𝓢𝓾𝓰𝓪𝓻

20/Female

[yandereislife]

The Old Dog and His New Trick

18+ ONLY

Age Gap DBF Jack Abbot x male reader

Pay Gorn - I’ve never done smut before and I don’t have a penis, so - Dicks - precum - raw dick in the ass - teasing - age gap - dad’s bsf son trope - Jack Abbot being naughty

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—

Jack considered himself a funny man. His humor was something that caught others off guard and occasionally warm in the chest when it ended in praise. He was a man who spoke when it was necessary, and no more. His wife said he was a secret comedian.

Jack Abbot also had other secrets between him and his darling wife.

Like the fact that he could spell lavender forwards and backwards and she eyed every woman with long brown hair. They were soulmates - but there was a reason they never had children. He was heartbroken when his wife died, even if they didn’t connect the way traditional couples did. But damn if they weren’t good at playing the part.

When she passed, it left Jack with community, friends. ‘Sorry for your loss’ in a million cards and in every hard pat on the back. Jack felt the most guilt not at the fact that she bled out in the car accident and he was a doctor that could have saved it if he wasn’t unconscious in the driver's seat - but at the hopeful seed growing in his chest that now he could give in to his desires, albeit quietly. A deal of their marriage was no cheating, stay devoted, sleep in the same bed. They’d both kept it all 14 years of their marriage. BUt they also promised each other if the other passed - they’d take it as a sign of the universe to pursue what their heart really yearns for.

She was a lawyer, he was in the army and still going out on SWAT calls. They both thought it would be him.

But when one of Jack’s old military friends hosts a barbeque and guilts him into attending he realizes maybe the universe was right, because he’s strangely stuck in place when he finds a specific pull toward the back of the yard and tucked into a hammock is his friend’s son. He’d never gotten to know him as a kid, and that was for the best he supposed and would make him a creep as the not-so-innocent thoughts of having the now college aged male underneath him. Jack Abbot spent a good chunk of his life firing guns, getting blown up, and putting people together - but at this moment there wasn’t anything on his mind but how his calloused fingers would feel against the soft and unscarred skin lying in the hammock. How impressionable was he? If he was told to stay, would he obey? Or would he say ‘fuck you’ and need a dose of discipline Jack himself once needed.

—

The thought is exhilarating and pushes him to find out, and find out he does. Jack manages to hold a beer, the condescation slicking his fingers as he moves to that hammock under the shade. He keeps it casual and cool, he’s an old man with a missing leg after all.

Somehow god is on his side, and you’re sweeter than he imagined.

You say ‘yes, sir.’ when he asks you to take him inside and show him the bathroom, and when he falls into you enough to pin you against the hallway wall with all the intention of blaming his clumsiness on his leg you don’t look bothered in the slightest.

Your hand cups his crotch that's already half hard against your palm. Your eyes beckon him like sin.

God, what is he doing?

But when you drop your hand back to your side and so sweetly ask to show him your bedroom he follows like the old dog he is. He’s made to follow orders. He’s convinced he’d take your cock in his mouth right in the hallway if you asked for it.

Your sheets are blue plaid and cooler than he expected, and he notices there’s a draft coming from the open window. The window grants a perfect view of the backyard, and his heart skips at the thought of someone seeing him in here with you.

His attention is drawn back when you drag your t-shirt over your head and look expectantly for him to do the same. He slowly strips himself down to his boxers, though he seems almost embarrassed at having a creaky prosthetic when he sits at the edge of your bed.

You assure him in a soft voice that ‘it’s ok, your cock still works, right?’

‘I’m not that old, kid.’ He grunts, letting out a choked noise but nodding, and his dick jumps underneath your palm as you touch where the fabric bulges. His legs are spread, your body perched atop his with one foot on the ground to balance yourself.

Your own cock is yearning and he finds his calloused, worn palm touching the front of your bulging trunks before he finds the waistband and gives it a tug. It doesn’t take long for you to shimmy out of them, leaving you bare with your cock pointing at him and glistening at the tip.

It’s your turn to be bashful, turning away with red cheeks.

‘No, no, it’s ok. Look at me.’

He demands, voice gravelly and low. There’s a half smile on his face as his eyes search yours.

His hips shift as he pulls his briefs down his legs, and then stands before you with his large hands on your warm skin. One cups your hip, the other grips your shoulder.

‘Lay down on your back.’

His hand moves from your shoulder to your face, his thumb drifting over your bottom lip before he pulls away entirely and waits for you to obey.

‘Just relax.’

He instructs, stepping to the edge of the bed once you’re laid before him. Your legs are bent at the knee, your face nervous and eyes a bit wide. He leans over you, one hand finding your left knee and pushing it to the side, wider, spreading you out before him. His right hand presses to the middle of your chest and he tilts his head.

‘I’m not fucking you until you calm down.’

He teases, voice low as he feels your pulse thrum. His thumb brushes across your skin.

He pulls your knees until they’re pressed to either sides of him, against his hips. His thumbs caress your skin, hands holding under each knee now as he gazes down at you and gives little encouraging nods of his head. He breathes deeply himself, hoping you’ll catch on.

Once he’s convinced your heart isn’t running like a jackrabbit he lifts his right hand to his face and sticks his thumb against the inside of his cheek. He pulls his slicked finger from his mouth, his left hand spreading you wider. His wet thumb finds your puckered hole and boldly presses against it, testing the resistance.

He chuckles under his breath, pointer finger lifting to press your leaking tip as your cock twitches with every touch.

He presses his thumb in, face concentrating on your expression, taking it in.

‘No, no, no…relax.’

He coaxes as he feels you tighten around his thumb. It isn’t even past the nail and he’s paused.

‘My cock’s never gonna fit if you don’t calm down.’

He chides, then shifts his stance and bends his good leg against the edge of the bed for some cushion. He leans into where he starts to press in again, thumb sliding into your ass slow and steady.

‘There you go, knew you could do it.’

He praises softly, eyes gentle as his knuckle slides into you. He starts moving his thumb in and out, curling so the pad of his finger brushes a particular spot that has you jolting.

‘Gonna push my cock right there, it’ll feel so much better. You want my fat cock fucking you?’

He teases, clearly enjoying the red in your face and the furrow in your brows. Your fingers are digging into his hand where the left holds your leg at his side. HIs thumb is fully inside of you know, seated until he moves it in and out at a steady pace - then faster.

After a good few strokes has you moaning, he waits until your head is tipped and your concentration is to the ceiling before he pulls his thumb out and replaces it with the tip of his leaking cock. His precum smears against your pulsing hole. His mushroom tip squelches softly as it pushes against the resistance of your tight ass even with his quick preparation.

The stretch is a little much, it has your hips shifting and a choked protest forming on your tongue. His body settles over yours quickly, his hands moving away from your leg to steady himself and press close next to your head. His other hand grabs your hip. He stills for a moment, tip perfectly pushed inside as he allows you a moment of grace to adjust around the stretch.

Then he ruts forward, dull nails forming crescents into your skin. He grunts low in his throat, his other hand fisting the sheets next to your head. He watches your expression shift, and he dips his head so his lips catch yours in a hungry kiss to muffle your soft sob.

He loves the way your nails dig into the freckled skin of his back, dragging downward to anchor yourself. The hand that gripped the sheets next to your head slides underneath him, settling in the middle of your back before dragging down to cup your ass. His heavy body settles over your, pinning it into the mattress as his hips shift and his cock drags slowly in and out of you.

His kisses are rough, hungry, and messy. His tongue presses to yours and then licks at your teeth before sucking your lip and pulling away.

‘You ever been fucked by a cock this fat before?’

He asks against your lips, panting as he picks up speed.

At some quip you give about his age he grunts against your chin and really slams into you, balls smacking against your ass.

‘You wanna say that again?’

He asks harshly, picking up pace without mercy even as you choke on your gasps and your eyes bead with tears. His cock angles perfectly to hit your prostate, and even the burn of his girthy cock starts to feel euphoric as it slams into you. Your cock twitches against your stomach, precum dribbling down.

He grunts against your throat, cock shifting inside you, twitching at the oversensitivity.

‘Gonna cum..You better fucking cum with me.’

He rasps, voice heavy. His hips quicken with every movement in and out until they stutter and he pathetically moans against your neck. It almost sounds like a sob. His body stills, pressed to the hilt of you while his cum spurts and fills your ass. He holds you tight to his sweaty chest, your cock shifting between the two of you as you cry out, back arching off the comforter as your dick spills spend all over your stomach.

Jack breathes heavy but doesn’t let his weight crush you. Instead, he rolls over and pulls you over his chest, right above his pounding heart. He grunts at the effort, but shuts his eyes. One arm is lazily slung over your hip while the other finds your hair, pushing it back. His cock is still lazily jumping inside of you, rivulets of cum seeping from between your legs.

Just as he leans back to look you in the eyes, the scene shifts.

-

Jack jolts awake, covered in sweat and his boxers wet like he’s a fucking teenager. His grey curls are plastered to his forehead, his hands hurriedly hauling himself to sit against his headboard and flick the bedside lamp on. He rips the duvet off his lap, cock still twitching in his boxers. His face is red and he’s panting.

“Fuck - dammit.”

He curses. He feels guilty, dreaming about his best friend’s son. God he’s a filthy old man. His prosthetic is laid across the nightstand, almost taunting him as he fumbles for a box of tissues. He cleans himself up in silence.

He isn’t sure how he can face his friend - or you for that matter - at the fourth of july barbeque that’s happening later in the day.

But he has until 2pm to figure it out.

And more importantly, how to make the dirty fantasy his dreams chalked up a reality.

[hotchnerss]

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

in person

pairing: spencer reid x reader

word count: 1.5k

summary: you and Spencer meet for your first date after meeting on a dating app

includes: first date, nerves, fluff, post-prison Spencer Reid, age gap, dating app meet cute, awkward flirting, insecurities, shy adorable idiots

based on this request 💖

Spencer arrives twenty-three minutes early.

Not because he means to, or because he's particularly eager, or because he spent the entire drive second-guessing whether the navy tie looked better than the burgundy one.

Twenty-three minutes early is simply what happens when Spencer Reid is nervous.

The restaurant isn't busy yet. Early evening sunlight spills through the front windows, painting everything gold and warm. The hostess smiles when he gives his name, leading him to a small table near the window.

"Your date isn't here yet," she says.

The words make his stomach immediately perform a complicated gymnastic routine.

Your date. Right.

He thanks her, sits down, and immediately regrets sitting down.

His tie feels crooked. He adjusts it. Then adjusts it again. Then once more for good measure.

It's probably fine. It was fine the first time.

Spencer knows repeatedly adjusting it only increases the likelihood of making it worse.

That doesn't stop him.

The waiter brings water. Spencer thanks him.

He checks his watch. It's only been three minutes.

Wonderful. At this rate he'll experience approximately six hundred years before you arrive.

He takes a sip of water. Checks the door. Looks away. Checks the door again.

This is ridiculous.

He's thirty-eight years old. He's negotiated with serial killers. He's stared down armed suspects. He's survived situations that should have terrified him far more than a first date.

And yet somehow the prospect of meeting one woman from a dating app has him feeling sixteen.

His fingers tap against the table in an attempt to burn off some nervous energy.

The problem is, he already really likes you.

If he'd only exchanged a few messages with you, maybe this would be easier.

Instead, the two of you have spent weeks talking.

Weeks.

It started innocently enough. A few messages. A conversation about books. A debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. A discussion about terrible movie adaptations.

Then suddenly it was two in the morning and he was smiling at his phone like an idiot.

Now he knows your favorite color. Your favorite coffee order. The name of the stuffed animal you had as a child. The fact that you always cry during animal rescue videos but refuse to cry during actual sad movies.

He knows dozens of tiny things. Enough to feel attached. Not enough to know whether you'll look at him and immediately realize he's awkward. Or too old. Or strange. Or all of the above.

His gaze drifts toward the window.

He doesn't want to, but he thinks about the absolute disaster that had been getting ready for tonight.

Spencer has never considered himself particularly fashionable.

He owns clothes. The clothes fit. Most of them are clean. Historically, that's been enough. Apparently not anymore.

His bedroom had looked like a crime scene by the time he'd left.

One involving button-down shirts.

The blue one had been too formal. The green one had felt too casual. The gray one had somehow made him look older, which had immediately been discarded for reasons he absolutely did not want to examine too closely.

Then there had been the sweater debate.

The sweater had lasted nearly twenty minutes. Because sweaters are approachable. But maybe too approachable.

Maybe they made him look like a professor. Which he technically was.

But he didn't want to look like your professor. That thought alone had nearly sent him spiraling.

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Spencer found himself acutely aware of every year he'd lived.

Every line at the corners of his eyes. Every indication that he'd spent decades working impossible hours and carrying impossible things.

He'd stood in front of the mirror staring at himself longer than he cared to admit.

Trying to see what you would see. Trying and failing.

The problem with being a profiler is that he's exceptionally good at analyzing other people.

Himself?

Not so much.

He'd almost texted you.

I don't know what people wear on first dates anymore.

Then he'd spent several minutes staring at the message before deleting it. Because somehow admitting he could discuss quantum mechanics but couldn't choose a shirt felt too embarrassing.

In the end, he'd settled on the navy tie. The white button-down. The charcoal jacket.

Simple. Safe. Reasonable.

Which meant he'd spent the entire drive wondering if he'd made the wrong choice.

And now, sitting at the table, he resists the urge to adjust his tie again. Mostly because he's fairly certain he'll accidentally strangle himself if he keeps touching it.

The restaurant door opens. His eyes lift automatically. His heart skips.

Not you. A middle-aged couple.

Spencer immediately looks away. Then silently wonders if you're doing the same thing.

If you're checking your reflection in the mirror one last time. If you're second-guessing your outfit. If you're nervous too.

The thought settles something warm in his chest.

Because maybe he's not the only one hoping reality lives up to weeks of late-night conversations. Maybe you're just as scared of being disappointed. Maybe you're just as excited. Maybe you're sitting in your car right now trying to gather the courage to walk inside.

That possibility makes him smile.

The restaurant door opens again. Spencer glances up automatically.

And this time, it's you.

For a moment, his brain simply stops working. Because somehow, impossibly, you look even prettier than your pictures.

Your photos had been beautiful. He'd stared at them often enough to know that.

The picture of you holding an iced coffee and squinting into the sun. The one with a dog you'd met at a park. The blurry selfie you'd sent after accidentally staying awake until three in the morning talking to him.

He knows those pictures. But they hadn't prepared him for this.

For the way you move. For your smile. For the warmth in your eyes when they find him across the restaurant. 

For the fact that you're real.

Not a collection of messages on a screen. Not a voice note. Not a photograph.

You.

Actually here.

His heart immediately forgets how it's supposed to function.

You spot him and smile. And Spencer is on his feet before he even realizes he's moving. The chair scrapes softly against the floor. 

Too fast. Definitely too fast.

Normal people don't stand up that quickly. Do they?

His hands immediately become a problem.

Should he wave? Put them in his pockets? No, that's weird.

Cross his arms? That's weirder.

Shake your hand? Absolutely not. Who shakes hands on a date?

For a horrifying second he becomes intensely aware of the existence of his hands.

They're just there. Attached to him. Doing nothing useful.

You reach the table before he figures out a solution.

"Hi." Your smile widens. The sound of your voice in person nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

It's familiar. And completely different. Warmer. Softer. Real.

"Hi." The word comes out slightly strangled.

Fantastic. Great start.

You don't seem to notice. Or if you do, you're kind enough not to mention it.

Spencer swallows. His brain desperately searches for something intelligent to say. 

Something charming. Something worthy of the countless conversations you've already shared. Instead, what comes out is:

"You look really pretty."

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to die. Not because they're untrue. Because they're painfully, embarrassingly inadequate.

Pretty?

Pretty?

That's the best his vocabulary can do?

He knows over a hundred thousand words. And somehow his brain picked pretty.

But then you smile. A little surprised. A little shy.

And suddenly he doesn't care.

"Thank you," you say softly. "You look handsome."

Handsome.

The word lands somewhere directly in his chest.

Spencer is fairly certain nobody has ever called him handsome and survived the resulting internal catastrophe.

His face grows warm. Very warm. Dangerously warm.

You laugh quietly, the sound laced wtih fondness.

And somehow that's even worse. Or better. Possibly both.

"Can I tell you something?" you ask.

He nods immediately. "Of course."

"I was really nervous."

The confession catches him off guard. "You were?"

"Extremely." You glance down briefly before looking back up at him. "I sat in my car for like ten minutes."

Spencer stares.

Then, despite himself, laughs—bright and startled, relief flooding through him all at once.

"Really?"

"Really." You point at him. "And don't look so smug. You were probably nervous too."

Spencer presses his lips together. "I got here twenty-three minutes early."

The silence lasts approximately one second.

Then you're laughing again.

The sound fills the space between you. Easy. Comfortable. Familiar.

Like the two of you have been having this conversation for years instead of thirty seconds.

And just like that, some of the tension melts away.

Not all of it. His pulse is still racing. His palms are still slightly sweaty.

You're still so beautiful it's actively distracting.

But for the first time since arriving, Spencer feels something stronger than nerves.

Hope.

Because you're smiling at him the same way you smiled through your pictures. The same way you smiled through video calls. The same way you smiled whenever his messages made you laugh.

And as he pulls out your chair for you, he can't stop thinking one thing.

Thank God.

You're exactly who he hoped you'd be.

[marcidstars]

DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE ⋆˚࿔ spencer reid x reader

SUMMARY: you introduce a vibrator to your relationship. spencer enjoys it a little too much, and he decides to put it to the test.

GENRE: smut (MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 1.2k

TAGS: fem!reader, overstimulation, sex toys (vibrators), spencer using sex as research, he even has his glasses on and everything, f orgasm, squirting!!, mentions of multiple orgasms, slight mention of somno, sexting, and cock rings, not proofread

NOTES: wrote this because i was mad at another fic, actually really enjoyed it. shoutout to ann summers' rampant rabbits <3

Letting him pick was your first mistake. He sat scrolling through the websites for over an hour, long enough for his wide eyes and flushed cheeks to settle into a deep, thoughtful frown.

You left him alone for a few minutes to fix yourself a cup of coffee, and you returned to find him plotting out a lengthy spreadsheet, categorising the different toys by shape and size, intensity and function. The prices weren't included, or considered at all, when he was narrowing down your options; apparently the cost "wasn't important", and Spencer was willing to shell out whatever necessary to find your perfect match. You'd be lying if you said his dedication didn't earn a laugh, but it was cute—endearing, even—to see just how invested he was in your pleasure.

In the end, Spencer concluded that your ideal toy was none other than a rabbit. You could have told him that from the start, saved you both the time spent exploring increasingly raunchy webpages, but there'd have been no fun in that. 

He had settled on the exact toy that you would have chosen for yourself, if you hadn't handed the reins off to him, and that, in the moment, was one of the most attractive things you'd ever seen. He was perfectly in tune with your body, with you, and that thought alone was enough for you to shut the laptop and pull him down on top of you right there on the couch.

—

"How does that feel?"

The only response you offer is a low whine, but Spencer nods attentively all the same.

You don't know which one of you looks more ridiculous: you lying on the bed, legs spread, head of the vibrator pressed to your swollen clit; or Spencer kneeling on the floor, glasses on, watching you clench around nothing, teetering dangerously close to another orgasm, like he's watching God at work.

"Spence…"

His name leaves your lips in a squeak. Your thighs are shaking, desperate to clamp shut.

"I know," he murmurs, keeping his voice soft. Comforting.

"I…I can't—"

"You can."

Soft, but firm. Comforting, but unwavering. He doesn't touch you, doesn't force you in any way, but his words hold you in place, reassuring you, telling you “you've got this” and, fatally, that “you're doing so well”. The praise goes straight to your head, then ricochets down to your core where it tangles in the fast-growing knot, pulls it so taut that you're sure it's about to snap.

You aren't sure how long you've been doing this, lying here playing with your new toy whilst he watches, engrossed, studying how your body reacts to different angles, pressures, modes—because yes, it has different modes; three increasing speeds and seven different vibration patterns—to see which combinations bring you over the edge the fastest, and which push you over it the hardest. 

What you do know is that you're nearing your umpteenth orgasm, and Spencer hasn't so much as glanced at his persistent, and presumably quite uncomfortable, erection. All he cares to look at is you, sweating all over his sheets, moaning for him like an angel.

"I really— fuck, Spence…" you're choking on your words, almost babbling as you try to gather the strength to speak. "I really…can't. Please…"

Spencer purses his lips, visibly torn between cutting his little experiment short for your sake and pushing you that little bit further—for research's sake. But, after a moment, he concedes with a small nod. "Okay. This can be your last one, alright?"

"…thank God—"

"And we'll run through the rest of the settings tomorrow."

Weakly, you raise your head to meet his gaze. He's smiling—grinning, actually. Too tired to argue, and too weak to kick him in the face, you just let your head fall back against the mattress, and you resign yourself to your fate.

"Do you wanna put it back in?" he asks, immediately returning his focus to the toy, to the questionnaire he's been running since he first asked you to lie down. "Or do you prefer it like this?"

When all you can muster in reply is a hum, Spencer gives your foot a gentle tap.

"I know you're tired, honey, but we're almost done. I promise," he says. "I read online that the insertable length has more of a rumble feel to it, whereas the 'rabbit ears' provide a lighter vibrational feel—would you say that's correct?"

"Spencer, I—" a sharp gasp cuts through your words. Your hips buck, rubbing your over-sensitive clit against the toy, and you bite your lip, stifle a whine, before answering, "Yes. Yes, i-it's…whatever you said."

"And do you prefer that?" he asks.

Your answer comes in the form of a moan—a loud one—followed by a sudden, unexpected gush of warmth as the knot finally snaps, unravelling in an instant, and it takes the last of your strength with it. The orgasm hits like a tsunami wave, pulling you under the tide before washing you up on the shore, so overcome with exhaustion that you fail to register Spencer's stunned silence.

"…I suppose that's as good of an answer as any," he says, puffing air into his cheeks as he leans back.

He's grinning line a kid, smile stretching from ear to ear as he admires the mess you've made of yourself.

"…what?" you mumble, confused. You've a dim awareness of how warm the sheets have become under your hips.

"Have you, um," Spencer clears his throat. "Have you ever squirted in the past? Or is this new?"

"What?"

"I see. So it's new, then? Noted."

—

Spencer's experiment was a resounding success. Sex was never lacklustre in your relationship—it was quite the opposite—but since opening your doors, and wallets, to the prospect of sex toys, your intimate lives have improved tenfold. You continue to discover new things about yourself, about each other, and Spencer stores each little fun fact away in his library of a mind; he has an arsenal of knowledge about you, your body, how to make you squirt even though you were sure you couldn't—and he never hesitates to use it.

You wake up to it, sometimes, that low rumble against your clit. You're already soaked through your panties, sleep-leaden body desperate for release before you even open your eyes. He peppers your face with kisses, whispers “good morning” as he guides you towards an orgasm that will likely put you straight back to sleep. You doze off in his arms, wake up some thirty minutes later already cleaned up.

He asked you—begged you, if we're being honest—to use it when he's away, to get off as much as your heart desires and, of course, to send him videos of it (even a technophobe like Spencer Reid is willing to use WhatsApp if there's something in it for him). You oblige, of course; you put on your prettiest matching set, and you put on a show for him.

And what you earn in response is a mouth-watering video of Spencer in his hotel room, moaning your name as he pleasures himself with his hands and, in more recent times, the vibrating cock ring you bought for his birthday.

[reidloverr]

Teach Me

pairing: Spencer Reid x reader (no use of y/n)

tags: MDNI, age gap, virgin!reader, older!Spencer, soft!dom!Spencer, no penetration, fingering, squirting, praise, aftercare

summary: Exposing your sexual inexperience to Spencer wasn't something you planned on doing, not until you were beneath him.

w/c: 2.2k

a/n: first time writing an older Spencer fic.. kinda nervous. I'm planning on writing more age gap chapters, but I was in the mood to start with a smut chapter for smth inspired by this req!

and thank you to the beautiful @hotchnerss for being the judge of this ;)

div credits @strangergraphics

You pulled your tingling lips away from his own with a breathless gasp, barely managing to get your shallow breaths through to your lungs.

“I’ve never done this before,” you nervously confessed as your eyelashes connected with your eyebrows, looking up at Spencer who hovered over you, pining you beneath him on the soft mattress, the soft cotton beneath you radiating intense heat you weren’t feeling moments ago. 

His long fingers that were splayed across your stomach softened, the tender caress of his thumbs coming to a stop, “Hey,” he whispered, pulling his head back a bit to look at your flushed face, “that’s perfectly fine,” he gave you a small, reassuring smile that reached his hazel eyes that looked at you in awe.  

When you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything back, he spoke again in an even softer tone, “We don’t have to go any further, okay?” his hand moved from your stomach to cradle your jaw, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead. 

Your hands came up to desperately grasp his biceps as you let out a deep breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “I don’t wanna stop,” the confession small but unwavering as you shook your head, “I’m just.. I don’t know what to do, Spencer” you admitted, your brows drawing with vulnerability as you searched his eyes.

Spencer could never be disappointed with you and you were very aware of that, but the intimidation that came with exposing your inexperience to someone you looked up to was far too strong to deem nonexistent. 

His thumb smoothly brushed your cheekbone, “You don’t have to do anything..” he slowly connected his lips with the corner of your mouth, “I’ll take care of you,” his soft lips brushed against your closed ones, promising absolute patience, “We’ll do whatever feels right. There’s no rush at all.” 

“Okay,” you breathed out the words against his mouth, letting your mouth part to move with his own. 

His lips sandwiched your bottom lip, slowly sucking it as his hands explored your body, making their way from your arms, touching the shivering skin full of goosebumps down to your sides, giving them a gentle, encouraging squeeze and dragging a quiet, suppressed moan from your throat. 

His slow, deep kiss relaxed the coiled tension in your stomach, making your legs naturally part further, letting his body settle more comfortably between your thighs. 

His lips moved down your jaw, making you tip your head backwards, giving him more access until he reached your earlobe, giving it a barely-there bite that made you groan. 

He then kissed the sensitive skin behind your ear, making you whisper his name and prop your legs on either side of his hips.

The clear sound of your satisfaction made him smile against your skin, sucking on the same spot just to hear the pretty noises coming out of your mouth. 

He slightly pulled away to press his forehead onto yours, “Is it okay if we take this off?” his fingers gently traced the white strap of your bra, his head tilting to the side in question. 

“Please,” the word sounded more like a whimper, but Spencer felt too nice to tease. 

You slightly arched your back so he could reach to your back, unclasp your bra, and pull it off your body. 

He neatly placed your bra on the edge of the bed without peeling his eyes off your now bare breasts.

He licked a slow, burning path down your throat until he was right above the skin that had just been exposed. His tongue swiped slowly against your warm skin leaving wet marks against your flushed chest, pressing reverent, open-mouthed kisses across your aching breasts, “You’re so perfect..” those words vibrated against your skin as he got closer to your right peak, swirling his tongue around it before repeating, “God..you’re so so perfect,” although you saw him as the expert, he seemed deeply affected by you, as if he were in the presence of something sacred. 

You could feel his skin getting warmer and damper by the second, sticking to you as he wrapped his swollen lips around your nipple. 

The sensation was completely new and foreign—something you thought was simply Spencer’s effect on you, “Oh my god,” you gasped. 

He grazed his teeth around your hard nipple, sucking gently before adding more pressure, “How does that feel?” he panted, lifting his head to see the look of pleasure on your face. 

“So good,” you breathed out, “so fucking good,” your fingers carded through his hair before finally tugging on it, making him moan against your breast. 

Your other boob was not neglected at all, Spencer made sure you were feeling good in all the right ways, kneading your other breast and occasionally rolling your sensitive nipple between his thumb and index finger, squeezing it to pull more sounds out of you to hear them through your ribs. 

He then switched between his tongue and hand, giving you more of each sensation and using more pressure as felt you melt underneath him, becoming more needy. 

“Is there anything you don’t want to happen right now? It’s entirely up to you, just tell me and I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for actual sex right now,” you hesitated, “Everything feels so good.. and I want us to go further, but can we not do that tonight?” the anxiety peaked again as you spoke, even though you were met with an understanding look from Spencer as he listened to you. 

“Of course,” he murmured, kissing right above your heart, feeling it thumping against your ribs, “all I want is for you to feel good. And is there anything specific you would like to try?”

“I want you to touch me,” you brushed the few, damp strands that stuck to his forehead.

The corners of his mouth slightly curved up, “Touch you where?” 

“You know where,” you pouted, slightly tilting your head to the side.

“I don’t,” he lied with a teasing smile, “you’re gonna have to be more specific,” he kissed the warm-skinned dip between your breasts. 

“Spencer,”

“Come on, use your words.” his long fingers trailed down your stomach, going lightly along the edge of your cotton panties, hooking the elastic against his fingertips. 

You let out a weak whine, your hips instinctively tilting upward, chasing the warmth of his hand.

“I need you to finger me,” you choked out, the urgency in your words caught them both off guard, but Spencer let out a pleased hum, “Good girl,” 

His fingers slipped beneath the elastic, his thumb slowly finding its way to your clit, not touching the rest of your pussy just yet. He captured your lips in an affectionate, slow kiss, providing you more comfort, the connection calming the rapid shivers moving through your body at his touch. 

The soft pad of his finger pressed against your clit before slowly moving it in tight, firm circles, making your eyebrows twitch as you whimpered into his mouth. 

He smiled against your lips, the noise meant that he was making you feel good, that his desperate need to please you was being met. 

He gave you a few moments to absorb the feeling of his skin against your most sensitive spot before he introduced the second sensation. His slender middle finger dipped lower, stroking your folds and parting them slightly, “Can I see you?” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

You didn’t use your words this time, quickly hooking your fingers into the waistband of the cotton fabric and pushing them down your hips with ease.

Spencer brushed against your hand, silently asking you to let him do it. He lowered himself to pull your panties down and off your ankles. 

When your panties were fully off, Spencer’s gaze was fixated between your thighs, unable to look away, but he felt the nervous energy start to seep back into your face, so he kissed your lower stomach right above where his hand had been, “You’re so.. so beautiful,” 

He shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels at the edge of the bed, admiring every inch of your bare flushed body laying before him. 

He returned his thumb to the bundle of nerves above your slit and his middle finger down your wet slit, “so wet,” he whispered against your thigh, giving it a slow kiss to ease the tension of its muscles. 

He slowly pushed a part of his finger into your tight entrance, feeling you tense around him as you whined and reached down to him, “Spencer, please,” 

“I’m right here,” he peppered kisses on your inner thighs, “just let me know when you’re ready for more,” 

Your chest heaved, the air surrounding you starting to feel cold against your glistening skin, the wetness cooling your feverish skin, “I’m ready,” 

He pushed his finger deeper into you, starting with a few slow pumps that made your hips helplessly twitch against his hand before increasing the pace and depth, “you’re doing so well, baby,” his words were met with a desperate whimper from your widely parted lips. 

“Do you want a second finger?” he asked, his tone dripping sweetly.

“God, yes,” you moaned, already overwhelmed by the single digit moving in and out of you. 

When his soaked middle finger was out of you, he paired it next to his index finger before pushing them fully in together, sending a rush down your spine, and ripping a loud moan out of your throat.

“You’re okay,” he removed his thumb from your clit, moving the job of stimulating that bundle of nerves to his mouth, sucking gently as he fingered you relentlessly, “you’re taking it so well, baby,” 

“I’m gonna curl my fingers, okay?” 

You frantically nodded, your composure completely shattered, “Okay,”

His fingers hooked upward, curling and reaching deep inside of you, hitting your g-spot with clear effort. 

Your thighs slightly twitched around his head, making his other hand firmly grip one of your thighs, pinning it on the soft sheets next to his shoulder.

“Spencer!” you cried out, your voice cracking as your hips bucked against his face, slightly away from his fingers that were moving in and out of you faster now, continuously curling with every thrust. 

“I’ve got you,” the intense suction of his mouth on your clit was driving you to the brink of insanity.

“Oh my god, I think I’m gonna come-” the knot in the pit of your stomach was getting too tight and heavy to handle, overwhelming you with bursting fullness.

“I know, baby,” he pressed his palm against your lower stomach, splaying his finger across your sweaty skin, “just let go,” he added more force on your lower stomach, feeling some of the inner movement with every measured pump of his fingers. 

Those last words vibrating against your swelling clit were enough to push you over the edge. 

You let out a loud moan, your fingers now pulling his hair as the intense blinding orgasm ripped through your entire body, making your head sink deeper into the pillow supporting your neck.

A hot rush of fluid erupted from you, gushing against Spencer’s hand and face, soaking the mattress beneath you, but his fingers continued their intense efforts inside of you. 

His fingers were riding out the violent spasms of your walls that clamped down around him, making you squirt onto his face again, and bringing your shaking legs to a slow, steady stop. 

You had completely surprised yourself by squirting all over, “Shit, I’m sorry, I-” you panted.

His fingers finally stopped moving as they stilled inside of your sensitive inner walls, “No, baby, you did so well,” he breathed out, slowly licking your lower stomach, “I’m so proud of you,” he slowly withdrew his soaking fingers, licking them thoroughly before sucking them clean. 

He moved his face up to yours, “Are you okay?” he kissed your damp forehead.

You nodded tiredly, completely worn out and sleepy, “yeah, that was.. that was very intense,” 

“I hope you liked it?” he stared into your eyes, waiting for an answer. 

You lazily traced his cheekbones, moving your shaky finger to his eyebrows, brushing along each one, “I loved it. I’m so lucky I got to do this with you,” 

“I’m so lucky I got to be your first. Seriously, thank you for trusting me,” the smile he always gave you was now back on his peaceful face. 

“Of course, Spence,” you returned the smile, tracing his nose with your still trembling finger, but now the trembling was out of tiredness rather than intensity. 

“Let me clean you up,” he quickly pecked your swollen lips before rolling off the bed and into his bathroom, coming out a few seconds later with a damp washcloth. 

He settled between your legs, parting them hesitantly—purely because he didn’t want to overwhelm your worn out body, knowing that you were still sensitive. 

He gently wiped your thighs, his eyes lingering on every inch as he went over the delicate skin a few times—aiming to both clean you up and relax your body, “all done,” 

He removed the warm cloth from your skin and took a few steps to sit closer to your face on the bed, “How about you get in the shower, and I’ll change the sheets before they dry, hm?” he asked, stroking your hair with a touch so gentle, it made your eyes need to flutter shut. 

You nodded into his hand, “Yeah, okay,” you mumbled.

[maliciouscottonball]

i would love some platonic yan hannigram if that’s on the table >:D

I keep thinking about platonic yan Hannigram with picky eater! reader... Poor Hannibal tries to impress them with fancy food at a dinner party and they don't like it 😭

"How do you eat this? It's basically raw." You mumble with a frown, using your fork to poke at the duck slices cooked to a perfect rare.

"It's not raw, my dear. It's rare and entirely safe to eat." Hannibal responds patiently,

You side eye him and look down at your plate, poking the meat again. A trickle of cooked blood mixes with the sauce and you grimace.

"It's squishy and it bleeds. It's raw. Aren't you supposed to be, like, a doctor or something?" You ask, playing it off as a joke but clearly concerned about Hannibal's mental well-being if he wants you to eat something that you deem to be entirely inedible.

Will snorts. Hannibal gives him a look.

"How about you try a little? I don't think that Hannibal is going to feed us dessert if you don't at least try it." Will says gently, his coaxing being used as a form of apology to his partner.

You nod and begrudgingly take a bite of the mashed potatoes. They're buttery and flavorful, suiting your tastes perfectly. You eat all of the potatoes that aren't touching the sauce or duck blood.

"The potatoes are really good." You say after a few moments and Hannibal's expression softens slightly.

"You're not going to eat the rest of them?" He asks.

"No. It's got blood on it." You say firmly, examining the rest of your plate to find something else you're willing to eat.

Hannibal takes note of all of your preferences. He needs to know what you like for when he and Will take you home. Cooking for you while maintaining his own refined palette will be a culinary challenge but it's one that he knows that he will relish. Both he and Will are eager to have a child to raise together.

[dvg-tvgs]

every time theres a puddle in your path, simon riley carries you over it.

it started on your first date, when you were wearing this pretty white maxi skirt and a pair of white heels. he's walking beside you in all black, typical.

but you get to a puddle. it's not entirely blocking your path, you could have gone around it. he grunts and picks you up, carrying you safely over the puddle. "there you go, love," he says and puts you down.

you walk everywhere after that with his hand on your back.

the rainy season has become simon riley's favourite. because he gets to pick you up and carry you past any puddle that's even a little bit out of your way.

[wesandresons]

SHAWN HATOSY as ANDREW ‘POPE’ CODY ANIMAL KINGDOM SEASON 2, EPISODE 4

[yuckyguyliker]

Hannibal (2013 - 2015)

1x06 - Entrée

[bbuuunnyyy]

pope being obsessed with you doing your makeup/skincare

he has to keep readjusting his pants whenever you get ready :( you’re just so pretty and so focused

18+ minors do not interact

he especially loves it because he made you the vanity that you sit at every morning. it’s so you—white with little pink details. worked on it every day for about a month in a garage.

loves to sit on the edge of your bed, ramrod straight as he focuses on the way you do your skincare. shifts as you start to apply your makeup, palming himself through his shorts as you put on your lip combo, mouth slightly open, looking all glossy n full.

it happens every time—you see him squirming, eyes glaring because he’s trying to focus on you, annoyed he’s this turned on, n you feel so bad for him. can’t help yourself when you get off your stool, kneeling in front of him to take his aching cock out, running your glossy lips up and down his shaft, kissing and sucking his head before taking him fully. ♡

[grahamsdoe]

mind palace.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ grahamsdoe

hotel; ⋆˚࿔ lawyer!will graham x fem secretary!reader. dark themes ⋆˚࿔

southbound; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x fem journalist!reader. dark themes ⋆˚࿔

let me put my teeth; ⋆˚࿔ hannibal lecter x reader. request by @/moonwalkinheels⋆˚࿔

but you belong to me; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x fem intern!reader. ⋆˚࿔

all the good girls go to hell; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x therapist!reader. ⋆˚࿔

i can see you; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x fem therapist!reader. ⋆˚࿔

slvt; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x reader. ⋆˚࿔

she's my collar; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x fem virgin!reader. dark and nsfw themes. request by anonymous. ⋆˚࿔

walls could talk; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x therapist!reader. dark themes. ⋆˚࿔

false god; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x undercover agent!reader. implied nsfw themes. request by @/dariasonlinedairy⋆˚࿔

carmen; ⋆˚࿔ duncan vizla x fem!reader. dark themes. ⋆˚࿔

candy; ⋆˚࿔ cult-leader!will graham x fem demi-human bunny!reader. dark themes. ⋆˚࿔

don't blame me; ⋆˚࿔ priest!will graham x fem!reader. dark and nsfw themes. ⋆˚࿔

glory box; ⋆˚࿔ hannibal lecter x demi-human lamb!reader. dark themes. ⋆˚࿔

oxytocin; ⋆˚࿔ priest!will graham x fem virgin!reader. dark themes. ⋆˚࿔

prisoner; ⋆˚࿔ hannibal lecter x crime scene cleaner!reader. dark and nsfw themes. request by @/demodemigodness12 ⋆˚࿔

better in the dark; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x fem!reader. nsfw themes. request by anonymous ⋆˚࿔

still adore you; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x fem undercover agent!reader. ⋆˚࿔

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ grahamsdoe

⋆˚꩜｡ hannibal lecter x demi-human bunny!reader ⋆˚꩜｡

⋆˚꩜｡ hannibal lecter x will graham x fem pianist!reader ⋆˚꩜｡

⋆˚꩜｡ cowboy!will graham x reader ⋆˚꩜｡

⋆˚꩜｡ single-dad!will graham x babysitter!reader ⋆˚꩜｡

⋆˚꩜｡ cult-leader!will graham x demi-human bunny!reader ⋆˚꩜｡

⋆˚꩜｡ will graham x hannibal's wife!reader ⋆˚꩜｡

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ grahamsdoe

angel; ⋆˚࿔ hannibal lecter x fem secretary!reader. ⋆˚࿔

eat your young; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x fti wife!reader. ⋆˚࿔

criminal; ⋆˚࿔ veterinarian!will graham x duncan vizla ⋆˚࿔

sugar coated; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x fem demi-human swan!reader. ⋆˚࿔

talk; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x hannibal's wife!reader. ⋆˚࿔

tag you're it; ⋆˚࿔ hannibal lecter x secretary!reader. ⋆˚࿔

been like this; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x hannibal lecter x hannibal's wife!reader. pt. 2 ⋆˚࿔

ultraviolence; ⋆˚࿔ husband!will graham x reader. ⋆˚࿔

hear sirens, sirens; ⋆˚࿔ butcher!will graham x hannibal lecter. ⋆˚࿔

salvatore; ⋆˚࿔ cult-leader!will graham x demi-human bunny!reader ⋆˚࿔

angel; ⋆˚࿔ incubus!hannibal lecter x will graham. ⋆˚࿔

b!tch; ⋆˚࿔ will graham x student!reader ⋆˚࿔

°˖➴ do not copy/repost/translate my work. do not feed it to ai.

©grahamsdoe 2026

[blazebabe7]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐓 (duncan vizla x fem!reader)

Hellooo, so this is my first EVER one-shot fanfic that I decided to write here. Lately, my obsession with Mads Mikkelsen came back AGAIN and I thought "why not write for one of his hottest character a fanfic?" So yeah....I hope you will love it! WORLD COUNT: 1949 words TW: dub-con; degradation; voyeurism; gunplay (not sexual); possession; creampie (?); dom-sub (?)

────୨ৎ────

The air in the cabin tasted of cedar, gun oil, and the approaching Montana winter. It was a lonely smell—the kind that belonged to a man who had spent three decades learning how to disappear. You sat at the small, scarred wooden table, clutching a lukewarm cup of coffee. Across from you, Duncan Vizla - the Black Kaiser, though no one dared call him that to his face anymore, was cleaning a custom-built .45. He moved with a rhythmic, terrifying precision. Every click of the metal was a reminder that he was a machine built for one purpose. "You’re staring" he said. He didn’t look up. His voice was a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to hum right through the floorboards and into the soles of your feet.

"I’m waiting," you corrected, trying to keep your voice steady. "You said you’d help. You said the debt your old firm owed my father died with him, but that you... personally... felt differently."

Duncan finally looked up. That single eye, sharp and piercing, locked onto yours. He set the slide of the pistol down with a soft thud. The silence in the cabin stretched, heavy and thick, pressurized by the history neither of you talked about.

"Your father was a good man in a bad business," Duncan said, leaning back. The light from the fireplace caught the silver at his temples. "But you? You’re just a girl over her head with people who don't care how much you bleed."

"I'm not a girl, Duncan." You stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. "And I’m not asking for a lecture. I’m asking for the protection I was promised."

Duncan rose then. He didn't just stand, he unfolded a predatory grace that made the small cabin feel suddenly microscopic. He walked around the table, stopping just inches from you. He smelled of cold air and expensive tobacco. "Protection isn't free," he murmured, his shadow looming over you. "I’m retired. Taking you in, hiding you from the ghosts chasing you... it puts a target on this house. On me."

"I’ll pay whatever I have to." you whispered, though your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Duncan reached out, his hand gloved in black leather. He ran a single finger down the line of your jaw, the texture rough and cold against your skin. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. There was a sudden, predatory hunger there—a flicker of the fire he usually kept buried under layers of ice.

"I don't want your money." he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something intimate and dangerous. "If you stay here, you belong to the house. You belong to me. You follow my rules, you provide what I need, and in exchange, the world forgets you exist." He stepped closer, closing the final inch of space. You could feel the heat radiating off his chest. "Do you understand the debt you're signing into?" The silence that followed his ultimatum wasn't empty; it was heavy, filled with the crackle of the hearth and the sound of your own jagged breathing. Duncan didn't move. He was a mountain of a man, weathered and scarred, waiting for you to crumble or climb.

"I understand" you whispered. The corner of his mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but a grim acknowledgement of your surrender. He reached out, his gloved hand threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He didn't pull, but the weight of his grip was a claim. "Go to the bedroom," he commanded. "Strip. Leave your clothes in a pile by the door. I want to see what I’m protecting."

────୨ৎ────

The bedroom was sparse. A heavy oak bed, wool blankets, and the scent of him everywhere. Your hands shook as you unbuttoned your shirt. Every layer you shed felt like shedding a piece of your old life. By the time you were standing in the center of the room, the chill of the mountain air nipped at your skin, raising goosebumps.

The door creaked open. Duncan stood in the frame, his silhouette cutting a jagged hole in the light from the hallway. He had removed his gloves and his heavy coat. In his thermal black shirt, the sheer mass of his shoulders was intimidating. He walked a slow circle around you. He didn't touch you—not yet—but his gaze was a physical weight. It lingered on the curve of your hip, the arch of your back, and finally, the frantic pulse at the base of your throat.

"You’re trembling" he noted, stopping in front of you.

"It's cold" you lied.

Duncan stepped in close, the heat from his body acting like a furnace. He hooked two fingers under your chin, forcing you to look up at him. "It’s not the cold. It’s the realization that you’re finally out of options. You’re mine now. No more running. No more lies."

He leaned down, his breath ghosting over your ear. "The first rule of your debt: You never cover yourself when I’m in the room. I want you open. I want you ready. Do you agree?"

"Yes" you breathed, your knees weakening as his hand finally slid down from your chin to rest heavily over your heart. Duncan’s hand traveled lower, his palm rough and warm against your stomach. He gathered you against him, the friction of his tactical trousers against your bare thighs a startling contrast. When he kissed you, it wasn't a request; it was a conquest. It tasted of whiskey and iron, a deep, bruising hunger that told you exactly how long he had been watching you from the shadows. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist by instinct. He surged forward, pinning you against the sturdy wood of the door he had just closed. "Tonight," he growled against your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, "we start balancing the books."

────୨ৎ────

The wood of the door was cool against your shoulder blades, but the man pressed against your front was pure, radiating heat. Duncan’s hands were large, his palms calloused from years of handles, triggers, and survival. As he held you pinned, one hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, arching you into him until there wasn't a breath of space left between your skin and his clothes.

He broke the kiss, but only by an inch. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing heavy and rhythmic. "I’ve spent a long time being alone," he muttered, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "I’m not a gentle man. I don't know how to be. If this is too much, you speak now. Because once I start, I don’t stop until I’m satisfied."

You looked into his eye—the one that had seen too much death—and saw a flicker of something raw. It wasn't just lust; it was a desperate, grounded need for something alive in a house full of ghosts. "Don't stop" you whispered.

Duncan let out a low, guttural sound and carried you to the bed. He dropped you onto the heavy wool blankets, the weight of his body following you down immediately. He didn't go for the obvious places. Instead, he took your wrists, pinning them above your head with a single hand. With his free hand, he began to trace the map of your body as if he were memorizing a terrain. He followed the line of your collarbone, the slope of your breast, and the dip of your waist with agonizing slowness.

"The men coming for you... they want to break you to get to what your father hid," Duncan said, his voice dropping into that "Kaiser" tone—cold, analytical, yet burning. He leaned down, licking a stripe from the hollow of your throat to the underside of your jaw. "But I’m going to make sure you’re so full of me, there’s no room for fear left."

He moved lower, his mouth replaced by the rough stubble of his chin, grazing your skin until you were writhing beneath him. He was systematic. He was patient. It was the focus of a man who knew exactly how to dismantle a target, only this time, the goal wasn't destruction—it was total surrender. When his hand finally moved between your thighs, it wasn't a tentative touch. He pushed your legs wider, his thumb finding the center of your heat with a precision that made your vision white out.

"Duncan" you gasped, your fingers curling into the blankets since your wrists were still trapped.

"Look at me," he commanded. You forced your eyes open. He was watching you, his expression intense, focused entirely on your reaction. He increased the pressure, his fingers working with a steady, relentless rhythm that echoed the ticking of the clock on the mantle.

"You're going to scream my name," he promised, a dark spark of pride in his eye. "And you’re going to forget there was ever anyone else who could keep you safe."

He leaned down, capturing your moan with his mouth as he slid two fingers inside you. You were slick, ready, and aching for the friction.

The contrast between the cold Montana wind howling outside and the sweltering, carnal tension in the room was overwhelming. The climax of the night was not an ending, but a shattering.

When Duncan finally moved to take you, it was with a heavy, purposeful friction that drove every thought of the outside world from your mind. He moved with the same stamina he used for everything else—unyielding and relentless. When the waves finally broke over you, you did exactly as he predicted: you screamed his name into the rafters of the silent cabin, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his back as he found his own rough, quiet release.

────୨ৎ────

It happened on the twenty-second day.

The silent alarm in the kitchen chirped—a low, rhythmic pulse. Duncan was across the room in a heartbeat, his sniper rifle already in hand. "Get in the cellar," he ordered, his voice flat and devoid of the warmth he’d shown you just hours before in bed. "Now." "Duncan—" "I don't repeat myself."

From the darkness of the reinforced cellar, you heard the symphony of his former life. The muffled thwap of a suppressed barrel.

The heavy thud of boots on the porch. The shattering of glass. And then, the silence.

A silence so long your heart felt like it would burst. When the cellar door finally creaked open, Duncan stood there, a smear of blood across his cheek that wasn't his. He reached down a hand, his eyes searching yours for fear.

"They found us," he said simply. "We move tonight."

You didn't go to another safehouse. You went to the source. Under Duncan’s guidance, you used the ledger your father had left—the one hidden in the lining of your suitcase—to leak the bank coordinates of the very men hunting you. You didn't just hide; you fought back, guided by the deadliest man alive.

────୨ৎ────

Months later, on a beach in a country where the sun never seemed to set, Duncan sat on a porch, cleaning the same .45.

You emerged from the house, wearing nothing but one of his oversized shirts, the salt air tangling your hair.

The "debt" was technically paid. The men were dead, the money was gone, and you were free.

You leaned against the railing, watching him. "I'm still here, Duncan. Why haven't you sent me away?"

He set the gun down and looked at you. For the first time, the coldness in his eye was gone, replaced by a permanent, simmering possession. "Because," he said, standing up and crossing the deck to pull you into his lap.

"I’ve decided I’m never marking the ledger as closed. You’re going to be in my debt for the rest of your life."

He kissed you then—a deep, slow claim that tasted of the future. You didn't mind the debt at all. In fact, you intended to spend every day making sure you never quite paid it off.

────୨ৎ────

phew, that was a really long one-shot fanfic! I hope you liked it! Bye bye for now ♡

[peaky-void]

A Bullseye on her back

Jack Abbot kinda.. x female reader x bullseye

Infidelity warning.

This is honestly a bullseye fic but I just added Jack to drive the plot forward lololol.. dont hate me, could be a p2 with a threesome hehe.

Summary : Feeling neglected and pushed aside by her workaholic ass boyfriend, ER doctor Jack Abbot. A lonely day-shift nurse seeks comfort in the arms of a dangerous, obsessive assassin named Bullseye, who patches up his battle wounds in her apartment and leaves a terrifying, permanent mark of ownership on her skin. ;)

Pls enjoy!

The sharp, sterile tang of antiseptic clung to the back of your throat, mingling unpleasantly with the bitter aroma of burnt coffee that had been sitting in the pot since morning. Leaning against the cold laminate of the kitchen counter in your pale blue scrubs, you rubbed at your burning eyes to press away the exhaustion of a twelve-hour shift while the microwave hummed a monotonous drone, counting down the final thirty seconds of another sad, solitary dinner.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital always gave Jack a cold, clinical edge, but lately, that edge had bled into everything else. Between his brutal night shifts and his naturally rigid disposition, Jack Abbot didn't have much left for you. You worked as a day-shift nurse at the exact same hospital, which ironically meant you passed each other like ships in the night, your lives reduced to brief crossovers in crowded hallways. When you did see him at home, he was short-tempered, dismissive, and utterly consumed by his work.

"I don't have time for this right now, Y/N," Jack had snapped just that morning, barely looking up from his tablet as he grabbed his keys. You had only tried to ask him about dinner pleading for just a single night togethcer since he had promised, faithfully for once, that he was taking this specific evening off. Instead, he had turned on you with a look of pure exasperation. "I'm on a double. Figure it out yourself. You're a nurse, you know how this place runs. Stop suffocating me."

The slamm of the door had echoed through the quiet apartment, leaving you alone, lonely, and profoundly neglected. When your phone finally shattered the midnight silence with a harsh buzz, the text offered no apology for the broken promise, just a clipped, “Got slammed. Don’t wait up.” You stared at the glowing screen before tossing it aside, a familiar bitterness settling deep into your chest. You were entirely vulnerable, exhausted by a man who treated your relationship like an unwanted shift he could simply call out of.

That silence was abruptly broken by a heavy, uneven thud echoing from the hallway, causing your head to snap up as your breath caught in your throat. A strange, dragging weight shifted against the outside of the door, followed immediately by three distinct, measured knocks that felt entirely too deliberate to be accidental. It wasn’t the familiar, hurried cadence of Jack returning home, nor was it the polite tap of a neighbour, but a slow, heavy rhythm that seemed to demand entry, leaving you frozen in the dim kitchen light as you stared at the deadbolt.

You didn't flinch anymore. Instead, your instincts took over, and you simply reached for the heavy trauma kit you kept hidden beneath the sink.

Dex or "Bullseye," as the whispers in the criminal underworld called him slid into your living room like a shadow, though tonight he was an absolute mess. His tactical suit was shredded, and a steady trail of crimson dripped from a deep, jagged gash across his ribs, painting your pristine hardwood floor. Yet, despite the sheer agony he had to be in, that unsettling, razor-sharp smirk remained firmly in place.

"Hey there, sweetface," Dex rasped, leaning his full, heavy weight against your kitchen counter. His dark eyes locked onto yours with that intense, unblinking focus that never failed to send a cold shiver down your spine. "Miss me baby?"

"You're bleeding out," you whispered, ignoring the charm and pulling him firmly toward a kitchen chair.

"Just a scratch. Met a guy with a shield who didn't appreciate my sense of humour," Dex chuckled, though he winced as he sank into the chair, peeling back the ruined fabric of his shirt to expose the raw wound.

You knelt beside him on the floor, clearing away the blood with practiced, clinically efficiency. The entire time, you could feel his eyes burning into you not tracking the movement of your hands, but watching your face with terrifying intensity.

"You always stare?" you muttered, keeping your focus glued to his side.

"You always avoid eye contact when you’re attracted to someone?"

Your hand slipped slightly against his skin, the sterile wipe catching the edge of the cut. He smirked immediately, delighted by the reaction. "There it is."

"You flirt after getting stabbed?"

"I flirt especially after getting stabbed," Dex purred, his voice dropping an octave as you threaded a suture needle. "So... where's Dr. Perfect tonight? Let me guess... saving lives? Or just ignoring yours?"

"Don't start, Dex," you muttered, but your face felt warm, and the sudden heat irritated you more than his actual flirting.

"I'm just saying," Dex teased, a wicked gleam in his eye as he leaned down closer to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "A pretty little thing like you, sitting all alone in the dark, waiting for a guy who treats you like a piece of hospital equipment. It’s tragic. He’s an asshole, Y/N.

"He's busy," you defended, though the words tasted like ash in your mouth. Instantly, Jack’s harsh words from that morning echoed through your mind: Stop suffocating me.

"He's an idiot," Dex corrected softly. Suddenly, his hand came up, his cold fingers catching your chin and tilting your head upward. His grip was just a little too tight, and al little too possessive, forcing you to look at him. "He doesn't see you. Not like I do. I see how hard you work. I see how lonely you are."

You stiffened, trying to pull back. "He’s working. He’s an ER attending, Dex. That’s what he does."

"Mhm." Bullseye’s eyes flicked over your features, reading you like a book. "And what do you do?"

"I’m literally helping you right now."

"No, dollface" he said quietly, his voice dangerously soft. "I mean besides waiting for him."

The room went completely still. You hated how accurately the blow landed, and Bullseye noticed the exact moment your defenses fractured. Of course he did, he was a predator; he always noticed the weakness.s

"You know," he continued lazily, enjoying the silence, "I’ve seen the way guys like him look at women like you."

You scoffed, trying to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. "You don’t know him."

"I know exhausted men who think everyone should revolve around their suffering," he countered, leaning back slightly but never breaking eye contact. "And I know lonely women."

"That’s not—"

"You keep defending him before I even say anything bad." His grin sharpened into something predatory and triumphant. "That’s usually a sign."

Biting your lip, you tied off the final stitch and yanked the bandage tighter than entirely necessary. Dex didn’t even flinch; he just laughed under his breath, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a dark, knowing amusement.

"There she is," he murmured, his laughter dying down into a low hum of approval as he inspected your handywork. "Perfect. You've got magic hands, my nurse."

This time, you didn't pull away. The heavy silence of the apartment, the suffocating weight of your resentment toward Jack, and the intoxicating, terrifying aura of the man sitting in front of you all collided at once. The loneliness that had been building up for months finally fractured. Slowly, deliberately, you reached up, your fingers tracing the sharp, stubbled edge of Dex's jawline.

Dex’s playful smirk faded instantly, replaced by something much darker, hungrier, and altogether predatory.

"He's a fool," Dex whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous pitch. He reached out, his gloved hand wrapping around your arm, his thumb sliding down to trace the tender inside of your wrist where your pulse was absolutely racing. "If you were mine... I’d never leave you alone. I’d make sure you knew exactly how important you are. Every single second."

The sheer contrast of Dex’s hyper-fixation against Jack’s cold neglect broke something vital inside you. You looked at Dex, broken, lethal and deathly terrifying Dex, and saw someone who actually wanted you. Someone who was entirely, completely present.

"Careful," Dex whispered, his breath hot against your lips as he leaned in, his dark eyes boring into yours. "You play with fire, you're gonna get burned."

"I don't care," you breathed.

Dex didn't hesitate. He caught your wrist and pulled you downward, lifting his own body slightly to meet you as he captured your lips in a bruising, possessive kiss. It wasn't gentle or clinical like Jack used to be; it was frantic, demanding, and utterly consuming. The heat of it swept through you like wildfire, making your blood run hot and heavy. You forgot about Jackand the hospital. You wrapped your arms around Dex's neck, deepening the kiss, letting your hands slide over his scarred, muscled shoulders. He groaned deep in his chest, his hands gripping your waist with a terrifying, vice-like strength, hoisting you up onto the edge of the kitchen counter.

Yet, even in his frenzy, he was meticulously careful. He shifted his weight, pulling you flush against his uninjured side, handling your body as if you were something precious and fragile, even while his mouth ravaged yours.

He pulled back just an inch, his lips wet and swollen, his eyes wild as he looked up at you. "Should've happened a long time ago, sweetface," he teased, a breathless, wicked chuckle escaping him as his thumbs stroked the bare skin of your thighs where your scrubs had ridden up. "All that time wasted on a ghost."

"Shut up, Dex," you gasped, your voice a desperate, needy thing as you buried your hands in his hair and dragged him back down to you.

Later, the chaos of the kitchen floor, the bloodied gauze and discarded wrappers, was left behind for the tangled sheets of your bed, but the atmosphere only grew more intense. Dex lay above you, his frame casting a long shadow, his eyes unblinking and fixed entirely on you. He was a man of lethal precision, and it was clear he wanted to leave an indelible mark.

"He's never going to look at you the same way again," Dex whispered frantically, his fingers tracing a slow, agonizing path down the dip of your bare back. His touch sent a violent shiver through your spine. "You're mine now. Ill make sure he knows it."

A mix of fear and dark thrill washed over you as he reached into his discarded gear beside the bed, retrieving something small, metallic, and deadly sharp. You whimpered, pressing your face into the pillow, but you didn't tell him to stop. With terrifying, surgical accuracy, he began to press the point into the sensitive skin on your back above your ass.

It stung, a sharp, biting pain that made your muscles tense, but Dex was right there, his lips pressing hot, grounding kisses against the nape of your neck, whispering low, possessive praises into your ear to keep you anchored in the delirium of the night. He carved his signature directly into your skin: a neat, freakish, perfectly symmetrical bullseye target, with his initials stamped right in the center.

You belonged to a monster now, but as you looked up into Dex's unhinged, adoring eyes in the dark, you knew he was the only person in the world looking at you like you were the absolute center of the universe.

AHHHHHHHH, this took me so long. I changed my writing style a bit, if it is to much let me know. I kinda went crazy trying to get synonyms to make me sound smarter. Lmao my google search bar is insane. So if its to much and sounds wierd lemme know!! But yea, hope u enjoyed it and my requests are always open!!! Can we just just act like this makes sense despite it being 2 different universes thanks!

[annsfics]

─── ♡ rabbot drabble ♡

"You need help reading that, sweetheart?" Jack asks while lining himself up next to you and sliding a tender hand down your back.

Your eyes have been flitting between the iPad you hold and Robby who stands across the way for the past umpteen minutes. You mean to ask him for something, but are at current trying to make yourself ready for if he accepts.

Letting warmth bloom between your thighs and your pussy get wet enough for your panties to stick to you is gradually being achieved at present.

"I'm okay," you say while taking a step back. "I'll go ask Robby."

"I have no problem..." He watches as you walk away to join his fellow attending. "Answering your questions," he grumbles under his breath.

"Hi," you chirp while pressing yourself against Robby's soft, but sturdy side.

He looks at you with a smile tugging at his lips. "You got somethin' for me?"

You bat your lashes while gazing at him with adoration. "Couple things," you reply while pushing the tablet toward him.

Taking it from you, Robby retrieves his glasses before reading over the lab results displayed on the screen. "You should know how to read these," he drawls with his chin tucked against his chest.

"I know," you quip.

Retaining focus upon the device, Robby feigns that he's still working. "You wet?" he asks quietly while flipping through PDF pages.

Your stomach squeezes from excitement at the way his voice rumbles when he asks such a filthily intimate question. "I am."

"Gonna have to make to make it quick," he states. "Five minutes or less. Think you can do that?" Robby asks while tucking his glasses back away in his shirt pocket.

You nod enthusiastically. "Yes. Or...I'll try to, anyway."

He jerks his head in the direction of an empty exam room. "C'mon."

Abbot stares after the two of you, and watches as Robby pushes open a glass door which you step eagerly through while he follows close behind.

His eyes narrow when he shuts it, then pulls a curtain around that hides the pair of you from sight.

With his body melded against yours, and his lips exploring the thin, sensitive skin of your neck, you can't keep yourself from clutching helplessly at his hoody.

Knowing just how much you enjoy it, he trails his mouth lower and scratches the swell of your breasts with his beard.

"Please," you whine quietly.

He chuckles against your soft skin.

Easing a hand past the waistband of your bottoms and panties both, Robby gently prods against your slick entrance with his middle finger. "Fuck, honey," he quietly curses. "You're soaked."

"Been watching you a lot today," you sigh with your head pressed back against the wall behind you.

Robby presses his lips to yours. "Gonna come home with me tonight?" he murmurs between lustful, passionate kisses.

"Basically live there now," you whimper between rapid pumps of his finger. "I love sleeping next to you; taking care of you."

He repays that love with his tongue in your mouth and his free arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close.

You're so lost in the feeling of his long, calloused fingers buried inside of you that you fail to notice when the door swings open and the discordant sounds of the ED sweep into the previously silent room.

But Robby doesn't. Not when Jack bats the curtain aside to see just what the two of you are up to.

And his heart sinks while his stomach roils at the sight of Robby's hand shoved in your pants, as well as your skin that glistens with saliva where Robby's traced his lips and tongue across your neck and cheeks and breasts.

Robby stills when their eyes meet and you whine needily when his ministrations stop. "Robby, please," you whimper while clawing at his shoulders.

Jack shakes his head while glaring at him with a stony expression and a set jaw.

Your eyes slowly flutter open, then bug from your skull when they meet with Jack's.

Just as you've opened your mouth to pour forth apologies, or excuses and faux explanations, he turns on his heel and slams the door closed behind him.

Resting his forehead against your shoulder, Robby withdraws his hand and slams it against the wall in frustration. "Fuck," he growls in irritation.

"Are...Are we going to be in trouble?" you ask worriedly while wrapping your arms protectively around his broad shoulders.

He shakes his head, then pulls back. "Abbot wouldn't do that to either of us." Resituating your clothes, Robby steps back. "Let me go talk to him."

No more does he give you a peck on the lips and he's turned and left you with pent-up sexual frustration which you absolutely intend on making him tend to once you both get home tonight, as well as a mess in your panties.

"Sure hope you washed your hands," Jack sneers while yanking a fresh pair of gloves from a nearby box.

"I need to be worried about you taking this out on me?"

Jack shakes his head. "Man... In the middle of a shift—"

"It's at the end of a shift," he retorts matter-of-factly and with hands planted on his hips. "And—"

"So you couldn't have waited 'til you got home?" Jack spits. "Not that she should be going home with you," he says before turning back to him.

"Because you wouldn't have done the same thing if she were on nightshift," Robby says with crossed arms.

Jack glares at him.

"That's what I thought," he remarks with satisfaction.

"Well, what I thought was that she was a resident. Your subordinate," he states with emphatically raised brows, like Robby needs reminding.

"I've seen how you look at her when she's wrapping things up at the end of a long day. With concern—"

Jack waves a dismissive hand and a scoff before heading down the hall, not wanting to hear any more.

"Because you care about her," Robby says with hands pressed together. "Same as me."

"I just do it a bit more appropriately," Abbot mutters under his breath. "Why the hell are you acting like you're in some episode of Grey's Anatomy or like lovestruck teenagers, anyway? Anybody could've walked in."

Robby smirks, but thankfully Jack doesn't see it, or he might just slug it off his face. "We've learned how to be discreet."

"So it's happened before," he says incredulously. "You know what?" He throws his hands up in exasperation before turning toward South 15. "I think I've heard more than I want to. I'm done with this conversation."

Robby watches as he shuts the door behind him, thus leaving him on the outs.

With a huff, he turns to go in search of you so he can get the both of you home and finish what he started.

[thatfanficstuff]

Yes, Sir - M. Robinavitch

Michael Robinavitch x R4!Reader

synopsis: Two times Robby really hated that you called him sir and one time he really didn't.

warnings/notes: suggestive content. i think that's it.

wc: 3.2k

It’s unusual to have fourth-year residents transfer into rotation in the Pitt but not unheard of. Usually, they’d burnt out elsewhere or had been reprimanded too many times and this was their last chance. They were typically some mix of too cocky with a disregard for authority and wide-eyed, socially awkward neurotics. But not you.

He’d missed your first day, but the fill-in told him you were sharp, calm, collected. He clocked you as soon as you stepped through the doors, posture straight, scrubs actually the right size and no trace of the panicked look that marked most R4s dumped into the Pitt midterm.

“That the new one?” Jack asked, glancing up from the chart he was finishing.

“Probably. Waters likes her.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Waters likes everyone.”

Robby hummed in agreement as he watched you head straight for the hub, bypassing him and Jack completely to greet Dana. Smart. You knew who was really in charge around here. When Dana introduced you to the two attendings, you’d offered a polite smile and a ‘nice to meet you. I look forward to working together’ before you grabbed a tablet to read through the notes for the current cases. Your lips moved slightly as you skimmed with nary a fidget or tap of the foot. He felt the slightest trickle of interest. A good sign even if it made him wary.

Ten minutes into your shift, the first test arrived. A paramedic wheeled in an elderly man with a cyanotic hue around the lips and the kind of confusion that said he not only didn’t know why he was here, but may not even know his own name most days. You barely glanced at Robby, just intercepted the medic, got the summary and slid into action.

You counted down the transfer to the bed in Three while Robby stood back, ready to step in if needed. He watched as you coaxed the daughter to stand to the side so they had room to work then handled the patient with a combination of gentleness and briskness. Your hands were fast as you completed the workup but never rough, words clipped but never cruel. When the man tried to claw out his oxygen tube, you caught his wrist and muttered something too low for Robby to catch and the patient actually relaxed.

He made note of that in his head. The best doctors could intimidate a team or a psych patient as needed, but only the rare ones could talk a delirious old man into submission.

The next hour brought a steady stream of the usual headaches, chest pains and possible breaks that usually turned out to be sprains. He left you for a bit to check on the others and when he found you again, you were dressing a laceration on a construction worker that had run afoul of a reciprocating saw.

“This needs tendon repair,” you said as you finished. “Should I page plastics or hand?”

“Hand,” Robby answered. “But have ortho clear him first.”

“Yes, sir.”

Never one for formalities he twitched but let it go for now. You reminded him a little of himself at that age, which was a warning sign if there ever was one.

The second ‘yes, sir’ came twenty minutes later when he sent you to start an IV on a drunk cursing out the entire staff from his bed. The third came when he asked you to page neuro for a consult, saying it even as you typed. The fourth came when you brought him the chart on a GI case and he pointed out a subtle lab abnormality just to see if you’d caught it. You had, but still said, “Yes, sir.”

Each time, his jaw tightened. Each time he felt a twinge of annoyance in his gut. And you somehow managed to find ways to wedge the ‘sir’ into every interaction, like you knew how much it made him itch.

He could have told you to stop, could have ordered it even. But he’d hoped you’d knock it off as they day progressed and you were more familiar with him.

When he found you at the table in the staff lounge downing a yogurt around lunch time, he poured his coffee and sat beside you. “You getting the lay of the land? Anything you’re having problems with?”

You tilted your head as you studied him. “I’m good, but if I need anything, I’ll ask Dana. You’ve got enough to worry about without me asking directions to cardio.”

His lips twitched. “Appreciate it, but I’m pretty sure literally anyone could give you directions to cardio. Well, maybe not transport. They can’t seem to find their way anywhere.”

That startled a laugh from you. “That seems to be the case no matter what hospital you’re at.”

He pursed his lips before finally giving in and asking what he’d been dying to know all day. “Why the mid-term shift?”

You leaned back in your chair and chewed on your lip. Finally, you shrugged. “The attending made a decision based on ego and laziness. Cost us the patient, who had a family member on the board. When they questioned his actions, he blamed one of the MS3s.”

“Shit,” Robby muttered.

You nodded. “I submitted my own statement. It saved the MS3s career but others in the hospital weren’t forgiving. The attending had been around for a long time and was well-liked with the staff. I suddenly wasn’t.”

Robby now respected you a whole lot more than he had ten minutes ago. “That must have been tough. Well, their loss our gain. We’re happy to have you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Your shoulders seemed to relax the slightest bit.

“You don’t need to ‘sir’ me, by the way. I’m not a drill sergeant.”

“Sorry, sir,” you said, not a trace of irony in your tone.

He nearly choked on his coffee.

An afternoon rush hit hard and ugly. He didn’t talk to you for a while, just caught glimpses as you ferried patients or argued with radiology on the phone over a ‘stat’ head CT that had been sitting idle for almost an hour. He finally ran into you as you were both scanning the board.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

You didn’t glance at him. “Been trying to fast track to keep the beds clear.”

He liked you. He really, really liked you and it was starting to piss him off.

He was dragging by the end of shift. He signed off on the last of his patients and saw you on your way out. He called your name to get your attention. “Hey, you did good today. Better than I expected, honestly, but the ‘sir’ thing—”

You interrupted him. “Force of habit. Sorry.”

“I get that, but I’m just Robby or Dr. Robby if you’re trying to be formal. Not sir. Never sir.”

You searched his face as if trying to judge his sincerity. Then you smiled, just a little, and said, “Yes, sir.”

He shook his head and muttered under his breath as he waved you off, a smile tugging at his lips.

Months passed. You weren’t new anymore, just part of the team as if you’d always been there. Robby found himself relying on you more than was probably smart. He didn’t like it, but you made it impossible not to. He’d think about ordering a chest film to find you’d already paged it. He’d reach for the code cart to find you already wheeling it in his direction. Sometimes he’s open his mouth to start an order and you’d finish the sentence for him, an impish glee in your eyes as you did so.

You only said sir now when you wanted to needle him or when he was being a hardass to the junior staff. He’d narrow his eyes and you’d just give him that little smile.

It was a normal day in the Pitt, running approximately 1.8 disasters per hour. He was five hours into the shift and the only break he’d had so far was the thirty seconds he’d taken after he almost lost a kid. Yelling caught his attention and he ran across the ED to find a patient the size of a linebacker screaming in Perlah’s face. You got there first, stepping between the man and the nurse.

“You need to back off before someone gets hurt,” you ordered, pushing the nurse further behind you.

The man bared his teeth. “You can’t make me.”

You didn’t flinch. “Maybe not, but if you sit down, I can get you something for the pain.”

He hesitated before dropping back into the chair. That was all you needed as you gestured to the two nurses standing behind him and they slipped wrist restraints on him, pinning him to the chair. He kicked and you blocked it with your hands.

“Push 70 of propofol. Now,” Robby ordered as he moved forward to help pin his legs. Once the man was subdued, they transferred him to a bed, and secured him with four-point restraints. Later, Robby would realize how rare it was for an intervention to go that well, but in the moment, he only felt a hot, helpless spike of terror.

When the incident was over, he stepped into your space. “Staff room. Now.”

He marched off, knowing you’d follow. He shut the door a little harder than necessary once you were both inside. “Are you hurt?” he snapped.

You shrugged. “A couple of bruises maybe from him kicking, but I’ll be fine.”

“You cannot put yourself in the middle like that. Next time, call security or wait for me.”

You sat your jaw. “He was threatening Perlah. She’s tiny, Robby. If he got physical, she could have been seriously injured.”

“He was a hell of a lot bigger than you too, if you didn’t notice.” He took a breath, tried to unclench his fists. “You are a doctor. You can’t help anyone if you get hurt. Don’t do it again.”

You didn’t respond, just watched him, your jaw tight.

“Do you understand?” he bit out, voice low, angry.

You straightened, arms crossed over your chest, gaze locked on the wall behind him. “Yes, sir, Dr. Robinavitch. I understand.”

He flinched at the formality, the return of distance. The silence grew heavier and still you didn’t look at him. He left first, needing to find anything else to focus on. He was ‘sir’ and ‘Dr. Robinavitch’ for the rest of the shift anytime the two of you interacted. Every instance making him feel heavier until he was snapping at everyone. When he was short with the med students Dana finally called him out on it.

At the end of shift, he completed his handoff to Abbot and headed for the exit. He saw you ahead, walking fast. He jogged to catch up and called your name. You didn’t slow down.

“Wait,” he called, not quite a shout but more desperate than he’d meant it to be.

You stopped and turned. You looked so small, so exhausted and it made his chest hurt.

He caught up, hands open in a gesture of peace. “Look, you scared the shit out of me today. I saw that guy in your face and I snapped.” He paused and shook his head. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I thought you were going to get hurt because I wasn’t fast enough.”

You didn’t smile, but the edge in your eyes softened.

He wanted to say ‘I suck at this,’ or ‘please don’t hate me’ but all he managed was, “I really need you to forgive me for being an ass. And I really, really need you to stop calling me Dr. Robinavitch.”

You turned without a word and continued walking. At the corner you paused, looked back. “Come on, Robby. You can buy me dinner to make it up to me.”

He stood there a moment, stunned, then hurried after you, a smile tugging at his mouth. There was a lot left unsaid, but for the moment, that was okay.

 The two of you going out after a shift became a semi-regular thing. Sometimes dinner, sometimes breakfast or a late-night donut run when your shift ran over. It happened often enough that Jack started a secret betting pool on how long it would be before Robby fucked it up. Robby constantly swore there was nothing going on between the two of you. He didn’t give a shit about the speculation, those meals were the best parts of his week.

What he did mind was how close the two of you had gotten in the meantime. He let you grab him a coffee when the start of shift was busy, let you order him around when you had a better treatment plan than he did. Once after things went sideways and he’d nearly lost the patient, you found him in the ambulance bay and just leaned on the wall beside him not saying anything. Just letting him find peace in your presence.

He'd grown used to his gaze finding you at every opportunity, to standing closer than necessary as you went over a chart together. He’d even grown used to the way your presence made everything seem easier, calmer.

Then the dream happened, stuck with him after he woke. In it, you were pinned beneath him on the bed in the on call room, eyes wild and lips parted. Scrubs half off, nails digging into his back, desperate and hungry. He’d woken with his heart pounding, sheets tangled around him and his own hand sticky and clenched under his boxers. He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror for a solid ten minutes.

He tried to shake it. Showed up for shift acting as if nothing had happened. It didn’t work. You’d noticed he was avoiding you halfway through the second hour.

 You cornered him at the hub as he was checking the board. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he answered not looking at you.

“You sure? You’re being weird.”

“Not being weird,” he said with all the conviction of a man absolutely being weird.

You watched him for a moment then let it drop, but you knew something was wrong. He could tell.

He spent the next two hours dodging you, which was harder than it should have been. You always seemed to know where he was. Every time, you’d appear, ask a question or just look at him for too long. He found himself getting jumpier with each encounter, pulse up, a permanent red tint to his skin.

“You want to tell me what’s going on,” you said as you placed a cup of coffee in front him.

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You stepped into his space and he swallowed the lump in his throat. “You’re hiding something.”

He glanced at you then. “If you need something to do, why don’t you go restock the supply closet.”

You gave him look that was a cross between annoyance and exasperation. “Yes, sir.”

He made a strangled sound before he could bite it back. The pause in your stride told him you’d heard and shit, wasn’t that just what he needed. He ran a hand down his face, took a deep breath and got back to work.

The next hours were hell. Every ten minutes you’d find him and offer an update whether he needed it or not. Always ending with ‘sir’ in a way that felt more like a striptease than a conversation. “Labs are back, sir.” “Patient in four needs you, sir.” “Do you want the chart now, sir?” Each time the word left your lips, he’d flash back to the dream from the night before until the loose fit of his scrubs was the only thing keeping him from being a walking HR violation.

Hour ten was when he snapped. He’d found you checking the board and couldn’t keep from asking if you’d eaten anything yet. You bit your lip and looked up at him through your lashes. “Yes, sir. I did as ordered.” And he felt all the way down.

He stepped into your space, close enough to feel the heat radiating between you. He waited for you to move. You didn’t. He wanted to ask what the hell you were doing looking at him like that. But the words hung up in his throat.

He grabbed the nearly full box of gloves off the counter and pushed it into your chest. “Restock.” His voice was gruff.

You turned and walked off to the supply closet without looking back.

He lasted a minute and a half before following you. He shut the door behind him with a click. You turned with a raised brow. “Was there something else, sir?” This time you didn’t attempt to hide the want in your tone.

Something snapped low in his chest. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d closed the distance, crowding you against the steel shelving. You didn’t back down, lifting your chin and staring him down.

He braced a hand on either of your head, boxing you in. “You really need to quit calling me ‘sir’ today,” he growled, not bothering to hide the tremor in his voice.

You studied him for a moment. “What about tonight?” you finally asked, voice soft.

He blinked and his mouth suddenly felt like the Sahara. “What?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you placed your hands on his chest, flat against the fabric of his scrubs, pressing down just enough to make him hyper-aware of your touch. You slid your palms lower, stopping just shy of his beltline and far too close to the evidence of what you’d been doing to him all day. He inhaled sharply.

“I said, what about tonight, sir?”

He groaned, desperate and raw, and grabbed your face in both hands, kissing you hard enough your teeth clicked. And the little whimper you made…fuck. He was going to ruin you and enjoy every moment of it. He lost track of time as he fed at your lips for what could have been minutes or an hour. When he finally pulled away, you were both trembling.

He held you there, foreheads pressed together, breathing your air. “We can’t do this here.” He tried to sound stern, but his voice was shredded.

You started to protest, but he silenced you with a finger against your lips. “No. Listen.”

You went still.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, keeping his voice soft, low. “We’re going to finish our shifts, and you’re going to behave while we do it. Then you’re going home with me, and we’re going to address your bratty behavior. Understand?”

You smiled, slow, dangerous. “Yes, s—” You caught yourself. “Yes, Robby.”

He let out a sound that was half-groan, half-laugh then pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Good girl,” he murmured and felt you shiver at his words. He tucked the reaction away for later, already planning how he was going to take you apart.

For now, there was work to do. The endless churn of trauma and chaos but underneath it all, the knowledge that after tonight he wouldn’t have to pretend anymore.

He opened the door and let you slip out first. He watched the line of your spine, the set of your shoulders and the swing of your hips. He wanted to reach for you again, but he didn’t. Not yet.

The two of you had all the time in the world.

[j4ckr4bbits]

Dr Jack Abbot finds younger nurse reader’s modeling photos from when she modeled to help pay for nursing school. He has spicy thoughts and realizes his feelings for her and wants her all to himself. She notices him being weird at work with her and decides to ask him what’s going on :)))) go crazy with it

omg my first req!! tysm anon i did in fact go crazy writin this. it's perv abbot once again, except he's pathetic nd lame. hope u enjoy <3

perv!dr jack abbot x younger nurse!reader.

18+. content warnings: masturbation (m), handjob, nipple sucking/kissing, sub!jack (he's tired and horny), body praise

it wasn't your fault that you had great tits: in fact, they had been the reason you were scouted to do some lingerie modelling, which got you through nursing school. you weren't ashamed of it at all— you looked great, and you knew that.

and it also wasn't your fault that all your undershirts were dirty one day, leaving you bare under your v-neck scrub top.

jack had skipped his morning nap, choosing to jerk off to those sexy photos of you again like some kind of basement-dwelling incel instead of the respected attending you saw him as. he didn't even mean to find those pics, he'd stumbled upon them on his day off after google image searching your face out of curiosity (sue him, he'd just learnt how to do it).

guiltily, he'd saved them to his ipad and let himself ogle your body while he wrapped a hand around his throbbing dick. he can't count how many loads he's blown to the sight of you since then: smirking, on your knees, in that naughty little sheer lace set.

and tonight, clocking in after being awake for a solid 30 hours, jack is cranky to say the least.

to make matters worse, you're together all shift on a difficult case, and he keeps having to ask you to run tests for him. each time, jack has to concentrate really hard on your face, because from where he's stood, he has a perfect view down into your bra. god, is he hallucinating, or can he see your nipples?

after you debrief him on a change in the patient's condition, one that he agrees warrants sending them up to the icu, you just have to ask. "um, dr abbot? did i do something to upset you?"

his brows knit together. "no, not at all. why?"

"you've just... been staring at me..." you reply, your voice unsure.

he exhales, his words coming through gritted teeth. "listen, i think you should just go to the lost and found, and grab a t-shirt." you look shocked, so he clarifies: "it's nothing personal. you just... you're... there are a lot of creeps running around here at night, okay? drunk assholes who get handsy when they've got a young woman that looks the way you do takin' care of em. you should cover up."

you straighten up at that. "my tits?" you reply, tone unusually sharp. "you want me to cover up my tits in case a perv comes in? cause i think it's a little late for that."

he can't even argue, really. he is a perv. he'd spent hours fisting his cock looking at those pictures of you, his younger colleague. his muscles tense up as remembers the way his hips had jerked into his hand just that morning, how he'd spilled cum onto his ipad's screen. "i- i- uh..."

"dr abbot, you're so hard right now, your dick could probably break glass," you deadpan. and you're right. jack looks down, and for the first time in his life curses the fact that his cock is so big, because there's no hiding it.

and because you're a kind, sweet girl, you take pity on jack and jerk him off in the abandoned wing. he's so exhausted that he can't even carry out any of those fantasies he'd had of pinning you down and fucking you until you begged him to stop. his only solace is that you've finally taken off that stupid scrub top.

all he can do is whimper into the curve of your breast, squeezing your tits as you work him over good, while he admits that he'd found your old modelling pictures. "y'looked so good, baby, i— fuck, just like that, yeah— i couldn't help it, made my cock so hard..." your hand is so much softer than his, he thinks. then he starts imagining what your pussy would feel like...

his tip leaks into your fist as his lips drag lower so he can mouth and suck at your nipples. "god, you're beautiful, wanna spoil you... yeah, faster— jesus, these fuckin' tits, baby..." he nuzzles his nose into the soft valley between your breasts, inhaling the soft scent of your perfume as his hands squish the flesh against his stubbly cheeks.

"could fuckin' fall asleep on these things, so soft... even prettier than they look in those pictures, n your skin... tastes even sweeter than i— oh, i'm gonna cum, gonna cum, baby, please don't stop strokin' me..."

he releases into your palm with a choked groan, his whole body shaking with the intensity of his orgasm. "fuck... thank you... thank you, sweetheart, i'm sorry," he pants, rubbing at his eyes.

"if you don't mind, i wanna return the favour. don't think i could get myself to sleep 'f i don't make you come. get those scrubs off, please? need to see all of you."

[j4ckr4bbits]

oh while we're on the topic of gooning... let me involve ipad jack. there are over 600 of you pervs now btw 😵‍💫 hope you enjoy

dad's best friend!jack abbot x gn!reader.

18+. content warnings: masturbation (m), mentions of porn

dbf!jack watching porn rlly loud on his ipad cause he thinks no one's around to hear. unfortunately for him, you'd chosen to swing by unannounced and raid his wardrobe. you like his clothes, specifically his vintage tees because they've been deliciously pre-stretched by his thick, muscled frame. also, they smell like him.

you hear the moans coming from his room down the hallway and you can't help but feel jealous. he doesn't have anyone over, right? as you get closer and peek through his door, you see that nope, it's just him sat at his desk fucking his hand. his shirt's off, and the way his biceps flex and his head tips back is mesmerising. you're trying so hard to get a glimpse of his cock over his shoulder that you strain forward a little too far and the floorboards creak loudly under you, his bedroom door pressing open.

jack immediately spins around and panics when he sees your dazed face, shoving his ipad face down onto his desk and tucking his cock back in his sweats. "shit, baby, what are you doin' here?" he looks fucked out, sweat curling the hair at the nape of his neck, his big arms flushed a light pink as they bend awkwardly at his sides. he must've been going at it for a while.

he can't even get up and shoo you out right away cause he took his prosthetic off to get comfy. he clears his throat, pointing a stubby finger over his shoulder to the ipad that's still emitting loud moans: "you shouldn't watch this shit, you know. it's degrading to women. do as i say, not as i do."