i NEED jack abott x reader breeding kink pregnancy
THIS IS MY SLEEPER AGENT PHRASE. MY WAKE WORD. MY DREAM. actually unfortunately need Jack to breed me at this point.
Unfortunately, I have a sickness where I can't just write smut, so here's a 4k Jack one shot!
Content: Douchey! Jack, AFAB! Reader, Smut, Oral (F! Receiving always), PIV Sex, unprotected sex, Breeding kink, Creampie, pregnancy kink, dirty talk, Some mentions of alcohol consumption, reader is wearing a dress & has hair that can be put in a ponytail. UNEDITED!! I can't stress enough I was riffing after work and then i was 9 pages into a google doc
It shouldn’t be surprising you found yourself here, in the clutches of the very man you had been warned to stay away from. The very man who had made it his mission to make you weak in the knees every time you saw him. The exact same man who had a very nasty habit of making girls like you lustfully silly only to leave them high and dry once he was finished.
Jack Abbot was not to be trusted, that was all you knew.
Jack, who was actually your roommate’s boss, who had a reputation for bedding women no more than once. Jack, who had spotted you at a picnic last fall and has been hot on your trail ever since. Jack, who had you flat against your mattress, his body laid heavy on top of your own while he ruts against your jeans like a wild animal.
It shouldn’t be surprising, but you genuinely were shocked you managed to last this long. It had been well over six months of his flirting whenever you’d stop by to drop off Parker’s lunch, insisting he join girls nights as ‘protection’, and mysterious deliveries arriving at the door with the same scrawled script attached.
You were resolved to not become one of his pursuits, turning a blind eye and cold shoulder to each attempt. Ellis had told you stories in passing, Shen, who was a frequent guest at your shared apartment, had filled you in on his dirty details. And you, you had an imagination that could supply the rest.
Jack Abbot, the hot-shot emergency medicine attending, loved the chase. He liked to pick the women who were obstinate, focused, and borderline repressed. He liked the way they crumbled beneath his sly approaches. He liked the blind admiration he can garner when they do fall into step with him. He craved their borderline obsessive eagerness.
It hadn’t always been like this. Once upon a time, Jack Abbot was someone’s husband. He was someone’s very attentive, loyal, devoted husband. One who yearned for the whole package, the white picket fence, the huddle of small children running around, the soccer games and dance recitals. Life did not sway in his favor. So now here he was, down half a limb, down a wife, and all he had to show for his life was a boatload of traumatic experiences.
The first girl he pursued was earnest and genuine, he thought maybe this was the next phase of his forsaken life. The morning after, walking up in his marital bed, turning over to the warm body on the other side, and not seeing his beloved wife was a punch of betrayal in his gut.
So, he had resigned to a life of celibacy. Until the next girl crossed his path, and he found himself at mercy to this vicious cycle.
You came into his life similarly enough to his others. Ellis had mentioned her roommate more than once, and how she was doing her a solid paying rent while she completed her residency. Abbot hadn’t thought twice about you, until he saw you at the annual picnic he’d been practically dragged to by Dana.
You were glowing under the midsummer sun. Your smile presence was smooth and easy around the team that seemed to operate as a machine without effort. He admired you at first, just from afar, and that was enough to warrant Parker’s harsh warning that you were off limits.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, that was what cemented Jack’s need to have a taste of you.
Six months of heavy flirtation later, he couldn’t seem to figure out what it is he wanted from you. Or, he could, and that’s what scared him. He wanted to sleep with you, but he also knew he wanted to take you to dinner every Friday night. He wanted to tuck the stray hair that falls out of your ponytail. He knew your likes, dislikes, fears, aspirations, and he couldn’t believe how well they seemed to fit against his own.
This blind pursuit of pleasure for him had spiraled into something much headier, affection. Dare he say it, but Jack Abbot was starting to feel the violet throws of love.
It all came to a head one Saturday afternoon. He knew Ellis would be working a double that day, so she was out of the house. He also knew you liked to take advantage of having the house to yourself for the rare occasions.
So, Jack, seemingly an expert at your preferences, picked up your favorite flowers from the elegant florist in his neighborhood, and made his way to your place. He had a plan, one that was going to win you over for good. Or at least he thought he did, until he knocked on your door.
You had swung it open expecting to see an amazon delivery truck pulling away from the curb, or maybe at most some sort of solicitor. You hadn’t expected Jack, or better yet Jack standing behind a giant bouquet of flowers.
“Oh!” You startled, “Jack! Hi!”
“Hi.” He said simply, trailing off. His eyes scanned over you dreamily. “Hi.” He repeated himself.
“Hi?” You laugh, short and angelic, the sound washes over him deliciously. “Um, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I wanted to give you these,” He offers the large bouquet, laying them in your arms gently when you do take them. “And I wanted to ask you to dinner tonight.”
“Thank you Jack,” You brought the flowers up to your face to admire, “You really didn’t need to.”
“No, no” He rocked back and forth slowly, “I wanted to. I know you like them.”
You smile up at him sweetly. “I do. They’re my favorite, but I’m sure you knew that.”
He smirked in response.
“Jack, I...” You trailed off, “I’m not going to sleep with you.” You declare softly.
“Well, that’s forward, Sweetheart. I believe I asked you to dinner.” You shoot him a nonplussed look.
“It’s never just ‘dinner’ with you, though.” He sighed dejectedly, “Is it Jack?”
He grunts in frustration, just barely audible. “I’m not messing around here,” he raises three fingers, “Scouts Honor.”
“Were you even a Scout, Abbot?” You shoot back.
“Eagle,” He puffed his chest out, dropping the salute, “And just think of it this way. If I do anything untoward Ellis will have my head hung over your fireplace before dawn.” You bark a laugh at the image, which did inspire confidence.
“It would be a good look.” You bite your lip, imagining him in about a million other scenarios in, around, and next to the fireplace inside. “She does know where you live.”
“Right.” He brought his hand to lean against the door jam, until his head was level with yours. Perfect to give you a dose of his intense eye contact. “So, what do you think? Dinner at 7?”
You pretend to think for a minute before relenting. “Don’t be late, Abbot.”
You hardly miss the triumphed look he shoots you. You expect more of a gloat from his victory, but he doesn’t. He straightens out, smiles politely, and speaks softly. “I’ll see you at 7:00 sharp, Sweetheart.”
Watching him walk down the steps back out to his truck, you tried to quell the butterflies that began their swarm. It was too late, when Jack peaked back over his shoulder back at you with a brilliant smile, you knew he had you right where he wanted.
The date itself was a testament to how well both of you had gotten to know each other throughout this dance you’d been doing. Dinner was intimate and romantic, low candle light and endless conversation set the tone for the rest of the night. He was dependably himself, but kept you on your toes at the same time.
He’d told you stories of his late wife over dessert, listened to you lament about your frustrations while he laid his card down for the bill. Subtle, but absolutely pointed. He was sending the message loud and clear.
As long as you’re mine, I’ll be taking care of you.
“Okay, if you did stick to that plan, where would you be?” He asked, swirling the last few sips of wine around his glass.
“Honestly?” Your cheeks burn, and you stopped trying to figure out if it was the wine or how hard he made you smile. “I thought I’d be married by now.” You admit coyly. It takes Jack considerable effort to stay calm at the admittance.
“Really?” He raises his eyebrows, “Are the Men in Pittsburg so bad you can’t find a single one to settle down with?” He throws the line out and watches you circle it, once, twice, and then finally you sink further into the leather seat.
“Well, I thought so for a long time…” You bite down. “But now I’m rethinking it.”
He nods slowly, casually, even though the moment feels heavy between you. “What makes you say that?”
“I think you know, Abbot.” Your foot stretches out until it sits just next to his.
“Jack, please,” He inches his good leg to brush against yours. “I want you to call me Jack.” He blushes at the confession.
“Jack,” you test the waters, even though you’d said his name a thousand times. “S’a great name.” you mumble, earning a dry chuckle from him.
“So,” He deflected, “Married. What else?” He refocuses you.
You squirm under the weight of the question, you knew exactly what you wanted. And you also knew, with his reputation, Jack was the last person likely to give it to you. You hesitate, shying away from the vulnerability.
Jack, for his part, senses your unease and offers you his hand in reassurance. You let a moment pass before slipping into his grasp easily. His calloused palms are soothing, you let your fingers explore the planes of his palm, past his wrist and dance across his forearm.
“I want to be a Mom.” You admit, softer than you could imagine. Jack nearly misses the secret shared between you. He thanks every God in existence that he hadn’t. That you trusted him with it, that you said the just exact right thing as always. He felt his blood pounding through him.
“You will be,” He wraps his hand around yours, and gives it a soft squeeze. He catches your eyes with an earnest intensity you’d never seen before. “ You will.”
You're nodding before you even realize it, and he nods with you. You sit in this trance where all you can do is imagine if every right thing were to happen tonight, if the pieces just fit the way you wished them to. If Jack stayed, you could see a world of lovely things happening to you.
“C’mon, Sweetheart,” he nods to the door, “let’s get out of here.”
The drive home happened in the blink of an eye. Jack was the perfect gentleman, the only touch being his hand safely draped across your thigh. You can hardly think until you’re both standing, again, at your door. He’s respectful, walking you up, but not pushing you to open the door.
It’s you who makes the first move, as Jack takes a step back to end the night your hand finds itself curled around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him back to you. You pull until he’s flush against you, and he responds immediately. His hands wrapped around your back and his lips against yours fervently.
Jack kisses like he’s starving. His stubble scrapes deliciously against your soft skin, letting your mind wander to other tantalizing ways it might rub against you. Your lips collide with clumsy passion. Your senses are overwhelmed by him, his cologne, the sound of his subtle groans, the steady presence of his hands keeping you anchored to reality.
“Come inside?” You ask innocently. He bites back a comment, yes, I will.
“I thought you weren’t going to sleep with me, Sweetheart?” He teases, trailing his kisses down your neck until he finds your pulse point and attacks. Your head falls back against the door.
“Shut up,” You pull him by the grey curls until his mouth slots over yours again, “Don’t make me ask again.”
He nods against you, taking a moment to watch your eyes, to see if there was any lingering hesitation. He had to brace himself against you when you matched his eyes, the same wanton longing burning you alive.
So, now you find yourself sandwiched between Jack and the mattress you’d had since college. He’d pressed you down under him minutes, hours, days, years ago? You had lost all sense that wasn’t the wonderful sensation of him pulling pleasure from you. His erection digging into your core, a burning that once lived as an ache inside of you threatens to consume you with every touch.
“Jack,” You moan out, “Please I need you.”
He pulls away, looking at your blissed out expression. “Yeah?” You nod, he backs off of you, planting his feet back on the floor. His hands grip your hips and pull until you’re at the foot of the bed, laid in front of him.
“You’re so fucking pretty for me.” He murmurs, propping your feet up so that he has a better view of your soaked underwear. His thumb traces the outline of your clit, you shudder at the feathered sensation. “So responsive.”
“Please,” you flop your knees apart, “Please, I need to cum Jack.” You declare.
Jack drops to his knees, pulling your panties down with him. He hardly takes the time to fling the offending garment somewhere behind him before he’s licking you entirely.
Your mouth drops open, letting a symphony of sound through freely. Jack’s tongue finds every peak and valley of your sex, every appendage and nook before settling home with a long suck to your clit. The button pulses beneath his ministrations, blood pumping so violently through your body you forget how to respond outside of primal instinct.
Blindly your hand finds his hair, your hips twitch against him for resistance until you're practically gliding against him. His hand slips easily to penetrate you in the madness. You feel the stretch passively but he plays against your nerves like some kind of prodigy. He brings the precipice of madness to you on a silver platter, slipping another finger in.
Your fingers curl, your heart pounds, the impossibly tight coil in the pit of your stomach becomes even lighter, pleasure zips through you entirely. Somewhere far away from yourself you hear the babbling coming from you, something reverent and beautiful. Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack!
He crooks his fingers experimentally, and doesn’t relent in positioning until he finds the exact right place inside of you that makes you go limp and brainless under him. You think you’ll fly away, and right when you think the pleasure can’t heighten further, he hums approvingly against that forsaken bundle of nerves.
You reel in all at once, your back arches off the bed, in near possession of pleasure. You cry out completely, your body sucks him in greedily, he takes the opportunity to scissor your opening out further. The pleasure that rocks over you is euphoric and spiritual, like shooting stars and becoming one.
It’s a long moment before your body is yours again. Jack waits, with reverence, for your body to subside its dance. He watches without blinking, how could he miss a second of this privilege.
“You’re so fucking good at that.” You whisper to no one and nobody. His laugh brings you back to sitting up, your dress pooling around your hips.
“You inspire greatness in me, Sweetheart,” He kisses you resolutely, “You’re perfect.” He whispers against you.
Neither of you waste time, he fiddles with the buttons of his shirt, you with a tug on your dress. It’s not long before both of you are bare before each other, spare Jack’s underwear. The snug fabric that reveals the outline of his impressive erection.
Your hooded gaze wanders over the impressive feature. You reach your hands out to touch it delicately, he hisses at the contact, but doesn’t move to stop you.
“I-” He gasps out when you tuck your hand into his boxers to wrap your hands around him. You watch him as you trace your fingers over the leaking tip. “I need to be inside of you, please.” He grabs your wrist softly. Your nod of approval is the last thing he needed before tugging the fabric down.
He lays you down, admiring you spread beneath him so sinfully. You return the sentiment, enjoying the carnal flush that’s spread over his broad shoulders and thick arms. He might be older than you’d usually date, but he was twice as handsome pulling your legs until you were practically folded in half under him.
“Is this position comfortable for your leg?” You ask genuinely. He groans, biting lightly at the ankle just by his head.
“So sweet to me,” he soothes the bite with a kiss. “It’s perfect.” He brings his cock up against you, rutting experimentally against your sex. The tip smears pre-cum against your clit, it twitches underneath the attention.
“Jack-” You start, fully intending to reach into your bedside for the little silver condom that sits for this exact reason. You mean to, you do, but you catch his eyes, and it’s like you can both feel the shift in the moment.
You wanted Jack, fully, entirely, completely, you didn’t want anything to sully the sensation. Jack locked his eyes fully onto yours before his tip caught your hole and he pressed in, slowly.
The stretch was immense, an expansive pleasure consumed you, he filled you deeper than anyone had ever done before. His girth inspired your body to come alive with sensation, and even more you could feel every ridge, vein, and contour of the member filling you.
Passively you thought, this is a bad idea. Jack could get you pregnant. But the thought only inspired your hole to flutter around him in pleasured spasms.
He kept moving into you slowly until you felt the familiar greeting of course hair tickling against you. He leant over, taking the moment to share an open kiss, checking in on you without words.
“S’deep.” You mumble against him, drunk on the feeling of fullness.
“Yeah?” He mocks, “So deep in you Sweetheart. No one ever been this deep?” He asks.
You shake your head quickly, “Never felt this good, Jackie, please move!” You all but beg.
Jack complies, setting a dangerously delightful pace, pulling almost all the way back before pushing down again, filling you completely. The air is knocked out of you, pushing little mewls and moans with it. Jack’s pace never faults, steady and strong through you.
“Feel so tight around me,” He grunts, “My tight pussy, yeah?” He mocks. You whine at the notion. “This my tight pussy?”
“Yes!” You can barely think, he shifts again, pushing against the deepest part of you. “Yes, yours Jack!”
He speeds his thrusts, a redness dawning over his shoulders, and blooming over his chest beautifully. Little groans and moans tumble past his lips every once and while, you savor each one like it’s gold.
“S’my pussy, I’m gonna make it mine.” He moves your legs until he’s got you perfectly angled for his thrusts to brush your cervix. “Little pussy loves me. Listen to her sing.” The sounds of slapping skin echo out.
“Jack! Jack, need you-” You gasp and writhe, pleasure tumbling through you, “Need you to come inside me-” You can barely get the words out before his pace becomes punishing.
“Fuck-” He breaks into maddening animalistic thrusts, “Want me to cum in your pussy, baby? Want me to make you a mommy?” He mocks, but the effect is instant. Your pussy flutters around him, the pleasure taking you away.
“Want me to fill this little pussy,” he can’t help himself anymore, the words tumble past his lips, “Want me to fill you up, get you pregnant. Want me- want me-” He trails off.
You simply accept his tirade, letting the everlong sensation of forbidden lust carry you through. Jack leans in until your lips are pressed against each other, breathes exchanged.
It’s surprisingly intimate given the filth he’d been spewing just seconds before. He watched you, and you returned the same, his thrusts begin to falter, your orgasm creeps dangerously close.
“Want to have your baby, Jack.” You declare suddenly, only moments before you’re sucked away into your second orgasm of the night. Liquid gushes around the base of his cock, making the sensation of your adventure that much more heightened.
Jack has about three more good thrusts before he’s slamming himself into you and letting himself empty deep inside of you. Your hips tilted upwards, the mess leaking further and further inside of you with every pulse of his cock. Your muscles are still contracting him closer and closer as you begin to return back to your body.
Neither one of you said anything for a long time. Jack lays on top of you, his cock softening inside of you, enjoying the feeling of his skin painted against yours. He traces every line of your body, trying to memorize the perfect plane of existence. The gift beneath him, that could be the answer to the prayer he’d lost hope on.
You feel similarly hopeful. There’s no doubt that Jack was going to take care of you, that he was going to make you feel safe and special. The lingering nag that reminded you that Jack’s track record didn’t rear its head until the morning after alerted itself. Before you can dwell on it, Jack’s pulling away and mumbling something about a washcloth.
You forfeit your worries for the night, preferring to enjoy the view of the man bobbing through your bathroom naked as the day he was born aside from the mechanical limb that he hadn’t taken off. Once he returns there’s no room for doubt.
It’s not until the next morning, when the door slams open and you can hear Parker calling for Jack from the living room.
“Abbot you have two minutes to get your old ass out here and explain why your Truck is in my spot this morning.” She called out distantly.
Abbot lets out a laugh, but tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, his hand snaking around to cradle your midsection. He wonders if it stuck, if he’d need to flip you over and try again this morning. Either way was fine with him, he wasn’t going anywhere.
A/N: Someone lock me up............. ANYWAYS. ENJOY!!
Long time no post, but this LEGO creation of mine fills me with so much joy, that I felt like sharing it as much as I can. I took me quite some time to get it where it is now and it still could use a few tweaks here and there, but overall I think this is the Mystery Shack I’d want.
Although Gravity Falls concluded quite some time ago, it is currently available on Netflix and I recently binged it twice. The shows magic captured me so much that there was no way around creating something to echo the creativity, fun, and general wackiness that is Alex Hirsch’s Gravity Falls.
I hope you like it and if you do, you can help me take a first step of turning this idea of mine into an actual LEGO set, by supporting it on LEGO Ideas.
After failing out of Culinary School, you find yourself working at the world-renowned restaurant Obscura. You might also find yourself drawn to the kitchen despite your own hesitance. Or are you drawn to the man behind the restaurant?
9.5K Words
Tags: Chef!Jack Abbot x Aspiring Chef!Reader, Instructor!Robby, Robby is mean in this, Mild Burns, Mental health struggles, burnout, BFF! Trinity Santos, anxiety, panic attack, mentions of drinking, the writer has never worked in a restaurant, and it shows, Smut!, Oral (F1 Recieving), PIV sex, Unprotected sex, Dirtyish talk, Abbot loves a petname.
A/N: I HAVE NOT LISTENED TO YES, CHEF! This was written in anticipation and elation. (It was supposed to be done a day ago, but it was 20 pages long). Ofc it's unedited because if I have to seriously edit it, it'll never get posted. Not my photo above! I couldn't find what i needed as usual so I had to punt to google images.
The kitchen in your childhood home was a safe haven. A large alcove of hearty love served up with a simmering spice blend of tender love and care.
Saturday mornings were for joyous music outpouring through the old CD player, blueberry pancakes, and the robust smell of dark roast coffee percolating over the stove. Family dinners were sacraments taken in stolen sips of broth simmering over the stove for hours and hours. Holidays spent surrounded by generations of your family kneading, pulling, twisting, and shaping intricate dough pieces.
The kitchen a holy place, you it’s steadfast student. Truths diced into bite sized understanding. Secrets seared into place. There was nothing that couldn’t be understood with enough practice, no recipe too out of reach with the right tweaks. Everything was within reach with a little salt, fat, acid, and heat.
No one was surprised when you announced that you were going to culinary school after high school. No one questioned you, especially when you were selected to join a prestigious program out in New York City. Nouvelle Gagnaire.
It almost guaranteed a spot in a Michelin kitchen after graduation. It became clear, if you could last through the rigorous training, it could ensure a chef’s success. So, for the first time, you were just a breath away from the life you’d always wanted.
You had everything just nearly figured out.
Sparkling stainless steel tools sliced through the space around you, reflecting crisp white hopefuls all heads held high. It was an honor to stand in the kitchen where so many greats had studied. Significance came in droves in a place like Nouvelle Gagnaire.
Except the money you had saved was dwindling fast. The classmates surrounding you seemed to excel with ease, while you were slowly but surely slipping behind. The snide remarks of your peers meant very little to you. It was the lead instructor, Chef Robby, who seemed to take a dislike to your near constant shortcomings.
Every class was a testament to your inner strength. He would spend minutes, although it felt like hours, lecturing you on your cuts. He took particular glee in using your work as the backdrop for every mistake, his mood somehow improving once he’d taken a bite from your pride. His ego was stroked by the sight of your discomfort.
It had been manageable at first, you would stay late into the night, practicing the lesson twice over. You had actually begun to improve, albeit slowly, but then your bank account drifted into a concerning margin. It was a difficult choice, but you needed the money to stay in the program, so extra shifts at a local restaurant, some babysitting gigs, and even occasional dog-walking were the only way to stay afloat.
Then suddenly the oasis of stainless steel had become more of a prison. Nothing was ever enough. No dish came out quite right. No sauce left perfectly balanced. Desserts were dense and underwhelming, main courses over salted or under cooked. You felt disastrously useless every session, and Robby made a point to delight in it outwardly.
Every class was a new humiliation until nights were completely sleepless. Your hair had taken to falling out in chunks. Your nail beds were bloody and threadbare from anxious biting. You hardly recognized the person staring back at you. You couldn’t even remember why you were here, what you had wanted this for. Who would put themselves through all this for what? A nicotine addiction and middling praise?
It came to a head during a demonstration one morning. Robby had instructed the class on the perfectly whipped Souffle, one delicate enough to stay perfectly moist while structured enough to rise above itself. It had been a long night of tossing and turning, your back ached from the uncomfortable mattress you bought off facebook marketplace, your hands itched for the relief only a cigarette could give you anymore, and your eyes were throbbing from overuse.
Reaching into the oven you couldn’t remember if your shift at the diner tomorrow started at 10 or 10:30. Your landlord had promised to come fix a leaky pipe if he could come at 9:45. Your mom called twice about some cousin’s sister coming to visit. Your roommate’s boyfriend’s dishes piled up in the sink-
A searing pain shot up your arm, it had taken you far too long to realize you had forgotten your oven mit. Your hand flying back, the souffle tumbling back with it coating your thin black pants. It doesn’t take long for you to double over in pain, the students around you crowding your space in concern.
It’s not until Robby’s voice looms over you that you realize that any time has passed at all.
“Jesus fucking christ,” he’s more exacerbated than he is genuinely concerned. For some reason that made the damn in your chest burst, tears overflowing, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t-” you blubber he’s pulling you into a side office where they keep the more extensive first aid. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking-”
His eyes catch yours, wild, angry, and dark all at once. The hard lines in his face seem to twitch at the sight of your cries.
“That’s exactly the problem.” His tone is cold while he administers first aid to your hand. “This isn’t easy-bake oven shit. You don’t think. You’re lucky you haven’t been seriously injured.”
“I’m sorry Chef.” You hang your head in shame.
“Don’t apologize.” He steps back, his hands clasped behind his neck while he takes a deep breath. “Do not step foot back in my kitchen unless you’re ready to put your big girl pants on, wipe your tears, and do some real fucking work. Do you hear me?”
You nod silently, tears still streaming down your face.
“No, I asked you a question, Chef.” The way he spit the word Chef was insulting enough. “Do you hear me?”
A chill ran down your spine. Your eyes peaking up to meet him. “Yes, Chef.” Your voice sounds childish and small.
“Fucking useless.” is the last thing you hear before he’s turned and walking back into the kitchen.
In the end you can’t bring yourself to go back in. You can’t bring yourself to face the mess you’d made. It was the cowardly choice, but you simply didn’t have enough in your soul to stand in shoes you no longer felt like were yours to fill.
And just as quickly as everything fell into place, you had fallen apart. Quickly your spot in the intensive training program was filled by some bright-eyed nepo baby. One who, you imagine, quickly rose to the occasion in every way you never could.
You found yourself, for the first time in your life, utterly directionless. It irked you, how easy it was to succumb to the inky pool of darkness that seemed to well inside you. Laying in your childhood bed for days at a time, hardly moving enough to use the restroom and nibble on whatever plate your mom left at your bedside. Robby’s words echo inside your head until they crescendo into a dull roaring headache.
It was about a month of complete despair before your parents insisted you couldn’t live with them forever.
That was how you found yourself in Pittsburgh. Crashing on a friend’s couch in some half-finished basement.
Trinity was an old friend from culinary camp a summer or three ago. She was always good, but now she’d devoted her knife skills to her career as a budding surgeon. Or, she would be soon, once she finishes Med School you had no doubt she’d be heavenly with a scalpel.
“Working in a kitchen is not that far from working in a Hospital when you think about it,” She comforted when you had relayed your sob story over the phone, “It’s not too late to become a doctor.” You laughed, maybe for the first time in weeks.
“Trin,” your voice was nasal and shuttery, “I don’t even think they’d let me near the dead ones, that’s how bad it was.”
“I seriously doubt it,” You hear shuffling in the background, “But I think it might be good for you to get away for a while. Live a little, Y’know?
Your words are stuck in your throat for a long time.
“Mhm. Maybe” The thought of leaving your bed leaves your stomach churning. The thought of leaving your house makes your skin itch. The thought of leaving your hometown to live somewhere else for a while makes your eyes start to twitch.
“I’ve still got a free couch in my basement,” She mentions too casually to actually be casual. “Wouldn’t need to pay rent.” She threw it offhand.
“What,” you scoff, “I freeload off you while I have a crisis of faith?”
“Oh, no, you’d earn your keep. I want you to make dinners. Actually, I want you to make me lasagna.”
Your throat tightens around the lump that has been forming. Your eyes squeezed tight. Hands shaking around the phone. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless.
“I’m not…” You can’t seem to find anything else to say.
“Babe, I can’t cook for shit, and I can’t eat anymore ramen. My sodium intake is at its maximum. I need you more than you need me.”
You roll your shoulders back. Eyes still shut, even though she couldn’t see you. Neither of you say anything for a long time. His words echo again.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
“Maybe,” you say before you can stop yourself. “I can help you meal prep some stuff?” Your voice is more of a mumble than a statement.
“Thank god!” She nearly screams. “Okay, so depending on when you come down-”
She launches into a long story of some class presentation she finished. Then, almost as suddenly as everything fell into place, but not as suddenly as it fell apart. You were living with Trinity.
It only took two weeks before you were bored. It helped that Trinity had an endless supply of people who knew people. Not ‘friends’ but people she’d done this and that for, people who owed her one.
It was all at once, one night at a bar taking shots, lamenting on how much you hate men, dancing, meeting new people, new people meeting even newer people. Then it’s giving you numbers, and then it’s blurry, but somehow you wake up the next morning half stuck to the floor with a new contact reaching out.
Hi, this is Dana with Obscura. Parker passed your number along for the server gig. We have availability to interview tomorrow at 10 AM sharp.
You read the text maybe four times before the words unblur themselves and the symbols mean something to you.
Obscura was the most nouveau restaurant in Pittsburgh, hell, probably even Pennsylvania. It was reminiscent of a New York that didn’t even exist anymore. A farm-to-table rotating menu that was equal parts nostalgic and nuanced. It was a kitchen where food wasn’t picked apart and rebuilt like other masochistic gastro-pub types. The ingredients in Obscura sang.
Helmed by Chef Jack Abbot, a world-renown Chef who’d trained under the greats of the last generation. A Chef responsible for the incubation of some of the best minds in the culinary world today. He’s the only Michelin holder in the state, his third restaurant in a row to be ranked in the top fifty restaurants in the world. Chef Abbot was a paragon.
There was absolutely no way you could actually work for him in any capacity. Even as wait staff, especially as wait staff. Twinges of conflict stirred in your stomach. Being so close to the kitchen without being in the kitchen was a solar flare of jealousy. Yet, being back in any setting remotely culinary sets your body shivering in anxious waves.
And yet, it was an absolute once in a lifetime opportunity in front of you.
Before you can stop yourself you’re responding.
I’ll be there. Thank you so much.
You drop the phone and scream into the pillow half-shoved between you and the corner of the old couch you plopped over last night. This was a terrible mistake.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
It was only a matter of time before you fucked this up too.
Dana was a force to be reckoned with. You had to be to manage a restaurant like Obscura. Especially, under the watchful gaze of the media, the way she explained they were. Every single table is a Michelin guest. Every single dish served is for the next greatest culinary critic. Every move needed the closest attention. You were sure she hated you by the end of her speech; she just sat back and watched you.
“Have you got any experience in the kitchen, Hon?” She asked, watching your eyes linger over the tools when she was walking you through the back of house. The team was only just starting to trickle in. For now, it was just a shorter, mousy looking, line cook sharpening his knives in the back corner.
“A little,” you clear your throat nervously, “I was enrolled at Nouvelle Gagnaire until last spring.”
She tilted her head at you, a small strand of bleached blonde hair falling from her clipped back hair. She watches you, your finger tracing the edge of the steel tabletop.
“Hmm,” She chuckles, sprouting a smirk, “Sounds like more than a little experience then. What happened, why aren’t you itching to get in my kitchen?”
You shrug noncommittally, not sure what to say. Well, you know exactly what to say, but you hardly think it’s appropriate. Fucking useless.
“Ran out of money?” You finally say, eyes glassy with unshed emotion. “Never got to finish my courses.”
“Ain’t that a bitch.” She sighs before pulling you into a maternal squeeze. “Okay, let’s have you come in tonight to shadow Mateo, and we’ll go from there, huh?”
Your throat is too full to say anything, so you just nod in agreement. Absently, you hear the back door swing open, and blinding light pours into the kitchen. You peek your head and see the outline of a man, the sun bursting behind him in ethereal beams.
“Jack,” your blood runs cold as the door swings shut behind him, “Come meet the new server. Shadowing us for the night.”
He throws his bag down before coming to size you up himself. You can’t seem to figure out where to look. He’s wearing a borderline sinful black shirt that is spread like butter against his chest. His grey curls coiffed perfectly, effortlessly. You wondered if it lay like that or if he spent meticulous time twisting it back into the perfect tease of curl. His eyes squint, the predatory hazel eyes roam across your frame.
“Fresh meat?” He murmured sarcastically, “Welcome to the dark side, Kid.”
Dana let out a disapproving sound. You opened your mouth to say something, but promptly closed it at his self-amused smirk.
“Don’t listen to him,” She turned you both away and made your way up to the front, “His name may be behind this place, but he’s not your boss, I am.” Dana continued to say things about the space, things you’d surely need to know later, but the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach drowned all focus away from you.
You can’t help but turn and look over your shoulder to glimpse another peek at the man himself. A mixture of horror and delight bubbles up when you catch him watching you. He shoots you an arrogant wink before you snap your head away from him.
“Alright, make sure you’re here in all black at 4:30. Family is at 4:45, don’t be late.”
As you grab your purse, for the first time in weeks, you think your life might not be over. It actually might have just begun.
There were plenty of differences between being a server and being in the thick of the kitchen. For one, you had to look pristine. Presentation at Obscura didn’t end at plating, the entire experience was in your hands. Another was your pace, while neither of the jobs ensured lots of downtime for anything more than the singular savior of a drag from your cigarette, a server had the luxury of disappearing.
“A good server serves food,” Mateo had explained with casual confidence, “A great server knows where to hide when you need a break and shit is already hitting the fan.” He waits for you to react, but your brows furrow. Everything you knew about serving was from the back of house, where food died in the window and dishes were sent back for outrageous complaints.
“What about your tables?” You fidget with your apron. A standard issue charcoal canvas fabric that Dana handed you the minute you walked through the door. One that wonderfully blended with the dark, moody atmosphere set in the dining room. Only pockets of amber lamplight ever so particularly broke up the ambiance of existentialism.
“Top priority, of course,” Mateo looks at his apron around his waist, “But when you’re three hours deep in a rush, and some asshole thinks he knows the pre-fixe better than you, it’s better you take a sec to get that shit out, or it’ll end up killing you.” He shrugs like it’s common knowledge.
“What about the food?” Your eyes wander to the kitchen tucked behind the bend in the long back hallway. If you lean your body just a foot farther, you’d see them neck deep in prep. As much as you itched to give in to the temptation, you held back. Seeing that would only sour your mood, and besides, you were sure you’d see enough of it during service tonight.
“If you need a minute, we have a code word.” He stretches his arms side to side, like he is getting ready for some sort of intense workout. “If you say Hula-Hoop, we’ve got you.”
“Hula Hoop?” You nod. “Hula-hoop. Okay, thanks.”
“I usually hide out in the back alley. Kim likes the POS station. Bridget would go to the bathroom. You could go to the walk-in if you wanted.” He puts his hands on your shoulders. “It’s inevitable, it’s going to happen, don’t abuse it, but we’re a team here. If you need a minute, you need a minute.”
He stares down at you intensely. His brown eyes trying to imbue some great knowledge you hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“Thanks.”
“No problem,” He pats your shoulder and backs off, “We’ve always got one floater, which is where you’ll be for a while until you get a sense of the sections. If you need anything, Dana is always on the floor or in the kitchen. She’s here to help, so don’t be scared to ask for what you need.”
“Got it.”
And just like that, a bell is rung and the family is called to eat.
Your first shift goes surprisingly well. You recount the whole thing excitedly to Trinity when you get home. She eats the leftover Pomegranate Osso Buco you’d taken at the end of service. She moans contentedly at the new flavors that bloom across your tongue.
You hadn’t spent as much time in the kitchen as you had thought you might. The usually chaotic pit of dishes infinitely emerging was surprisingly methodical. Floating meant most of your time was spent explaining specials, pouring wine, and fetching more spoons. The rare moment you were sent to run food was like a glimpse behind the Wizard of Oz’s curtain.
Everyone moves with balanced intensity. Each station is a perfected ballet performed with precision. John Shen, Abbot's mentee with his own Michelin star accomplishment under his belt, oversaw the saute with calm precision, staying cool under the intense heat. Parker Ellis, whom you’d met through Trinity’s latest hook-up, bobbed to unheard music playing in her head, assembling dishes quietly. Occasionally, she’d shift her gaze upwards, and if you caught her eyes, she’d throw you a reassuring smile.
At the center of it all was Abbot. Who called out dishes with militant ease. No room for error, no need to waiver. Plates were examined under him with scrutiny; nothing passed through him unless the team was confident in its quality.
“Ellis, pull back the heat,” he corrected. “Any more heat and the Bisque will emulsify.” His words aren’t shouted. He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t punish either. Parker, in turn, dutifully adjusted the large pot of bisque. Pulling it from the end of its own life.
“Yes, Chef.”
It hits you square in your chest that this is exactly what you had wanted for yourself. It was particularly hard to swallow the building upward heave of emotions when Abbot catches your eye between garnishing a small plate and saucing another.
“Need anything?” He’s not being condescending or rude when he asks. He genuinely wants to know. It only serves to tighten your chest. You nod silently. He narrows in on you, ready to ask again, you’re sure. But a ticket sprouts from the machine, and his focus is pulled away.
“Alright, table 13 is a go, let's get two plate greens and a fresh grain bowl going.” And you slip away like you’d never been there at all. Wandering through the rest of your shift with all the focus you could muster.
It itches at you, the urge to make something again, an itch you thought maybe had finally lost the good fight. You chalk it up to seeing the greats in action, who wouldn’t be inspired by their professionalism, their talent, their joie de verve. With Abbot at the helm, they made the art form look like just that.
A far cry from the sterile, suffocating perfection expected on exam day at Nouvelle Gagnaire. This warmth had shocked you into something hopeful for the first time in months.
For the first time in days the gravelled voice of Robby’s voice quiets in your head, in favor of Abbot’s steady praise.
It wasn’t long before your trial period had devolved into something more permanent. The steady rhythm was calming, even if the work was fast-paced and intense. The more shifts you worked, the more time you found to linger in the kitchen. Peaking around the corner. Pretending to be looking at something on the POS. Your eyes watched with wistful longing.
It was the only real love you’d ever felt. The bursting passion is barely restrained by the confines of expected perfection. Each night, a new rotation of the most inventive and succulent combinations. You had a habit of writing each night’s specials in a notebook, commenting on the ways Abbot reached and where he pulled from homegrown nostalgia. You were determined to find the throughline he’d been constructing for some weeks now, expecting one menu to be some sort of epic climax of wonderful dishes. Yet, the tension of expectation only grew.
That hadn’t been the only tension that had begun to grow. You had somehow caught the curious eye of the Chef himself. Your presence could only sneak for so long before his interest was piqued.
The first couple of shifts, you’d thought yourself subtle. You thought, surely, they were all so absorbed in their own work they hardly had time to notice your meticulous gaze. It became all too clear that there was no hiding from Chef Abbot.
His eyes seemed to follow you through a room, pinning you down to your spot with an intensity you’d only ever felt in malice.
He looked at you like a whole butchered cow. Like he was separating all the parts that needed to be shaved back to reveal something far more succulent behind it. Or gracefully dissecting each cut until he had every useful morsel of information. Perhaps he was deciding how he’d prepare you. Braised over a cheesy polenta? Flash-fried and encased in freeze-dried mushroom paste?
You wondered the flavor he’d invoke from your flesh often. You enjoyed the fantasy of trying to understand what you never would. A game you played with yourself to pass the time and ease the growing pit of unfulfilled destiny. All things swirled between you desperately. Yet, he hardly ever approached you.
Preferring to watch you, well, preferring to watch you watch them. At least once every shift, he would find himself between plates, usually when guests were teetering off, and the dense empirical pressure of never-ending chaos ebbed, he’d place his hands on his hips and watch you shamelessly.
For your part, you’re usually waiting on some final dessert plate or waiting to run a card at the system. You can’t help but relish in the carnage of the shift well-cooked. It was mid-disection, one of you is pulled away, never able to act on some sort of unspoken dance.
Until one night in late July. The kitchen had been hotter than you’d ever experienced, both in temperature and in attitude. There was a stomach bug sweeping through, and most of the team was off kilter. Capable and steady, but where there was usual ease, everyone’s brow seemed to furrow in focus.
The front of house team was no better. Kim was out, and Dana was already stepping in to ensure they had enough hands to cover the fully booked service. With all its trouble, you hadn’t let the sense of dread seep into your shift. You’d worked short-staffed before, and you were sure you’d get through it.
Pre-service is quick, team spreads until everything is hazy and translucent. You barely have time to write the specials for the night out before Dana calls you into her small office. She’s got her readers on, and she looks at you down her nose over the top rim like you’re in the principal’s office.
“You called?” You lean against the doorframe, looking at the chaos that has suddenly exploded through the room.
“I’m putting you in Kim’s section tonight.” She shuffled some papers in front of her, “So you’ve got our VIP.”
VIP’s weren’t rare here, per se; the classification seemed to send a wave of anxiety through you. Your palms start to itch with expectation. Celebrities you’d only ever seen on glossy gossip magazines had come and gone from these doors without so much as a whisper from Dana. Only once were they acknowledged, and that was only between you and Mateo when his favorite actor came in last month.
“Oh?” You played coy, taking a deep breath trying to calm your nerves. “Who is it?”
Dana gave you a tight-lipped smile. There was a crash behind you, and suddenly, the day is moving at a breakneck speed again.
“Sorry, Hun, Jack made the reservation at the last minute,” she brushes past you and into the chaos swirling. “What the hell happened?” you hear distantly.
You contemplate peeking at the guest sheet on her computer, but you too are pulled away at the sound of family bell.
Squeezed between Parker and Olive, you nudge Ellis with your elbow. “D’you know who the VIP is tonight?” Her eyebrows pull together.
She shakes her head and scoops more pasta into her mouth, preferring to eat family as quickly as possible so she can call her girlfriend in the back before service.
“Think it’s one of Abbot’s old buddies from Culinary.” Olive pipes in from the other side.
“Makes sense,” Parker supplies, “He’s changed tonight's menu twice. He hates when restaurant buddies come in.”
“Why?” you pick around the salad on your plate. Both of them just shrug in nonchalance.
“Who knows why Abbot does anything?” Parker replies. Suddenly, there’s a presence behind you.
“Talking about me?” Abbot inquiries. Your spine straightens. You peek over your shoulder, where Abbot is leaning against the wall casually. A soft white tee tight against his torso. A blue dish towel thrown over his shoulder, and a hearty bowl of pasta in his hand. His eyebrow is quirked down at you specifically, like he’d caught you in a secret. You’d be more nervous if it wasn’t for the playful smirk plastered to his lips.
“Always Boss,” Parker responds lazily, like being caught talking about your boss was an everyday occurrence. “We have to let the newbie in on all your quirks.” She made sure to drag the sentence out melodically.
Abbot only chuckles before nodding slowly. “If you wanted to get to know me better, all you had to do was ask.” He winks before taking a bite of his dinner.
You feel your face heat, your spine still ramrod straight. You can’t seem to respond with anything other than stuttered sounds.
“Gross.” Parker pushes her chair out and walks off before you can say anything else. Several others follow suit, breaking the tension between the two of you.
“I mean it, Kid.” He called out as he sauntered away. “I’m an open book.”
-
Service is a shitshow. Or it’s as much as Obscura would ever become a shit show. Tickets are running 2-3 minutes behind continuously. Guests are picking apart your spirit by questioning recommended wine pairings, insisting they know the menu better than you, or asking for wildly off-menu accommodations.
The kitchen is just as tense, with every complaint and question reported to Abbot only raising his hackles. If he’d been short when service began, he was positively snappy now. You’d already asked him twice for odd requests and pairings that had set his ticket time back, and Dana had already reminded the team not to take any of Abbot’s shortcomings personally.
You had made a silent prayer to anyone listening that the rest of the shift would be nice and smooth.
“Kiddo, VIP being seated at table 22.” Dana barked from the mouth of the kitchen, “Look alive.”
Turning the corner, you’d expected to see someone you recognized. You’d maybe thought Gordan Ramsey or some sort of Iron Chef adjacent someone. At worst, maybe it’d be some snobby French chef who looked down your shirt and commented on how ‘they’d have approached the branzino a little differently.’
The last thing you’d expected was to be face-to-face with the man who’d effectively crushed every dream you’d ever had. Okay, that was slightly harsh; you were burning out for many reasons. Chef Michael Robinavitch just happened to be the biggest, gloomiest, and most impending of all the reasons.
Sitting comfortably in the corner table, the prime table for someone looking for a long, luxurious meal to enjoy privately, was your former instructor. He wasn’t alone either; the back of the other man’s head was obscured, not that it mattered when you suddenly couldn’t move. Stopped plainly in your tracks, in the middle of the dining room, staring him down with wide eyes.
Mateo glides past you with an odd look, patting your arm quickly in a reminder, keep it moving. Then you’re moving, approaching the table, your throat suddenly bone dry, hands shaking so bad you have to clasp them behind your back to steady them.
He still hadn’t looked up at you when you began your spiel. You get about halfway through before he peeks up from the menu and locks in on you with the same intensity that had haunted you in your nightmares for months. You stumble over your words when his eyes narrow, placing you in his mind.
You can see the moment he realizes you’re in front of him. The same way he left, crying in his small office. The same you’d watch go from promising prospect to absolutely hopeless under his watchful and steadfastly critical watch. He sits back arrogantly, no longer listening to you describe the specials, preferring to let himself pick the small parts of you that you knew were slightly out of place.
“Can I recommend any wine pairings for you tonight?” You finish.
“Can you?” He inquires, dripping with condescension. “You don’t have a Maitre D?
You shake your head quickly before you remember you’re no longer standing in his kitchen watching him dissect your kitchen skills.
“No, sir,” You kick yourself for the formality, “Chef Abbot prefers to pick the wine selection himself.”
Robby lets out a self indulgent chuckle, shaking his head before turning him away from you completely. Your heart picks up until you hear the blood rushing through your head completely. Until you feel the ache in your knees locked under yourself.
“Classic Jack,” He rolls his eyes, “Still a control freak.”
“Can I get you started with any drinks?” You ask again, peeking at the other man at the table for guidance.
“We’ll take the red blend, whatever Jack recommends.” Robby interrupts with so much contempt it’s almost a sneer. You nod and scurry away before he can say anything else.
You keep your head down until you’re in the back, placing the order and inputting their ticket. You hear Abbot yelling about something in the kitchen, and it winds your anxiety tighter in your chest. This was Chef Abbot’s friend, Dana, who gave them to me specifically.
You take three deep breaths before you make a round to check your tables. You hardly make it around the corner before you’re pulled back into service.
Thankfully, you have little time to spend with the man of the hour. They receive their wine with little complaint, and Mateo delivers their appetizers while you’re busy ringing up another table. It’s not until well into their meal that you have a moment to go check on them.
“How are these plates for you?” Robby grunts in response, while his guest waxes his praise for the flavors. You smile politely.
“And how are you, sir?” You direct towards the looming presence.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment; he just sighs. “How long have you been working here?”
“Just about 3 months, Chef.” The title slips before you can stop yourself. He relishes the power he still has over you. “Since mid-April.”
He shakes his head, disappointed. “It’s odd to see you in some place like this.” He remarks passively, shooting you a sarcastic smile. “I always had the impression places like this were too intense for you.”
The man across the table interjects with something, but you can’t hear it over the rush of blood coursing through your ears. You can feel the lump in your throat building and building until your eyes go glassy over. You nod at whatever his guest is talking about.
He watches you until he catches sight of your eyes glazed over, and he huffs at your display of vulnerability.
You don’t remember how you ended back in the kitchen, but you knew there was food dying on the pass that needed to go out and a full house aside from the looming paragon of lost dreams. Somewhere between placing specialized entrees down and refilling glasses, you peeked up at Dana, who was standing talking to Robby.
He’s a VIP she has to talk to him. This is her job. But suddenly, that voice– his voice is back. You place a plate. Fucking useless. You ring up another dessert. Fucking useless. You pretend to laugh with an older couple celebrating an anniversary. Fucking useless. Fucking useless. Fucking useless.
You can’t help but peak up at him between tasks, as if he might suddenly decide that you do deserve the respect you so desperately crave. All you're met with is cold haughty amusement. He seems to delight in your squirming.
Under his watch you can’t do anything quite right anymore. You ring in the wrong wine for table 26. You almost run head on into Dana at the Pass, which earns you a stern warning from Abbot to ‘get your head in the game.’ Your head spins, your hands shake, you feel like you’re an ant under a magnifying glass, ready to combust at any moment.
It’s not until the end of their meal when you finally place the face across the table from Robby. Through the limited friends you had made in class, you recognized the face that had stared back at you in official group photos, unofficial hang outs, late night coffee runs, and even class bonding opportunities.
The man sitting across from Robby was the chef who took your place when you dropped the program. Frank something? He was a point of contention for you, and you’d spent nights lamenting pitifully to Trinity about how much better he probably was. How much faster, how much cleaner, how level-headed he must be to thrive in that sort of environment.
It was surprising you hadn’t immediately recognized him with the amount of time you spent obsessing over him in the month after your swift departure. Yet, it wasn’t until three quarters into the meal when Robby requested Chef Abbot come meet his star Pupil.
That’s when you hit your wall. You nod absently and pass the message along to Dana before you make your way to the walk in, only hoping to take a calming breath before heading back out.
This was it. Robby was going to introduce Frank to Abbot, and maybe Abbot would offer him a job. Maybe Robby would tell Abbot what a failure you really were. Maybe he’d break it to him how utterly useless you are in the kitchen. It would only be a matter of time before everyone knew you’d failed out of Culinary. Not only that, the only reason Frank was here was because you were fucking useless.
It’s just that, by the time you make it in there, your deep breaths don’t fill your lungs. Your head spins from the lack of oxygen and sheer ironic terror coursing through you. Your legs shake underneath you until you grip on one of the shelves for support. You don’t realize you’re crying until someone else is in front of you.
Shen doesn’t really say anything, he just grabs the bundle of Chard from the side shelf before slipping back out into the kitchen.
You hear voices outside the thick metal door, but you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can hear is
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Fucking useless.
Circling the drain until you’re curled in on yourself against the cold metallic shelving.
The door opens, and it’s Chef Abbot. You scramble to stand, frantically wiping at your face, trying to conceal your breakdown. His eyes sharply assess you not as Jack, but as Chef Abbot. He sighs impatiently, looking over his shoulder.
“Someone grab Dana.” He says, no mirth, no joy, just cold calculation. You can’t seem to register any discernible emotion, just tense stress radiating off of him.
“I’m so sorry Chef,” you start, your voice wobbly and strained, not unlike a child who’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. You tremble under his uninterested gaze, no longer were you a fascination under him, you were a festering colony of Mold rotting his well run machine. A bad egg. You felt completely fucking useless. “I’m sorry, I just needed a moment. I can get back out there-”
He holds up a hand quietly, opening the door and ushering you out into the perpetually moving beast that is his kitchen. “You’re cut, kid.”
Your veins turn to ice at his words. You had expected more. Yelling. Berating. Apologizing. Perhaps even grovelling on your part. You can’t comprehend that he’d be asking you to leave. You were hardly the first person to cry during service. It was the first time you’d let yourself crack, and now it’s the last.
“Chef, I’m… I-” You stutter out.
“Not tonight Kid, go home.”
From behind him you see Dana. Who quickly ushers you from the inside of the walk in, through the back of the kitchen and into the alleyway where the damn bursts.
Ugly hiccupping sobs. Heavy heaving gasps for relief wrack you; you can barely speak. You can barely suck in enough air to expel in unexpectedly jagged repetition. Dana rubs your back and asks about a million questions before she relents and calls into the kitchen for a phone.
“D’you have anyone we can call, Hon?” She murmurs, keeping her voice soothing and low. Somewhere deep inside you, you thank god for Dana. She keeps you steady while you dial Trinity’s number.
She sits you on an old palette brushing the hair from your face with a maternal fervor that only she could muster. The phone’s dial tone echos against the sounds of service behind you. You take a shuddered breath to steady yourself.
You just about have a handle on breathing when Trinity answers, a benign greeting for any cautious young woman getting an unknown number call on a random Thursday Night.
“Trin?” You whine out, the feeling of relief crashes into you until the waterworks start up again, “I think I’m dying.”
You don’t hear anything from anyone for at least twenty-four hours. You’re stuck now, in a limbo of whether or not you were officially let go. When Dana piled you into the passenger seat of Trinity’s half-beaten to death Honda, she murmured placations that she’d see me on Monday. To get some rest, and call her.
Trinity insisted that you were certainly not fired. You, however, have the distinct memory of Jack Abbot’s cold disapproval piercing into your chest in the frigid walk in. You weren’t sure which sensation caused the chill up your spine, the memory of sharp stainless steel pressing into your overheated flesh or the lifeless way Chef Abbot ushered you into Dana’s hands.
You’d recounted the whole shift twice over the next morning over leftover pancakes with mixed results. Trinity was both wildly supportive, threatening death to all parties if needed, but insisting that Jack was far too infatuated with you to fire you for crying in a walk-in.
“I think Parker cried in that walk in like 4 times.” She remarked off hand. “And Abbot doesn’t even want to fuck her.”
“Abbot doesn’t want me.” You pick around a large blueberry on your plate. The two of you went in circles before Trinity announced she was needed at the hospital for her shift.
Somewhere in the second day haze of self-pity there’s someone at the door.
The last person you’d expected was Chef Abbot on the other side. In a classic pair of Blue Jeans and white henley t-shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the impressive pair of arms he sported. He didn’t have his usual backpack, nor did he seem to know what to do with his hands.
“Chef,” you say, voice tired with underuse. You look down at your clothes, an oversize t-shirt from your dad’s closet growing up and ratty bright colored sweats. Your cheeks ache with embarrassment. How pathetic could you look? “Hi, I’m sorry I wasn’t expecting you.
“Hi,” he said simply. “Can I come in?” he crossed his arms uncomfortably before almost immediately releasing it in favor of shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Um,” you hesitate, scanning behind you for anything embarrassing. “Sure, sure. Sorry, I really wasn’t expecting company so I haven’t cleaned up.”
The kitchen is strewn with half finished baking projects. Steaming cookies sit on the counter, some stress relief for you that doubles as a thank you to your roommate who would be sure to hear all about your self-pity spiral for the upcoming millenia.
“Don’t worry about that, I’m no stranger to a lived in kitchen.” He remarks casually.
“Right. Of course,” You offer him a seat on the couch. “So, how can I help you?”
You have to physically sit on your hands to stop them from shaking.
“I wanted to see how you were doing.” he clears his throat, watching you squirm against the plush couch.
“I'm fine, I didn't mean to make you feel like you needed to come check on me. Especially now.” You don’t elaborate, but you also can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.
"Especially now, what?" He pushes, brow furrowed.
"Especially since I'm dismissed?" You sound like a petulant child, but it feels satisfying enough. You don't bother reigning it in.
"Who the hell dismissed you? Dana?"
"You did! in the walk-in!" You grunt, exhausted. You flop back against the couch. "You said I was cut."
"Cut, yeah-" He compulsively cracks his knuckles down against each other, "for the night. You were having a panic attack in my walk-in." He says matter-of-factly and simply.
You suddenly feel small and stupid. Sitting in front of him like a child pouting over a misunderstanding. "Oh. I thought you were letting me go."
He shakes his head solemnly, "Not at all."
You take a deep breath. Squeeze your eyes shut. Then, finally, look up at him. "So, then what are you doing here? I thought you were going to ask for the apron back."
“Right,” He murmurs, running his hand down his face in exacerbation. “Well, I talked with Ellis, and she told me some stuff.” Your heart beat begins to speed up, and the perpetual vice in your throat seems to squeeze impossibly tight.
“What sort of things?” You can barely squeeze the words out through the anxious tugging.
“Things like- she told me you used to go to Nouvelle Gagnaire. That you were Robby’s student for a while. She told me you dropped out suddenly.” You buried your head into your hands, half out of shame. Half to process that not only did the one person you didn’t want to know you’d failed out of culinary school know now, but you also had a giant fucking mouth when you were drunk.
“Jesus Christ.” you mutter darkly.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Dana said you couldn’t afford to take more classes, if you needed money-”
Anger and indignation rises in your chest like bile. How easy for the golden boy chef to talk about Money when he’s only ever had critical success and commercial success wrapped in one beautiful bow. He’d known nothing of what it meant to be anything but a savant with a knife and a visionary with a culinary mind.
“I didn’t drop out because I couldn’t afford the classes, Abbot.” your teeth grind against each other in painful scrapes, it dulls the rage only slightly. “I dropped out because I couldn’t do it. Robby made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t cut out for his kitchen. He went particularly out of his way to inform me how fucking useless I was.” You stand, leaving him to process your admission on the couch.
“Wait- Kid, what are you talking about?” He follows like a lost puppy.
“I wasn’t good. I had a dream, but I wasn’t good enough. Robby made sure that I knew that, and when it came down to it, I just couldn’t cut it.” you shrug, flipping the sink on to let the dirty pots soak.
“I’m sorry.” He says after a long time.
“Why are you sorry?” You sniffle, hot shameful tears slip out again. You curse yourself silently for letting him see you cry again so close together. You wish you could just hold it together. “You’re not the one whose life is a mess. Last I checked, you were still a successful award-winning chef.”
He leaned against your counter, leaning over to turn the water off.
“Don’t do that, you’re not a mess.”
You sigh, letting your head drop back and your eyes shut. You try desperately to collect your thoughts. “I want more than anything to have what you do. To run a kitchen like yours, and have the talent you have. But some dreams work out and some don’t-”
“Please, Kid, everything I have comes from years of training. It’s not some predisposition, it's an obsession.”
“Okay, well then I’m not obsessed enough-”
Jack laughs, hearty and dark, turning until his hand is resting against your spine. It’s more comforting than you’d ever imagined. His heavy palm pressed until it was squeezing the tense muscles at the base of your neck.
It sends a euphoric sort of pain down your spine, it sends you spiraling off course until you can’t focus on your own self-deprecation. He hums contentedly at your sudden redirection, and takes the opportunity to step closer to you.
“You are enough. You have enough. The way I see you watching the kitchen, it’s the best part of my day.” He admits. “Watching the way you take it all in, it’s like for a moment you’re bigger than all of us. You see everything in one complete motion. You get this awestruck look like you can’t believe you’re here.”
He moves your hair to one side, and lets his fingertips dance across your skin. Not pressuring or directing, just as if he’d imagined what it might feel like a thousand times before and he can’t believe he’s being given this chance. He’s positively reverent.
“I thought at first, it was me.” You don’t need to turn your head to see the blush that dances across his features. The silly giggle that tumbles from your lips shocks you. “I thought you had a crush on me, but then once I got past my own ego, I saw it for what it was.” His forehead pressed against your shoulder, nuzzling into the crook. “You’re just meant to be on the other side of the pass.”
You don’t want to interrupt, he’s completely splayed you across the counter, pulling you apart until your most vulnerable parts of you are bare for him. You had never considered yourself mysterious but you realize Jack had seen right through you, right from the beginning.
“It was maybe a bit of both.” You admit, nothing to lose from full transparency, “Two things can be true at once.” You tilt your head until your lips brush the grey coiffed curls. You smell the sandalwood and cedar shampoo he used this morning, it sends butterflies coursing through your stomach.
“Was?” He clarified, peaking up at you, his hands coming to rest against your hips. His lips are only millimeters away from yours.
“Only one way to find out.” You quip, and his lips are against yours before you can finish. His hands are twisting your body until you’re flush against each other. The sound he lets out is sinful and greedy.
Your hands roam freely against his torso, tracing from his hair down across his broad shoulders, past the lower dip of his back and one settles teasingly against the delicious curve of his ass. He, in kind, tangles his hand into your hair, keeping your head steady while the other arm wrapped around you for control.
“Jack,” you murmured against his lips, “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to ruin everything.” You admit against him, breathing the admission into his mouth. He shutters with the intensity of the confession.
“You’re not going anywhere.” He promises, “I want you so bad.”
Suddenly you’re being positioned again, he pats the countertop, which you happily hop onto. Once settled he tugs your legs far enough apart to press himself against your completely.
Jack moves to kiss you again and it’s a delicious balance of fervid desperation with languished delight. He presses deep kisses, slipping his tongue into your mouth with practiced ease. He uses his leverage to guide you exactly where he wants you. You give him complete access to explore you as he wishes. The same intensity in observation seemed to translate into curious fumbling exploration.
His hips roll against yours, the seam of his jeans giving delightful friction against the thin cotton sweatpants you were sporting. Both of you give into the ebbs and flows of pleasure, chasing after something illusive and dangerous in each other’s mouths.
“Fuck, baby,” He groans after a particularly heady drag of his now burgeoning bulge against the damp gusset of your pants. “I need you-”
“Please!” you don’t wait, scrambling to tug the waistband of your pants down until you’re bare against the cold countertop. Jack wastes no time following suit. Pulling the hem of his shirt up until he’s bare.
Your fingertips explore the contours of his chest with aggressive focus. Mesmerized by the sculpted perfection you had access to. Jack in turn slips his hands up the large shirt until it’s slipped over your head.
Once bare he takes no time at all to palm at your tits, tweaking one of your nipples, watching your body respond in kind back to him. He plants hot open mouth kisses down your neck, stopping to leave attention over both tits thoroughly.
Your hand securely situated against his scalp, you writhe under his attention. His tongue hot over the peaking buds, sending shockwaves of pleasure before pulling away and blowing cool air against the same skin. He plucks and pulls sin from your mouth until you’re jolting with pleasure. His mouth only barely makes its way between his thighs before your thighs start to shake.
Jack considers himself a lucky man, but he could’ve never considered himself lucky enough to have you like this before him. Generally he was pretty reserved, he preferred work and everything else in his life to stay that way. You had come in with an awestruck sledgehammer to all his rules. One bat of your eyelashes and he was sure he was a goner.
Kneeling before you, between your thighs, watching you fall apart? He would burn his restaurant to the ground if it meant keeping you forever.
His lips wrapped around your clit, a finger pumping in slowly, slowly, slowly. The sounds coming out of your mouth were absolutely dumb.
“Like that?” he asks. “That feel good, baby?” He watches as you nod frantically. “Give me words. C’mon, tell me what you’re feeling.”
You open your mouth to respond, but he returns back to his ministrations. Lips suckling against the most sensitive parts of you. A slick sheet collecting against his lips.
“Can’t let you cum until you tell me how it feels.” He asserts before slipping a second finger in and scissoring you open.
You’re practically panting like a dog when you finally manage a response, “So fucking good, Jack.” You admit. “Don’t stop, please let me cum. Please!” You’re not above begging as your hips twitch and writhe against his face.
“Cum for me, let me see it.” He pulls back to watch you, rubbing his other hand harshly over your clit. Your body comes alive under him. A burst of wonderful life played out under his delicate touch. Your orgasm burst like the sun peaking out over the horizon, vibrant and beaming radiance.
He barely makes it upright before you’re tugging at the waistband of his jeans. He doesn’t hesitate to unzip them, pulling the denim and the tight fitted underwear underneath with it.
“Want you to fuck me.” you mumble mindless from your orgasm.
“I’ll fuck you,” He promises, “I’ve got you baby.” You nod and wrap yourself around him like a koala. The head of his cock rubs lightly against you before notching against your entrance. “Open up for me, Open up baby.” He ruts forward stretching you sinfully full.
Your head drops back before rolling to the side mindfully. Jack takes the opportunity to leave testy love bites along the column of your neck. The bitter bites soothed by his skillful tongue, until you can feel the heat of his pelvis against your pussy. Mindlessly full and properly blissed out, your nails dig into his shoulders.
Jack’s tongue drags against the space of your neck, leaving a sticky trail behind. His hips grind impossibly deep, dragging your clit against the sliver wiry hairs at the base of his cock.
“Jack-” His hips retreat before slamming into you with exquisite power, his fingers plucking your nerve endings. “Jack. Y’so good.” You babble praises into his skin.
“So pretty, baby. Feels so good being on my cock, huh?” He keeps rhythm, tilting your head until you’re both looking into each other’s eyes. He tilts his hips up until the head of his cock is perfectly notched against your G-spot.
You press your lips to his, breathing empty headed moans into his mouth. Jack happily swallows your babbles, offering praises in return. The feeling of completion builds and builds and builds. The ache is a full body experience, a capsaicin burn tearing pleasure from your insides out until you’re bursting through.
Jack’s thrust seems perfectly time to make you completely desperate for more. He brings you just to the precipice of wholeness with him. His eyes locked onto yours, intense, wanting, and observant as always. Hazel blown out by pleasure, the cocky smirk left far behind in favor of blind vulnerable pleasure.
“Cum with me?” You hardly have time to say yes before his hips stutter, shooting his spend deep inside of you.
You, in turn, bloom like a ripened fruit, sweet and tart against his tongue, bursting with fresh juice. He thrusts deeper and deeper until both of you twitch and writhe with overstimulation.
“S’good for me baby.” he kisses along your jaw, up your cheek, over your closed eyes, across the bridge of your nose, until he finds a home against your lips again. “So good at everything.”
You scrunch your nose, still fuzzy from the intensity. “Thank you.”
His hands smooth out your hair, before pulling back to look him in the eye.
“Want to help me make family meal tonight?” You freeze against him, a wave of anxiety shoots through you. You hesitate to say anything for a long time.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” your shoulders curl in on yourself. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t, baby.” He promises, “ I want to cook with my baby.” he brushes his nose against yours in a sickly sweet butterfly kiss. “Just want to know what you can do.”
“Mmmm, not a lot.” You grumble. He chuckles at your attitude.
“That’s okay.” He wraps his arms around you. “By the time I’m done with you you’ll be better than me and Robby combined.” He affirms. You peek up at him with wide eyes, and a sad pout on your lips.
“You don’t have to Jack-”
“I want to.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, “You belong in the kitchen, baby.”
Summary: What happens when an Emergency Attending in desperate need of control over his own life finds a sweet young thing that needs someone else to take hold of her leash?
Tags: F!Reader, Older Robby!/ Mid 20's! Reader, Suggestive Pup Dynamics, Inexperienced! Reader, Fluff, Angst if you really look for it, Smut, Oral (F! receiving), First time oral, titty sucking, dirty talk, Robby loves a nickname, & Robby is a secret perv but we knew this. First kiss.
A/N: First part, mostly introducing these guys but would like to get more into what freak shit they can do.
6.1K Words
Robby trickled into your life slowly, he saw you at the coffee place around the corner from your apartment. You saw him walking home from work. He helped you reach a box of cereal once in the grocery store. In turn, you ‘made too many cookies’ one evening and delivered them to the emergency room he worked at.
You were acquaintances that teetered into something more, and every moment lingered. Conversations were mostly polite, him talking about the weather, you asking about work. You met serendipitously each time, both of you letting the pauses drift in favor of polite goodbyes. It was all too intimate for strangers and too strange for anything more intimate.
He was old enough to be your father, but he didn’t seem to mind every time you ended up in his orbit. In fact, he spent most of your time together with a hungry look in his eye, trying to keep his eyes from lingering at the most intimate parts of you.
Your intentions were far more subtle. He was a handsome man, no one was denying that, and you had always wondered what it would be like to let someone take care of you like that. You liked him, he was always funny in a sarcastic way, but he never let you open the door for yourself. He was a gentleman like the men you grew up watching in movies. Or- that’s what you had thought at least.
The truth of the matter is that you had no experience falling in love. You had even less experience with lust. Growing up you were taught to wait, that your patience- virtuous and pious- would grant you something sweeter. You had hardly questioned the instinct to bury the feelings in favor of other’s approval.
Obedience was always something you had leant into. The relief of guidance and structure kept you upright. You’ve always been diligent and good. But now in a world where you’re considered an adult, and have every opportunity to make these choices for yourself everything feels much more overwhelming. You had every intention of being a well-adjusted successful social butterfly but you just had no idea how.
You had watched your friends in their own situations, watched them give in to their primal desires, and you watched in horror as their hearts broke. It was that bubbling humbling anxiety that kept you firmly rooted to your solitude.
There was little faith in your friend’s reassurances that one day you’d ‘find someone’. You had even less faith in the placating reminders that there is no right or wrong way to fall in love. Rationally, you understood this. Rationality had never been the issue, but the lingering pangs of longing fought against the brick walls you’d built yourself.
Robby was the first person you could possibly imagine letting yourself go for. No one had ever taken your breath away quite like he did, even from across the street on a springy Sunday morning. If he noticed your girlish babbling around him worsened, he never said anything.
You remember meeting him for the first time. A rainy afternoon in a packed coffee shop. It was one of those rain storms that started all at once, thunder clapped almost before the clouds deepened in color. An impossibly perfect seat tucked against the large bay window was secured. You had long since arrived, preferring to spend your afternoon cycling between watching the rain trickle against the glass and half-reading the book in front of you.
Your routine was interrupted by a polite apology.
“Is this seat taken?” The deep voice dripped with honey, the man dripping in rain. His old beat up hockey t-shirt and jeans betray his predicament. He quirks a polite smile, as he scratches the back of his neck. For the first time you notice the hoards of people who were slipping in for refuge against the storm.
“Yes,” You say moving your things off the table, “I mean no, it’s not taken, yes please sit.” You tuck stray items back into your purse.
“Thank you.” He sat in the plush leather armchair, setting down a large coffee and a well loved notebook. “It’s really busy here today.” Your eyes trailed his features greedily, lingering on the strong broad shoulders. Admiring the gray patches in his beard that made your heart skip a beat. You had to remind yourself to stay calm.
“Yeah,” You trail off watching him timidly, half hidden behind the paperback. “I didn’t think it was going to rain.” You admit.
“Same here.” And conversation was light from there. You hadn’t learned much from him, just that he was an emergency medicine doctor at the hospital around the corner, that he hadn’t remembered his umbrella, and his name was Robby. For your part he learned little about you, just your job and how you’d never met a doctor that wasn’t yours.
It was such a shame that when the rain started to peter out he slipped away with a simple, “Hope I see you around again, Kid.” As if he hadn’t threatened your cocoon of safe indifference entirely by existing.
It was embarrassing how much you already liked him. Had you liked him any less you probably would’ve run for the hills when months of unplanned meetings later he finally did ask you to come to his place for dinner.
Robby was this mythic man in your eyes, he was a doctor which was as impressive as it was hot, but he wasn’t cocky or condescending. He always looked you in the eye, like he was catching you in the middle of something bad. He always smelled like musky cologne, even when you can also smell the antiseptic hospital on top of it. He never seemed to mind that you could hardly string two complete sentences in front of him.
He was exactly the kind of person you’d wished for in every wishing well as a kid.
It’s just that, you were sure he didn’t think very much of you. He clearly liked you somewhat, he wouldn’t ask you over if he didn’t, but you were sure he didn’t feel so intensely the way you did. You couldn’t imagine him staying up late, wondering if you had gone to bed already or if you were up reading some new book. Nor could you imagine him daydreaming between cases at the hospital the way you did at work.
The floaty dreamy feeling of the fantasy of him seemed to keep you tethered, and the creeping sense that you were far too attached far too soon kept you alert. All the feelings jumbled into a mess leaving you feeling like a puppy tied up outside, waiting for their owner to come pat their head and take them home.
You had agreed to dinner easily, and it was easy! It was easy until you had to pick out the right outfit. One that conveyed your personality, looked nice, but still didn’t suggest something more than you were willing to do. Your years of balancing this obedience and coy shyness reared its head until you were half-buried in your closet.
It was easy until you were walking the steps leading to his townhouse, just two blocks away from your apartment. Easy- until you realized you were definitely still eagerly early.
So you stood on his stoop, waiting, trying to not look too desperate. Checking your phone constantly, you felt the ripping anxiety shooting through your body with every breath. You could hear him on the other side of the door, distantly. So you stood and waited, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths.
“I don’t want to scare you, but you can knock.” The familiar voice on the other side of the old wooden door spoke. You jumped, but before you had a chance to knock, he pulled the door open.
Deep, hot, embarrassment swirled in your stomach as you peeked up at him. A meek expression surely, but he paid no mind. He simply ushered you inside, closing the door softly behind you.
“I’m sorry,” you squeaked, “I got here way earlier than I thought I would, and then I didn’t want to be rude so I wanted to wait-” he laughed at your rambles, a dark deep rumble that settled in his chest.
“I’m glad you’re here early, I was starting to get antsy.” Your body stops its frantic movements. Robby, capable steady Robby, was starting to get restless at your arrival. His voice moved behind you until it was directly behind you, his expansive chest pressing against your back.
You didn’t dare turn your head, knowing he was waiting for permission to invade your space. He was patient but he knew he didn’t need many tricks, not when you were so frantic for his approval. You wondered somewhere in the back of your mind, could he tell what a short leash he had you on?
“Should’ve let me know when you got here, Puppy.” Oh. Oh.
The evening from that point was simple. Once your brain started back up, your timid response only made him laugh.
He was cooking some pasta dish on the stovetop, an old vinyl record was playing from the living room, but it served more as reassuring filler than anything to actually remember. He was a lovely host too, he pulled your seat at the table out before you sat. He showered you with attentive questions.
“Would you like something to drink? I have a Wine Cellar downstairs.” He says with nonchalance, like that would be something anyone would just have. His smirk gives away the brag, he can’t help but puff his chest out at the accomplishment.
It’s a subtle reminder that Robby has money. Robby can take care of you. Robby wants to impress you.
“I could let you pick out a bottle.” He offers, leaning casually against the counter.
“You don’t have to do that.” You murmur quietly. “I don’t know that much about wine, actually.” You admit. “Your pick, I trust your opinion.”
He can hardly conceal the way the sentence punches the air from his lungs. “My pick then, baby.” He reaches across to his fridge where he has a bottle chilling. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No,” He answers confidently, as he pulls a cork from the bottle easily. “Just keep sitting there and looking pretty for me.” Your skin burns under his gaze, not sure how to signal him you’d give him anything he wanted if he just asked.
“Are you sure, Robby?” You ask, eyes rounded out. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything.”
“I want to, baby, I promise.” He pours you a glass and delivers it to you at the table. “Relax, dinner’s almost ready.”
“Thank you.” You smile up at him sweetly, and he has to concentrate on the task at hand to avoid getting hard right there.
“How was your week?” He calls out, mixing together the last few ingredients over the stove. “Did you ever figure out what happened to the package that went missing?”
The conversation flowed easily, despite your anxiety Robby was adaptable and quick to fill in any lulls in conversation. He always remembered little bits from previous conversations to discuss. He never talked about himself for too long, but he wasn’t obtuse about it. He offered small stories here and there, but he was an expert of deflection.
Time passed easily while he finished his work, you hardly noticed time passing as you sipped the wine and chattered on. It wasn’t until the plate of food was brought over that you realized you’d been talking for the better part of half an hour.
“It looks really good Robby.” Your cheeks burned.
“Thank you.” He took his place across from you. “I hope you like it, I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time.” Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, he always made you feel so special.
“Dig in pretty.” is said simply, no thought for what the nickname did to you.
Dinner moves as easily as it could. It was remarkable how he handled you, with complete understanding and absolutely no hesitation. He knew how nervous you were, he knew you felt on edge about being in his space, and he hadn’t given you the space to linger in it.
“So, what did you want to do after dinner?”
“What do you want to do?” He rebuttals swirling the crimson liquid around the bulbous glass. When he takes a sip he watches you, just over the rim, carefully.
You squirm, not unlike a child under the watchful gaze of an adult, not sure how to move or sit. Before you knew he was single you had kinda assumed Robby to be with someone a little more his speed. To have some elegant intelligent thing that doesn’t dangle off his arm awkwardly. Someone who knew what he meant when he talked about medical cases, or could at least understand the nuances of his adulthood.
You still felt a little overgrown and underripe for the picking. Robby didn’t seem to mind either way, always coming back for another taste.
Picking at the seam of your skirt you offered a juvenile solution, “Maybe we could watch a movie?” You half shrugged expecting him to laugh or maybe scoff at the idea of something like that. That he would maybe prefer more stimulating company.
But he didn’t, his face lit up again, simply. Nodding before setting his glass down, making no move to stand just yet. “Anything in particular?”
The movie title that tumbles through your lips is neither sophisticated nor popular. It was honestly the last movie your friends had mentioned in passing, one you had missed in favor of work. You don’t remember why you wanted to see it in the first place, maybe it had an actor you liked, or the director sounded familiar. Either way, Robby was nonplussed and eager to please.
“Sounds good to me, sweetheart.” Your heart flipped, he stood and offered his hand to you. You take it, the calloused skin skimming against your own. He hardly thinks twice before dipping his head to press a short sweet kiss to the back of your wrist.
“Go get cozy, I’ll join you in a sec.” And there’s no room for argument. Ever the obedient puppy you trot to the couch and sit without so much as a word.
Sitting pressed against him in the dim light of his living room was a test of strengths. Strength of willpower, yes, but also your cardiovascular health. The blood pumping through your system never slowed. The jackrabbit pace kept it’s intensity well into the first thirty minutes.
You hoped he couldn’t tell, despite the warm strong thigh pressed against your own, and the teasing presence of his arm wrapped behind you on the back of his couch. You could feel his breath, steady and calm, against your shoulder when his eyes flipped to your face. He seemed intent on gauging your reaction.
And it seemed to become an impossible task to act normally under his watchful eye.
“Have you seen this before?” He asked quietly, but the volume still startled you. You shake your head no.
“All my friends really like it,” He diverted his entire attention away from the screen. He’s devotional like that really, he isn’t one to be lost when something is in front of him. It could be something he’s picked up as his years in the ED grow, but it seems like such a distinctly Robby quality. He doesn’t ever do things by halves. “I- um - I never saw it in theatres or anything. After that I felt like I kinda missed my chance to watch it.”
He doesn’t offer a response farther than a noncommittal hum of approval. His hand, the one wrapped around the couch behind your head, answers for him. The slow presence of his arm leaves goosebumps against your skin as his fingertips skim lightly against your shoulder. He fiddles with the hem of your sleeve, his gaze slipping further down, before snapping back up to your face with a sweet smile.
“I’m glad you’re watching it then,” he dips his head slightly until he has to look up at you from beneath his eyelashes, “I hope you’re enjoying it.” And you are, but you don’t know how to express the real weight of your delight.
His hand slips until his palm runs down your upper arm, tugging you closer into the crook of his shoulder. You follow until your head rests against his chest. From here you can feel the wiry brush of his beard against your head, you can feel the solid muscle rise below your ear, you can see the way his hips angle perfectly in sight. Just enough to tempt you, to show you what you could be doing, enough to wonder if this was a suggestion or if he was genuinely enjoying the feeling of closeness.
These feelings bundle up in your chest, the thoughts moving a million miles an hour, and your hands start to twitch.
“Robby?” You peer up at him.
“Hm?” His answer is passive, but his hand travels further down, using his newfound leverage to roam your side. The touch is innocent enough, he certainly didn’t go straight for the areas of yourself you’d expected a man to gravitate towards. He was enjoying the time spent just stroking along the lines of your silhouette.
It was hard to understand what he was getting from this. You’d never really heard that guys liked things like this. Most of the stories your friends shared they had to practically beg their boyfriends to cuddle. Now you were cuddling on the first date, which you still weren’t sure if it was surely a date, with a man you’d been pining after for months. You’d half-expected him to tug you into his lap and stick his tongue down your throat, but when he didn’t it left you a mixture of confusion and relief.
It crosses your mind that you should just ask if he wanted to be with you like that. It also crosses your mind that you’d never be able to work the courage to ask Robby something that brazen out of nowhere. Who were you to ruin the nice evening by making it something unnecessarily sexual?
On the other hand, his touch certainly carried the weight of his intentions.
“Are you enjoying the movie?” You chicken out, changing the subject entirely.
“I’ll be honest, Puppy,” he chuckled, letting the vibrations travel against your neck and head. “I’m a little more occupied with something else.”
His hand stopped at your waist, settling protectively across your midsection. Heat flipped against your ribcage as your heart danced with searing speed.
“Oh?” Your voice squeaked out. “What are you thinking about?”
You don’t mean to sound so small, and you don’t really even mean to act so naive. The feeling that Robby gives you just makes you feel like you’re a girl again. You’re not sure if it’s his age, or the way he carries himself, but he brings out an innocent edge you’ve been trying to hide for years. You need his reassurance, his validation, to move forward. You need his guiding instruction.
The effect is felt with a low grumbling sound, escaping his throat, almost animalistic in nature.
“Thinking about you.” He flexes his hand, squeezing the meat of your torso. Your mouth drops open in shock before you shift to face him.
“What are you thinking about?” You ask again, this time you can see the way his eyes are lidded and dark. You can see the slight flush of blood rushing beneath his cheeks, and the way his teeth catch his lower lip without realizing. You watch him, like a subtle movement might give away his secret, like a deer waiting for danger to strike.
“Can I kiss you?” is said simply, his head moving in before the question is really asked. Stopping though, just far enough away that you’ll miss him if you pull back. Waiting, patiently, for the permission only you can grant.
You nod your head, but steady your hand against the base of his throat gently. Not as a gesture of power but as a plea for patience. He brings his hand over to steady yours, keeping his eyes locked to your own.
“Robby I-” He leans in closer, his hand twisting his fingers around yours, “I’ve never really done this before.”
His nose brushes against yours slowly.
“Done what?” You can feel the heat of his skin against yours. “Been with a man?” It would’ve been condescending if it were anyone but him.
“Kissed anyone.” You rush out, feeling white hot shame rip through you at the implication. Your shoulders drop and curl in. You turn your head away, not wanting him to catch sight of your own embarrassment.
In his defense, this does seem to catch him off guard somewhat. His hand going slack around your own, letting you escape from his grasp for a moment. The air was far cooler now that there was distance again, letting him feel the stark absence of your warmth.
He doesn’t react for a moment, and in your haze you feel the full weight of the silence. The confession was bitter, and you were hoping he would ease the pain by taking it away. Now though, in the moment of stillness you feel like every buried moment of shame is rising up your throat. Blood starts to rush through your ears and your eyes burn with unshed tears.
Of course you messed it up. You completely ruined the mood. He’s going to be so embarrassed.
You hardly squeeze out the breathless apology around the lump that digs into your throat. It’s not until you start to lean back and away from him that Robby seems to snap back into himself.
To be fair, he hadn’t expected you to be overly experienced, not in the way you’d carried yourself, or the skittish way you shifted around him. Hearing you had no experience was equal parts shocking and exhilarating. It was more of a confirmation of his newfound development brewing inside him. How he had never considered himself perverse until now.
He relished the momentary lapse of thought, imagining you spread open in front of him, knowing he would be your first. Possibly your only if he played his cards right. Peeling you back layer by layer until you’re just his. A little pup, eager and innocent, trained just for him, just for his pleasure. Closing his eyes, he let the lust consume him.
He hardly noticed the wilt in your demeanor until it was almost too late.
“Woah, woah, woah,” He sat up, chasing after your fleeting figure, “what’s wrong?”
You shook your head, not wanting to look down at him, not wanting to see the disappointment you surely expected there. You couldn’t stand to see it happen in front of you like that.
“Puppy, talk to me,” He murmured, bringing his hands to either side of your head until he could face you head on. “Am I moving too fast?”
And suddenly the floodgates burst, the trickle of tears tethered over the edge of your waterline, and your body shook with unshed emotion. Robby, for his part, dutifully waited, wiping away tears and tucking your hair behind your ears.
“It’s just-” you break off suddenly, almost frantic with energy and frustration, “I’m so embarrassed!” He doesn’t say anything, but he offers a sympathetic quirk of his lips. It treaded a fine line between empathy and mockery, but again it was something he wore well. “I’m fully an adult, and I have a job, and lots of friends, and a life, and-” you shudder out a deep breath.
“And- and-” You can’t stop the whine that builds in your chest, “And I just want someone to love me!” You blurt.
It could’ve been so pathetic, it probably was in some omnipresent view, but to Robby it was sinfully delightful. Here was his girl, the woman he’d been lusting over, pathetic and desperate in his lap just asking for him to love her. He could do that, he could definitely do that.
“Let me,” He murmurs into your hair when he presses sweet chaste kisses to your hairline. “Let me.” He murmurs again, catching the erotic sight of you half dazed, half crying, looking up at him. You suddenly have nothing to say again, so you settle with an obedient nod of approval. That’s all Robby needs before his lips are pressed against yours.
You’d imagined this moment before. Not this moment in specifics, but you had imagined the way everyone does. How it would feel to be pulled against someone in a fit of passion. How they might look or smell or touch. If they would be tender and sweet, like a nostalgic memory of playground love. Or perhaps something heady and twisted in some dank dark bar pressed against each other messily.
Robby was all these things and none of them all at once. His beard added a contrast your imagination couldn’t have conjured. The coarse hair was a reminder of the fact you weren’t a child having a clumsy kiss after homeroom. This was a man, a successful handsome man who wanted to kiss you. He was warmer than you imagined. His skin was molten against yours.
His lips were buttery soft against yours. The shock of being kissed lingered but Robby’s skill seemed to recover for the both of you. His hands steady against your head, angling you just the way you needed to be. His lust remained chaste with intention, until he pulled away to watch you take deep breaths. Your chest rises shakily.
“How was that? Good, hmm?” He pressed another kiss to your lips in small bursts, overwhelming your senses.
“Mmmm-” Your voice was high pitched and pathetic, “S’good.” The blood in your body coursed through rapidly leaving a dizzy float behind in its wake. He pressed another kiss to your lips. “Really good Robby.”
His eyes crinkled affectionately taking in your love-drunk appearance.
“M’glad.” he tugged you closer, pulling you into him.
“I don’t know how to be good for you.” you whispered into the peaceful pocket he created.
“Puppy,” he pulled you until you straddled his thighs, “You’re already so good.”
The euphoria that burst through you was enough to bolster the confidence you needed to surge up and connect your lips back to his, this time neither one of you held back.
Robby was perfectly attuned to what your body was calling out for. He was an answer to the hushed prayers of your youth. His mouth parted, and yours with it until you felt the velvet caress of his tongue against yours.
It was relatively tame, but it left you feeling breathless and wound up. His hands drifted to your hips where they squeezed and kneaded your flesh delightfully. He restrained himself from drifting further, but allowed himself the dalliance of feeling your response against him.
You had a harder time with your composure. Gasps of surprise and hums of pleasure seemed hellbent on making themself known. You could hardly control the way you responded to his expertise. Your back arched until your chest pressed against him, your hands roamed freely between his biceps and the back of his neck. Desperation climbing up your spine until you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Please-” his mouth tumbles down until he’s sucking gently against your neck, “Robby! Oh my god-” You feel like you might die, the blood that blooms under his touch burns delightfully.
“Use your words Puppy, what do you need?” He taunts before scraping his teeth across the newly minted mark.
“Touch me?” You offer meekly, your hips begin to chase something underneath you that leaves you only wanting more.
“Is that a question?” He stabilizes your rhythm, dragging you back and forth against his growing erection.
“Touch-” He slows you down even further until you can barely feel the friction from before, just the effect you have over him in return. The words die in your mouth.
“What do you want?” He asks seriously, meeting your eyes again.
“I don’t know.” You admit sheepishly. “I’m not- I don’t think-” You grunt at your own insufficiencies. Why couldn’t you just be normal about this? Why does everything have to feel so much harder than it needs to be?
“I don’t think we should have sex tonight.” It's a relief as much as it is a disappointment coming from his mouth. Part of you wishes he would just rip the bandaid off and take you, but the larger more rational part relaxes. Robby isn’t one to mince his words.
“Right.” You don’t mean to sound so disappointed. You don’t mean to feel the pang deep inside like you had somehow let him down. Despite the overwhelming relief you wonder if this could truly be something that he’d be satisfied with.
“C’mon, don’t pout.” He tucks your mussed hair back in his large hand. “Just because we aren’t having sex doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.”
Curiosity strikes like electricity through your veins, igniting the flame that had burned through you just minutes before. A surge of passion that was built brick by brick, moment by moment restored with a simple sentence.
“Let me touch you?” It's a question this time, a question of yes or no but also a how and where. You guide him the best way you can in your own limitations.
“Will it be good for you too?”
“Of course it will be, it’s you.” And in one swoop Robby quelled your fears before his hand tucked itself under your skirt and into your panties to quell another part of you entirely.
"You're my Puppy." He whispered just before you felt his fingertips glide over your clit and your eyes roll back in your head.
The first pass over the bundle is borderline experimental. He’s hesitant, you can feel his eyes boring down on you. The heat alone from his attention courses through your veins. Still, through the hesitance, you know the rough calloused pads of his fingers are incomparably better than anything you’d been able to achieve yourself.
“Robby-” You mewl, your hand moving to wrap around his forearm for leverage. You lift your hips slightly, running from the blind pleasure that was possible from him. “I- I’m-” Your thighs shake in anticipation.
Robby takes the opportunity, sliding his hand around your back until it hugs you completely, chest pressed to his. You furrow your eyebrows, ready to question him, but before you can he maneuvers you so your back is settled against the cold leather of his couch. Robby’s wide frame surrounding you, until all you can think about is him.
His hands make quick work slipping your painties off before you can even think about it. He makes a big show once they’re untangled from you, meeting your lidded eyes as he brings them up and takes a long sniff.
The noise that escapes you is something you’d never heard from yourself, you had no idea you were capable of this. Robby let the sound settle over him like a grounding chill, especially as your legs flop open desperately in front of him.
“So pretty for me.” He compliments. “Smell so good, so sweet.” He cants back until he’s sliding up your legs. The short skirt rides up as his hands glide along the outside of his thighs until he’s sitting between them comfortably face to face with your pussy.
“Robby-” You try to close your legs, shy from the front row seat he has to your most intimate place.
“Ah-” He tuts, taking hold of your thighs, pressing teasing kisses to both. “If you want me to stop, then say so.” He waits. When you don’t respond he continues his pathway. “Good pup.”
His lips get closer, he switches legs. His hands are grounding, but the closer he gets to your center the less you can think properly. You wish you could sear this view into your mind forever, but at the same time you can’t bring yourself to watch. The conflicting feelings rage within you, and Robby, like some psychic, seems to understand perfectly.
“I’m going to eat you out,” he explains softly, “Is that ok?”
You nod quickly, reaching out until your hands cover his for reassurance.
“Will you use your words Puppy?” A chill zips down your spine at the name, you have to bite your tongue to stop from letting an obscene moan through your lips.
“Yes, sir.” You manage. It’s euphoric watching the words rush over Robby’s controlled demeanor. His head drops into the crook of your thigh, and you feel his teeth scrape lightly against your skin. You yelp out in surprise, and when you see his eyes again they have to be two shades darker than before.
“Say it again,” he commands. “Call me that again, and I’ll make you Cum, Puppy.”
You fidget, feeling the odd sensation of want bubbling against the fire of arousal. You could feel your mind floating away, the parts of you that were cynical and objective gave way under Robby’s watchful eye.
“Please, sir!” You mewl out. “Please!”
You can hardly get the last word out before his lips wrap around your clit. The feeling, somehow infinitely better than his fingers, is unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Your head flew back onto the couch, your spine curved, and your hands blindly reached for his head. Desperate to chase this feeling for the rest of your life, you hardly seem concerned with the sounds coming from you.
All you know now is the alternating feeling of Robby’s sucks and soft licks as he explores the planes of your nerve endings. He’s expert in the way he can recognize each push and pull of your pleasure seemingly before you can. He watches you through his hooded eyes and chase his pleasure through him.
He caresses you with his tongue, the coil in your belly starting to wind to the point of insanity, then he pulls away softly. He watches as you mindlessly writhe out in front of him. He wishes, absently he could see you bare in front of him. In due time.
“That feels good, Pup?” He asks before giving a long suck, his teeth gentle and timidly scraping against your skin.
“Please, sir-” You gasp when you feel his tongue dip inside of you for the first time. “I’m going to cum- please!”
“Such a good puppy,” He mocks you, bringing his hand to circle your clit gently while he talks you through it. “Want to be my little pet? Hmm?”
You flood with ‘yes, please’ and ‘thank yous’, losing your mind with anticipation. Your whole body tense with the thought of almost there, almost there, almost there!
“Yeah?” He asks rhetorically, “You want this old man to own you?” He speeds up his hand before his other one can stop himself, he’s sliding up your shirt. You hardly think before you reach up to pull the hem up for him. It’s only seconds before he’s tugging your bra down to wrap his lips around your nipple.
“Yeah, Robby!” You buck against his fingers. His tongue swirls against your nipple and you think you might die. How this feeling could be wrong or bad, you had no memory. Everything was Robby’s eyes, Robby’s lips, Robby’s tongue, Robby’s hands, Robby’s mind, Robby’s words, Robby’s will.
You’d gladly heel to his control. He had your leash and you could feel hims start to tug.
“Whose pussy is this?” He asks darkly before switching to the other breast before him.
“Yours Robby!” You squeal, and suddenly something bursts, his fingers speed up, his other hand pinches your nipple while he sucks. You inhale possibly the last breath you’ll ever take before everything unravels.
Robby pulls back from your chest, watching as you twitch, spasm, and wring your very first shared orgasm out. Your chest heaving, your mind spinning, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth dropped open.
He feels the gush of wetness release underneath his other hand, he revels in a slippery new sensation against your skin as he slows his pace. Your body is still twitching with pleasure.
He doesn’t pull his hand back right away, he just watches as you catch your breath. He waits for your body to come back to your mind even a little bit. Then, and only then, does he slip his fingers away and bring them up to his mouth.
“My pussy tastes so sweet.” He murmurs, savoring the sweetness against his tongue. “What do you say?”
“Thank you, sir” You finally open your eyes to see Robby practically undone against you. You hardly have a chance to think before he’s pulling you up against him for a kiss. You taste your spend against his lips and it’s intoxicating the way you dip your tongue in for more.
“You’re welcome, Baby.”
A/N: Hiii I hope you like this. I wanted to wait a little longer to post and then work got crazy so it had to delay even longer. LMK what you think!
HI SRY IF YOU READ RIGHT AWAY I DECIDED I DID WANT TO POST FULL SMUT SO IT'S UNEDITED BUT THERE!
Content: Jack Abbot X F!Reader, use of She/Her pronouns, Jack Abbot x Shy!reader, (20's reader & Late 40's Jack), Smut, Thigh riding, handjobs, spit, Grinding, Mentions of Abbot's Prosthesis, Bars, Drinking, and rusty writing.
A/N: One day I will emerge from a smut scene victorious, today may not be that day but I put some good reps in. I'm open to writing for anyone in the Pitt tbh so let me know who/what you'd like to see next! :P
You were never the kind of person who could sit at a bar alone. You were never attracted to the dim light, sticky countertops, and endless top 20 hits. You weren’t built for that, but tonight, tonight you were going to sit on the very far end of the dingey dive a block and a half away from your apartment, and you were going to nurse a lukewarm shitty cocktail as long as you wanted. You were going to finally stop putting everything on hold, and you were going to re-join society.
Jesus Christ. Please get it together.
You were a grown woman, who had accomplished things, you didn’t live with your parents, you paid your own bills, you generally try your best to take care of yourself. The only thing you couldn’t seem to figure out is your job. The repetitive cycle of waking up, spending 8 hours a day mindlessly droning through work, being too tired to move, going to bed, and repeating again was unbearable. So, one random Friday morning, with too little in your savings account and even less left of your soul, you decided enough was enough.
There wouldn’t be any more morning chats by the coffee maker, useless one-on-ones with management, or special projects dumped on your plate. You were done. And it wasn’t the lingering fear of your own impulsivity or failure that greeted you when you walked home that night, it was the realization you had nothing else to show for yourself.
There were no boyfriends to come home to, kids to raise, or really anyone to call except for a few old college buddies that were nudging you to get yourself out there for months. The reality was finally dawning, you had put your entire life on hold for a job, and it hadn’t given you anything in return.
So here you were, half-exhausted, half-terrified, begging the universe for a second chance to shape yourself into something. The stale lifeless reflection staring back was not the picture of happiness you were hoping would follow you home that afternoon but, rather than wallowing in your own mistakes, you decide to go out.
The walk to the bar had been nothing short of rejuvenating. The dulcet sense of your own freedom grounded the moment. Sunshine setting on your face reminded you of summer breezes flitting by and warm evenings under the stars. It had been years since you had allowed yourself this pleasure. The golden cast made the world vibrant again. You couldn’t help but stop for a moment, pressed against the brick facade on the corner of your street to feel the pulse of the city around you. Nothing seemed to move until the sun was tucked behind the tree line, and you didn’t dare disrupt the peace until the chill of the evening settled into dusk all around you, and the only place left to turn was the dive bar at the end of the street.
The bar itself is something that had never really tempted you before that night. The music always skewed a little too country for your liking, and the patrons always seemed to be on the wrong side of leering versus gawking. There was a clear view of a pool table in the back and the dark wood seemed to match the deep whiskey bottles that lined the back of the bar. At least, that’s what you could tell from the few moments the door was left just open enough for you to peek in when passing by.
Now though, now you had an unabashed view of the entire bar, and it was enough to remind you why you’re not usually in places like this. The crowd itself wasn’t too dense for a Friday, but you could tell it would only grow as the night went on. There were patrons scattered around, some sitting in booths exchanging stories of their weeks, others leering from dark corners. You scanned the room quickly, opting for a seat on the closer end of the bar, right against the wall. Completely isolated, a little pocket of stillness, you settled in for a night of true transformation.
It wasn’t long before you realized you were probably a little in over your head. The thing about going out is, you’re sort of stuck with yourself when you get there. Your brain supplies the helpful commentary.
After sipping on a drink for a little over twenty minutes it was starting to feel like you were waiting for something to happen, that wasn’t going to happen. There wasn’t going to be a divine intervention nor was God going to part the crowd and hand you over the ideal life. You had hoped maybe someone would sit within three seats of you, or perhaps you’d get a chatty bartender. There had been no such luck, and you wondered if you were the weird one, cornered alone at a bar on a Friday Night.
This isn’t an episode of Sex in the City girl. The clock doesn’t strike 7:30 and poof you’re Samantha Jones. It’s pathetic, the feeling of shame that builds. The first time you really put yourself out there only to realize everyone else had been out here without noticing you were still stuck in your shell. The watery drink melts away from the heat of your hand and you really start to wonder, what am I doing wrong?
Had the doe-like naivety and melancholy so damaged your persona that people physically recoiled from your space? A million thoughts run through your head, and the ever-mounting urge to run home with your tail tucked between your legs only grows. As the clock struck eight behind the bar, more people wandered in. The crowd steadies out, steering clear from the aura of self-realization oozing out of you.
“Want another?” The bartender asks. It’s really a simple question, and this poor guy is really just trying to do his job. Frankly you really think you shouldn’t but just on the other side of the bar something catches your eye.
A man settles in your direct line of sight. A very attractive man. A very attractive, older man, who is definitely watching you. You feel your jaw go slack and your back straighten alerted to the danger lurking. Your eyes darted to meet his, then away, then back again in a cycle of curiosity and embarrassment. The man only smirked. Fuck me.
“Another round?” The bartender asks again. This time, with an edge of impatience, you just nod dumbly. You knew you were out of practice, but you weren’t expecting to be so bothered by a stranger just looking at you. Your eyes peel from the bar top to settle on his again.
Even in the smoked room the depth of his gaze is intense, like a magnifying glass under the sun. He was entirely concentrated, fixated on your singular point. He wasn’t staring at you; he was devouring you. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had even wanted to talk for longer than twenty minutes, and this was the first time a man had ever looked at you like that.
He seemed to enjoy the way you squirm under his watchful eye. He takes a sip of his beer slowly. Where the hell has this guy been? He’s gruff, the stubble tracing his cheeks only accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw. You feel your thighs press together, imagining the tender sting that he could make between them. He sits at the bar like he was made for it, and when he gives you his attention, you’re glued to it.
This man is a stranger. It’s meant to be a warning, a moment to pause and reconsider if that second drink was worth it. To turn back while you can, because you know if this man comes over, you’ll be going home with him.
And yet, it has the opposite effect. This man, this stranger, has more intrigue in his gaze than all of your past romantic encounters combined. The heat that had begun with small licks to the back of your neck was sweeping through your stomach and settling in for the night. It's unlike anything you have ever experienced. It’s carnal, the need that floats to the surface. Years of pushing down the most basic desperation in favor of practicality shoot to the surface. You smile to yourself; this might be the most exciting thing you’ve done in years.
--
You feel him before you see him. He’s stalking you from across the bar, closing the distance easily. You can’t help but lean against the wall for support, but his presence doesn’t bring the wave of nerves you had anticipated. His approach alone is calm and clear and only serves to produce hordes of butterflies in the pit of your stomach. His confidence reveals a predation, a swagger that comes when the cat gets the canary.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He asks, a boyish smile racking across his face. He knows it’s all too much, just too unrealistic, too much pressure on the moment, so he pops it with the careful precision of a man in complete control. The line hits you in your stomach. He could’ve said anything, he already has you in the palm of his hands. He knows it too. But instead of some half-fumbled small talk or uninteresting humble brag, he’s funny.
You let out a laugh, and it wasn’t funny enough to laugh this hard, but the small shrug he gives in defeat is worth it. You feel your shoulders drop and the moment relaxes. He tilts his head to look at you, and from this angle, you can see the hazel flecks in the bar light.
“Ok, maybe too cheesy.” He accepts it with ease that drips with charm. What is he so handsome for?
“Not too cheesy.” You peek up at him through your lashes, thanking your younger self for her fleeting interest in Vogue advice columns. “And for the record, I’m not usually in a place like this.” He watches with vested interest, as you gesture to the bar’s surroundings.
“Well, I’m lucky. I caught you passing through.” He lets his eyes rake down without shame, and it leaves you twisting your legs tighter to keep them from dropping open.
“What’s your name?” He asks. When you manage to say it, he hums it to himself like it’s a secret.
“I’m Jack.” He takes a long sip of his drink, keeping his eyes trained on you, and you sit obediently across from him, letting him take all the time in the world. “So, who do I have to thank for getting you in here tonight?” He’s all listening ears, and it’s not fair how easy he makes it look. He was so at ease, perfectly in his element.
It was almost painful, to be in such direct contrast. His measured gravitas makes your chest tighten, it’s infuriating but hypnotic.
“My job- or maybe my boss?” you concede, feeling heat creep up in your face. He lifts an eyebrow and waits for you to continue. Following on your every word with amused rapture. “I finally quit my job and didn’t really feel like stewing over it in my apartment. So, I decided to come out.” He couldn’t help but let a chuckle past his lips.
It’s almost like he’s patting your head, saying slow down, enjoy the ride. That visual alone is enough to send a pulse of heat through your core. He latched onto anything you would give him. Drinking down your reactions and savoring them for later. As if you weren’t fully intending on making sure you were the only thing he was savoring later.
“Well, can I buy you a drink then?” He moved his stool closer to yours, still giving you enough space to slip by him if you really wanted to go. Not enough space to get out without inconspicuously brushing past him. Now you could see everything on him so clearly, his freckles shining through, the bags that sat pretty under his eyes, a small scar on his hairline, almost obscured by his hair. His cologne clouded your senses, drawing you in like a drug. The musk and smoke smell that sat on his skin was complimented by a lingering antiseptic note.
“To thank you.” He clarified, letting his hand slide around the bar, blocking out most of the chaos behind him. You nod again, and he flags the bartender down.
Jack, as it turned out, wasn’t just an older, attractive man. He was an older attractive doctor, who worked at the ER a few streets over. He spent all of five minutes on himself before turning the conversation back to you. Asking where you grew up, what you used to do for work, favorite songs, movies, and foods. He was invested in your every word, turning a simple question into a whole interview.
He wasn’t without his own commentary, interjecting just as many quick quips of his own life to make it seem like he wasn’t totally letting you dominate the conversation, even though he wanted you to. Where moments of silence would fall flat and leave both parties floundering with the need to fill awkward silence, Jack excels. His silence is never a lull, but a breath, a moment for both of you to steal glances, shaking each other down and building each other back up again.
“I haven’t done anything like this before.” You admit, after an hour of easy banter. He was steady and took the news without surprise. His eyes were the only tell that he had heard you over the blare of music from the speakers, darkening significantly.
“Do what? Talk to strangers?” He teases, leaving your ears burning. He reaches his hand up and tucks a little hair behind your ear, “You’re too good for me, sweetheart.”
This was it, this is how you’d die. The blood circulating through your head is long gone, and the ache in your thighs clouds all judgment. Breathing was no longer necessary, the feeling of his heavy hands running through your hair was the tie grounding you to this moment. He read you like an open book and sat back with the satisfaction of guessing the ending correctly. He had you entirely figured out.
He takes the opportunity to throw a few bills on the bar, presumably freeing you both to slip out of the pulsing crowd of drunk coeds. You reach for your wallet, following suit, but he stops you.
“I got yours,” He lets his arm sit on your shoulder. He allows himself to rake his eyes down you entirely. You passively wonder what you look like, half-drunk on his attention, wobbly, and nervous. Perhaps a slightly pathetic sight, but Jack only steadied himself under your eyes. “Told you I’d buy you a drink.” He mumbled.
“Oh,” You froze, of course, he said that you smiled up at him earnestly. “Thank you, for the drink, and the company.” Finally, your words seem to knock him back, and it’s deeply satisfying to see him collect himself even for a moment.
He groaned under his breath and let himself invade your space until he was almost completely against you.
“Let me walk you home?” He offers, and you know it’s just words, but you feel your entire body buzz when your head bobbles yes. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, seemingly regaining his composure. Jack was barely hanging onto a thread, but just as soon as he was in your space, he pulled away. He had taken your hand, pulling you into him as you made your way to the dark street.
It only takes three minutes before you’re at the steps of your apartment, and neither one of you hesitates to climb the steps to your front door. It takes about ten seconds for you two to breathe before he has you fully pressed against him, crashing his mouth on yours carefully.
Jack kisses the way every girl hopes someone will kiss her. He kisses you like it’s his sole purpose in this moment, is to forget the rest of his life to make you feel this. His large hands always grounding, always centering your focus, while his tongue slips in with practiced precision. Jack was an exacting passion, that took no shame in pulling the most lewd reactions from your body.
You respond with equal enthusiasm, perhaps more impassioned and sloppier than him, but he only groans into your mouth and presses you into the door. His hands slip down to your waist while yours wind around his neck, pulling him down onto you, into you.
“Jack,” You groan against his mouth when you feel a particular hardness pressing into your stomach. “I really meant it when I said It’s been a while.” This only spurs him on, pressing your body to his closer, trailing kisses down your neck. His kisses, once rough now deadly, against your neck leave unapologetic marks you will question in the morning. Now, it’s liberating to feel the burn of stubble and teeth against the sensitive flesh of your neck. On a particular enthusiastic bite, your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure, and all other thoughts leave your body.
“You’re just so sweet,” he lets his breath trail up your neck until he steadied himself. “Need to taste you, see how sweet you really are.” He was lost in the pleasure of the moment, watching you blissed out in your hallway, waiting for him to ruin you. He cornered you again, letting your bodies slot together. “Need you to unlock the door for me, baby.”
And your body responded in kind like his words were a mission, you fumbled for your keys before slipping through the doorway. He can hardly wait for your door to shut behind him to pounce once more. Now that he had you, he wouldn’t stop until you were writhing around on his cock.
His kiss was all fire and urgency, little time to brace yourself against him before he slipped his hand under your shirt. Not quite wandering, but inching up, teasing you. You let out a pathetic whine, and he only laughs down at you, relishing in your frustration. You feel like you’ll die if you don’t get his hands on you right now, he said he wanted to, and you were past the point of waiting.
“Jack, please,” You beg, and in a moment, you’re dragging him to your room. He has you in pressed against your pillows in record time. Standing at the foot of the bed admiring your frame.
You take the moment to inch your shirt up until it’s sitting just below the line of your bra. Once you watch him a moment you pull the shirt and bra up and over your head, leaving your entire top half bare. Jack is frozen to his spot, his Adams Apple bobs, and his jaw tightens, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes from you for even a moment.
He admires you with quiet intensity, he revels in the pride that swells when you reach for him to kiss you again. He can feel you through the thin material of his own shirt, and it’s a useless task distracting him. Before you know it, he’s kissing his way down to your breasts and admiring them once more.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He worships your tits, sucking on one, drinking down the pathetic mewls that escape your mouth. “You’re so fucking ripe.” He lets his teeth scrape your skin until red welts bloom, admiring his own artistic signature. And you’re writhing under his ministrations, your panties were soaked by the time he finished. Desperate for more friction, you buck your hips upwards until you meet his thigh.
“I-I need-“You gasp as he anchors your center onto his thigh for friction. “I need you!” He guides you to rotate your hips against him until you’re fully grinding on his thigh.
“Shhh, let yourself enjoy this Sweetheart,” He encourages, his kisses only clouding her senses further, “I got you.” Your eyes roll back as he breathes into your ear. The firm denim perfectly rubbing against your clit. He ducked his head back down to watch you as you chased the pleasure relentlessly. When he notices a large wet patch collecting beneath you, he has to stop himself from rutting into you.
“Shit, sweetheart you’re so messy.” He admonishes, but when you let out a wine of protest, your hips pick up in pace. Jack watched as your face twisted in concentration, chasing a high, and he couldn’t decide what was more erotic, the noises coming out of your mouth or the feeling of your wet pussy dragging down the length of his thigh.
Suddenly he pulls back, dragging his thigh away, eliciting a sound that would’ve made you turn bright red if you weren’t so close to your orgasm. Jack doesn’t pay mind to your protests, tugging your panties down, laying you out bare before him.
“Am I the only one getting naked tonight?” you ask, coy, frustrated, and ready for the reckoning that was Jack Abbot’s dick. He sucks in a breath.
“I just want to warn you,” He starts to explain, and the shake in his voice has you closing your legs and sitting up. The eternally confident ladies’ man laid bare. “I have a prosthetic leg.” He says it and waits. You crawl to the end of the bed meeting him on your knees.
“Do you need to take it off?” You asked, and he furrowed his eyebrows, “Or is it more comfortable on? Or how do you normally do this?” You stuttered through, tugging him down to sit next to you.
“I don’t,” He laughs at you, “normally do this actually.” He shrugs, and it makes him just that bit hotter. Jack wasn’t trying to be anything but honest and reasonable, it only made you want him more.
You lean your head up and capture his lips in a soft kiss, letting him take comfort in you. Letting him experience the scent of your shampoo as a gift, the sensation of your nails through his hair as a memory, and pressing him down to lie back on the bed as a command.
You swing your legs over his hips, letting your chests press to one another. You let his hand explore you, experiment as you made out like teenagers. Jack pressed his, still clothed, erection into you. You let your head fall back in pleasure, as he rocked into you, building you back up to something wild and dangerous.
You reach down and rest your hand on the zipper of his jeans, tracing the outline of his bulge. You work curiously, learning his anatomy, and swallowing any reactions Jack chokes out. Once Jack decided you were done playing games he interrupted to unzip his jeans slowly. You feel his chest hitch when your hands skim along the elastic of his boxers. He tips his hips enough to allow his pants to fall away, and you shove his boxers down until he’s bare.
Jack was a sturdy man, he was not insubstantial by any means, and you knew he would be sizable but the dick he pops is thick and rabid. You can’t quite fit your hand around him, and the veins just under the skin are throbbing with unrestrained need. Jack is only able to hold himself back until you open your mouth and let a glob of spit drop down onto his vibrant pink tip.
“Please baby-oh Fuck!” He moans out when he feels your hand lubing him up with your own saliva. His mind races, and he imagines the plush comfort only your throat could bring him. “Sweetheart, let me make you feel good first.” You continue your ministrations while pondering his request, savoring the newfound control he has given you.
You allow yourself a moment of temptation and press yourself down on top of him, producing pornographic moans from both of you. Once the fire picks back up you can’t stop yourself from allowing the indulgence of him sliding through your folds with ease. When Jack’s tip catches on your clit you feel your walls contract in a pulse, gushing a new wave of arousal on him. You begin to feel the tension build up your spine, warning you.
“Fuck, you’re so wet.” He murmurs, sitting up to suck one of your nipples into his mouth like a man starved.
“Need you, Jack, I’m gonna die-“He drops his thumb to rub at your clit and suckles harder. The once subtle tug now building into something more intense. “Need you inside, please!” Jack hummed before tugging you down to kiss him, his thumb picking up pace. It wasn’t long before you felt your walls tightening and your jaw drop. Jack grounded you as your orgasm crested, his thumb maintaining constant pressure until your body began to shake with overstimulation. You catch your breath as you collapse on top of his chest.
He smirks up at you, slipping you onto the bed to lay you on your stomach. He takes a moment to revel in maneuvering you back under his control. You whine for him to come and fuck you, but he doesn’t slot behind you as you had anticipated.
You turn your head lazily to catch a glimpse of him at the end of the bed removing his leg and setting it to the side, before shucking his pants all the way off. He peaks over at you, laying pussy out, already half-fucked just from rubbing yourself on him, watching him with rapture as he takes care of himself.
You reach out your hand to him until he’s back in your reach and you can take it. Raising them to his lips before placing a tender kiss on your thumb.
“You’re so sexy, Jack.” He chuckles before returning to you, lining himself up to your hole, ready to give you everything he has.
“I’m so fucking glad you were in that bar tonight.” He admits before his hips push forward, splitting you open, and fucking you into your mattress until you’re begging him for mercy.
Just relax is the next fic I'm working on! It's a little cabin getaway with Robby! This will most likely be up next week, I'm still working out the details rn. If I lock in, I might have it this weekend!!
Enjoy the moodboard, I may or may not be taking inspo from some rumblings I've heard in the community recently.
(I don't own any of the photos, and they're simply for inspirational purposes only!)
Put together a little mood board for Tethered! I'm putting together some more stuff for them, but I think I'd like to do some drabbles or one-shots before I put it out. Hope you enjoy this in the meantime.
Apocalypse Angel of the Bottomless DEBT Pitt Revelations FED
July 16, 2020 The signs of the last days according to the Bible New Testamtent Apocalypse Revelations. The 5th Angel of the Bottomless Pitt of debt. Central Banks of our nations are printing fiat money to governments so much calling it QE. The legal Loan sharks with a suit and seal of approval from our governments. We are paying with our limbs an arm and a leg.
