forallmyfictionalbfs

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Behind Closed Curtains

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: You never meant to catch Superman sneaking home, but one glimpse through his window changes everything. Now you’re standing in your living room, half-dressed and breathless, face-to-face with the hero you’ve secretly watched for months… and you’re about to find out just how long he’s been watching you too.

Tags/warnings: smut, voyeurism, size kink

Note: I saw Superman over the weekend and just had to write this. I’m not super familiar with all things DC, so please be kind!

The night breeze caressed your skin. You were curled up in a small chair on your balcony, glass of wine in your left hand and a romance novel in your right. The work week had left you mentally and physically exhausted after handling project deadlines and team meetings. Your tiny balcony barely fit a table and a single chair, but it was your oasis. You had your small plants and herbs surrounding you, and you allowed yourself to close out the noise from your neighbors above and below you in an effort to wind down.

You took a small sip from your glass, eyes roaming the lines on the page before you. They seemed to all merge into a large, jumbled mess, and you sighed, closing the book before setting it on the table beside you. The cheesy romance book you bought off a whim was not nearly as entertaining as people watching was, and you looked over the other large buildings that surrounded you, lights emitting from the windows serving as little pockets into the lives of the people that inhabited them. You stared some, seeing shadows walk across the room, lights flashing in some from the television set, before your eyes landed on the apartment that was in the building directly across from yours.

The apartment across the way was dark, no hint of movement tonight. Too bad. He was always nice to look at.

You had seen the man who lived across the way multiple times before from your balcony or window. Sometimes you would have your morning coffee and see him rush back and forth as he got ready for work. Other times, you would see him lounging in his living room. Once, you had caught him looking at you as you moved about in your home. Whenever you had caught him looking, he seemed flustered, and waved a hand up, seeming as an apology.

You took another sip from your glass, sighing out as you felt the warmth from the alcohol slowly seep into your system, helping your body relax. Staring up at the sky, you only saw a few stars and the blinking lights of planes as they flew overhead. Feeling the effects from the wine and the long week hit your body, you decided it was time for bed. You stood up from your chair, about to turn towards the glass door, before you froze. Your breath caught in your throat, legs locking up at the sight before you. A large figure in a recognizable flash of red and blue had just flown into the apartment in the building across from yours through an open window.

You watched as he landed in the apartment, moving through with ease and familiarity that left you with no doubt. The man you had been ogling for months was the hero of Metropolis: Superman.

Glass shattering snapped you from your trance. Wine splattered the balcony, and your eyes shot up, only to find a pair of piercing blue eyes staring back, as shocked as yours.

You were caught.

Feeling indecent as you were only clad in a large t-shirt meant for sleep and panties, you took a few steps back, heart sinking in your chest as you stared at the man in the adjacent building. Shit shit shit shit shit. Without letting your eyes off of him, you blindly reached for the sliding door, fingers grasping the handle as you yanked it aside and backed into the living room. He continued to stare back at you, shock starting to wear off. You kept backing up, eyes locked on his, until your legs hit the coffee table. One second, he was staring back at you from across the street. The next, a rush of wind, and he was in your living room. The breeze from the open door was not the reason for your trembling body. It was the 6’4 mass of a man that was towering over you.

Your mouth opened and closed, gaping like a fish out of water as you searched for words. Instead of something clever, you whispered, “I’m sorry?”

He stared down at you, head tilting to the side. “Sorry?”

Body shaking, you stepped to the side of the table before taking a step back. “Y-Yeah, I’m sorry I saw you. I didn’t mean to look, I was just reading, and then you were there.” Your hands reached up apologetically. “I won’t tell anyone about you living there, I promise.”

His eyes widened, and he took a step forward. “You’re mistaken.” He glanced at the broken wine glass on your balcony. “Miss, you’ve had a long night. You should sleep.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You knew what you saw, and you saw him go into the apartment across the way, moving in it as though he had lived there. It made sense- the stature of his body, hair color- everything matched the handsome man you had been unintentionally watching for the past few months.

“Are you really trying to gaslight me? You literally look like him, and you knew exactly what window to fly into.”

He let out a soft huff, arms crossing over his broad chest as he towered above you. “I don’t live there. I was checking in on… a situation. That’s all.”

You raised your brows, folding your arms with your chin held high, still trying to ignore the fact that you were only half dressed. “A situation? So, you just… fly through random apartments in the middle of the night?”

He glanced away, jaw tightening. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

A spark of irritation bubbled up through your embarrassment. “Well, maybe you do. I’ve seen you in that apartment for months. Eating dinner. Folding laundry. Watching TV. Unless ‘laundry day’ is a world-saving crisis now, I’m pretty sure you live there.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, narrowing slightly. “You watch me?” His tone shifted; less surprise, more an edge of reprimand that made your stomach flip.

You scoffed, heat rising to your cheeks. “Don’t act all high and mighty. You’ve watched me too! Or did you think I didn’t notice you staring at me through your window?”

His mouth opened, then closed. For a moment, he looked downright flustered. The same way you’d seen him look that morning you caught him waving apologetically after staring at you.

You tilted your head, emboldened by his silence. “So don’t stand there and act like I’m some creepy voyeur when you’ve been doing the exact same thing.”

He stepped closer, closing the gap between the two of you. The faint scent of crisp air and something vaguely electric brushed over you. “You shouldn’t make a habit of spying on people. It’s dangerous.”

You lifted your chin, pulse hammering in your ears. “Then maybe you shouldn’t make a habit of leaving your windows open. Or staring back.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your heart pounded in your chest as you both stared into each other's eyes. His lips twitched, just barely, like he was fighting back a grin.

“Well,” He murmured, his hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “can you blame me? I saw a beautiful girl in the building across from me who never seems to close her curtains.”

Your breath hitched, heat blooming in your chest. You were overaware of his towering presence over you. “I just enjoy natural light, that’s all…” The confidence from your argument slipped away, replaced by the tingling awareness you’d been ignoring for months: that all this time, you’d both been looking.

Your eyes dropped from his face to the floor. “I really won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

The cool breeze from the open door made you aware of warmth radiating off his body. You yearned to move closer, but you stopped yourself.

“You really shouldn’t watch me. I’m supposed to have a cover.” His voice was rough.

You lifted your head, your eyes searching his blue eyes, acknowledging the hunger you saw in them before whispering back. “Then you shouldn’t give me something to look at.”

He moved in closer, leaning down towards you so you were nearly nose to nose. His breath ghosted your lips, and you felt a warmth surge to your core as his deep voice rumbled out. “Careful.”

“Make me.”

His lips pressed against yours, featherlight at first, testing. The large hand that had moved the hair from your face moved down to the base of your head, cradling it and your neck, while the other landed on your waist, so large that it covered most of your side. Your hands went to his chest, fingers rubbing against the massive display of muscle as you kissed him back. Feeling your willingness, he deepened the kiss with a quiet, controlled hunger that made your knees weak and fanned the fire that was already at your core.

The hand on your waist tightened, and he pulled you closer until your body was flush with his. His lips demanded more, and you felt a rush course through your body as his teeth gently nipped at your bottom lip. You gasped in response, only for his tongue to dive into your mouth. Your thighs clenched together, trying to gain some sort of friction, before his lips left yours.

He breathed hard, the hand on your waist flexed, possessive yet restrained. “If you want to stop, tell me now. I can go home, and we can forget this ever happened.”

You shook your head, going back up on your tippy toes to press your lips against his. “Please don’t stop. I want this. I’ve wanted you-”

His lips claimed yours again, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin he couldn’t fight as he kissed you deeper, hungrier. His thumb traced your jaw, then slid down to your throat, before both hands bracketed your waist. In one smooth motion, he lifted you as if you weighed nothing. You locked your legs around him, arms winding up his broad shoulders. His mouth devoured yours like a man starved, every careful bit of restraint falling away as your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, closer until the only thing you could feel was the fire you’d both spent months pretending wasn’t there.

He started toward your bedroom, carrying you like you weighed nothing at all. A shiver ran down your spine at the realization that he didn’t need directions- he already knew exactly where to go. The thought that he’d watched you more than the one time you caught him made the heat in your core surge, pooling low and sweet as you clung tighter to him.

Pushing your door open, he walked you inside before he leaned down and placed you onto your bed. The plushness of the mattress was a stark contrast to his hard, muscled body, and you stared up at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. You could see the evidence of his arousal through his superhero get-up. Like the rest of his body, you could tell that he was massive, and your thighs once again clenched together while you squirmed, trying to get some sort of relief.

Moving on pure instinct, you crawled to your knees on the bed, looking up at him through your lashes. His eyes never left yours, and he watched as you leaned forward so that you were on your hands and knees, face only inches from his clothed dick. Your warm breath puffed against him, and his entire body shuddered. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride overcome you, seeing the strongest man in the city, if not the world, react to you in such a way.

You reached a hand up to him, grasping onto his length before you ran your tongue over where the tip would be. A ragged groan left his body, and he leaned into your touch as you ran your hand up and down, creating friction from his clothes while simultaneously closing your mouth over him. The fabric over his tip was increasingly getting wet from your mouth, and you paused, looking up to see him with his fist clenched like it was taking everything in him to hold back.

“Is this okay?” You batted your lashes at him.

He panted, voice strained, “Sweetheart, it’s more than okay.” You took this as a go-ahead and moved in to continue before a gentle tug at your hair stopped you. “But, I think if anyone needs to be prepared, it’s you.”

An involuntary whine escaped your lips. Sure, you were no virgin, but you had never taken on someone of his size. His large hands moved under your arms, picking you up before laying you back on the bed with ease. Your sleep shirt rose up over your stomach, leaving your soaked panties exposed to his eyes. He took you in, relishing in how your hair was splayed over the sheets, the red tint in your cheeks, and the undeniable arousal that made it to where he could just make out the outline of your lips and entrance.

He crawled over your body, the bed shifting under his weight. One leg rested between your legs, and he leaned down, taking your lips into his once more. You kissed him back, legs clenching around his own, trying to grind against him in an effort to get some type of relief.

His hands roamed your body, and you shivered, feeling his fingertips go from your stomach to underneath your shirt. He palmed your breast, giving a light squeeze before he took your nipple into his fingers, pinching it. You shamelessly moaned into his mouth, and he took that as a sign of encouragement to continue. His other hand moved from your waist down to your hip. His thumb rubbed over the bone a few times, catching on your panties before he grabbed hold. He tugged them down, and you lifted your hips for him, desperate not to make him tear them in his impatience. A shudder coursed through your body, and you felt the cool air hit your wet folds.

He broke the kiss, sitting up before he moved down the bed. His mouth grazed your body as he went down, lips kissing and lightly nipping at your neck and arms before he was faced with your glistening pussy. He inhaled your scent, unable to hold back a groan. “You’re intoxicating.” He gently kissed the top of your mound, slowly making his way down until his lips found your clit. He began to eat you out like his life depended on it, and your thighs clenched around his head as he moved his tongue against you in a way that completely and utterly unraveled you.

“Yes, yes, yes-” Your back arched, hips pressing against his mouth before your hand reached down and tangled in his dark hair. “Please keep going. Please, I need it.”

He continued, his strong left hand grabbing your thigh, massaging it while his right hand moved below his head. His fingers traced the outside of your entrance, becoming wet from your arousal. He languidly moved his fingers against your skin as he moved his tongue against your clit before he pressed a single finger in. He moved it in and out in a steady rhythm, taking in the sweet sounds coming from you before he added another.

“Oh fuck- yes, that’s it!”

Encouraged by your cries, he continued, his tongue and fingers moving at a fast pace that you were sure you would never be able to recover from. He was going to ruin you. You could feel the build-up of the night start to take over, coiling up, making your entire body tighten.

“I’m getting close, please,” You cried out, and he moved at an inhuman pace, and you knew you would never be able to replicate it again on your own. No one could do this but him. His tongue continued to circle your clit, and his fingers moved within you at a punishing pace.

“Oh, oh, god!” Your eyes clenched shut, and your legs shook as a wave of pleasure washed over you. He continued, easing you through it as you came on his face and hand.

You panted hard, trying to catch your breath. The bed shifted, and his weight was off of yours before you heard the sound of clothes hitting the floor. You peeked your eyes open, body feeling like jelly, and watched in awe as he approached the bed.

His body was perfect- almost godlike. A sudden sense of self-consciousness began to gnaw at you, and you tried to cover your chest with your arms and close your legs, but his hand reached out to stop you.

“Don't.” His voice was soft, yet firm. “Let me see you.”

You swallowed, searching his face, nothing but hunger and awe. Your arms fell back to your sides. He crawled back over you, bracing himself on his forearms, caging you in. His lips brushed your jaw, your cheek, then found yours again, deep, claiming. You kissed him back, trying to keep up with his intensity before gasping- the heavy weight of his dick pressed against your thigh, and you shuddered in anticipation. You’d been prepared… but nothing prepared you for how big he really was.

You ran one hand up to his hair, tangling your fingers as you kissed him while the other reached down between your bodies, grabbing at his length. His body shuddered, and he moaned into your mouth as you took him into your hand, rubbing up and down his length. His hips bucked against your fist, trying to move faster so he could gain more relief.

You continued to jerk him, moving your lower body and adjusting your hips so that your wet core was rubbing against his head. He broke the kiss, lips moving over your cheek before he asked. “Are you ready?”

You nodded your head, hand guiding him towards your entrance before he took the lead, and you let go. His dick spread between your lips, and you had a sharp intake of breath feeling his head brush against your clit. He rolled his hips down again, his member pressing against your opening before he began to go in.

Even with the prep, nothing could have prepared you for how incredibly girthy he was. Your walls stretched around him, burning as you tried to accommodate. He could feel how tense your body had become, and he moved slowly. Eyes locked with yours to make sure you were okay. “Is this okay?”

You smiled at him, trying to reassure him that you were fine, before you moved your hips back to his. “Yes, it’s perfect. Please don’t stop.”

He rocked his hips against yours, and the burning sensation quickly left, replaced by the overwhelming sense of arousal. You could tell that his careful and restrained actions were coming to a halt, as you were able to take more and more of him until you were completely full, filled to the brim. Your head was spinning, and you leaned up, blindly kissing his neck and shoulders while trying to match his pace.

He let out a breathy moan, one arm moving around your waist to hold you in place. “You’re doing so good. So good for me.”

You preened at his praise and kissed him harder, nipping at his skin while meeting your hips with his. Your mattress squeaked under the pressure, and he used his free hand to move between your bodies. His thumb brushed against your clit, and you jumped.

“Give me just one more.”

“But I-”

He silenced you by pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I know you can do it. Be a good girl and give me one more. Just one more.”

Your body felt overstimulated, and you clenched your eyes shut, burying your face into the crook of his neck. You focused on the feeling of his dick piercing you, slamming in and out at a rough pace while the pad of his thumb rubbed circles over your nub at a rhythm that made your toes curl. Quicker than the first, you felt a second orgasm start to build. You wrapped your arms around his body, keeping your face in his neck as another wave of pleasure crashed over you. Tears streaked down your face, and you gasped loudly, prompting him to stop the assault on your clit. He fucked you through your orgasm, eyes rolling back, feeling your walls clench around him.

“Good girl. So good, you’re so good…” You could feel his body start to tremble as he mumbled nothingness into your hair. His pace quickened, the snap of his hips almost painful. “Sweetheart, I’m almost there.”

You clung onto him for dear life, body weak from the previous orgasms, kissing and sucking on his neck. “Please, please, you made me feel good. I want you to feel good too.”

His hips stuttered, his cock twitching deep inside as he spilled into you, warmth flooding you as he groaned raggedly into your hair. He rocked against you until he was spent, then pulled out gently, rolling to his side to keep from crushing you. You whimpered at the loss, but in the next breath, he tugged you close, one big arm wrapping around your shoulders.

You both stared at the ceiling for a while after that, listening to the sounds of the city as you both tried to take in what had just happened.

“Thank you,” He murmured.’

You blinked, shocked by what came out of his mouth, before you turned your head to face him, a small smile on your lips. “No, thank you.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling under your cheek. He pulled back just enough to look you over, flushed, hair messy, skin marked by his mouth. A wicked grin curved his lips. “So… want to go another round?”

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

close calls: the first time

Dr. Jack Abott x f!attending!wife!reader

Summary: the first out of three times you and your husband almost revealed you were married before the events of That's your wife? sunshine version

masterlist

the first time

You'd bought new pink scrub because one of your six year old cancer patient's favourite colour was hot pink. That day was her surgery and you wanted to surprise her when she woke up. You'd put the scrubs in a tote bag, ready to take with you and get changed after the surgery.

You and Jack usually took turns washing both of your scrubs, so Jack thought you'd washed his scrubs and put them in the bag for him. He was in a hurry so he didn't check they were actually his, planning to get changed at the hospital. He didn't even notice there were two bags.

You left after him and took the remaining tote bag, not bothering to check the inside.

Fate had it that Jack had taken over a dayshift; any other day you would have noticed the switch up during your own shift and sent him a text so he'd know to take some other scrubs. But today you arrived at the hospital at roughly the same time, and you were in hospital issued scrubs for surgery the whole morning, so you didn't notice. When Jack stood in front of his locker to change and found bright pink scrubs, he was frozen for a second.

He tried to reach you, but got your voicemail because you were already in surgery. This scrub debacle was nowhere near important enough to call you out of surgery for on the hospital phone. He debated wearing you pink scrubs for a minute, hating the cheap hospital scrubs, but decided against it because it would be too big a contrast to his usual black. There was enough gossip on the ER floor without their depressed attending turned up in scrubs that looked like they had been steeped in a bath of markers.

Just as he was shoving the pink scrub top back into it's bag, Perlah stepped in. "Hi doc, trauma incoming, pedestrian versus moped, ETA 3 minutes." She stopped as she saw a flash of pink.

"You got some new scrubs doc? Hot colour."

Jack stared at her and felt some colour creep into his cheeks.

"It's not mine."

He regretted saying that as soon as the words left his mouth.

Perlah raised an eyebrow. "Not yours? Whose is it then?" He chose to remain silent. "I'll get you some other scrubs from the machine, ETA for that trauma is 2 minutes now, it's gonna be a bloody one."

Jack cursed when he shoved his bag into his locker. It had to be nurse Perlah walking in at that exact time, now the entire ER would know within he had brought pink scrubs that day, and the rest of the hospital would know by noon.

Half an hour later Jack was sitting at the desk under the guise of checking some files, but secretly trying to catch his name in the Tagalog that Perlah was whispering to Princess.

He did catch some dramatic gasps and giggles, but not his name. He just had to pray she'd keep it to herself a little longer.

Dana was looking at him from the other side of the room, very aware that his eyes weren't moving across the screen, but focusing on an empty bed in the corner.

She cleared her throat. "Have you learned Tagalog in the past week and are you eavesdropping or are you waiting for a certain name to come up."

Jack looked at her and stared. "Perlah told me she saw you with some hot pink scrubs in the lounge. Did you have a switch up this morning or do you want to change that boring black costume you doctors decided on? I for one would like a nice burgundy for the nurses while you're at it, we'll match with all the blood around here."

Jack sighed and nodded. "This is what happens when I leave my gloomy night shift, things go wrong and I end up with my," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "wife's scrubs."

Dana knew about your marriage, of course. Her and Jack had been friends for a long time, so she'd met you long before you started working at the PTMC. You'd met Dana for after work wine hour dozens of time, had babysat her kids when she was filling in on the night shift. You'd even talked her into coming back to the Pitt after she told Robby she'd leave, because you were absolutely sure she would regret it for the rest of her life is she'd have actually left. Both Dana and Robby had been sworn to secrecy about who you were by Jack the minute you'd started working there.

Dana broke into a smile, the wrinkles near her eyes tilting upwards. "I'll cover for you when she comes down, don't worry about it. She told me about the kid she wants to surprise, texted me a pic of the scrubs last night."

Jack nodded his thanks. "You're a godsend Dana." "I know, I know," She said while walking off, "I do expect a coffee and some sweet treats for my good deeds though!"

That afternoon you snuck down to the ER, hoping to go into the lounge, grab you scrubs and get out as fast as possible, and hopefully flee without anyone noticing.

You'd contemplated not wearing the scrubs that afternoon, but the thought of how happy your patient would be had won out in the end.

You'd made it into the lounge, opening Jack's locker (the passcode was your birthday, easy guess), and had grabbed the bag when you heard the door open behind you. You quickly shut the locker and turned around, hiding the scrubs behind your back.

"Hi Mel, good to see you! How have you been?" Mel's eyes lit up when she saw you. "Hi, I wasn't expecting you here! It's good to see you, did you get called down for a consult?"

You blinked at her for a second before adapting to the situation at hand. "uh- Yes! I got paged down a couple minutes ago. Didn't see what is was for though. I was trying to find Dana so she could tell me. But I guess she's not here!"

Mel looked over her shoulder out of the door she was holding open. "She was at the desk last I saw her? I think she's been there for the last ten minutes?"

Fuck, you should have told Mel you were looking for someone else, of course Dana was going to be at the desk. That's were she's supposed to be.

"Ah, yes. Should have looked there to start with of course. My brain's mush from surgery, sorry."

Mel smiled back at you. You were sorry to lie to such a sweet face.

"That's alright! I'll come with you to Dana, I'd like to do some more pediatric cases so I'd love to tag along, if that's alright with you?"

"Of course, doctor King!" You said brightly, "You're always welcome to."

You gestured for her to leave first, your face falling as soon as she'd turned her back on you. This was going great; you were nearly caught, had to lie to such a sweet girl, that was now also excited to help you with a case that you had made up and did not actually exist, and you were still hiding the scrubs behind your back awkwardly.

You should have just bought a pink plushie instead of going through all this trouble.

Jack saw you leaving the lounge, but he had his finger in a chest wall to properly place a chest tube so he was not in the position to save you.

Dana was staring at the board trying to figure out who to kick out to get some beds free when you called for her.

"Dana! You lovely human being, I have not seen you in so long, how are you sweetheart?"

Dana turned and smiled at you. "Well if that isn't my favourite surgeon. You down here to pick up the scrubs that Ja-"

Your eyes widened in emergency, gently nodding to Mel right beside you. Dana got the message and scrunched her forehead in apology for nearly exposing you.

"I just told Dr. King I was looking for you. I got a page a couple of minutes ago?"

You tried to convey to Dana that you needed her to cover for you by enunciating the word page extra clearly.

Dana raised her brows at you, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes . "We currently have zero patients under the age of 25. But I've got a confused old man who came here in his wife's clothes? Maybe you can help him out?"

You blinked. Fuck. Dana was having too much fun digging your grave.

"Ah. Must have been an error then. I'll... pass on the old man, they need me back upstairs."

Mercifully, Jack was free to save you right then.

"Hi there." He greeted you and turned to Mel. "Dr. King, could you check in curtain four? Whitaker's been in there to take a LOL's history for the last twenty minutes, he might need some saving."

Mel accepted happily and left Dana, Jack and you alone at the nurses' station. You were still clutching the scrubs behind your back.

Dana started laughing.

"You should have seen her face Jack, she was terrified of trying to trick Mel, the poor thing. Can't even lie to keep her own secrets."

You sighed and leaned into the desk, dumping the scrubs on top. You buried your face in them. "You almost spilled our secret Dana, that's not funny." You whined through the fabric.

Dana squeezed you arm. "Don't worry pet, I stopped saying Jack's name as soon as I saw her. I'm sorry it got so close. I shouldn't have teased you after, but the look on your face was amazing."

You squeezed her back. "That's alright. I'm just wound up from surgery, I actually liked your joke about the old man."

Jack chose to ignore those words and turned you towards him, hands on your shoulders, his eyes finding yours and staying there. "How was surgery? Everything went well?"

You nodded at him. "Only some minor complications, but nothing that wasn't within the line of expectation. She's due to wake up any minute now."

Jack squeezed your shoulders.

"I'm sorry about you having to come down. I should have checked the bag before I left. You were so excited about your new scrubs last night I should have realised you were taking them in the morning."

"It's fine, Jack. I should've checked as well."

You stood there for a second longer, not willing to let go of his hand on your shoulders.

He smiled at you and let go, reaching for the scrubs to hand them to you.

"Nobody questioned anything, right Jack?" You asked and Jack nodded. "Nobody noticed. We're still a secret."

You smiled and mouthed "I love you" before sneaking off to the lift.

Perlah had been watching for the past five minutes. The bright pink scrubs she saw first with Dr. Abbot this morning and now leaving the floor in your hands were starting to make sense. She was also an excellent lip reader.

She turned around to look for Princess to discuss her findings when Dana caught her. "Don't." Said the charge nurse, "They want to keep it a secret, they've got their reasons. Don't spoil it. I'll know who spread the rumour."

Perlah kept your secret.

Abbot bought Dana a very nice coffee and a cake the size of a small child, because he knew very well how much she did to keep Jack and your's secret.

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Call Out My Name - Dr. Jack Abbot x resident!reader

Summary: 5.6k words. Jack spends the next few days after the shift with his spitfire resident making up for lost time. Part 2 of Yell at Me :)

Warnings: absolutely diabolical. I don’t know what came over me. 18+ only, MINORS DNI. Age gap. Reader loves lasagna & rocky road ice cream. unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it!! These medical professionals are being very irresponsible!). Jack has unnatural stamina for someone approaching 50. A little bit of choking, a little bit of switch!Jack. There’s a plot! Technically! umm this was really requested so I guess I’m in good company with all you depraved freaks.

a/n: I feel like I have to repent or something. This is my first ever smut fic and it really got away from me. Enjoy!! I guess!!

Master list | Divider credit!

True to his word, Jack buys you breakfast after your shift at a café far enough from the hospital that you won’t run into any nosey PTMC characters.

Abbot isn’t worried about being seen in public with you for his sake. He’s frankly too old to give a damn what anyone thinks of him. He knows, and more importantly Gloria knows, that he is way too important to the Pitt’s everyday functioning to be fired over something trivial; like fucking his resident into her mattress so hard the bed broke. To be fair, he repaired the bed frame for you and then bought you a new one when it broke again.

In a perfect world, he would’ve locked you down a long time ago with a heavy rock on your ring finger.

Jack is worried about being seen outside of the hospital and far closer than is professional for your sake and reputation. You’re way too talented and smart to ever be rumored as someone who slept their way to the top.

You made the mistake of leaving your phone face-up on the table while you and Jack sipped coffee you shouldn’t be drinking, but you both knew you wouldn’t be getting sleep anytime soon anyway. Not with the serious conversations that loomed ahead.

An incoming call from “Keelan from Bumble 🐝” lights up your screen. Jack’s eyes zero in on the contact photo that must’ve been screenshotted directly from his dating app profile. You were right, Keelan did look like Dad material. You follow Jack’s eyes to your phone and glance back at his face. Jack is focused. You casually silence the ringer, covering the photo, and slip your phone into your scrub pocket casually, as if it were just a spam call.

Abbot raises his eyebrows and waits for an explanation. You ignore his expectant look and easily get back to your previous conversation. Jack obliges, but he commits the guy’s name to memory.

After breakfast, Jack invites you back to his apartment. It takes a lot of willpower, but you decline. You’ve been angry at the man for months. You’re almost disappointed in yourself that it took less than two hours with him to dissolve any lingering resentment. Some distance will do you good, at least for the time it will take for you to wash the last 15 hours off your skin and get some overdue sleep. The short distance might bring clarity, or it might make you miss Jack even more. Either way, it’ll be telling.

Sleep finds you easily for the first time in a long time in your bed. Part of the reason you liked sleeping at Jack’s place so much was his mattress. It was far kinder on your aching muscles than the shitty mattress you could barely afford when you moved to Pittsburgh four years ago as an intern. Somehow, your shoebox of an apartment felt safer and softer now. You didn’t feel the dig of the mattress springs and you weren’t interrupted by the sound of the window AC unit rattling to life. The apartment felt peaceful, stable. Or maybe it was you.

You can’t resist Jack for long. You never could. You wake up a little after 5 p.m. to a text from your attending.

16:57   I’m making your favorite for dinner if you want to come over.

Abbot rarely cooks actual meals at home. The pots and pans hidden in cabinets, some of them gathering dust, were typically reserved for guests and special occasions. He was hoping you’d check both boxes.

You snort. He’s not playing dirty, per se, but he knows you won’t be able to say no to the invite. Not if there’s lasagna involved.

17:14   I’ll bring a fire extinguisher.

You rub the sleep from your eyes as the text sends. Jack responds within seconds.

17:14   Rude.

You chuckle. The happiness feels like a betrayal to the heartbreak you wallowed in for weeks on end, but you can’t bring yourself to be upset.

The first time Jack made the lasagna recipe you raved about, he scrambled to put out the fire that sparked in his oven while you scaled his kitchen counter to shut off the shrill blare of the fire alarm. The fire died down just in time for Jack to see you lose your balance and start to fall from the counter. He caught you in his sturdy arms before you hit the floor.

“My knight in shining armor,” you cooed, thumbing his worn PTMC Charity 5K shirt. He rolled his eyes and set you back on your feet, not letting go until you finished coughing from the minor smoke inhalation.

The lasagna was forfeited that night and you opted for take-out instead.

In the many moons since then, he’s gotten a little better at cooking. Now, he remembers to set a timer before he starts eating you out like a man starved, getting lost in you and the pretty sounds you make just for him.

The door is unlocked when you arrive at Jack’s, just like old times. Maybe you should’ve knocked, but old habits die screaming. You slip back into the comfort only Jack could bring you, like it was a lost beloved sweater found in the back of a closet.

The kitchen smells amazing. You don’t announce your presence, you just walk up behind Jack where he stands at the counter and slip your arms around his waist and rest your cheek against his defined back. You want to hate how easy it is to fall back into this. Even after he hurt you, he’s still the only place you want to call home.

The vet tenses then quickly relaxes when he recognizes your gentle touch.

“Hi,” Jack hums. He almost says baby, the name he called you until he lost that privilege, but he holds his tongue. He doesn’t know how quickly you’ll let him back in, if at all. He’ll be damned if he moves too fast and loses you for good.

Abbot hears you reply with a quiet “hey” before your lips press to his soft shirt. He leans back into your hold more. He thinks this is a good sign and he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

You actually did bring a fire extinguisher. It’s resting near the wall by the fridge. Abbot does a double-take.

“Seriously?” he asks, though he can’t even take that much offense to it. His track record isn’t great. You just shrug and sit on a bar stool, moving through Jack’s apartment like it’s your own.

The oven timer ends and its alarm breaks the comfortable silence. Doctor Abbot is really laying it on thick when he serves your fresh lasagna with an herb garnish decorating the plate.

Breakfast with Jack was good, but this lasagna is even better. You moan around your first bite and Jack’s dick twitches involuntarily.

The two of you eventually move to Jack’s couch after dinner. The almost nightly routine resumes as if no time has passed at all. You sit down a safe distance apart, but your feet end up in Jack’s lap anyway and he mindlessly massages your legs. The conversation from earlier about what this means—being Jack and YN again, not just Doctor Abbot and Doctor YLN—picks up. It’s flowing smoothly. You hold your cards close to your chest. You’re protective, but Jack makes you want to let down your guard and defenses without even trying. Abbot shows his entire hand. If complete vulnerability and honesty are what it takes to win you back, Abbot will do it ten times over.

A singular ping from your phone breaks your focus. You glance at the lit screen that’s unintentionally just outside of Jack’s view. You laugh lightly at the text message before silencing your phone and laying it face down.

Jack loves it when you laugh. Scratch that, Jack loves it when you laugh for him. A twinge of envy in him has a feeling you’re not chuckling at a meme Ellis sent. You wait for Jack to pick up where he left off. Instead, his eyes bounce between you and your phone.

“Was that Ken? Keith? Whatever his name is…” Abbot tries to sound casual but he’s far from it.

“It’s Keelan, Jack.” You smirk at the man with gray curls. You never pinned him as the jealous type, but now you’re seeing him in a whole new light. A perverted part of you thinks you’re actually into it.

“Are you… jealous?” You test the word and wait for his reaction.

“I’m not jealous of some kid almost 20 years younger than me,” he brushes it off, but you can see the tips of his ears turning pink. Doctor Abbot is a horrible liar.

“But you’re fucking someone like 20 years younger than you,” you retort, barely missing a beat. Jack doesn’t miss the fact that you say it in the present tense. It gives him more hope.

“Double standards exist for a reason.” He shrugs. He’s lying—you know it and he knows it. Jack is jealous of the random guy you met on a dating app. The dating app you only joined to distract you from the Abbot-shaped hole in your heart.

Just like the rest of the night—walking in Jack’s unlocked front door without pause, eating together on his barstools, lounging on the sectional while he massages you—your routine falls right back into place. It’s not long before Jack is on top of you. He makes the first move, but he waits with bated breath until you reciprocate.

Abbot’s world falls back into place and he swears the stars align when you kiss him back, just as fervently as he felt for you.

You’ve barely done anything, but you can already feel him hard against your thigh. In Jack’s defense, he hasn’t been with anyone since that last night with you months ago, and his right hand can only take care of so much, even when he’s replaying visions of you in the shower. The loose sweatpants don’t do much to conceal his genetic blessing. You squirm at the thought of taking him again.

You yelp when Jack tosses you over his shoulder and marches with determination to the bedroom. When you wiggle, trying to get loose from his grasp, he delivers a firm slap to your ass. You stop moving after that and blush, your head settles into Jack’s firm back.

Abbot wants to take his time with you. He really does. But the way you’re looking at him right now, and the sounds you’re making for him? He’s not sure he’ll last long enough to do all the things he dreams of doing to your body. He’s settled between your thighs and is unwrapping you like a present. Your leggings are the first to go. Your panties would be next if you were wearing any. Instead, Jack is immediately treated to the sight of your glistening folds. Wet and ready, just for him.

You little tease.

One long lick of his thick muscle from your weeping hole up to your clit has you moaning and arching off the bed. You’re a little embarrassed by how quickly he melts you to a puddle in his capable hands. Like him, it’s been months since you’ve been intimate. Your vibe can only do so much for you, and it doesn’t hold a candle to Jack and his decades of experience.

Abbot smirks at how responsive you are. You blush and hide your face behind your hands, but he peels them back until you’re looking at him.

“Eyes on me, baby.” His voice is gravely as he commands. So much for waiting to say “baby”; but all things considered, he’s pretty sure that’s not the most sensitive boundary the two of you are pushing right now.

When he’s certain you’re watching him again, when you’re watching yourself respond to him, he dives right back in. Your gasp and tighten your grasp on Jack’s left hand where your fingers are intertwined. Abbot’s calloused right hand supplements his mouth and tongue and stubble, pushing you even closer to the precipice you craved so badly.

You will your eyes to stay open, to watch Jack, and you notice how he’s rutting into the mattress. Subtlety can be his strong suit, but it isn’t right now, not with the way he’s grinding to find some relief. You’re oh so close, and you imagine he is too. Abbot groans when your fingers card through his curls and pull, maybe a little harder than necessary. The sight of his face flushed and damp with you makes you bite your lip.

“I was just getting started,” he pants heavily. He moves, gravitating back to your center and you tug on his curls again.

“What?” Jack is exasperated and needy.

“I need you to fuck me,” you say with innocent eyes and a soft voice. Abbot thinks he might’ve died and gone to heaven. He sputters but moves without protest, leaning back on his knees to dig through his nightstand for a condom. You grab his wrist, effectively stopping his search.

“Don’t bother.” You say it simply, as if the mere notion of taking you raw won’t make him bust in his sweatpants right now.

“Baby, are you sure we shouldn’t-” Jack chokes on the rest of his argument when you take off your sweatshirt. Any words he had previously thought died on his tongue when he finally saw you laying completely bare and exposed for him on his bed.

“I’m sure,” you purr and pull him back towards you by his sweatpants drawstring. He sheds his pants and boxers in one go. It’s all the confirmation Abbot needs before he grabs you by the hips and positions you just how he needs you.

You gasp and revel in the pain quickly mixing with pleasure when Jack drives into you all in one thrust. Jack sputters and his hips involuntarily jerk as he gets refamiliarized with the feeling of your body pulling him in and choking him with a vice grip.

Both of you still, overwhelmed by the feel of each other. It feels so right, having you like this after so long. Jack hates that he pushed you away, but knows he’ll spend every day working to win you back for as long as you’ll let him.

When Abbot is able to move again, you roll your hips to meet him. His eyes roll into the back of his head and he has to do a breathing exercise just to stay upright.

“Baby, I’m not gonna last long,” he rasps. Your face scrunches and you nod—showing expressions you’ll only ever make for him.

“Me neither,” you gasp as he moves, his slow pace quickly speeding up. Your fingers grab and pull at his shirt until you’ve probably stretched out the material. Jack enjoys watching the way your breasts bounce in time with his movements and decides he oughta take off his shirt too. He barely takes a second to pause and keeps a consistent rhythm while he pulls off his shirt by the collar with one hand. Your hands immediately return to his back and he grins at the feeling of your short nails leaving marks across his freckled skin.

Abbot is so close. He can practically hear his heart beating and he knows a vein must be visible on his forehead with all the tense restraint he’s willing. So very close, but he refuses to finish before you.

So Abbot does what he does best. He works with his hands.

The squelching sounds from where your hips meet is obscene, and it allows enough moisture for Jack to easily circle his thumb around your clit in a grueling pattern. You’re a goner in less than 30 seconds. You tense and scream his name despite your heavy brething, then you go limp, dazed as Jack fucks you through your orgasm to reach his own.

You know he’s close when his strong thrusts start to falter, so you use what little strength you have left to lock your legs around his hips and scratch your nails down his back, just the way he likes.

Abbot finishes with a series of loud groans and your name on his lips. He collapses on top of you, absolutely spent, but still has the sense to prop himself up on elbow to prevent his full weight from crushing you.

Your labored breathing syncs as you both come down from your respective highs. Jack’s grin meets your smile and you pull him down by the back of his neck to meet your lips in another kiss. You taste yourself on his swollen lips and you catch his bottom lip between your teeth. Before Jack, all your lovers had been a little too vanilla for your taste. Now? Sometimes you had trouble keeping up with the vet.

You blew Keelan off for the third day in a row. You probably would’ve felt bad about it if Jack wasn’t making you feel so. fucking. good.

Keelan really was a sweet guy. He was understanding of your irregular work schedule and even more irregular sleep schedule. When you missed his calls or responded late to his texts, he just assumed it was because you were busy with either of those things. 

He was so sweet. He just wasn’t the guy for you.

Abbot was making up for lost time. You hadn’t left his apartment in two days and you hadn’t worn any clothing for a substantial length of time in that same period. You’d long since lost count of the amount of times Jack made you come—on his cock, his mouth, his hands, his thighs, his arms—and he wasn’t showing signs of stopping anytime soon.

You and Jack were taking a break in the kitchen. The attending made sure you stayed hydrated. Your sweat mixed with his and seeped into the bed sheets you found yourselves tangled in. Doctor Abbot was a responsible medical professional, so it was paramount to him that no one under his care get dehydrated or prematurely worn out. When he fills your water glass right back up the second you finish drinking, you don’t protest.

Abbot has a lengthy record of ribbing on you when you’re fucked out after a marathon session. If you tire out before he does, teasing quips mixed with condescending remarks that make your thighs squeeze together drip right off his tongue and into the shell of your ear.

“It’s not normal for someone your age to have this much stamina and libido,” you teased Jack over a year ago, gently stroking him while lazily resting on his chest.

“Someone my age?” Jack scoffed. It was a long night for you after that comment.

The cool granite countertop you’re perched on makes you shiver, even through Jack’s boxers that were doubling as sleep shorts for you. He protested you putting his clothes on in the first place, arguing that he was just going to take them off anyway. You argued that you didn’t want his cum dripped all over the same countertops your precious lasagna was prepared on.

“Touché.” Abbot blushed at the thought of his spend leaking out of you.

Jack holds your hand and places his other on the small of your back to support you when you scoot off the counter and make your way across the kitchen. You dig through Jack’s freezer like it’s your own until you find a pint of rocky road ice cream.

“Oh, yes sir,” you say to yourself, licking your lips as you search for a spoon. The phrase has Jack half hard. His endurance truly defies biology.

It’s after 11 p.m. the next time Keelan calls. He didn’t strike you as a booty call kinda guy, but there’s a first for everything.

You’re about to send the call to voicemail when Jack intercepts you, his rough hand closing around your wrist.

“Let me,” Jack offers with a devious grin. He doesn’t wait for you to agree or disagree, but he holds your wary gaze as he answers the call on speaker phone.

“Hey, YN, it’s-” Keelan greets. He sounds kind, and you start to feel bad for him until your mind drifts elsewhere when you feel Jack’s cum trailing down your thigh.

“Kevin, right?” Jack responds with a smile that’s far from innocent. He remembers the guy’s name; it’s been seared into his head since he saw it on your phone at the café. 

One of the unnerving things about your attending is that he never breaks eye contact, even when you desperately need him to. Especially when becoming putty in his hands wouldn’t serve the Pitt crew very well in the middle of a trauma case.

“Uh, no, it’s-” Jack cuts him off again. You roll your eyes at his antics and struggle to stifle a giggle at Keelan’s stunned response.

“Anyways, kid, I’m her boyfriend. You can go ahead and delete this number, because we’ll be blocking yours.” Abbot finishes in his signature gruff tone and hangs up before the poor guy has a second to process what just happened.

Your jaw drops. Boyfriend. Doctor Jack Abbot called himself your boyfriend.

Somehow, Abbot is getting off on this. He’s awfully possessive, and you don’t hate it.

“That was a little mean, Jack.” You almost sound like you’re whining. Jack plans to nip that in the bud. Toward the end of your R2 year, when you and Abbot had been hooking up for a few months, he discovered you were into spanking after you directly defied an order he gave you at the Pitt. Tonight, he might use that tidbit of information to his advantage.

“I don’t appreciate him thinking he can have any piece of my girl, especially not at this hour.” Abbot eyes the oven’s clock. It’s nearing midnight. He downs the rest of his water in one gulp and stalks toward you.

“Your girl?” You question and look up at him as he looms closer.

“Yeah. Mine.” Abbot growls. There’s no room for argument in his tone.

Jack is driving into you fast and rough at an unforgiving pace, just how you like it. It’s a good thing Abbot’s apartment is on the end of his building, otherwise the headboard slamming against a shared wall certainly would’ve earned him some noise complaints from the neighbors if your screaming and moaning hadn’t already.

Abbot’s mattress shakes beneath your back. He’s hovering over you with one hand planted firmly near your head to support his weight. His free hand roughly grazes over your form, finding purchase and grabbing at your exposed skin. Tonight, like most nights, he’s a boob man and he focuses his attention on your breasts that shudder with every thrust.

Jack’s dog tags swing from his neck just above you. They’ve come close to hitting your face a few times, so you take matters into your own hands, well, mouth, and bite the chain, sealing your lips around the metal. Jack’s large pupils blow out even wider as you stare into him, sucking the tags with the same fervor you suck him off with.

He’s so focused on making sure you finish before he does, especially now that his cock throbs even more inside your warmth at the sight of his dog tags in your mouth, that he doesn’t notice your legs hooking around his body.

You flip both of your bodies so fast, with Abbot on his back and you riding him, that he double takes at the new angle. He’s gazing up at your breasts instead of kneading them in his calloused grip just moments ago. You’re careful not to let him slip out when you flip. It’s a skill you acquired after several nights in Jack’s bed and it stuns him every time.

Abbot is appreciative of the new depth and view, but his dopey grin drops when you begin moving at a slow, shallow pace.

You want to make him work for it after the fucking stunt he pulled. You forgave him for ending things with a catastrophic lack of communication about 15 orgasms ago, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to have fun with this.

Every thick inch of Jack inside of you feels amazing, but the look on his face is even more gratifying.

His hands move to grip your hips, urging you to move fast, but you slap them away and lean forward, your own hands loosely wrapping around your attending’s neck. You feel his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows beneath your gentle fingers. His quiet groan makes you grin like the Cheshire cat.

Abbot edged you for close to 45 minutes earlier that night until he was satisfied with how many times you screamed his name, making you promise that you are his and he is yours until your throat was raw.

Now, it’s your turn.

“Baby, I need you to, hmmph-” Jack pauses with a particularly deep and slow roll of your hips, “move faster.” His voice is strained and sweat beads on his forehead.

You tut at him with a few clicks of your tongue. He bucks upward into the slow ride of your hips, but he’s quickly met with your fingers constricting around his throat—not too tight, but tight enough to make him comply and hang onto every sweet word that drips from your lips.

“Not this time, Doctor Abbot.” He moans when you use his professional title while he’s buried to the hilt inside of you. You lean down to whisper in his ear, your pert nipples making contact with his heaving chest. “I’m in control.”

One hand stays on his neck and the other moves to pin Abbot’s wrists above his head.

It’s performative, really. Your fingers can’t touch when you grasp just one of his thick wrists; there’s no way you’d be able to force his arms down if he tried to resist you, but that makes it all the more erotic.

Abbot doesn’t shy away or protest when your dominant side comes out to play. He’s willing to let you think, at least temporarily, that you can overpower him. In the back of his mind, Jack knows without a doubt that he could have you flipped back over with your knees pressed up to your chest and your ankles dangling over his broad shoulders before you could blink.

Both of your orgasms ripple through your bodies like a live wire. It takes considerably longer than normal to come back to your senses. You see only stars for a while and hear nothing but your pulse bounding. Touch is your last sense to come back. You feel an ache in your hips that hurts so good, then you feel Jack’s warm, sticky abdomen underneath your arm that’s splayed across his body. The attending must have carefully pulled you off his softening member and tucked you into his side—not that you would remember. You’re 99% sure you blacked out after your last orgasm.

Abbot’s heart nearly stopped when you were unresponsive. He drifted back down to Earth, expecting to meet your eyes, but instead found you slumped against his chest, drool dripping down onto his freckled pec. He checked your pulse and rolled you off him to rub your sternum, which you did not like, based on the way your face scrunched up and you groaned.

Once he was sure you were okay. He smirked, incredibly pleased with your joint efforts. Fucked out was an understatement.

Sleep even claimed you for a few minutes. It was Jack’s rumbling chuckle as he continuously checked on you that roused you. Blinking helped reorient you. The sheet covering you and Jack was wet. Did you fucking squirt?

Your heavy eyes eventually traced their way up Abbot’s solid body to meet his eyes. He was already looking at you and had been for a while. Despite being about as close to him as possible without crawling into his skin, you still felt needy. You wordlessly puckered your lips and the attending, your boyfriend happily obliged, though it took him a moment to coordinate his muscles to deliver a loving kiss.

“So… what now?” You’re cuddled into Jack’s side, your palm resting on his chest right above his heart. His rough hand is featherlight on your skin as he trails his fingers up and down your bare arm. Your blinking becomes slow and heavy; your body is exhausted from over 48 straight hours of on and off fucking.

Abbot stares up at the ceiling and sighs, not in annoyance, but with determination.

“I already lost you once. I’m not gonna make that mistake again,” he promises resolutely. He swears he’ll spend the rest of the time you give him the privilege of being in your life making up for the heartache he caused you both.

You nod and smile tiredly, pressing a chaste kiss to the side of his chest.

“But what about work?” You bite your lip, nervously awaiting his answer. The attending drags his free palm down his face. He’s thought about this a million times since you walked out his door months ago.

“I still want to protect your reputation.” He says it like it’s an indisputable fact. Jack feels a frown form on your lips and he turns to his side to face you. He pinches your chin between his thumb and index finger until you meet his eyes. “I’m not ashamed of you, or us, or this. I never have been and I never will be.”

“But, I think it’s best if we keep this on the down-low until you’ve signed the offer letter for the junior attending position.” He’s not happy about hiding your relationship, but he knows it’s what’s best for your career.

“I haven’t even interviewed for it yet, baby.” You had dreamed of the job since your intern year. It was so close you could taste it, but you didn’t want to get your hopes up.

“Robby already picked you. He decided months ago, before the applications even opened up. Interviewing the other candidates is just a formality. Ball’s in your court,” Abbot says casually. He thinks it might not have been his news to share with the way you tense under his arm.

“Don’t mess with me, Jack. That’s not funny,” you frown, feeling small. You’ve been working toward this for years.

“I’m serious!” Jack emphasizes with a smile. He’s so proud of his girl. You earned this, more than any resident who came before you. “He asked for my input and I gave him an honest review of your job performance, but I’m pretty sure he told Gloria he was picking you before he even talked to me,” he admits.

Residency was grueling, but it was also the best thing you’d ever done in your life. Your intern year you were thrown to the wolves on day shift at PTMC’s level 1 trauma center ED. A spot opened up on night shift at the beginning of your R2 year and you gladly switched, though you were grateful to have learned from Robby for several months.

“You must’ve really left a good impression on him as an intern,” Abbot muses.

Doctor Robby and Doctor Abbot stay out of the hospital gossip and drama; they have too much other shit to worry about. But, sometimes when they’re metaphorically or literally talking one another down from the ledge, they discuss the students and residents and learning opportunities. Robby spoke highly of you from day one.

Tears well up in your eyes and you can’t stop them from falling. Jack startles at your sudden shift in emotion.

“Oh baby, shit, don’t cry,” Jack pleads and panics when you cover your face with your hands. Your shoulders start to shake and Jack sits up, scrambling to find tissues to wipe your tears.

“Baby, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m so sorry,” he rushes out. When he carefully pulls your hands away from your face, he’s met with a hesitant smile.

“You’re not joking? You’re serious?” Your voice is shaky and you sniffle through the still flowing tears.

“Serious as a heart attack.”

“Holy shit!” Excited is an understatement. The fatigue that had settled in your bones vanished in an instant. For the second time tonight, you flip Abbot on his back and start attacking with kisses all over his face.

“You’re not upset?” Jack is experiencing some emotional whiplash and his voice is muffled by your movements over him.

“Upset? Baby, how could I be upset?! I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” You pause kissing him just long enough to respond before diving back in, claiming his lips this time in a feverish kiss.

When you reach down to slot Jack inside of you, you move slowly together. You’re not fucking. It’s slow, sensual, and passionate. It’s love.

The steady lub-dub of Jack’s heart beats in your ear afterwards. Your weight on top of Jack’s weathered form, aged like fine wine, is comforting. The attending understands the appeal of weighted blankets now, but he’ll always prefer you.

“We should celebrate,” he murmurs quietly. 

The rest of the city is waking up. Light from the early sunrise peeks past the open black-out curtains. Abbot knows he’ll need to get up and pull them closed before he falls asleep, but for now he revels in the feel of you back in his arms—where you belong.

“You should wine and dine me, Doctor Abbot,” you hum and mutter against his freckled skin.

Jack smiles and agrees. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head before you both drift into peaceful sleep together.

a/n: I have a playlist called “booty call on speed dial” that I may or may not have listened to while writing this. Special shout-out to “Gorilla” by Bruno Mars. This is over twice as long as part one. My keyboard is begging for a break.

Reblogs & comments are always very appreciated! ❤️

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Jack Abbot’s Body x Reader Moodboard

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Night Shift: 7:00AM

Summary: Two night gremlins surfaced into the daylight to help out. Characters: Attending!Female Reader (Sunshine) x Jack Abbot. Dana Evans. Samira Mohan. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch Word Count: 1363 Chapter Warnings: None

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

7:00AM 4th July 2025

“Should I be worried about allowing night gremlins into my dayshift?”

Your smile grew as you wrapped your arm around Dana’s waist and she hugged you right back. Charge Nurse Dana Evans was like the older sister you never had and when you learned about the lack of staff for the day, you knew you would help whatever ways you can.

“You should be more worried about Mr. Pill Popper over there.” Jack Abbot muttered under his breath and immediately earned himself a slap on the chest from you. “What?”

“Jack, that’s not nice!” You scolded, eyes darting to where Frank was at Bay 6, already deep into reviewing the charts for the patient with irregular heartbeat. “Don’t be cruel to him, he’s already been through so much already.” You requested.

And that was all it took. A sigh and a nod, Nightshift Senior Attending Dr. Jack Abbot was agreeing (relenting) with you.

“Sorry.” He muttered accepting the thermos of coffee from you before making his way to his first patient for the day.

Your eyes lingered on him for a moment. You worry about him, more than he wants you to. It’s not just any old worry you’ve used to. But it was the fact of what the day meant for him. 4th of July meant something to Jack once. But after losing too much of himself and the people he once cared for, the day was the worst of all the worst days he could be working. It was like deja vu all over again for you.

“Will he be alright?” Dana asked, leaning her arms against the nurse station, her own eyes following you as you still had your eyes on Jack. When he turned and caught you starting, he smiled, his usual playful smile before winking and sticking his tongue out.

“He will be.” You reassured her, finally turning back to look at Dana, a knowing look already on her face. “He wants to be.”

“So you and him?” She wiggled her brows, and the all too familiar smile already on her face.

“Don’t make it weird, Evans. It’s only been six months.” You muttered, finally pulling one of the tablets to review a patient’s order.

“But a little birdy told me someone’s already moved in with him.” Dana grinned and grew bigger now.

“Fucking Shen,” You muttered under your breath before finally relenting and looking back at Dana. “Yes! We’ve been officially dating for six months, did a month of just going out and having a nightcap before that.”

“Look at you melting the stone cold heart of that night gremlin.”

“He’s good to me.” You admitted. “Best damn thing to ever happen to me.” As the words left your tongue, it was the truth that you knew all too well. You’ve experienced worse, endured worse, yet here you were finally picked up all the pieces and that grumpy old man with a police scanner as white noise was making your life better than what you had before.

“He better. If I found out he even hurts a single hair from your head, I’ll bring the whole arsenal with him–I might even involve Robby into this.”

At the mention of the man, the smile momentarily faded from your lips before you put on a more tense smile. You wished Dana didn’t see it, you didn’t want to deal with the past you’ve tried too hard to bury, to protect yourself.

“We don’t need to involve the Chief here, I can handle Jack myself.” You muttered.

“Still can’t understand how he allowed you to move to the nightshift after Pittfest.” She shook her head. “He already lost too much in his corner after that night, can’t understand how he could let go of his second-in-command.”

“Don’t let Frank hear that or he’ll pout.” You redirected immediately wishing to steer the conversation away from Robby.

At the sound of your name, a genuine smile already formed on your face as you turned and was met with Dr. Samira Mohan, third-year medical resident and the doctor you see yourself most in since she stepped foot in the Pitt.

“Nice to see you’re up and running, Samira.” You greeted her.

“Heard the Sun was back and wanted to make sure I had my fix before she returned right back to the night.” she grinned and you allowed her to pulled you into a hug.

With Dana as an older sister, Samira was always like a little sister to you. For all the faults and chaos in the world, all she ever wanted was to make it a better place at her own pace–and nothing was wrong with that whatsoever.

“You being good to Dana while I was gone?” You playfully asked.

“She’s getting faster.” Dana commented, her attention back to the computer and the phone she was holding.

“Slow and steady wins the race.” You winked at her before your eyes turned to the Ambulance bay and your breath caught at the sudden arrival.

Robby. In the flesh.

But the most damning part was the fact that you no longer felt the ache you once constantly had every single time you looked at him during handovers. It was fading further and further until it was now just this lingering memory of what you once had with him that you’ve come to accept will never be ever again.

“Hi Chief.” You tried your best to put on a smile.

“Doctor.” His voice was clipped as his attention moved towards the patient board, already filling in before their very eyes.

“Gloria’s looking for you, Robby.” Dana reminded him.

“Again?” He groaned, eyes moving right back to you then towards Jack. “Can’t we offer Gloria the night gremlins for the weekly spanking?”

“Don’t pull us into your bullshift, Robby.” Jack called out from the other bay. “It’s not our problem if dayshift’s satisfaction rating dropped and ours rose.”

You refused to meet his eyes for that one. Knowing fully well the double meaning behind Jack’s words. You know what it means and you do not wish to be part of said conversation on the one day you’ve thought of helping out.

“Let’s do our rounds, Dr. Mohan?” You turned right back to Samira, a smile returning right back to normal as you followed her away from the nurse station.

You refused to look back, knowing perfectly well who was looking right through you. You had patients to look after, you had Jack to watch over. You no longer had the time for him.

~

“One of these days you need to tell me what made Sunny walk away.” Dana sighed, making Robby finally look right back at Dana, whose eyes were squarely on him.

“I don’t know.” He knew. But he was too much of a coward to admit it to anyone–especially Dana.

“Come on Cap, of course you know.” She leaned closer to him. “You know Jack is right, Sunshine is the best doctor we ever got here in the Pitt. We don’t call her Sunshine for nothin’. She gives and she gives and expects nothing in return. That doesn’t change after just one day.”

“It was the Pittfest.” He lied instead.

“Bullshit. She’s worked on a handful of mass shootings worse than the Fest. It’s been ten months now, but I could still remember those eyes looking so empty and dead when we were all headed out for the day. She didn’t even join you and the crew in the Park.”

“Something I can’t fix.” The words slipped and Dana’s eyes narrowed and the frown falling from her lips because of it.

“I get it.” She nodded, returning back to the computer. But those three words held so much weight and it almost made Robby break more than anything. Dana was always a confidant, but even she had been shielded from what had happened that night.

Maybe Robby feared that she would take your side, or maybe it was because he feared having someone else tell him that he was wrong. But he didn’t need that right now.

“Got an incoming Fireworks accident in 4 minutes, today’s gonna be bloody. God help us all.”

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐨𝐲'𝐬 || Clark Kent ||

A/n: he's the best boy.

The wind whips around you as Clark sets you gently down on the icy floor of the Fortress of Solitude, a proud little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His cape flutters behind him, majestic, dramatic, exactly as you’d expect from your superhero fiancé. He watches you expectantly, eyes shining like he just brought you home to meet his parents.

“Welcome to the Fortress of Solitude,” he says, arms spread wide like he’s unveiling the eighth wonder of the world. “It’s Kryptonian design. Advanced tech, alien crystals, voice-command architecture, memory banks that hold millennia of—”

GASP.

Clark's head never turned so fast to a sound.Your loud, breathless squeal cuts through his monologue like a bolt of lightning.

Clark blinks.

You don’t even see the towering alien archives. You don’t register the glowing control console pulsing with celestial light. No, your eyes have zeroed in on one very important thing sprinting towards you on four legs.

“Krypto!!!”

The white blur barrels into you joyfully, tail wagging at light speed, tongue out, pure delight in dog form.

“Oh my god, Clark,” you croon, dropping to your knees and immediately smothering him in kisses. “He has a little cape!”

Clark blinks again, his hands slowly lowering from their dramatic ‘ta-da’ pose. “Y-Yeah! You’ve met Krypto! He lives with us... At the apartment!"

“But you didn’t show me his cape, Clark,” you say, scandalized, holding the golden-edged red fabric between your fingers like it’s the Shroud of Turin. “And he can fly!”

It felt like it was Christmas....better than that actually now that you think about it.

Krypto barks and promptly floats three feet off the ground, tongue lolling, tail still wagging like a propeller. You gasp again like someone told you cake now contains vitamins.

“Oh, he’s a superdog! Look at him! He’s majestic. Regal. My god, he’s the hero this world truly deserves!”

Clark clears his throat, sheepish. “I mean…I also fly.”

“Mmmhmm,” you mumble, now gently placing Krypto’s paw in your hand like you’re officiating his wedding. “But does your nose boop when I touch it like this?” You gently boop Krypto’s snout. It does, in fact, boop. Gloriously.

Clark sighs, folding his arms and trying not to smile. “So…not impressed by the Fortress, huh?”

“Oh no, babe. The giant crystal space cave is very cool,” you say distractedly, as Krypto flops dramatically into your lap and rolls over for belly rubs. “But your dog has a cape. And he flies. And he’s got little teeth, look at ‘em! Look this little face." You puckered your lips smushing Krypto's face as the dogs tail wags a mile a minute.

Clark grins now, eyes warm as he watches the two of you—his fiancé completely enraptured by the world’s most powerful belly-rub beggar.

“Krypto,” he mutters under his breath with a shake of his head. “Showoff.”

Krypto barks triumphantly.

You gasp again. “He knows sarcasm.”

Clark just sighs again, quietly resigning himself to a lifetime of sharing your affection with a flying dog in a cape. And honestly?

He’s fine with that....

Later that day, as you lay sprawled out on the icy floor with Krypto napping on your chest like an overgrown, slightly radioactive marshmallow, Clark stands nearby looking only mildly betrayed.

You’ve been rubbing his belly (Krypto’s, not Clark’s… for now) for twenty minutes straight while whispering things like “I’d die for you, tiny hero” and “you’re the best boy in any multiverse.”

Clark clears his throat. “Babe, you know I saved Metropolis last week, right?”

You hum absently, fingers still working. “Mhm. And he saved my serotonin.”

Then, with perfect Kryptonian timing, the air shimmers—and Kara zips into the Fortress.

“Clark, I got your message—wait, are you—pouting?” She floats down, sees you cuddling her superdog cousin like he’s made of marshmallow fluff, and bursts into laughter so hard she nearly crashes into the memory crystals.

“Oh. My. Rao,” Kara wheezes. “She’s ignoring you for Krypto?!”

“She’s not ignoring me,” Clark mutters.

Krypto lifts his head, gives Clark a smug woof, then plants a wet lick on your cheek. You squeal and snuggle him closer.

“Oh my god,” Kara giggles, already pulling out her phone. “This is incredible. You finally bring your fiancée to the Fortress and she gets imprinted by the dog.”

“She didn’t imprint,” Clark grumbles.

You look up. “We’re soul bonded now.”

Kara cackles and almost drops her phone.

Clark just throws his head back and groans, clearly questioning every decision he’s ever made since inviting you here.

“Admit it,” Kara says, smirking. “This is so much better than when your ma saw the Fortress for the first time.”

“She cried,” Clark says proudly.

“She also didn’t immediately pick favorites,” Kara grins. “You’ve been dethroned by a dog in a cape, Kent.”

You nod solemnly from the floor. “Your dog is my hero now.”

Kara gives you a thumbs-up. “Excellent taste.”

Clark just sighs again, then walks over, flops down beside you with dramatic resignation, and mutters, “Fine. But when I wear a cape, no one scratches my belly.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that…an invitation?”

Krypto barks.

Kara walks off still laughing—“I’m telling the Justice League!”—while you and Clark both groan, Krypto smugly nestled between you like the world’s fluffiest third wheel.

And the Fortress echoes with a whole new kind of warmth.

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

kansas

pairing: clark kent x f!reader | genre: fluff | wc: 0.4k

summary: clark tells you everything, but there’s just one thing you can’t get past.

a/n: i loved the new movie and just had to write something! no big spoilers. just a tiny one, if it even counts?? (iykyk.)

Clark Kent had just spilled everything to you. Confessed his love. Told you he was Superman, which—if you were being honest—wasn’t as shocking as he thought it would be. But you didn’t say that. Didn’t want to ruin the moment. 

He finally told you where he grew up—Smallville, Kansas. He said it quickly, almost like he hoped you’d miss it, before circling back to the part that mattered most: that he loved you.

One thing had led to another. Something between kisses, half-smiles, and uneven breaths. A blur of soft touches and quiet urgency.

Now you lay there in your bed, limbs still loosely tangled with his. Your head rested against the steady rhythm of his chest while his hand moved along your back in slow, absent strokes—soothing and familiar. Your breath had started to even out, but your mind still hadn’t caught up.

He was Superman.

He was yours.

And those two things alone should’ve been front and center in your mind, but they weren’t. Not even in the slightest.

"I can't believe it," you whispered.

Clark shifted, his chest rising with a quiet inhale. "I know. I should've told you sooner. About Superman. About who I am."

You lifted your head, turning to look up at him. "I knew you weren’t from here, but I didn’t think there.”

He furrowed his brow, confused. “You mean… Krypton?” 

You made a face. “No. Kansas.”

“Everyone knows you’re from Krypton. But Clark Kent? I thought maybe, like… Vermont. Or Oregon. Definitely not Midwest.”

Clark’s eyes narrowed in mock offense. “What’s wrong with Kansas?”

You gave a half-shrug, still curled against him. “Nothing. Just… explains a lot. I mean, you’re like, painfully polite. I should’ve known.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face like you’d just wounded him, but the smile gave him away.

“No, really.” You grinned, propping yourself up slightly. “I bet you’d even stop mid-battle to save a squirrel. Like, buildings crumbling, alarms going off—and there you are, making sure it gets to safety.”

Clark shook his head, pretending to protest, but you could already feel the laugh building in his chest.

“I can totally see it,” you teased, as he slipped his other arm around you and pulled you closer.

His lips brushed yours, soft and warm.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you murmured against his mouth.

He didn’t answer. Just kissed you—deep and unhurried, laughter still dancing behind it.

It was the kind of kiss that said you weren’t wrong at all.

please do not repost, copy, or claim my work as your own.

• tag list: open!

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | summer request fest

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

is that my handsome, elegant, intelligent, charming, kind, thoughtful, strong, courageous, creative, brilliant, gentle, humble, generous, passionate, wise, funny, loyal, dependable, graceful, radiant, calm, confident, warm, compassionate, witty, adventurous, respectful, sincere, magnetic, bold, articulate, empathetic, inspiring, honest, patient, powerful, attentive, uplifting, classy, friendly, reliable, ambitious, intuitive, talented, supportive, grounded, determined, charismatic, extraordinary, trustworthy, noble, dignified, perceptive, innovative, refined, considerate, balanced, open-minded, composed, imaginative, mindful, optimistic, virtuous, noble-hearted, well-spoken, quick-witted, deep, philosophical, fearless, affectionate, expressive, emotionally intelligent, resourceful, delightful, fascinating, sharp, selfless, driven, assertive, authentic, vibrant, playful,, well-rounded, magnetic, dynamic, radiant, radiant-spirited, soulful, radiant-hearted, insightful, creative-souled, justice-minded, reliable-hearted, tender, uplifting-minded, persevering, devoted, angelic, down-to-earth, golden-hearted, gentle-spirited, clever, courageous-hearted, courteous, harmonious, loyal-minded, beautiful-souled, easygoing, sincere-hearted, respectful-minded, comforting-voiced, confident-minded, emotionally strong, respectful-souled, imaginative-hearted, protective, noble-minded, confident-souled, wise-eyed, loving, serene, magnetic-souled, expressive-eyed, brilliant-hearted, inspiring-minded, and absolutely unforgettable man?

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Off the record

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: I just had to and if you’ve seen the movie and that scene, you’ll understand why

Warning: SMUT +18 (with plot) | safe sex, p-in-v, oral f! receiving during a professional environment, praise, superpowered sex?, power imbalance, destruction of property during sex Disclaimer: This scene is loosely based on content shown in the trailers for Superman (2025) — so technically, no major spoilers! That being said, if you're trying to go into the movie completely fresh, feel free to skip this for now and come back later.

Word count: 3.3k

You got home late, again. The city was quiet in that way it only ever was past midnight with streetlights buzzing faintly, the sound of your boots echoing in the stairwell and your coat carrying the weight of the day like a second skin. 

Once inside, you kicked off your heels, pulled your scarf free in one motion and slung your bag onto the hallway hook like muscle memory. The apartment welcomed you with familiar silence and the gentle creak of old pipes. It smelled like dust and the faint ghost of coffee and maybe the takeout you didn’t finish yesterday.

You locked the door behind you without looking and then you heard it, a sound that shouldn’t be there, one of a pan shifting.

It was soft and deliberate, like someone trying not to make noise in your kitchen.

You froze, coat still half-off. Your brain went cold before your hands did, every hair on your arm standing. You moved without breathing, slow and smooth, peeling the coat the rest of the way off and dropping it on the hook while simultaneously reaching for the bat you kept stashed by the door, the one with the worn grip and the cracked stripe of duct tape at the end. You hadn’t used it in years, not seriously, but your fingers still curled around it like you’d never stopped.

The hallway felt longer than usual as you crept toward the sound. Your breath came shallow and the refrigerator hum gave away nothing. You rounded the corner, raised the bat and swung hard without thinking twice.

The bat made solid contact with something unmoving and unbothered, and then cracked violently in half. It felt like hitting a steel beam with a stick of chalk.

“Shit–!”

You staggered back in pure panic, already wincing and then realized, mid-heart-attack, that the man now holding the broken bat with one hand and a sauté pan in the other was, in fact, Clark.

Still wearing his work clothes, pressed dress pants and the white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his chest just barely stretching at the buttons. His hair was tousled, his eyes unfairly soft and he smelled like butter, basil and the kind of quiet only he seemed to carry in your space.

You stared at him, wide-eyed while he looked at you, entirely unfazed, holding half your weapon like it was a bouquet.

“I’ll get you a steel one,” he said calmly, as if the most normal thing in the world was letting you try to brain him with a Louisville Slugger and then continuing to sauté garlic.

“I knew it was you and I still panicked,” you said, chest still tight, adrenaline peaking. “I am so sorry. God, did I–did I hurt you?”

“You can’t hurt me...physically that is, so if you’re planning on breaking up with me tonight then the answer would be yes, emotionally.”

“I’m not and that’s not the point. The point is I hit you with a bat.”

“And I made you dinner,” he said mildly, nodding toward the stove. “One of us is clearly ahead in this relationship.”

You blinked then laughed, nerves breaking like surface tension. You stepped closer, smelling whatever he was cooking, pasta, maybe. Something with cream, pepper, garlic and fresh herbs, because of course he would make it taste better than the best restaurant in Metropolis. 

Of course he would do this without asking. 

Of course he would smell like rosemary and feel like a safe house in the middle of a war.

He didn’t even wait for you to react or respond. After setting the pan down, he just leaned forward, touched your hips gently and lifted you like you weighed nothing, placing you on the kitchen counter with a softness that felt like something sacred. He stepped in between your knees, pulled you forward by the waist and kissed you slowly, like the world didn’t matter.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt and kissed him back, melting and losing track of everything except the solid warmth of his hands and the way his mouth moved like he already knew what you needed but eventually, your brain kicked back in and you pulled back slightly.

“Mmmm…you’re hiding, aren’t you?”

He paused, forehead leaning against yours.

“You made dinner,” you continued softly, “...You never make dinner unless you’re avoiding headlines.”

“I’m not hiding,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your jaw.

“You’re literally in the middle of a political firestorm, Clark. There’s a subcommittee meeting about you on four separate networks.” You shifted your head back slightly, forcing him to meet your gaze. “They’re calling it a ‘failed interventional conflict.’ They're saying you lost a war you started.”

He didn’t flinch but he didn’t meet your eyes, either. You exhaled, pressing your palm to his chest. “Let me help, let me do something. I’m not just…whatever this is. I’m still good at my job and you can’t interview yourself forever, it’s suspicious.”

“It’s really not.”

“Oh yeah? Not to mention it’s wildly unprofessional, unethical and quite simply stupid–”

“That’s taking it too far…and I know you’re very good at your job,” he said quietly, one hand brushing your thigh. “Too good.”

“Then let me interview you…him. You know how much it matters, and–”

He was quiet for a second but then nodded. “Fine.”

“…What?” you paused, registering his words. “You’ll let me interview you as…Superman?”

“Yeah… sure,” he agreed, voice sheepish with a slight edge of doubt.

You slid off the counter then, still buzzing from his kiss and went to your bag, pulling out your small field recorder, the one you kept for quick takes and on-the-fly quotes. You placed it on the counter, clicked it on and gave him a small smile as you sat back up on the counter and crossed your legs.

“Alright,” you said, in your best calm-journalist tone, the one that always made people lean in without realizing it, “Superman.”

Something in him changed instantly. You heard it more than saw it, that shift. The register of his voice dropping a full octave, steady, strong and smooth like ocean pressure. It was calm and assured, the voice the world believed in.

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said and just that tone, sent a ripple down your spine that made your knees tighten.

You cleared your throat. “There’s been a lot of controversy around the UN vote last week. Some say you overstepped–”

“I acted on intelligence I believed to be urgent,” he said. “And I take full responsibility for my actions, but I believe they prevented greater loss of life.”

You nodded, swallowing. “And the report about your…uh, withdrawal–”

“I withdrew because I was asked to. Not because I was defeated.”

You were about to ask the next question when he stepped between your legs again, parting them with ease, close enough to touch and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.

You jolted slightly. “Clark.”

“I’m still answering.” He murmured, voice dipping lower, kisses trailing now to the base of your neck, each one melting something inside your chest. His voice was unsurprisingly steady when he spoke again.  “I intervene when the scale of a disaster surpasses what human systems can handle…I don’t weigh in on politics.”

“You entered a country illegally.”

“I stopped a war.” 

"You crossed borders without permission, ignored airspace alerts, made a decision entire governments didn’t agree on…what–” you began, breath hitching slightly when his fingers gently swept higher, drawing slow circles through the fabric of your pants “–what happens when the public perception of your involvement shifts?”

He tilted his head slightly. “If I’d waited for permission, there wouldn’t have been anyone left to thank me. Bottom line is, I care what the truth is, I care about the people who are afraid and I care when I become a reason they feel unsafe, which I’m not.”

You let out an embarrassing moan which was supposed to be a warning. “Fuck, Clark–”

“Superman,” he corrected, deep and rich in your ear, the sound of it sending something hot and traitorous spiraling in your stomach. “I thought this was formal.”

“It was, Superman.” You gritted out, watching as his hands went higher and higher, “I swear to God–”

Before you could protest any further and remind him of the running recorder, of your journalistic integrity…of anything remotely rational, he kissed you. Full and deliberate, every part of your body folded into it like you’d been waiting to be touched like this again.

The recorder was still on and the interview far from over but neither of you seemed to remember.

His mouth was everywhere, devouring your lips, tracing a desperate path down your jaw, your throat and the hollow where your pulse thundered so loud you were sure he could hear it. His large hands roamed under your shirt, dragging it up inch by inch, fingertips so broad but gentle– always so careful—even when he was trembling with need.

The countertop was cold beneath your thighs but the rest of you was burning. Clark stood between your knees, pressing himself forward until there was nothing but heat and fabric between you.

His hands found the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with almost superhuman precision except when he lost patience, then the fabric tore apart, seams splitting and buttons flying beneath his grip. Your bra followed, straps flicking off your shoulders before his mouth found you again, hot, wet and all teeth scraping gently around your nipples as he sucked and groaned, letting you hear how much he ached for you. 

You arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair as he lavished attention on your hardened nipples, causing your lips to part in pleasure. Your legs parted for him in anticipation as your panties clung to you with unabashed heat. When you gasped, Clark grinned against your skin, catching every tremble in your voice and every spike in your breathing. 

“Your heart,” he growled, moving up to kiss under your jaw, leaving wet kisses and soft bites you wished pierced through your heated skin, “it’s racing. Like you’re about to run or come from me just touching you…so which one is it? Mm? I can hear the blood rushing in your veins.”

His voice vibrated everywhere, inside your chest and especially between your legs in a way that made you grind against the cold marble, erupting soft whimpers from your plumped lips. He brought you even closer to the edge so you could rock your hips against the hardened tent in his pants, desperate for more friction. Your head fell back as he gained more access to your neck, groaning into it as you continued to rub your clothed center against his erection.

The sheer understanding of what was missing settled between the both of you and Clark acted on his desperation first by grabbing the sides of your pants and yanking them down your legs, your panties disappearing with them in one smooth motion as air cooled your swollen and wet folds, making you whine as if it had been your lover’s touch, suddenly withdrawn. He looked down at your nakedness then, eyes darkening with pure want as its sweetness filled his nostrils.

He dropped to his knees as if he’d been defeated, a sight that nearly undid you, spreading you wide on the countertop before he shamelessly buried his face between your thighs, tongue broad and hot, licking a slow stripe from entrance to clit, spreading your folds apart to accommodate him.

Clark groaned at the taste of you, pressing a kiss to your swollen and aching clit before sucking and flicking his tongue against it at just the right pressure. It was never random, he listened to every thud of your heart, every tiny gasp or shuddering inhale, adjusting his rhythm to what made you crazy. His spit mixed with your sweet arousal, coated his lips and chin as he penetrated you with the tip of his tongue. You closed your eyes and gently grinded your hips against his mouth as he continued, eliciting the softest of moans from your beautiful throat while you pulled him closer to you by his hair.

His fingers slid inside you then, replacing his tongue as he let it flick against your bundle of nerves again, making you shudder. His digits were long and thick, curling up to hit a perfect spot that made your vision go white and your eyes roll, a sight he couldn’t help but grin at. He worked you over with a skill that could only come from pattern recognition beyond human ability, sensing precisely when your pulse jumped and when your breath caught just when you were about to fall apart.

“Let go,” he murmured against you, tongue relentlessly moving against you until he felt you pulse. “I know you’re there.”

You cried out, fingers clutching at his hair so hard you were thankful you couldn't hurt him, as you came for him with your hips jerking helplessly against his tongue and fingers. You could feel him smile against your heat as he worked you through every aftershock, sucking and licking you off all you had to offer him.

He stood in a rush, eyes wild, moving with the kind of urgency that said patience was not on the menu tonight and just as your fingers fumbled at his belt, he froze.

“Hang on,” he murmured and vanished in a gust of air so fast it nearly knocked the blender clean off the counter. It teetered for half a second and whoosh he was back, one hand catching it casually mid-air while the other held up a foil square like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier to practice safe sex. You reached for his belt then but he was already outpacing you, ripping his shirt open like it had personally wronged him and then flinging it aside, exposing the stretch of muscle he was made out of. You ran your hands across his chest causing him to shudder under your soft and warm hands, your lustful gaze heating his skin more than a thousand suns ever could.

He shoved his pants down, boxers barely cleared before his cock sprung free, thick, flushed and achingly hard. You wrapped a hand around him and he groaned like he was a second short of combusting, the sound vibrating in your bones as you watched him roll the condom on. He pulled you to the very edge of the counter guiding his cock against your entrance and slowly pushing in with a clenched jaw and a deathly grip to your thighs. The sight of your pussy leaking and fluttering around it made his hips jerk forward then retract pulling a wince out of you. He paused only to look into your eyes.

“Tell me if I’m too much,” he said, voice hoarse but utterly tender.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, tilting your pelvis back and pulling him in slowly, moaning as he slid deep inside with ease, stretching you so wide you could hardly breathe. Clark gritted his teeth, fighting not to move too fast but the way you squeezed around him made his control snap slightly.

He thrusted slowly at first, savoring every inch of your slick pussy as his lips fell apart, letting out soft gasps of pleasure that made your nipples harder as they tickled his chest. Your hands grabbed at any skin available, nails digging into almost unbreakable skin as his rhythm sped up, fueled by the overwhelming pleasure building between you. Each movement was deep, powerful, filling you so perfectly you could barely hold yourself together.

You both moaned in the same space, sharing breaths as you kissed while your tongues fought for control. You could taste yourself on his lips, the same sweet slick that was now leaking onto the counter and between your naked bodies as he delivered unforgiving thrusts that seemed to split you open, while his hands were around you, making it impossible to even think about pulling back.

“You don’t know how many times…I’ve thought about fucking you over your desk afterhours.” He mumbled onto your mouth with a grin that could’ve made you come. Your heart had staggered and he knew it. “Like the sound of tha’?”

You nodded quickly, messily as pleasure took over your brain and the only thing you could voice were moans and drawled whines.

“Uhhh–What? Want me to…write a piece…about how well Superman f–fucks?”

He chuckled deeply and the counter creaked, threatening to give beneath the force of his grip on the edge whenever he couldn’t force his hands to be gentle on you. He wanted them everywhere, really…on your ass, your thighs, cradling your head while he kissed you silly while his dick caused addicting damage within you. He whispered your name like a secret prayer between grunts and moans that made you forget he wasn’t an ordinary man.

“So beautiful…fuck… sweeter than any sunrise. I’m never giving this up.”

He listened to your body, tuning his pace to the staccato of your heart as it started to climb again and your nails failed to dig deeper into his skin. “That’s it,” he panted. “There, just like that…you’re so close, breathe, baby.”

You were both getting louder now, his voice rougher, needier, while yours was high and desperate as he pounded into you harder, faster, until the counter and everything on it shook violently around you.

“Clark…I–” You broke off into a wail as he hit just the right spot over and over, until your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave. Your whole body went tight around him and he lost whatever little restraint he had left when your head fell back against the upper cabinet, lips parted and letting out the most sinful sounds he had ever heard. Your pulse points were on full display as blood rushed down, making your pussy and clit pulse for him.

He slammed in hard one last time and crack!. The edge of the countertop sank under his grip as he came inside the condom with a helpless and guttural moan, hips locked tight to yours, burying himself deep inside you so you could feel his cock throb. 

You collapsed against each other, sweat-slick and shaking, his arms still holding you close like he never wanted to let go. Then came the sharp press of something under your hip, the cracked edge of the countertop, jagged and out of place.

You winced and instantly, he lifted you like you weighed nothing, cradling you against him as he stepped back, brows furrowed with guilt.

He pressed soft kisses all over your face and shoulders while you caught your breath. “Sorry about the mess…I’ll pay for it.” he added with a sheepish little smile, leaning in to kiss the spot behind your ear he knew made you sigh.

You brushed a kiss over his lips and chuckled breathlessly. “Yes you will.”

Clark grinned against your mouth, his hands still sliding softly over your sides but then your gaze drifted and landed on something that made your stomach drop.

The recorder. Still blinking and running.

“Shit,” you whispered, pulling back slightly as panic flooded your chest. “Shit, shit. The interview.”

He blinked, lips parted and twitching into a smile as he fumbled for the stop button like it might bite him. “I trust you’ll keep this part off the record.”

You turned your head to glare at him. “You have to say that before you rail me into the countertop!”

He smirked, hugging you closer like the most unbothered man alive. “Noted. I’ll…make sure to think about that the next time”

You stared at him, still breathless, ruined and absolutely already planning on letting him destroy you again…after you destroyed the recording, of course. Just in case.

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

night's so blue

clark kent x fem reader / 4.5k

it's rare for two reporters to be assigned to the same movie. how convenient that you already have a good relationship with clark. or, this is too good to be true. it isn't a set-up, right?

— co-workers to loves, stupid cute movie night, hint of everyone knows

— title from somethin stupid by the sinatras. clark kent u are so dear to me...

Your side grows cold when Clark shuffles forward to the counter. 

“Ready?” he asks, smile sweet and kind of sheepish as he clutches a large bucket of popcorn to his chest. Your face warms at the sight of his broad hand covering half of the bucket’s tacky design. 

“Yeah,” you say, returning the favor with a grin of your own. Something in Clark’s face shifts, goes soft. “I’m great.” 

Moving in unison, steps synchronized, you and Clark make your way down the hall of the theater. The carpet masks the sound of your footsteps, but it does nothing to quell the sudden leap of your heartbeat. 

Clark clicks his tongue absently, speaking slowly to avoid a stutter. “‘Descender’ is actually the movie I wanted to see the most this year.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes. So, I think it’ll be a hundred times better seeing it today with you.” 

—

Here is the thing: you and Clark Kent are co-workers. It’s as simple as that, a three-syllable word that describes your entire relationship in the most perfectly inaccurate way. 

Autumn is beginning to chase the tail-end of summer in Metropolis, which means that all the interns are gone, and now work needs to be picked back up by the actual staff, most of which have been slacking. 

(To clear any allegation: no, you are not a slacker, but a hardworking journalist for the Daily Planet who is a shining example of diligence. Your eyes are always glued to your monitor, unless... Well, unless a certain tall man stumbles into the office, spewing excuses for his tardiness or sudden disappearance. What—is people-watching not a valid hobby anymore? 

If anything, point fingers at Steve Lombard.) 

It just so happens that you and Clark were the only two without assignments at the time.  

Naturally, the Chief (don’t tell him you said that) lumped you together on this movie review article. Truth be told, you were already saying yes before he even mentioned that all expenses would be paid for by the Planet. 

So yeah, you might be a little desperate, and you definitely have an unnoticeable, tiny crush on your co-worker. 

Who knows what the Chief would say about that, but everyone else at the Planet can agree that if there was one guy who could exceed a woman’s standards, it would be Clark Kent, and he’d do it with flying colors. 

Exhibit A: when he stopped by your apartment thirty minutes ago, sweet in a way that felt too good to be true. Too good to be just co-workers for any other person, but Clark Kent isn’t any other person, and it’s just in his nature to do so. 

“Hi.” Clark’s voice is breathy, pitched just above his typical baritone, like he just ran up five flights of stairs or got flown in via Superman Airlines. He almost calls you Miss, good manners kicking in before you remind him with an eyebrow raise. 

You take him in, the rumpled sweater he fills in nicely and dark brown slacks that hug his thighs and all. His hair is messy, windswept; there’s only a slim ring of blue in his eyes, obscured behind his thick glasses. 

Secretly, you wish he would show up to work like this every day. Hell, if Steve can clock in with that stupid polo and khaki combo, then Clark can wear something other than the outstandingly polite grey suit. 

Not that you hate it, but...it just hides so much of him. You wind your fingers a little tighter around the strap of your bag, just now realizing how big he truly is—a revelation that hadn’t come until you opened that door. 

He holds out a small bouquet of tulips. They’re a little ruffled like he is. Clark says something about running into a florist on the way, how he thought about you. 

And then he smiles with hope filling the pockets of his dimples. 

Swallow. Your pathetic heart starts doing somersaults. His cheeks blush with the same pink that blooms in the tulips. 

“Are you—” you take the flowers, lay them on the table in your foyer, and think better about teasing him for showing up like he’s about to take you out on a date “—uh, that’s so sweet of you.” 

He shrugs, speaking a little fast, “It’s nothing. I just thought you should have something nice.” 

“Still...” you trail off, looping a finger into the ring holding your keys together. 

“Oh, I could carry your bag for you while you do that.” 

“Clark, you're going to give me cavities for being spoiled like that.” 

Still, you’re so endeared by how earnest he is as you lock the door and make your way down the hall. 

Clark walks one step behind you and holds the elevator even though it’s just opened. He’s so polite; offering to hold your things, standing a respectable distance away with his hands clasped together. 

You don’t realize that you’re staring, lost in your daydreams, until you blink and woah—his eyes are inches away, wide pupils ringed with the sea. Your throat gutters into the grey area between desert dry and choking on spit. 

“Sorry if I scared you.” His apology is soft, gentle, like the touch he’s pressing to your cheek. “You had something on your face.” 

He pulls away to show you his thumb. There’s eyeshadow powder smudged over the strange, not-quite-typical swirls of his fingerprint. 

Clark says, “It’s a nice color. Suits you.” 

And then you think you might have blacked out, because you only remember walking past the doorman and the metro ride in little fragments. Must have been the way your brain started shorting like livewire when Clark’s warm knuckles brushed against the back of your hand. 

Then there’s Exhibit B, five minutes before the previews started (Clark hates to be late, you learn, and he loves the trailers so he can add more movies to his watchlist). 

You’re standing in the line for popcorn, the warm smell of an oven and butter soaking the air. The carpet is stained, stiff beneath your soles in the way only old movie theaters can be. You wouldn’t have it any other way, though. 

Clark is next to you, still slouched as ever, except he has a slightly different energy about him tonight. It’s hard to place your finger on it, but if you had to pick a word, it would be ‘unguarded.’ 

Making small talk while you wait, you ask him about his previous assignments. All of which you have read—he’s brilliantly well-written that you’re kind of jealous—but you needed something to talk about before you exploded into a million pieces on the floor. At least you’d die to the sound of Clark’s voice. 

“The last time I wrote for Entertainment, I reviewed an Italian restaurant on Olive and Jefferson,” he says, nodding to himself. Eyes trained just past your temple, Clark lets a small, shy smile dawn on his face. “It’s the best I’ve had in the city.” 

That’s debatable, because you’re pretty sure the nice restaurant on Fifth and Main is better. Clark argues, though it’s weak, that the taste could be an atmosphere thing. 

You shake your head. “No, really—their linguine is to die for. Like, it would make Batman smile.” 

He laughs softly. “Well, there’s always next time.” 

Flip-flop in your heart again—next time. 

The moviegoers before you peel away to the pick-up counter. Clark looks at you, you look at him. Your hand starts creeping toward your bag. 

It’s a mad rush to the cashier. His card is wrestled out of his pocket; you’ve got your phone ready to tap. 

“One bucket of popcorn, please,” you blurt, tapping your foot as you eye the way Clark’s credit card is held in his right hand, poised to strike. Firmly, you decide that you will fight before you let your chivalrous, hot co-worker pay and further cement himself in your heart. 

The ring-up is slow, almost excruciating. In slow motion, you watch as one of the workers scoops white-golden blooms into the bucket and crosses the floor. Each footstep takes a lifetime. 

Just as the cashier finishes typing your order, Clark has his card sliding into the reader—lightning-quick, blink and gone. Transaction complete. You’re stunned as he quickly signs off with his index finger. Your phone barely had the fighting chance to even move an inch. 

You scowl, lightly nudging his arm. Usually, something like that would set his clumsy curse off, but he doesn’t even budge. Weird. “Clark, you do know that all this is paid for, right?” 

He hums. “I don’t mind filling out the reimbursement forms.” 

You don’t really know what to say to that. “That’s…weirdly cute of you.” 

With a shrug, the left corner of his mouth lifts. The action makes a muscle in his cheek scrunch up, and suddenly all that fills your mind is the image of his dimples. Deep-set, and pretty, too. 

“I…don’t know what you mean.” 

And then he moves to grab the bucket off the counter. 

—

You aren’t a stranger to being in proximity to Clark. 

Your desks share a short cubicle wall. Lois drags you to dinner night with Jimmy and Clark, and for some reason, she loves to sit next to the former and join him in giving you weird, expectant looks across the table. Mr. White always puts you on the same byline, like now—you already share a desk, he had grunted, staring down a front-page draft, so you should be a good team already. 

On a less professional note, he’s always been the guy you can rely on. He operates like clockwork. Every day—in the office by nine; late after lunch break; taking a few days every month to see his parents; clocking out with you. 

He told you, once, that his mom would love you. It hadn’t meant much then, other than three days straight of dreaming about seeing his hometown and waking up tangled in your sheets, frazzled. 

But now, things are kind of different. 

This isn’t like awkwardly bumping elbows at the table in that midscale restaurant Lois frequents when she’s short on cash and needs a place to think and talk out a new lede to her friends. It’s not standing up and crashing into each other because Clark always forgets to go the other way, and this isn’t routine either. 

This...feels like a date. A looming in the back of your mind, handholding across the armrest, fireworks in your stomach date.  

The theater is still bright when you enter, hardly populated by spectators. There’s a teenaged couple of girls sitting in the far-right corner, one of them having her legs thrown over the other. 

You don’t know how that works. Looks uncomfortable, crammed into a little boxy space. 

They giggle over something on their phones, and the girl with her legs on the bottom of the stack puts her hand on her partner’s knee, rubbing her thumb in a circle as they grin at each other. 

Is there some sort of love virus in the air or something? Because that would be a great explanation as to why you want so much more than you usually do with Clark. Want to hold his hand. Want him to put his hand on your knee and— 

Clark taps your shoulder, breaking your miles-long stare. 

“Are…you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you stumble, fingers coming up to touch your neck. Self-conscious, you give him a crooked grin. “I’m excited too.” 

“Oh,” he says. You decidedly hate him and his stupid big build and stupid soft sweater and stupid little ‘oh’ that makes your stupid heart start tap-dancing. “That’s great to hear.” 

Awesome. Like all times, Clark is oblivious to the world—that being the rat-tat of your stomach doing a sharp kick. 

It’s a true blessing that he doesn’t have the power of super-hearing. Who knows what you’ll do if he did…embarrass yourself, probably. You want to crawl into a hole and die. 

“Which row?” you ask, already beginning to scale the steps. 

“J12 and 13,” he responds, trailing behind.  

You didn’t know it was possible for a person to have a five-foot radius of body heat, but you suppose that it’s one of the quirks he always seems to be surprising you with. It also isn’t helping when a flicker of warmth lights in your stomach at the sight of his slacks straining against his thighs. 

Another unwarranted thought about Clark Kent. You really need to get a grip on yourself. 

Row J. Sliding between the seats, you search for number 12 and 13. 

You clear your throat to soften the sudden dryness that’s come to it. “So, tell me about the movie.” 

Clark shuffles in like he’s walking on stilts, nearly falling into the wrong seat twice before righting himself. You’re surprised he hasn’t spilled a single piece of popcorn. 

“It’s—think of Star Wars, but with a robot kid who’s—well, his entire existence is looked down on,” he manages, bucket clutched flush to his chest. He stalls for a second, eyebrows tilting the slightest bit inward. “And everyone wants to kill him, but he’s just a kid who feels too much.” 

A little stunned, you hold Clark in your stare. “Wow. That kind of sounds like Superman.” 

You think to slap yourself for saying that. Fuck, that’s stupid. 

He laughs then, a half-scoff with the corners of his mouth turned up. Left side higher than the right, you note—as usual. “Yeah. Just like Superman.” 

You don’t go deeper into the nuances of Superman’s existence, despite having an expert in getting interviews with the hero standing right next to you. Instead, you sit down in a silence broken only by sparse fits of giggles from the girl couple in the back and the occasional boom from an adjacent theater. 

People filter in slowly as the previews start. You train your eyes on your hands like Clark as the trailers play, not sure what to do with the conversation being left at that, and the bucketful of still-hot popcorn between you doesn’t help. 

He coughs first. You look up, and he’s already standing, washed with the colors of a movie screen. “I just realized. We don’t have napkins.” 

“Oh,” you say, stupidly. A flash of pink—Clark's tongue comes darting out to wet his lips, and it’s gone just as quickly. He fiddles with the cuff of his sweater, antsy, thumb and index rubbing the soft material. “You’re right.” 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he tells you. 

“And I promise I won’t finish the popcorn.” 

A small, awkward smile. You feel the nails of endearment drive deeper into your heart. 

Then he slinks back out of the row, knocking into the back of a seat as per usual, nearly stumbling down the stairs. 

You hide a grin behind the back of your hand. He’s so cute runs circles in the back of your head, and then you catch yourself. 

Co-workers, remember that. 

—

He tells the truth, so you keep your promise. The popcorn remains untouched. 

Retrieving napkins only takes a minute (and a half), which is enough time for your phone to buzz with a notification that Superman has just beat the shit out of an asteroid and still had the time to rescue a classic cat-in-a-tree. He also flew over Meteor Stadium and signed baseballs for three kids. 

Naturally, the staff group chat blows up. 

You’re halfway through a quiet, incredulous laugh at Jimmy’s message—just saying, Bruce Wayne kind of looks like Superman—and Lois’ response—hell no, he’s from Jersey—when he returns. Clark looks a little more puzzled than he was a minute ago, hair messier and glasses sitting crooked on his nose. 

Clutched in his hand are five or six napkins as he sits back down. His slacks—those damn slacks—hug his skin like a secret he’s only showing you now. You want to bite something. You might have something that comes first to mind too, and if anyone suggests that it’s Clark, you’re going to silence them. 

Back to the real world…now would be nice. 

In the time it took you to give him a once-over and stare, Clark has taken to lightly bouncing his knee and rubbing the cuff of his sweater. You think to hold his hand, just so he doesn’t ruin the knit. 

“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, words hesitant. His right hand reaches up to touch his jaw, feather-light. 

“No,” you say, too quickly. “I zoned out thinking about Jimmy’s text.” 

Clark frowns. “Jimmy?” 

Turning your phone to him, you scroll through the huge wall of heated debate between the photographer and Lois. His face is lit by the screen, a square of light that makes his eyes shine ever brighter. 

Somersault in your stomach. Ba-dump. Heart crashing into your ribs. 

He lets out the same quiet, incredulous laugh you did, lashes fluttering. “Bruce Wayne can’t be Superman.” 

“I know, right? He’s just…I can’t see it.” 

Shaking his head, Clark smiles and shifts to relax in his chair. “Yeah. Can’t see it.” 

The theater is fuller now. You can’t even see the couple from earlier, already lost to a sea of people sitting down. Premiere night effect, you suppose. 

What’s surprising is that the seats next to you and Clark are empty, on both sides. No one is sitting behind you either, or in front. It’s just a little bubble for the two of you here. 

The chatter rises a little louder, then stops as the lights dim, and the PSA about distractions begins. 

You think it’s kind of funny. To have your phone on silent and tucked into your pocket and still have something to watch. 

Clark is mesmerized by the opening credits. The camera pans out to a sun peeking out from behind the curve of a globe, a tiny flash of white-yellow before the music swells. Then, cut to a shot of clouds parting to reveal a sprawling city of pure tech, and his mouth stays open for a whole minute at the opening credit sequence. 

You watch the first five minutes through the reflection in his wide gaze, a rush of adrenaline flickering in your chest at every dart of his eyes as they chase details across the screen. Clark doesn’t reach for popcorn until the pace starts picking up.  

“I think we’re getting close to my favorite scene.” Clark’s voice, deep and quiet, is closer than you expected it to be. You turn your head to him, and even in the dark of the theater you can see his eyelashes fluttering inches away from your ear. 

“Yeah?” you whisper, an uncontrollable grin rising on your face. You reach for him and gently nudge his chin with your knuckles, turning it back to the screen. He complies, easy. 

Sometime between a corny one-liner and a roar of laughter in the audience, you bump hands with Clark’s at the bottom of the popcorn bucket. He chuckles a little louder then, and you tear your eyes off the screen to look at him. 

He’s sneaking a glance at you from the corner of his vision, face uncrinkling with the tail end of his laugh. Your heart flares, ribs scorched. You feel a little struck, warm under the collar. 

Fingers smearing at the corner of your mouth, “Something on my face?” 

“Nothing,” he mutters, eyes strikingly blue and—you just noticed—somewhat alien. “This movie’s just surpassing my expectations.” 

—

The sky is settling into a deep blue by the time you step out into the night. 

(Clark spent an extra five minutes taking pictures of every poster he found interesting, muttering to himself as he noted them down for future reference.) 

It’s unexpectedly chilly at this time. Though you’re wearing a sweater, you can’t help but rub lightly at your upper arms. Without a word, Clark shuffles a little closer, body heat radiating off him like a furnace. 

Bubbles are still fizzling in your stomach at the memory of the accidental touches you shared with him. You bite your cheek, a grin already urging at your face. 

“You were right,” you tell him, shoe soles scuffing on the pavement. “His story really reminded me of Superman.” 

He exhales through his nose—a pleased sound. You train your eyes away from his face, of course. How else would you get home safe without exploding on the street? 

Cars rush past the sidewalk, sending slipstreams of wind that cut through the knit of your sweater. Fighting a shiver again, you pick up the pace to the nearest crossing light—about ten paces down, blinking with that red hand in the distance. 

Clark says your name then. Quiet and gentle, like he always is, but now there’s the slightest inkling of something more solid lying beneath it in a weirdly familiar way. This is of utmost importance, says a voice in your head. 

“Yeah?” 

A car horn blares right past you, but the sound is lost to a watery filter that rushes into your ears. Only Clark’s voice is clear when he says, “I have something to tell you.” 

Your stomach does a somersault as you turn. 

He’s looking at you with a softness to his eyes, the same one he had when you were sneaking glances at each other. He’s also standing up straighter, the barrel of his chest swelling. You want to bridge the distance and shake him by his freakishly broad shoulders. You also kind of want to kiss him. 

You shrug, a small smile coming to your face. “What?” 

Clark swallows. Gulps, really, so hard that you can see the outline of his Adam’s apple bob. Then he steps forward with a breeze that comes downwind—smells like clean, sweet hay, archived newsprint, and sun-dried linen washed in citrus detergent—and pats your shoulder. 

“I’m...” he starts, chewing his cheek like he’s doubling back. You blink, and his shoulders are closing back up, neck slumping forward. “I liked spending time with you tonight,” he decides, holding your eyes earnestly. 

“Me too,” you say, nodding too fast. Something still bugs you, the question of why his attitude seemed so familiar poking at the back of your mind. 

His mouth warbles into a semi-straight, relieved smile; the habit of tilting his lips has never really been kicked, and you don’t want it to. Your stupid insides flip at the sight, heads over heels, and you try not to swoon at the quick glimpse of the tip of his tongue as he wets his lip. 

“Is it weird that I want this to happen again?” Clark’s warm hand, still on your shoulder, squeezes lightly. Not hard, but just enough to ground you. 

You reach up for it, sliding your fingers around his big palm. He’s a lot warmer when you’re skin to skin. His nails are short, healthy; there are faded calluses on the side of his finger from holding a pen for too long. You wonder about the rest of him, and then you wonder about him around you. That sets off a whole different tangent in your mind, one you won’t work through until you’re alone in your apartment and have a wall to vent at. 

Holding his hand, you decide to throw caution into the wind. “Are you free next weekend?” 

“Yes.” It’s thunderclap-quick. 

“That’s—great,” you stutter, face blooming with heat at the fact that you’re basically asking him out. Holy shit, you’re going on a company-sponsored date. “We could try that Italian place I was talking about.” 

“Of course.” 

“But I get to fill out the reimbursement form this time.” 

“Sounds good.” 

Just to tease, “And you’re Superman.” 

“Sure!” he blurts, circuits practically bursting and sparking out of his ears. “I mean—I couldn’t possibly be...him.” 

You laugh, a course of giddiness rushing through your veins. He’s ridiculously endearing, shaking his head with ears dyed pink, pupils blown wide, and glasses slowly sliding down his nose as he stumbles over his words. 

“I’m kidding, Clark.” 

A long exhale from him, hissed through the teeth as embarrassment flickers over his features. “I knew that...” 

—

It’s hard not to start kicking your feet the moment you crash onto your bed. 

Ever the gentleman, Clark had walked you up to your apartment. Your knuckles brushed in the elevator. He giggled—giggled!—at a shitty joke you stole from the internet. 

Then he stared at you from the other side of the door with sick puppy eyes as he said goodnight. His face was still red. 

“Holy shit.” Your whisper echoes in your empty apartment. This might just be your new favorite phrase. “Holy shit.” 

Fragments start coming back to you at full strength. The smell of buttered popcorn at the theater. How his eyes glinted with that weird, otherworldly blue when the movie’s colors splashed all over his glasses. The feeling of his hand in yours—warm, and right. The scary, exhilarating way your head spun when you discovered that he was already looking at you. 

The loud buzz of your phone cuts through your schoolgirl-giddy daze. You fumble around your bag for it, pulling it out to reveal PERRY WHITE branded on the pixels in bright white. 

Holy shit. 

“Hi, Mr. White,” you rush, phone clutched tight in your fingers. You can just see his stern face in front of you, beard bristling as the embers of his lit cigar flare. “If you’re calling about what I think you’re calling about, I am starting my first draft right now and I will share it with Clark in a second—” 

Someone snorts on the other end of the line. 

...That’s not your editor-in-chief. The impersonator speaks with their hand over the receiver, and you can hear the muffled back-and-forth with another person in the background. It sounds like a young man, voice still kind of pitched, and a woman with a serious tone. 

Oh, they can’t be serious. You squeeze your eyes shut until spots start dancing in your vision. 

Come on, you always get the phone. 

Hissed: Do you wanna be an accomplice? 

Yes, actually, I do! 

Fine. 

Rough scratch—a sound that only comes when a phone gets passed around. The two culprits mutter to each other for another second or so; you catch something like ‘or else I’m gonna do it’ before the man’s voice comes blaring through your speaker. 

Jimmy’s voice is shit-eating as he sings, “So, how was your date?” 

You roll your eyes, flopping back down onto your bed with a groan. “Of course, it had to be you two. I’m going to tell the Chief this time, I swear.” 

Now it’s Lois’ turn to pitch in. “Oh, he’s in on it too.” 

The wide grin that splits your face can’t be helped. Despite the meddling of your co-workers, who must feel like masterminds at this point, you’re kind of thankful. You just cling to the infinitesimal sliver of hope that they won’t sidle up to you at the coffee machine with suggestive looks. 

“You three are so lucky I don’t have a lawyer.” 

—

notes. im spilling my guts rn i saw the prime premiere. yea my broke ass stole someone's amazon account and dropped real money to get a jumpstart on clark brainrot LOL ૮◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ྀིა

++ if u enjoyed please let me know!! i love feedback ;)))

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Only Yours

Jack Abbot x f!reader

synopsis: reader got some new, tighter scrubs. jack gets jealous when one of the first years tries to ask her out. will this give him the incentive to finally make things official between them?!

warnings: mdni! reader and jack are in a situationship, smut: fingering (f receiving), one orgasm (f), coming in pants (m), language

words: 1.6k

a/n: enjoy!

“Hey Ellis.” You greet your friend as you set your belongings down at your station at the central hub of the ED.

Ellis is already logged into her computer despite only arriving a minute before you. “Hey yourself.”

“Ready for another twelve hours?”

Ellis groans. “Am I ever?” She glances up at you, and her eyebrows bounce up. “New scrubs?”

You look down at your attire, flattening any wrinkles. “Yeah. They’re kinda tight.”

“Do a turn.”

You laugh but comply, and Ellis cracks a joke about your ass looking nice. She glances over your shoulder and then leans in. “Did you get them to show off for your man?”

You scoff. “Abbot isn’t ‘my man.’”

She isn’t amused. “Sure, tell yourself that.”

“I’m serious.” You whack her with a folder. 

Ellis leans back in her chair, crossing her arms as she squints at you. “In that case, no more eye-fucking at work.”

You roll your eyes and straighten your ID. “Fuck you.”

She belts out a laugh. “Gladly.”

Shooting her a glare, although you can’t hide the amusement behind it, you study the screen for any interesting cases. Finding one, you take off with a wink. 

-

Six hours into your shift, and it’s been pretty uneventful for a hospital. This is relieving, because you can hardly concentrate when you notice Abbot’s eyes trailing you. He studies you like a hawk; it seems like he’s waiting for you at every corner, like he knows what room you’re in and when. At first, you smile in greeting, but after a point, you start to ignore his stare. Let him look. If he isn’t going to get the balls to ask you out for real, you can show him what he’s missing.

Bending over to lean against the nurses’ station, you don’t notice one of the first year doctors come up until he’s hovering over you, breathing down your neck. You think his name’s Dr. Greyson.

“I’m bored,” Greyson says, leaning against the station next to you. He sighs dramatically, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“There’s plenty of patients needing care,” you say tiredly, picking at a nail.

“Wanna get drinks after this?”

Oh, God. “I’m going to sleep after this.”

“You’re no fun!” Greyson nudges you, almost aggressively, and you bite your lip to hold back from cursing him out. 

You turn so you’re looking at him directly, but his eyes aren’t on you. They’re on your boobs. “Can I help you with something?” you ask bluntly.

He shrugs. “Just thought a pretty girl like you deserves some company.”

You can’t believe this. You can’t believe him. Looking around, you try to spot an out… and then you see Abbot.

He’s leaned against a wall by the break room, thick arms crossed and lips pursed. He looks… angry. And he’s staring right at you.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s jealous.

With a smirk you’re sure he sees, you turn back to Greyson and lean a little closer despite the gag reflex it activates. “You think I’m pretty?”

Greyson grins. “Yeah.”

You bite your lip in a sultry manner that has him drooling like the dog he is. “You said you wanna go out for drinks?”

He nods enthusiastically. You almost feel bad for the guy, if not for the fact he’s absolutely disgusting. Putting your hand on his chest, you straighten his scrub top. “I’ll think about it.” You pat his chest once and then turn on your heel with a wide grin, conscious of the way your hips sway as you head to an empty bay of the hospital.

You fix your hair as you go; you know he’s coming.

-

You barely make it through the door and past a few rooms before you hear the door slam shut behind you, stomps echoing through the hall. Your pace quickens, your heart racing because of this little game you’re playing. 

You hear Jack groan, his steps speeding up, and then there’s an arm around your forearm, swiveling you around so fast you nearly get whiplash. 

Abbot throws you against the nearest wall, a hand cushioned between your head and the surface to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. Even angry, he’s careful. It’s fucking hot.

“The fuck was that?” He’s fuming, hands clenching and unclenching into fists, flexing the muscles in his arms. His brow is pulled taut, and he licks his lips as he stares at you with intimidation. 

You play dumb. “What was what?”

Jack’s arm shoots up next to your head, caging you in as he leans in close. “Don’t play with me.”

You reach out and fiddle with his collar. “But I like seeing you frustrated.”

Jack groans, cursing. His eyes never leave yours, intense with possession and want. “What did you tell him?”

You’re nonchalant as you glance away from him. “I told him I’d think about it.”

Jack’s other hand is at your chin, moving your head back to face him. “Like hell you did.”

You giggle, and you swear you see fumes coming out of his ears. Jack grips your chin tighter. “Tell him no.”

“Why?” you ask. “It’s not like anyone’s claimed me-”

“Oh, I’ll claim you alright,” he growls. 

Your thighs squeeze together. “Jack,” you can’t help but moan.

His eyes flicker with fury. “Oh, so now you remember me.”

Your expression softens, and you forget the playfulness you were oh-so-eager to flaunt. “I always remember you.”

Jack stutters, and he actually looks away. His palm clenches beside your head, but his grip on your face loosens. 

You press a hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “Tell me you want more than this. Tell me you want me, and I’m all yours.”

He turns back to you, hand sliding from your chin to your cheek. “Of course I want you,” he breathes.

Your heart races. “Then I’m all yours.”

That’s all Jack needs to break the gap between you two, sealing his lips against yours in a searing kiss. The two of you fight for dominance, but you eventually let him have it, moaning against his tongue and allowing it to slip into your mouth. Your hands move to grip at his bicep, to press against his growing bulge. He groans against your mouth, hips stuttering against you. You’re absolutely dripping.

“Fuck,” he moans as he pulls back, hands and eyes moving down your body. He grips your hips tightly, pulling your lower half roughly against his. “You don’t know how crazy you’ve been driving me, wearing these scrubs.” 

You pant as one of his hands slips under your underwear, fingers gliding and collecting your slick. He moans when he realizes just how wet you are. 

You slouch against the wall, certain he’ll hold you up if you lose your strength. “I wore them just for you.”

“Fuck.” Jack glances down the hall and turns back to you with lust. “They’ll be looking for us.”

You pull him closer. “Let them.”

He breaks into a cheeky grin and lets two of his fingers slip inside of you. You gasp at the feeling, and his other hand on your hip tightens to keep you up. “Dirty girl,” he breathes against your ear.

You practically fall forward, resting your head on his shoulder as his fingers plunge in and out of you. His thumb rubs frantic circles against your clit, and your body trembles.

“There she is,” he says proudly through clenched teeth. “You can talk to other guys, but I’m the only one who gets to make you come.”

“Only you,” you parrot, biting the fabric of his top.

“Let go for me,” he grunts, and he moves his lips to suck on your neck. His mouth suctions around the skin, and you bite harder on his shirt to stiffen your yell as you come apart on his fingers. 

Jack continues to suck as you come, working you through your orgasm with an unyielding hand on your hip and rough, experienced fingers in your vagina. 

His lips pull from your throat with a pop, and you cry out as your orgasm settles. With your full body weight against him, Jack slowly moves his fingers out of you, and both of you sigh in discontent when you’re no longer wrapped around him.

Jack lifts his hand and licks his fingers clean, and you nearly come again from the sight alone. Speaking of which… You begin to lower yourself to your knees to return the favor, but an arm stops you. 

“You-” you try, but Jack glances down with a flushed, almost embarrassed expression. “No need.”

Your gaze shifts down, and you spot the wet, white patch soaking through his scrub pants. You bite your lip as you look back up at him. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Jack laughs awkwardly, and you lean forward to peck his lips. When you pull away with hooded eyes, he steadies himself against the wall. 

“Tell him no,” he repeats.

You laugh. “I was never going to go.”

Jack squints at you. “Still. Tell him no.”

“Got it, sir.”

Jack groans, and he fiddles with your collar, studying the hickey on your neck. When you look down to notice it, you realize just how big and noticeable it is.

“Jack,” you moan.

He shrugs innocently. “Told you I’d claim you.”

You smack his shoulder with a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smiles and pulls you close again. “Let me take you on a date. A real one.”

You’re beaming, but then your expression flashes with mischief. “I don’t know,” you drawl. “I kinda told Greyson I would-”

Jack grabs the back of your head and clashes his lips against yours. You groan with a smile, and he nips your bottom lip as he pulls back.

His eyes are intense. “God, I can’t wait to ruin you.”

It’s going to be one hell of a night.

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

seven years

Pairing: Jack Abbot x wife!Reader

Summary: Whitaker learns about you and Jack in an unexpected post-shift ritual.

warnings: language, slightly suggestive at the very end, jack the loyal man, mentions of cheating (not Jack), grammatical error, no beta read.

author's note: a blurb that turned into a fic wow

“Are you sure i’m not intruding your ritual?” Whitaker said to you, sitting beside Jack across from Robby, who sits beside you. Albeit the tiredness seeping into his bones, he’s still slightly intimidated that you offered him to join you for your usual post-shift dinner, and now sitting in a booth with three attending, he can feel the silence stabbing at him. 

You huffed at him, leaning your head slightly to rest Robby’s shoulder, “please, this guy thinks he’s going crazy if he thirdwheel again, so trust me, you’re not intruding anything.” you can feel Robby’s chuckles, his hand pushing your head slightly from his shoulder. 

“You’re heavy.” you mock hurt from his statement, shoving his shoulder away. You faced Jack, “did you hear what your boyfriend said to your wife, Jack?” you said dramatically. 

Whitaker, as if being reminded that you are indeed married with the attending beside him, suddenly sat up straighter, “oh shit. I mean- I’m sorry, but do you wanna switch places with me? I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking and just sat down beside dr. Abbot,” 

You chuckled at him, stopping his rant before he actually stand up “nah, don’t worry about it,” he nodded at you, shoulder slumping down. 

“He doesn’t bite. Don’t worry.” Robby quipped beside you, making you laugh. Before Jack can retort something at his friend, the waitress approach your table with four coffee, putting one in front of you each. After you list off the usual for the three of you, you looked over at Whitaker expectantly, waiting for him to mention his order. 

He shakes his head, “i’m good with coffee, i’m gonna cook later.” Jack, sensing that he thinks he’s going to pay for himself cuts Whitaker off, “never decline free food, kid.” Whitaker looked between you and Jack, you nodded at him, encouraging him to order for himself. “Uh, i’ll have the burger too, please.” he said to the waitress who nods and walked away with your orders. 

“Thank you, really, you guys don’t have to,” Whitaker said to no one in particular, Robby chuckles, “just don’t go listening to Myrna’s whims again” Whitaker winced, being reminded of his earlier encounter with her. 

“She asked about you again, you know,” you nudged Jack’s leg with yours, Jack grumbled lifting his coffee to his lips to take a sip. “Asked me if i’m already fed up with you or not,” 

“Have you?” Jack said, smirking at you. You pretend to ponder before nudging his leg once again, “I said if I am indeed fed up with you, Robby got dibs on you,” 

“Spending my life with him sound hellish, actually,” Robby said, leaning back. Jack points at him, “mind you, i’m heavenly to live with.” 

“Yeah, right” Jack looked at you narrowly, no malice whatsoever behind it. “You literally almost cried missing me when I went to that talk with him, saying that you hated him ‘cause he got to spent the weekend off with me,” his chin jutted towards the man beside you. 

“Trust me, the text you sent me was pure hatred,” Robby added. You shoved his shoulder away again, “you suck.” followed by a laugh from him. 

“Dr. Abbot, can I ask you something?” whitaker speaks up, earning a questioned look from both you and Jack, “i mean the female dr. Abbot, sorry,” 

You want to emphatize with the way he’s still so scared of the three of you, if only you didn’t find the way he said that was almost comical, but you give him a look to tell him to continue. 

“How did the two of you-” he started, eyes darting between Jack and you, “-you know, get together,” Robby laughed, boisterous and loud. You catch Jack’s eyes, you wanna take this one? He shakes his head, he always understand what you wanted to say, after all. 

“I like him, he likes me back, we get together, boom, seven years” you oversimplified it to Whitaker, who still looks at you mouth still slightly agape, wondering if you’re joking or not. Robby puts an arm on your shoulder, “I take full credit on this two,” you jokingly lift his hand away, but leaned your head on his shoulder “ugh. A fact i’m both regretting and thankful every damn day.” 

Whitaker looked at you and Robby in silence, looking at Jack through his peripheral vision as if asking him are you okay with this? You know that look all too well, “he’s my neighbor like ages ago, we hang out like almost every day until one time this guy-” you nodded towards Jack, “- comes over all charming and I was like, yeah I don’t wanna be friends with him. Oh, and if you’re asking if he’s okay with me being like…this with Robby, trust me I can’t be friends with him if I ever find him attractive” 

“Same by me,” Robby added beside you, you gasped at him, “you telling me i’m not attractive?” 

“That’s what you just said about me,” he groaned, you looked at Jack “you heard that? I’m not attractive for him,” Jack smirked at you, leaning back “eh you bring that on yourself,” realizing Whitaker still hasn’t said anything, Jack asked him, “that answers your question? Or are you asking why? ‘Cause I ain’t glazing my wife in front of you if that’s what you’re asking, she’ll put it over my head later at night,” Whitaker nodded his head in silence, pulling on his coffee cup. 

“Glazing?” 

“What the hell is that vocab?” 

You and Robby said at the same time, making Jack shrug, “what? I keep up with the kids” 

You were about to retort something about his music taste when the waitress walked over to your table with your meals, and if you weren’t really hungry you might’ve just mock him anyway. A wave of thank you’s and enjoy later, the four of you are enjoying your meal in silence. 

You were finishing up on the last of your fries when Robby leaned closer and half-whispered “that’s the girl who hit up on Jack last time we went here,” he said as he slightly nudged his chin towards the door, looking at the three girls entering the threshold. 

“Which one?” you said excitedly, Jack never give you any reason to feel jealous at all, so when someone actually hit up on your man, it’s more of an entertainment for you. “The one with the yellow cardigan-” he called out to Jack before continuing “don’t turn around, but that’s the girl who asked for your number the other day,” 

Jack and Whitaker instinctively turned around, making Robby groan, the girl in question looked over at your table, a recognition struck her face as she walked over to the four of you with confidence in her stride. 

With a smile on her face, she greeted both Jack and Robby with a wave before turning her body towards Jack, “sooo….?” Jack shakes his head away, an annoyed look at his face, he raised his left hand, showing the ring on his finger. With a whispered ‘damn’ she walked back to her table. 

You kicked Jack’s leg, a smile on your face, “You didn’t tell me someone hit up on you!” Jack groaned, “I told you like the moment I arrived at home?” Jack said as he caught your feet, putting in on the side of his thigh, patting a soft rhythm on it. 

“No, you told me, someone asked if you’re single or not, that’s like totally different.” you looked over at Robby, silently asking him to tell the story, Robby swallowed the last of his fries before starting. 

“We’re in this same booth actually, but Jack was facing the door and that girl was with a different group, she came up to us, didn’t even ask for our names, just went over to him and ask if he’s single and ask for his number in like, a single breath-” 

“She didn’t ask for my number man, don’t add stuff up,” Jack cuts Robby’s story off. 

“She actually asked your number, if you’re not half-dead maybe you’ll actually hear it,” 

You know Jack is going to retort something so you lift your hand to tell him to wait, before turning back to Robby, still grinning in excitement, “continue,” 

“You’re way too happy for someone who’s husband is getting flirted with” Jack said with a half-groan. 

“Hey I’ll have you know my husband happened to be a very good-looking man with a charming air around him, even a ring on his finger is not gonna stop girls from hitting on him,” you replied without missing a beat. 

Seven fucking years. Seven fucking years of being with you, and he still blush when you say things like that so off-handedly, like you’re just stating off a fact. 

“Can I actually finish my story, it’s literally just one sentence left,” Robby chimes in, you pull back your attention to him, nodding. 

“Okay so, like in a single breath, quite a feat really, and then this dude straight up cut her off saying ‘sorry-” sorry i’m married, yeah you know what he’s going to say, but Jack cuts him off once again. 

“I didn’t say sorry, mind you.” 

“-oh yeah, just straight up ‘i’m married’-” Robby nods after getting reminded, “- then she went ‘like married married or just married’” 

“Yeah like that means something, so I said, ‘whatever language you’re speaking, i’m married’” Jack finishes off Robby’s story, you stare at him. 

“You didn’t even say sorry?!” 

“Why should I? I’m not sorry for being married to you,” he said that as if he’s practiced that words over and over again. 

If earlier was his blushing moment, now was yours. 

You give him a small smile, he reciprocates it by squeezing your ankle. The small almost minuscule moment between the two of you are broken off by Whitaker. 

“You’re not even jealous?” he’s seen Santos almost throwing hand when someone hits on her partner the other day, so seeing the two of you like this is almost weird to him. 

Robby scoffs, “this two doesn’t have a single jealous bone in their bodies,” you shrug, “he never gives me reason to be jealous, he loves me wayyyy too much” you say, your tone held a slight tease to it.

“Damn right,” jack mutters. 

“Beside, he has like zero game, I seriously am the one who asked him out while he sulked,” he gives you leg a slight pinch, not enough to even hurt you, just enough to tell you hey without even saying it out loud. 

Robby stands up, stretch a little, “well, i need to pee, it’s my turn to pay too” he asked the two of you. Whitaker stands up suddenly, “uh, thank you, again, but I also need to-” the last part wasn’t heard as he sped up to run to the restroom.

“Thanks man,” you and Jack said at the same time, as Robby walks away to pay. 

“Just when you think we couldn’t be more married, we do shit like that,” 

“I’ll gladly be even more married to you-” now that it’s just the two of you, he’ll gladly be as sappy as he wanted to be. “-You meant what you said?” 

“The part where you have zero game? Or the part where you love me too much?” you give him a smirk, he groaned. 

“I do. I trust you with my life, y’know. I mean yeah sure you can have someone prettier than me, and maybe better than me, but one that can stand your ass? That’s just me, hon” 

“Two wrong does make a right, and i do love you, wayyyy too much” he said the last part mimicking your tone from earlier. You nudged his thigh before dropping it down to exit the booth. 

“I’m not gonna kiss you if that’s what you want,” you said to him, now standing in front of the diner. 

“Damn, romance is dead.” Jack gives you his trademark smirk, one that makes you fall head over heels for him all those years ago. 

You stand on your tiptoes, putting your lips beside his ear, whispering “if I kiss you now i’m just gonna taste the fries and i want to taste you when I kiss you,” 

Jack puts an arm around your waist, holding you close. “Rude. we’re waiting for Robby and Whitaker and you decide to play foul.” 

You put your arms around him, snuggling closer, “i’m just stating the fact,” 

“We-” 

As if on cue, Robby exits through the door, Whitaker following behind him, he sighs looking at the two of you, “Whitaker’s place on my way, see you two lovebirds tomorrow,” Jack nods at him.

“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” you said giving him a wave, watching both him and Whitaker’s back moving away from the both of you. 

You turned your head at Jack’s, “you were saying?” 

He leads you to start walking with a hand on the small of your back, “we still have a five minute walk, i’m seriously expecting that kiss,-” he leans even closer to whisper, “-also, do you know how hard it is to walk with a hard-on?” 

You laughed as you shove him in his stomach, he smiled at the way you laugh at him, oh the things he’d do to see you like this over and over again. 

Seven fucking years and not even for a second the love ever dims. 

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Part: 5 To Live is to suffer

The North Water - Starring Jack O'Connell and Colin Farrell

(Notes: What a series. Patrick hopefully heals from it all. Sent me on an emotional rollercoaster. Drax got what he deserved and Baxter.)

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Violent delights

pairing: Remmick x f!reader summary: As a preacher’s daughter, you find yourself helping a stranger in need, unaware of the wicked mutualism he seeks to offer… word count: ~6,0k warnings: SEXUAL CONTENT - MDNI!!!!!!!!!!!!!, english isn't my first language, blood k!nk, swearing, corruption k!nk, (mentions of) body mut!lation, injury, f!ngering, p in v, death, blasphemy/heresy, afab reader, 18+

[ao3] [masterlist]

It was four in the afternoon when death had taken the life of the corpse you watched carefully from afar. You sighed, staring at the dead fly lying on the windowsill. He had been a nuisance yesterday, and yet today his mouth had been sneered forever.

Dust covered it like a blanket across his fragile body; his ail no longer, his soul the better. Even here, in the enclosures of your own home, the heat tormented you further. You could be standing outside and it wouldn’t have made a difference. The scorching sun knew just right how to get beneath your skin. The prairie owed you no dignity, but you thought better of the wooden walls around.

You envied the creature. His soul was in a world of delight and peace, whereas your drained, sweat-stained self could barely stand after you’d finished your chores.

The wooden chair creaked beneath you as your feet felt the dry sanded wood below. The searing sun that had been the crux of today’s ache was soon to set. How much that old bastard had pulled you down throughout your walks to the neighborhoods and the marketplace; to and fro. Your father had appointed you the work of collecting the folks’ donations for the reconstruction of the library. You had assumed to only be given a couple of dimes, but the change had been plenty. To be doing something good for the community made your heart burn— even more when believing you were bettering it.

The sun didn’t care much, however. His gift of appreciation? Burnt shoulders. Despite the time passed, the surface still showed red and no sign of scaling soon. The straps of your top pierced through the skin, worsening your ache. With a finger, you repositioned the straps to another area, passing down its penitence.

A groan elicited from the Windsor chair’s paws with your ghost trailing behind. The floor was harsh and dry, your feet scraping against it. The see-through embroidered drapes touched delicately beneath your fingertips. It was a cloudless day, the sun hiding behind nothing but the anticipating horizon. Its orange blaze and unforgiving sight colored the sky around a captivating crimson red.

As a preacher’s daughter, you'd best believe it to be a sign for the doomed. Something was nearing, stunning to the eye but an agony to grasp. The drapes cast a shadow across the damp room as you tugged them to a close.

Dust danced in the limits of the light. You picked up the book you’d discarded earlier, the chair creaking when you resettled into it. Skimming through the pages, you found yourself seeking the one—of oh so many—dog-eared pages you'd left behind.

Page 319. The words read with ease in the torch-like glow surrounding the paper. You surrendered yourself to its content. Each sentence traced and connected to the other, each word as passing as the next. Still, your thoughts wandered to what had kept you awake for many nights: What would it mean to hold a library, a good one, in this town? Could it mean an opportunity for you?

The eye-catching vacancies up on the board by Ruthie’s shop had got many up and looking. Truth be told, they’d caught yours as easily as the others’. It’d be the first smell of freedom from the church – from your dad. Just because you carried the heart of a believer, and by God you were, didn’t mean you had to dedicate your whole life dangling behind Daddy. He’d given you so much—this house, education, and a real good life—but his gracious givings seemed to draw the line at your independence.

Lingering thoughts afflicted your mind, searching for what ought to be given to him to make him recognize your potential. You were good with the people, could stand your own ground; you could think, read, write, work, do math—what else does a daughter need to sacrifice to be seen as a mutual, one to be capable?

A sudden knock on the door awoke you from the rushing thoughts. Your fingers carefully unwrapped from the corner of the pages you'd gripped tightly in the storm that clouded your mind. A liquid trail found its way to your torso. Your breast heaved as your top stuck to your chest, realizing that you hadn't gotten a clue who'd come knocking at such a time of day.

The book left your embrace, dropping delicately to your chair. The corners of the bedroom watched you step into the living room. The hardwood punctured your skin with thorny kisses. A breeze blew the curtains in a wave, the wooden exoskeleton opened by a crack. You walked past, hearing the grass rustling beneath.

Another knock. Firmer. The noise startled you, forcing you to step back slowly. With a swift head turn, you watched the outside through the blinds. Dark clouds had taken over the blazing evening sun, now looming over the dry, scarred land. Did you just hear that right?

Three crows sat upon the fence right beyond the wooden texture. Their beaks were half open, their eyes sunless and onyx, capturing the essence of their feathers. Aside from their heaved motion, they stood as silent and dead as the night. One of them tilted its small head, taunting your question. A breath of the southern heat brushed the hem of your skirt. For a moment, the grass shut its talking, and the breeze spoke no more. You faced the ginger door, the knob bronze and faded by age, the edges thick and ruminating on its time.

You could've sworn by the devil, you'd heard your name—

Another knock gathered your senses, cold-cheeking your paranoia all the same. “Alright, alright,” you said hastily. “No need to be breaking down my door near night.”

The touch of the knob stunned you; its cold metal a contrasting feel to the space around. You turned it with a quick motion, and the door opened to a muffled lament. A voice of God entered the room. “God, help me,” a croaked voice sang before you.

A man knelt on the porch, blisters covering his back—a white tank top torn into rough cuts—and showing the fury of the devil. His hands were held like a prayer, his face downturned as if to repent. “Please—they just came out o’ nowhere.” His words were no louder than a whisper, the sentences spoken in fear of letting the wind carry the song further.

“My—” you sputtered in shock, your hand curling up and finding refuge across your mouth. “—What has happened to you?!” Splinters lingered with their touch against the back of the hand that kept holding the door. The smell of death clung to him like a trademark of sorts. It reminded you of war, sickness, and despair.

Memories crossed your view—of crosses and nails, shovels and dirt, wounded and their wounds. His head lifted, just slightly, to witness the agape of treachery in front of him. A lock of hair covered his eye like a veil—his brown eyes meeting yours as tears teased their edges. This was just a man in need.

With the burden of despondency, he furrowed his eyebrows, mouthing in similar anguish: “Can I please—” “Of course,” you interrupted, the words said hurriedly. “Come on in.” You stepped onto the porch, the oppressive wind tracing your movements. Quickly, you lifted him up, carefully carrying an arm around your shoulder. His skin was boiling and stuck to yours as beeswax to water. He winced at the act, hissing as he limped into your home. His knees were buckled in ache. With the curve of your heel, you nudged the door shut with a squeak.

Contact with a leaking liquid made your arms twitch. Blood dripped down his shoulders, seeking grace on yours. The floor tasted him before you could recollect your senses. What has he done?

With a crouch, you placed him on a chair by the dinner table—a compact appliance covered in the dust of sandstorms. A small light elicited from the oil lamp on top. He hoisted himself by the arm, straightening his back, but his head fell loose soon after. A hiss blew through his teeth, and a trembling hand reached for the scarred tissue on his back.

“Hold on—” you spoke, cupping his hand and pulling it away. “Don’t you be making it worse now.” With a quick glance at the surface above his top, you knew you had to sanitize most of the wounds. “Sir, some of these need stitching. I’m afraid I can only wrap them up,” you said as you gazed upon his shoulders. He shook his head. “I can’t go back now. Them folk might still be out there looking for me.”

“You’ll get infections if you don’t,” you insisted. Footsteps echoed into the cramped space of the kitchen. You grabbed a bottle of old whiskey from the cupboards, dust covering its handle. Opening the drawers below, you found the last tablecloth keeping it company, its ashen color fading into the compartment.

The ground held his eye while the poor man attempted to steady his breathing. His shoes were covered in a mixture of gravel and dirt, the trace going all the way up to the knees of his pants. “You wasn’t out there,” he huffed, his voice starting to break. “They followed me like savages.”

The smell of strong methanol extorted from the neck of the bottle. The aroma of drunken nights and blasphemy slipped into the air between you. A finger traced alongside a rip near the collar of his shirt—it held a blister beneath its texture; a fourth-degree burn. Your eyes saw its kin all around; everywhere across his spine your gaze met another second—third—fourth-degree burn. “What the hell they’ve done to you?” you muttered beneath your breath.

You sought the maroon, gaping cuts that covered his skin—wounds that carried a knife’s history. His muscles were ever so tense below your eyes. Beneath the raptured surface, you saw a hardworking man’s body. His lean figure and sun-weathered skin caught your mind. His hair stuck to his face, a set of dark brown curls in withered state. For a moment, your fingers halted against his back, feeling the heat of his skin against yours. “You saw who they were?” With a dap of alcohol, you met the broken surface.

He recoiled, snapping his head back in pain. With clenched teeth and eyes shut, he spoke, “No, ma’am.” His fingers gripped his earth-colored pants so tightly, the nails saw white. “Figured they were some folk that didn’t want nothing but to let out some smoke.”

A glance of an eye answered to his reasoning. You’d never heard of people causing such wretched trouble—at least not in this town, as far as you were aware. Had newcomers’ attention been drawn to this place? Was there truly vicious folk coming this way?

“I was just up the hill down the road making a deliverance when they got me,” he continued. You bound his wounds while offering an ear. The cloth quickly fused with the color underneath, as if cotton had met with wine. You made a loose knot, intertwined one end with the other, and tightened it well. It earned you a repressed grunt from the injured fellow.

His eye met yours through his brows when you wrapped up. “Thank the Lord for your kindness,” he said, a smile creeping up his lips. “Forgive me, but you a church woman? Knowing all this stuff…?”

The question stunned you. The cross necklace beneath your shirt mimicked the heat of your skin. You smiled. “I am. My father’s the priest from around here. You ever been?” “I’m afraid I haven’t.” He sighed. “My faith’s been weary lately.” His face turned away from yours at the words. His beard glistened in the little light that was left in this corner. A warm redness stained the skin beneath his burnt cheeks.

You lightly shook your head. “Ain’t no worries about that. Faith is complex, you see.” Little time passed while doubt grasped your instinct. With squinted eyes and creased brows, you corrected yourself. “No—God is. He understands.”

“Maybe for firm believers like you, but me?” he chuckled, as if the thought was a fool’s joke. His words turned whisper-like again. “I reckon He favors torturing me in ways you can’t possibly imagine.” His shame left you in dismay, leading you to offer a secret of your own.

“I’m not the truest believer you’ve met just yet,” you admitted. His head turned, brown locks ablaze and dark eyes full of pondering. “What d’you mean?” Reluctance painted your face before you continued. “I see God not just as ‘Him.’ I mean—the things I’ve seen happening to some of the people around here… no God could allow that, and the devil ain’t capable enough to do all that by himself.”

Something in his demeanor shifted. A flicker of light. You believed your eyes deceived you when the brownness of his showed a hint of red within. His irises fixated on you, his knuckles flaming with tension. “What if there ain’t no devil to begin with. But just God?”

When you spoke the last words, you were too focused on their meaning to notice that the man was just staring at you. Waiting. A silence fell over the room, and it was only when you were drowning in contemplation that you realized your actions. You briefly shut your eyes, berating yourself for speaking such heresy. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what overcame me just now—” you rambled, in contempt with one’s self. You shook your head, like to shoo away such demeaning thoughts. “Never mind me. Here, let me take a look at those burns—”

The oil lamp squeaked when you grabbed it in an attempt to behold a closer look. The obsidian handler, with its cold touch; the night having set at last. It was a sight that churned your stomach in fear, when the view of his shoulders seemed vice in the face of medicine.

The blisters had gone. Faded away like a ghost in daylight. The skin was pure, untouched— not a single sign of a corrupted, scarred surface. His back was covered with sun-bleached moles, the touch smooth beneath your fingertips. The stained cloth showed red, but when you pulled it loose, the marks had gone; the cuts no more. There wasn’t a single sign of the cause of abuse. Your eyes darted beyond his spine, his arms, his back, deciphering a possible explanation that might let you be at peace. An abrupt, warped feeling set in your soul, freezing you on the spot.

“I actually think I’m feeling a lot better now.” His voice was hoarse and sounded muffled, as if coming from another room. You didn’t realize that he’d gotten up, or that you’d stepped back. Something was cold and caged between your fingers.

His back still faced you when the color drained from your face. The surface beneath your eyes felt deepened and darkened. A shiver made its way from your neck—like a virus beyond your body—until it found a way into your bones. The wind blew the grass to a halt, and a crow screeched deep in the night. Fear had wrapped its hands around your throat, but still, you spoke. “You the devil or somethin’?”

A deep chuckle elicited from him in the faintly lit corner he stood. The hollowness that tainted it made your blood run cold. “Just Remmick’s all,” he said, a smile pitching up the end.

A sudden hit of adrenaline raised your confidence by the horns, holding up the flask between your fingers; its liquid within flowing to the tip. “Get out of my house!” you shouted, eyes wide with both fury and angst.

Your arm trembled like an animal gone rogue. Beneath your top, your nipples pierced through the fabric despite the heat. The lace sketched flowers at your hem, making your skin peek from the holes beneath; your entire body defiled with the move of friction from your never-ending quivering. Even your hands were decayed with the touch of shock.

Remmick’s hair stuck to his face, his shirt a made-up history of his supposed ambush. He slowly turned around, serenity stitching together a composure of something wicked. Drool covered the surface below his mouth, the trail glowing in the light. Comprehension was neglected when you met his eyes—the earth filled with blood as his showed red with yearning, eagerness; a way to still a desperation within him—a hunger.

“Or I could repay you,” he offered. “You see, you’ve been so good to me, fixin’ me up and everything,” he voiced as he approached you slowly, making you echo-reverse his movements. “How could I leave without giftin’ a lady like you something she might need?”

“I don’t want nothin’ to do with whatever you are,” you gritted between your teeth. Panic tingled in your spine, touching up your sleeves, setting in your teeth, your throat; it was all over, drowning you in his sight. The wood groaned as you took another step back, your eyes tearing up by drought. You never broke apart from his gaze, locking onto it, desperately trying to gain the upper hand. Another step and he was so close you could feel his breathing. He stared you down and felt beyond your palm, grabbing the flask from your shaking hand.

“Your pitiful songs brought me here to begin with,” he said, his voice so delicate. “Those ails was what I heard from miles down the road. It made my heart heavy to hear, but I know I can cure it—how to give you that salvation.”

Finally, you dared to turn your gaze, closing your eyes to accept your fate. “I’m not making a deal with the devil this night.” A tread. A groan. The hardwood met your back. With your cheek against the wall, and his mouth near your ear, he could only whisper: “Not if you ain’t want to see the outside’s of the world, you won’t.” His teeth grazed the tender shell of your ear, making you shudder and flicker your eyes in reflex. “Believe me, you’ve seen nothin’ yet—”

His words were a deceive, you knew. Somehow still, they tasted like honey and filled your mind with ease. You wanted this. You begged, prayed, and bargained to the Lord for the day you’d gain your freedom and live it.

There was a sudden feeling, one tingling far across your spine, for a need to abandon all. To disrupt and disfigure. To find and to behold. It took a dip in your stomach and felt the insides of your skin. It was an urge so strong, so abrupt, you could nearly touch the thread it was spinning in view.

His words were supposed to make you bear it with grace, but something within you warmed at the promises of his voice. With his chest so close, his teeth so near—you knew in your heart you were going to sin.

Something was said of a rescue, and something of a drink, several psalms, and a certain eleven-five. It all happened so fast, like lightning hitting a stump. You couldn’t even fathom the capability of leading yourself into this indignity. Even so, your soul felt alight, overshadowing a dubious mind. “You asked to be free,” he murmured. “And who am I to deny that?”

The hanger on your ceiling rotated slowly by the little breeze that had slipped into your bedroom. Thin cushions and linen sheets cradled your body. Calloused hands felt up your legs before breaking them apart in a swift but gentle motion. You swallowed before your dazed self dared to look below your waist. “It’ll be over in a gist,” he soothed. His mouth hovered below your knee, placing a soft kiss on the skin, his canines teasing below his lips. “I promised, remember?”

The feel of his teeth on your skin made you shudder. It’d be as if pinched by a needle, you reassured yourself. It’d be nothing you couldn’t handle. Remmick kneaded your thigh, noticing the hesitance in your poise.

“You’re gonna be so good to me, sugar, I know it,” he whispered. He worked his way to your thigh, scraping his teeth against it as he watched you. A sharp gasp parted your mouth slightly. With uncertainty, you dared to lock eyes with him. Condensation clamped to your back. The bed creaked. He closed his eyes. A tightness took you by the heart. Remmick closed his eyes as his cheek melded with your inner thigh, his eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of fever and yearning—before his teeth latched onto your skin.

A choke escaped your mouth. You threw your head back in ache and an agonizing, burning discomfort. You squirmed beneath his touch, teeth clenched as if to grind them to breakage. He continued to hold you in position, watching you as a predator a prey. His eyes were glowing with want. Yours were squinted near shut in despair.

Your life’s essence flowed between his teeth, staining his chin, dripping down to the sheets below. Remmick’s cheeks were aflame and captured the look of a person who finally met the needs of one’s excruciating desire.

It reminded you of what he’d said earlier: “These violent delights have violent ends—but might the ends justify the means?”

The shift from the agony of liquid warmth to a heat that set in your stomach felt like a blindsided discrepancy. Perhaps it was because of your drunken state. Or maybe it was the cause of his persuasion. But when the view took you, you took it precisely as it was.

The sight of him there, one knee screwed into the bed and the other against its frame. His pants sought friction as he watched you, and you him. Those eyes of his were filled with ecstasy beyond comprehension. The need he experienced, one within you that needed to be met alike. Your back arched in tenderness when his tongue slipped atop your core wound, gathering all the excess it could find.

By God, it felt like he’d reached up to the bone. Still, your focus was a different, contradicting pounding ache between your legs.

It was an instinct. A reflex. A tendency. A tick. A hand reached for his head as vigilance became a stranger to your actions. You held onto Remmick’s hair, the damp locks intertwining with your fingers. Were you pushing him away, or pulling him in?

Desperation caused a delirium that forced your mind, body, and soul. Your breathing became little more than a hitch. Remmick moaned into your touch, the vibrations sending sparks of soreness beyond the crux.

“Does the Lord know what this does to you?” Remmick gasped. He took sharp breaths of air, their cold breeze making you twitch in his grasp. The return to his greed brought you no blessing. Sweat trailed your face—temple, lips, and neck. Your eyes were deemed shut as his hand roamed your leg. Gluttony painted his practice when they reached beneath your skirt—cardinal, promising, and remorseless.

Beyond the lace stitches, a soft touch to your core beckoned your fragile principles. An involuntary urge opened your legs further. All the while, your thigh continued its searing ache, accompanied by your strained breath.

Remmick’s touch, as it reached your core, was so soft, so tender, it was maddening. A finger eased upward into your cunt. Another slipped through your folds. Your cunt pulsed frantically as your mind was left in a haze.

“Shit—” he sighed, eyes drifting shut. The muscles in his arms tensed. His hand gripped your thigh so harshly, it’d mark you enough for the morrow. At a prolonged pace, he pumped his fingers through your heat before slowly adding another. Contradictions drowned out the squelching sound from down under: You shouldn’t have done this—versus—You need more of him, if even you were capable of it. You were left scorched by the devil, and even now you continued to beg in your mind for more.

Conflict left your thoughts astray. The heat became more evident, and your sight blurred with the vehemence of his want—the hunch of his shoulders, the bodily need of his tongue lapping through your gaping cuts, and his eyes: cataclysmic, like venom. Antithetical, your breaths followed each other up, heartbeats a-synch. “Damnit—” you cautioned, a tremble coating the words. “You feel so good.”

With a last touch of his tongue, he left your corroding skin. The pressure of his canines tugged out from your flesh, while blood angrily seeped from the wounds. He abruptly pulled away entirely, leaving your core to yearn for the likes of his fingers.

With a mind so longing and fervent, your mouth nearly let out a whine. Instinctively, you raised yourself, eyes shifting to him between your legs. You sought a reasoning for his withdrawal. All you found was a devil you’d gotten too close to.

With the back of his hand, Remmick brushed his chin to keep the carbon liquid from dripping. The maroon substance had a dark undertone in this shadow of light. It stained him all over—his chin, his beard, his mouth. Droplets had even reached as far as the area around his eyes. Remmick’s eyes were the only thing aglow in this part of the room; a lighter shade of red than the sin on his face.

He crawled over to you, one leg hooked between yours. His bloodstained fingers reached for your chin. Locking your face, he forced it toward him, as you shuddered in his touch.

“I was only meant to make one deal, remember?” he remarked. He was Lucifer himself, you knew. His actions alone were enough to convince you, if not for the view before you. The smell of oxide roughened a route into your lungs; the scent of steel prominent in the small widths of the bedroom.

His beard nearly scratched your cheek, his eyes looking down above sun-kissed spots. You felt your own body heat fuse with his now cold caress. And your heart beat against a chest that had neither a pulse nor a soul no more. It was then that he spoke the words which, indeed, changed everything: “Or did you change your mind?”

Your lips trembled in a longing fever. They shook with fear and ecstasy as your heart demanded the opportunity for change. “I believe I have,” you confessed in a whisper. You’d be lying to the Lord if his ways of sinning weren’t so beautiful—so alluring—it took away all evil and persuaded it into something of value.

Light pants heaved your chest, his own breathing melding with yours. It was the anticipation that was killing. The time he took in meeting your words with a few of his own. “What else you need?” he asked at last. His teeth had constricted, aside from the canines peeking through between his lips, his mouth slightly ajar. A finger reached for his lips. He grabbed your hand, confining it and pulling you closer. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to use your words, sugar.”

“You.”

The word had barely left your tongue when you pulled him in. Hands locked behind his neck, the metal taste of your own carbon spreading from his lips to yours. His stubble brushed your cheek and chin. A hectic moan slipped from one tongue to another as you left your mouth parted, inviting him in again.

The feel of the muscle brewed a heat within you you’d chased before. The deliberate pace at which your lips brushed against one another, time and time again, was as animalistic as it was sweet—completely savoring the flavor of your own aching, and his absolute wicked approach to take it from you again.

A hand roamed from your hips to your chest, slipping beneath your linen top. The dampened state of it paid Remmick no mind as his hands cupped your breast, kneading it slowly. Another lingered toward your thigh, grabbing your ruptured skin, teasing the edges of your wound. A finger pressured its approach inside. A sharp gasp escaped your mouth. The cold touch unfolded and spread, blending with the warmth it found inside. A pounding, corrosive ache forced a choke past your tongue.

“Don’t tell me now you can’t take a bit of pain,” he teased, his voice low. Fingers caressed your chest, applying pressure and circling the nerves by your heart. His mouth wandered down to your neck, tracing a line of kisses that felt like marks—he wasn’t making love to you; he was claiming you as his.

His mouth lingered at the spot. Remmick looked at you from the corner of his eyes between lashes and contemplative brows. He panted against your collar, refraining from the urge to give in, his cheeks scorching and his teeth hurting. You hadn’t even acknowledged it in your deepened state of corrupted mind—only seeking that bodily urge you knew he’d meet.

“The devil can’t hurt me”—digging your fingers into the skin of his nape—“With God’s touch.”

You spoke the words so hastily, shivering each vowel as he scraped his canines across your vessel—the sentences lingering like a burn wound on your tongue—and descended down to your heat.

He pulled down your skirt, the fabric hesitant to let go, latching onto the dampness of its surface. With the other hand, he left your wound and raised your top, ripping it off. Blood spread across your torso as he laid wet kisses on your stomach. The sudden coldness on your skin caused goosebumps along the outline of your arms. Remmick’s movements became feverish, his hands moving nimbly. He grabbed onto your hips.

For a moment, he sat there on his knees, cradling your thighs around his hips. His gaze was low, his breath carnal. You felt overly exposed, your skin starkly uncovered against his fully clothed self. Uncertainty tainted your mind. He’d stopped in his tracks, sitting there as if waiting for a sign when you precipitously noticed the trembling of his lips. The slight jitter masked the contraction of his teeth, falteringly retracting in and out like a tick—a hunger that never ceased. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he sighed.

Noxious air brushed against your chest. The discarded belt sounded like a lashing, followed by the rip of a zipper and the shift of a leg. It was then that you looked at him with teary eyes—not stained with fear, nor shame. Forsaken were the previous scare of whispers and the claim of being a ‘whore.’

His lips felt your skin, teeth grazing along. Hands grasped, held, groped any surface of yours they could reach, whilst his strained pants melded with the mattress below. The desperation in his touch was as intoxicating as the liquor he’d priorly held inches away from your mouth, watching it seep past your lips, parted in alacrity.

When finally released, the head of his cock had been red with ache and leaking with need. With hands colliding with the skin on your sides, he thrusted himself into your heat. “Christ,” he hissed. “I knew you’d be good to me.” Your walls embraced his cock wholly, molding it to perfection. You moaned as it hit that sweet spot within you, so brusque and incensed.

He threw his head back, canines and teeth exposed, the resistance no more. His teeth glistened in the red that continued to stain them. You watched his neck covered in your being, your taste, your soul. The nerves of his neck were thick and dreaded in time.

He would be the one to kill you, and all you could pant was, “Harder—” Eyebrows furrowed at the abrupt bliss of the heat in your lower stomach. The sinful slapping of skin aired the room. Slick coated his cock as he thrusted himself inside you in a frantic manner, like a man starved from touch. He kneaded your thighs, his eyes closed in vex. “Ain’t no repenting in the way you’re shaking, sugar.”

He sought the bundle of nerves by your core, rubbing in deep circles. A sharp inhale escaped your lips at the touch. His movements became frenzied, and you knew he was close—and by God, you were too. “You’re taking me so well,” he gasped. “’S like you were made for me.”

A warmth brewed inside your lower stomach. You pulled him by his top, kissing him feverishly—wet, sloppy kisses with a hint of steel. A sizzling drowned out the noises of your desperation. He hissed in pain as the burning of flesh filled the air, setting into your lungs. His lips parted yours. You drank the whine that tainted the space between you.

Remmick’s cock twitched inside you, your cunt pulsing alike. “Damnit,” you sighed. “Remmick, I need you.” Your fingers laced his locks, his hands burying into the mattress below. Nails dug in the delicate texture. If it weren’t for the sickening urge he had, he would’ve pulled apart—away from your chest. A pounding ache maneuvered into his body; the silver cross burning into his skin, edging its message in his chest. Your scent, the way you made him feel, was too much for him. He wasn’t thinking straight, his reality vivid with longing covering his eyes.

Deliriousness choked him from the inside out. “I can give you what you want.” He spoke so softly, a tremble corrupting the words. Your mouth was slightly open, your head falling backward. Remmick’s eyes shifted to your neck. The skin was smooth, your vein popping in ecstasy, beating for a yearning. Your hands plagued his shoulders, grabbing him tightly, pulling him closer.

His grip became ravenous and ardent. His cock fitted your walls so keenly that the heat within you was close to grasp. Stars shone in your sight at last, as your eyelids came to a close. He kissed your neck as you reached your high so harshly. “You’ve been so good to me,” he groaned. “I’ll see you in the morning, darlin’.” He moaned as he took the skin by your neck, stitching his teeth into the surface. His noises felt as pure as they were enlightening. It was the last thing you remembered before things went vague.

You don’t remember how much time had gone by.

Remmick had gone somewhere. For a while, you were alone, despite not wanting to be. You felt caged in your own flesh. Numerous times you had attempted to get up, raise your arms, move your feet, but all were in vain. Your legs were weary, your sight blurry. No, you’d decided, you’d just close your eyes for a bit.

Moonlight seeped through the curtains. You faced the window as the fly lay there still. The two of you were now covered with dust. Dust that never went away, but an ail that ever would cease. A tear kissed the corner of your eye, seeping to the cushions down under. Your wounds were thorn. Blood spilled and spilled. The linen sheets were drained of your essence. They beckoned to the creatures in bed, as there lay a devil and a soon-to-be.

In the morrow, whispers would come of a woman who sold her soul to a stranger—a devilish someone. But you wouldn’t be there. You wouldn’t return for another hundred years. All you knew now was the darkness that set in your skin, and the cold that settled in your eyes. The sprinkling light of the oil lamp shone as the eye of God. He was everywhere. Blasphemy was all around. And all you had done was answer to it.

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

I'm obsessed with him

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Mary is a better woman than me because I would have fucked Remmick raw right there on the dirt road if he looked at me like that

[forallmyfictionalbfs]

Remmick's arms in high definition, can I get an amen