Have A Silly Little Art As A Treat

lease write more abbott it’s a blessing 🙌🏻 maybe something to do with phone sex? he’s away at a conference?

omg yes! 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor. Jack’s in Boston for a trauma conference. You call. You say it’s because you can’t sleep. But that’s only half of it.

warnings/content: 18+ only (NSFW content), established relationship (married), emotionally repressed longing, slow-burn smut, phone sex, voice kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, married tension

You hate how quiet the house gets when he’s gone.

It's not the kind of quiet that happens at night—but the kind that sinks into the space he usually fills. The sound of water running after midnight. The low thump of his steps down the hallway, deliberate, uneven—his right leg always just a little heavier. The comfort of knowing his hand will brush yours when you reach for your toothbrush at the same time.

You feel the absence of all of it.

Jack’s in Boston. Trauma conference. Just a few days, he said. Routine stuff. But it’s late now, and your body knows what’s missing.

You’re curled up on his side of the bed, wearing one of his old army shirts. Not a clean, folded one from the back of the closet—this one’s threadbare and warm from too many washes, the collar stretched, the fabric soft. You only wear it when he’s not home. When the smell of him is the only thing that helps you fall asleep.

You haven’t yet. It’s close to midnight.

You don’t plan to call him.

You just… do.

He answers fast. Not rushed. Just ready.

“Yeah.”

You blink at the ceiling. “You busy?”

A pause. Then, quieter: “No. You alright?”

You nod before remembering he can’t see you. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not.”

Another beat of silence. You can hear the faint hum of hotel heating behind him, and the quiet rustle of fabric. He’s probably sitting up in bed. You can picture the way he runs a hand over his face — tired, but not surprised to hear from you.

“You sound off,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie.”

You exhale. The kind of breath that says more than you want it to.

“I just couldn’t sleep.”

You roll over onto your side, pulling the covers up. His pillow doesn’t smell like him anymore. Not really.

“I’m wearing your shirt.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“That old army one,” you add, quieter. “The one with the stitching in the sleeve.”

Now he exhales — low and tight.

“Fuck.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. You don’t need him to. The silence stretches between you — familiar, warm, heavy. The kind of silence you’ve only earned through years of knowing each other like this.

You shift under the covers. The shirt rides up, exposing the backs of your thighs to the cold air. You leave it there. He always liked the way your legs looked like that — one bent, one straight. Like you were already waiting for him.

“You touching yourself yet?” he asks.

“Are you?”

A beat. Then: “Yeah.”

That makes you ache.

You slip your hand beneath the covers. Your fingers meet warmth. Wet. You drag them slow — lazy, teasing — and your thighs twitch with the contact.

“God, Jack.”

“I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“First pass. Testing how wet you are. Finger sliding just under—”

You gasp. “Yes.”

“I’d be kissing your stomach if I was there,” he says, lower now, strained. “That soft spot just above your hip. You always flinch when I do that.”

There’s a pause. His breath hitches.

“What about you?” you whisper. “Tell me.”

You hear it — the shift, the subtle slide of skin on fabric.

“Boxers are down,” he mutters.

“Back against the headboard?”

“Mhm.”

“Using spit?”

He groans, deep and low in his chest. “Jesus.”

Your hand moves faster. Controlled. You know exactly how much pressure you need — and how much you want to hold back just to stay here with him.

“You’d be on top,” he says. “Knees on either side of me. I’d let you move at your own pace for a while.”

“Then?”

“I’d grab your hips.”

You press harder. He grunts softly — just a breath, but you feel it.

“I know how you sound right before you come,” you whisper. “You get quiet. Then you curse. Just once.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “And you go completely still. Just for a second. Then your whole body shakes.”

“I’m getting close.”

“I am too.”

You whimper. “I don’t want to finish without you.”

“You won’t.”

“Tell me when.”

Silence. Then:

“Now.”

The release is sharp — full. You cry out, hand working through it, legs flexing. You hear him too — a quiet grunt, drawn-out breath, the faintest curse under his breath as he falls with you.

It’s quiet for a while. Just your breathing. His.

Then Jack speaks again. Lower. Rougher. Real.

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah.”

“I hate being this far from you.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I’ll be home tomorrow.”

You smile. “I’ll leave the shirt on.”

He exhales. “Good. I want to take it off you myself.”

ʜᴏᴛᴛᴇꜱᴛ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ — ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ "ᴘᴏᴘᴇ'' ᴄᴏᴅʏ 4/♾️

Wearing War

summary : Jack Abbot’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed—but instead, you go to his favorite dive bar. You wear the skirt. You wear his tags. You push, and Jack—tired, restrained, and entirely yours—snaps.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! explicit smut, dominant boyfriend Jack Abbot, semi-public sex (in a parked truck), use of dog tags in kink context, possessiveness, fingering, vaginal sex, marking/bruising, overstimulation, reader is bratty and teasing, not much plot, mostly smut

word count : 4,323

Jack’s first night off in ten days should’ve been spent in bed.

You’d imagined it—his weight pressing into the mattress, one arm tossed over your waist, the rest of the world pushed away by the rhythm of his breathing. You’d imagined curling into the heat of him, tracing the faint scar beneath his ribcage with your thumb, pressing your face into his chest and not moving for hours.

But instead, you were standing in the doorway of your kitchen, watching him rinse his hands in the sink like he couldn’t quite turn off the part of his brain still stuck at work. His scrub top was balled up on the counter beside him, and his undershirt clung to his back in soft lines.

“Let’s go out,” you said, voice careful but certain. “Just us.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just let the water keep running over his hands like he hadn’t registered the question—or maybe like he was pretending not to.

“Out?” he echoed, like the word didn’t sit right in his mouth after ten nights of nothing but fluorescent lights and hallway coffee. “You mean… out out?”

You stepped into the kitchen, folding your arms. “Yeah. Not fancy. Not fussy. Just somewhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or have a monitor beeping in the background.”

That made him glance over. Barely. But enough.

His brow creased like he was doing the mental math—how long since his last shower, how much energy he had left in the tank, whether he could fake his way through being social when he barely felt human.

“You sure?” he asked. “You don’t want… like, a real night out? Something normal. Reservations. Wine list?”

You shook your head. “No. I want you. I want O’Malley’s.”

That got his full attention.

He turned, leaning back against the sink. His dog tags swung slightly when he moved. “O’Malley’s?” he asked, like you’d just suggested robbing a bank.

You took a few steps closer. “Yeah.”

He blinked once. “You want to go to a bar where the jukebox hasn’t worked since ’08, the floor sticks to your shoes, and that guy with the mullet always thinks you're hitting on him just for saying hi?”

You smiled, letting your hands slip up under his shirt, resting lightly against the warm skin of his stomach. “I want you. Where you feel good. Where you’re not someone’s doctor or someone’s emergency. Just… mine. I’ve been coming home to your things, not you. And I want to be somewhere that feels like you again.”

He went quiet at that. Quiet in the way Jack gets when something actually lands. The way he used to go quiet back when you first met him—when you’d say something kind and he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

O’Malley’s wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even clean. But it was his.

Brick walls stained with decades of smoke and sweat and spilled drinks. The barstools wobbled. The bathroom door didn’t lock unless you jammed it shut with your heel. But it was familiar. Steady. Like Jack.

It was the first place he ever kissed you in public.

The first time you saw him relax—really relax—with his hand on your thigh and his smile easy and unguarded. No pager. No badge. Just him and a beer and the kind of quiet contentment he didn’t let anyone else see.

You wanted that Jack tonight.

Not the version who came home bone-tired and silent, who sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the dark. The one who carried too many stories in his hands and didn’t know where to put them.

“Alright. We’ll go. But I’m not shaving.”

You smiled. “I like you scruffy.”

He kissed you, slow and low, then murmured, “Twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” you said, already slipping out of his arms and heading for the bedroom. “You’ve got first round.”

And as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you made a beeline for that skirt.

The black one.

The one that hadn’t seen daylight since your fourth date—back when he’d taken you to a bar kind of like O'Malley's. A little louder, a little messier, but the same kind of dim lighting and cracked leather booths. You’d leaned against the doorframe of your apartment when the night was over, keys in your hand, heartbeat wild under your skin, and asked, “Do you want to come up?” like you weren’t already hoping he’d press you into the wall and never leave.

He kissed you before he even got his boots off.

Not soft. Not slow. Like something in him had snapped loose. You barely made it to the couch—his hands on your hips, mouth trailing heat down your stomach, skirt bunched at your waist. He was on his knees before you could say another word, eyes dark, breath rough against your skin.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured, voice all gravel and restraint.

You didn’t.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. Just held your thighs open like he needed to, like he hadn’t had a real taste of anything in months. He made you come twice before he even touched himself. All control. All focus. Like the only thing that mattered was what your body was doing under his.

You still think about how he looked that night.

The way he moved—deliberate and slow, like he was memorizing every inch of you. The low curse he let slip when he finally slid inside. How he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight, barely breathing, like you were the only solid thing left in his world. No dirty talk. No theatrics. Just him, wrecking you with nothing but steady hands and a look you’ve never been able to shake.

That night, Jack Abbot stopped pretending. He stopped playing it safe. He stopped pretending he didn’t want you like a man starved.

You hold the skirt up in the warm light of your bedroom, thumb brushing the fabric like a secret, and smile. It’s tighter than you remember. Shorter, too—but maybe that’s just the way you’re looking at it now. With the memory of his hands. His mouth. His voice when he said your name like it was something sacred.

You slide it up your legs slowly. Deliberately.

Because you don’t want soft tonight. You don’t want tired.

You want him. The version of Jack who doesn’t know how to hold back. The version who comes home and remembers exactly who the hell he belongs to.

And by the time he sees you in this?

You want him wrecked.

Not by the shift.

Not by the world.

By you.

When you came downstairs, he was in the kitchen with his phone in one hand, wallet in the other, the porch light casting long shadows across the hardwood.

He didn’t hear you at first. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t look up until he had to.

And when he did—he stopped mid-motion. The screen of his phone still lit, thumb frozen over it, breath caught in his chest like it had nowhere to go.

His eyes dragged down your body and then back up, slow. Controlled. Like he was trying not to react. Like he had to try.

His mouth opened, then shut again. His jaw ticked once.

He wiped a hand down his face, slow and rough, like the sight of you was something he needed to get a grip on before it undid him. “You really—” he started, voice low and ragged, gesturing vaguely toward your legs. “That skirt?”

You leaned against the doorframe with the kind of casual ease that was anything but. “Figured I’d dress for the occasion.”

Jack didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“That skirt’s been in the back of your closet since…” He stopped, biting off the rest like it physically hurt to say it out loud.

You smiled gently. “Yeah. I remember.”

Silence stretched long and heavy between you. His eyes never left yours.

Then, quietly—honestly: “I’m not gonna ask you to change.” He paused. “But don’t ask me to keep my hands to myself.”

You pushed off the frame with a soft shrug. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

When you reached for your bag, he still hadn’t moved.

You had to walk past him to grab your keys, and even then, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word. Just watched. Like he was counting his breaths. Like if he said one thing too soon, this night would tip into something neither of you were dressed for.

You walked out together into the thick hum of summer, the heat sitting low and wet across the driveway. Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the trees. The air smelled like warm concrete and fading sunlight.

As you made your way toward the truck, you let one heel wobble—just a little. Just enough.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, stopping, bending at the knee like you needed to fix the strap.

You didn’t.

But you knew exactly what you were doing.

And you could feel his gaze on you. Hot. Still. Quiet.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t come closer. Just waited, jaw tight, fists curled around the truck keys.

You stood, slow. Turned, met his eyes.

He blinked once. Swallowed. Then turned and opened the passenger side door for you like he wasn’t two seconds from backing you up against it.

The drive was quiet at first. The windows down, the music soft—something bluesy and old, not quite loud enough to distract from the weight between you.

You reached over, let your fingers brush his thigh gently. The shift in him was instant. A subtle inhale. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. His hand gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“You sure you don’t want something nicer than this bar?” he asked finally, voice low and quiet like he already knew the answer but had to give you the out anyway.

You turned toward him, soft smile still in place. “No, honey. This is about you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead and nodded once. The streetlights passed in slow intervals, the engine humming beneath your feet.

And Jack?

He just drove. Knuckles white against the wheel. Thigh tense under your hand. Mouth pressed into a line like he was already counting down the minutes until you got home—and he could stop pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

When you walked in, his hand found the small of your back.

“Usual booth,” he said. “I’ll grab drinks.”

You turned, looked up at him with a soft smile. “No, babe. Let me. You always do it.”

He squinted slightly. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Go sit. Relax.”

He hesitated. Then pulled out his wallet, thumbed through it, and handed you his card. You turned and walked to the bar, slow and confident, letting your heels click against the hardwood. The bar was a straight shot from your booth, just far enough that he could still see you. And you made sure to give him a show.

You leaned forward, pretending to read the drink list. Let your hips tilt. Let the skirt shift. Just enough for the lace of your thong to show.

The whistle was immediate.

A low sound from a table of men a few feet away.

And then Jack was there.

Behind you in a blink.

His hand clamped to your lower back.

And the other—

yanked your skirt down.

Hard. Final. Like the motion itself was a correction.

The fabric snapped against your thighs, the sudden pressure sending a jolt through you. You straightened instinctively, blinking.

“Jesus,” you said under your breath.

Jack leaned in. “You really wanna do this here?”

“I was just reading the menu,” you murmured.

“Bullshit. You order the same thing every time. Diet Rum and Coke. No lime. Half ice.”

You swallowed.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move again. Just pressed his hand firmer to your lower back and let the moment hang.

The bartender handed over your drinks. You took them. Didn’t say anything. Just walked back to the booth with Jack two steps behind.

You slid into the booth—on his side.

He gave you a look.

“What?” you asked, sipping your drink.

“You’re pushing it.”

You shrugged. “I missed you.”

“You’re doing this because I haven’t fucked you in ten days.”

You flushed—heat hitting your cheeks hard.

But you didn’t deny it.

Instead, you leaned in. He thought you were going to kiss him. And then your hand dipped beneath his collar. You pulled the chain free.

Unclipped it.

And slid his dog tags over your head. They settled against your chest, heavy. His name resting between your breasts.

Jack blinked.

Then laughed once. Dark. Rough.

“You wear them,” he said, voice low, “you ride. That’s the deal.”

You smiled. “I know the rules.”

He stared at you another beat.

Then stood.

“We’re leaving.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“You want people to see your cunt?” he cut in. “You want attention? Then let me remind them who you belong to.”

You didn’t argue.

Just followed him out, heart pounding.

You thought you were headed home.

But when he opened the truck door, he looked at you.

“You’re not gonna ride me in bed.”

You blinked.

He nodded to the truck. “You’re gonna ride me right here. Since you wanted to act like bait.”

You got in.

Because that’s exactly what you wanted.

And he knows it.

The truck door shuts behind you with a heavy, final thunk. One of those sounds that doesn’t echo—it lands.

Jack circles around the hood without a word. His boots hit the gravel with a quiet crunch, one slower than the other, rhythm faintly uneven from the prosthetic he’s never once complained about. Shoulders set. Gait loose, but loaded.

He’s not in a rush.

Not because he doesn’t want to touch you.

Because he’s trying not to break.

You sit in the passenger seat, legs drawn up just slightly, thighs tight, heart climbing higher into your throat with every second he doesn’t speak. The skirt’s still riding too high despite his earlier intervention—and the lace between your thighs is still damp. Still warm.

When Jack slides in behind the wheel, he doesn’t touch you.

Just plants both hands on the steering wheel and exhales. Once. Deep. Grounded.

Then he turns his head.

“I knew you wore that skirt on purpose,” he says, voice low. Strained around the edges. Not tired from work, but from holding back. Like keeping his hands to himself has taken more out of him than the last ten nights combined.

He says it like a confession. Like a warning.

And you don’t bother playing coy.

You tilt your head, smile just enough to be dangerous. “Figured you deserved something to look forward to.”

He shifts beside you, slow and quiet. One arm drapes over the back of your seat, casual on the surface—but his fingers find your shoulder. Trail down, soft as breath, to the edge of your collarbone. He lingers there. Just enough to feel your pulse.

“I’ve been looking forward to you for ten nights,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Still, he doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, his palm drags slowly down your chest, not lingering, not teasing—reading.

Then he moves lower.

Hand slipping down your stomach, over the edge of your skirt, until he finds the lace. The wet. The heat.

He hisses through his teeth.

"You’re soaked."

You don’t answer.

“You’ve been walking around like that since the house?” he asks, more statement than question.

Your breath catches.

His fingers press in slightly—not a thrust, just pressure. Just enough to feel.

“I know this body,” he says, low, barely a whisper. “I’ve had this pussy every way you let me. In the shower. Against the wall. Bent over the fucking sink. You think I can’t tell when you’re asking for it?”

Your hips twitch into his hand.

He doesn't give you more.

“You thought this was gonna be cute?” he growls, thumb brushing just beside your clit. “Bend over at the bar. Show everyone the lace I’ve ripped off you a dozen times?”

You bite your lip. Nod.

That makes him laugh. A rough, breathless sound.

“I should take you back in there,” he says. “Let them see what it looks like when you beg.”

You shift toward him, no hesitation now—like your body’s been waiting for this as long as he has. You climb into his lap with practiced ease, knees against the worn leather of the truck seat, thighs bracketing his hips, breath warm against his jaw.

He exhales like the contact knocks something loose in him.

His hands find their way under you, palms settling at the curve of your ass—rough and sure, reverent in the way only a man who’s gone without you can be. Like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. Real. His.

“You missed me,” he murmurs, voice low, thumb dragging a slow arc along the edge of your hip.

“I missed you,” you breathe, your lips brushing his. “You weren’t home. Not really. I kept pretending it was enough just to hear your keys in the door, but it wasn’t. I was alone. I needed—”

Jack kisses you.

Hard.

Not like a question. Like a claim.

It isn’t soft. Isn’t slow. It’s hungry—the kind of kiss that splits you open, that tastes like every second he had to swallow the urge to call you in the middle of the night just to hear you. His mouth is hot and demanding, his grip tightening like he wants you closer, like closer still isn’t enough.

You gasp against him, fingers tangling in the fabric at his shoulders, and that’s when he groans—deep and wrecked—like you just pulled the last thread keeping him together.

Because this isn’t just a kiss.

It’s ten nights of wanting.

And now?

Now he’s got you in his lap, and your skirt’s hitched up, and you’re not stopping him.

You’re meeting him there.

He bites your lip, slow and deliberate. Tugs it between his teeth, groans when you gasp. The sound spills into your mouth and coils low in your stomach, sharp and warm. His hands shift, drag you harder against him, and you feel it—how hard he is under his jeans. How close he’s riding the edge.

You rut against him before you can stop yourself, hips grinding down like instinct, like need. His hands grip tighter, grounding you, guiding you, pulling a sound from your throat you’ve never made for anyone else.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like you’ve undone something deep in him. His mouth finds your jaw, your neck, the corner of your shoulder—fast, focused, starving. Each kiss lands like an answer to every silent plea you made in the nights he was gone.

“Jack,” you whimper, breath stuttering. “Please—”

He growls. Low. Close. A sound like something tearing loose inside him, sharp and intimate and only for you.

His thumb presses into your waist, anchoring you. His eyes are on you now, heavy and dark, like he’s drinking you in—committing this to memory in case the world asks him to go without you again.

“You want it that bad?” he rasps, voice tight. “You want to fuck me right here, like this truck’s the only place that’s ever existed?”

You nod—frantic, breathless.

Your moan says the rest.

And the way he looks at you then—like restraint was never about control. It was about respect. And now, finally, he doesn’t have to wear it.

He grabs your face, hands big and steady, his thumbs resting under your jaw, holding you like he needs you still to speak clearly.

“You wear those tags,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You ride. Like you promised. You gonna be good for me?”

You nod again, quicker this time.

“Words,” he breathes, brow low. “Tell me.”

“Yes. I’ll be good.”

He exhales like that undoes something else in him. But he doesn’t thank you for it. Doesn’t say a word. Just watches you, jaw clenched, thumb brushing your chin like you’re both already undone and just getting started.

“You made me watch,” he murmurs. “Watch every man in that bar eye what’s mine.”

You meet his stare, voice barely a whisper. “I wanted to remind you.”

“You did.”

He unzips his jeans without breaking eye contact. Slow. Controlled. Not hurried, not desperate. Just decided. Like he’s already known for days exactly how this was going to end.

The tags shift when you lean forward. They clink once against his chest before settling back against warm skin—your skin.

“Do it,” he says, voice scraped raw. “Do what you promised. Ride me.”

His hands guide you—slow, steady, reverent. Like he knows what this is. What it means. What it’ll undo.

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

A pause. One breath. Then another.

“Remind yourself who the fuck you belong to.”

Your hand slips between your bodies. Sure. Smooth. No hesitation now. You find him—hot, hard, already pulsing in your palm—and line him up.

You sink down.

You don’t even make it all the way down before Jack’s hands are on you—possessive, certain, like your body belongs to him and he’s just reclaiming it.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. His head falls forward, lips brushing your sternum as you sink fully onto him. You feel the tremor run through him. Hear the sharp breath he drags in like he’s been choking without you. “You’re still so fucking tight.”

His fingers splay wide across your hips, holding you there. Not letting you move. Not yet.

“Stay right there,” he growls. “Let me feel it. All of it.”

You whimper, thighs already shaking, because he’s thick, hot, deep—so deep it makes your chest ache. You try to move, to set a rhythm, but his grip tightens instantly.

“No,” he says, tone dropping lower. “This isn’t yours to lead.”

You gasp. “Jack—”

He shuts you up with a thrust so sudden, so deep, you see stars. The sound you make is guttural—raw and involuntary.

His hands grip your waist, drag you down harder against him with the next roll of his hips, his cock hitting that spot that makes your spine arch, your jaw fall slack.

“I’ve been hard for you for ten fucking nights,” he rasps against your collarbone. “You think I’m letting you play games? You think I’m letting you tease me, ride me slow like you’re in charge?”

He pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“You’re not in charge tonight, sweetheart. I am.”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ease you into it.

He fucks up into you like it’s punishment for making him wait—hands bruising your hips, his mouth hot against your throat, his body straining under yours like he’s holding back from breaking the whole damn truck apart.

Your skirt rides up higher. Your knees scramble for leverage. The windows fog, the air thick with the slap of skin, the creak of leather, your name torn from his throat like he’s never tasted anything better.

His hand slides up your spine, fingers threading through the chain around your neck. His dog tags. His.

And then he yanks.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough.

Enough to snap your head back. Enough to leave you gasping. Enough to remind you—he’s home now.

He thrusts up, harder now, sharper. You cry out, clinging to his shoulders, your body unraveling under every precise, unrelenting movement.

“You wanted me to lose it. Wanted to feel me snap.”

“Jack—please—”

His fingers twist the chain tighter, the metal cool against your throat. “You wanted this? You take it.”

Another thrust. And another.

He’s all teeth and tongue now—biting at your jaw, kissing you deep, swearing against your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You feel your orgasm building hard and fast, coiled tight in your belly.

And he knows. Of course he knows.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice almost gentle in contrast to how he’s fucking you. “You gonna come on me, baby? Hm? Let go for me?”

You nod, eyes wide, breath ragged. “Jack—God—Jack—”

“That’s it,” he says, and he fucks you through it. “Come for me. Come now.”

And when it hits, it slams into you—your whole body tensing, toes curling, nails digging into his chest, a moan torn from your throat that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever made before.

He fucks you through it—relentless, controlled—until your walls flutter around him and your body starts to fold.

That’s when he lets go.

He growls your name, hips bucking once, twice—and then he’s buried deep, his jaw clenched, eyes shut. Like he’s finally home.

He stays there. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move.

Just holds you.

One arm around your waist. The other still curled in the chain around your neck.

Breathing hard. Pressing kisses to your chest like prayers.

You let a beat pass. Then two.

You shift slightly, still filled. Still aching.

Then you lean back and smirk.

He notices immediately.

“What,” he says flatly, eyes opening just enough to pin you in place, “is that look.”

You blink, all wide-eyed and faux-sweet. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

He raises a brow. “Surprised.”

You nod. Slow. A little too pleased with yourself. “Mmhmm. I thought you were gonna ruin me.”

Jack exhales through his nose. Once. Controlled. His jaw shifts.

“Careful.”

You shrug, grinding down just a little—not enough to be obvious. Just enough for him to feel it.

“I mean… it was good,” you say lightly. “Don’t get me wrong.”

His hand flexes on your hip. Hard.

“But I was expecting…” you trail off, eyes dancing, “more.”

Jack’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Then: “You done?”

You grin. “I don’t know. Are you?”

“No,” he says calmly. “You’re done.”

He shifts under you, cock hardening again. Already thick. Already ready.

Your smirk starts to fade.

But it’s too late.

You’re about to get it.

Okay so this is what I have in mind for fics in the next few weeks:

- 5 moments with Jack Abbot: the one where he knew he was going to like you, the three where he gets to know you, and the one that seals the deal for him (let’s be real this man is down bad so they’re all seals the deal moments but ykwim) Jack Abbot x Dottoressa!reader

- fake boyfriend! Michael Robinavitch: trying to avoid a weirdo at the bar, you insert yourself at Michael’s booth with the rest of his colleagues, glued to his side as if you belonged there the whole time, an interesting arrangement ensues. (Fwb/fake dating)

- maybe a (n)sfw alphabet for each? is there a template to follow that y’all know of?

That’s all I have for now I’m afraid. But I’d love to Drabble and talk some brain rot in between :)

if there’s one thing about jack abbot, it’s that he’s going to mock you during sex… though never done out of cruelty or with any malicious intent. if fact, the two of you don’t even think of it as such—mocking.

his words are more of a… provocative ribbing that he knows will flood your mind with a haze. a haze you’re comfortable with floating in, that fills you full, right into a world-bending breaking point.

you’re both on your sides, facing and pressing against each other. substituting oxygen with your panting huffs, jack inhales your moans with sloppy, spit-slick kisses. he feels you shiver in his arms when he slips himself back inside, resettling your leg over his hip to push as far into your pussy as you’ll let him.

jack smirks to himself, his palm moving to splay against the cheek of your ass and yank you closer. he grunts through a sudden exhale at the new angle, commencing a roll of his waist that causes a gasp to burn your lungs.

“fuck, jack,” your mewl, voice weak and wobbly. “ah—ah, ‘s so deep…”

“is it? s’it nice and deep, baby?” he mumbles at your lips, copying your desperate nod and small yeahs with an expression of pity you can tell is fake. “wonder ‘f i can get any deeper...”

you aren’t given a chance to wonder the same before jack is gripping your ass with a stronger squeeze. his tender thrusts adjust into a sharp, sturdy pounding that jerks his balls back and forth against your pussy.

leaking around his thickness, you hand reaches behind to clench the sheet beneath you. it’s the only thing you can manage, the rest of your mind a sweet mush.

“t-too much.” you can barley talk, air escaping your body faster than you can replace it. “it’s too much, feels too good.”

jack doesn’t let up, cock throbbing and pumping hard into your heat. his bottom lip pokes out, just barely, matching your blissed out expression.

“oh, ‘too much, it’s too much’,” he recites, drawing out the words in a teasing tone you wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. “i don’t think so, baby. shit, you’re doing so good. takin’ my cock all nice and pretty.”

you crumble against jack but he holds you steady. lips smushed into his neck, you smear it messy with the spit drooling from slurred, open-mouthed mumbles. 

“you’re so big,” you stammer, vision going blurry at the wet squelch that sounds whenever he rears out of you, and subsequent groan that jumps from jack when he slicks back inside your creaming hole. 

“ooh, i‘m so big?” jack keeps his pace steady through the witty responses, and you can’t yourself from meeting his thrusts with your own grind. you don’t have to see him to feel the grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “hm? maybe i should pull out, give you a break—”

“no. no,” you whine over the rocking of the bed, clutching his as if he’s truly considering slipping his cock out and leaving you empty and cold. “no, don’t stop. gonna come again…”

the words flip a switch in jacks brain and he fucks you the hardest he has all night. foot planting into the bed, he sounds with deep coos at your uncontrollable cries he forces out of you.

it’s disgusting, the way you’ve coated his member in a velvety mixture of your juices. dripping down, it even collects against his sack, glossing him and making his eyes roll.

“gimme that cum, baby. just like last time, squirt it all out for me.”

you body goes numb yet feels like it’s imploding all at once. jack watches the way you shiver in his grasp, clenching around his swollen cock as you gush messily. he fucks you through it, the liquid spurting to wet his stomach and balls.

“that’s it,” he chokes out, inching dangerously close to his own finish. it only takes a few more pulses of your peak to finally clutch his own, plunging feverishly until he’s balls deep inside you. “f-fuck, yeah, right there.”

jack breaks. groaning into the side of your face and latching onto you while comes, the inescapable bliss makes his entire body twitch with harsh trembles.

“holy fuck, i’m still goin,” jack almost growls, air caught in his throat at the continuous ropes of cum he spills into you. the both of you are still heaving and coming as he leaks out of you. your lips puffy and swollen, and a sticky mess. it goes on for so long that jack ends up laughing through his moans, stomach sore from all the clenching.

it takes a few more minutes for your bodies to finally melt into tangled piles of limbs, the warm residue of your climax swimming nicely in your belly.

“you still with me, gorgeous?”

the only response you can muster is a sleepy mm-mm, and he gives you an equally-exhausted laugh. you only find the strength to peel open your eyes when a soft hand cradles your chin to tilt your head.

eyelids fluttering, you stare at him in a lost, fuzzy daze. thumb stroking your cheek, jack blinks sleepily at you before planting a soft kiss on the corner of your lips.

“i’m right here,” he promises, words certain but still far away when they reach your ears. “right here, baby. need you to come back for me, okay?”

a whine seeps from your lips. it’s not a defiance but you’re not obliging him either. you’re just… still in orbit, where you are the sun and jack’s the earth just before a dawn; as usual, he’ll push past the incoming fatigue, and wait for the otherworldly, ingrained tug that will eventually pull you back to him.

“right here…”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

Columba 

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end) 

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

PEDRO PASCAL Materialists | 2025

To Go, Please | the materialists pt 1/2

pairing: Harry Castillo x reader (the materialists)

word count: 2.7k

summary: You have been seeing Harry for a couple of weeks now after meeting him at your friend's wedding. After your last date was cut short due to a work emergency, the two of you want nothing more than each other's company tonight.

a/n: ok so are we all insufferable today between the apple airpod trailer and the materialists? because i am. my god. also, we are calling him Harry for now, as the name card he picks up in the trailer I assumed was his, and the name on it is Harry Castillo?? but either way, i'll change it if need be. also, i've already thought of a new series containing this man-- so much is coming.. ahhh !!

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics 

Part One

The sushi place that you were currently sitting at was something of a hidden gem you liked to go to when you needed a break from everything. Being a matchmaker had its joys and perks, being surrounded by people falling in love- and finding their happiness. However, it also had its days when you wanted nothing more than to curl up and vow that love doesn’t exist. Today was one of those days after a client you’d lined up with someone turned out to be nothing but a fraud, leaving the bride at the alter– one of your biggest nightmares.

However, Ming’s Sushi was one of the small slivers of joy you could get access to on a day like today. That and well as of late, another sliver of joy and peace was Harry.

Harry as well had a busy day, not bad, just busy. It was filled with meetings, contract signings, budget reviews, and at the end having to be submitted to a board meeting to discuss the quarterly numbers.

He called you when he was leaving the office, wanting to see you after a long day as well as after hearing about your day, wanting to offer some comfort. He asked where you wanted to go for dinner, and when you said Ming’s, he asked you to be ready within the hour.

Harry was a man like no other. Yes, he was filthy rich, which set him aside– but he was also one of the most generous individuals you’d ever met, not only as a person but as a partner as well.  

He was consistently making you feel seen, heard, and appreciated in every aspect. This was shown by the way you’d offer to help carry something inside last you were together. He thanked you with those big brown eyes and warm smile but insisted on doing it for you– his reasoning was always he wanted to take care of you. 

It was also shown when he would appreciate how beautiful you looked. He’d find small things that you didn’t think you’d notice like the color of your nails, the earrings or eye shadow you wore– small details to you, but he made them feel so much more valuable– made you feel more valuable. 

He worshipped you. 

When he introduced himself at your best friend’s wedding, and from the start, he had a way of somehow making you feel like the most desired person in any room. 

After a night of drinks, getting to know each other more, a few slow dances and a very polite and respectful goodnight kiss from him, he called you the next day to ask you to dinner. 

Since– the last 2 weeks have been nothing short of a complete dream. You’d gone out with him a few times to dinner and once out for a lunch date, but every time he took you home, he kissed you goodbye, kissed the top of your hand and would tell you he’d call you tomorrow— which he always did. 

After the 3rd dinner date you were going to invite him in, but the moment disappeared when an emergency work call of his interrupted the doorstop make out session on your front step— you two were enthusiastic attendees to. 

He reluctantly had to wish you goodnight and promised he’d make it up to you. 

Since then the sexual tension between the two of you has been at an all time high. 

When he picked you up today, it was the first time you'd seen each other since. He wasted no time after helping you into the back of his car before his lips were on yours, whispering how much he missed you, how he’d hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you. 

To both of your disappointment, the car ride from your place to the restaurant was less than a few minutes, again cutting your make out reunion short. 

While eating you made small talk about what you’d done since you last saw each other a few days ago. 

You’d momentarily dazed off for a moment as there was a moment where he ordered a dessert from the waiter and your mind wandered. You kept your gaze on the soy sauce bottle in the middle of the table, your mind being pulled back to the events of earlier today. 

He turned to look at you after ordering, noticing where you were. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb shyly and cleared his throat softly, “You look beautiful if I haven’t told you already. Those earrings bring out your eyes…” he said from across the table, taking you away from your thoughts— his brown eyes sparkling from the warm lighting the dining area brought in.

You immediately snap out of it, looking at him across the table, softly smiling, “Oh, um, thank you, you’re very sweet.” you blush, reaching up to touch one of the earrings, suddenly feeling shy. You purse your lips together and lean forward to give him more of your attention. 

He slowly reached his hand over the table for you to take, “So tell me, what’s the story with Ming’s? I wanna know the history…” he smiled warmly, speaking softly.

You looked down at his hand and took it. His hand acts as an anchor for you and the anxieties of today. He immediately started softly running his thumb over your knuckles in an attempt to soothe you, to keep you with him. He leaned himself in closer to give you his fullest attention. 

You kept your gaze on your hand in his, “My grandmother's apartment was about 2 blocks from here growing up. She was friends with the owner. They both had husband’s that worked at the docks back in the day.” you smiled remembering the memories held within these four walls, then you looked up at him, “This place brings a sense of stillness to my chaos. Brings me back to her in a way.”

He nodded, then brought your hand to his lips and gently kissed it, keeping his big brown eyes of maple syrup on you, “I have a place like that, I’ll take you there next time…” he tilted his head as he gazed at you.

You couldn’t help but smile a little brighter, “What’s your ‘Ming’s’ then? Give me a sneak peak…”

He let out a small light chuckle and set your hands down, keeping yours in his, going back to running his thumb along your knuckles, “Esmeralda’s…” he bit the inside of his cheek, “My abuelito’s good friend owns it, has since the 60’s.” he looked down at your hands, “When my tia used to watch me and my siblings, she’d take us there with my grandparents, it was our little thing.” he chuckled reminiscing, “All of the New York fine dining I’ve had over the years… nothing can compete with her tamales…” he tsked and looked up at you as you let out a small chuckle.

“Tamales from Esmeralda’s… Egg Rolls from Ming’s…” you softly hummed, “Anywhere else that brings you that level of comfort?” you asked, looking down at your hand in his.

“Anywhere in the world when I’m with you…” he confessed, not missing a beat. 

You looked up and blushed but let out a small snorted chuckle, “That was horribly cheesy… even for you.” you teased.

His smile lit up the whole room, and he slowly shook his head, “No no, you’re right, that was horribly cheesy— but completely and utterly true.” he stopped and bit his bottom lip for a moment, “Why don’t we get the dessert to go? We can go back to my place— rent a movie or something…” he raised his eyebrows, hopeful, his thumb continuing to rub softly still against your knuckles.

You were a sucker for those damned brown eyes, the ones that looked like a puppy dog whenever he’d look at you in any shape or fashion like this. 

You tsked, smiling, and looked at the waiter passing by and raised your hand, “Excuse me? Could we get the dessert we ordered, to go please?”

He nodded and smiled, telling you he’d have it ready for you in just a moment.

You looked back at Harry, his eyes hadn’t left you. He was puckering his lips a little like he was thinking, he had a small smirk on his upper lip.

You chuckled knowing what he might be thinking and bit your bottom lip, attempting to play hard to get, “Just a heads up, I can only come over for a little while, I’ve got an early morning meeting.” you tucked your hair behind your ear and stood as the waiter brought the dessert in a to-go bag.

He stood and came around to help you put on your jacket, leaning in and kissing your temple and then cheek. “Of course…” he said, putting his hand on the small of your back as he came to stand beside you and offer his arm. You took it and held onto it while you two walked out. 

“Just a little while…” he said as opened the door for you with a wink, and that smirk grew a little bigger.

He had his driver pick the two of you up within moments of you leaving the restaurant. 

As soon as the car door shut and the privacy screen was up after he told the driver to go to his house, you turned to him and had your bottom lip between your teeth, trying not to smile but your eyes said otherwise.

He chuckled lowly and cupped your cheek before leaning in slowly and nudging your nose with his, “Just for a little while, don’t worry— I’ll make it worth your while…” he whispered before his lips fell onto yours, kissing you deeply and passionately.

The air damn near was struck out of you by how he kissed you. You hummed as his lips glided against yours, smiling ever so slightly at the understanding of what was about to happen.

His hand slid slowly down your body onto your waist and pulled you closer. He was greedy in the fact that he always wanted closer than you already were, especially in situations like these when each other's lips and tongues were cascading over each other.

Your hands were everywhere, slowly going up and down his chest to pull him closer with this torso, pulling the collar of his sweater towards you, at one point your hand fell to his belt and gave a gentle tug— being bold for once. 

He groaned, panting softly as he pulled his lips away from yours momentarily, "Stay... stay the night..." he pulled you in by your chin, kissing you a few more times before pulling away again, foreheads against each other, out of breath, "I'll buy you clothes, have them delivered tonight..." he cupped your cheek and before his lips fell onto yours he asked once more, "Stay..." he pleaded. 

You two hadn't slept together yet and part of it was you were trying to avoid it deep down. To avoid getting too involved so quickly, knowing he could do so much better than you. 

A part of you was flattered and happy he had given you this much time, but then the other part screamed it was only temporary, you were only meant to be temporary. You knew it wouldn't be forever. Someone like him couldn't make someone like you his forever, right?

However, in the time you had known him, he had been very clear about his intentions and feelings towards you. He wanted it all with you. He was sure of it. He was stubborn about it. He never faltered, never doubted— in fact, he solidified it all by words of devotion and acts of sincerity.

He was something of a rarity. He was a fantasy. The unicorn. The diamond in the rough. He was the perfect fit for most of your clients, however, he wanted you and only you. 

Whether you wanted to believe it or not, he checked off every single box that you buried deep down and even provided more. You hated to admit it to yourself but he was everything you had ever dreamed of for a partner. He brought light to your life, warmth to your days. 

He was what you needed.

He was what you wanted.

You nodded slightly, not realizing you didn’t verbally agree to stay and continued to kiss him. 

After a moment the car came to a stop and the locks all shot up, signaling you had arrived where you needed to be.

He pulled back slowly, hand on your cheek every so softly, "Will you? Stay?" he looked at you with those big brown eyes and you couldn't help but smile and blush. 

"I'll stay..." you nudged your nose with his, softly.

He softly stroked your cheek with his thumb then lightly pecked your lips before reluctantly moving away to open the car door and offer his hand to help you out of the car.

You thanked the driver and scooted out, reaching out and taking his hand while you got out of the vehicle, turning your head ever so slightly to smile at him.

He wrapped your hand around his bicep and closed the door, walking up with you to the front of his building.

His doorman opened the door and welcomed you inside, "Mr. Castillo..." then nodded to you and smiled, "Miss..." greeting you as well.

He smiled warmly and gently touched the man's arm in the most genuine and friendliest way, like the two had known each other for years, "Good evening, Henry, how’s Ruth doing?"

“Feeling much better, she came home from the hospital today, my daughter is taking care of her. Thank you for asking sir…” he smiled. 

Harry smiled and nodded, “You’ll let me know if you guys need anything, yes?” 

Henry nodded and smiled, “Of course sir. Have a lovely night.” 

Once inside, an elevator opened up and the both of you stepped inside, he pushed the top floor.

The tension was palpable, you could shatter it with one small breath. You watched as each floor passed by, trying to calm yourself down, taking small but deep breaths. Mentally telling yourself  level out-- but as soon as the top floor 'ding' hit and those doors opened to his penthouse, you were both on each other.

His hands had a firm but gentle hold on your waist as he backed you up against the wall of his living room, lips crashing over yours in a heated but passionate fit of kisses.

Your hands were on his cheeks then in his hair. They eventually laid on his chest as you pressed yourself against him. 

He moved his head down and kissed your jaw and then neck, sucking a soft mark into your skin.

You moaned his name, gasping softly as his hands moved up your body to pull you off the wall by wrapping his arms around your waist and up your back, continuing to kiss and softly mark your skin.

He went to move down the hall a few steps, moving off your neck and leaning back in for your lips. 

You momentarily opened your eyes to look at him and smiled at you before his lips fell onto yours. Your eyes registered your surroundings and you pulled back to pull your gaze to the nearby surroundings. You chuckled, "Holy... sh-..." your jaw slacked a little, "This is where you live?" you looked around.

He let you do this for a few moments, your eyes looking around you, smiling, looking somewhat baffled before pulling you back to him, making you giggle as he pulled you close, putting one of his arms around your waist.

He whispered hoarsely, "I'll give you a tour later... but I think we've got more pressing matters to get to, yes?" he teased his lips against yours, hand cupping to your cheek.

You nodded and breathlessly whispered back, "Yes..." your eyes fluttered back shut, and leaned to kiss him.

He grinned and leaned in as well, "Good... now where were we?" he then reconnected his lips with yours in a slow deep kiss.

Next Chapter

no pressure taglist: @thebeautytoyourbeat,  @sarahhxx03, @blahkateisdone, @sunnytuliptime, @pedroscurls, @docharleythegeekqueen @pedritosgirl2000 @fancyyoouu @greendudenumber7, @queenofdisaster12

You want to call your House rep now and tell them Trump needs to be impeached immediately for defying a Supreme Court order (re: Kilmar Abrego Garcia), which functionally voids our constitution and means no one in America has rights anymore.

I am not exaggerating.

As of now, anybody can be disappeared, no due process, no recourse. Trump is openly disregarding a Supreme Court order and says he’ll send US citizens to El Salvador.

This is not a drill.

Call your House rep and tell them they must impeach. Tell them if they cannot bring themselves to impeach, they must resign. A more open and shut case to impeach is not possible. Trump and his administration are saying openly, in public, that anybody can be kidnapped by ICE, even in error, and disappeared permanently.

Call your senators, too, and tell them to support impeachment (it goes to them once it passes a majority House vote).

Common Cause

Find Your Representative

Find your representatives. Learn how to find and connect with them. Stay informed about their bills, committees, and contributions.

𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 – 𝐦. 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | what a fucking delight it was to write this, as someone who has a big fat crush on this ^ man right here and as someone who is also a lifelong steeler fan. this one goes out to @ovaryacted (who pretty much beta-ed the first handful of pages for this), @heavenbarnes (who maybe might have been bitten by the robby bug?? no pressure to read babes), @jackabbotsfakeleg (who is the first fellow steelers fan i found on tumblr; this team is my doom but i love them!), plus all the robby fiends

warning(s) include language, inappropriate relations (?),age gap (reader is 25ish/2nd year med student, while robby is pushing 50), he fell first and harder, sexual tension, reader is a steelers fan and from pittsburgh, (american) football talk, baltimore ravens trashing, injury (mentioned), smut, penetrative sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), handjob, nipple play, bodily fluids, big dick/down bad!robby, special appearance at the end; she's thick, guys... sitting at 5.2k words!

Medical school lecture halls are just as chilly as Robby remembers.

The air feels a little less clean, a little more human, but still. There’s a nip to the air that takes him back to his Monday-Wednesday-Friday EMED 851 lecture. Part of him wishes he had worn one of his hoodies, though that would look a little weird with the button-up and slacks he has on. The light blue–cornflower, the tag reads–top and black bottoms feel odd, tugging at Robby’s skin in a way that his scrubs and cargos don’t.

There’s a wide array of students scattered across the seats of the room. To his surprise, most of them listen to him ramble about airways with attentive eyes and scribble down whatever they can catch. Good. That means that they’re maybe halfway serious about this shit, which earns them 2% of the qualification needed to work in emergency medicine.

Other than a lull of awkward silence at the very beginning plus a few verbal stumbles in the form of curses that cause the class to giggle while he apologizes and gathers himself, the doctor is pretty solid. 

There’s only one other time he flounders, if he should even call it that. It was more of an unforeseen pause. Nothing more than the tick of a few seconds when his eyes lock with yours for the first time today.

You’re already staring in his direction, waiting for him to finish the word that collapses surprisingly easy on his lips at the sight of you. He blinks, a strange flush ricocheting across the skin of his face when you blink at him, even throwing in a little grin just as he snatches back his composure with a distracted um.

The shirt you’re wearing is nice. Simple and fitted. Cap sleeves stop right below your shoulder and reveal intricate lines of ink that swirl back under the fabric in loops that make Robby wonder more than he should. You’re wearing shorts, too. Huh. He’d have half a mind to question how your exposed legs bear the nippy air of the hall, but it doesn’t matter. You make it work–and well–the material cutting off just a little higher than he initially realized.

Zipping his eyes back up to yours, he warms at how you’re picking at your bottom lip; your other hand now using your pen to write down something you remember him saying a few moments earlier.

Covering his gulp with a fast wipe at his beard, Robby somehow finds a way to push out the words that have been stuck in his throat for what feels like longer than the brisk five seconds that have passed since he spoke last.

His head tilts, barely, and his lips twitch into a small smile, dragging his stare from you to the carpet beneath him so he can speak again. Robby plays off the mistake as him thinking–about the question itself and not how you are unmistakably the prettiest thing in this room.

Eleven. That’s how many times he glances at you between then and the end of his lecture. The first three times were a genuine accident, and boy, did they feel like one. Goosebumps flutter across the back of his neck, which he’s rubbed enough times that some of the students probably think there’s something wrong with the tendons there. Robby almost agrees, with the way they keep allowing him to swivel and study you.

The more it happens, the oops of peeking at you, the longer it takes for him to look away. By the end of his knowledge-packed but run-on sentence answers, Robby’s stare cements to you. You’re nodding, legs crossed, and unintentionally drawing patterns with the pad of your finger across the skin of your thigh. For some reason, he’s fairly confident in the fact that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.

“Any more questions for Dr. Robinavitch?”

Dr. Robinavitch. Professors, man.

Robby doesn’t try to stop himself from glimpsing in your vicinity. Not right at you but close, so his peripheral can catch any possible movement of your hand raising. His eyes burn with an unsettling eagerness while he waits for something to happen. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with you for wearing shorts that fit that well even while you’re sitting?

Your hand stays where it is, arm propped against the side of your seat, fingers fiddling with the pen he can tell you’re trying not to click. The small pang of disappointment that rises inside him squashes away in seconds, and he prays that his ears don’t start to hue red after you hold his stare the longest you have for the entire class.

Looking at him through your lashes, you wait. And wait… and wait. A smirk barely ghosts across your mouth, and Robby rips away his stare. Throat bobbing while he swallows, blinking faster than he means to, he looks to the professor.

“Think they’re ready to kick me out, Dr. Hummel. I’ve probably rambled for long enough, yeah?” Robby shrugs. A sheepish smile warms his face when the room echoes with a healthy applause, and Robby almost recoils at the sound. There’s no way Hummel didn’t tell them to do that. And all he can do is stand and take it, hands tucked into his pockets, his thanks an awkward nod and embarrassed grimace-flavored grin.

Robby tries not to blush when he spots you clapping along with everyone else. He tucks his chin, feeling a little silly with how satisfying it feels to know he’s spoken well enough for you to show some appreciation. Or maybe you’re just doing it to be nice. Either way, you’re making the attending pinker than usual.

Class wraps in a daze.

Dr. Hummel leaves Robby lingering to the side, a wave of shuffling backpacks and zippers echoes throughout the hall. There’s a reminder announcement about a research paper due two weeks from today… or is it a presentation? Robby doesn’t listen hard enough to verify.

A sprinkle of pupils, glowing with a luster that only presents itself after their final class of the week concludes, come up to formally greet Robby. All with names he’ll try to remember but won’t. Bright-eyed and buzzing more than he thinks one would be after an hour and a half long lecture on airways, but hey. He appreciates the eagerness, even if it’s a little much.

Doing his best to be polite, Robby tries to seem as if he’s actively listening–nodding, humming, and throwing in a smile for good measure. He catches a few of the words being smattered his way, but he’s already forgotten them by the time the students leave him be. A sigh of relief sinks out of his nose when he turns his head to find you still in the room, only just now standing from your chair and sliding a thick notebook into your bag.

A line of spit gets caught in his throat when he sees you adjust your shorts, subtly tugging at where they’ve ridden up in between the warmth of your thighs–warmth of your thighs? Fuck, Michael, get it the hell together.

Robby coughs loudly into the crook of his elbow before pivoting to find you gliding his way. His heart jumps as you head right for the man, and his mind races to search for something to say. Hi? Nice to meet you? I really like those shorts?

His mouth opens to speak, though he quickly settles it into a kind grin as you scoot past him with a smile of your own.

“S’cuse me,” you pronounce gently, and Robby’s throat bobs.

“Of course,” he nods, voice huskier than he means for it to be as he takes a polite step to the side. You gift him one last breath-snatching smile before floating out of the hall without a second look. A long hum seeps from Robby, his fingers reaching to scrape at the nape of his neck.

Fuck, he needs to change out of these clothes… and maybe receive a beating of some kind for how long he let himself gawk at your ass just now.

Unfortunately, Robby doesn’t find the courage to ask anyone to smack him across the face the entire walk to his car. He does, however, have enough sense to unfasten the button that’s been digging into his skin since he threw on the shirt.

The man could cry happy tears when he pulls into the Panera Bread parking lot to find it close to empty. Surprising, considering that it’s the middle of the day on the UPMC campus but hey. He’s not complaining. The less college students in line between him and his overpriced iced green tea and tomato basil BLT, the better. In fact, he might splurge and go for a brownie, too… maybe that’ll clear the fog you’ve spelled him under.

His mind wandered for the whole ride over–swirling with blurry images of you and tingling with unanswered questions. Robby even stumbles through his order a few times, though the embarrassment over that is briskly wiped away when he turns his head to find you sitting at one of the tables.

Of course, you’re here.

Of course, you’re here and snacking on chocolate croissants and sipping coffee while reading off the screen of your laptop with the most delightful expression of intrigue he’s ever seen.

You aren’t real… you can’t be because only dreams are this coincidental.

Teeth grinding, Robby scans the area around you. Empty, other than an older man stirring his tomato soup and a mother and daughter sharing a frosted cookie with a pair of soft smiles. Robby’s eyes crinkle at the sight, shifting in his place at the counter in deep thought.

He guesses it’ll be a short wait for his food, as it always is. Then all he needs to do is fill his cup at the machine, wait for his number to be called and he’s home free… no matter how tempting it would be to tip over your way and say a quick hello. There’s a voice in the back of his head chanting for him to swallow the nerves and fucking do it, yet he still isn’t sure what’d he start with. What do you say to a young woman you’re certain will haunt you for the rest of you life–

“Dr. Robinavitch? Hi…”

It takes Robby a second to look at you. Even without, an odd feeling tightens Robby’s chest. He finally turns, swallowing through a tickle in his throat, just barely blinking away how his eyes try to water as you approach him carefully. Dear lord, someone please help him–your voice. All you’ve said is his name and a simple, normal hello yet he’s already turning into a puddle of nothing.

“Oh, please. Everyone just calls me Robby,” he holds his hand out for you to shake but regrets it immediately at the spark that ignites when your palms touch. Clenching his teeth at the feeling, Robby masks his tight jaw with a warm smile. “You were just in my lecture, if I remember correctly.”

Robby feels dumb when he tags on the question at the end. There’s no doubt surrounding whether he’s remembering correctly, as he’ll never forget you or those shorts even if he were to try.

“Yeah, for Hummel’s class. I’m actually glad I ran into you again. I really enjoyed you coming to talk to us today. And I’m sorry, I feel like I should’ve said something before leaving class but I couldn’t think of any cool questions to ask you afterwards but, uh, yeah. Having an actual attending from an ED come to talk to you about using a mac versus a miller is much more pleasing than reading about it in some textbook at three in the morning.”

A small chuckle lightens his face. “That’s very kind of you, ‘m glad you liked it. Is ED your main interest?”

“One-hundred percent. I mean, I won’t even start my rotations for another year but that’s definitely the end goal.” 

“Well, good. That’s good, um… sorry, one sec,” Robby’s cut off by the calling of his number, but raises a gentle hand with a pleasant smile in hopes that you’ll stay put. He mumbles a small thank you to the worker that slides him his bag, turning back to you with a lick to his lips. “Like I was saying, that’s great. We could always use more people like you in the ED.”

Wait. Shit. People like you? The man hasn’t even known you for that long and has talked to you for even less. He finds himself lucky when you decide not to think about the statement as hard as he does, accepting the compliment with a small grin.

“I appreciate that, Robby. Hopefully at least one of my clinicals ends up being in The Pitt. I can’t even imagine all the things I’d learn as your MS considering that all it took was a class of you speaking for me to fill up two pages of notes.”

Is he as red as he feels?

“Ah, hearing that, I’m sure you’d fit right in wherever you end up. Secretly kinda hoping it is in my ED at some point, though.” And not just because you’re a knockout and a half. “Just over the short time I’ve talked to you, you seem stellar. Good listener, pretty, cares about the details.”

Wait. Shit, that second one is a slip and much too obvious to just glaze over like his last one. You’re blinking at him in a way that itches his insides, and he exhales a rough breath. Shaking his head, he dips his nose in an embarrassed hang of his head.

“‘M sorry,” he starts with a breathy laugh because it’s all he can do. “That wasn’t appropriate of me, I’m sorry. Your good looks have nothin’ to do with your abilities.”

Suddenly, it feels like karma is having its way with Robby. Was there a door he should’ve held but didn’t? A thank you he forgot to tell someone? There must be because he’s usually quicker to control himself around someone that’s piqued his interests as much as you have.

When he tilts his gaze back to you, there’s something in your face hinting at something he doesn’t let himself attempt to decrypt.

“Jeez, I’m really eatin’ it today, aren’t I,” Robby squirms with a sheepish smile. “And that feels like my cue to leave you to you’re studying before I am forced to have you gag me.”

“Oh, I’m not studying. I mean, I should be but your answer to that one question Jeremiah asked has me knee deep in an article about the history of clinical airway management. Also, I didn’t take you to be into that kinda stuff, but I’ll make sure to be gentle if you really want me to.” 

Brow line raising in a flutter of rousing excitement, Robby allows himself a full grin. You match the toothy-smile, leaning with something that looks like anticipation with another wring of your hands.

What a well-dressed, witty, gorgeous geek you’re proving yourself to be.

“I, uh, I actually know of a few other studies you might be interested in,” Robby suggests, a wave of poise centering his thoughts and reprioritizing his intentions. “...if you've got the time?”

The next sixty-ish minutes pass devastatingly fast. A few more people have populated the Panera dining room but Robby’s too high on your presence and one and a half cups of iced green tea to care.

“You’re making this up, you gotta be.”

“I swear, Robby,” you hold up your hands. “I will admit, losing to the ratbirds–at home, in OT–does tend to cloud one's judegment, but enough to think they have the upperhand against a metal lightpost? All Dad saw was red and I ended up waiting in the ER with him while he waited to get his fingers re-set. We we’re at chairs for a while and then brought to the back, and the thing I remember the most was this hum hanging in the air the entire time. Even though I was only around five, that shit was… addicting. Not as electric as a Steelers home game but pretty close. The nurse and my dad kept having to tell me to stay behind the curtain but, of course, I didn’t. ‘Cause, you know. Children. But watching all those people come in broken just to have people like you give their everything to try and fix them… that’s when I knew I wanted to be an emergency physician.”

The corner of Robby’s lips quirks up as he watches you. You stare back at him with held breath before ripping your eyes away to the half-eaten piece of brownie he’d offered you. A little dry but completely worth it with how your hands brushed when he passed you the sweet.

“So basically what I’m hearing is that the Baltimore Ravens are the reason you were able to find your purpose in life so early on…” Robby eases out, rubbing a hand across his beard in anticipation of the response he’s fishing for. He gets it and more when your face wrinkles into a cute grimace and you flinch with a shudder.

“You put it that way, and it almost makes me think I should drop outta med school to move to Canada.”

Your words pull a deep chuckle from Robby, who’s feeling warm at how the two of you are leaning and talking. Bodies relaxed and bellies content with sandwiches and baked goods, the dance you’re both performing is becoming more difficult by the second.

He’s starting to feel less and less sorry about how the side of his shoe keeps knocking against yours, even doing it once on purpose as a thanks for when you notify him of a loose crumb in his beard. The tips of your fingers keep creeping towards each other but Robby blames that on the smaller scale of the table he’s joined you at. You got up, once, for napkins and the man had to take in a deep breath at the swing of your hips. He’s not  sure he looked away fast enough either. At least, that’s what the smirk that dashes across your face reveals to him.

“So,” Robby starts after a comfortable lull in the conversation, pausing to clear his throat. “Are all of Hummel’s students this awesome or did I just get lucky runnin’ into you again?”

Flattery. The age old tactic and Robby makes sure not to lay it on too thick. In all of his bumbling and slip ups from earlier, he’s maganed to regain some of his bravado. It returns to him slowly but surely as he starts to unravel you. Not by much but enough to finger out what makes you tick; which jokes to draw out, what subjects (medical or otherwise) gets you going, which throw of his timbre embellishes the shine in your eyes.

“Mm, most of them are pretty cool. Some are also the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet but what’s any place without a few of those?”

“Heaven,” Robby answers with an unbothered shrug of his shoulders and you bob your head in agreement.

“Preach,” you grin, popping a corner of brownie into your mouth. “They were on their best behavior today with you being there but trust me, they’re incapable of going twenty four hours without creaming their pants over making other people feel like shit.”

Wow. “Oh, yeah?”

“For sure. Dr. Hummel should have you come around more often, though. Maybe next time you can snap a few egos in check.”

You’re into whatever this is, Robby can feel it. It’s in your eyes, that don’t notice their lingering on the hair that’s peeking out at the top of his exposed chest. In your voice, that’s lilting in a manner that’s ringing through the thick fog he entered the building with to guide his ship closer to your sweet taunt.

Robby’s quicker than the hesitation his words want to bite back on, tilting his head to give you a quick once over before flicking them away with a grin that’s smugger than he means for it to be.

“Oh, that’s definitely something I’d consider as long as you're still sittin’ front row.”

Your lips curl upwards and Robby is buzzing at the win. It makes his chest puff a little, too, and his head starts to feel a little funny when he catches you staring again.

“Hey, uh,” just do it, Rob, “why don’t we exhancge numbers? You know, in case you ever feel like conversing more over slightly-stale bread and the best passion papaya iced green tea on this side of the Mississippi.”

Taking a second to think, you sniff.

“While I have had better passion… papaya iced green tea–” you recite the words with a subtle unsureness, laughing a little at the nod Robby encourages you with.

“You got it,” he reassures you, voice rasping with obvious amusement before letting you continue.

“–I’d love to keep picking your brain. I will warn you, though, since the age of eleven, I have somehow managed to, uh, shift every conversation I’ve been a part of to the topic of the Pittsburgh Steelers at some point, so if that’s not your thing, then…”

Your words melt into a stronger laugh than you expected to leave you, and it wraps arround the high-pitched giggle trickles out of Robby.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with worse, sweetheart,” he winks, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and opening it before sliding it your way. He holds his breath the entire time you add your contact, eyes flicking to his screen where he sees your name along with a simple :). He huffs at the sight, plucking the device back into his grip. “Much, much worse.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

You add a smirk and tip of your head with the question. Robby’s soaring.

The following hours prove to be just as indelible as your shorts, and it’s all because of you.

You’re more than special, and Robby sits undisputed in that fact as he commences the third round of the night. The slide into you is just as good as the first and the second. You’re on top this time, your hands clutching his face to rub at the thick of his beard while you sink down onto him.

Robby holds your waist, hands light but still there as he splits you open. A noise breaks from his throat when you sit fully, and he rests his forehead against yours. While you take a second to adjust, Robby peeks down past the pudge of his belly to where the two of you meet, groaning at the sight of you stretcehed around him.

Eyes flicking to yours, Robby tightens the arm he has around your waist to tug you until your breasts are flush against his chest. You cling to him at the shift, hips barely lifting before collapsing back down onto him with a shuggering grunt.

Your body keeps the same languid speed, Robby helping you just barely with a hand splayed just above your ass.

“Fuck, you’re so deep,” you pant out against his mouth. “And fucking huge. I should’ve known considering how you walked into class earlier, though.”

“Shit,” Robby moans. “Really?”

You bob your head, hand reaching to grab at Robby’s shoulder. The muscle holds strong under your squeeze, you answer him during another rock of your hips.

“Mmhm. You just… oh, fuck, you walk like it’s big. Which it totally is, by the way.”

“So you’ve said,” Robby ribs, adding a few bucks of his hips that yanks a squeak out of you. “Actually screamed it a few times, too.”

“Well, can you blame me–”

You’re interrupted by Robby, who surprises you with a steep roll to the side. Now hanging over you, Robby pants through a groan. He’s gonna feel that tomorrow but the chance of a strained back isn’t gonna stop him from trying to get you to keep making those sounds that have him seeing stars.

He takes the miracle of his cock remaining inside you even after the change of position, hitching both of your legs back as far as they’ll let him and jerking you with a thrust. It’s deep and driving, intentional enough to make you feel every inch and vein of his swollen member. You wail out right next to his ear and he smiles against the tattoo on your shoulder in victory. He still doesn’t know what it is. You won’t tell him and he got tired of guessing.

“No, I can’t,” Robby throws back, hips falling into a pattern of sharp thrusts. You feel bottomless and it makes his stomach clench. “Eyes on me, baby. Right here, okay?

Robby meets your stare as soon as you crack open your lids. He tightens the snap of his hips, allowing himself to indulge. Call it a habit but he likes to look… observe the way your mouth parts as you puff out air every time your clit hits his pelvis… how your brows pinch together and eyes water as he pounds into the spot it only took him a total of seven thrusts to find… how your hands reach for his neck, squeezing when you hear him flutter your name out on a gruttal moan.

You especially like him loud, he’s found. Not bold enough to ask for it, Robby had the pleasure of figuring the phenomenon out on his own. It didn’t take long, thankfully, as he got embarrassingly close to blowing a vocal cord when you tongued at his nipples and skillfully jerked out his cum onto your stomach. Afterwards, his taste buds found your slit a sopping mess of slick and cream, which he slurped away at until you tugged him up by the hair and kissed your juices from his mouth.

The first time he’d fucked you, it was slow. A loitering exploration of every indent and ripple inside your hole, every mole and freckle of your skin. You’d already come once against his tongue after he’d convinced you that no, you were not going to die if he didn’t kiss you right then.

(‘What about her, hm?’ He’d asked with a finger ghosting across your clit. ‘Nothin’ wrong with being a little greedy but I gotta show her some love, too, alright? She’s much too pretty to ignore, even with you givin’ me those eyes…’)

However, it’s the first time you peak around him that the sky parts. Heaven calls, singing songs of eternal delights but Robby declines the offer. His soul finds the symphony of you falling apart much more satisfying. Ever more gratifying, as it’s his name flooding from your lips. Not God’s or some boy in one of your classes in those cold ass rooms–his.

The second time you’d come around him hits both of you like a train. He’d gotten you trapped on your side, leg hanging in the air helplessly. Neck stretching, you’d bit at his tongue a few times when he’d upped the speed of his hips, warning Robby that you were gonna come again. After you added on a whine that you did not want him pulling out when he came, he flipped you into a rough prone bone, pounding you until your pussy creamed with his cum and your ears heard nothing but dial tones.

This time–the third time–Robby lets himself get lost in it. Uses his mind and body for the sole purpose of calling forth and tying your euphoria to his. A perfect ache is throbbing a pulse through his cock, and the man can only plunge himself in and out of you with mindless, hoarse grunts.

Robby executes it flawlessly, the seaming of the end of your climax grazing just over the start of his. You cry out unintelligible words, grabbing at him like he’ll disappear if you don’t and trembling as he works to milk out your release for as long as he can.

“That’s my–fuck… yeah, that’s my sweet girl,” Robby pants, still rocking you as his thrusts melt into a sloppy chasing of his own end. His sweet girl. That’s exactly what you are now, regardless of what happens after this. “Gonna fill you up again. Make you nice and full’a me.”

The only warning Robby’s able to give is a long, choked swear before he starts to spasm, sack twitching as he surges out rope after rope of a plentiful load. He uses a few more thrusts to fuck the cum deeper before joining your lips in a tired kiss. When you run your hands up his back to rake your nails through his hair, Robby groans.

Hips still, his softening cock remains a welcome intrusion. His eyes flicker shut at your appreciated touch across his scalp, the man melts completely into you, hoping it takes a long while for your breaths to return.

Robby’s mind is completely still. Numb, even, and there are only figures of you. Clenching his eyes, he sighs before mumbling something so muffled that he has to repeat it.

“I said,” he begins with a kiss to your jaw, “the Ravens might be my new favorite team.”

Robby feels your inhale pause and lifts his head to look in your eyes. A short laugh wheezes out of him when he finds you already staring back, your face a cross of complete and utter confusion and a little bit of hurt.

“What on earth could have possibly compelled you to say that to me?”

Your question starts strong but falls apart with giggles at how Robby keeps laughing. The two of you shake with stupid giggles, and Robby has to take a second to remember where he was going with this.

“Only ‘cause they led you to me. No Ravens, no angry dad. No angry dad, no ER visit. No ER visit, no grand revelation of wanting to become a doctor in emergency medicine. It’s simple, I’m a little surprised I had to explain it.”

“...you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, baby, I know I am.”

“Hello?”

Robby blinks, and wants to glower at the fingers Jack snaps in front of his face until he remembers he’s supposed to be answering something. A question. He’s supposed to be answering a question.

Which question?

Fuck if he knows.

Who asked it?

Fuck if he knows.

It takes every part of Robby’s being to not look to the right because that’s where you’re sitting with a wide smile just barely hidden beneath your palm. Eyes boring into him, you stretch your crossed legs and reposition.

“E-even though that might have looked like a stroke, guys, it was not… I don’t think,” Jack picks up for Robby with a pat to the later man’s shoulder. “It’s actually something we in our profession call getting old, but please don’t worry. I’m going through it, too. Apparently, not as fast as this guy, though.”

The rest of the room lightens with a chuckle so Robby’s laughs along with them. It’s fake and ugly but the pause gives him a chance to zip his eyes your way and back.

And, of course, Jack catches him. Hell, he knows Robby well enough to have already seen the way that his hand clenches into a fist every time you move so much as an inch.

As Dr. Hummel attempts to return order to the slightly distracted class, Jack gives Robby a silent not bad, Rob. At all, though a little more decorum wouldn’t hurt.

Robby bites at his tongue, completely pink.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚