Description: After losing a gem of a next door neighbor, Jack worries what the new resident will be like. Instead of a young obnoxious college kid, he meets you. Instantly struck by your warm nature (and good looks but he won't admit to that), Jack finds himself drawn to you in a way he hasn't experienced in years.
Tags: reader is a chemistry grad student bc i say so, shameless self insert, fem!reader, trying to avoid too many specific descriptors on readers appearance but i am new to this, reader is shorter than jack, widower!Jack, Jack talks ab therapy, trying to do justice to the fact that Jack is an amputee, but again I am not an expert, just some fluff and feelings, eventual smut, and so mdni 18+
A/N: Thank you all for the encouragement on the first version of this! It has been really really amazing to know people enjoy my ideas and writing and absolutely wild that y'all want more. I really love this idea and have many many plans for these two. I hope to get part two written and out this week. I am thinking around 3-4 parts total, but we shall see. This is starts similar to this post, but I made some changes and expanded quite a bit. I hope you enjoy and please send me asks/dms if you have any suggestions/comments/feedback on anything! I am always open to improving and learning.
Jack has been living in the left half of a red brick duplex, unit 101A, long enough to see a handful of tenants come and go on the right side, 102A. There was a college kid whose prefrontal cortex was just underdeveloped enough for him to be nothing but a pain in Jack’s ass. Needless to say, not his favorite neighbor. Then there was a young couple who were perfectly lovely until they had to move somewhere with two bedrooms to accommodate an incoming little one (Jack had been sure to give them his number in case they ever needed a friend in the ED). Most recently an older woman, Mrs. McAlister, who had regularly brought Jack all manner of baked goods and leftovers, had moved out and into her daughter's house.
The unfortunate loss of Mrs. McAlister’s cooking meant that the right half of his duplex (and yes he thought of it as his by this point) was empty. Jack couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread creep in as he watched the last of Mrs. McAlister’s things be packed into a UHaul on Saturday afternoon. Would his new neighbor be another sweet elderly woman? Or would he get stuck with some obnoxious twenty something with no common courtesy?
Fortunately for Jack, he didn’t have to wait long to find out. Housing got snatched up fast in a city like Pittsburgh, especially housing that was halfway decent and affordable, so it was no surprise that 102A was empty for under 48 hours.
His first glimpse of the new tenant comes when Jack is arriving back home from a shift, just before 8 am on a Monday. He isn’t surprised to see a moving truck out front, nor is he surprised to see you directing the two movers on where to put furniture and boxes. He can tell you're young, in your twenties is his guess, which immediately sets his nerves on edge. Jack doesn’t think he can handle anymore house parties or loud hookups or trash left out. But you have a quiet, competent air about you that seems to indicate you aren't going to cause a ruckus. You appear to be alone, aside from the movers. He finds himself looking for evidence of a partner, husband, wife, without really meaning to. Forcing himself to not be overly nosy, Jack moves past the two men, now carrying part of a bed frame, and lets himself into 101.
After a shower and the last of Mrs. McAlister’s roast (bless that woman), Jack is dressed in grey sweats and a black t-shirt, ready for bed. Despite the sleep threatening to overcome him, he finds himself looking out his window to check in on the status of your move. Apparently you had gotten here early, because he can see you handing the movers a wad of cash and sending them on their way. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbed his prosthetic and is hurrying to get the damn thing back on so he can step back outside. He may as well catch you as you’re heading back inside, introduce himself, make sure he doesn’t need to be concerned about having another pain in his ass next door. It is the neighborly thing to do after all, he reasons.
Another moment finds him a couple steps outside his door, clearing his throat to catch your attention from where you’re examining the front facing window of 102.
“I’m Jack. Abbot. I’m in 101. Figured I should introduce myself, welcome you to the neighborhood and all.” He outstretches his hand, wondering if a handshake is still what people do these days.
Smiling, you shake his hand firmly and give him your name, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. It is at this moment Jack finally takes you in fully. He was right, he thinks, you must be in your mid twenties, no ring on your finger, and certainly not a pain in his ass. You stand a handful of inches shorter than him, just enough that you have to look up to make eye contact. The smile you are giving him is radiant in a way that makes his stomach feel tight. He can see you’re flushed from the exertion of carrying boxes and helping to move furniture, and your hair has begun to fall from where you had it back.
But even though you aren’t at your most put together, Jack is left feeling off balance, as he can only see you as the most raw and real kind of beautiful. The kind of beauty that comes with a bright smile, dewy skin, and pink chinks. The kind that has as much to do with physical appearance as it does a person’s character. The kind of beauty that reminds him of his late wife when they first met. Even though he is just meeting you, Jack likes to think his gut is usually right about people, and his gut is telling him that you are exactly the type of kind, caring, intelligent person that spells nothing but trouble for him.
“It’s very nice to meet you Jack! I hope the movers weren’t too much of a disturbance, it seems like a quiet little haven around here.”
“About as close to a haven as you can get in the city,” he agrees with a small smile. “And don’t mention it, you weren’t a disturbance at all.”
In the few minutes the two of you spend chatting he finds out you’re a fourth year graduate student, “A PhD in chemistry? You might just be a bigger masochist than me.” You somehow work nearly as many hours as he does, and he finds your work ethic dizzyingly attractive. You moved to the area in the hope of finding somewhere a little quieter, some place where you didn’t feel like people were packed in like sardines. You aren’t from PA, but you have a couple close friends in town and your family tries to visit often. You confirm his suspicions when you tell him you’re single and don’t have any kids or pets so there shouldn’t be any noise waking him up through the night.
“Actually, I’m an attending in the ED, usually on night shift. Sounds like you aren't home much during the day, but-”
“Don’t worry Jack, I’ll keep it down during the day too. You can always bang on the wall if I’m being to loud,”
He feels the corners of his mouth twitch up. “Thanks, sweetheart.” It slips before he can catch up to his mouth. Even though he knows he shouldn’t be giving you nicknames, and definitely not that kind, the pink that dusts your cheeks at the term of endearment is enough to make him want to call you nothing else.
“Uh- listen I’ve gotta get to bed, but let me give you my number in case you need anything. Neighbor or doctor wise,” he says, shooting you a wink.
“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you doctor.”
And god, he knows you mean it in a teasing way, but it does nothing to help the steadily growing attraction he feels towards you. He knows he is at least 15 years too old, and far too emotionally unavailable to even entertain the idea of being with you. He knows. But when you smile at him like he’s just offered to hang the moon and stars for you, he really doesn’t know what to do with himself.
It’s just his number, no harm in you having it, and certainly no reason it has to have any underlying intention behind it. That’s what he tells himself anyway.
He puts his number in your phone when you hand it to him, putting “Jack Abbot” as the name and “the guy in 101A and doctor at PTMC” in the notes for good measure. You thank him again, giving his hand a squeeze as he returns the phone. You say your goodbyes, and he retreats into his black out curtain and noise machine generated paradise. The last thing he sees before shutting his eyes is a text from an unknown number with your name, just so he can save your number too.
You are going to be a pain in his ass alright, a kind he didn’t even think to be worried about.
After your initial introduction, Jack assumes (worries) the two of you won't see much of each other. During your initial meeting, in an effort to reassure him you wouldn’t make too much noise during the day, you had inadvertently given him your schedule: 6:45 am leave for work, 7-5 ish suffer, 5:30 pm arrive home from work. With anyone else he would be glad to know that there would be no one next door to disturb his sleep, but instead he could only focus on the fact that he would rarely, if ever, run into you.
His assumption proved to be correct for the first two weeks of your time in 102A, only seeing you on occasion as he left for work. But, about halfway through week three, Jack wakes up earlier than normal. By the time 5:30 pm rolls around and he’s supposed to be on call for another 13.5 hours, he feels himself starting to get restless. It’s a nice day outside with a high of 75 and a low of 52, the sun has set enough to cast an orange glow on the city, but not enough that it’s going to be dark soon, and Jack has a rare burst of energy. His therapist has been telling him some sunshine goes a long way, and he didn’t spend all that money on the fucking sports prosethic to not use it.
By 5:42 pm Jack is in athletic shorts and a t-shirt, sports prosthetic on. He makes it about two steps out his front door, still adjusting the stupid prosthetic, when he senses he isn't alone. Straightening up, he realizes you’ve just come out of your front door as well. His gaze travels upwards from your feet as he makes his way to his full height. You’re dressed similar to himself in athletic shorts with a matching jacket, and he has to force himself to not linger on the exposed skin of your legs. When he does meet your eyes, he finds you smiling at him in a way that suggests you caught his little slip up, but are too polite to mention it.
“Hey Jack! Are you heading out for an evening run? Well- I guess it would technically be morning for you, sorry,” You laugh at yourself lightly, cheeks coloring only the slightest bit. Whether it’s from embarrassment at the slip up or something else he can’t be sure.
Either way, he gives you what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I still consider this to be evening. I am a proud night lurker, there is no part of me that wants to be waking up before 3 pm.” A small fit of giggles overtakes you, and he feels his smile turn into something more genuine.
“But no, not much of a runner,” he gestures to his right leg where the prosthetic is on display. “I’m on call tonight and can’t do much besides hang out here, figured a walk might do me some good.”
To your credit, your expression only falters slightly when you take in his leg, quickly recovering to match his eye contact as you listen. You nod, humming warmly in agreement, still keeping your eyes locked on his. “I have to agree. I’m also not much of a runner but I try to walk after lab most days. I think it’s a great way to reset after a long day.”
“Sounds like you’re the evening walk expert then?”
“Something like that,” you joke back.
Jack knows that the conversation is winding down, it’s time for him to wish you a good walk and find a reason to hang back until you go on your way. Wait to see which direction you turn before beginning to walk in the opposite way. But Jack also knows that you’ve been looking at him with an attentiveness that, while he gives freely, is rarely if ever matched. If there were ever a sign of not wanting a conversation to end, he thinks the way you’re looking at him is surely it.
Fuck it.
“Well, I’m new to this whole walking for fun thing, maybe you could show me the best route to take?”
Your eyes brighten, “Of course! I mean, obviously I’m new to the area, but I think I’ve found a good path. It’s about 30 minutes, if that’s good with you?”
“Of course, lead the way,” he gestures forward with his hand, indicating for you to lead the way, leaning forward slightly as he does so. If you notice the way he stumbles forward slightly as his weight shifts on an unfamiliar right foot, you don’t say anything. But Jack swears he you’re biting the inside of your cheek to fight off a grin as you walk down the steps.
Fucking sports prosthetic.
The walk is… nice. Nicer than Jack expected. He can hear the birds chirping in the trees that are awkwardly implanted in the sidewalk. He can hear the sounds of the city too (sirens, honking, a plane overhead) but they’re less pronounced than normal. The two of you walk side by side as you lead him through parts of his neighborhood he’s never really taken the time to look at. You point out a café that apparently ‘makes a mean oat milk latte.’
“I hate to fulfill the old white guy stereotype, but I only drink my coffee black.” Self-deprecation as a form of self-defence, the oldest trick in the book.
“As horrifying as that information is,” you begin, closing your eyes and placing a hand on your chest, “I also can get behind a black coffee, so if you’re calling yourself old you’re gonna have to call me old too.” You smile at him and make eye contact for only a moment before breaking looking at the pavement a few feet ahead of you.
“Besides, you have got to be the sexiest ‘old guy’ I’ve ever seen so I’d be wearing that badge proudly if I were you.” You put your hands up in mock defensiveness and accentuate your point with air quotes.
He really isn’t sure what to do with himself besides laugh. Looking at you now, he could tell that even if you were uncertain, you were not the type of woman to let him get away with putting himself down. Nothing to do but admit defeat.
“I think I’ll be quite happy with that title.”
By the time the duplex is coming back into view Jack has learned that you’ve been walking everyday for years after a suggestion from a therapist. He’s learned that you “actually thought about going to medical school, but turns out biology and me don’t get along.” He’s also relearned more about chemistry than he ever hoped he would have to after asking the simple question “What does your lab research?”
He had told you his own therapist had suggested he ‘get his ass outside’ more often, and that maybe the shrink was right more often than he wanted to give the guy credit for. He also shared one of his gorrier work stories and had been impressed when you were hanging on to his every word rather than going green. More importantly, he had only let himself spend about 3 minutes total looking at the way the sunlight caught your hair, or the way it framed your face as it fell from the loose bun you had it in, or at your lips as you spoke rather than your face, or at the necklace laying against the soft place where your neck met your collar bones. Just 3 minutes, not bad at all, practically a record.
As you approach the front steps you hesitate, and he feels it too, he thinks. The uncertainty of where the two of you stand with one another. Jack knows where he stands, and he has a feeling he knows where you do too, he hadn’t been the only one with a staring problem. But even if Jack thinks he knows, he doesn’t really know.
“Thank you for sharing your route with me, I think I was right to call you the walk expert.” He shoots you a trademark Abbot smirk, trying to put a lid on whatever feelings may or may not have been simmering during the past 30 minutes.
“Anytime Jack, it was nice to have some company.” The smile you give him in return is softer, warmer than his own. For not the first time, and certainly not the last, he feels torn about how to approach you. He knows this feeling, he’s felt it before and it landed him in a world of heartbreak and pain. It was a place he’s worked hard to move on from, and thank god he can see now that while yes feelings, raw and vulnerable, can end in pain they are also what make life worth living.
He isn’t sure where the two of you stand, after all you’ve barely started to get to know each other. However, he is sure that he wants to at least give himself the chance to find out, no matter how scary or stupid a choice it might be.
“Well… maybe we could do this again sometime? I know my therapist would throw a fucking party if he got word of me not only being out in daylight but also socializing outside of work.”
“I’d love that,” you smile wider now, staring at your feet briefly and rocking back on your heels slightly before looking back up at him. “I’ll be here a little after 5:30 pretty much everyday, join me whenever you like. Okay?”
“Okay,” he feels his own expression melt into something so sickly sweet his cheeks hurt. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
something something reader who is besties with samira and keeps third wheeling with her and jack
reader who has a big ol crush on mira and has for years, but was so happy she found someone who cares for her like jack does (even if how sweet they are makes her stomach turn sometimes)
reader who starts to feel a little too comfortable existing in samira and jack’s shared apartment, spending days and nights off with them
reader who gets used to being cuddled up to samira on their couch while jack sits on samiras other side
reader who stares at mira with the biggest lover girl eyes whenever she thinks no one is looking, but jack sees
reader who slowly but surely figures out why samira is so smitten with jack and his big arms and salt and pepper curls and sense of humor that borders on too dark but works perfectly between the three of you
reader who starts falling asleep on samira and jack’s couch after a long shift, dressed in samira’s socks and panties and one of jack’s sweatshirts
reader who wakes up, snuggled on their couch, in their clothes, to the sounds of them in the next room
reader who can’t help but listen to the moans and pants and the sound of sloppy open mouth kisses and skin on skin
reader who gets so unbelievably wet just listening but refuses to touch herself, instead lying awake hot and bothered and guilty
reader who doesn’t understand the smug smiles and lingering touches from jack and samira the next morning, focusing on not going entirely red in the face
reader who finally gets the picture when jack tells samira to “give our pretty girl a good morning kiss mira” something something
EDIT: this inspired this fic, go check it out! its a better version of this!
Jack has been living in the left half of a red brick duplex, unit 101A, long enough to see a handful of tenants come and go on the right side, 102A. There was a college kid whose prefrontal cortex was just underdeveloped enough for him to be nothing but a pain in Jack’s ass. Needless to say, not his favorite neighbor. Then there was a young couple who were perfectly lovely until they had to move somewhere with two bedrooms to accommodate an incoming little one (Jack had been sure to give them his number in case they ever needed a friend in the ED). Most recently an older woman, Mrs. McAlister, who had regularly brought Jack all manner of baked goods and leftovers, had moved out and into her daughter's house.
The unfortunate loss of Mrs. McAlister’s cooking meant that the right half of his duplex (and yes he thought of it as his by this point) was empty. Jack couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread creep in as he watched the last of Mrs. McAlister’s things be packed into a UHaul on Saturday afternoon. Would his new neighbor be another Mrs. McAlister? Or would he get stuck with some obnoxious 20 something with no common courtesy?
Fortunately for Jack, he didn’t have to wait long to find out. Housing got snatched up fast in a city like Pittsburgh, especially housing that was halfway decent and affordable, so it was no surprise that 102A was empty for under 48 hours.
-
His first glimpse of the new tenant comes when Jack is arriving back home from a shift, just before 8 am on a Monday. He isn’t surprised to see a moving truck out front, nor is he surprised to see you directing the two movers on where to put furniture and boxes. He can tell you're young, in your 20s is his guess, which immediately sets his nerves on edge. Jack doesn’t think he can handle anymore house parties or loud hookups or trash left out. But you have a quiet, competent air about you that seems to indicate you aren't going to cause a ruckus. You appear to be alone, aside from the movers, and he finds himself looking for evidence of a partner, husband, wife, without really meaning to. On the walk to his front door he doesn’t see anyone else, and with the small size of the moving truck, he concludes that it must just be you moving in.
After a shower and the last of Mrs. McAlister’s roast (bless that woman), Jack is dressed in grey sweats and a black t-shirt, ready for bed. Despite the sleep threatening to overcome him, he finds himself looking out his window to check in on the status of your move. Apparently you had gotten here early, because he can see you handing the movers a wad of cash and sending them on their way. He may as well catch you as you’re heading back inside, introduce himself, make sure he doesn’t need to be concerned about having another pain in his ass next door. It is the neighborly thing to do after all.
“I’m Jack. Abbott. I’m in 101. Figured I should introduce myself, welcome you to the neighborhood and all.” He outstretches his hand, wondering if a handshake is still what people do these days.
Smiling, you shake his hand firmly and give him your name, he let’s out a quiet sigh of relief. It is at this moment Jack finally takes you in fully. He was right, he thinks, you must be in your mid 20s, no ring on your finger, and certainly not a pain in his ass. You stand a handful of inches shorter than him, just enough that you have to look up to make eye contact. The smile you are giving him is radiant in a way that makes his stomach feel tight. He can see you’re flushed from the exertion of carrying boxes and helping to move furniture, and your hair has begun to fall from where you had it back. But even though you aren’t at your most put together, Jack can only see you as the most raw and real kind of beautiful. The kind of beauty that comes with a bright smile, dewy skin, and pink chinks. The kind that has as much to do with physical appearance as it does a person’s character. The kind of beauty that reminds him of his late wife when they first met. Even though he is just meeting you, Jack likes to think his gut is usually right about people, and his gut is telling him that you are exactly the type of kind, caring, intelligent person that spells nothing but trouble for him.
“It’s very nice to meet you Jack! I hope the movers weren’t too much of a disturbance, it seems like a quiet little haven around here.”
“About as close to a haven as you can get in the city,” he agrees with a small smile. “Don’t mention it, you weren’t a disturbance at all.”
-
He finds out you’re a fourth year graduate student, “A PhD in chemistry? You might just be a bigger masochist than me.” You somehow work nearly as many hours as he does, and he finds your work ethic dizzyingly attractive. You moved to the area in the hope of finding somewhere a little quieter, some place where you didn’t feel like people were packed in like sardines. You aren’t from PA, but you have a couple close friends in town. You confirm his suspicions when you tell him you’re single and don’t have any kids or pets so there shouldn’t be any noise waking him up.
“I’m an attending in the ED, usually on night shift. Sounds like you aren't home much during the day, but-”
“Don’t worry Jack, I’ll keep it down during the day too. You can always bang on the wall if I’m being to loud,”
He feels the corners of his mouth twitch up. “Thanks, sweetheart.” Even though he knows he shouldn’t be giving you nicknames, and definitely not that kind.
“I’ve gotta get to bed, but let me give you my number in case you need anything, neighbor or doctor wise.”
“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you doctor.”
And god, he knows you mean it in a teasing way, but it does nothing to help the steadily growing attraction he feels towards you. He knows he is at least 15 years too old, and far too emotionally unavailable to even entertain the idea of being with you. He knows. But when you smile at him like he’s just offered to hang the moon and stars for you, he really doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s just his number, not harm in you having it, and certainly no reason it has to have any underlying intention behind it.
He puts his number in your phone when you hand it to him, putting “Jack Abbott” as the name and “the guy in 101A and doctor at PTMC” in the notes for good measure. You thank him again, giving his hand a squeeze as he returns the phone. You say your goodbyes, and he retreats into his black out curtain and noise machine fueled paradise. The last thing he sees before shutting his eyes is a text from an unknown number with your name, just so he can save your number too.
You are going to be trouble alright, a kind he didn’t even think to be worried about.
A/N: this is an idea that has been brewing for a few days but I didn't want to write anything for Jack until I had finished the show. completely and totally self indulgent as a chem grad student, bc no one writes about us stem girlies stuck in research labs having no fun. I have some ideas on how to turn this into something more formal with a couple parts, but idk. wrote this super fast and didn't really look over it and I am half asleep but I needed to get it down. if there is any interest I may do a more complete version or a pt 2 (might do it regardless bc I have a problem w/ this man). any thoughts/ideas/feedback are always welcome! it has been so so long since I have written for fun and not for school/work so I feel way out of my depth, but it makes me happy so I’m trying to just go for it.
Originally for @robbyology 's fun in the sun collab even though it is practically October )': to be fair, it is still over 80 degrees here in the south
Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x female reader
Summary: In an effort to escape a heatwave in Pittsburgh, you and Michael take a road trip to stay in a cabin in upstate NY. Despite sounding like the perfect long weekend getaway, the combination of the heat, the stress of packing, and being stuck in traffic has you snapping at him left and right. While generally amused by your bratiness, even Michael has his limits. Will he snap on the drive up, finding somewhere secluded to pull over? Or will he wait until the two of you reach the cabin so he can really take his time? (Both, the answer is both)
Tags: dom/sub dynamics, bickering, daddy kink, bratty reader, slightly mean!robby, road trip, overstimulation, squirting, road head, idk theres a lot this is a mess
WC: 6.8k
A/N: I started this fic back in June or July and never got around to finishing it (blame my PI). I was stuck at home this weekend though and decided writing this seemed like more fun than working on my masters thesis and here we are! I feel like the second half is a little rushed bc I really needed to just be done, but hopefully you all enjoy!
divider credit - @cursed-carmine
ao3 link
The whole thing had been your idea to begin with, a way to escape the heat and get some quality time with Michael somewhere that wasn’t walking distance from his work. You had plenty of PTO left for the year, and you knew damn well that Michael could get his shifts covered without a problem if he really wanted to. So, you made him sit down and search airbnb for anything that would be available over the upcoming weekend. After about an hour and some bickering over what was more important: nice bathroom or nice kitchen, the two of you decided on a renovated historic cabin in upstate New York. It was small, but well decorated and homey looking. Located in a secluded area, overlooking a lake with plenty of places to explore and hike. You were in love, already picturing the two of you having a romantic bath together after a day of hiking. Michael was less enthused, picturing the 6 hour drive to get there during which he knew the two of you would be making an equal number of stops.
Despite his hesitancy, he agreed the two of you needed some time away, finishing the booking credit card in hand.
The issues started early on Thursday morning, well before the sun had fully risen.
“Michael Robinavitch, I swear to God, if you are not back here by 8 am to help me pack-”
You were standing across from him in his kitchen, dressed in only socks and one of his well-loved college t-shirts, watching him hastily tie his sneakers, the clock on the stove reading 5:47 am.
“Sweetheart, I will be back as soon as I can. Jack wouldn’t be asking me to come unless he really needed me,” he looks up at you from his position kneeling as he speaks, not missing the way you start to roll your eyes before you catch yourself.
Hand coming to pinch at your brow, you nod in agreement. “I know, you’re right. I'm sorry.”
He stands to his full height, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest.
“Go back to sleep for a couple hours, I’ll text as soon as I have my ETA. Maybe you’ll even get lucky and I’ll be back before you wake up, he did say it would be quick.” He sways the two of you gently as he talks, and chooses to not point out that usually when something at work is supposed to be “quick” it ends up being anything but. He doesn't have to, you know.
You let him go, grumbling only a little when he sends you back to bed with a quick kiss, promising he’ll help with the packing once he’s back.
You wake to the sound of your phone vibrating in bed next to you.
7:53 am
Michael: Got held up, should be back by 9
Knowing Michael, you know 9 really means 10. Considering the two of you were hoping to leave before 10 you also know that he most definitely will not be helping you finish packing. You roll yourself out of bed, resigned.
You start in the bathroom, throwing Michael's small number of personal care items into a larger bag along with your arsenal of creams, powders, lotions, and sprays of various scents and purposes. The closet comes next, you’re thankful he had made the two of you pack most of your clothes the night before, leaving only a few things for you to add in. Namely: his favorite plaid pajama pants, some frilly lacy things he has yet to see, socks, and the holy trinity (vanilla coconut lube, wand vibrator, little blue pills).
Bathroom bag and suitcase packed, you wander into the kitchen. The thing about secluded romantic cabins is that they tend to be far (like far far) from a decent grocery store. Knowing this, Michael had been insistent that you do all grocery shopping for the trip prior to leaving and haul it all 6 hours in a big ass cooler. In order to convince you of this plan, your ever so sweet partner had promised he would handle all packing and moving of the cooler and other food bags.
And yet, you find yourself elbow deep in the ice filled cooler arranging steak, assorted produce, cheese, truly the works, in an attempt to make it all fit. By the time Robinavitch walks through the front door at 9:51 am you have two Trader Joe’s totes packed with pantry items, and a very full cooler that you are moments away from closing. Thank god you hadn’t bothered getting dressed yet, you’ve been sweating enough that your hair is sticking to your face and your shirt to the skin of your back.
“I am so sorry sweetheart, Jack had to send two people home with some bug and there was a big pile up on the- oh hun I said I’d take care of that. Here, let me-”
“Don't bother,” you snap. He pauses mid step and gazes at your form, still crouched over the cooler.
You take a deep breath and close your eyes before remedying, “I’m sorry, it’s been a long morning and I’m hot and sweaty. Everything is almost packed anyway, so just let me finish here. Go shower and change,” you can smell the hospital on him from here.
Michael, smart man that he is, listens. “Okay, I'll pack the car once I'm done.” You don’t need to see his face to know he’s got his eyebrows raised and hands raised.
“Maybe a cool shower while I load the car would be good, hm?” He isn’t wrong, and you know he just wants to help, but you really aren’t in a place to hear it (and maybe he sounded just a little condescending).
Your eyes snap open and lock with his, jaw tight.
“Or not,” he mutters before walking towards your shared room, making sure to give both you and the cooler a wide berth.
In retrospect, you should have just let Michael pack the car like he said he was going to. Maybe then you wouldn't have bruises forming on the back of your head (door frame of the back seat) and shin (kicking the cooler after three failed attempts to lift it into the trunk). But spite is a powerful thing, so you may be bruised, but the car is packed and Michael is sure to be peeved.
Sure enough, when he emerges back into the kitchen to find it void of luggage and notices the ice pack you hold to the back of your head he exudes annoyance.
“Did I not say I would pack the car?”
“I was gross already and it was easy, only took 10 minutes.” It was not easy. It did not take only 10 minutes.
“Really?” He prods, hands on his hips and brow cocked.
“Yes, really. I’m a grown, capable woman.” The ice pack is starting to warm, condensation running down your arm.
“So, you didn’t hit your head? And I didn’t hear you cuss out the ice chest for being ‘so fucking heavy’?”
“Fuck you, Robinavitch.” You don’t have the energy to say it with much bite, but the look you shoot him makes up for it.
Jaw set, he breaks eye contact to stare at the wall behind you. “Go shower.”
“We’re already running late, I'll shower once we get there. Why do you think I packed the car?” It’s a dig and you know it.
“It will take you 20 minutes max and I am not sitting next to you for 6 hours while you moan and bitch about being gross. I apologized about work and I can say it again if I need to, but something tells me you aren’t listening. Go take a cold shower. We aren’t leaving until you do.” His tone is final, you know better than to argue.
His gaze doesn’t leave the wall as you drop (throw) the ice pack into the sink and head towards the ensuite.
As he predicted, 17 minutes later you emerge from the bedroom clean, skin still damp and smelling of soap, dressed in sweat shorts and a tank. You do feel better, less volatile. But the frustration of the morning’s events lingers in your body and you know being pleasant is a stretch, you’ll shoot for non-hostile.
“I’m sorry for being mean, I got overwhelmed and didn’t handle it well. I understand you had to go into work and that means shifting plans.” A fine apology, a start to reconnection. Except you say it while looking at your feet and picking at your nails, tone flat.
Michael knows you though, and so he knows you’re still frustrated and trying to stay level headed. You get like this sometimes, irritable, defiant, bratty. Usually as a result of some combination of sensory overload, heat, hormones, feeling out of control, the lights being too bright, etc. Typically, it resolves one of two ways: you crying it out into his chest or him fucking the brattiness out of you. Michael has a feeling he knows which way the two of you are heading today. Good thing the cabin is secluded.
“I forgive you, and I am sorry about work. I know changing plans is stressful, and it wasn’t my intention to place so much work on you.”
“I know.”
He pulls you into a hug, that you reluctantly return, before leading you out to the car.
The peace between you two starts to crack at the edges about 2 hours into the drive. Getting out of Pittsburgh had been brutal, sun beating down even through the windshield and seemingly endless stop and go traffic. Between the heat and the mild nausea from traffic, you had been religiously sipping your ice cold water (that you had reluctantly thanked Michael for remembering to bring).
Which brings you here, finally out of the city, traffic cleared and nothing but rolling hills and luscious trees for miles. Nothing. For miles. And you have to pee. You can see Michael eyeing the way you cross and uncross your legs, not so subtly fidgeting in an effort to relieve some of the pressure. You would just ask him to pull to the side of the road, but that feels like admitting defeat. Because of course he had asked if you wanted to stop before you were fully out of the suburbs, and of course you had said no.
“You sure? Nothing but cornfields for the next 40 miles sweetheart.”
“I’m sure,” said softly with an air of defiance.
The cornfields are starting to look pretty fucking good, especially as Michael takes a turn just a little to fast causing your abdomen to tense making the pressure turn into pain.
“Michael…” it comes out whinier that you’ll admit to.
“Hun, what did I tell you?” He's laughing as he says it.
“There’s nothing for miles, I know,” you glare at the side of his head, he doesn’t have to look over to know you’re pissed.
“Can you please just pull over? I’ll go in the grass, I don’t care at this point.”
When he glances over to see you with your legs crossed and bouncing, he decides the few cars that will pass by on the remote two lane highway don’t pose too much of a hazard.
He pulls over, chucking softly and shaking his head.
“Do we need to stop? Again?” He’s teasing, but also not really because you’ve stopped 4 times in 5 hours. At least she’s hydrated, he thinks.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Wanna tell me why you’re squirming around then?”
“I am not squirming, I’m… restless.” You are restless, you’ve still got an hour to go and the fire inside you that was making you pissy earlier has begun to manifest in a different way. Something low. Warm. Pleasant even.
He huffs under his breath in disagreement with your claim.
God, how did you go from such a foul mood to your cunt throbbing in the passenger seat over nothing? You readjust in your seat, settling back down just right so that the seam of your shorts is nestled right up against your clit. You can't help but try and subtly rock into the feeling. Your "subtle" movement does not go unnoticed by Michael.
"Are you restless? 'Cause from here it looks like you're trying to get yourself off by grinding on my upholstery."
Flushing, you turn to look at him with wide eyes. He briefly meets your gaze before returning focus to the road. "Yeah, that's exactly what you're doing. Isn't that right baby?"
You feel mortified at how directly he's calling you out, especially when you were convinced he wouldn't notice. You shouldn't, you know he gets off on it. On being mean and pushing your buttons until you're so hot in the face you swear you can feel your heartbeat in your cheeks. Always quick to embarrassment, it didn't matter how many times he's done this.
"Oh come on, don't get all shy on me now. You have no problem rubbing yourself on the seat, but you can't admit to it?" You continue to sit in silence, face getting hotter with each (exaggerated) word he says. And if you can feel slick pooling in your panties, threatening to make your thighs sticky, you'll never admit to that either.
When he makes a tsk sound and shakes his head you give him a meek "I'm sorry, Michael," that comes out much meeker than you'd been hoping for.
"You think you get to call me Michael right now?" Oh.
Still sheepish, but committed, "I'm sorry, Daddy."
"That's better."
The title wasn't something that Michael had ever been drawn to. He mostly associated it with the world of age play or fucked up power dynamics. When you'd accidentally (or so you claim) let the name slip while he fucked you through an nth orgasm, making fun of the fat tears rolling down your cheeks, it had awoken something in him. He hadn't let you get far with apologizing after the fact, pointing out that he had cum embarrassingly quickly as a result of the slip. Since then, Michael would occasionally prompt you to call him daddy, usually when he wanted to coax you into a more submissive head space, knowing how fuzzy it made you feel. If his cock twitches in his shorts when you say it, that's just a bonus.
Suddenly, the car fills with the sound of tires on gravel as the car turns onto a country road that leads to the cabin. With the added privacy, and the promise of arriving in roughly 45 minutes, he's feeling bold.
"Take your shorts off."
"Excuse me?"
"What? You're the one who couldn't wait, might as well do it the right way." He laughs a little as he says it. And then, when you don't move to take them off, "I said off, baby. Panties too."
With a huff, you awkwardly lift yourself off the seat and slide your shorts down, panties and all. Michael holds out his hand expectantly, smiling to himself when you obediently place your very wet thong in his palm for him to pocket.
He can hear you touching yourself before he sees it, slick sounds audible even over the rumble of dirt and gravel. Rather than settle back how you were, you had brought both your feet up to rest on the corners of the seat, angling to give yourself better access. "Did I say to touch yourself yet?"
"Didn't realize I needed your permission," you snarkily reply without thinking about it, brattiness returning full force at the prospect of not being able to keep pressure on your clit.
Your movements are suddenly halted by Michael's hand around your wrist, "If you're gonna be such a brat I don't think I should let you touch yourself at all. Keep your other hand on the headrest."
You let out a pathetic whimper and attempt to break out of his grip,but move your other hand to fulfill his request. "C'mon, let go!"
"I said no, pretty girl," he loosens the hold on your wrist in favor of interlacing his fingers with yours, bringing your conjoined hands to rest on his thigh. You're starting to squirm, but to your credit the other hand hasn't moved from by your head. "You're being mean," it comes out beyond pouty, petulant.
"Aw, I don't think I'm being mean baby," he takes a moment to look at you, appreciate how desperate you look, smiling to himself, "How about we make a deal?"
Your brows knit together, this can't be anything but trouble. "What's the deal?"
"You can touch yourself, but, you have to keep my cock in your mouth while you do."
Huh.
Truthfully, the thought hadn't crossed your mind. You certainly weren't opposed, just surprised.
Michael was equally surprised.
He'd never given road head as a concept much thought, for several reasons. For one, his job was basically 12 hour PSA about the hazards of doing stupid shit while driving. Another, he rarely drove, often preferring public transport or his own two feet. If he did drive, it was almost always in crowded areas where there was no chance of getting away with funny business. But at this point Michael is starting to leak into his underwear and fuck if he doesn't love the taboo of it all. There's not another car in sight, he's already slowed down significantly, and he can always pull off the dirt road into one of the breaks in the tree line.
You go quiet for just long enough to make him wonder if he's gone too far, to have him worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and thinking of a way to backtrack. He doesn't get far before your hand comes to life in his, seeking out the tent in his shorts. "Deal."
He smirks, relaxing back into his seat to give you room, not that you need it with how far back his seat is so he'll fit in the damn car. You make quick work of unstrapping and leaning over the console to fish out his hard and leaking, stupidly big cock. Starting slow, you lean in to tongue at his slit, collecting all the precum that's collected, humming softly at the salty taste.
Mouthing softly up and down his shaft, doing your best to get it slick with spit, you reach one hand back between your legs to slowly circle your clit, a little appalled at how wet you've gotten.
Michael moves one hand from the wheel to your head, pulling just enough to make sure you're paying attention. The pressure feels good for a moment before he gives a sharp tug.
"I said in your mouth not near it, behave." There's no venom behind the words, just firmness.
You move to take his tip into your mouth, trying to lick at his glans while sucking, doing an imperfect job thanks to the sideways angle. Michael seems appreciative regardless, groaning above you. It's enough to spur you on, slowly working your way down his shaft until you gag lightly, then back up to suckle at his tip. You fall into a kind of stilted rhythm, doing your best with how cramped you are, other hand still busy pleasing yourself. It doesn't matter though, Michael has taken to panting lightly above you, hips starting to rise ever so slightly, his grip in your hair being used to guide you. He knows your limits, knows you like him being in control, knows you love making him feel good. Fuck, he feels good, one hand on the wheel and eyes fixed on the road, he's slowed the car to what feels like a crawl but he doesn't fucking care.
Your head is properly bobbing now, slobber all over the lower half of your face and, you imagine, Michael's shorts. All you can hear is the sound of you slurping, and on occasion gagging softly. The friction on your clit feels good, but you're nowhere near coming, the angle is wrong and you're too focused on him. You don't mind, it's not like he gave you permission anyways.
Your efforts are interrupted when the car drives over a pothole Michael failed to avoid. The jolt causes you to lose balance, falling forward and inadvertently taking him deeper than expected. You gag hard, tears that had been threatening to spill fall freely. Between the shock and the sensation Michael can't help but hold you down for a moment, "Fuck that's so good," a broken moan follows when you choke around him again.
He guides you off of him, knows there must be strings of drool still connecting the two of you. "Want you to choke on it again, okay? Be a good girl and choke on daddy's cock." He knows he's delirious, rambling at this point, but you're eager for it, diving back down before he knows what to do with himself. You push past the point of comfort, gagging once more, and god help him, he doesn't even have to hold your head down, you're so fucking eager that you do it on your own. It's enough to have him twitching in your throat.
When he grunts out, "Gettin' close," you abandon the effort to touch yourself to make use of both hands. Balancing your weight on your chest, one hand gently cupping his balls and the other resting heavily on his lower stomach, knowing the added sensation will get him that much closer.
You've resumed your earlier pace, made easier by how slick with drool his shaft is. You double down as you feel the car pull off and come to a stop. He's putting it in park as his hips begin to roll up, into your mouth, thighs tensed with exertion. A steady stream of praises falls from his lips, blabbering to himself as he starts to fall over the edge.
Always so good for me baby. Shit, feels so good, keep going just like that. Want daddy to cum down your throat don't you, right baby?
You do your best to hum around him in agreement, the sensation being the thing that tips him over. A garbled fuck, g'na cum hits your ears as your head is held down, nose brushing the fabric of his shorts as he empties into your throat. You swallow periodically as you feel his release gather, his cock twitching what feels like longer than normal, and you wonder how pent up he's been to cum this much.
He releases you when he's finished, you lift yourself slowly off but remain leaned over the console. He's panting, face and neck red, exhausted. He pulls you in by the nape of your neck for an open mouth kiss. It's messy and less a kiss and more a desperate meeting of tongues and biting of lips, but it's what you need and you can't help but moan into it. The arousal you'd felt before slams back into you, suddenly aware of the slick all over your thighs. The two of you break apart in time for Michael to see you honest to god dripping onto the seat.
"Poor baby, I don't think I've ever seen you so worked up," he coaxes you over and into his lap facing him. Your thighs bracketing his, sitting somewhat gingerly. His hands smooth over your thighs, coming to rest on your hips as his thumbs circle gently over the skin there. He kisses you again as his hands continue to roam your skin, avoiding the aching mess between your thighs, spreading his own enough to prevent you grinding onto anything.
You whine desperately, attempt to drag his hands to where you need them. He laughs at that, frustrating you further. "Touch me," demanding, "I did what you asked, let me cum, please."
"You can beg better than that baby, try again."
"Please touch me? You said I did good for you, just wanted to make you feel good," he moves one hand to gently cup your sex, giving you a barely there pressure and warmth, you can't help trying to grind into his palm. Your tone grows in desperation and you feel yourself nearing tears as you continue, "Need you to touch me, please."
"I am touching you baby, got my hand right where you need it, yeah?"
You let out a solitary sob as hot tears of frustration start to roll down your cheeks. You move to wrap your arms around his neck, burying your head in his chest as your hips keep thrusting shallowly. "No- no please I need to cum," a hiccup, "It hurts, s'not enough like this," a moment of clarity, "Need you to rub my clit- please rub my clit, daddy? Please, make me cum?"
"Good girl, knew you'd get there. Always so smart." He doesn't keep you waiting, moving to rub tight and fast circles right where you'd begged so sweetly for them. The effect it has on you is instant, thighs shaking as your hips roll forward methodically. You've been building up to this orgasm for what feels like hours and yet it's coming on so fast you don't know how to brace for it. You settle for mouthing at Michael's neck, breathing in the scent of his sweat, letting your lower half move in tandem with his fingers as your orgasm overtakes you suddenly with a sharp moan.
He keeps up his pace through the aftershocks, so intense you can't stop shaking with it as you mumble a mess of 'thank you' and 'daddy' until his fingers finally slow to a stop.
You spend several long minutes in his lap, both of you breathing heavily. Eventually, one of you grabs the shorts you'd abandoned earlier and he slides them back over your hips. Quite the feat given the position the two of you are in. Once your back in your seat, legs no longer shaking (mostly), he puts the car back in drive. Only 20 more minutes…
By the time he pulls into cabin's gravel drive the tension between you has settled into a low simmer. Warmth still settling in the pit of your stomach despite cumming less than half an hour before, only encouraged by the oversized hand resting high on your thigh.
He gives your leg a gentle squeeze before instructing, "Go rinse off and wait for me on the bed. No covering up and no touching yourself. Okay?"
You agree with a simple hum and nod of your head before making your way inside on bambi legs.
The bathroom is as rustic as the rest of the small cabin, featuring rough stone walls interrupted by large windows that leave you feeling mildly exposed. You undress, folding and placing your tank and soaked shorts neatly on the lip of the tub adjacent to the open shower. You rinse off quickly, basking in the view of the lake and listening to Michael unloading the car.
You feel rejuvenated after showering, smelling like the luxurious soap stocked in the bathroom, with damp hair. Following Michael's earlier instruction, you leave the towel in the bathroom and make your way to settle on the bed. Ever efficient, Michael had managed to unpack the cooler and carry in most your bags which were now accumulated in the small living area. Moving to rest on the bed in what you hoped would be an appealing position, you noted the collection of items he had unpacked on the bedside table, namely, the holy trinity.
You're only granted a few moments to wonder what is planned for you before the front door opens to reveal Michael carrying the last of your things. Avoiding letting his gaze fall on your naked form, he adds the finals bags to the collection by the couch before hitting the lock button on the car keys and placing them on the coffee table. He sits on the couch to remove his shoes before placing them by the door. Ever the picture of self restraint, he continues ignoring you in favor of washing his hands and getting two glasses of water from the kitchen. You watch as he moves around the space, seemingly unaffected by your presence. It only served to make the stickiness between your legs spread onto your inner thighs.
Finally approaching the bed, he places both glasses on water on the small table before retrieving a pill. "Here's what we're going to do: I am going to take this," he pauses to swallow the pill along with a sip of water, before finally letting his eyes meet yours.
"Next, you are going to let me eat this pretty pussy until it kicks in," he reaches to pull you so that you are kneeling at the edge of the mattress, your naked chest pressed against his shirt.
"And then," voice husky, his forehead pressed against yours, lips nearly touching, big calloused hands resting on your waist, "I am going to fuck you so hard and deep that you are crying and begging me to cum inside you."
You let out a soft moan at his words, which apparently is not cutting it for him today. "Do you understand, sweetheart?"
"Yes, I understand."
He hums deep in his chest and you can feel the vibration of it. "Good," he tells you before kissing the top of your head and promptly shoving you back onto the mattress.
Too shocked to react, he easily grabs your legs and pulls you so that your ass is hanging off the edge of the bed. He wastes no time in grabbing a pillow, placing it in front of you and sinking to his knees. You feel his hands guiding your thighs up and over his shoulders, still stuck on the sight of him on his knees for you. Adjusting his grip to your ass, he lifts your hips and ducks his head, the last you see of him before the overwhelming heat of his mouth on your has your head lolling back.
It's sloppy and messy in a way that would make you think he's an amateur, if you didn't know he had the skill and patience to draw multiple orgasms from you with just his tongue. He laves everywhere and nowhere all at once, alternating between greedily collecting slick directly from the source and nipping and sucking at your inner thighs. He knows it isn't where you want him, he can tell with the way your whining softly and attempting to angle your hips lower. For all the calm and restraint he showed earlier, he feels ravenous now, unable to get enough of your taste. Broad strokes that dip into your entrance before passing over your clit just long enough to have you moaning softly and squirming in his grip.
Tempted as he might be to pin your hips to the bed and switch his attentions solely to your clit, giving you that white hot pleasure he knows you're craving, he knows it'll be that much sweeter for both of you if he makes you beg. Rather than continue his ministrations, he migrates back to littering your thighs with love bites, covering your pussy in obsessive open mouth kisses, licking up the wetness threatening to drip onto the duvet.
"Michael…" a moan he can instantly tell is one of frustration and not of pleasure. He adjusts his grip and gives a harsh spank to your ass, earning him a yelp. Moving his gaze up and onto your face, his hazy eyes meet yours and you know what he's asking for.
"Daddy," you amend. "Please?"
And god he really can't say no to you when he's got you like this. He moves back down and resumes his task, once again licking from bottom to top, only this time when he reached the top he settles to focus his attention solely on your clit. The effect it has on you is instant, soft whines turning into long drawn out moans and hips gaining a mind of their own, fighting against Michael's grip. With a low growl he leans forward, taking your body with him, somehow lowering your hips to the bed and moving one arm to pin you down, all while keeping his mouth on you. The way he manhandles you is hotter than it should be, but you can't linger on it when he doubles down, alternating between quick licks and honest to god sucking your clit.
He can tell you're close when your thighs begin twitching by his ears and your moans pitch higher and breathier. It only takes a few more minutes of consistent stimulation to have your back bowing and legs squeezing his head, faintly he hears you announce your second orgasm, as if he doesn't know your body well enough to be able to tell.
You expect him to pull away, move on to the next part of his plan. That is not what happens. He doesn't even slow, giving you no time to breathe. If anything, his tongue moves quicker against you, more insistent, while his free hand moves to your entrance. His other hand moving to pin you down by that place low on your belly that makes every sensation that much more intense, making the two fingers he inserts feel that much bigger.
Michael knows he's found what he was looking for when your hands, that had been obediently above your head, fly to grip his hair. Against all your moaning and thrashing he continues to apply pressure, both internal and external, hell bent on feeling you cum around his fingers.
"Oh, oh Michael wait," you sound desperate, and he can hear the fight to get coherent words out. Your hands have switched from gripping to push at his head, he ignores it, suddenly very glad you drank all that water and made him stop every hour.
"Michael please, you have to move," he's not moving away and missing this for anything, "I can't stop it, please." The last word comes out drawn out on a moan, and you aren't sure if you're begging him to keep going or move out of the way. Luckily, he's decided for you.
What sets you off in the end is the way he moans against your clit and opens his eyes, the two of you have only a moment of charged eye contact, as if he's daring you to do it, before the dam breaks, literally. He sees your eyes squeeze shut before you begin clenching around his fingers, body tense and trembling. When you suddenly go lax he's rewarded with the feeling of liquid warmth dripping down his hand as you squirt for him. Only then does he lift his head, removing his hand from your stomach to land quick slaps directly on your clit. You cry out at the sharp sensation, hands gripping the sheets tight as you squirt all over Michael and the bed. It seems like he goes on forever, drawing more from you than you knew possible, absolutely soaking the duvet below you. He only slows to a stop when you whine out in pain, cringing away from the overstimulating sensation as your hands grip his wrist.
He moves to lie beside you, pulling your trembling body against his, kissing you sweet and slow. "God, baby, you were so fucking good for me," he says it low and rough, hand moving soothingly along your back.
He holds you until your trembling comes to a stop, and you begin kissing him back with hunger, fueled by the taste of yourself on his lips. When you shift one of your legs between his the full weight of his arousal hit him like a truck. You could feel where he was hard and straining against his shorts, the pressure was enough to have him rutting against you, too pent up to be embarrassed.
"Off," you insist, pulling at his shirt and breaking away just long enough to get the damn thing over his head before your lips are back on his.
He doesn't let you stay there long before he's pulling away entirely, moving to stand by the bed.
"As much as I love making out with you sweetheart, I think I promised to fuck you until you cry, yeah?" Said while hastily stripping out of the rest of his clothes.
"Yeah," you nod dumbly in response, admiring the man in front of you. All broad shoulders, strong arms, a soft but sturdy center, and what should be classified as a third leg, flushed red and leaking enough for you to see from where you rest against the pillows. He doesn't give you long to stare before he's crawling up and over you.
The hand not balancing his weight he uses to drag his tip through your folds, using the wetness he collects to slick himself slightly.
"You ready?"
"Mhmm," you respond, a smile playing at your lips that he returns.
He pushes in slow and steady, met with no resistance with how many orgasms he's wrung out of you. Everything about you feels plush and hot and oh so unbelievably wet that he can't help but drop his head to the crook of your neck and groan.
When he starts to move it's with deep and slow rocking thrusts that leave you feeling full in the best way possible, legs wrapping around his waist and arms around his neck. You're grateful for the security when he picks up the force of his thrusts, it feels so good when you're so lax for him like this that against all odds you feel tension starting to coil low in your gut again.
"I think I'm gonna cum again," it comes out breathy and stilted from the way he's steadily pounding into you.
"Touch yourself, cum around my cock sweetheart." You don't have to be told twice, snaking a hand between your legs and making quick circles around your clit. Michael adjusts his angle slightly, waiting to hear the catch in your breath. He's rewarded moments later when the hand wrapped around his nape tightens and you let out a keening moan. "There we are, that's the spot huh?" He grunts against your neck.
It only takes a few minutes of combined effort before your legs tighten around his middle, moans turning into little breathy things, pussy fluttering around Michael so that he has to pull out enough to clamp a hand around his base to keep from losing it right then and there.
He lets you ride out the aftershocks before moving to put space between your bodies, slick with sweat by now. He maneuvers your legs so that your knees rest by your head, pinning you to bed, nearly folded in half. When he drives back into you it's with a purpose, going harder and deeper than before and you know immediately you'll be bruised tomorrow. It feels like so much, good of course, pleasure still flowing through your core from before just barely tipping into overstimulation, but there's just a touch of pain from how deep he's hitting. The overwhelm of sensations, tension of the day, and too many orgasms to count has hot tears finally spilling over, just as promised.
Michael never lasts when you cry for him, and having been on the edge moments before, he knows he doesn't have long. The sight of you crying so pretty just for him has his hips driving into you that much harder.
"I'm close," he grunts out, grip tight on your legs, "you want my cum baby?"
The effect the question has on you is instant, eyes lighting up through the tears, nodding through the onslaught of sensation.
"Yes, daddy," he could almost laugh with how eager you sound if it didn't have him twitching inside you. "Want you to cum inside, love feeling full of you."
You syrupy sweet begging doesn't last long before he feels himself start to tip over the edge, leaning forward and groaning harshly above you. He can hear your ramblings continue over the rushing in his ears, thank you, Daddy and you're so deep.
Despite having spilled down your throat earlier, it feels never ending and you swear you can feel him dripping out of you as he continues to gently rut into your heat.
Several minutes pass before he finally has the willpower to extricate himself from you, pulling out and rolls onto his back beside you, breathing hard. Relaxing your legs, you roll into his side, leaning up to kiss his cheek before collapsing as well.
You weren't sure if either of you would be up for hiking tomorrow after that. But…
Description: After losing a gem of a next door neighbor, Jack worries what the new resident will be like. Instead of a young obnoxious college kid, he meets you. Instantly struck by your warm nature (and good looks but he won't admit to that), Jack finds himself drawn to you in a way he hasn't experienced in years.
