As much as I joke, I should note that I don't actually see Bill as a sweet little innocent baby who couldn't do no harm.
It's hard to explain but: Do I still feel bad that I now know he didn't intend to destroy his dimension and carries that grief, and that truly he's a desperate person trying to find him and his friends a home to stay in so they don't disintegrate when the edge of the world approaches them? Yeah. Does that mean id be totally fine if he had taken over earth and turned it into the nightmare realm? HELL NO! Get that dorito bastard away from my dirt!!!
Do I feel bad that he's suffering in theraprism? Kinda, yeah. Do I find it hilarious that he's suffering in theraprism. Absolutely. Is that a question? That's fucking awesome. These coexist simultaneously in my mind.
“Masculinity is always rewarded in girls/vagina holders”
I wanna tell you all about my mom. I know this is a sentence used against transmascs, and im a trans man, so I wanna use my voice to tell you about my mom.
My mom is a cis woman, a gender nonconforming woman. (I had to teach her gnc recently actually, because she couldn’t find a term that she felt accurate.)
My mom has always hung out with mostly guys, she can fix cars, we half-joke (because its true) that every time she breaks up with a man they steal her toolbox (they do). We’re going to negate her current relationship because my stepdad is a feminist who adores her, but not all of her exes where like that.
My mom has faced SO MUCH misogyny over her clothing, her makeup, her hobbies. When she was building her tiny model car, her ex would drunkly rant how thats a “boys hobby” and “she shouldn’t be doing that”. Her and my dad used to renovate houses when they were married, Dad would plaster, and mom would plaster alongside him. While also fixing doors and windows, and floors, and ceilings, and painting the damn thing. When she goes to autoparts stores, or car lots, they always talk to her like shes stupid. Recently shes been bringing her husband, so the associate will ramble his ear off, and when theyre finally done, her husband turns to her and goes “babe I don’t know a thing hes talking about, what do you suggest?” because theyre both just so pissed off about it.
Don’t get me wrong, my moms for the girls too! She’ll give her enemy a tampon type of person. But the girls turn their backs on her, quite frequently. Mom used to have a friend, a male friend, who would go to the bar with her. I knew him well. They’re not friends anymore because he used her hobbies and interests to try to sleep with her. He would always try to change her too. Mom likes cooking, so he would try to push her away from things like watching fantasy TV (he thought that was a more ‘male’ genre) or fixing up the house for things like cooking and cleaning.
And so when I came out as trans, it was a really hard time for my mom. She understands now, and shes a HUGE HUGE ally and advocate for me, and I couldn’t fathom having a more supportive mother, but she was really confused. Mom was worried I wanted to transition because the misogyny gnc/masculine women face. I didn’t shave, I liked playing with knives and multitools, when I did makeup it was always more Kiss/Marilyn Manson style, when my sisters did a Marilyn Monroe.
I remember her driving us home from the clothing shop I came out to her in, and the talk we had. She asked me if I was confused, and I said I was sure. She said that I could just be a tomboy, like her. That it didn’t matter what everyone else said about being a masculine woman. Having talked later as adults, she thought I thought the only option for the type of masculinity I have was to be a man. She was so scared for me and my safety because of how punished masculinity is in women.
So now, as I’m 23, and its 2025, Mom is still the gender nonconforming woman she always has been. Mom taught me how to fish, how to use a hatchet, knife safety, and how to cook and sew. I’m a man who picks up heavy things for her now that shes too disabled too, who wears makeup and nail polish with my denim cutoffs and binder, who still has to call my mommy when I can’t get this screw to screw in right mom, I dont know your tips and tricks.
And masculine women can exist alongside trans men. My mom goes to my hormone appointments with me to make sure these doctors are listening to me, she yells at me when I take my shots late, she picks up my hormones if I’m at work. Mom takes me to Pride every year, and god rest the soul of any transphobes that cross my mothers path. My moms for the girls and the gays, the he’s and the they’s, the its and the lesbians and everyone between. Mom will fix you dinner and your car, and we give her gifts on fathers day too because she was Mom and Dad growing up.
So no. Masculinity isn’t always rewarded in female-presenting people or people with vaginas. My very cis mother could tell you that much.
synopsis: you and damian just got arranged married by the league, having grown up promised to each other. it would be so cliche to have sex on your wedding night, right?
warnings: nsfw - smut (uh bro… fingering, they do the deed..)
a/n: this is such an old draft idea but i got inspired now.. ofc cannot thank you guys for your endless patience with me :( i hope you guys enjoy this soo much and i will def try to be more active. also will i ever stop writing paragraphs about damian’s upbringing? prob never 😛 ILY GUYS SO MUCH SRRY AGAIN BUT IM BACKK
marriage, to the league, was duty. honour. never romance. never choice, and certainly never desire.
compassion was weakness. dependency was decrepitude. fatal.
these ideas had been drilled into damian wayne’s skull long before he had ever even learnt how to hold a sword properly. talia al ghul had spoken it to him everyday in the way other parents said goodnight— casually, habitually, as though it was an indisputable principle.
hypocritically, the same league upheld one of the greatest vows of dependency— marriage— and stripped the union of all the elements that made it an intimate attachment, instead transforming it into an obligation the heir owed; thus, damian knew very well the inevitability he would eventually have to accept.
you were the inevitability.
the two of you had been promised to each other before either of you even knew what the concept of marriage meant— two prodigies raised under the same roof of sharpened steel and impossible expectations; two children who sparred like enemies and bled for validation competitively like rivals.
neither of you had good examples of such a union growing up, but still, along the way, swallowed the resentment for it to uphold duty.
the arranged marriage was simply the league’s idea of ‘uniting strong bloodlines’, but the two of you had understood the subtext early: as trainees, the two of you were meant to sharpen each other; as teenagers battling for dominance, the two of you were meant to break each other; and eventually, as young adults? the two of you were meant stand beside each other.
neither you nor damian liked the idea, but it was childish to even think for a moment of your own feelings about the fated entanglement.
it was even more frustrating to damian that you were the one person he couldn’t intimidate; couldn’t out-discipline; couldn’t fully ignore. the one who beat him in drills when he got careless. the one who mocked him when he slipped. the one who smirked when he got scolded to behave properly as the heir. the one he was meant to spend a lifetime with. the one who was in the same boat as him regardless of it all.
it always lurked in the back of his mind: every spar. every function. every league formality, forced to attend together.
as much as you enjoyed getting under his skin and being superior, he bested you too, and often. then you would have the same thought that either mellowed or worsened down the aggression— he would be your husband.
it wasn’t hatred; not quite, and it certainly was not affection. it was something coiled between those extremes— a rivalry inherited and cultivated, seeped into every look, every spar, every word exchanged since childhood. perhaps it was something even more troubling— understanding.
even after damian temporarily left the league for gotham, adopting the name ‘wayne’ more solidly than ‘al ghul’, your existence remained a quiet constant. not only mentally in his thoughts every night as he imagined you training tirelessly back at the league (thoughts he’d shake his head to remove), but even physically when he’d visit— a shadow trailing beside his in every corridor, an echo of his past, and a cruel reminder that his future had already been decided for him.
so when the elders finally declared the alliance formally, when the engagement was announced without either of you being consulted, neither of you protested. you both knew it was coming— just not so soon.
the two of you were barely nineteen.
of course, damian was not joyous. neither were you. he had simply treated it like another mission he’d have to complete perfectly. duty.
the ceremony was perhaps the closest thing to torture, and though the both of you had been trained to endure it, nothing could’ve prepared either of you for the awkwardness during it. the big event, the festivities, the traditions, the elders, the deceit, the political aspect of it all— the closeness.
when the vows were spoken; when your fingers brushed his as the rings were exchanged; when your face softened for the briefest second at the feeling of calloused fingers meeting each other, damian felt something unfamiliar stir inside him.
something dangerous. something not sanctioned by the league. something nothing in his training had prepared him for.
for the past few months before the ceremony, you had seen damian quite a lot, but that didn’t eliminate the emptiness for the years he spent away before that in gotham after growing up together. he got to get away and you bound him. he had to have held resentment for that. you knew.
now, in your forcibly shared grand bedroom on your wedding night with the doors locked, guards dismissed, and a lingering tradition older than either of your bloodlines weighing in the air, the two of you stand facing each other like opponents, as you both did before sparring as kids.
promised to each other since childhood: sparring partners, reluctant allies, competitive rivals, both raised to believe marriage would eventually be another battle to win.
and somehow, through all the bruises and victories, you grew into the only person he could never fully beat.
so the moment you step to the other corner of the room, near the vanity table, and begin to remove your heavy jewellery, damian truly realises you are unbeatable.
the tension in the room is heavy. the room is hot. the silence is deafening. damian’s eyes linger on the way your fingers meticulously remove the expensive earrings; his posture rigid, shoulders locked, jaw set. his breathing is shallow but controlled: guarded and tense. his emerald eyes are too dark and too sharp for someone supposedly indifferent, and the moment your eyes find his in the mirror, he stupidly looks away. he berates himself for the clear give-away. the night has not been easy on the heir.
you break the silence first.
“strange, isn’t it? finally getting married,” your voice is low and controlled, carefully detached, eyebrows raised as if to ask for a penny for his thoughts, watching his expression through the mirror. tactical.
you both know what lingers in the air. the two of you had been lectured on it before in your own time.
marriages are meant to be consummated. completed. affirmed. sealed.
damian allows his head to return to your gaze in the mirror, chin tilted downward, on guard. his eyes narrow. just slightly. just enough for you to notice.
“strange implies a lack of inevitability.”
his voice is low and straight to the point, lacking infliction, disguising all emotion.
and he is right— both of you always knew this would happen. eventually.
but neither of you knew just what it would feel like. and both of you were about to find out.
you let out an unamused hum, instead moving your hands back to begin unzipping your heavy, extravagant dress, wanting to be out of it as soon as possible.
damian’s eyes expand for a millisecond before he snaps his eyes away, down, anywhere but at you. eventually they return when you begin to pace around the room with your hands stretching oddly to try to pull the tight zipper down. his head doesn’t move but his eyes follow you, watching you struggle silently.
he’s no knight in shining armour. he’s not chivalrous. he has no reason to want to assist you. he knows you’re capable enough, you always have been, and would probably refuse his help anyway. it shouldn’t be that hard anyway.
but yet you continue to struggle, shoulders lifting in annoyance as you silently struggle, while the zipper refuses to budge. at that point, damian cracks.
he sighs exasperatedly, eyes narrowed and lips contorted in a grimace as he takes big, languid steps forward to reach you.
“showing incompetency in such trifling matters is abysmal,” he breathes out, eyes dropping to your back as his hands nudge yours away and pluck the zipper in between his fingers, rowdily tugging on it to free it from the fabric. “does marriage abruptly make you abandon all prior ability?” he quips, voice low.
you immediately scoff but allow him to help, arms falling to your sides, hand twitching at the warmth his hands radiate. “absolutely,” you joke back humourlessly, voice restrained, teeth grit. “just following tradition as we should, no?” you spit wittily.
you hear damian’s shallow breath waver.
“if you think marriage means that i am suddenly at your mercy, then you are gravely mistaken.”
you suck in a sharp inhale. god, he is being infuriating, and it is even worse because you know him. you know the front he puts on when he is on edge, and that is bothering. your nerves are on fire. his voice was so cold. so stiff. almost offended.
“don’t presume my intentions.”
the zip finally frees from being stuck in the fabric with damian’s forceful tug. it slides down. way too much. way too quick.
damian’s eyes drop. he sucks in a breath. his hand freezes, fingers absently gripping the zipper.
it’s dead silent for a long moment. when damian’s fingers don’t move, your heart begins to race. what’s wrong with him? you’re about to speak when damian interrupts instead.
his voice is rough and hoarse. “to be clear, nothing has changed.” the defensiveness is prevalent in his barely stoic words, his usual gruff tone.
you can’t help but respond instantaneously. “yeah, only that everything’s changed.”
damian’s eye twitches. his fingers remain lingering at the curve of your spine. “we agreed not to indulge.”
you fire back swiftly. “we’ve made no agreements.”
damian sucks in a deep breath. his eyes flutter shut, eyelashes falling unfairly long against the top of his cheeks. he shouldn’t. he has never before, and he shouldn’t now. he does not know how to.
when his dark emerald eyes open and fall on the nearly exposed expanse of your back, he realises that his other hand had been resting on your shoulder. with the zipper open and sleeves drooping, he can feel the softness of your skin. he lets out a restrained, shaky exhale.
you can feel it. he knows you can feel it. the strain in his touch— the way the calloused pads of his fingers linger cautiously and hesitantly at the velvety skin on your shoulder. you can feel the tight attempt to control his breathing, the need to remain calm, and the way he fails.
your own heart races in your chest. you let the silence linger, uncertain on what to say or do, until the pads of damian’s fingers finally plant onto your skin with enough force to declare their presence. you almost flinch when damian’s low, grating voice follows.
“yes, we did,” he adds to the previous conversation. “since we have both known the conditions from birth,” he pauses. “and now— you are making things difficult,” he accuses blatantly, barely able to keep his tone steady and infliction-less. your lips part in offence at his words. you slowly twist towards him, head tilting to narrow your eyes at him.
“i’ve done nothing. you helped by choice.”
“you were struggling pathetically.”
“when have you ever cared about that?”
damian’s eyelashes flutter as he half-blinks exasperatedly. he takes in a deep breath. he lets his intense eyes persist on yours enough for you to notice them in concerning detail— the deep, rich emerald colour, and the pretty flecks of gold that decorate the edges. he is simply, undeniably beautiful, and for someone not used to possessing things in their life, he is unmistakably yours.
for the first time, something is yours. someone. atop that, someone unjustly irresistible.
it seems damian is thinking the same thing.
damian’s fingers tighten around your shoulder and you take the sign, hesitantly turning more to face him. your eyebrows twist upwards, big eyes finding his.
he hates how his pulse spikes when you look at him.
he hates that he’s wanted you since you were fourteen and beat him in a spar you weren’t supposed to win. he hates that the league chose you for him, because it means his desire feels predetermined, like a weakness planted in him by someone else. but most of all? he hates that he no longer hates you. at all.
“we do not owe anything to each other,” he exhales under his breath, just for himself, but you seem to hear.
“obviously,” you mumble. “you seriously cannot be considering fulfilling a pathetic old custom. are you that much of the league’s lapdog?” you roll your eyes, but the idea prickles under your skin. pollutes your brain. and so does his touch.
“i refuse—” damian takes in a deep breath, voice toneless. “i refuse to allow you to reduce my stature to the degree of acting on a platitude.”
you scoff, this time fully turning to face him. damian can’t help when his eyes drop to the loosened neckline of your dress at your cleavage— how it dips tauntingly. he forces his eyes to return to your challenging gaze.
“we’re not living in the nineteen hundreds, wayne. we don’t have to follow every tradition.”
“we were born to,” damian counters, and you can hear how shallow his breathing has gotten.
“so what if this marriage was predetermined? that doesn’t mean we have to adhere to every pathetic custom.”
“you do not seem to understand,” he leans closer abashedly as if he cannot help himself, his head tilting so his breath hits your cheek. “i am trying—” he takes a deep breath. “not to.. want more than i am permitted.”
your heart drops to your stomach. there’s a strange, unusual sensation in between your legs. you gulp, throat suddenly dry. “and what is it,” your breath shakes. “you want?”
when damian does not respond, you push. “apart from convention?” you almost whisper, vulnerable in front of the boy you’d grin if you made bleed as a kid.
damian shakes his head, downright pathetic. he closes his eyes, eyebrows crinkled with tension and embarrassment. his eyelashes tickle your skin.
“i have been forced to think about you for more than a decade.” damian’s heart aches with how pathetic he feels. “you must know how you have ruined me, since i will never tell you.” his words are pushed out begrudgingly.
damian expects you to call him crazy, but instead you step closer toward him until your bodies brush, and that is somehow worse. everything tightens. his breath. his shoulders. his whole composure.
your voice is a low whisper. “and what you’ve done to me?” your face is so close to his. “you even left me.”
damian suddenly decides he’s heard enough of you with the way his mouth finds yours, sudden and careless, yet meticulous and planned in the way you can tell he has probably considered this idea multiple times in his head the moment the two of you entered his room. he breathes you in as he keeps his lips puckered around you in one long kiss, before breaking away as if he’s been burned.
his hand is tight on your shoulder as he pulls back, lips parted as he breathes heavily, looking at you with sharp, frustrated eyes as if you assaulted him first.
your own chest heaves in nervousness, eyebrows pinched upwards in shock and disbelief. that happened. he kissed you.
and it felt electric.
damian watches you for a long moment, having forced a weak distance between the two of you. his hand slides down your shoulder, fingers grazing your skin until he pulls it away, fingers curling into a fist. his eyebrow raises cautiously, eyes searching yours.
“i am above this,” he tries, voice breathy and quiet. he holds himself like someone who knows how to control ten thousand instincts at once, but desire? vulnerability? affection?
you scoff. you subconsciously step closer, matching his defensive gaze. “above this? then what is on your level?” you spit, heart thrumming against your chest. “being an extension of those who treat sanctity as duty?
“is that not what you’d prefer?”
youe eyebrows furrow, an offended scoff leaving youe mouth. “of course not, is that what you would prefer?”
damian’s jaw clenches. his eyes dig into yours. you take another daring step forward, just to taunt him, when his hand slides down to your waist, jerking you closer. not harsh, not aggressive, but simply a raw, sharp, unfiltered action. it makes your eyes widen.
“i would prefer you want me.”
your lips part, wide eyes blinking in surprise. your cheeks tint pink, hazy gaze falling to his lips. damian meets your idea halfway, fisting the fabric at your waist and pulling your mouth to his with a sound he’d kill before admitting he made.
his lips meet yours harder than before, like he’s genuinely been holding back. his hand moves up to cradle your face, tilting it so he has a better angle to kiss you deeper. your own hands find his collar and tug him closer, lips parting and enclosing around his as if starved. the kiss is hot and aggressive, mouths gliding against each other, teeth clashing, tounges plunging into each others mouths to filthily twist and twirl around each other. it’s clumsy and sloppy, but somehow, it’s perfect.
a lifetime in the league, deprived of physical connection and depraved by rational pragmatic ideas, all amalgamating into an incoherent chaos of foreign unbridled desire and proclivity.
mid-kiss damian’s hand fists more and more of your dress, the fabric bunching up at your waist, gliding up your leg up till your thigh. he lets out a shaky exhale into the kiss, his lips pausing against yours to savour the feeling. the squelching sound of the kiss breaking rings in your ears and you feel flush with damian’s sharp gaze on yours, his emerald eyes searching yours.
“i have spent my entire life being told attachment is weakness,” he murmurs, voice dark and quiet. his hand continues to move your dress up, other hand hovering over your thigh. “but now, standing in front of you, all i want is to be allowed to be weak.”
you can’t help but press your body against his in return. your eyes bore into his dark, enlarged pupils. “who else could you be weak with if not your wife?”
damian seems to lose it at that comment, because in a second, you’re pushed back onto the bed— a little rougher than intended, but not carelessly. his hand supports the back of your head as he continues to press plush, sloppy kisses to your mouth, his other hand shoving your dress up fully. instead, you push it down, completely taking it off, in which he assists you once he gets the hint.
damian’s eyes loiter over your exposed skin as if he has been starved, lips slightly parted at the sight of you in your underwear. there’s small scars here and there, he recognises, probably from sparring with him. or after.
he kisses your neck. your collarbone. his hands push down your bra, greedily feeling up your chest, before sliding down. his hand finds your thigh, caressing it, and then pulling the plushness of it to the side so he can trail his fingers to the crotch of your underwear, and take in a deep breath at how soaked it is.
“you degrade me for following tradition,” damian’s voice is low, near your cheek. his middle finger glides up and down your slit over your underwear. “but you do not seem to mind that much.”
your eyes snap to glare at him, cheeks hot pink. “i can feel you against my thigh.” damian hears your words and presses his growing bulge harder against your skin.
“because it is no more ceremony to me.”
damian doesn’t let you register his words, instead kissing you so hard your brain feels fuzzy. at the same time, his fingers slide your underwear to the side, hesitating for a moment before pressing between your folds, easily slipping up and down.
his mouth stays against yours, head tilting to get a better angle to lap your tongue in your mouth, lips glued to yours, savouring the opportunity to have you after years of frustration, always wondering why he felt so differently with you than with others he despised.
his fingers glide easily in between your soaked folds, letting them get equally as wet. when you let out a small sound of impatience, his thumb places flat on your peeking clit, the middle finger sliding inside.
“there you are,” he breathes, pulling away enough to look down at the way his finger pushes in and out of your sopping hole. “horrible to know how delightful you have been behind all those snarky comments during training.”
that makes your cheeks burn hot. you tug him down. “horrible to discover that you’re not only good with swords,” you press a firm kiss to his mouth. “but also your fingers.”
damian’s eyes lock onto yours in a daze, genuinely feeling his heart race in a way it has never before. he adds his index finger into your pulsing hole, helping stretch you out. his fingers twist and move in and out, a soft squelching sound filling the room, combining with every wet sound of a smooch.
damian works you open with his long fingers until you let out shaky low breaths akin to whines. “do it,” you whimper, keeping nervous eye contact.
damian’s eyebrows raise, fingers still pushing deeper in. “do it?” he leans closer, clicking his tongue.
“consummate this marriage?” he whispers against your ear, almost shy himself. “cement it with more than just blood? selfishly claim you?”
your entire face feels hot as his fingers start hitting deeper inside, bullying you now. “bold of you to assume that when i’m the one claiming you.”
damian’s fingers pause.
you hear his breath hitch in real time. you feel the heat crawl up his neck.
his forehead drops to your shoulder. his fingers slide out, hands clumsily moving to undo his pants, shoving them down. you try to look down but he’s too heavy against you.
you feel him.
thick hard mushroom tip against your entrance. he pulls away to look at you with narrowed eyes, glaring with his pretty brown skin shining red.
“i have the title,” he tries, the retort weak, his hand positioning his length properly, being careful to not hurt you. “i claim,” he breathes, almost petulant. his tip slides up and down your pussy, gathering slick.
you almost smile. “you wish.” you look down at his pretty brown cock, red mushroom tip, long and neat, feeling butterflies in your stomach.
he slowly nudges the tip forward. damian’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, eyebrows furrowing as he feels your body protest the entrance, before your arousal makes way for him, allowing him to slip his head inside your pink opening. one of his hands digs into your hip, gripping, the other holding his base as he smoothly moves the rest in, bottoming out.
his pelvis stays against your lower abdomen for a moment before his hand moves down to hoist your thigh up more to bury himself deeper, manhandling you into a more fitting angle.
he twitches inside you at how warm you are around him. you feel him deep, deep inside— even stationary, edging just the right spot.
damian’s eyes open to find yours, searching. you nod, biting your lower lip. his hand moves up to hold your chin, watching your reaction closely as he pulls his long length out, before slowly thrusting back in, grinding his base against your thighs so you can feel him dig deep in.
your head falls back. you let out a small moan at the overwhelming new sensation.
“good,” damian breathes, feeling more and more turned on just by your expressions, thumb rubbing over your wet lip. “so possessive. clenching so hard around me.”
he pulls back, shallower this time, snapping his hips back, harder. almost mean. “and you called me a lapdog.”
your eyes find his, dark and hazy, lips parted to let out soft breaths. your head shakes a little, voice breathless and serious. “this is not for the act.”
he knows what you mean. you know he knows. you don’t have to elaborate.
his fingers tighten around your jaw. he leans forward, eyes heavy with unspoken words. “do you want to break me even more?” he breathes out, chest heaving up and down, hips pulling back and snapping forward, lodging his cock up into your pussy at the perfect angles, careful yet punishing at the same time, taking his time to savour the way your walls take him in. “of course you do. you cruel, cruel woman. always cruel, even as a child. making me think of you even when i was away.”
he pulls away again as his eyes move down to watch the way your hole sucks in his cock, thrusting harder and building up speed now, mesmerised by the sight of your folds around his length, seeing himself disappear into you. it makes him feel things that make his stomach churn.
you physically cannot respond, the feeling of his thrusts building up. your fingers dig into the sheets, hole clenching tighter and tighter, feeling the urge in your abdomen form. it doesn’t help that damian’s thumb moves down over your clit, right on top of it, pushing it around as if it’s his personal plaything. he continues to fiddle with it and your thighs twitch.
he hums, leaning closer, the act breaking even further as his thrusts get harder and deeper, but clumsier. the intimacy builds— they are still careful, but sloppier, more clingy, keeping himself inside you for longer to feel you tighten around him.
it takes a few more harshly calculated thrusts for your release to hit hard. you gasp the moment you feel yourself snap, thighs lifting up, squirming, whining as thick creamy liquid slips out from the sides of damian’s cock, coating him.
his palm places on your lower belly, the other holding your thigh up as he continues fucking into you, watching your face and pussy with pleasure. he feels his own orgasm build, his breathing much heavier, lips curled in distress. he pumps harder again and again to help you ride out your high before letting out a barely audible groan and pulling out. his hand pumps three times before he’s spilling out onto your dress beside you, panting himself.
when he regains his senses, his eyes widen as they find yours, and you’re luckily too busy panting to notice him ruining your literal wedding gown. instead your thighs snap shut as you writhe in the afterpleasure, twisting your face into the pillow from the overwhelming remnants of your release.
as soon as damian’s done, his hand moves to push your hair out of your face. “wait.”
he moves off of you to grab a towel from the shared bathroom, taking your dress to the wash and then walking back to the bed to gently part your thighs, clinically cleaning you and himself up. he returns again, laying on his side beside you after disposing of the towels, pants pulled back up.
damian feels an odd mix of fulfilment yet with a strange disposition. he never thought the night could ever end up like this. never outside of his sickest fantasies. he turns to you, watching your tired breathing, chest heaving up and down. his finger moves out to trace over your collarbone, voice low and almost soft for once in his life.
“our marriage has been consummated.” you can hear the smirk in his voice.
“use that word again and i will divorce you.” your eyes are closed, snatching the covers further over yourself.
“you know you cannot.” damian’s eyes stay on your resting face. he sounds like he is almost smiling tjis time. almost. you cannot tell. you would not know how to either, because he never smiles.
“i can dream of it.”
“i’d rather you not.”
you pause, just breathing for a moment. processing.
“goodnight, husband.” you mumble, pretend irritation in your voice.
the way damian’s voice softens in his response is painfully obvious.
🜼 ⋆ nanami kento trying to hold it in but ends up breaking down while you’re riding him
guys i love nanami so much this just hurts, im not ok
his hands are resting on your hips, heavy and sure, but trembling just slightly—just enough that you might think it’s the aftershocks of your rhythm. but you’ve been riding him slow for minutes now, your knees on either side of his hips, thighs aching, spine curving into the soft arch that makes his breath catch each time you grind down. it’s not a frantic fuck. it’s not desperate.
it’s the kind of movement that says i want you to feel this—each inch, each wet, sweet clench, each time your body opens around him like it knows his name.
nanami’s head is tilted back against the pillow, throat flushed, golden skin glowing in the amber haze of the bedside lamp. he hasn’t opened his eyes in a while—like if he does, the spell might break. you’re bent over him slightly, hands planted on his chest, the soft drag of your pelvis against his keeping the pace low and warm and intimate.
his breath comes in quiet gasps. not harsh, not needy. just overwhelmed. like this—this exact rhythm, your skin on his, your fingers tracing down his neck—is too much. not from lust. from love.
you notice the shift when his hands move—not to guide your hips, not to speed you up, but to pull you down, gently, into his chest. one palm flattens between your shoulder blades. the other presses at the small of your back, urging you to lean into him. you do. your bare chest presses against his, your heartbeat loud in your own ears.
his mouth finds the crook of your neck like he’s seeking shelter there. not to kiss. not to bite. he just breathes you in—deep, like you’re the only thing tethering him to this moment.
and then you feel it.
not from his breath. not from his body.
from the slow, sudden warmth that seeps into your skin.
your movement falters, just slightly. you don’t ask. not yet. your hand slides up, cradling the back of his head, fingertips threading through sweat-damp hair.
“kento…?”
he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t lift his head. he just stays there, arms wrapped around you, cock still seated deep inside you—so snug, so full, like you were made to hold him.
but the wetness spreads. soft. persistent. and your heart twists.
you shift just enough to pull back, hand slipping to his cheek, your thumb brushing gently under his eye.
his eyes are open now.
and they’re full. not just with tears, but with everything. pain. relief. awe. something ancient and breaking apart like waves finally reaching shore.
“you’re crying,” you whisper. not accusatory. just gentle. worried.
he blinks, and another tear falls. his voice, when it finally comes, is wrecked—quiet and cracked at the edges.
“i didn’t mean to,” he breathes. “i just… i don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.”
you brush your thumb over his cheek again. “nothing’s wrong.”
he exhales, jaw tightening like he’s fighting a thousand things he can’t name.
“you love me like i’m not broken,” he says softly, like he’s ashamed of the truth. “like i’m not exhausted. like i didn’t give up on myself years ago.”
you don’t speak. you just kiss him. soft. slow. with your body still wrapped around his, like you can pour all your love into him that way. like if you kiss him deep enough, he’ll finally believe you.
and he melts.
right there beneath you.
arms curling tighter around your waist, lips parting against yours, tears slipping freely down his temples now as you begin to move again—slow, slow, like the pace you started with.
like you’re telling him i’m here. i’m not letting go.
he sobs once. just once. not loud. not harsh. a small, broken thing that escapes against your shoulder, and then—
“i love you,” he chokes out. “god, i love you. i didn’t think i was allowed to have this.”
you pause, breath catching. your hips grind down, slow, deep, pressing your foreheads together.
“you are,” you whisper. “you are.”
his hands hold your face now, trembling slightly as he kisses you again, tears wetting both your cheeks. and still—you’re joined. still, you move together. no thrusting. no hurry. just the soft slide of your bodies in sync, like he’s being reborn between your thighs.
his voice cracks again.
“you’re my everything,” he whispers. “you’re the only thing that makes me feel like a man. not a weapon. not a machine. just… someone worthy.”
you cry too, then.
not loud. not messy. just tears against his skin, mouths pressed together, arms wrapped tight like if you hold each other hard enough, the world might stop spinning.
and in that room—low lit, hot skin on hot skin, your name tangled in his lips and his love spilling raw from his chest—you both stop pretending.
he’s yours.
you’re his.
and the tears? they’re just proof he finally believes it.
Resume: Where Jack Abbot was stressed because of work and ends up being rude to you, but as a responsible guy, he has the best method to make up for it.
warnings: inaccurate medical information, MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (jack abbot 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral, internal ejaculation, brief discussion, apology, Jack is undone by you, no use of y/n. Adult content (I'm terrible at this)! Only for those over 18.
author's note: Im obsessed, completely crazy about Doctor. Abbot, God!!! REMINDER: English is not my first language and I'm not even close to being good at it, so sorry for any confusion.
♡ I don't use AI and I don't support the use of AI, value authors.
The routine at PTMC was always chaotic, there were its moments of calm, but always brief and punctual, after all it was an emergency room and problems always appeared in the unfortunate early morning hours. And of course, it was well known that attending physician Jack Abbot would be there to guide the team and also mentor the residents under his supervision.
The thing was, that day's shift was being, to say the least, difficult. Abbot was stressed and the high demand for urgent care was making the doctor more and more unstable. He was already used to chaos, Jack had been in the military and had been through a lot of pressure, but after dealing with the loss of a patient, tempers were running high and the residents had that feeling of inadequacy.
He knew he should keep calm and pass that on to his students, but fuck, it was complicated when more and more critical patients kept arriving at the emergency room and the doctor had to solve cases, fill out charts, and assist the residents.
You knew that shift was being hard on Dr. Abbot, it was visible by the way he furrowed his brow and had a tense jaw while instructing the nurse to administer the morphine injection to the patient writhing in pain on the gurney. He tried not to show it, but the death of the patient who was a veteran who had survived several missions only to be killed by a drunk driver was clearly affecting him. You didn't want to be a bother, but it was impossible not to worry when your relationship with Abbot went far beyond doctor and resident, even if it was a secret to everyone else.
After hours of chaos in the emergency room, the clock still read two forty in the morning. You had done so many things, filled out charts, checked on patients, and administered medications according to the schedule, you finally managed to go to the break room to have your pause.
Upon entering the room, you come face to face with the attending physician. He was sitting in the corner, with the tablet thrown carelessly on the table, his large hands positioned over his eyes, as if massaging to relieve the stress. You sigh and clear your throat, making a sound to get his attention. Something that, at first, doesn't work, but soon Jack looks up and sees you.
"Tough night, right?" You say, entering the room fully while closing the door. The doctor says nothing and picks up the tablet again, leaving you momentarily awkward for being ignored, but you don't get discouraged "I'm sorry... About the patient from earlier."
Jack finally lifts his gaze from the tablet, but his expression is not the one you expected. His eyes are tired, yes, but there's a hard glint in them and a barely contained irritation that he rarely lets slip with you.
"You don't need to be sorry," he replies, his voice drier than normal. "He wasn't your patient. He wasn't your responsibility. You're only here to learn, not to carry the weight of my failures."
You blink, feeling the impact of the words like a slap. "Jack, I was just..."
"I know what you were just...", he interrupts, gesturing and placing the tablet on the table with a brusque movement. "Trying to help. But sometimes, help isn't what I need. Sometimes, I just need silence."
The silence that follows is deafening. You stand frozen near the door, your eyes wide in shock because, despite your relationship, he had never treated you so harshly as now. Resident, lover, or anything else, he had never been so rude to you. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but the words don't come, you are so upset and hurt that nothing comes to your mind.
Jack runs his hand over his face, letting out a heavy sigh. For a second, he's just a man destroyed by exhaustion. But when he looks at you again, something changes. The resentment vanishes, replaced by immediate regret.
"I didn't mean to..." The doctor starts to justify himself, but you cut him off by raising your hand as a signal for him to stop. You were already hurt, any word now wouldn't lessen the hurt settled inside your chest
"No. Don't even try." You say, your voice low and clearly hurt. "Sorry for... Interrupting Dr. Abbot." Then you leave the break room
"I shouldn't have said that," he murmurs, his voice faltering a little. "I'm sorry. I... you weren't supposed to hear that."
You don't respond. You just turn your face to the side, biting the inside of your cheek so as not to let show how much it hurt.
The sound of the door closing is the only one echoing in the room and now Jack tastes the bitter flavor of the "Dr. Abbot" that you left behind.
The older man squeezes his eyes shut hard, his fingers pressing his temples as if he could crush his own regret. After all, he took it out on the person who least deserved all the stress of that hellish night at the hospital. "Brilliant, Abbott," he murmurs to himself, his voice laden with bitterness. "Brilliant."
You don't return to the break room for the rest of the shift.
You ignore him for the rest of the shift, avoiding the older man like the devil flees the cross and of course Jack notices it. The doctor sees you crossing the hallways, checking charts, and talking to Santos, but whenever he got close you found an excuse to make yourself absent.
"Alright, what did you do?" Robby questioned as soon as he stopped at the ward's reception desk, without even lifting his gaze to speak
"What do you mean?" Jack retorts, furrowing his brow in that way that showed clear understanding feigned as misunderstanding.
"Oh man, it's obvious something happened between you and your favorite resident" the other doctor comments, gesturing. "Santos said she's avoiding you and I saw her almost running as soon as you arrived at the ward."
Abbot snorts at that, of course it would be noticeable, the sour mood that had settled. After all, you were a dedicated resident and Jack always requested your presence in mentorships, now suddenly you're avoiding him? Obvious that those PTMC gossips would talk.
"I was a jerk to her" The doctor admits, watching the movement at reception "I was on edge and took it out on her, when... Damn it, when she was just worried"
Robby finally lifts his gaze from the chart, one eyebrow arched. "And what did you do to fix it?"
"Nothing yet" Jack admits, his jaw tense. "She won't let me get close. Every time I try to talk, she disappears."
"Serves you right" the friend comments without any tact or ceremony, earning a look from the older man. "What? You said yourself you were a jerk. She has every right to be pissed."
Jack runs his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, frustrated. "I know she does. Fuck, I know. I want to apologize, but it's impossible with her running off."
Michael tilts his head, observing his friend with a poorly disguised curiosity. "You like her. Not just as a resident."
It's not a question. And may whatever God exists take Abbot right then, because he didn't even have a reaction for that observation.
Jack stays silent for a second too long. When he answers, his voice comes out low, almost inaudible, because Robby was his best friend and he could trust him, despite the uncharitable comment from seconds ago. "More than I should."
Michael lets out a low whistle. "Abbott, man... That's complicated."
"I know what it is," Jack replies, dry. "I don't need you to remind me."
The shift goes on steady with you dodging Jack, you almost do a victory dance for your determination. Hell, he deserved the cold shoulder, he was a jerk when you just wanted to show solidarity. But of course fate would laugh in your face and as soon as you're in the room to grab your stuff and leave, Jack finally finds you.
You're putting away the stethoscope, back turned to him, and don't notice his presence until you hear the door click shut softly.
"We need to talk" Jack's voice is thick and dragged out, you chalk it up to the long use during the night shift. At first, not answering, keepin' on putting your things away
"We have nothin' to talk about Doctor Abbot" you say dryly, the sound of the bag's zipper buzzin' through the long pause "My shift is already over, try again in a few hours"
Jack doesn't move from the door. You feel the weight of his stare on your back as you sling the bag over your shoulder with mechanical movements. as if he weren't even there.
"Doctor Abbot" he repeats, with a nasal laugh crossing his toned arms across his chest. "Is that how we're gonna do this? You're gonna cal me Doctor Abbot now?"
You finally turn around, the bag strap on your shoulder, your face as closed off as your posture. "That's how I should address you right? A resident carrying herself properly before the doctor who supervises her
Jack feels like he's been punched. His jaw ocks, and for a second he looks older than he 'eally is. Shoulders slumped, hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, after your words
"No need for that ironic tone, I know I messec up with you hours ago"
"There's no ironic tone at all" you cut in, you voice a little choked and eyes welling up despite your attempt to keep composure. "Your words were clear enough on their own."
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable Jack looks away first, pinching the bridge ot his nose as if he could ward off a migraine. You watch the older man and see the tired, regretfu man who spent the whole night stewing over his own mistake. And damn, you wanted to f nad, but despite everything, you understood him and his earlier actions,
"Give me five minutes," he asks, and it's not an order from doctor to resident. It's a reques Almost a plea and seeing from there, you glimpse the man you share a bed with. "Five minutes. After that, if you wanna ignore me fo the rest of the week, I won't try to find you again and I can even sleep at Michael's, jus... Just give me five minutes before you leave."
Your hand tightens on the bag strap. Every fiber of your body tellin' you to leave and freeze out that old idiot, but of course that little part inside you is completely surrendered to the man in front of you. That same man who warms you in bed after heavy shifts, the same sweet mar who cooks for you on days off and helps you through the toughest shifts.
You sigh, closing your eyes as if you didn't wanna give in, but even so speaking the words
"Five minutes"
The corner of his mouth twitches and it's not exactly a smile, but it's almost that. A twitch of relief, maybe.
Let me take you home" He offers and you jus agree, without looking at him and walking past him.
Both pass through reception and say goodbys to the last residents of the night shift, of course Robby being a good friend, teases with gestures aimed at Jack.
The drive to the car is silent and not that comfortable silence you two usually share after a long shift, this one is thick and full o things left unsaid. You keep your eyes fixed or the window, watching the city lights blur in the morning landscape.
Jack drives with both hands on the wheel, tense about how to apologize. It was something so simple, for something so small yet so big. Every ninute, he shot a quick glance at you, as if he feared you'd open the door and jump from the moving car.
You weren't that extreme, after all.
When the car finally parks in the garage of the apartment you both share, you get out without waiting for him. Climb the stairs, open the door and toss the bag on the couch. Jack closes the door behind him carefully. You're sitting on the couch, still not looking at him, being lit by the morning light that peeked through the windows and curtain cracks
The silver-haired man approaches, sighing iredly before the words unwrap from his tongue "Today I failed... Failed as a doctor and with you. That has no excuses and doesn't erase the way I treated you"
Now he was kneeling in front of you, despite the weight of the night shift and the creaking of bones punished by age, even the discomfort of the prosthesis, he doesn't care, instead, he's there beneath you
0n his knees. On the living room floor. Looking at you as if he were before an altar,
"The patient from today... The one who died his voice chokes up, blinking the shine. "He was like me, before going to the hospital. Must have seen the same things I saw and, shit, when he came in on that gurney... didn't see a patient, I saw myself." His eyes well up, and he doesn't pother to hide it. He could be sincere and oper with you, you'd always understand.
"Dying run over by a drunk after surviving a war" he continues, laughing without humor ano shaking his head in denial. "That's not how I wanted to imagine the end of someone who gave so much. I didn't know how to deal with it... Got pissed at myself, at the chaos of the ER this dawn, at how unfair the world is, at God, a anything. And when you came... when you just wanted to be kind..."
He shakes his head, guilt stamped on his face,
I go and do what I do best in these situations.. Be a jerk." he admits, running his hand through his silver strands "But know that I regretted it the very same second, sweetheart, know that it doesn't matter if he was or wasn't your patient you were just being the best person in my life and I didn't value it in that moment, blinded by guilt and anger"
Jack finally gets closer, still on his knees, and places his hands over your knees. The touch is light, as if he were asking permission just to simply touch you.
"Sorry for acting so rudely" the doctor says, resting his forehead on your knee covered by he uniform, every word measured and sincere "You're the best thing that happened, always sc sweet, funny and smart."
He lifts his head again, a countenance so nonest and raw, hands rising and hesitating for a second and then touching your face with his knuckles, a caress so gentle you almost don't feel it
"You're incredible, so I'm sorry for treating you hat way, I ask you to stay here with me" Jack whispers "I promise I won't let these things blind me, I won't hide what I feel anymore or try to push you away when things get hard. You'll be by my side, sweetheart. Whether as a resident or a partner. In everything. Because that's where you should've always been."
Jack leans in a little more, the air between you both mixing as he watches you swallow dry and close your eyes, nodding slightly with your head and the movement making your noses brusk lightly
'I love you," the older man simply says "I love you, and I'm so sorry. So very sorry.'
The silence that follows is filled only by his neavy breathing and the beats of your owr heart. You don't answer right away, pulling back just a little in a way that makes the doctor's heart between your legs falter
You don't answer with words, because you hands rise to the skin now more mature, caressing the cheeks that had the slight prickle of growing stubble.
"It's okay" you say softly, your eyes scanning him from up close "I forgive you and, hm, i love you too" You confess while feeling your cheeks blush.
Then the world stopped when your lips touched his. It was a brief contact, almost innocent, a soft seal that lasted just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his mouth, the texture of lips parted in surprise, the breath that suspended for an entire instant.
When you pulled back, just a few centimeters the air between you was charged and your eyes found his and conveyed the silent message he needed to receive, it's all okay.
Jack Abbott remained still for a split second, clear eyes roaming your face as if he was making sure it was real and that you had truly forgiven him and said you loved him.
There was an intensity in his expressior that you'd never seen before, not the clinical coldness of the doctor, not the teasing irony o the mentor, but something completely different. Something hungry.
When he finally moved, it was with a determination that left no room for hesitation. His right hand rose to your face, his long fingers touching your cheek with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity of his gaze. The older man tilted his head and captured you ips in a kiss that had nothing soft or restrained about it. It was a kiss from someone who'd waited too long, from someone who wished to make up for the hurt momentarily created.
His mouth was hot and insistent, lips moving over yours with an urgency that made your legs go weak even while sitting. You tasted coffee and your hands rose instinctively to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of the blue uniform, anchoring yourself as the worlc seemed to spin slowly around, leaving just you and him floating in that vast universe. Abbot et out a low sound from his throat, something petween a sigh and a restrained moan, letting the kiss deepen.
'You're so good to me" he murmured against your lips, voice hoarse and choppy, the words coming out like confessions. "Even with me being an idiot, you're still so good, dear". Jack kissed the corner of your mouth, the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck
In turn your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling the silver strands as you guided his lips back to yours.
The doctor groaned against your mouth, a sound that vibrated through you like an electric current. His hands went down to your waist fingers settling over the now bothersome fabric pulling you closer on the couch, his knees protesting the time in the position inadequate for his age. But fuck it, he definitely didn't care and you felt his body against yours.
The heat that emanated through the clothes, the solidness of muscles under the fabric, the undeniable evidence that he wanted you as much as you wanted him
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. The morning light lit you both and damn, to hell with the tiredness of the 12 hour shift the craziest 12 hours of the month, the sunlight that lit his face, revealing expression lines you'd never noticed before, little marks of a mar who'd lived, suffered, survived and was righ there between your thighs, apologizing and saying he loved you.
He was beautiful in a way that hurt, in a way that made your chest tighten.
"You're beautiful" you said so quietly that if Jack weren't glued to you, he wouldn't hear. there was no irony in the voice, just raw sincerity. "So beautiful.."
Jack just shook his head with a smile, his cheeks slightly red and then your hands found he hem of his uniform shirt, pulling upwarc while he helped you get rid of the piece with a fluid movement that made it fall to the floor
Soon you did the same with yours, and suddenly you were face to face, separated only by your simple fabric bra. Lips collided again, smacking and wet.
The doctor pulled back for a minute, glimpsing your somewhat lost gaze, then lowering his body before yours still settled on the couch, clear eyes raised to yours in an expressior that was almost reverent. His hands found the waistband of your pants, fingers brushing cloth and skin, making you shudder at the touch.
"Can I?" Jack asked, voice thick and deep, making you moan and wet your underweat beneath it all just from that
The question was so unexpected, so respectful, it made your eyes well up
"You can" you whispered in confirmation, wetting your lips already swollen from the previous kisses. "You can do everything".
With permission granted, the older doctor nooked his fingers in the sides of your pants and removed them with deliberate slowness his eyes absorbing every inch of skin being revealed. When the piece was finally discarded and then he stayed still for an instant, breatk suspended, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made the air run short.
"Perfect" he murmured, more to himself than to you. "Absolutely perfect."
Abbot leaned forward, lips finding the base of your groin, descending slowly. The hot mouth traced a path of fire along your skin, bypassing your soft panties and depositing open-mouthec eals on your bare thighs. His hands didn't stay still, rising up your belly and finding your breasts still covered by the bra. His skilled fingers snaking around back until they found the clasp on your back, freeing you from the piece witk a dexterity that stole your breath. He let out a sound that was almost a groan of adoration. His clear eyes, normally so controlled and clinical, were dark with desire, pupils dilated, and an expression of someone who was contemplating something sacred.
You were sacred to the older man and to hell with the age difference and whether they judgec him a dirty old man, he was so lucky to have you with him.
Jack's firm hands rose and touched you with a reverence that contrasted with the urgency ot the previous kiss, thumbs grazing your nipples, palms molding to the weight of your breasts, fingers exploring every curve with meticulous attention. While his mouth rose from your thighs, to your belly, lips rising until replacing his fingers.
His mouth found your left nipple and you gasped, back arching involuntarily and fingers tangling in his hair. Jack alternated between soft licks and more intense sucks, teeth grazing the sensitive skin with a pressure right on the exact limit between pleasure and pain. Making the bud of your nipple stiffen on the tip of the doctor's hot tongue
Every touch, every caress, every sound he pulled from you made his hard member tighten even more.
While his mouth devoted itself to your breasts with a devotion that bordered on obsession his free hands became explorers over the rest of your body. They traced your waist, your hips sliding up your back when you arched a little more. But of course, soon the older man's arge palm found the button of your pants anc opened it with agile fingers, you'd even make a little joke if you weren't busy gasping with him sucking your tits.
He raised his eyes to you, asking silent permission, and you nodded, lifting your hips to help him remove the piece. When you were left with only the last piece of clothing, Jack pulled back for an instant, leaving a string of saliva connected between his lips and the tip of your breast, his eyes roaming your body with an expression of admiration so intense you felt your face flush.
"Don't hide from me" the doctor asked, noticing your instinct to cover up. "You look beautiful like this, dear. You're beautiful."
Then, with a light tug, without looking away he removed the last piece with the same reverence, and now you were naked before him, completely exposed, and instead of feeling vulnerable,you felt desired in a way that only Jack Abbot made you feel.
The older man contemplated you for a long moment, his eyes tracing every detail of your body, only returning to kiss you again, however, this time the path of his lips went down your body, down your belly, down the inside of your thighs.
When his mouth found your intimate place vou let out a moan vou couldn't contain. He was meticulous and dedicated in everything he did, and oral sex was no exception, his tongue finding the exact spots that made you shiver, his lips creating a rhythmic suction on top of your clit wet with saliva, his thick fingers complementing the work of his mouth, sliding along your lips and feeling how wet youl entrance was.
Jack was always fascinated, watching as he took you higher, eyes fixed on your face, registering every reaction, every moan, every involuntary movement of your hips.
Your hands gripping the couch upholstery, heac falling back, his name escaping your lips like the most sinful prayer on earth.
When the orgasm hit you, it was like a breaking wave,so intense and overwhelming it left you trembling and breathless.
Jack rose again, kissing your belly, your breasts your neck, until finding your lips. You kissed him with want, moaning into the hot tongue and tasting yourself in his mouth, and your restless hands began to work, groping his freckled and tanned skin. He was so hot.
"My turn" you murmured against his lips and he helped you remove his shirt, revealing a torso Broad shoulders, sturdy chest painted with freckles that you'd dedicate all your time to cataloguing.
You kissed the skin, lips traveling along the dermis as you felt his muscles contract under your touch.
The rest of his clothes was removed quickly, and then there was nothing more betweer you. Jack pulled you up as he climbed onto the couch, his body covering yours
Mouths connected again and God, you loved kissing Jack, tasting him on your tongue. You moaned low as he positioned himself, dabbing the tip at your wet entrance. When he finally penetrated you, it was with a slowness that seemed almost a form of worship, every inch giving way, every movement calculated t maximize the pleasure of you both.
You let out a muffled moan against his shoulder, nails digging into his back, body adjusting to his with a naturalness that was almost frightening
"You okay, sweetheart?" he asked, voice strained with the effort of keeping himself controlled, still until you got used to it.
"Mm... great" you replied, hips moving instinctively to take him deeper, squeezing lightly as you felt yourself unbearably full "Move... Please"
He needed no more encouragement. He started moving in a slow, deep rhythm, then faster, more urgent. Your bodies met in a beat that didn't need to be rehearsed, that seemed to have always existed and just waited for the right moment to manifest. With every thrust he listened to your uninhibited moans, Jack kissed you, murmured words against your skin sounds that were half praise and half hoarse confession.
The sounds filling the room were an obscene music for that hour of the morning. The choppy breaths, the muffled moans. the noise of bodies meeting repeatedly. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, deeper, and he responded with a thrust that made you scream.
It was then that Jack seemed to lose the last shred of control. There was a shift in his breathing, a deeper sound that escaped and his movements becoming more urgent. The older man grabbed your hips with a force that would eave marks, marks you'd look at with a secret smile, and penetrated you with a new intensity nore urgent. His head fell between your neck and shoulder, eyes closing, jaw tense, and you knew he was close.
'Sweetheart, shit... i'm not gonna las..." he confessed stammering, eyes opening to find yours, his voice a hoarse thread. "We... hmm. stop squeezing or...Fuck, I'm gonna cum inside. Can i?"
The question, so intimate, so vulnerable, made your heart expand in your chest. He was asking permission. Even in that moment when you squeezed him and the overwhelming passion, ne was still thinking about you, about what you wanted, about what you allowed.
"Y-you can" you whispered, pulling him into a kiss. "I need to feel...you"
Jack groaned against your lips and quickened the pace, movements deeper and deeper, more and more intense. You felt his body tense up, muscles contract, breathing become irregular And then, in one last deep movement, he spillec himself inside you, a long moan escaping his lips, face buried in the curve of your neck. And you came together, both bathing in each other's pleasure.
The world stopped for an instant. The two of you stayed still, bodies still joined, panting breaths filling the living room's silence. Jack remained with his face hidden in your neck for a ong moment, and you felt his lips move against your skin, words that weren't quite audible, but that seemed like prayers.
When he finally pulled back, it was just enough to look you in the eyes. There was something different in his expression, a vulnerability anc tiredness come from the long night at the nospital and you were sure you held the same expression.
He raised his hand and pushed a strand of hair from your face, the gesture incredibly tender.
"I love you" he said, his voice still hoarse, but firm. "I know I already said it before, but I need to repeat it, always"
You smiled, your eyes filling with tears and full of affection, puling him into a soft seal
"I love you too, Doctor Abbot"
You nestled into his chest, your head finding the perfect space between his shoulder and his neck, and stayed like that for a long time on the couch, just breathing together, existing together, letting little by little the tiredness of the night shift, of the argument, of the forgiveness and reconciliation settle in your muscles
We should take a shower" you whispered without moving, eyes closed and almost asleep
"Yes, we should" Jack agreed, voice distant, running his nose through your hair. But you both Nere already in the limbo of sleep, dozing righ there in the living room, tangled in each other pathed by the morning light that contemplated the love of a young woman and an older man.
author's note: Wow, this one got really long! I didn't sleep writing all this! I hope you enjoyed it and sorry for any mistakes, I use a translator for some things and it can let me down sometimes.
