#3k game

[rr-after-dark]

Hello! Leaving you this combo if you feel so moved - 🥘🥭🍃for either Jack or Robby!

sick fic//cockwarming//"do you want me to leave?"//jack abbot

established relationship, fluffy romantic vibes, jack's phantom pain, brief blowjob, vaginal cockwarming

1.5k

You unlock the door to Jack's apartment and immediately get met with a soft, tentative, "Hey, baby. In the bedroom."

Trying to calm your nerves, you drop your bag by the door, lock it behind you, and pad deeper into the apartment. You find your boyfriend in bed in just his boxers, illuminated by the TV, his residual limb propped up on a pillow with a heating pad draped over it. You'd been nervous to come over tonight ever since he told you he was calling out because the phantom pain was just too severe today. It's the first time Jack's trusted you enough to see him like this. Really and truly vulnerable, his disability stopping him from functioning. Most days he can push through the real aches, the phantom pains, the exhaustion, but sometimes it was just plain too much. No amount of time or exercises could stop the ancestral part of his brain that believed his calf was still there and still in pain.

"Oh, honey," you sigh gently, walking over to the side of the bed and kissing the top of his head. He tilts his face upward to catch you for a proper kiss and then you ask, "Can I get you anything?"

Jack shakes his head. "Not my first rodeo with this bastard. Got my water, my snacks, my crutches on standby." He lifts his arm and nods to the space under it. "Just want my girl."

You smile, bite your lower lip, and tell him, "Mind if I grab a shower first? I smell like hospital."

He sarcastically pouts and asks, "Fine, leave me here, all alone, sad and pathetic."

"You're not sad and pathetic; you're gorgeous and sick."

He narrows his eyes in annoyance; one of the rules in your relationship is that you aren't allowed to argue with compliments and kindness. So he accepts it and tries, "Would you at least leave the bathroom door open so I can stare at your ass through the glass?"

"I'll even let you stare at the real thing while I get undressed," you tease lightly, moving so you can shimmy out of your scrubs. Jack happily watches you strip the clothes away and toss them in his hamper. Something about the simple domesticity of your laundry mingling with his soothes him after a day spent wallowing by himself. Once you're naked, you give him a half-joking spin and ask, "Better?"

"Much, much better," he confirms. His eyes memorize every since curve of your skin. "Now be fast so I can get my hands on you, alright?"

You give him a mock salute. "Yes, sir."

After a scalding shower, you return to the bedroom warm and smelling like Jack. You grab one of his tees without asking -- it's part of your routine now -- and slip on the clean change of panties from your backpack followed by your coziest old sweats. Jack had texted that all he wanted was a lazy night in with you by his side, so you're prepared to go full goblin mode with snacks and comfy clothes when you slide into bed next to him. He lifts his arm and hums contentedly when you snuggle against his chest, asking, "What's on the docket for entertainment? Slashers? Sappy romance?"

He gives you a conspiratorial sideways glance and suggests, "The new season of Too Hot to Handle just dropped."

A grin splits you. "You know me so well, Doctor Abbot."

So, for three full hours, the two of you groan, gasp, and gawk as hot idiots make poor decisions for your entertainment. You split a bag of popcorn and an assortment of junk food Jack's squirreled away for these exact occasions since he's usually more of a health food gym-bro type. Some situations just simply require Thin Mints and pretzels.

Rounding the midpoint of the fourth episode, you awkwardly and unceremoniously nudge out of your sweats, kicking them off the bed, and continue with the marathon. Which becomes a problem for Jack. He's a simple man; he can't help it. Having your lovely plush thighs touching his, your stomach poking out when his shirt rides up your curves, your nipples nudging the thin fabric? It's too much for his soldier to handle without standing at attention.

You glance down at his very obvious erection and smirk. "Need some help there?"

Jack chuckles, adjusts his cock a bit, and shakes his head. "Much as I love the idea, I think I'm stuck in this position for a while."

"What if you didn't have to do anything?" You shift your weight a bit and tentatively palm his cock through his boxers, ready to back off if he insists. When he tilts his hips into your touch and groans with desire, you reply, all cheeky and mischievous. "Would it hurt you if I just…kept you warm for a while?"

Jack gazes at you with so much love and lust in his eyes that you feel fuzzy. His voice goes gravelly with want. "I think that's a damn good idea."

"I'll just suck you off a little to get you nice and wet?"

"Please," he breathes out, raspy and needy. "It's just that I can't- I can't get the boxers off without standing up and-"

You roll your eyes at him and remind him of a very basic fact of existence, fishing his cock greedily from the open vertical fly. You give him a borderline mean pointed look until he laughs at himself. "Why would men invent the dick flap on boxers if I'm not supposed to take your dick out?"

"I just don't want you to be uncomfortable if-" You take his cock between your lips to shut him up, easily bringing the tip to the back of your throat like you have a thousand times. He groans, "Message received. You're the boss when it comes to making my cock happy."

You give him an affirming sound and a nod as you bob gently on his cock. All you do is let your spit pool up around the head until you're happy he's good and wet. Then you pull back, tug off your underwear, and swing your leg over his. You settle your weight onto his thighs just to make sure, "Still comfortable? Not hurting you?"

"Very, very comfortable." He swallows thickly and asks, like he should be ashamed of the request, "Can you take your tits out for me?"

"Your wish is my command," you reply, reaching for the hem of his tee and lifting up. When you fling the shirt away, Jack's eyes lock on your chest. His expression is calm and content, not necessarily horny but completely in love. You gingerly touch your nipples, lightly playing with them, just to give him something nice to look at. The way he watches you is such a delicious ego high. You lean down to kiss him softly and murmur, "All yours."

Bracing yourself on the headboard behind him with one hand, you line his cock up with your entrance and slide slowly down until his cock is seated completely in your cunt. He takes in a hissing, shuddering breath at the perfect slow grip of your pussy. Burying his forehead in the crook of your neck, he moans, "Fuck, baby. Feels so good."

"Ditto," you reply breathily, the familiar stretch of his shift making your brain mushy in the best way. "Love you so much, Jackie."

"Love you, too, baby," he says, flicking off the TV and plunging your interlocked bodies into the late-night darkness. "Thanks for coming over."

"Always."

He tugs the comforter up around your shoulders to keep you warm and then lazily plays with your breasts for a while, massaging and stroking without aim or urgency. You kiss him slowly, tongue sliding along his lower lip, arms around the back of his neck, breaths mingling with one another. Neither of you are pushing or rushing anything, just comfortably and intimately connected in every way you can be. Jack savors every sweet flutter of your walls and you live for every twitch of his.

You lose track of time like this, feeling your wetness soaking into his boxers, your cunt staying that perfect level of aroused from the constant contact. Your breaths go heavy, timed evenly with Jack's, and your eyelids flutter closed. Jack's hands soothe up and down your sides, roam over your back, settle on your ass. He never stops embracing you, even as his heart rate slows down and his eyes close, too.

After a while, you open your eyes and realize just how late it is. Wanting to respect his space, you whisper, quiet as you can manage, "Do you want me to leave so you can sleep?"

Jack makes a grumpy, sweet sound of protest. He tightens his arms around you, relishing in the warmth of your body embracing his. "Never. Stay right here, sweetheart, and I'll sleep like a damn baby."

[rr-after-dark]

CONGRATULATIONS 👏👏👏👏

my humble request:

🍕🍻🍼 for Titus !

hurt/comfort//possessiveness/protectiveness//pregnancy//titus danforth

married, pregnant reader, on-screen violence against a would-be attacker

2.5k

oops turned into pretty much a whole fic!

"What a beautiful venue," you coo, twirling the sheer petal pink parasol over your shoulder as you take in the grand estate where your husband's cousin is having her wedding. You've been staying in one of the main house's wings since last night, but your arrival was late, so this is your first time getting to see all the stately old stone and bright blooms up close. Reaching the ceremony space, mostly full with waiting guests, you murmur, "Not as beautiful as ours, of course, but pretty."

Titus chuckles under his breath and guides you forward, toward the ushers, by the small of your back, his large hand sturdy and commanding. "Careful, darling, they don't have our means. Wouldn't want to come across as haughty given the company."

"Oh, I wouldn't?" You give him a teasing grin. "You're the one who insisted we land the helicopter on the grounds yesterday."

"That was just practical," he replies, trying to conceal his smile as you wait for other guests to be seated. "Can't have my pregnant wife traveling to and from airports like some pauper."

You step onto your toes and kiss his cheek. "You spoil me."

He touches your chin to keep you a moment, tilting you into a proper kiss. "Always."

The usher waits patiently for him to stop showing off

"Mr. Danforth, Mrs. Danforth, welcome," the usher greets, clearly prepped on all the guests. You vaguely recognize him as an existing employee of Titus' extended family. "Let me take you to your seats on the bride's side. And, if you don't mind my saying, congratulations on the pregnancy. Everyone in the family is thrilled."

"That's very sweet," you reply politely as he directs you to your seats at the very end of the second row. "We're finally having our boy."

"After three girls? How exciting." The usher smiles and he's doing a good job making it look earnest. "Here are your seats; enjoy the ceremony and don't hesitate to find me or another members of staff if you need anything through the day."

Titus tilts his head, debating offense as he looks at the two chairs. "Darcy didn't place us on the aisle?"

That's the sort of thing that really, really matters in the Danforth family -- Titus is the wealthiest, the most successful, the most powerful, so he ought to be front and center -- but it's the kind of thing you couldn't care less about. As you sit yourself down at the end seat and discreetly remove your too-tight kitten heels, you rub the back of Titus' hand to encourage him to drop it.

The usher lowers his voice to complete deference -- he's definitely been told that Titus is someone he ought to be nervous around -- and replies, "The bride and wedding planner thought that, perhaps, Mrs. Danforth, being in the final few weeks of her pregnancy, might be more comfortable with quicker access to the ladies' room, which is just past this closest door. If they were incorrect in that assumption, then-"

Titus holds his hand up, cutting him off. He rolls his shoulders. His annoyance fades as he accepts the act of thoughtfulness, something out of place in the stuffy environment all about appearances. "Of course. Thank you."

As the usher scampers anxiously away, Titus sits on your other side and presses a kiss to your temple. You bat your lashes sarcastically at him and needle, "I thought we didn't want to look haughty and here you are complaining that your cousin didn't seat you on the aisle at her own wedding."

Titus nips your earlobe affectionately. "Don't forget that you're the woman with the most social status at this thing. You ought to be in every photo -- for Darcy's sake. Your presence elevates the entire affair to a level of celebrity that would benefit her and her new husband while they try to make their social debut."

You turn your head and kiss him again. "Right, always so magnanimous. Nothing to do with wanting everything to know how important you are and how virile your seed is keeping me pregnant half of the last six years."

"You're vulgar," he hisses, trying hard not to laugh. You're the only person allowed to tease him like this and he loves you for it, but it's still not good form at a wedding. "Put your shoes back on, sweetheart, or we'll never hear the end of it."

You pout but slide your swollen feet back into the adorable pastel heels. "Fine, but I want a foot massage before bed."

"You know I'm going to be up late tonight," he says quietly, alluding to the festivities to come tonight.

You cross your arms across your chest and push out your lower lip. "Then hire someone in."

"Whatever you want," he assures softly. Then he takes your hand, folds it with his, and chuckles, "Who made you such a spoiled brat?"

Resting your head on his shoulder as the officiant strides down the aisle to begin the service, you murmur, "That would be the man who proposed with the million-dollar pink diamond. Now hush and smile and pretend you like weddings and not just the bloodbath afterwards."

The wedding is absolutely gorgeous, a tear-jerker followed by a reception grand and star-studded enough to draw a small flock of paparazzi trying to crane their cameras over the tall stone fences. It stretches into the night, but you retire early because your back is aching and the baby wants junk food. You give Titus a kiss on the cheek, embrace the bride and groom, and accept a myriad of well-wishes from the countless people who'd been waiting for your attention throughout the afternoon and evening. Titus had been right about one thing; whenever you attend these events, your status as Mrs. Danforth makes you a hot commodity. It can be thrilling and fun and energizing, but tonight it's just exhausting.

You head into the west wing of the main mansion on the estate, where cousin Darcy reserved a spacious and comfortable suite for you and Titus over the weekend. After a long bath and a foot massage from a masseur Titus managed to order over the phone, you crawl into the king-sized bed in a fluffy robe and scroll through streaming services for a while. The night will probably be loud with gunshots and screams, so you want the background noise to distract you.

A few minutes into the romantic comedy you picked out, you see a large torch light up on the far side of the property, signaling the start of the hunt. You draw the curtains and turn up the volume. You spend the movie half-dozing and half-watching, not quite comfortable enough to sleep but not quite awake enough to do much of anything else.

Right before the big love confessions, your stomach growls and you pause the movie. The baby rolls around against your ribs and you mutter, "You want moose tracks again, huh? You're just like your father."

Then you haul yourself out of bed, put on your slippers, change into a pastel blue silk camisole and shorts set, and tiptoe through the house toward the kitchen. Darcy had made it clear you had free rein of the place, but you're still careful not to disturb since you don't know who else might've been invited to sleep in any of the other wings.

You're six large spoonfuls into a tub of ice cream that you're sure Titus had ordered in just for you when you hear a door open and shut nearby. Your heart rate starts to climb. Titus assured you that nobody would be in or out of the guest wing of the estate during the hunt and that had always been the case at every event you'd attended thus far.

Something is wrong.

Someone is inside.

You don't doubt your instincts for a second. You take your phone from your pocket and text Titus all the information he needs: Kitchen.

And then a hand is covering your mouth, the other slapping your phone away. You can taste dirt on the man's fingers and you know it must be the groom, Darcy's new husband, trying to survive his hunt. He whispers against your ear, sounding frantic and sincere, "I'm not gonna hurt a pregnant lady, but you've gotta stay quiet, okay?"

You nod against his hand. You aren't scared, but you're practical. No need to make a scene or put yourself at risk. He lets go of you. You try to scramble a few steps back, but he holds onto your wrist. Keeping your voice low and firm, you tell him, "Let me go."

His flighty eyes scan from you to the door and all around the large kitchen, peeking through windows and trying to come up with a path out. "Mrs. Danforth, right? You're- you're Titus' wife. I remember you. You can- you can help me, can't you? I mean, you don't think all this is right. You can't. Or you'd be hunting too, yeah? Let's just- You can help me. Please help me."

You look him up and down slowly. You're not unsympathetic to his situation, but you're honest: "I survived my wedding night hunt fair and square. You can do the same. Find somewhere to hide and wait out the sunrise. It's worth it to be a part of this family. This world." He's still holding onto your wrist a little too hard for your liking. "Let me go back to my room. Things are going to be a lot worse for you if they find you in here."

He scoffs and shakes his head. "Worse than dying?"

"There are things worse than death." You try to tug your arm away but he keeps his grip. From the crazed look in his eyes, you know he's trying to figure out how to use you as a chess piece. "The only way out of this is to hide out and make it until morning. You only have a few hours left. But if Titus sees you with me, then-"

Down the hall, a glass door shatters. Hurried footsteps approach.

You urge him, "Go on. It's your last chance to do the right thing for yourself."

"So we're gonna have to do this the hard way," the groom grunts. As the footsteps reach the other side of the kitchen door, he grabs you tight, using you as a human shield. His free hand snatches up the closest kitchen knife, which he holds flat against your neck, eliciting a whimper you wish didn't sound so pathetic. Against your ear, he orders, "Stay calm and help me get out of here and we'll both be okay."

Setting your jaw, you inform him coolly, "You just signed your death certificate."

The door swings open. Your husband, broad and tall and silhouetted like the angel of death, stands there with his oversized pick catching the light. God, he's beautiful with his silver curls and his tuxedo.

It's not like a police show where there's a negotiation with the hostage taker. Titus doesn't grow scared and wide-eyed and hesitant when he sees your position. From decades of experience, Titus knows that the best way to take control of a situation is to never lose it in the first place. He strides confidently and quickly across the kitchen, knocks the groom's elbow hard enough to make him drop the knife -- it nicks you superficially as it clatters down -- and then yanks you away from him. He manhandles you behind his tank of a body and then descends on the other man.

You almost feel bad for him. Almost. There's no fighting with or against Titus. There's only being attacked by Titus. You've never seen him take so much as a punch from an opponent, too brutal and forceful and sure in his movements to let them have even a split second of dominance.

"One fucking rule," Titus growls as he holds the man against the wall by his throat. "If you'd followed that one goddamn rule, you could've walked out of here in the morning." He smashes the man's head back into the exposed brick. Hard. "All we said was 'don't go in the residential wing.' That was the only instruction. A hundred acres of property for you to hide away on and you still-" another bash to the head "-come in here and scare my poor wife." The next strike against the wall makes the man go limp. He's groaning and gurgling, but he slumps onto the ground instead of fighting. Titus spits on him. "Pathetic urchin."

For good measure, Titus hefts his pick and swings it into the groom's knee, certain to completely incapacitate him. With the writhing, bloodied, agonized figure hobbled on the ground, Titus turns around and scoops you up into his arms. You're perfectly fine, really, but he still hoists you into a protective bridal carry and takes you back toward your suite. In the hall, his sister Ursula appears, the rest of the hunters a few paces behind her, having followed Titus far behind.

Titus orders, "He's in the kitchen. Take care of it."

Ursula nods and raises her gun.

That's all there is. Your husband takes you to the suite, locks the door behind you, and carries you into the bathroom. Setting you on the countertop, he cradles your face between his hands and looks you over. "Did he hurt you, princess?"

"Just this," you reply, bringing your hand to the small cut at the front of your neck. It's small with only one drip of already-drying blood, but you see anger flare in his eyes regardless. You place your fingers over his on your cheek and soothe, "You kept me safe, like always."

Titus shakes his head and seethes, "He made you bleed. I ought to slit Darcy's throat for choosing such a juvenile, weak, pathetic excuse for-"

"Honey." You lean forward and kiss him. Firm. Deep. You feel his shoulders relax and he wraps his arms around you, stepping between your legs. You twine your fingers in his curly hair, press your forehead to his, and say, "I'm okay. Baby's okay. I wasn't scared for a second."

"Of course you weren't," he says with a sigh somewhere between proud and upset. "My brave girl." Then he kneels down, lifts your camisole, and kisses the swell of your stomach reverently. He's always been especially soft with you when you're pregnant, elevating you from his princess to his queen. When he stands, he rubs your back and says, "I love you so much. More than life. The thought of someone wanting to hurt you…It makes me sick."

"I know," you coo lovingly. "But you'd never give anyone the chance." You drop your hand to your bump and remind him, "And I'd kill someone before I let them hurt our babies. If you hadn't shown up, I was going to throw my elbow into his gut to distract him, disarm the knife, and shove it through his eye so I could run away. I had a plan."

Titus chuckles, showing off his cute pointy canines, and affirms, "Good girl."

"But you always show up," you go on, slipping off the counter and into his arms with a grin, "so I never have to do things like that."

[rr-after-dark]

Congrats on 3000!!! (sending my prompt again because my dumb ass can’t remember if I told you the AU idea)

🥜+🍩 (bodyguard AU) (+🍑 if you’d like wanna make it nsfw) with our favourite man Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody

bodyguard au//forced proximity//body worship//pope cody

only a brief moment of nsfw, established situationship or something, reader is an unspecified type of rich important person's adult child

1.4k

idk this is nothing

Andrew’s walkie-talkie crackles at his belt. “Security desk to Cody. We’ve got a 62-12 in the west lawn headed your direction. Team alpha deployed. Secure the asset. Over.”

Adrenaline spikes in his chest. Armed and dangerous intruder -- coming directly for you. Striding quickly through the pool complex, he clicks his own walkie and confirms, “Cody to all units. Copy 62-12. Securing asset now. Over.”

Andrew follows the loud music thumping through the indoor/outdoor space, cursing whatever architect decided that a series of different temperature curvy pools divided by columns and glass walls and oversized tropical plants was a good idea. An intruder could hide around so many of the features, perving on you in your string bikini or aiming a gun at you without being spotted. Andrew’s worked for your family long enough to see the whole range of threats, hired years back when you became an adult and needed your own security team. Now that you're his…whatever it's been between you the last few months…the stakes feel so much higher. You aren't just the spoiled brat he has to stop paparazzi from photographing. You're everything.

He spots you by one of the hot tubs, wrapping yourself in a fluffy white robe, completely unaware of your surroundings as you drown your thoughts in loud music and steam.

At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, Andrew sees the movement of the intruder through the floor-to-ceiling windows out on the nearest lawn, quickly moving from place to place trying to stay out of view. There’s no way of knowing if he’s got eyes on you yet, so Andrew has no choice but to grab you. He snaps one hand over your mouth, hoists you up with his strong arm, and hauls you toward the first locking door he finds.

Thankfully, you don’t try to fight him off as fear spills through your body. You know it’s Andrew from the broadness of his chest, the certainty in his touch, the bite of his sharp masculine cologne, so you don’t try to get away. As soon as he became your personal bodyguard, Andrew taught you to stay calm and go limp when it’s him and to fight like hell when it’s anyone else. He wouldn’t grab you like this if it weren’t serious.

Within seconds, Andrew’s manhandled you through the locker room and into one of the private shower stalls, two locked doors between you and danger. Nearly silent, he breathes against your ear, “I’m gonna let you go now, sweetheart, but don’t make any noise.”

You nod into his skin, tasting the salt of his palm, and feel your body relax as you get balanced on your feet. Andrew’s presence is the one thing that’s always been able to keep you calm. As you catch your breath, trying to keep them slow and steady, he instinctively checks you over for any signs of injury or major distress even though he knows you're fine, breathing heavily with his strong hands on your shoulders. He flicks a button on his walkie to silently alert the team that you've been secured in a safe location.

Satisfied that you’re calming down and safe, he whispers urgently, hazel eyes wide, “You need to wait here, okay? Just sit tight and be quiet until I get back. I have to get the intruder off the property.”

You grab his hand and hold it tight, shaking your head. Tears slip down your cheeks. He’s done enough training with you that you’re able to stay silent despite the terror wracking around your ribcage. You lean forward in the small space, press your lips to his ear, and beg, “Don’t leave, Andrew.” Your whole body shakes and he can hear your teeth chattering with your faces so close together. Even though you're whispering, your throat is so thick with tears that little whimpering sounds come through. “Stay with me; I'm scared."

Andrew’s heart shatters. Fuck. A war rages in his mind. It’s his job to keep you safe. To protect you from harm. To neutralize threats. Your parents cut him a fat paycheck for that reason, trusting him to take the shot on anyone who threatens their baby girl.

But here you are.

Soft, small, vulnerable.

Asking him not to do his job but to follow the nagging voice deep in the back of his mind and the base of his gut that tells him that keeping you safe means holding you close. That protecting you from harm means drying your tears.

The residence is crawling with security. Someone besides him can and will handle the intruder. Andrew knows that if he left you right now, he might be able to catch the guy early and stop some property damage.

But you’d be alone.

And you’d be scared

So Andrew wraps his arms around you. He kisses the top of your head, cradles you with strong hands, and breathes deeply, encouraging you to do the time. And he says, “I’ve got you. I'm right here.”

You nestle into his chest and nod. For a few minutes, he holds you while you cry, pressing soothing kisses to your temple and rubbing your back. You're so gentle; it's one of the things he loves most about you. For many people in your position, this would just be an annoyance, a frustrating blip in your day, but to you it's worth crying over. Andrew needs more of that -- sensitivity, sweetness, fragility -- in his life.

Andrew's walkie crackles to life again. "Security to all units. 62-12 has been neutralized without fire. Surveying property for damage now. Cody provide status on the asset. Over."

Andrew lets out a relieved sigh. Still holding you with one arm, he grabs the radio from its clip and says, voice low and quick, "Cody to security. Copy. Asset is safe and unharmed. Over and out."

After a few moments of silence, both of you breathing in tandem, you pull back from him as much as the cramped stall allows. His arms are still around you and it doesn't seem he has any plans to change that. You press your lips softly to his stubbly cheek -- you secretly love when he forgets to shave in the morning -- and murmur, "Thanks for saving me, Andy."

He lets out a sharp, hoarse laugh. "I should've been closer. Shouldn't have taken so long to get to you."

"You went to the bathroom," you point out. "You're allowed to pee on the clock."

"I know, I know." He shakes his head, running antsy fingers through his curls. "Just…Fuck, if anything happened to you."

"But nothing did," you remind him. "It was probably just another creep trying to get pictures of my tits, anyway."

That makes him hum in annoyance. "That's not better."

"What?" You poke his firm pec and tease, "All grumpy at the thought of someone else seeing my boobs?"

With a conspiratorial sort of smile, he admits, "Maybe. A little."

You raise an eyebrow, drop your hand to the tie of your robe, and tug hard. The soft garment falls to the tile floor, leaving in your very, very small bikini. Then, before he can protest, you've undone the hook behind your back and let the top join it. As he stares at your bare chest, immediately getting hard from the sight and the lingering adrenaline, you gesture dramatically and ask, "All better?"

Andrew sighs contentedly. "You're fucking perfect." He lowers his head and kisses across the tops of your breasts, gentle and reassuring. "Never gonna let anyone hurt you."

"I know," you reply breathlessly as he wraps his lips around one of your nipples. "You always keep me safe. That's why I'm yours."

He gazes up at you from between your tits, smiling boyishly, and confirms, "All mine?"

Your cheeks warm up from the unabashed adoration in his eyes and you give him an embarrassed, bashful nod. "Yours."

"All this for me," he breathes out, giving a low whistle. He mouths down the center of your chest and along your stomach, his tongue memorizing the familiar shapes and curves. He wraps his arms around you again and drags his hands up the backs of your legs, lighting up every nerve. When they finally settle on your ass, Andrew shakes his head in disbelief. "I'm the luckiest son of a bitch in the world."

[rr-after-dark]

Hey congrats on 3k that’s so awesome!!! And well deserved of course 🩷

For the build a fic could i request 🍆 & 🌸 with jack and/or robby? (Like maybe they find it and tease you before trying it out on you themselves if that’s anything?)

sex toys//"stop laughing"//dr. robby

SMUT, very smut, fluffy foreplay, married to robby, tail butt plug, doggy style, light pet play, light d/s, praise, unprotected piv uwu

2.5k (i didn't proofread)

uh oh got a lil long bc its my personal fetish huh

Robby's voice drifts to you from the bedroom. "Honey, mind coming here for me?"

"On sec," you call back, pausing the TV and setting your snack bowl on the coffee table. Standing up, you slide on your slippers and pad across the spacious apartment into the bedroom, where your husband's standing at the foot of the bed. "Need something?"

From behind his back, he presents a glittery pink box that had been discarded deep in the back of the walk-in closet. Your cheeks immediately warm. He raises one accusatory eyebrow and sets the box down on the bed, tipping its contents out. "Mind explaining what all this is?"

"Gifts from my bachelorette party," you snicker, taking in the spread you've never had a good look at in the light of day. Dick-shaped candies, novelty sex toys, and gag gifts adorn the high thread count sheets. You explain further, "Trinity convinced all the girls that making me as uncomfortable as humanly possible in a public place would be hilarious. Made me open every single one of these in front of everyone."

Robby laughs as he picks up a small tub with lewd drawings around the label. "Chocolate body paint. Sounds like a recipe for an allergic reaction."

"That's not even the worst of it." You present him with a glow-in-the-dark dildo that flops dramatically back and forth. "This stretches. Dana wanted me to show everyone how big yours is."

"Dana?!" He covers his face for a moment as he imagines the display. While he was playing poker and puffing cigars with his friends, you were at the most ridiculous, horny, sorority-esque bachelorette party in history. Tears sting at his eyes from laughing when he holds up a candy jock strap. "This is- this is gold, baby. Solid gold. You want to nibble this off me?"

You smack him on the chest. "Stop laughing! You're such a child."

"Come on, sweetheart, this is-" he squints at the packaging of a black and pink bottle "-bubble gum flavored lube. I can't believe you've been keeping this from me; it's objectively hilarious."

"It's a yeast infection waiting to happen," you correct, giggling along with him yourself. As you inspect the litany of gag gifts and sex toys, you tell him, "I wasn't keeping it from you, just didn't think about it. We had the party, then the wedding, then the honeymoon. It's only been, like, four weeks. When the two of us have free time overlapping, my first thought isn't 'want to go through the box of novelty sex supplies my friends got to torture me?'" You give his shoulder a playful kiss and tease, "I'm usually more interested in having non-joke sex with my husband."

"Mmm." Robby turns enough to pull you into a sweet, warm kiss. He smiles, presses his lips to your forehead, and sighs happily, "I still can't get over you calling me that."

"I think it suits you." With a stupidly wide smile, you pick up a handful of neon-colored dice and roll them each on the comforter, offering as you read off them, "Wanna have…two minutes of…blowing…my thighs?"

Robby snorts and double-checks the dice. "That's brutal."

Then he blindly grabs something else, mostly wrapped up in watching you laugh, and goes stiff. His cheeks go red at their high points and he swallows hard. Sweeping things back into the box, you point out, "You finally stopped laughing.

He's holding a pink silicone butt plug with a long, fluffy white tail coming from it.

It's your turn to raise your eyebrows. You straighten up and commit his surprised, embarrassed expression to memory. Robby definitely isn't shy when it comes to sex, but in terms of toys, he's always kept it to your trusty favorite vibrator and the occasional something spicy for a change. Never in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined you with something like this, but suddenly he can't think of anything else.

Lowering your voice, you touch his chest and ask innocently, "Find something you like?"

"Uh, I'm- This is-" He clears his throat, slides his hand over the back of his neck, and averts his eyes. "No, it's just, I haven't, ah, haven't seen anything like this before."

"And you're not putting it down," you press further. The lust in his eyes is completely obvious. He's trying hard not to look at you, but you keep catching him ogling your nipples through your thin sleep shirt, your thighs beneath your tiny pajama shorts. He wants you -- and he wants you with that cute little tail on display for him. You're more than happy to oblige and you know he would never ask out of fear of judgment or making you uncomfortable. So you reach foward, tilt his chin up so he'll look at you, and suggest, "How about you run into the bathroom and clean that for me and I'll grab some lube?"

Robby's mouth goes dry. His brown eyes widen. "You're serious? You're not making fun of me?"

"Baby, I can see your hard-on through your sweats." You stand on your toes and give him a quick peck. "I'm never gonna make fun of you for wanting me."

"You don't think this is…weird?"

You give him a conspiratorial, adorable gaze. "I think it's cute. And fun. And you know I like a little anal play every once in a while."

"I'm very blessed with that knowledge, yes." He rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath. "Okay. Okay, yeah. Fuck yeah."

Two minutes later, Michael's finished properly cleaning and drying the new toy and he emerges from the bathroom about to say something -- when he sees you already presented for him on the bed. On your elbows and knees, back arches, ass perfectly and pretty in the air as you look over at him with mischief in your eyes. Next to you on the bed is one of your small bottles of lube, clearly an invitation. He loses all ability to form speech in any of the languages he's studied.

Robby shakes his head as he places the plug next to you, dragging his hands affectionately over your ass. His touch is soft at first, but then he looks at your eager expression, realizes you're as into this as he is, and his fingers grip hard. Nails dig into your flesh. When you give him a breathy moan, he seems to remember how to speak: "God, I can't believe you're mine. You're gorgeous like this."

You give him a playful wiggle off your butt that makes him laugh as his cock twitches in his sweats. "All yours, doc. Come on and play with your kitten."

Robby nearly passes out. He curses under his breath and strips his shirt off, tossing it to the side. He keeps his sweats on for now, stepping forward and dragging two longer fingers down your slit. "Fuck, you're soaked. You like the idea of being my pet, don't you?" A gasp flies from your throat when he circles your clit. Your stance widens slightly to give him better access and he praises, "That's right. So pretty for me."

Robby plays with your clit for a minute or two, long enough to have you relaxed and whining beneath his touch. He's always loved listening to your soft, breathy sounds of pleasure as he warms you up for more, gradually becoming higher and louder and needier when you fall into that beautiful submissive headspace he creates for you.

When he's satisfied with how pliant and eager you are, Robby grabs the bottle of lube and spreads a dollop over the toy. He adds a few drops to his middle finger, too, and quietly murmurs, "Ready for it?"

You nod with an earnest, enthusiastic, dizzy smile, toes curling with anticipation. "Please, Michael."

"That's my good girl," he coos, gently pressing his soft fingertip to your asshole to spread the lube just inside the taut ring of muscle. He watches, rapt and in love, as you relax into his touch. "There you go. Always so ready to be my little slut."

As you give him a gentle, affirming moan, he smirks and replaces his finger with the rounded tip of the toy, smooth and familiar. The plug is small, definitely intended for beginners (which you aren't -- you've taken Robby's very well-endowed cock in your ass before -- but your girlfriends don't need to know that), and it slides in without much resistance. The stretch is comfortable and easy, just enough to make you keen out in pleasure.

Even though he knows the answer, he still checks like always, "That comfortable? Not too much?'

With a voice that's starting to sound drunk with desire, you correct him, "Need more, Mikey. Need your cock."

"Gotta get you good and ready first; you know that. Let me look at you for a minute and then I'll take care of your pussy, okay? I'll make you feel so good."

You give him an impatient whine but still nod. You want to make him happy, to look pretty for him, to be his perfect pet.

The moment Robby sees you with that tail hanging down your perfect curves, the bright white contrasting your skin, his knees feel weak. He places one hand on each cheek and spreads them to properly admire the view. "Oh, baby. Fuck."

You tease over your shoulder, "Take a picture; it'll last longer."

He groans and breathes, "Great idea."

He fumbles for his phone in his pocket. You arch your back to make your ass perkier and smile to yourself as he snaps a few pictures that will definitely keep him company when your shifts don't overlap and he has to sleep alone. He tosses his phone aside and ducks quickly to the bathroom to wash his hands. Then, only a moment later, he's back by your side with two fingers sliding into your greedy cunt. Now that stretch is exactly what you need.

Pumping his fingers in and out of you, Robby ascends as he listens to your litany of moans. You get all squirmy, rolling your hips back, meeting each movement of his hand. He knows that you're begging him to fuck you without words, so he adds a third finger. He loves the days when he takes so long to tease you and edge you and take you apart, but this is needy. This is fast and connected and eager.

Satisfied with the way you're gripping him, needing him, craving him, Robby removes his fingers, spreads your juices over his cock, and lines himself up. He lifts the tail out of the way and the movement makes you whimper. You buck back to try to rush him and he puts a firm hand on your hip to steady you. "C'mon, kitten, don't be a brat. I'm gonna give you what you need."

"Please, Robby. Don't tease me. Need you so bad."

"I know, sweetheart," he soothes, notching the head of his swollen cock into your entrance. No matter how long you've been together, he'll never get over the way that first thrust in your pussy feels, so warm and wet, like you were made to take him and hold him. "There, that's better." When he looks down and sees his cock disappearing beneath the tail, feeling the added pressure of the plug inside of you against his shaft, it's almost enough to make him cum then and there. "Fuck. You've got no idea how good you look right now."

"I know how good you feel," you moan back. You meet his thrust when he pulls out slightly and order, "Fuck me, Robby. Hard. You know what I need."

He chuckles at your greed but has no problem obliging the request. With a playful smack, he agrees, "Yes, ma'am."

Then the jokes are over. Robby's hips slam into yours, his cock punching deep enough to steal your breath away. He sets an unforgiving, unrelenting rhythm, speeding up until he gets your eyes rolling back from thoughtless pleasure. When the force of his fucking stops you from being able to keep your balance, he yanks you back by your hips. One arm loops around you, hand snaking between your legs so that he can play with your clit. God bless those long arms of his. The moment his fingers make contact with your most sensitive spot, you're wailing, unable to think enough to quiet yourself for the sake of the neighbors. Robby's definitely not going to be the one to tell you to quiet down, not when your moans invade his ears so perfectly.

Robby gives the tail a gentle tug and the pressure against your hole adds a thrill to his fucking that you hadn't anticipated. When your cunt clenches up in response, hitching even closer to your orgasm, he growls, "Yeah? That's good? Wanna feel like a bitch in heat?" He hikes one leg up on the bed so he can mount you deeper, more animalistic, and his fingers get firmer and faster on your clit. "Go on, kitten, cum for me. Show me how good you can be."

With tears biting your waterline, you whimper out, "And you'll- and you'll cum inside of me, Mikey? Please?"

"Of course, baby. Always." He bites down on your shoulder and praises, "Thank you for asking so nicely. Such a good girl for me."

"Need your cum," you cry as your pussy starts to tighten up. "Need you to fill me. Make me yours. Wanna feel you inside me all day."

"You're all mine," he grunts, getting close alongside you. "My wife. My girl. My pet." That word sends you to the plateau of pleasure, flame eating up the end of the detonation cord. "Come on, baby. Now. Cum. Cum with me."

You explode. The scaffolding of your body tumbles apart into rubble; Robby is the only thing keeping you upright enough to take his cock through the shockwaves. Heat floods you and your vision swims and your mind goes blessedly, deliciously quiet. Nothing exists but what Robby can give you and make you.

You're vaguely aware of his cum coating your walls, his cock softening, and him gingerly removing the plug from your body. But you aren't fully back to your senses until he's in bed next to you, wiping your sex down with a warm cloth, kissing your shoulder, murmuring love into your skin.

Robby places a warm kiss on your hot burning cheek. "Doing okay?"

"Mmm," you respond lazily. Flopping onto your stomach, you gaze at him lovingly. He's so beautiful with sweat on his brow and blush in his cheeks. "Very okay."

"Good." He rubs your back lightly and then chuckles, "Remind me to add a personal note to Trinity's thank you card for the gift."

[rr-after-dark]

(Take two because I’m a dumbass and forgot to say who…)

☕️ 🍓 🥑 🍼

Surprise me with Robby or Jack, please!

domestic fluff//sex pollen//breeding/impregnation//pregnancy//dr. robby

lowkey kinda crack. leadup to smut/suggestive content. the way my mind saw through the matrix writing this

1.4k

"Jesus, we need to get groceries," you groan as you scour the fridge for anything you might be able to cobble together for breakfast. "We're already running late. Fuck."

Robby stretches the sleep from his long arms, his tummy peeking out from under his tee, and descends into the pantry to see if he can come up with something. After a minute of rifling, he offers, "We could run through McDonald's on the way in."

You shake your head and reply, "If I eat one more greasy breakfast sandwich this month, I'm going to have to contact a cardiologist."

"When are these from?" Robby hands over a tupperware with six oversized frosted cookies. "I don't remember you doing any baking lately."

"The cookies, right." You shrug and tell him, "A patient gave them to me. I know I'm not supposed to take them, but she's been my patient forever and she's this super kind little old lady. I couldn't say no."

He sits down on the nearby couch and toys with the container, debating if he should encourage a strictly prohibited interaction by giving in and eating one. "Any particular reason? Did I miss Radiologist Appreciation Day again?"

Rolling your eyes, you curl up next to him on the couch and explain, "Last time I was interpreting her scans, we got to talking, and I told her about how we've been trying for a long time. I said, y'know, it might not be in the cards for us." Robby squeezes your knee knowingly. You give him a peck on the cheek. "And she told me that she had a recipe for these magic fertility cookies. Said she'd never had a couple fail to get pregnant after eating a batch. Then she brought them into the office yesterday."

"Well, we do need to eat something," he points out, prying open the lid slowly. Then, with that cheeky smile you love, he adds, "And we are trying to conceive. What harm could it do?"

"They could be full of anthrax. Or weed."

"Such a pessimist," he admonishes lightly. Then he picks up one of the cookies, sniffs it suspiciously, and takes a large bite. His eyes close and he lets out an inhuman moan. "Fuck, baby, these are delicious. Have a couple."

Narrowing your eyes, you pluck one of the soft, inviting cookies up and inspect it closely. It smells absolutely heavenly, vanilla and mild but with a bit of spice and honey, too. You can't quite place all the specifics of the flavors. Hovering it in front of your mouth, you mutter, "Only because if you die from patient poisoning, I want to go with you."

The flavors burst over your tongue and you do the same thing Robby had just a second ago, closing your eyes and smiling softly. It tastes like nostalgia, like heaven, like perfection. Soon enough you're both reaching for a second one, eating them together on the couch and complimenting the baking over and over. By the time you each reach for your third, about to finish off the batch, you're warm and full and happy. You wish there were a hundred more you could pore through together.

Robby watches you lick the last of the marbled pink and blue frosting from your fingers. You make suggestive, silly eye contact as you suck your first two fingers. Lust blooms in his eyes. He can't stop himself from reaching out and offering his own sugary fingers to you. When your lips wrap around them, it feels borderline as good as a blowjob. He rumbles out a pleased moan as your tongue flicks up between his two fingers.

With his eyes glued to your mouth, he breathes, "That's my good girl."

At the simple phrase, you sit up, swing your leg over his, and straddle him. He's getting hard beneath your ass before you even move. When you kiss him, he meets it with an intensity neither of you usually allows with the morning shift looming over your shoulder. One of his hands splays across your lower back, sliding up beneath your shirt to feel your bare skin, and the other cups your face possessively.

Your vision starts to swim as soon as he's touching you. Each brush of your bodies together feels like velvet. Addictive and soft. The hairs on your arms stand up and you shiver when he tugs your lower lip with his teeth. You don't shy away, though. You match him. Your tongue stakes a claim on his and you're whining into his lungs. Wetness pools in your panties. He can feel the warmth of your cunt through your sleep shorts and his boxers. And he can feel his precum leaking out in fat, thick drops, dampening his underwear.

Oh, god.

Those cookies.

The realization isn't upsetting in his altered state, but it does spur him to action.

"Honey, I-" His fingers dig into your waist as he deepens the kiss, fighting to keep his thoughts coherent. "I think- I think we've-"

"Yeah." You nod into the kiss but don't stop, grinding your hips back and forth to get any friction on your throbbing clit. "I think so too. We should- we should probably go to the hospital. Have our systems flushed or whatever."

"But, y'know, we could always-" Another moan punches out of him when you lick up his neck, right to the line of his beard. Your kisses are claiming and burning, teeth dragging and nipping. "Fuck. I've heard sometimes the best -- God, just like that, honey -- the best thing to do is to just let it take its course."

You reach down and pull off your top, nodding again, starting to feel dizzy with lust. "I like the sound of that." Then you catch the sight of the clock on the wall behind him and groan dramatically. "We need to- Fuck. Shit. The hospital, baby. We have work."

"I don't think you're in any condition to work, Mrs. Robinavitch," he goads. Robby drops his head low and kisses along the tops of your breasts. He's never seen your nipples so pebbled, begging for attention. So he latches his mouth to one side, thumb and forefinger on the other. You let out a sharp cry as your back arches, forcing your tits harder against his mouth. He chuckles darkly as he pulls away from you. "I think you should let me take care of you until you feel better, don't you? That's what husbands are for."

"Michael," you whine out, sounding needy and desperate and not caring, "please. Need you."

"I'll call us out, okay? Just hang on one minute." Robby picks up his phone as you tongue across his collarbone, tugging the neck of his shirt aside hard enough to rip the seam. You need more of his skin. More of him. All of him. Your skin is so hot that it itches and you hastily discard your clothes. Robby dials the hospital with trembling hands as he takes in your half-naked body.

Dana picks up on the second ring with annoyance in her voice. Robby swallows hard, trying to keep his voice steady as his cock starts to literally throb. He can feel his heart beating in his dick and he wants to feel yours in your cunt. Clamping his eyes shut, he grunts out, "Can't come in. Wife and I are sick."

With her trademarked suspicion, she prods, "Both of you? With what?"

Your hand slips beneath his scrub bottoms and you start jerking his cock. His free hand grips into your hair and he gives you warning look, which you return with a mischevious grin. "Food poisoning."

"Likely story."

"Evans, I have 27 sick days stacked up. I'm calling out for once. Would you mind calling radiology for her?"

"So sick she can't call herself?"

Robby watches you drop to your knees, not caring about how he ends up tugging your hair. You're fishing out his cock as he replies, "Yes. She definitely can't do that."

"Shit, alright. Feel better. Let me know if there's anything we can do here, alright?"

"Yup." The moment the call ends, Robby's phone clatters out of his hand and onto the kitchen floor. He yanks you to your feet, pushes you over the counter, and tugs your sleep shorts down around your knees. His huge hand rains a harsh slap down on your ass and you buck up to meet it, whining with need and pleasure. Looking down at the red mark left behind, he thrusts into you in one push and groans, "Let's make a fucking baby."

Play along!

[rr-after-dark]

CONGRATS ON 3k!! your work is so good and you truly deserve it <333 i was wondering if i could get these emojis — 🌲🍎🌶️🍀 — with dennis whitaker being the one corrupted ;)))))

"i'll take care of it"//corruption//sub!character//"you can take it"//dennis whitaker

fdom!reader, established crush, public play, clothed handjob, i made the boy cum in his pants sorry not sorry, not super corruption-y more just like he's a nervous boy

1.2k

my first whitaker blurb be nice

It's the final dance of the medical gala before the keynote speaker and you tap Trinity on the shoulder. She and Dennis have been dancing for a few songs, using it as an excuse to bitch about the event and avoid talking to their bosses.

As the two of them slow to a stop, you ask, "Mind if I cut in, Dr. Santos?"

She gives you a conspiratorial smile and says, "Absolutely. My toes are swelling up from him stepping on them all night, anyway."

With wide eyes, Dennis protests, "I haven't been stepping on your feet! You're the one who can't-"

But Trinity's already gone.

Dennis stands there looking for all the world like he's at his first middle school dance before you step forward and ask more directly, "Would you dance with me, Dennis?"

He clears his throat and brushes off his suit jacket. "Um, you- you want to dance with me? If you need to talk to me about a work thing, we can-"

"I want to dance with you," you insist, warm and sincere. You close the small remaining distance between your bodies, not missing the way his eyes fly directly to your cleavage and then rocket back up. Your arms drape around the back of his neck and your chest touches his and you tease, "I could always go ask Shen if you'd prefer me to-"

"No!" He curses under his breath at the speed and volume of the insistence, trying to cover it up with a not particularly smooth, "I'd like that, I mean. I really would."

You lean in and murmur against his ear, "You should probably touch me if we're going to start dancing."

"Right. Yeah, of course. Right. I've been meaning to say all night that you look really pretty," he squeaks out, hands extremely tentative and high up on your waist, "if you don't mind me saying."

"I don't mind," you reply softly, letting him lead the dance as much as he can, "although I was going more for 'sexy' than pretty. Guess the push-up bra thing isn't working."

"No, no, it's-" He glances at your chest again and, this time, his gaze lingers longer than he's ever allowed it before. Maybe a full second. Then he raises his eyes, nearly making eye contact, and tells you, "You're very sexy. If that's okay for me to say. Really, super, extremely sexy."

You grin and play with the hair at the nape of his neck, relishing in his boyish shiver. "Thank you. I'm glad you think so."

His eyes widen. That's one of the things you love about him. He's so expressive, so earnest, so very himself. He sounds honestly shocked as he confirms, "You are?"

"Of course I am," you reply with a small laugh. "You're handsome, you're smart, you're tenacious. Anyone would be thrilled for you to think they're sexy."

Any semblance of a response catches in his throat when he feels his dick going impossibly hard impossibly fast. The biggest most raging boner he's ever had. With your hips pressed together, you definitely notice right away. Nothing but a little praise and you've got him hot and bothered. It honestly goes to your head a bit. He bucks his hips away from you like you've punched him in the gut and stammers out, "Oh, god. Fuck. Shit fuck. I'm so sorry; I never-"

You touch the center of his chest. "It's okay."

He's so embarrassed that tears sting at his eyes as he tries to imagine naked grandmas and surgeries to get his dick to calm down. "You don't have to say that. It's not like-"

"Whitaker," you repeat more seriously, dropping your voice, "it's okay." Then you yank him flush against your body again, reach between you both, and palm his erection through his slacks, caging your body against his to block the view but honestly not particularly caring if anyone sees. As white hot shock and need flood him, you murmur against his ear, "I'll take care of it."

"What do you…?"

His voice trails off as the music ends. Trying not to enjoy Dennis' red cheeks too much, you tug him back over to the Pitt crew's tables. You ask Trinity to trade seats with and she's more than happy to oblige. The interns and students are all seated at the very back of the space, nearly the entire room trained away and forward. The other students have already left for the evening as soon as they got the okay from Robby, so there's really no danger as you place your hand on his thigh.

The lights dim as the speaker -- some old doctor from some old program -- steps onto the stage and launches into the introduction.

Your hand travels further along Dennis' leg, inward, toward the seam, and he spreads his legs to give you better access. You lean over and press your lips to his ear. "Good boy."

He swallows down the whimper that threatens.

As your palm makes contact with his bulge, you whisper, "Nobody's paying attention to you, so just be good for me, okay? You can take it."

He nods eagerly. With bright red cheeks and guilty wide eyes, he's so cute you have to laugh. With a snicker, you add, "Try not to look like I'm holding a gun to your dick, baby."

He nods again, this one slower. Less frantic. You watch his pronounced Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. Then he takes a deep breath and lifts his champagne to his mouth with shaky fingers, trying to appear casual. Once you're satisfied with his behavior, you go back to rubbing his cock. It's tucked perfectly sideways, so you're able to get a decent grip through his clothes. He has to close his eyes and bite his lip to avoid cumming then and there.

You know it won't take long with Dennis, though, even if he's trying to put it off. That's why you've spent the whole night treating him like a chew toy, stealing him away from every dance for useless conversations, leaning in front of him so he had to look at your cleavage, giggling at his bad jokes, squeezing his bicep. Ever since Trinity told you about Dennis' crush, you'd been torturing the poor kid just because. It's far from the first time a medical student has had a thing for you as an attractive young attending, but it is the first time you've entertained it. Your fellow attendings would be proud, the group of sluts.

You can tell he's getting close by how tense he gets. It's downright adorable. His thighs tighten and his jaw clenches and you can see the battle raging behind his eyes, trying to keep him quiet as pleasure creeps up on him. You rest your head innocently on his shoulder so that you can listen to his hushed, ragged breaths as his hips twitch up toward your hand. You feel the warmth of his cum pulsing outward and he hisses in an almost-too-loud breath. His fingertips grip into your forearm as he takes a split second of control, rutting up against your hand through the last shakes of the orgasm.

"Good boy," you lilt against his neck. Then you press a firm kiss to his cheek and murmur, "Meet me in the bathroom down the hall and I'll clean you up with my tongue, okay?"

He lets out a tiny, pathetic whimper. And nods.

Play along!

[rr-after-dark]

bravely coming off anon to ask for this uhhhhh don’t look at me i’m ashamed, but 🍒 🥥 🌵 with dark!jack abbot, im imagining they’re like staying at his house for *insert inane reason* and he’s kinda pervy and older than them but reader is just so trusting🫣 maybe some daddy vibes idk don’t look at me omg

i love your writing!! i always want to lick your brain when i read it

virginity loss//somnophilia//"don't move"//darkish!jack abbot

tw for like...drinking to excess? he gets you rlly drunk basically. so also noncon. essentially.

*takes a long drag of a cigarette* i remember back when i used to feel shame, tumblr user pussyistasty

1.1k

Jack definitely hadn't been planning on doing this when he invited you to crash at his place during the snowstorm.

He hadn't even been planning on it when he gave you a heavy-poured mug of mulled wine and talked with you late into the night.

Okay, maybe it was a thought at the back of his mind when you polished off the mug and gave him a sleepy, cozy, adoring smile so much like the ones you give him at work when he praises you. His perfect little medical student, hoping to place into emergency medicine someday and craving his training, his recommendation, his support.

Sure, once you were so drunk you could barely move and he helped you change into makeshift pajamas, it became a concrete idea. So there was no reason to keep your panties on, really. He helped you tug one of his old shirts over your body and then tucked you into his bed. You were so out of it that you didn't even realize you were mostly naked. Didn't care. All you could think about was how good it felt to have Jack Abbot, your boss and your mentor, making sure you were safe and comfortable instead of sending you home on the bus as usual.

Then, in your drunken state, eyes glassy and smile sloppy, you'd told him as he saw your tits on display, pretending not to be interested, "Watch it, Dr. Abbot, I'm still a virgin" and he knew it was over.

He let you sleep for an hour or so, cleaning up the dishes from dinner and gnawing his lip off as he debated what he knew he would ultimately give into. He was a little tipsy himself, sure, but he knew it wasn't the alcohol that would send him back into his bedroom.

It was pure, unbridled lust. Keeping it together while working in close proximity to you every day has gotten beyond exhausting. Your cute little sighs when you stretch out after a procedure. The way your scrubs are always a size too small -- to the point that Gloria had called you into her office once. How your hair tickles his scruff when he leans in behind you to guide your hands. It's all too much for him. Your presence consumes his mind and it was only a matter of time before he let the basest desires in his lizard brain take over.

So here he is. In his own bedroom, moonlight and hazy snow mingling to cast a soft glow around the space, tugging the covers back away from your body. You're flipped halfway onto your stomach, sleeping deeply, your hips canted upwards and your face mostly turned into the pillow. In this position, with the shirt riding up around your ribs, he has a perfect view of your cunt.

God, your cunt.

He can't resist flicking on the bedside table so he can see you properly. The way he needs. The warm light bathes your curves and the wetness between your legs catches it, almost shimmering. You must be one of those girls who get turned on when they're drunk, so slick when you haven't had any attention. Or maybe you're turned on by the thought of sleeping in his clothes, in his bed, maybe even in his arms. Maybe you'd been hoping for this all along.

That's it.

He can't take it.

Quiet as he can, movements ginger and slow, Jack slides into bed behind you. He slides his middle two fingers between your thighs, barely grazing them along your folds. Testing the waters. Gauging your reactions. You sigh contentedly in your sleep, arching your back like you're asking for more. He can tell you're still sleeping soundly, though, only stirring and responding to stimulus. He imagines what might be going on behind your rapidly moving eyelids. What you might be dreaming about as he begins to circle your clit lightly, sending warmth and twitches throughout your abdomen. He watches with rapt, clinical interest as your eyebrows pinch together and your breaths speed up. Your thighs squeeze around his hand and he knows you must be having a wet dream now. He even lets himself indulge in the idea that it might be about him.

Gaining confidence now, Jack sits up so that he can slowly, carefully work two fingers on his other hand inside of you. He nearly cums in his pants right there. Your pussy is gripping him so greedily he knows you must want this. Some deep-down part of you craves him. Needs him to take you like this. To give you the release that you've never felt with someone else.

Suddenly, your walls clench down hard and a high-pitched, muffled moan tumbles from your throat. Jack curls his fingers to match the tightening of your pussy and then you're spasming around his fingers. The orgasm is quick and flighty without your consciousness to heighten it, but it still has his cock leaking and outright aching.

Jack scrambles out of his pants, getting sloppy now with how badly he needs to feel you. He gives his cock a few pumps, spreading around the precum. And he refuses to let himself second guess what he's about to do. What he's about to take from you.

At the sharp intrusion of Jack's cock plunging all the way inside of you, your confused eyes flutter awake. You're in an unfamiliar bed in someone else's oversized sweatshirt with no panties. There are arms around you. Firm. But you don't panic. You feel loose and warm and safe waking up from the wet dream you'd been having.

You realize, in your sleepy, foggy mind, that you must've dozed off while having sex with Jack, so you turn around to apologize, only to be met with his hand gripping your hip tight. Keeping you in place. He urges, "Shh. Shh, baby, don't move. It's okay. It's just me." He tugs your hip slightly back toward himself so that his fingers can snake down to your clit. It's throbbing and sensitive. He must've made you cum already. And he wants to do it again now. "That feel good?"

You can't help nodding. It does feel good. Really good. You're surprised by how easy and comfortable the stretch of his large cock feels inside of you. You don't remember, but he must've taken his time warming you up. Of course he would. He's always so careful with you. As his slow, steady thrusts lull you somewhere between consciousness and sleep, you try to get out, "Were we- Did I-"

"Don't worry about a thing, sweetheart. We'll talk about it in the morning," he lies, hoping you won't remember any of this and wanting to make sure you stay calm and pliant in his arms. "I've got you. Like always, right? You just be good for me."

You slur back, "But I'm so sleepy, Dr. Abbot."

"That's okay, honey. You don't have to stay awake. Just let me take care of you."

Play along!

[rr-after-dark]

🍌🌱 pope please 😇

public/exhibitionism//"of course I'm jealous"//pope cody

established relationship, clubbing/drinking, reader being slutty <3

1.1kl

You're closing out your tab at the club's bar when one of the guys from a bachelor party who have been getting progressively louder and drunker the whole night finally takes his chance to flirt with you. It's the first time you've approached the bar without Andrew by your side, so he leans in with a too-confident smile. "Hi there, gorgeous."

"Hi," you say curtly. "Congratulations to your friend."

"Yeah, right. Can I buy you a drink?"

"No, thanks." You nod in the other direction toward Pope, who's coming out of the bathroom now. "I have a boyfriend."

"That's your boyfriend? I figured he was your pathetic pervert friend the way he stares at you." The guy scoffs and shakes his head. "It's always the moody losers who get the hottest girls."

You roll your eyes, write out a tip on the receipt, and tell him, "He beat the shit out of the last guy who hit on me, so you should probably try someone else for your own safety."

"For my own safety, huh?" His smile goes even cockier as he leans in closer. "I think I'd be willing to take that risk for a girl like you. See if he wants you that bad."

Pope yanks the guy's arm away from you, interrupting mid-sentence before someone else can touch what belongs to him. "That's enough. Fuck off."

The guy just laughs. "You gonna hit me now? Dick so small you have to police who your girl can talk to? We were just having a little fun."

"I don't think you were," Andrew spits. He drops a wad of way too much cash on the tab, shoves it toward the bartender, and then guides you away from the bar. The way he manhandles you when he thinks you might be in danger makes your knees weak. His eyes search your face carefully. "You okay, angel?"

"I'm fine," you assure, taking his hands in yours as the music picks up again. "Just some creep shooting his shot when he had me alone."

Pope grunts, not exactly pleased by the answer. If he had his way, you'd never have to speak to another man again. Not if you didn't want to. But, knowing you don't like when he makes a scene, he just shakes his head and asks, "You wanna dance some more?"

Your grin is enough of an answer. Andrew puts up with clubbing for you, but he rarely suggests continuing the night at a moment when he could just as easily suggest going home. He keeps you at the edge of the dance floor, always sure that he could get you to an exit at a moment's notice, and pulls you close.

Then he gives you the kind of kiss designed to melt you down like a candle. His teeth tug at your lower lip and his tongue claims yours and his hands are gripping you hard. He grunts, "Hate fuckers like that. They should learn to mind their business."

You giggle into the bruising kiss. "What, are you jealous of those Silicon Valley fuckboys?"

"Of course I'm jealous," he growls as he grips your ass hard with both hands, rucking up your dress enough to expose an indecent amount of upper thigh. He makes sure you're in full view of the bachelor party and mouths up your neck. Hot, open-mouthed kisses with teeth and tongue that turn your knees to jello. He nips your earlobe and purrs, "That's kind of my thing, angel. I was five seconds from pulling a gun on that last one."

"We agreed you can only do that when someone touches me," you giggle as his hands roam over your barely clothed body. Dizzy from his desire and the handful of drinks pulsing in your veins, you lean into his strong chest, twine your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, and kiss him hard. Filthy. Deep. When you pull back, he can see your eyes blown from lust and that soothes his ego. Fiddling with your golden necklace, you remind him, "I'm wearing your name around my neck, Andy, you have nothing to worry about."

"Oh, I don't worry about you," he assures, leaning his head back when you decide to suck on his neck greedily, marking him up how he likes. Some guys think hickeys are an emasculating thing, but he likes everyone to know that you've claimed him -- and only him. Every bruise is a confirmation of you choosing him. He smirks and tells you, "I just don't like when other people want to play with my toys."

"Always so selfish," you tease, running your hands beneath his tee so you can feel the strong, muscled V of his hip bones. His eyes flutter shut when he feels the want in your grip. You stand up on your toes and half-joke, "Want me to get on my knees for you? I'd do it right here to show everyone I'm yours."

He rolls his eyes and laughs, holding you close. "I know you would, sweetheart."

"At least let me give them a little show," you lilt, turning around so that your ass lines up with his clothed cock. You grab his hands and put them on your tits and grind backwards until you feel him getting hard.

He kisses behind your ear and murmurs, low and rumbling, "You're gonna get us kicked out, kitten."

"I don't like this club anyway," you laugh. "Let's get kicked out."

You raise your arms up over your head and continue to writhe to the music, not caring about the gawking or the judgment. All you care about is the way Andrew touches you everywhere, following your lead, letting himself be greedy. He loves when you're like this, carefree and possessive and tipsy. Entirely unlike him with your giggly, show-off delight. So he just lets himself enjoy it. As your dress rides both up and down further, you feel him laugh against you. He buries his forehead in the crook of your shoulder.

His arms go around to your front, one of them snaking to your inner thigh, dangerously close to exposing your panties to the masses. He pulls your hair with his other hand, baring your neck, and bites down on your carotid like a vampire. You cry out with pleasure at the sudden pain. His canines dig in almost enough to draw blood. Exactly the way you crave. Then he drags his lips to your ear and breathes, "Yeah, let's get kicked out."