Fallin' (3)

DEMNA HAS FINALLY LEFT BALENCIAGA THANK GOD

pedro pedro pedro

Indya

Quick reminder that it's always morally correct to punch nazis.

Oh the fact that she calms him down? This is gonna be goooood 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

Companionship | pt. 2

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You and Michael have some late night phone calls. He struggles to open up.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: wow! Y’all are really so nice omg, I really appreciate all of you who took the time to like, comment or reblog. I also appreciate all you silent readers too! I’m genuinely surprised with how much traffic part 1 got, so thank you all so much! Contemplating adding this to my AO3 account from the perspective of a f!oc, but still undecided (I prefer to keep my reader works strictly for tumblr, idk why). This is definitely going to be multiple parts (my rough outline currently has ten chapters whoops).

I don’t know much about sugar babies aside from what I’ve read, so I took some liberties with my guesstimates.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: age gap, slowburn, foul language, allusion to a panic attack, work stress, Robby trying to avoid his feelings/anxiety, my basic understanding of accounting, angst

not beta read

“You’re lucky. Someone only looking for companionship is a small pool of men. Not as lucrative as a traditional sugar baby, but if that’s more your speed, maybe reach out to some more.”

Your smile twisted, “I’m already uncomfortable with just one. Thinking about adding more makes me feel icky.”

Erin rolled her eyes, “Why? They know what they signed up for. If they wanted fidelity, then they should get a girlfriend.”

“I’m telling you, I could hook you up with a shift or two a week at the bar. I make great tips.” Marsi said, her eyes not flickering from her laptop.

You frowned. “I already gave him my number. My Google Voice number, but yeah.”

“That’s my girl!” Erin praised with a laugh.

You wondered if it was a mistake. He had not reached out since you had sent the number on the app, nearly four days prior. Perhaps he was having second thoughts. Anxiety filled your chest at the thought of having to go through the whole process again.

Or just drop it and take Marsi up on her offer.

—

Your night passed slowly, studying with your friends until dinner time, when they left. You kept your focus on the Excel spreadsheet in front of you, checking over your homework with careful eyes. Numbers were easy, they did not hold the complexities of human beings—

Your phone buzzed on the table, immediately pulling you away from your work.

You have any time to talk?

It was an unknown number. You watched as the three dots appeared immediately after, though it wasn’t hard to guess who it was.

This is Michael by the way.

So formal, you found yourself thinking with a small smile, quickly adding him to your contacts.

I have time.

It only took a few more moments before your phone started ringing. Anxiety thrummed through your system, heart beating like a drum against your ribcage. You took a long breath through your nose before answering the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” He answered awkwardly.

“How are you?” You asked out of habit.

There were several moments of silence. “I want to say I’m okay.”

“But you’re not?”

“But I’m not.” Came his quiet reply.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Another measured silence. “No. Yes? I don’t know.”

You hummed. “I understand your hesitation, we don’t know each other. But isn’t that the whole point? I’m unconnected to your life and you basically have anonymity. I won’t pry, so we can talk about something else, if you’d like.”

He was silent for a long time. You checked the call to make sure it hadn’t dropped. The seconds ticked away on the call, so he was still there. You waited.

“Just a…rough day.” He said, his tone sounding stressed. “I think I’d rather talk about your day right now.”

“My day?” You questioned, surprised.

He only hummed in response.

“Do you want the play-by-play or the cliff-notes?”

Michael exhaled a ghost of a laugh, “Give me all of it.”

You cleared your throat, “So my alarm went off at 5:20, no! 5:25, and then I got out of bed—”

He laughed, bringing a smile to your lips.

“I have early classes on Thursdays, so I was up earlier than I usually like to be…”

“Night owl?”

“Guilty.” You smiled. “But it was my forensic accounting class, which I’ve been enjoying, so I wasn’t too upset getting out of bed. Add in my morning coffee, and I was a pretty happy camper.” You paused, but he was quiet on the other end. “I had taxation today too, and despite the fact I love the numbers, learning tax law just isn’t my favorite thing.”

“Why do you like it? Accounting?”

“Oh, um,” you paused, deliberating. “I like turning unreadable stuff into a well-crafted report, turn a mess into an easy to read story of a company’s financial history. Plus, numbers are a lot less complicated than human beings.”

There was his quiet laugh again. “Yeah, I can see how that can be true.”

“As a doctor, I can imagine you would.” You were smiling.

“I’ve seen…a lot of complicated people.”

You waited a few moments, but he didn’t elaborate. People were the primary reason you had left the medical field early on in your college career — while you enjoyed being helpful, people could be too overwhelming.

“And my shift today was good, busy and boring, but easy enough.”

As you went on about your day as a payroll clerk (though vague about the company details), Michael was quiet. It was clear he needed the distraction from whatever his day had been. You explained your studying routine with your friends and your love of baking. You got the occasional hum of acknowledgment, but it was clear he just wanted to listen to you talk. You moved from topic-to-topic without complaint, pausing occasionally to make sure he did not want to comment, or change the subject.

It was late when you realized the time: 11:08.

“Michael? I’m sure I could keep going, but I’m not sure you want to hear my opinions on office politics.” Your tone was jesting.

Still no response. Furrowing your brows, you listened silently to the other end.

Small puffs of air, slow and steady, in and out. In. Out. He had fallen asleep.

Your first instinct was to be offended — no telling how long since he had drifted off or how long you had rambled to no one. But then you relaxed. He had clearly needed the distraction from what was going through his head when he first called, enough to quiet his brain. Or perhaps he was just that exhausted. Either way, you did not take it personally, you would have likely been up this late anyways.

You ended the call at two hours and seventeen minutes.

—

Are you available at 9?

You checked your phone when you moved into the living room, dinner cooking in the oven, finding a text from Michael. Per your agreement, you usually talked about once a week. He usually gave late notice, though it usually reflected how bad his day had gotten. Your last talk, however, had only been three days prior.

In addition to the one only days ago, you had talked two additional times since your first, typically at night, where you did most of the talking. You almost found your talks therapeutic; plus you were getting paid to just talk. Though, you wished he talked more — part of you felt like you were taking advantage of the situation and he was barely getting anything out of it.

He had already put money on the prepaid Visa card you had picked up after your first phone conversation. Michael thought the card would be more discreet and confidential than Venmo. The $400 dollars you had agreed on for the month had done wonders with relieving the pressure on making your rent payment.

Erin had encouraged you to set up an online wishlist as well, adding things periodically in case he wanted to buy something extra for you. “As a tip,” Erin had told you, a wide smirk on her face. That same day, Erin had coincidentally brought her new Valentino canvas bag that you were sure cost more than your rent payment. You held off on the wishlist, but you kept a few things in your notes app. Just in case.

You sent him a confirmation that you were fine with nine. He must work late hours. He had said he was a doctor, but you wondered in what specialty or where, but you had never broached the topic. You both valued your privacy when it came to your arrangement, not wanting to muddy the waters.

Surprisingly, he did not call at nine. He was usually pretty punctual when it came to a time he asked for. You waited patiently for several minutes before moving to start some hot water for tea, looking out the window at the rain. You figured to give him a bit of extra time before turning in.

At 9:24, your phone rang. Part of you nearly picked it up on the first ring, but you gave it a few moments before picking up. When you answered, he spoke first.

“Please just talk. About anything.” He sounded out of breath, talking quickly. His tone sounded more stressed than you had heard before.

“Are you alright?” Was your first instinct instead of doing as he asked, standing from your chair at the dining table, mug of tea forgotten.

“Fuck. No, I’m not. Please just talk to me. Your day. Your job. The fucking traffic this morning. Anything,” Your name was so quiet on his tongue, you nearly missed it.

It sounded like a plea.

You swallowed, pulse quickening, before running with it, “This asshole actually cut me off this morning, which considering his bumper stickers, wasn’t all that surprising. No blinker, nothing. I swear, sometimes the subway is less stressful, though I hate the morning crowds.”

Suddenly realizing talking about stressful things might not be the best way to calm him down, you pivoted, pacing across your apartment. Deciding quickly on something boring to most, you began to explain your most recent accounting assignment. How you came up with the financial analysis from the numbers your professor had given, to the tax implications of several of the (fake) business’s decisions. You explained it as best you could in layman's terms, trying not to make the math too complicated, before walking him through your report and your thoughts about how to help the business improve.

You paused long enough to hear his breathing, not quite as ragged but still loud and quick. “I don’t need you to respond, but think of five things you can see.”

Oh this was cliche, but you did not dwell on it.

After a few moments, “Okay, four things you can touch.” You paused, finding four things of your own to ensure he had time. “Now three things you can hear.”

“You.” He croaked, much quieter than he had been. “I can hear you.”

“That’s good. Now two more things.”

“…the rain. The cars outside.”

“Good,” you breathed out. “Two things you can smell?”

He didn’t answer, though his breathing had slowed tremendously from when you had first answered his call. It felt relieving, and you finally made your way to sit on the couch.

“Last is one thing you can taste.”

He let out a long deep breath, but kept whatever it had been to himself.

“Are you okay?” You asked again after a few moments.

“No.” He said. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

You nearly huffed, but the annoyance was fleeting. You smiled, “I can tell you more about accounting, but most people find it incredibly boring.”

“You seem to really enjoy accounting. Though, I can’t imagine being cooped up in an office all day.”

“Well I wasn’t quite cut out for psychiatry, and I’ve always enjoyed a good spreadsheet.”

“Psychiatry?” He sounded surprised. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“What does that mean?”

“You would’ve been good at it.”

Oh?

“Thank you.” You whispered. “Um, can I interest you in what my professor assigned today or how my manager nearly fucked up payroll this week?”

He cleared his throat, “I’ll take ‘how my manager nearly fucked up today’ for $200, Alex.”

Your lips quirked back up at the Jeopardy reference, trying to shake off the feeling his praise had given you. With a long sigh, you rubbed your fingers along your hairline.

“He messed up the new employee’s tax deductions by misclassifying his title. When he backtracked to fix it, he cleared out the entire category — thankfully I caught it when I was putting my own numbers in for the small team I oversee.” You told him, looking at your nails. “Led to quite a frustrating day.”

Despite the fact that it had led to quite a hectic start to your workday, adding several tasks that interrupted you workflow, you felt mildly pathetic knowing his day had clearly been so much worse. You tried not to compare, your days had just as much value as his, but it was still a creeping feeling in your gut.

You continued on after a beat of silence on his end. Fixing the problem hadn’t necessarily been the issue — it was redoing every employee's numbers that led to your annoyance. That, and the lack of accountability from your manager.

Time ticked on, Michael only adding in his thoughts here and there, mostly staying quiet.

He coughed awkwardly during a lull in your conversation, “Uh, thank you for tonight.”

Beginning to feel your exhaustion, you smiled tiredly. “No thanks necessary.”

“Goodnight,” there was your name again.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

[ Next ]

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SHES LADY D AS IN LADY DANGER!!!!!!!! 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

She Wants To Move

summary : You weren’t supposed to be at the bar. He wasn’t supposed to notice. But then the bass hit, your dress stuck, and Jack Abbot—forty-something, dog-tagged, black zip-up and ruin in his eyes—started watching you like you were the emergency. One look turns into a dance, a kiss, a cab ride, and a night tangled in heat and restraint. You make him work for it. He’s used to control. But tonight, you’ve got the upper hand—and Jack? Jack’s not sure if he wants to fight it or beg for more.

word count : 5,413

content/warnings : explicit language, intense sexual tension, one extremely hot dance floor encounter, graphic descriptions of oral sex and penetrative sex (couch setting), dominance/submission power play (light), delayed gratification, consent emphasized, Jack Abbot being deeply feral, mutual teasing, grinding, age gap (reader late 20s/Jack late 40s), dirty dancing, emotionally charged eye contact, and one (1) couch that will never recover.

a/n : You need to listen to “She Wants to Move” by N.E.R.D first. I’m serious. It’s hot, throbbing, unapologetic tension—the kind that takes its time before it lets you break. And, it will let the fic come to life.

It starts with bass. Thick, hot, slithering through the air like smoke.

The kind of bass that doesn’t ask permission. It grabs you by the hips and pulls you under. The kind of beat that doesn’t just live in your ears—it makes a home in your bloodstream.

The bar’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies. Dim lighting spills gold and crimson across bare collarbones, button-downs, and sweat-slicked hair. There’s condensation sliding down every glass, heat rising off every inch of the dancefloor, and the scent in the air is some dangerous cocktail of perfume, cologne, and late-night decisions waiting to happen.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not because you’re too good for it—though that’s what you said earlier, in the Uber, arms crossed, jaw set, swearing you were gonna stay thirty minutes max. But because this isn’t your usual Friday. You’ve had the week from hell—coworkers breathing down your neck, your manager “circling back” on every email like a threat, and your ex having the audacity to like your story with the outfit he once said made you look “too much.” Your friends said you needed to blow off some steam.

But you didn’t come here to be watched.

You came to move.

You’re in a backless dress that makes no promises and keeps none. Black, tight, cinched just right. The hem kisses the tops of your thighs when you walk, and clings higher when you dance. Lashes curled to hell, nails done in a color you picked just because it made you feel expensive. You’re not trying to impress anyone—but God, you look like sin.

You’re three drinks in. Gin and lime, no tonic. Lips slick, eyes glossed with a buzz that feels better than clarity. Your best friend is already halfway to hooking up with a guy she said looked like a 'knock-off Timothée Chalamet,’ and you’ve been fending off some finance bro with gelled hair and a chin sharper than his personality.

You keep brushing him off. But he won’t take the hint. He’s standing behind you now, one hand hovering just close enough to make your skin crawl. Not touching. But too close. Like he thinks he owns the space you’re in.

And that’s when he sees you.

Across the bar, tucked near the exit like he’s been trying to leave for twenty minutes but hasn’t moved an inch, there’s a man watching you.

Not watching you like the others are.

Watching like he knows something.

He’s older—late forties, maybe, early fifties if the light hits his jaw right—but it doesn’t age him. It makes him dangerous. A little wrecked, a little unshaven, in a way that says he’s not here for games. Broad shoulders beneath a black zip-up, dog tags under his collar that flash when he turns. His hair’s short, face a little sharp, there’s a tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him look weak—it makes him look lived in. Like he’s been through it and came out the other side still standing.

There’s a drink in his hand he hasn’t touched in ten minutes.

And he’s looking at you like you’ve been looking for a way out.

Not out of the bar.

Out of him—the guy still trying to press his chest to your back. The one talking too close. The one whose hand you moved for the third time.

And Jack?

Jack sees everything.

He sees the flash in your eyes that says you’re about to lose your patience. The way your spine straightens. The quick flick of your wrist when you knock the straw against the side of your glass. He sees the way you dance for yourself—not anyone else—and he sees how your mouth curls when the beat drops, like it’s the only thing tonight that actually touched you right.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t wave.

But he straightens. Watches the way your gaze lifts—like you can feel his attention even from across the bar. And when your eyes finally meet his?

You feel it in your chest like a drop. Like gravity shifting.

You tilt your head. Curious.

He raises one brow. Just barely. An invitation.

And that’s when it hits you:

You want to be seen.

The man behind you leans in again, murmuring something in your ear, too loud and too close. You don’t even listen. You’re already turning, sliding past him with a practiced smile that means nothing.

You walk toward the bar. Your heels bite into the floor with every step, but you don’t flinch. You don’t swerve. Don’t smile too soon. Don’t hurry. You walk like you know what you’re doing. Like you’ve already decided how this ends.

Jack watches you the whole way, one hand still curled around his empty glass, the other flat on the bar like he needs to anchor himself to keep from leaning into you too fast. Because there’s something about the way you move—undeniably hot, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s unbothered. It’s deliberate. It’s yours.

There’s a gap at the bar between him and the next guy down, and you step into it like it’s been there waiting for you.

You don’t look at him right away. You flag the bartender first, ask for another gin and lime with your voice a little hoarse from the music, and only when she nods and turns away do you glance sideways.

He’s still watching.

You raise a brow. “You gonna keep staring or say something?”

Jack’s mouth twitches like he wasn’t expecting you to throw the first punch.

“I was trying to decide if you wanted to be interrupted.”

“You decided yes?”

“I decided the guy behind you wasn’t getting the job done.”

You huff a laugh—sharp and surprised. “What gave it away?”

“The way your shoulder tensed when he leaned in. That, and you haven’t smiled much in his direction all night.”

“You’ve been watching me all night?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s heat behind his eyes. “Not all night. Just since you started dancing like the beat owed you something.”

Your drink arrives. You wrap your fingers around the glass, wet with condensation, and raise it to your lips.

“You always this smooth?” you ask, chin tipped toward him now, that spark in your eyes daring him to keep going.

Jack leans in—just slightly, just enough to let the scent of him hit: clean soap, bourbon, faint antiseptic. Something warm and late-night and not meant to be shared.

“Only when it matters,” he says.

You arch a brow, smile tugging at your mouth like a secret. “And this matters?”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Yeah. Think it does.”

You look at him closer now. The stubble at his jaw. The faint scar above his eyebrow. His body language says he’s not on the clock. Not unless it’s for you.

“Rough day at work?” you ask, voice lower now.

Jack nods. “Twelve hours. Four codes. One too young to call it.”

You blink. Not because you’re startled—but because it tells you something.

“You work in a hospital?”

“Emergency department.”

“You a nurse?”

He quirks a brow. “Would that be a problem?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Not even a little.”

He leans in just enough to make your pulse skip. “I’m an attending.”

You raise your glass, lips twitching. “Of course you are.”

He lets the silence stretch. You both sip. The bass is still throbbing, the beat is dirty, sweaty. You let your body move to it, just slightly, hips shifting, lips parted, half-aware of the way his gaze lingers.

“Do you dance?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

You don’t answer with words. You slide one hand lightly across the bar—your knuckles brushing his—and lean in close enough that he can hear you over.

“I’m asking.”

He studies you like a problem he’s already half-solved. Then finishes what’s left in his glass, sets it down with a clink, and says—

“You gonna let me touch you, or are we just flirting for sport?”

Your smile sharpens.

“Try me.”

You don’t ask if he’s coming.

You don’t look back.

You just start walking like you’ve got the devil on a leash and a drink to finish.

You’re halfway to the floor when it happens.

The music dies. A weird second of static. People looking up, confused. And then—

Shake it up Shake it up, girl Shake it—

The opening hits like a slap.

And you smile.

God, this song. You haven’t heard it in years, but it drops into your bloodstream like it belongs there. It’s not a cute track. It’s filthy. Brazen. Throbbing in all the right places. The kind of beat that doesn’t ask you to dance—it drags you into the center and makes you beg for more. Everything thumps. The floor vibrates like a live wire. The crowd shifts to make space for you—not because they’re being polite, but because they feel it. That something’s happening.

You’re not the drunkest girl here.

You’re not the loudest, or the flashiest.

But you’re moving like you know the beat personally. Like it owes you money. Like it’s trying to make you forget someone and failing spectacularly.

She makes me think of lightning in skies (Her name) she’s sexy! How else is God supposed to write

The beat licks your skin like oil on asphalt.

You don’t dance for anyone. Not usually.

But tonight?

Tonight you dance like the floor owes you rent. Hips slow and sharp. Legs steady, knowing full well the hem of your dress is flirting with godlessness. Your arms move lazy, loose, intentional—one above your head, the other trailing a line across your own stomach, like you want to touch you too.

You know he’s behind you before he touches you.

He stands behind you. Close. Just shy of touching. And then, slowly—carefully—his hand finds your hip. It’s not sleazy. It’s not rushed. It’s intentional. He holds you like he’s getting a read on your pulse. Like he wants to know where to put the pressure.

You tip your head back, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Jack,” he says, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “Before you ask.”

You smile. A sharp curve of lip and teeth. “You always this polite when you’re groping strangers?”

He huffs a laugh against your cheek. “If I was groping you, you’d know.”

“Oh? And what’s this, then?” You grind against him once, slow, letting your dress ride up a little.

“Me,” he says, dry as hell, “restraining myself.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and his grip tightens slightly, like the sound caught him off guard. You feel the front of him line up with the back of you. Not gross. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.

“You always dance like this?” he asks.

“Only when I like the song.”

Move, she wants to move But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her She wants to move

His hands twitch. Your ass brushes the front of his jeans, and it’s not subtle. He leans in behind you, mouth near your cheek, voice a low rasp against your skin. “You gonna tell me your name, or am I supposed to keep calling you trouble?”

You don’t answer right away. Just keep moving, slow and taunting, grinding back against him until you feel his breath catch.

Then—calm, smooth—you turn your head over your shoulder, lips brushing his jaw as you say it:

“Astrid.”

Jack stills.

Then, voice low and certain: “No, it’s not.”

You glance back at him, one brow raised. “Excuse me?”

He looks amused. “No offense, but that’s a girl who studied abroad, wears linen, says ‘divine’ unironically.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what am I?”

Jack smirks, eyes flicking down your body like he already knows the punchline. “You’re the girl who walked onto the dance floor like she was dragging hell behind her. I don’t know your name yet, but it’s not Astrid.”

You laugh—low, dangerous, curling in your throat.

Then, slow and deliberate, you turn to face him. Your body brushes against his as you do—chest to chest now, sweat-slick skin catching under the low lights. Your fingers trail up the front of his shirt, just enough to remind him who’s been leading.

And you tell him.

Your real name.

No smirk. No shield. Just heat and honesty, dropped between you like a match.

Jack says nothing. Not at first. He just stares at you like you’ve cracked something open in him—and now he can’t look away.

Then:

“There she is.”

You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. “Was she hiding?”

“No,” he says. “Just waiting for the music to be right.”

Mister! Look at your girl, she loves it I can see it in her eyes She hopes this lasts forever

You feel something break. Something good. Something electric.

“Atta girl,” Jack says under his breath.

And you burn. The way he looks at you? Like you’re a fucking sermon in stilettos? It’s worse.

It’s better.

The kiss lands like a blackout.

It doesn’t ask. Doesn’t flirt. It takes.

You feel it in the backs of your knees. In your fingertips. In the hard thump of your heart against his chest. Jack kisses like a man who doesn’t beg for shit—but knows how to ask with his mouth. And when you break—flushed, panting, lip-gloss ruined—you don’t step back.

You grip his zip-up.

Because you want to see what he does next.

He’s breathing heavy. Not winded, just—changed. Like something in him just got rewritten and he’s trying to pretend it didn’t shake him.

Your lips are still hovering near his. You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

He stares.

Eyes sharp. Searching.

Then—voice low, steady—he says:

“Now I’m really fucked.”

You laugh.

Jack grins like he hates that he said it—but not enough to take it back.

(Move, she wants to move) But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her

“I should go,” you murmur, voice unsteady.

“Yeah?” he says, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You don’t move. “I don’t do this,” you add, quieter.

Jack hums. “What’s this?”

“This—floor. Bar. Random men.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m not random.”

You blink. “Aren’t you?”

He tilts his head. “Are you?”

You look at him for a long beat. The song’s still pounding around you, hips still brushing, heat still everywhere. But there’s something sharp in his eyes now. Something that wasn’t there before.

“I don’t make sense, do I?” you ask, not sure why you’re even saying it.

Jack studies you like he’s unwrapping something he shouldn’t touch but can’t stop himself from pulling apart. “No,” he says. “But I’m not here for sense.”

You let that sit. Then, tilting your chin up, you say:

“So what are you here for?”

Jack doesn’t blink. He steps in closer. So close his mouth grazes your cheek when he says it:

“You.”

Somebody get us some water in here ’Cause it’s hot!

Your breath stutters.

He presses his hand flat against your lower back. Doesn’t pull you in. Just holds you there. Anchors you.

His jaw flexes. He looks like he’s trying very, very hard to behave.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Doing what?”

Jack leans in—nose to yours, mouth ghosting your cheek.

“Letting you get in my head.”

You laugh again. But this time it’s softer. More dangerous. He mutters something that sounds like a curse and presses his forehead to yours. You close your eyes.

For a second, it feels like the music vanishes. Like the floor disappears. Like you’re somewhere else—somewhere quieter, somewhere worse.

You open your eyes and he’s already looking at you. Like he never stopped. You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there. Breathing the same air. Holding the same pulse.

And then—you move first. You grab his hand.

You don’t look back.

And Jack?

He follows.

Again.

You don’t say a word the entire ride to his apartment.

You sit in the back of the cab like you own it, legs crossed, one arm draped over the seat like you’re posing for a noir film. Your hair’s a mess. Your lipstick’s ruined. And you look like you planned it that way.

Jack doesn’t ask questions. He just stares out the opposite window like he’s trying to breathe through a four-alarm fire.

But his knee’s bouncing.

His jaw’s tight.

And when your heel nudges the inside of his ankle, just light enough to be casual, just sharp enough to be intentional—his entire thigh jerks like he’s been shocked.

You don’t look at him when you say it:

“You gonna survive the ride?”

He exhales through his nose. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smile. “Too late.”

The cab stops. You slide out first without waiting, and he throws a couple bills at the driver before catching up, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to hide just how badly they’re shaking.

You wait by the front door of the building like you live there.

“Top floor,” he mutters, unlocking it.

“Of course it is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “You seem like the type who’d want to be above it all. Elevators. Silence. No neighbors to hear you beg.”

His mouth twitches. “You think I beg?”

You lean in, brushing past him just enough to graze his chest as you step into the elevator. “I think you’ve never had to.”

He follows like gravity. Like hunger.

The elevator ride is silent, but not still.

You feel it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or kneel. You feel it in the breath he lets out when the doors open, and the way his palm flattens against your lower back as he guides you down the hallway—not possessive, not protective—anchored.

He unlocks the door and steps aside, letting you enter first.

You walk in slow.

Deliberate.

Like you’re casing the joint.

“You bring a lot of women back here?” you ask, voice light, almost careless—like the question doesn’t already carry weight.

Jack drops his keys into the bowl by the door with a clatter, the sound sharp against the hush of the apartment. “No.”

You tilt your head, one brow arching. “Why not?”

He meets your eyes then—direct, unreadable, like he’s deciding how much of the truth to give you. “Most don’t make it past the bar.”

You laugh, low and smoky, lips curled around it like the edge of a cigarette. “So I’m special.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. "You’re dangerous."

“I get that a lot,” you murmur, half to yourself, like it’s a warning and a dare all in one.

You drift deeper into the living room, slow and unhurried, fingers trailing along the scarred edge of the coffee table like you’re reading it in braille. There’s no hesitation in your steps—just the kind of quiet certainty that comes from already having imagined this place in some half-formed dream. And now you’re here, seeing if the real thing matches the version you built in your head.

It does, mostly.

The couch is worn but clean, cushions slouched like they’ve weathered more than one exhausted shift. There’s a stack of JAMA journals on the end table, dog-eared and coffee-stained, buried halfway under a trauma manual and what looks like a folded VA benefits packet. An old Army rucksack slouches near the door. One of the kitchen chairs holds a crumpled black scrub top, sleeves still rolled. On the mantle: a coin from a combat medic unit, polished with habit. No pictures, no sentimental clutter—just usefulness, memory, and muscle memory dressed as routine.

It smells like soap and black coffee. Like someone who’s trying. Like someone who didn’t expect company but hasn’t minded the silence until now.

Jack doesn’t follow. Doesn’t interrupt. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the way you move—like every motion might be a trick wire.

You lower yourself onto the arm of the couch, smooth and casual, one leg crossing over the other with practiced grace. Your heel dangles in the air, catching light as you tilt your head, waiting.

Testing.

“Take your shirt off.”

He blinks, like the words short-circuited something in him. “Excuse me?”

You lean back, spine arching just slightly, mouth curved like sin. “What, shy all of a sudden?”

Jack breathes through his nose—controlled, clipped. “No.”

But he stays exactly where he is. Doesn’t lift a finger.

So you stand. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of your heels against the floor barely audible over the tension winding between you.

You cross the space with the grace of a fuse burning down. Stop just in front of him. Your fingers reach for the hem of his shirt—brush against the warm skin beneath.

Then pause.

You glance up, smile ghosting your lips.

“You want me to say please?”

His voice is low. Rough. All gravel and gasoline.

“Wouldn’t kill you."

You smile. “No. But it might ruin the fun.”

You trail your fingers just under the fabric, brushing the bare skin of his stomach. His abs tighten.

Then you back away.

And he follows.

God, he follows.

You circle the couch, slow and predatory, every step measured. Jack shadows you without hesitation, his gait looser, rougher—controlled chaos barely held in check. You feel it behind you, the tension, the heat, the way the air stretches thin and electric between your bodies. Like a wire dipped in oil, ready to catch flame.

Then—his hand closes around your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle. Just decisive. A touch that says enough without raising its voice.

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not teasing,” you murmur, voice slick with heat and intent. “I’m building tension.”

Jack pulls you flush against him, the heat of his body undeniable. His breath ghosts your jaw before his lips do, and when he speaks, it’s a growl under his breath.

“You planning to snap it?”

You smirk, tilting your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. “Eventually.”

He kisses you—hard, sudden, like he’s trying to reclaim ground he never owned. It’s messy. Hungry. All teeth and tongue and something older than want. His hands slide up your sides, slow at first, then firmer, more sure—fingertips skimming under the edge of your bra just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

But then you push him off.

Just a few inches. Just enough to break the kiss.

To remind him—you’re still calling the shots.

“Not yet.”

He blinks. Dazed. Breathless.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You reach up, slow and certain, fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands at his hairline. You brush it back from his forehead like it’s nothing—like it’s everything—and watch the way his breath hitches, how his eyes stay locked on yours even when they flicker like a flame in wind.

“You’re used to being the one who calls the shots, huh?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you—like he’s not sure whether to pull you under or fall at your feet. Like he wants to ruin you and worship you in the same breath.

“I’m used to getting what I want,” he says finally, voice low and raw.

You don’t blink.

You lean in. “And what do you want right now?”

He swallows hard. “You.”

You hum. “Say please.”

Jack closes his eyes. Jaw clenched.

You wait.

And wait.

Then—

“Please.”

You grin.

“There he is.”

You push him onto the couch and straddle him, grinding down slow. He groans, head tipping back, hands clutching the fabric of the cushion like he’s going to tear it in half.

“Can I touch you?” he pants.

“Not yet.”

He curses under his breath.

You lean down and whisper, “But soon.”

You kiss him again—messy now, deep and open-mouthed, your teeth catching on his lower lip. He groans into it, hands flexing at his sides like it’s taking everything he has not to touch you.

You slide down his body slow, lips dragging over his neck, collarbone, chest. You unbutton his shirt halfway just to make room, push the fabric aside. He’s warm under your mouth. Tense.

When you sink to your knees, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, already wrecked.

You glance up, smirk tugging at your lips. “Breathe, Jack.”

But he can’t—not really. Not when you’re undoing his belt, not when your fingers slip inside the waistband of his jeans. He lifts his hips without being asked, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy and untrustworthy all at once.

And when you free him—thick, flushed, already leaking—his jaw drops open, like the sound he makes gets lost somewhere in his chest.

You drag your tongue up the underside of him once. Light. Teasing.

He shudders.

You hum like you’re tasting something expensive. “Is this something that you want?”

He nods, but it’s not enough.

You look up. “Use your words.”

His voice is hoarse. “Yes. Please.”

So you give it to him.

You take him in slow, the kind of slow that ruins men. Hollow cheeks, wet lips, just enough pressure to make him twitch.

You don’t break eye contact when you take him in your mouth.

Not once.

Jack’s head tips back with a groan, low and guttural, like he’s trying to stop himself from unraveling. One hand curls into the couch cushion behind him, the other hovers mid-air, clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know where to put it.

He’s trying so hard not to touch you.

Trying to be good.

And you love that.

“Jesus,” he rasps, the word punched out of him. “Fuck, you—”

You pull off suddenly, lips wet, breath steady, and just smile.

“Still think I’m dangerous?” you ask sweetly.

“Worse,” he mutters. “You’re fucking lethal.”

You run your thumb along his slick length. His whole body tenses like you’ve rewired his nervous system. Your lips are swollen, chin slick, breath steady only because you’ve trained it to be. Jack’s a fucking mess—his head tipped back, chest rising like he’s trying not to lose control of every muscle group at once. His shirt’s halfway open, clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Good.

You lick your lips and sit back on your heels, slow. Measured. In control. Until your voice cuts through the air like a match to gasoline:

“All right, Doc.”

He looks down at you—lips parted, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. Dazed. Wrecked. Like he can barely focus through the aftershocks.

You tilt your head. Smile like a loaded gun.

“You earned it.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares. Breath shallow. Jaw clenched. And then it hits him—what you mean. Something flickers behind his eyes. That clean, military stillness, the ER control—it burns off like vapor. What’s left is heat. Dark. Focused. Dangerous.

He moves like a lit fuse—controlled, lethal, immediate.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, rasped, already rising like the question doesn’t matter.

You nod once, slow. Deliberate.

“Don’t go easy.”

He doesn’t.

Jack grabs you with both hands—one under your thighs, the other cradling the back of your neck—and lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. He drops you onto the couch with a roughness that makes your breath catch, not cruel, but deliberate. Like he’s finally been unshackled.

“You tease me like that,” he says, peeling your jeans down with sharp, practiced motions, “and think I’m gonna be gentle?”

You’re already gasping when he drags your underwear down and parts your legs. His thumb presses against your inner thigh like a hold order. His eyes—fuck—they’re so locked in it’s like he’s triaging you.

“Jesus,” he mutters when he gets a full look at you. “Dripping.”

You tilt your hips forward, inviting. “Guess you made an impression.”

Jack growls.

Actually growls.

He drops to his knees between your thighs, grabbing your ass and pulling you forward like he’s anchoring you. You barely manage to exhale before his mouth is on you—hot, devastating, tongue working you open like he’s angry about it.

You gasp, loud, your hand shooting out to grip the armrest. “Jack—fuck—Jack—”

He doesn’t stop.

He devours. Moans into it like you taste better than anything he’s had in years, and every flick of his tongue feels designed. Precision-trained. Weaponized. You grind against his face, and he lets you, lets you lose the last of your power because he wants it.

When he pulls away, your thighs are shaking. His mouth is wet. And his voice is wrecked:

“Still feel like running the show?”

You stare down at him, breathless—lips parted, chest rising fast. “No.”

Jack moves without a word, the shift in him absolute. He pulls the condom from his back pocket, movements sharp, assured. The foil tears with a sound that feels like a warning.

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your waist and flips you, quick and certain—like instinct. The cushions press against your chest as your knees sink into the couch, legs spread, back arched. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—just the give of the cushions beneath you and the way he holds you there, open. Offered. Ready.

His hands grip your hips, anchoring.

He leans in, breath hot against your shoulder.

“This okay?”

“Yes,” you gasp, already shaking.

He squeezes, hard enough to ground you. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Yes, Jack, please—”

He slides in with a brutal, delicious thrust that knocks the breath clean out of you.

“Holy—fuck—”

Jack doesn’t ease in. He’s slow for maybe one, maybe two strokes, just long enough to feel you clench around him—and then he lets go.

He grabs your hips and he slams into you again and again, groaning low in his throat like he’s been holding this in for years.

“You feel what you did to me?” he pants, one hand sliding up your back, gripping your shoulder as he fucks you like he’s chasing something.

You moan into the cushions. “Yes—yes—fuck, Jack—”

“Losing it in my own damn apartment, couldn’t even breathe—and you just smiled. You think I wasn’t gonna make you pay for that?”

He hits deeper. Harder.

Your back arches, your nails digging into the upholstery, every nerve ending lit up like a switchboard.

He leans over you, one hand sliding under to toy with your clit, the other braced at your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“Come for me,” he growls into your ear. “Let me have it.”

You fall apart with a gasp so loud it rips straight through you. You convulse around him, hips bucking, whole body shaking as the orgasm slams into you with no warning, no mercy.

Jack fucks you through it—grunting, holding you tight—and then he’s gone too, groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills into the condom, voice low and ragged like gravel dragged across pavement.

When he finally stills, he stays there—pressed against you, catching his breath, one hand still fisted in your hair, the other braced on the back of the couch.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

And then, low, lazy:

“You always give control up that easy?” he mutters, voice rough—still wrecked from it.

You laugh, breath catching on the inhale.

“That wasn’t easy.”

Jack kisses your shoulder, mouth warm, open. “No?”

You shift back against him, ass brushing his thigh, grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

“That was me returning the favor.”

He laughs—low, broken, completely unrepentant.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice all gravel and smoke.

“I’m screwed now, huh?” you breathe.

Jack drags you into his lap like gravity’s got a grudge. Like the space between you was never meant to exist. The couch creaks under the shift, one cushion dipping low beneath his weight, the other barely holding you up—like even the furniture knows how close this is to collapse.

His hand slides around your waist, anchoring you there, and he leans in—breath warm at your temple, mouth brushing skin like it’s a promise.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and wrecked. “You have no idea.”

My collection for Black is Beautiful.

“FUCK ICE (US Immigration Police)“ 

Roller graffiti in NYC

For a moment i thought this said nonna carmy and truly I am beside myself thinking of a carmy with nonna like habits

Save me noma carmy save me save me save me