷ youruser i'm twenty :(((( just because you're old and balding

⤷ youruser idk why noelle puts up with you

⤷ youruser she could do better

vanhorn.jesse less instagram posting more bathroom cleaning please

⤷ youruser boooooo you're no fun (thank you for cleaning up my puke last night jess <3)

abbot.jack made a post

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abbot.jack yeehaw (one last time)

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m.robinavitch So much for "senior year is for studying"

⤷ abbot.jack You expect me to study on week ONE?

desiree.fenn best dressed hands down

clare.colburn3 😍😍

[kisseism]

dry humping? what's that wet spot on your underwear then

[puppydogwhitaker]