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faerykingdom · 2 days ago

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Yandere Trapper x Reader

Warnings: Pregnancy

The snow clung to your skirts, heavy and wet, weighing you down as you fled deeper into the woods. Each step sent a spray of powdery white into the air, your boots sinking through the crust of ice beneath. Your breath tore out of your throat in ragged bursts, misting the air, and your heart pounded so hard you thought it might break through your ribs. Behind you, growing fainter with every desperate stride, you could still hear the voices—your father’s low bellow, your brothers’ sharper cries.

“Come back! Damn it, girl, come back!”

But you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. The thought of that man, that stranger, placing a ring on your finger, made your stomach turn. You’d rather freeze out here than return to the house, to the suffocating expectations that had closed in on you like iron bars.

The woods were silent save for your flight. Snow-laden branches groaned under their burdens, and somewhere far off, you thought you heard the mournful cry of a wolf. The cold bit through your coat, numbing your fingers, your cheeks, but you didn’t dare stop. Not until you were free. Not until—

SNAP.

Agony exploded through your leg, white-hot, blinding. You screamed. The world tilted as you collapsed, the ground rushing up to meet you. You clawed at the snow, heart racing in terror, and looked down to see the cruel, jagged steel teeth of a trap biting into your calf. Blood welled up, bright against the pale snow, seeping from between the metal jaws.

“No, no, no…” you gasped, hands trembling as you tried to pry it open, but it was no use. The trap was made for beasts larger and stronger than you. Panic rose in your throat, bitter as bile. The pain was like fire now, radiating up your leg, and the cold made it worse. You were trapped. Alone.

Or so you thought.

The sound of crunching snow reached your ears. A shadow fell over you. You froze, terror choking you. Was it one of your brothers? Had they found you? But when you forced yourself to look up, squinting through tears and the biting wind, it wasn’t a face you recognized.

The man was massive—tall, broad-shouldered, the bulk of him wrapped in a heavy fur coat. His hair was thick and dark brown, curling where it escaped his hood, and his eyes regarded you with a kind of quiet assessment. His skin was darkened by years of sun and wind, tanned deep against the snow’s harsh glare. His beard was rough, his face weathered. A stranger. A trapper, by the look of him.

He crouched beside you, his gaze dropping to the bloody trap. His brow furrowed. “Fool girl,” he rumbled, voice low, thick with an accent you couldn’t quite place. “What you doin’ runnin’ through these woods, eh? This no place for little dove like you.”

“I—I didn’t see it,” you stammered, breath hitching against sobs. “Please—help—”

He didn’t waste time with more questions. Big, scarred hands reached for the trap, and with a grunt of effort, he pried the steel jaws apart, freeing your leg. The sudden release of pressure sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through you, and you whimpered, clutching at your skirts. Blood flowed more freely now, staining the snow beneath you.

He didn’t hesitate. “Can’t leave you out here. You’ll freeze…or wolves’ll get you.” His words were blunt, matter-of-fact. He slid his arms beneath you, lifting you as though you weighed nothing. His coat smelled of smoke and pine and leather. You tried to protest, but he hushed you with a shake of his head. “Save your breath. Cabin’s not far.”

The world swayed as he carried you, every step jostling your injured leg, but you clung to him, too exhausted and frightened to do anything else. The snow fell heavier now, the sky darkening as night crept in. The woods seemed to close around you, but he moved through them with certainty.

At last, through the veil of trees, you saw it: a cabin, smoke curling from the chimney, its windows glowing faintly with firelight. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and strode inside, kicking it shut behind him. The warmth hit you like a wave, the scent of woodsmoke filling your lungs. He laid you down gently on a low cot by the fire.

“You’re lucky,” he said gruffly, pulling off his gloves. “Coulda bled out, out there. Coulda froze.”

You didn’t answer, too dazed from pain. He knelt beside you, retrieving a battered tin box from a shelf. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he rolled up your torn skirts and examined the wound.

“Bad, but I seen worse.” He met your gaze, those brown eyes steady and unflinching. “This’ll hurt.”

And it did. He cleaned the gash with cold water from a jug, wrapped it in clean linen, and bound it tight with a strip of leather. All the while, he worked in silence except for the occasional mutter in that thick, unfamiliar accent. When he finished, he sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag.

“There. Won’t be walkin’ on it soon, but you’ll keep the leg.”

You let out a shaky breath, tears slipping down your cheeks. Not just from pain, but from everything. The running, the fear, the trap, the cold.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He only grunted, rising to hang a kettle over the fire. “Rest now, little dove. We’ll talk when you’re stronger. Safe here, with me.”

The kettle hissed softly as it heated, filling the cabin with the comforting scent of boiling water mingled with woodsmoke. The man busied himself with small tasks—adding a log to the fire, setting out a battered tin plate, slicing hard bread with a well-worn knife. His every motion was steady, unhurried, like the snow falling beyond the windows.

You lay still, too tired to move, too sore to try. The warmth of the cabin seeped into your bones, and though your leg throbbed with each beat of your heart, it was better than the numbing cold. Your eyes drifted to him as he worked. The firelight cast his face in flickering gold and shadow, carving deep lines into his features. He looked like the wilderness itself—rugged, weathered, and solid. A man apart from the world you’d fled.

Without a word, he tore off a piece of bread, dunked it into the steaming water to soften it, and brought it to you. He crouched by the cot, holding it out in his calloused hand. “Eat,” he said simply. “You need strength.”

Your fingers trembled as you took it. The bread was rough but warm, and you chewed slowly. He watched for a moment, as if to make sure you were truly eating, then sat back on a stool near the fire. From a pouch at his belt, he drew a small block of wood and a carving knife, and he began to work, the soft scrape of blade on wood filling the quiet.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The storm outside howled against the walls, rattling the shutters.

Finally, unable to bear the weight of the silence, you spoke. Your voice was hoarse, but the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I ran away,” you said, staring at your hands in your lap. “My father…he—he arranged for me to marry a man I don’t even know. A man twice my age. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t—” Your voice cracked. “So I ran. I thought I could get far enough. Thought maybe I could find somewhere, someone who’d help. But I didn’t think about the traps. About the cold. I didn’t think about anything except getting away.”

The trapper said nothing at first. The knife kept scraping, shaping whatever it was he saw in that piece of wood. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his hands sure and steady.

When he did speak, his voice was low. “You thought right to run. A bird ain’t meant for a cage. Even if it’s a gilded one.” His brown eyes lifted to meet yours. “You’re safe here. No one’ll force you to nothin’. You stay ‘til you can walk. Longer, if you need.”

The fire popped, sending up a spray of sparks. You felt your throat tighten again, but this time it wasn’t from fear or grief. It was something else—something like relief, sharp and sudden, so fierce it brought fresh tears to your eyes.

“Why are you helping me?” you whispered.

He shrugged. “You’re hurt. Alone. Ain’t right, leaving you out there to die.”

—-

You slept fitfully that night, the pain in your leg throbbing. The storm raged on through the night, wind shrieking against the eaves, snow piling high against the walls of the little cabin. The fire crackled low, its warmth a fragile shield against the winter’s fury. And though you drifted in and out of uneasy dreams—faces from home, cold hands dragging you back, steel teeth snapping shut.

The night was long, and deep in its darkest hour, the pain flared anew. A searing, biting ache that woke you with a cry, torn from your throat before you could stop it. Your hands flew to your leg, trembling, and you sobbed. The cabin felt too small, the shadows too thick, the weight of everything—your injury, your fear, your sorrow—too heavy to bear.

The door to the other room creaked open almost at once. Heavy footsteps crossed the floorboards, and then he was there, crouching beside you. His face was shadowed by the dim glow of the fire, but his eyes were filled with concern.

“Shhh, little dove,” he murmured, voice low, rough with sleep but gentle all the same. “What’s this now? Pain too much?”

You couldn’t answer, only nodded through the tears that streamed down your cheeks. The sobs came harder, broken and helpless. You felt ashamed, weak, but you couldn’t stop.

He didn’t scold you or tell you to quiet. Instead, he lowered himself to sit beside the cot, the floor creaking beneath his weight. Slowly, like one might calm a frightened animal, he gathered you up, drawing you against him. His coat was rough wool and fur, his arms solid as oak. His chest was broad and warm beneath your cheek, his heart a slow, steady drum you could feel through the layers between you.

“There now,” he said, almost a whisper. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you here. You let it out. Ain’t no shame in cryin’, not after what you been through.”

His hand came up, big and sure, and smoothed over your hair. His palm was calloused, his touch surprisingly tender. He rocked you gently, not speaking further, just letting the storm outside howl its fury while he made a quiet, safe place for you in his arms.

Little by little, your sobs quieted. You realized, dimly, that he smelled of pine sap and smoke and leather, and there was something grounding in it, something real.

When your breathing slowed and the worst of the pain dulled again to that low, familiar throb, he shifted, adjusting the blankets around you, careful not to jostle your leg.

“You need sleep,” he said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “I’ll stay here. You ain’t alone.”

And true to his word, he settled there, leaning back against the side of the cot, one arm resting lightly across you as if to shield you from the night.

—-

Spring came slow that year. The snow melted reluctantly beneath a pale sun, leaving behind a world of mud and waking green.

Your leg healed, but not fully. The wound the trap had left behind marked you deep—scar tissue that pulled tight, a stiffness that never quite eased. You limped now, favoring the leg, and though the pain had dulled to an ache on most days, you felt it with every step. Still, you moved through the cabin with purpose, unwilling to let the injury make you useless.

You’d grown used to the small world you shared with him. The soft creak of the cabin’s floorboards, the hiss of water boiling over the fire, the scent of pine smoke that clung to everything. You rose with the dawn most days, lighting the fire, sweeping the floor, chopping vegetables when there were any, or mending torn linens. You helped how you could, leaning on the stout cane he’d carved for you from ash wood, its handle worn smooth beneath your hand.

And when he came in from the woods at the end of the day—big and broad and ruddy from the cold—you always found yourself smiling. You couldn’t help it. There was comfort in the sight of him, in knowing he’d come back safe, in the warmth he carried in with him.

The door thudded shut behind him one evening as the last light of day bled out over the horizon. His arms were full, bundles of kindling, snares strung with rabbits, the fruits of his quiet, patient work. Snow still clung to the hem of his coat and the tips of his boots, though it melted fast in the cabin’s heat.

You straightened from the hearth where you’d been stirring a pot of stew, your limp slowing you but not stopping you. Your smiled. “You’re back.”

He grunted in that familiar way of his, his dark eyes flicking over you, lingering on your face. The corners of his mouth tugged up just a little—his version of a smile.

“Aye,” he said, setting down his load and stamping the snow from his boots. “Always come back, little dove. You know that by now.”

You watched as he shrugged out of his heavy coat, as he crossed the room in a few long strides to stand beside you. The warmth of him filled the small space between you. You tilted your face up to meet his gaze, and for a long, quiet moment, neither of you spoke. There was no need. The fire crackled. The stew bubbled. The world outside faded, until there was only the two of you in that circle of light and warmth.

At last, he lifted a hand, rough and calloused, and brushed a loose strand of hair from your brow. His fingers lingered for just a breath longer than they needed to.

“You been on your feet too long again,” he rumbled, his voice low, gentle in its bluntness. “Leg’s hurtin’. I can see it in your eyes.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head, already guiding you toward the chair by the fire. “Sit. I’ll finish the stew.”

You settled, leaning the cane against the chair, and watched him move about the cabin.

“Colm?”

“Aye?” he said, pausing with the ladle in hand, the steam from the stew rising between you.

You hesitated. The words felt heavy in your chest, tangled with everything you hadn’t said these past weeks—months, now. About the safety you’d found here. About the way the cabin no longer felt like a place you were hiding, but a place you belonged. About him. About how the sound of his voice when he called you ‘little dove’ warmed you more surely than any fire.

Your fingers curled into the folds of your skirt, the scar on your leg aching faintly with the movement. You drew in a slow breath, heart thudding, unsure if it was fear or hope that made it beat so hard.

“Thank you,” you said at last, though it wasn’t nearly enough. Your voice wavered, but you held his gaze. “For everything. For saving me. For keeping me safe. For… not asking more than I could give.”

His brow furrowed. He set the ladle down and crossed the small space between you, crouching beside your chair so you were nearly eye to eye. His hand came to rest on the arm of the chair.

“You ain’t gotta thank me, dove,” he said quietly. “Was no trouble. And I’d do it again. Every bit of it.”

You swallowed hard. The cabin felt small around you, but not in the way it once had—not like a trap or a cage. It felt close. Shelter. His nearness was steadying, and yet it made your heart race all the same.

“I don’t want to go back,” you whispered, the truth of it spilling out. “I don’t want to leave. Even when my leg’s strong enough…I don’t want to go.”

Colm’s expression softened, his dark eyes warm as the embers behind him. His fingers brushed your knuckles, tentative at first, as if afraid of frightening you. When you didn’t pull away, his hand covered yours, rough and warm.

“Then don’t,” he said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. His thumb stroked gently over the back of your hand, and his voice dropped lower. “Ain’t no one chasin’ you here. Ain’t no one can make you leave. You stay as long as you want, little dove. Long as you need. Longer still, if you’ll have it.”

The firelight danced in his eyes.

—-

You stayed through spring’s slow thaw, through the melt of snow that revealed damp earth and pale green shoots. You stayed as your leg grew stronger, though the ache never fully left you. You stayed through mornings filled with birdsong and evenings thick with the scent of pine and woodsmoke. And Colm stayed beside you—steadfast, quiet, always watching over you like he’d promised.

But safety, you learned, was fleeting.

It happened on a warm afternoon, the kind where the air buzzed with life and the world seemed at peace. You were outside, hanging a length of linen to dry in the breeze, when you heard the voices. Shouts, carried on the wind. Familiar voices. Their voices.

Your blood ran cold. The linen slipped from your fingers. You turned, heart hammering, just as Colm strode from the trees.

“Inside,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Go on, dove. Now.”

You stumbled back toward the cabin, but your legs felt heavy, your mind spinning. You heard your father’s voice—hoarse from shouting your name. Your brother’s angry curses. The sound of boots crashing through the underbrush.

They had found you.

Colm stood between you and the treeline, his broad frame unmoving as the figures emerged from the woods. Your father and brothers, grim and wild-eyed from their search. They stopped short at the sight of him, this stranger, this wall of a man who’d stolen you from them. Their hands went to their weapons—knives, an old musket, a length of rope.

“Step aside,” your father barked. “She’s ours. Blood. You’ve no right.”

Colm didn’t move. His voice, when it came, was soft, dangerous. “She ain’t yours. Not no more.”

Your eldest brother lunged first. The world blurred. There was the crack of bone, the thud of a body hitting the earth. A gun fired, wide and wild. Colm was faster. Brutal, efficient. The fight was short, bloody. When it was done, the clearing was still, save for your ragged breathing and the rush of wind through the pines.

Colm stood over them, chest heaving, his hands red. His dark eyes found yours, searching your face, as if afraid of what he’d see there.

“I told you,” he said, voice raw, broken with emotion. “Ain’t no one gonna take you, dove. Not while I draw breath.”

You stared at him, your breath shallow, your heart racing so fast it hurt. The clearing was quiet now, death thick in the air. His words hung between you, heavy as the bodies at his feet. You should have felt horror. You did. But it was tangled with something else. Relief. Safety. The terrible, aching knowledge that there was no going back. No more running.

And Colm? Colm saw that in your eyes. Saw the way you trembled, the way you stepped closer instead of away. His bloodied hand reached out, slow and gentle, and when you didn’t flinch, he cupped your cheek. His thumb traced your skin, leaving a faint smear of red.

“Shhh,” he murmured, voice soft as falling ash. “You’re safe now, little dove. Safe with me.”

—-

From that day on, the forest felt different. Wilder. The trees seemed to close in, hiding the two of you from the world. And Colm… Colm changed, too. Not in how he treated you—never harsh, never cruel—but in the way his eyes followed you, in the way his touch lingered, in the quiet, fierce devotion that burned hotter than ever.

Nights grew longer, darker. The world beyond your small cabin ceased to exist. And Colm, though he never spoke the fear aloud, knew—knew—that safety could slip through his fingers as fast as it came. That if you ever left him, he’d be left with nothing.

So he made sure you wouldn’t.

It started so gently, so carefully, that you didn’t see it for what it was. Colm became more attentive than ever, watching you with those dark, steady eyes like you were the only thing that kept him breathing. He’d brush your hair from your face with hands still rough from the axe, tuck the blanket tighter around your shoulders at night, bring you the choicest cuts of meat from his traps, the sweetest berries from deep in the woods. He doted on you.

And when the nights grew colder again—when the first hints of autumn whispered through the trees—he drew you closer. His touch was warm, his words softer still, full of promises he never spoke before. “Forever,”he whispered against your skin. “Mine. Always mine.”

It was easy to give in. Easy to let yourself believe in the safety of his arms, in the shelter of his devotion. You were so tired. Tired of running, tired of fear. Tired of wondering when someone else might come, might try to take you away again.

Colm saw that. Saw the way you leaned into him more each day, saw the way your defenses crumbled as the weeks passed. So he was patient. So patient.

Until the night he stopped waiting.

You woke warm beneath the furs, the fire low in the hearth, the weight of him beside you. His hand on your waist, his breath hot against your neck. And when you stirred, when you murmured his name, he only held you closer, his voice rough and thick with need.

“Don’t be afraid, dove,” he whispered. “You’ll see. This is right. This is how it’s meant to be.”

And you let him. Because what else was there? The world beyond your little cabin was gone, swallowed up by the wild. There was only Colm, and the terrible, tender love that bound him to you.

It wasn’t long before the change came. The sickness in the mornings, the strange, aching tiredness that settled deep in your bones. The way Colm’s eyes lit when you confessed it to him, his hands trembling as he cradled your face, as if he’d caught the sun itself.

“There now,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “You’re mine, little dove. Truly mine. Nothin’ in this world can take you from me now.”

And as he held you, as his fingers traced the curve of your belly where new life had begun, you felt it—the trap, sprung tight around you. No chains, no ropes. Just him. Just love, and the weight of it, and no way left to run.

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faerykingdom · 2 days ago

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dark and mean Rick X whiny reader, s5 beard era??? (Ugh loveee😩) maybe reader annoyed him so he fucks her attitude away<3

NO BACK TALK ♡

pairing: rick grimes x bratty!fem!reader

cw: nsfw (18+), p in v, brat taming, age gap (20s, late 30s), daddy kink

a/n: brat tamer rick you know that's my shit 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 thank you for the request <33

"What was it? What were you saying back there?" Rick's raspy voice huffs against your ear.

A shiver goes down your spine as his hot breath lands on your skin. Sharp contrast to the cool night air all around. Your body is already shaky enough from his hips' brutal thrusts against your ass.

He has you pinned against the back wall of the church, split open on his cock. This spot is close enough to the safety of the group while providing the privacy he needs to have his way with you. Your cheek squishes against the wood, a small stream of drool trickling South on your chin.

"N-nothing," you whimper, "Was just trying to tell you- ah! Just wanted to tell you..."

Your voice trails off as the sentiment of your point becomes less important than the bliss Rick's length is battering into you. Soft moans drift from your lips as your mouth hangs open. He tuts and shakes his head, pressing more of his weight into you and rutting against your backside with more force.

"You're still tryin' to talk back?" he asks, "Still think you had a reason to give me all that attitude?"

"I said I was sorry," you whine, bottom lip jutting out on instinct.

This is the game you play with Rick. You're sure by now everyone else is sick of being unwilling bystanders to it, but you can never get enough. Ever since you met the older man, the two of you mixed together like a stray match in a keg of gunpowder.

He tries his hardest to lead this group. You know that's true. But life fucking sucks in the apocalypse. It's not your fault if you get a little fed up with things sometimes.

You take it out on him cause it's easy. You disagree with his plans without coming up with any of your own. You complain about assignments you're given. You whine about the lack of supplies and direction. You roll your eyes and sigh during minor disagreements while nearly throwing a fit for larger ones.

For the first six months he knew you, it drove him fucking crazy. He went to sleep at night dreading waking up because he knew he'd have to deal with you the next day. At one point, he was convinced that he'd die of high blood pressure before any walker got the chance to kill him.

But then he figured out the secret to dealing with you. It wasn't too long before the prison fell that he learned this little trick. The two of you were the only ones awake, and you had another huge fight about some inconsequential bullshit. He was supremely frustrated. You weren't showing any signs of conceding that you were being ridiculous either.

It's like a blur in his memory now, the way he pinned you against the hard brick wall. He tore open the tiny shorts you had on. And that was when he learned. Your pretty little pussy was like your control center. He just had to hit the right buttons to bring you back to normal.

Now when you act up, he gives you the chance to fix it. You'll say something in that pitchy tone of voice and pout at him, and he'll raise a brow. He'll ask you to repeat yourself. If you continue the challenge, he still tries to be civil and talk you down. But once you push too far, you end up with a firm hand wrapped around your wrist, dragging you away from the rest of the group.

That's what happened tonight.

He scoffs at your assertion that you'd apologized. "You said sorry when you realized you were in trouble," he grumbles.

His fingers dig into your waist, feeling the soft skin left exposed by your t-shirt that's riding up. Your toes curl inside your sneakers while your fingernails scrape against the chipping paint of the church's paneling.

"I still meant it," you insist.

"If you're so sorry, tell me why I have to teach you this same fuckin' lesson over and over again," he growls.

"I dunno... cause you didn't do it good enough the first time?" you offer.

He gives your hip a smack for that and shoves you harder against the wall with a forearm across your back. You can feel the cool silver of his watch on your shoulder blade. Your tits are just as smooshed as your cheek is now. You whine in response, your feet floundering against the dirt below, but he keeps fucking into you hard.

"Cute. Keep talking back like that and see where it gets you," he says.

"I was just joking, daddy," you respond with a little sniffle for maximum impact.

"Oh, I'm daddy now?" he mocks. Neither of your attempts at sympathy seem to have struck a chord. "I'm daddy when you want me to be nice to you, but not any other time. Do I have that right?"

"Nuh uh..."

"Yeah. You won't listen to me. Won't do anything I ask without givin' me hell. But the second you get tired of taking it like a big girl, I'm your daddy," he taunts.

You squeak as he yanks your hips against his pelvis particularly hard. His tip rams right into that sweet, spongy spot inside you. It knocks the breath from your lungs. Your knees start to buckle beneath you.

He watches as you really begin to slip. With a sigh, he pulls his cock out of your dripping hole. You whine about that too, of course, but you don't have time to complain before he flips you around and hooks his hands behind your knees. He folds you in half against the wall and slides right back into the slick heat of your cunt. His hips rock against you like they never stopped.

"Look at you. You think you have any right to question me when you can't even stand up on your own? When y'need daddy to do everything for you," he mutters.

You mewl and arch your back, but he keeps you exactly where he wants you. His shaft slams into you over and over, chasing the feeling of your walls clamping down on it. You can't fight back against what he's saying cause any semblance of cohesive argument has been fucked right out of you.

"Did-didn't mean it," you choke out.

"Then say sorry like you mean it," he breathes.

He pumps into you harder and deeper, making it difficult for you to answer. But you try your best because you're getting close, and after you cum, it'll be damn near impossible.

"I- I'm sorry, daddy. Didn't mean to make you mad. I'll try to be good and listen," you say before a whine cracks your voice and causes your head to drop forward.

He nudges your face up with his nose before rewarding you with a kiss. "That's my girl," he mumbles, "Gonna listen for me. Accept that you don't know what's best, hm? That you need me to take care of you and make the decisions?"

You nod with your quivering lip and glossy eyes.

That gets a little smirk on his lips, and he kisses your pout once more. His hand snakes around to thumb at your clit. The rapid fire swipes are all you need to topple over the edge and let go. You tense up and cover your own mouth, muffling your cries with your palm.

"There you go. Let it out," he grunts.

He grits his teeth, holding on long enough to fuck you through your high. As soon as you start to come down though, he pulls out and spills his seed onto the dirt beneath you.

His body shudders against yours, another set of harsh breaths blowing against your neck. You lean your head against his. The sweat that dampens his scalp smears on your cheek.

The both of you hold the position for a few moments longer before beginning to untangle. He sets you back on the ground, keeping his hands on your waist until he's sure you're stable. You pull your discarded shorts back on and adjust your shirt while he zips himself up.

When you're put together again, he grabs your wrist like he'd done earlier but with a more gentle touch. He pulls you flush against his body and encircles you with his arms, keeping you pressed to his chest. His hand rubs up and down your back in soothing strokes.

"My baby. All tuckered out and settled down for me now, yeah?" he whispers.

You nod, your eyes already feeling droopy with the calm that comes after release. His embrace is so warm it lulls you further into this docile, dreamy state.

Rick rolls his eyes again, but there's not as much irritation this time. A good fuck mellows him out just like it does you. Plus, in moments like these, he can admit to himself that he has a small soft spot for his little brat.

He sways back and forth with you for a few moments, planting occasional kisses on the top of your head.

"You gonna behave when we go back inside?" he murmurs.

"Yeah," you answer softly.

"That's my girl," he says, patting your ass before turning you loose. He lets you walk back around to the entrance first. While he has a great time putting you back in line, these trysts aren't really something he wants the whole group being hyper aware of. It's after a few minutes have gone by that he heads in himself, ready to mix back in with everyone else as if nothing had happened.

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faerykingdom · 3 days ago

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from that list of prompts. i somehow managed to put a couple of them together so:

robby n’ jack + hands all over + overstimulation

It’s awful, what they’re doing to you, right here in the bar booth, a table being the only thing that you from being exposed to any and all wandering eyes.

Robby has an arm slung around you, his hand clamped around the shoulder furthest from him, and like the sly fucker he is, he’s managed to slide his foot behind yours, hooking around the inside of your ankle.

Pressed to your side, Jack has your other leg thrown over his knee as his hand moves between your thighs, and like this, the men have you spread out just the way they want you.

“Remember to breathe, sweetheart,” Robby mutters, lips close to your ear and making you shiver, “and try not to move so much. You want everyone knowing you’re getting your pussy stuffed right now?”

Your mouth twists every which way, the inside of your cheek throbbing from where your teeth are sunken into it. You can’t answer in a way that isn’t a whine, which makes both Robby and Jack chuckle.

They both look completely composed, and you don’t understand how. How are they just—just sitting here like nothing is happening while you fall apart on Jack’s fingers?

With two hooked inside of you rubbing against your gummy walls, Jack grinds his palm against your clit, calloused and mean and fucking incredible.

“I see these legs startin’ to tremble,” he teases, and he looks at Robby with a lifted eyebrow, “you think she’s gonna come again?”

Robby, the absolute bastard, actually glances down at where your little skirt has been flipped up, watches as Jack works you like a puppet so that you leak all over his hand, then hums lowly, “mhmm,” presses his face to your temple and agrees, “I think so.”

Robby reaches with his free hand, fingers in your plush thigh to spread you wider for Jack, and the whole time your stomach is tightening, heat building, he tells you to, “keep looking forward, angel. Smile like you’re having fun—” your cheeks hurt from the effort, muscles growing taut as you approach your peak, “—oh no, Emery’s walking over. What’re you gonna do?”

“C—c…hnn—”

You grit your teeth as the first wave of your orgasm barrels into you, your feet flexing under the table, the only thing you can move without giving yourself away.

Your cunt pulses around Jack’s fingers, clenching and relaxing and squeezing as he works you through it, and the way he’s able to just plaster on a sarcastic smile when his friend/nemesis stops on the other side of the table is maddening.

Especially when he doesn’t stop moving his palm, the heel of it dragging over your overstimulated clit so that your thighs jump with every pass.

Nothing stops. Nothing changes.

Robby keeps holding you open, and Jack keeps massaging your pussy, and both of them have to raise their voices to be heard over the music as they hold a conversation you can’t follow. It actually works in your favor, though, keeps Emery from hearing all the wet noises Jack keeps pushing out of you.

When he milks you into another climax, their voices get foggy and your surroundings blur, and it takes everything in you not to scream.

But you control yourself. Sit between Robby and Jack and take it all—their perfect, pretty girl—because it’s what they want.

Because making them happy feels just as good as every toe-curling orgasm they force out of you.

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faerykingdom · 3 days ago

Note

Logan howlett x reader who’s embarrassed about her facial expressions during the deed so she often pulls pillows over her face or shoves her face into the mattress and Logan gets feed up with it because she always dose it when she finishes so he’s never seen her finishing face

thanks for requesting 💌

OLD HABITS DIE HARD. 18+

logan howlett x fem!reader

wc. 1440 warnings. 18+ only! pinv, general filth, pull out. mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

There was a small habit you adapted during your more vulnerable moments in the bedroom, a little self conscious act you found hard to part with. You would often result to a shielding of your face, hiding expressions and minimising your noises like you were ashamed of them.

Originally it was something Logan found endearing, sweet even. But he expected this habit of yours to pass with time, for it to dwindle and eventually disappear with each intimate session you two shared. It was a firm habit of yours that he was eager to alter and change, the thought of only ever seeing a pillow or a bent arm replace your face was starting to rub him the wrong way.

And while he sees your face throughout all hours of the day, he’s never seen your face face. The face of pure unadulterated bliss by the means of him. He needed to see how he made you feel, not just hear your muffled sounds though skin or fabric.

Logan’s eyes cast down as he looks at your lips, gaze quite like he’s assessing you beneath him. He’s close, chest sandwiched firmly to yours, face just mere inches from yours as he hovers a top — weight balanced on a forearm beside you. His other arm slots between either of your stomachs, hand clasped around the base of his cock as he begins to feed himself into you.

He swallows the little gasps you make with every passing inch — the slow, steady sinking of his dick into you knocks the air from your lungs. The hand you have behind his neck trails upwards, fingers beginning to rake through his short dark hair as you bring him further into you, forehead pressing against yours.

He throbs as he stills inside you, the full length of him seizing movement as if to allow you both a moment to simply feel the presence of the other. For you to feel the weight and stretch of his cock and for him to feel the warmth and snug fit of your cunt. He adjusts back over your, both forearms either side as he cages you to the mattress.

“All good, baby?” he gruffs against your lips, voice low and quiet as his mouth ghosts yours.

You hum, head nimbly nodding against his with eyes screwed shut. You breathe heavily against him and begin matching your intakes of air with the slight and ever so faint roll of his hips. Your delicate sighs grow shuddery, each one sounding all the more strained as he starts easing in and out of you.

To him, there was no other sound that could top this. No other sound in the world could even come close to the way you fill his ears. So beautiful, so errotic. So you.

He lifts his head from yours and he looks down to you below, eyes flickering over yours briefly before he rekindles the contact of your mouths. The act an attempt to sweeten you up before he suggests something you may not particularly like to hear.

His kisses trail from your mouth and across the side of your face, lips seering warmth to the patch of skin below your ear. But he cops out and discards his thoughts, not keen on ruining the moment with something that could potentially upset you. And so he repositions himself once more: parting from the close contact of you to sit back on his heels — perching on knees between your parted ones.

His hands trail down your stomach, eyes glued to the way your body jitters and twitches beneath his palms. It was like your body was perfectly in tune with him.

The motion of his hips begins to build and a pattern gradually falls into place, each thrust growing closer together with the slight increased speed. A consistent, steady rutting replaces the experimental, precautionary pumps and the change is evident across your face: bottom lip caught between teeth, brows curling in the centre, eyes clouding lustfully. All of it a true sight to behold.

His gaze darts across you like he can’t quite decide what should entrap his attention first: tits circling in beat with his thrusts, your tempting blissed face, even the way your hands reach for his wrists. He’s utterly spoiled for choice.

Logan notices a fidgeting in your hands as they trail up the sides of your body, your hands growing antsy while they settle beside your head. He grew to learn much about you during your few short months together and he knew what that meant, what was about to happen next. And so he acts without thought.

He releases his grip around your waist and leans over you again, not once faltering in dicking he is giving you. A hand extends and he swats away the pillow on your right and then to the one of your left, pushing away your shielding devices. You turn to look either side and then to Logan above, a faint, lazy smile turning into something far more devilish, cunning even.

Though he doesn’t wish for you to feel deceived by the spontaneous change, so he resumes his original position atop you, foreheads pressed together from the sheer closeness.

“Why’d you do that?” you whisper raggedly against his lips, asking the question without a chance to think it over.

“It was time.”

Though it was daunting, you knew that was true, and that you had to let it up at some point. But it left you feeling exposed and you weren’t overly certain why. Sure you were completely and utterly naked, but that was different — having to show your face when you let go is another type of vulnerability.

And Logan could sense that: he could see it in your eyes, could feel it the way you anxiously twitch and tighten around his cock. He knew it was scary for you, though you had no real reason to feel such a way. And you knew that too, but old habits die hard, and this one was quite an old habit.

He alters his weight above you and rests on one arm so that his free hand can hold the side of your head. His palm cups your ear and his thumb begins to caress the hairline by your temple, touch delicate and gentle despite the rough and almost harsh nature of his fucking.

You relax under his touch and the fear subsides. The panic, if you want to put it that way, dissipates and you soon find yourself stepping closer and closer to that edge inside of you. Your brows begin to knit and your breathing grows more strained, each pant sounding strangled as he fucks you towards climax.

“Go on,” he reassures. “Let go,” he whispers, eyes honed in on yours as he watches it all build within you.

You fight the urge to bury your face in the crook of his neck, to hide, but he pulls away, getting a better view of you from above and ultimately hindering any chance for you to shield yourself.

The precise formation of the fucking remains intact, the pattern just as strategic as it had been the entire time and you hang on the cusp, dangling there for a moment. Logan gives you a subtle nod, a small act of encouragement to get you off.

You inhale deeply and your eyes screw shut, mouth hanging agape as your head tilts back against the mattress. The intensity of it all strips you of any sense, brain utterly empty as he fucks you into bliss. You cling onto him, fingers pawing and squeezing at the firm muscles on his upper back.

“That's my girl,” he grunts above you, gaze locked on you like he’s mesmerised. “That’s my girl,” he repeats softly, voice drawn out.

Logan finds it far harder to control himself with the way you look in addition to how you sound and feel clamping around him, and it becomes apparent he has much less control than he originally thought. And so he joins you mere seconds later, retracting his cock from you to cum on the crease of your upper thigh, releasing a full load right beside your cunt.

Your breathing begins to even far sooner than Logan’s, and you stare up at him above, watching him intently as he slowly comes down from his own high. He chuckles lightly as he shakes his head, wordlessly finding amusement in your gawking. His forehead presses against yours as he breathes you in, his own grunt-like pants eventually reducing to almost nothing.

“Can’t believe you’ve been hidin’ that from me.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

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faerykingdom · 3 days ago

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it’s just like… robby and casual dominance. he does and says all these little things throughout the day and he’ll casually take control of situations and physically manhandle you a little and take care of you without comment and the way he can kinda turn your brain off is so hot

I think sometimes he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—a hand on your waist to nudge you to the side or maybe even both so he can quickly move you out of the way in some chaotic hospital environment. The definition of a man who pulls you away from traffic and to the inside of the sidewalk.

Other times he absolutely knows what he’s doing. Splays his fingers across your lower back while leaning over to grab something above you, and the weight of his touch ends up pressing you into the side of a bed or a crash cart or a counter, just pinning you there and looking so fucking casual as he does it.

You tug on a trauma gown and he’s suddenly right behind you, tying the strings behind your neck before sliding his hand to your throat, using it to gently pull you until you’re flush against him, swallowing under his palm, eyelids fluttering when he quietly asks if you remember the rules of triaging patients.

His favorite thing, though, is when he finds you kneeling, maybe going through the bottom drawers of a supply cart. Walking up to block you from view, he places a hand on the top of your head, fingers curling against your scalp to give a slight tug, and the way you tilt back to look up at him, how your gaze gets all foggy and you shiver in his hold…

“What’re you lookin’ for down there?” he asks, corner of his mouth lifting because you’re so fucking cute when you’re like this—caught off guard and hot for him. The goal Robby aims for every day is to have you slick and desperate by the end of your shift.

If he’s lucky, the two of you won’t even make it home before you’re jumping his bones.

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faerykingdom · 4 days ago

Text

Need to talk about Jack Abbot fucking you so good he brings you into subspace and it freaks him out a little bit until he hears you whine when he tries to draw his hips and pull his dick out, clawing at his shoulders and bringing him close to you. His selfish baby, all cockdrunk and fucked stupid, needing a little more of a push to fall over the edge one more time, that’s what he loves to see.

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faerykingdom · 4 days ago

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good morning my ehr is down and i'm currently fueled by the weakest coffee you could possibly imagine but uh. sorry for edging everyone before 9am lmao

You barely have time to breathe before you feel it - Vander’s mouth, low and open and reverent, just as Silco shifts to sprawl across you, pinning you down with his weight and heat.

They don’t speak. They consume.

Vander licks a slow, flat line up the seam of your cunt like he’s worshipping at an altar, savoring every drop. His hands slide beneath your thighs, holding you open with a gentleness that only makes the hunger in his touch burn hotter. Above, Silco leans in - kissing Vander over you, tongues brushing through your slick, lips meeting at your center like they’ve done this before. Like they dreamed of this.

You choke on a sound - half gasp, half moan - as your spine arches, hips caught between them.

Silco groans into the kiss, one hand spreading you wider so Vander can lick deeper, slower, more precise. Vander hums low, the vibration sinking into your bones as his tongue circles, flicks, worships - tracing you like a map he intends to memorize.

It’s too much. Too good. Not enough.

You writhe, hands clutching the sheets, mouth open in a silent cry as heat coils tighter in your belly. Every time Silco rolls your clit, Vander follows with a slow, grounding drag of his tongue just below - and then they meet again, mouths brushing, tongues tangled, like they’re sharing the sweetest thing they’ve ever tasted.

“Please,” you gasp, breath caught somewhere too high to reach. “Please, I - I need -”

Vander lifts his head, voice wrecked. “Need what, honey?”

Silco licks his lips, grinning into your thigh. “You gotta say it.”

Your answer comes out as a whimper, too ragged to shape into words.

But that only makes them smile.

Silco trails two fingers up your trembling stomach, slow enough to be cruel. “Poor thing,” he murmurs, voice thick with mock-pity. “So close you can't even speak.”

Vander chuckles, deep and dark, and licks another stripe up your cunt, leisurely, like he has all the time in the world. “We could let you come,” he murmurs, tongue circling your entrance, breath hot against your slick skin. “But where’s the fun in that?”

You sob, hips lifting in search of pressure, friction, anything - but Silco pins you easily, shifting just enough to trap you beneath him while his fingers toy with your clit in slow, teasing circles.

“Not yet,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion.

You feel Vander’s breath catch, just before he mouths at you again - sloppy now, greedy, as though your desperation is making him drunk. His tongue presses deeper, curling inside while his thumb brushes the edge of your rim, teasing, never pushing. Every lick is patient torment, every motion deliberate.

They know what they’re doing.

They want you like this - panting, shaking, hot from throat to thighs with the ache of almost.

Silco leans down, mouth brushing your hip as he whispers, “Not yet.”

Then he bites you - just a scrape, just enough to make you arch - and Vander moans against your cunt, the vibration sending you hurtling right up to the edge again.

Close. So close.

But they don’t let you come.

Not yet.

YOU GET BACK HERE AND FINISH THIS RN!!!!!

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faerykingdom · 6 days ago

Text

HEADCANNON ALERT Michael Robinavich and Patience

Robby is rutting into you. It’s slow and teasing. He does it just because he wants to be mean for once. He’s normally a yes man but after you piss him off during shift for going over Robby to another attending… all bets of him being sweet are off the table.

“This is all you get til you apologize… honey” he purrs by your ear, his thick veiny cock sinking in and out in centimeters of a thrust.

Just a small adjustment of his hips over and over. It’s agonizing when you’re sopping wet around him. the wet sound of your joining and his antagonizing in your ear are the only things to be heard right now.

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faerykingdom · 6 days ago

Text

Walk with me for a sec

Michael Robinavitch in a baby blue polo on your day off at the park with your four kids but then he sees your dumbass son starting to scale the jungle gym at four years old (he’s really tall for his age thanks to Robby) and he has to manhandle the child off the metal bars before he falls and actually gets hurt and has to visit Uncle Jack who is covering for Robby on the day shift so he can have a day with his family without being in the Pitt.

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faerykingdom · 6 days ago

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Hi I’m totally an inconspicuous individual who never asks anything on anon short of secret Santa. Totally not the chick in your DMs 23 hours a day.

That said, drabble request for Robby x Abbot x OC or reader please. Kink of your choice. I trust you’ll do right by our doctor daddies. 😌

[ Wow, hi new friend I’ve definitely never met before! Can I just say you have impeccable taste in daddies—I mean doctors? Please accept this gift of pure filth to christen our new friendship. 😌 ]

Good Girl

The Pitt | Explicit | Dr. Robby x Fem!Reader x Dr. Abbot | 215 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot have a little afternoon delight with their favorite person. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Female Reader, Praise Kink

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Getting the three of you together was as much of a magic trick as it was a carefully choreographed logistical nightmare. Between your conflicting schedules and commitments, you were lucky if you all saw each other more than twice a month.

But when you did…well…

The visits were certainly memorable.

“Good girl.”

The words were like a drug, softening your spine and clouding your senses. Robby knew exactly what those words did to you and he was clearly more than happy to take advantage as he eased his way inside of you.

(He was just lucky you were lying on your back or else your knees would’ve given out by now.)

“Mmm, she is, isn’t she?” Abbot chimed in, a wickedly playful smile on his face as his fingers rubbed torturous little circles into your clitoris. You spied his other hand squeezing that beautiful, swollen cock of his and moaned.

“Please,” you whine pitifully, cunt contracting and toes curling as Robby’s cock continued to tunnel its way in—in—in—

“Mmm,” Robby grunted, finally bottoming out. “There we go.”

“Oh look at you,” Abbot cooed at you like an overindulged pet. “Don’t you feel so much better now? All filled up?”

Your only reply is a shivery groan.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Next Drabble Request | The Muse Masterlist

If you would like to make your own drabble request, please see my Drabble Request Rules here.

Thanks for reading! 🫶

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faerykingdom · 6 days ago

Note

for the prompt thing could you do 1 or 13 w robby pretty please?

oh im absolutely gonna give u 1 that is my fave trope of all time!!!

hope its okay its gonna be a lil more trans/nonbinary reader as its easier to write what i know 😅

also i got lost in the sauce again sorry this took a hot minute. this really is my fave trope i couldnt stop myself.

you’d cursed gloria and all the big wigs at the hospital for hours. they couldn’t plan a piss up in a brewery, and because of that there was only one room booked for you and robby at the hotel you were meant to stay at while on the way back from a conference.

it was late when you arrived off the highway, and unfortunately too late to try to find somewhere else to sleep. robby tried to convince you to take the room while he slept in the car, but after a bit of arguing you agreed that you were both adults and could handle sharing a bed for one night.

you’d both promptly changed in the en suite bathroom before retiring to bed, doing your best to stay on your respective sides. you reckon a heart transplant would be easier, not that you’d every risk trying that, given the fucking bed on the reservation was a queen. robby muttered something about starting a rumor with princess and perlah to get back at gloria; you left that comment alone.

it was the middle of the night when a noise right by your head pulled you from your rather comfortable slumber. you eyes were bleary and body unbelievably warm. there was a weight around your waist, heavy and warm, and you nearly wanted snuggle under it and try to go back to sleep.

in fact, you probably would have if not for the low moan right behind your head and the distinct feeling of robby grinding his cock into your backside.

the slow, intense roll of robby’s hips froze you; a sharp inhale and sudden increasing heart rate. you were no longer on the edge of slumber, too aware of the body pressed behind you, and the realization that the weight on your waist was robby’s arm, and his fingers were inched just below your shirt. his fingers hot against your belly, another moan slipped from behind you, robby’s leg making its way between your legs.

“fuck—,” robby groaned, his voice thick with sleep. another grind against your backside and you realized how wet you were, his knee giving the perfect amount of pressure to your core. fuck, how were you gonna get out of this? this was your boss, in the same bed as you, having a wet dream and using you to get off. if you woke him up he’d flip his lid and actually go sleep in the car ‘til morning.

if this was a dream and not your reality you wouldn’t mind so much. you always thought robby was attractive, big shoulders and strong hands, pretty puppy dog eyes, and one of the smartest doctors you’d ever met. this would be pretty great if he wasn’t asleep and you weren’t caged in.

after a hard press of his knee made your lower belly burn with increasing pleasure, you had to stop him before you actually finished. how embarrassing would that be? robby waking up to you having an orgasm against his own fucking leg. you angled your hips away from his slowly, lifting your leg to ease off his own leg. you thanked all higher beings that he didn’t wake at your movements.

robby’s fingers under your shirt were starting to become a problem, rubbing small circles way too close to your waistband. you turned over as slowly as possible, watching his face for any sign of disturbance. maybe now you could fall back asleep and pretend this never happened; he was bound to make his way back to his side of the bed eventually.

“mm, feel s’good,” robby whispered, breath fanning over your lips. still completely in his own little world. you shut your eyes tight, if you kept looking at his face, or dare look down at his lips, you might lose it. you just had to fall back to sleep and soon enough it would be morning.

it felt like no time at all had passed by when you blinked your eyes open once again, moon still in the sky from the window you could see. now robby’s face was somehow closer, light reflecting off his long lashes as you could see his eyes move back and forth under his eyelids; still sound asleep.

his pesky knee was back between your fucking legs. god, if this wasn’t so awkward, and arousing, you’d laugh at the thought that robby was the type to cling in his sleep. your chest tightened with affection as you looked over his face, peaceful and without a care in the world. he whispered your name, and suddenly his knee rubbed right against your clit through your boxers and you couldn’t stop the moan that slipped from your lips.

the next thing you knew you were on your back, robby’s hips bullying themselves between your legs as he smashed his lips against your own. large hands squeezed your waist, pulling you down against his cock that nestled perfectly against you despite the fabric between you. you were lost for a second, forgot where you were, and kissed him back on pure instinct. robby languidly licking into your mouth as the pleasure in your core reached a dangerous high.

“fuck, robby,” you whined against his lips, your hips trying to keep pace with his own.

that did it.

the sound of your voice brought robby out of his dream and into reality. brown eyes wide open, pupils blown, staring at your fucked out face beneath him. his cock twitched painfully in his boxers, practically wet from your combined secretions.

“jesus, oh god, i-i’m sorry,” he hesitated, realizing what he had done. what he was about to do. “fuck, i’m s-so sorry,” he sounded like he might cry.

before he could completely extricate himself from your limbs you fisted your hand in his shirt to stop his movement. your brain scrambled, you wanted him so bad. all you could think about was how you were so close and how he’d said your name in his sleep. that had to mean something.

“wait, wait,” you panted. “talk about it later, but please don’ stop. i want you, robby, please,” you were ‘t above begging when on the cusp of an orgasm. robby took in your appearance, how your own pupils were blown out and how kiss swollen your lips looked as you spoke. leaning back a bit he could see the wet patch on your boxers sticking to you; how true your words were in that moment.

“fuck it,” robby surged back down to reconnect your lips, both sets of your hands scrambling to remove the layers below your waists. you sucked on his bottom lip, laving over it with your tongue as robby wet his cock between your lips with your slick. foreheads pressed together, breathing into each other’s mouths, robby notched himself at your entrance and gave an experimental thrust.

you were so wet and warm, like he was made to be in you, as if this was his destiny all this time. robby swallowed your moans with his mouth, setting a harsh pace as he fucked into you. you were both so close, all that sleepy grinding had you both at the edge for ages. you settled your hand at the base of robby’s throat, not choking or putting pressure, simply holding him.

“robby, inside, i’m t-there,” you whined against his lips, knees tightening around his hips to keep him close. robby shut his eyes tight, thrusting faster and harder to try to get you to come first.

“gonna fill you up, fuckin’ hell,” your muscles tightened around his cock as the heat in your belly exploded through your nerves. you moaned, lost in the drawn out feeling as robby’s hips faltered in their rhythm as he began to come, shoving as deep into you as possible.

after a few moments of simply holding each other in the wake of your combined ends, robby slowly pulled himself from your wet heat, slow as not to overstimulate too much, and laid on his back next to you.

“hell of a dream, robinavitch?” robby snorted, the ugly way that let you know it was real and uncontrolled.

“hell of a way to wake up.”

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faerykingdom · 8 days ago

Text

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 — 𝐣.𝐚.

summary: also known as the story of how you became jack abbot's sugar baby.

word count: 7.8k

tags: younger reader/sugar baby dynamic, reader is in an unspecified masters program, reader is poor (sorry girl), descriptions of burn wound, jack tends to reader's wound because why wouldn't he!, robby guest appearance, smut (hard and fast and creampie.. sorry), these two are so cute and i love this reader

note: based on this blurb. enjoy! crazy what motivation can do. go listen to don’t worry baby by the beach boys 💛

you should have known you were in trouble when dr. jack abbot of the closest emergency room handed you a full-size tube of the expensive burn gel you needed and said in a firm yet gentle voice: don’t worry about it, kid.

little did he know that you did worry about it, that you worry about everything and then some. like the ridiculous injury that led you here in the first place—ridiculous and embarrassing, a double whammy. you were writing a paper at two in the morning despite the fact that the words on the screen had stopped making sense hours ago, determined to get at least another three pages done before calling it quits.

what you really needed was a coffee, but instead, stupidly, you settled for making hot chocolate. you thought it would be comforting, like a warm hug, which is probably what you really need and since you live alone, it’s not like you’re going to get that anywhere else.

so—hot chocolate, with milk rather than water, and mini marshmallows. you make it on the stove because it’s just better that way, and despite how you feel about yourself deserving things, you think you can waste the few extra minutes to make it the right way.

except you probably should have made the cup of coffee. after two am, your brain really, really stops working. your palm ends up against the burner of your stove and you cry out from pain before realizing what you’ve just done.

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck-” you curse, taking your hand to the sink immediately and running it under cold water. it stings and the pain isn’t going away, and then you realize a few other things.

one—that you have nothing besides bandaids and neosporin in this apartment. two—that you have no idea how to take care of a burn. and three—you really, really should have just gone to sleep.

on the verge of tears that are about to spill over, you keep your hand wrapped against a towel, slip into real shoes, and call an uber to the nearest emergency room. you’d walk but you’re in pajama shorts and a hoodie and it’s three in the morning and you don’t think you can handle anything else going wrong right now.

your paper is abandoned at your desk. the cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows melting in it looks at you almost jeeringly. and you think you’ll never trust your stove again.

you wait for a little bit but luckily, it’s not as packed as you were worried it’d be. you still have to finish that paper when you get back home, and if the sun is up by then there’ll be no sleeping for you. the nurse looks at you kindly when she notices your wet eyes and wobbly chin as you explain you accidentally burnt yourself and you didn’t know what to do.

“hold tight, honey. the doctor will be right in.” you thank her and then curse to yourself—you’re reaching levels of stupidity unknown to man. you hope she’ll tell the doctor it was just a burn and whoever it is will leave it at that. you don’t think you have energy to explain this to anyone and your face burns with embarrassment at the very idea.

then the curtain gets pulled back and he walks in and whatever thought you were thinking flies out the window.

“hi, i’m dr. abbot,” he says, his head tilted down—showing you a mane of messy salt and pepper curls—and looking at the tablet in his hands. he looks up at you to confirm your name and then your birthday, though in all honesty, he could have said something completely wrong and you would have nodded and agreed.

your doctor is handsome. he’s hot. like grey’s anatomy level hot. like, some other medical show that your brain recognizes but can’t currently remember the name of hot.

“so you burned yourself? can i take a look?” as stupid as it is—you don’t think you’ve ever been stunned into silence by a man before. his words are gentle and sincere and it sounds like he really cares about whatever's wrong with you—so many things you can't begin to name them all right now. fuck, he asked you something. you nod and then he looks up at you again. “i kind of need to hear you say it.”

fuck. me. what the hell kind of doctor says things like that to deliriously delusional women at three in the morning?

“yes. yes, thank you.” you move the towel and lift your palm towards him and he takes a gloved hand to support you. you can feel his fingers against the back of your hand, holding you in place, and normally that contact would be enough to have you reeling into never-never land where all the doctors are hot and single and you’re presenting with a more much cool, mature injury.

but then you notice his arms, and you have to bite your cheek so hard to not accidentally say anything you will without a doubt regret. hot doctor is jacked, with huge arms and a scrub top that covers most of his biceps. his forearms are thick and veiny and your eyes focus on them for way, way too long. you can make out so many freckles on his skin that it presents like a galaxy. you momentarily forget how badly your hand hurts. he sucks in a breath and looks at you again, making intense eye contact that you can’t bear. you look away immediately.

“ouch. so how’d this happen?” he asks, and you groan before you can stop yourself—of course he’s a good doctor who doesn’t cut corners and has to make sure you’re not suicidal or a masochist or something. “you okay, kid?”

what the fuck. one man cannot be doing it for you in so many ways—this dr. abbot should have never existed because you don’t know how you’re going to stop thinking about him. when you meet his eyes again and can actually look into them—hazel and very pretty, because of course they are—they’re filled with concern.

you can’t imagine how crazy you must look to him right now. plaid pajamas shorts, a grey hoodie for some sports team you know nothing about, messy hair. you curse yourself for not doing your makeup earlier.

“yes, i’m sorry. i-i was just hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

“yeah?” he says, with a teasing lilt to his voice. seriously, fuck this guy. “why’s that?”

“i…i was making hot chocolate. y’know, the good kind. stovetop with milk and the tiny-” jack looks at you with a smile, holding back a laugh and you lose your train of thought and trail off. “marshmallows. the tiny ones. and i was half-asleep already working on this paper, so, yeah. that’s, um, the story.”

jack asks you some other questions quietly—about what you’re in school for and how you like it—probably to distract you while he cleans your wounds. his touch alone is enough of a distraction and the way the muscles in his arms move while he does is enough to make you black out, but you still answer politely and try to not embarrass yourself further.

when your wound is all wrapped up, you cover your mouth to stifle a yawn and blink tiredly at dr. abbot.

“thank you,” you repeat for what must be the hundredth time—though you are very thankful. different people wearing scrubs interrupted him to ask a question probably three or four times and he never once stepped away from your bedside or left to go help someone else, even though you told him you could wait.

“you’re very welcome,” he stands up and you get your hand back and it feels much colder without his touch. stupid, you think to yourself, don’t think that! you are stupid! “now, don’t get this wet and change the wrap daily. when you’re changing, if it looks red or swollen or there’s any pus, you come straight back. and you’ll need burn gel. the nurse is going to give you some packets but it’s a bigger wound so you’ll have to buy a bottle at the pharmacy. that sound okay?”

you want to shake your head and tell him no, it kind of doesn’t. for starters you don’t want to leave his comfortable presence—maybe you’re just really lonely. if you had more money you’d get a cat so you’re not so alone all the time, but it’s one thing to subject yourself to poverty, bringing in a cute little kitten to your life is just stupid. oh god—there you go again. he said something and you can’t even remember what it is. you blink dumbly at dr. abbot.

right—burn gel. the real answer is no, insanely handsome doctor jack, i unfortunately cannot buy a bottle of burn gel at the moment, not until my next paycheck. but admitting all of that to him right now, after the already humiliating hot chocolate story, seems the emotional equivalent of your own personal 9/11. instead you lie and nod.

“sounds good.”

he smiles at you and you smile back, though you feel incredibly silly.

“don’t try to make hot chocolate half asleep again, kid. just go to bed next time,” jack says and you feel your face flush and burn at his words—you feel like a child getting scolded by dad. “and get some sleep, okay?”

“yeah. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say quietly. he smiles one last time, closes the curtain and leaves you in there alone again.

and though you thought it very nearly impossible, you do fuck up one more time before leaving pittsburg trauma medical center. you ask the nurse, who brings you two tiny samples of the burn gel, if there’s any way you could have more, explaining in not so many words that you’re a student and hoping that she gets the gist of what you’re trying to say.

“oh. well, let me go ask dr. abbot, and if he says yes, i can-”

“no! no, never mind. this is perfect, i’ll figure it out, um-” you scramble to your feet to get the burn gel packets and your paperwork.

“just one second, okay, i’ll be right back.” the nurse—young and very pretty and probably new, which is why she wants to make sure she’s not making a mistake, rushes out.

and you, not sure if this is exactly against-medical-advice, take your belongings and head outside to go back home.

(the nurse does go to jack—asking if she can give you some more packets of burn gel because you can’t afford it. he agrees immediately, thinking that he would have given you more if you had told him, wondering why you hadn’t. he goes back to your bed to give them to you himself, but you’re not there.)

and two days later, staring at your hand post-shower, still needing to write two thousand words before bed, you wonder if it looks a little… red.

you hadn’t gotten it wet, but you’re using the burn gel sparingly, and maybe because you’re not using enough, it had gotten infected.

fuck. you should have just coughed up the money to pay for the big bottle—you’re so dumb sometimes. you try to justify that it’s not red, it’s just the lighting, but when you take a picture with flash, you don’t think it’s in your head.

an hour later, it starts to hurt again like the first day. double fuck.

grumbling something about cyclical poverty, you pull on your hoodie over your outfit of the day, which was at least some-what cute. both things thrifted—a denim skirt and a plain pink henley—but it’s cold, so on the jacket goes. it’s a struggle to get it on without hurting your hand but you figure it out. it’s only just hit nine o’clock but it’s dark—so there goes another charge for the uber.

you go inside and go up to the lady with whom you check in, telling her you were here a few days ago for a burn, and that somehow must mean you get priority access, because the nurse—a different one—brings you back right away.

you wait for someone to tell you dr. abbot’s not here but there’s another just-as-good doctor, preferably one with normal arms and a normal smile that doesn’t make the lines around his eyes crinkle and light up his whole face and doesn’t make you fall headfirst into numerous, unrealistic fantasies, mostly centered around what a hug in those absolutely abnormal arms would feel like and—

you realize you’ve lost the plot as soon as dr. abbot pulls back the curtain.

“oh. i didn’t know if it would be you again.”

“it’s me again.” you must look starstruck, you conclude, with the way he looks at you and smiles and takes a seat on the stool in the room. now you’re the one staring—crow’s feet and all. “so what happened?”

“i was looking at it after my shower and, i-i don’t know, it just looks red. and it started to hurt again and i-i have to write so many papers and i don’t wanna lose my whole hand because i didn’t use enough burn gel-”

“hey,” he says, firmly yet still tinged with gentleness. like someone talking to a skittish animal—which, you think, you pretty much are at this point. the fact that he's the one taming you makes you dizzy. “you’re gonna be fine. you’re here now, so i can take of it.”

you refuse to let yourself read between the lines—the way he only mentions himself. the way you think he should have said so i can take care of you.

“o-okay. thank you, dr. abbot.”

you peel away the shitty, rushed bandage wrap and let him observe your palm closely. he’s so close that you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body.

after what feels like ages, he tells you it’s not infected. you sigh before you can stop yourself, shoulders sagging in relief. jack looks at you with an expression you don’t recognize—like he’s a little confused and amused at the same time.

“but it’s good that you came in anyways.” you face burns when he pulls out a tube of the burn you were supposed to be using generously from the pocket of his scrubs.

“oh, um, listen, i can explain-”

“don’t worry about it, kid.” you accept the bottle and stare at him and he does the usual thing—tells you to come in if it gets worse, use the gel and if you need another tube, just come back here and find him, making you flush hard and get teary-eyed when he finally leaves.

maybe it’s just nice to be taken care of, for once. but you shouldn’t get dependent on it. you indulge in the reality until the uber is there to take you home, and then you conclude that you’ll likely never see dr. jack abbot, the kind hearted, good physician who took care of your wound twice now, ever again.

until you do.

sometimes your work writes itself when you’re in a new environment, and you blame the lack of progress on your boring, tiny apartment. there’s a coffee shop not too far from campus that another girl in your masters program had told you about. good coffee, even better pastries, and there’s always cute guys, she had said with a laugh.

you had been so focused on figuring out what the cheapest thing to buy was that you forgot the ending half of your friend’s sentence. from the hospital nearby.

there’s always cute guys from the hospital nearby.

you get settled with a small iced coffee and start typing away, working with an intent to make sure this paper gets done because it’s been put off long enough, when the door opens and you almost feel him before you see him.

it’s eight in the morning. why would he even be here? it’s not him—you conclude, staring at the back of a man in a dark blue shirt that fits him a little too snugly and green cargo pants. you don’t see the telltale black stethoscope or an id badge that tells you anything, just the profile of his back and a head of messy, gray curls.

fuck. it's him, isn't it? of course it's him. jack orders and then steps away to wait for it, hot coffee black in the biggest size they have. and when he turns around, he sees you looking at him like a deer in headlights. then you turn your head down immediately, as if you’re trying to hide and make yourself as small as you can.

he chuckles to himself because you’re pretty cute when you do things like that.

you keep your head down long enough, pretending to be so engrossed in your paper, that you get a little too locked-in, not realizing the footsteps approaching belong to him.

“is this seat empty?” jack asks, and you almost jolt with the realization that he’s so close to you.

you look up tentatively, bracing yourself for the encounter, reminding yourself not to act a complete fool like you have the last two times.

“yes. hi, dr. abbot. small world, huh,” you say, though it’s not a question, more of a cruel joke.

“yeah, kid. you still working on that paper?”

“yes. it’s, um, a real beast,” you say, before realizing how dumb you must sound to him. “oh my god, not that, it’s like a real job, or anything, or as hard as yours. it’s just taking a lot longer than usual, and-” “don’t say that. that’s plenty hard. i couldn’t do it, that’s for sure,” he says, in that gentle voice that still sounds like he’s teasing you but you know he’s not because he’s so sincere. your head feels like it's spinning from a single sentence.

“really?” you ask, feeling like a stupid, scared child all over again.

“yes.”

the validation washes over you and you try to soak in every drop—it’s been a while that someone older than you hasn’t made you feel silly for what you’re pursuing. or rather, for the fact that it is hard sometimes, that it’s not just typing away at a computer all day. the research and the readings and the discussions and everything that you pour into your work, the stuff that no one in your life save for your favorite professors seem to understand.

jack is intoxicating, and you’re beginning to realize how much of a problem that is.

he smiles at you and you smile at him, reaching for your coffee just so you have something else to focus on because his attention is almost blinding, when you stop your hand half-way. it’s empty.

you bring your hand back to your lap awkwardly and look up at him, hoping he didn’t notice. he did.

“so, are you coming straight from the hospital?” you try to pivot the conversation away from yourself because the truth is that you could listen to him talk for hours.

“yeah, i just finished the night shift. and i’ve got a couple days off so i figured i’d get a coffee before tackling my list of things i’ve been putting off.”

“that’s always a smart idea,” you say.

“yeah. you’re doing the same thing, huh?”

“i guess i just needed to get out of the house. and drink something that’s made without bodily harm involved.”

he laughs, so you laugh, and then you stare at his pretty, sparkly eyes and wonder why everything feels so easy around him. the concern that you’re not good enough or not working hard enough melts away and you feel so much lighter. your struggles are forgotten, if just for a moment, and you realize that this, unfortunately, is something very bad. because he’s not going to be around you much longer.

the barista calls out his name and he says he’ll be right back, getting up quickly. you think he would have said that he’ll see you around and in true doctor fashion, remind you to take care of your wound, but he didn’t.

you conclude that he must be saving it for after his coffee, that he’ll pass by on the way out. you’re a little distracted with your thoughts to notice that he’s gone for a little too long.

he comes back with his coffee—large and in a hot cup, the polar opposite of yours—and a pastry in a bag.

but then he hands it to you.

“oh—what?” you ask, confused.

“it’s for you. you haven’t eaten, right?” “well, no, but i-” he sets the bag down next to your empty coffee cup. “you didn’t have to do that, i, um, i-”

“that’s okay. i was a student once too, y’know.”

“yeah. wow, um, thank you. that’s so nice of you.” you’re so stunned you can’t even begin to piece together jack’s reaction. it’s a five dollar pastry, and he thinks briefly he’d buy you ten of them if you really wanted, with how grateful you seem.

“they’re making you another coffee, so pay attention for your name.”

“dr. abbot, i-” your eyes are wide like coins, heart thudding in your chest, confused and dizzy and unable to process how nice this man is.

“it’s nothing, kid. don’t worry about it.”

you laugh at how crazy this whole things seem to you—or maybe you’re just not very used to nice things.

“you should stop because i’m gonna get used to this,” you say half-joking with a smile and another laugh, taking a bite of the delicious pastry so he’ll be appeased.

“maybe you should.” you blink at him. “i gotta go, kid, but here’s my number.” he takes out a pen from his pocket and scribbles the number on the back of the paper bag the pastry came in. “call me if you need anything, hm? for your hand or anything else."

you stare at him blankly, and he laughs, and heads out with his coffee, turning to look at you one last time when he’s at the door.

the barista calls out your name and there’s a large iced coffee waiting for you on the counter.

yeah, you’re in trouble.

you save jack’s contact but you don’t text him, worried that he’ll think you only want to see him for his money or the seemingly endless generosity that’s always pouring from him.

you do need need help—there's a half assembled desk from facebook marketplace that you didn't have the tools to finish yourself, despite how hard you tried. but you can't possibly ask him for help with that—he's a stranger. he's your doctor. so you don't do anything with his number.

it’s just as well because the universe has other plans for you two.

you work a part-time job to pay for your tiny apartment. it’s inconsistent, you get scheduled when they’re really busy, and now that it’s getting warmer out, there's more shifts.

so saturday morning, bright and early, you get ready, first wrapping your hand as discreetly as you can. it’s doing much better now, half of which you attest to the burn gel and half to jack’s healing powers. then your hair and make-up, and then whatever seems suitable for the hot weather today.

there’s no uniform, at least, and you decide on a black athletic skirt and a pink shirt with the material that helps you not get too sweaty, even though you’re in the shade of the drink cart for most of your shift.

it’ll be a full day so you pack lunch and fill up your water bottle before making your way to the golf course. you’re assigned a specific section and you pray to god it’s filled with stupid, rich businessman who tip way too much if you flutter your eyelashes at them.

it’s a little skeevy at times, but money is money, and no one’s ever tried anything more than a failed pick-up line or the more sober friends dragging away the drunk guy who lingers, even though they all wear wedding bands.

you make the first round, and though it’s early and you’re more of a disarming, clumsy sort of charming, when you smile brightly and say it’s five o’clock somewhere, it’s enough to the men golfing to laugh and buy hard seltzers.

a little bit later, the beers start selling, and by noon, you have to go restock your cart. it’s been a good shift—you think if it keeps up like this, your tips will be enough to put towards rent and if there’s extra, you can go find a dress if you ever work up the nerve to text jack and ask him on a date.

but post lunch, to your surprise, it slows down a little. it’s hot out and you have to admit to yourself you were never going to be brave enough to text jack. at least if your rent gets almost paid, you’ll feel better than you did last night.

you drive around on the cart, stopping in front of a tall man who you think is golfing alone. in your experience, if they’re alone, they’re looking to get drunk.

“hi,” you sing, hoping he’s a good tipper. he looks nice when he smiles at you but you never know. “would you like anything to drink?”

“two beers, please. thank you, sweetheart.”

the nickname, like always, make you a little flustered. it’s always the older guys who lavish them on you, and when they’re wrinkly and too old it’s not that big of a deal, but when they’re in this one specific age range—your heart churns remembering that jack is probably a part of that group, just like this guy—it’s enough to make you spiral. many things are, you conclude, unsure how you’ve made it this far in life.

“two?” you confirm, since you don’t see anyone else around.

“yes, just waiting on a buddy of mine.”

“oh, okay. coming right up,” you respond, leaning over to pick up two beers. when you turn back to tell them the price, again, you feel him before you hear it.

“our livers are gonna be shot, man.” you hear it in the distance.

“well, after the week i’ve had, i deserve it-” the man next to you shouts out to his friend, who you, unfortunately, recognize. you hear footsteps getting closer and closer.

“yeah, yeah. don’t come calling when you want a piece of my liver. i got it,” jack says, approaching you. you turn around to face him. “oh. hi, kid. talk about a coincidence, huh?”

you want to say something but you’re not sure how to get it out without stammering.

jack’s eyes rake over your body—short skirt, tight shirt, cute golf shoes that you had spent way too much money on. you just wanted to play the role and fit in and it had all seemed worth it at the time.

and then he notices how you’re holding onto the beers with both hands, condensation dripping onto your mostly-dry bandage. and he turns into dr. abbot right before your eyes. “hey, hey, let me take those. you’re supposed to be keeping this thing dry,” he says, handing one over to robby.

“you two know each other?” his friend says, his eyes going from you to jack and back to you.

“yeah. listen, i’ll be right over.”

“sure,” robby says. “thank you again for the beer,” he tells you and you weakly smile before he walks away.

“i-i did keep it dry. it’s doing better. but i didn’t want to turn down work so-”

“yeah, but, i don’t want you compromising the healing. how long have you been out here? have you been drinking water?”

“yes, i have,” you say earnestly, his concern for you making you light-headed, though you resist the urge to fall directly into his arms, no matter how much it possesses you.

“as your doctor, i don’t think i can recommend this.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, unsure of what else you can tell him. “you know how it is. gotta pay for coffee somehow, right?”

“you didn’t text me. or call. i was hoping for a call but i figured you’d send a text, but then you didn’t.”

“i’m sorry-” “stop apologizing. i-i’m kidding. you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. i just meant-” “i wanted to,” you pipe up, interrupting him. “i still want to. i just-i just got nervous, i guess. you’re like a real doctor and i’m, i’m barely a real student.” “why do you do that?” “do what?” “make it seem like it’s lesser. you are a student, you told me all about it. it’s impressive.”

“no it’s not. you don’t have to lie-” “i’m not lying.”

you pause, processing everything happening in front of you.

“i’m sorry i didn’t text you.”

“that’s okay, kid. i’ll take your word for it this time.” “i didn’t think you’d actually want to see me, i guess.”

“yeah? why’s that?” he gets in a little closer, until he’s in the shade of your cart with you. he stares intensely and you feel yourself getting warm, unable to answer, unable to even remember what he had said.

“i-i-”

“you, you?” you hear it in the distance—his friend calling out his name. jack takes a step away from you and looks over. “i gotta go. thanks for the beer, kid.” he pushes cash into your hand and you feel like you’ve been shocked with a live wire where your hands touch. “if you don’t text me, i can’t get your number, you know.”

and then he walks away. and in your hand is a hundred-dollar bill for two beers.

it turns out, that texting jack was, indeed, a mistake. you text him a simple sentence—hi, followed with your name so he knows who it is. maybe he has other former patients he’s giving his number out to—you don’t know. (you hope not, as the thought just made you nauseous.)

he calls you a few minutes later and completely unprepared, you have to answer, and talk to him on the phone as you pace around your tiny living room until your downstairs neighbor hits the ceiling with a broom to get you to stop.

jack is a planner, you realize, because after the phone call where he asked about your day and you learned about his, you have a date for friday night.

against every better instinct, you go buy a new, used dress for the date from your favorite consignment store, using the money from jack’s tip. you get dressed up hours in advance, unable to focus on your work, but rather chewing your cheek and reapplying your lip gloss until it’s time to go downstairs.

jack meets you outside your apartment, though he tells you he was going to come up. he has flowers for you but you elect to carry them, not sure if you’re prepared for him to see the tiny place you call home.

this has never happened before. your first date with a man, rather than a boy, and he brought you flowers and he’s driving you to the restaurant and he gets out first and tells you to wait and then goes around and opens the door for you.

it’s ridiculous. it’s like a movie.

the first date goes well, you think.

well—it’s the best first date you’ve ever had. jack tells you all about his life but he always stops to ask about yours, though yours isn’t nearly as interesting. instead you preen him on about his time in the service, and he tells you about the prosthetic you saw when he was at the golf course, and why he wanted to become a doctor and how he likes it there now.

(when you bring that up, he puts his hand over your injured one, still wrapped with a much smaller bandage than before, and asks how your hand is for probably the third time that night, like he has to keep checking to make sure you’re okay. it’s dizzying. everything about him is dizzying.)

he lets you pick dessert and walks you up to your door and kisses you goodnight, and you have to refrain from inviting him inside right then and there.

you stare at the flowers daily—not sure when one date had become two, and then three, and then four.

he brings you a box of chocolates—the good kind—on the second date and you makeout for twenty minutes in his car after. new flowers on the third one, when you end up seeing inside his gorgeous apartment for the first time and also end up on his lap for the better part of an hour.

and then the fourth one, which was supposed to be a late lunch after his shift at the hospital, you very nearly have to cancel. jack is outside your door and you still have a complex about your apartment, but you let him inside while you scramble around.

“woah, woah,” he says, steadying you by your shoulders and turning you towards him. “what’s going on?”

“um, work called and this girl is sick and they want me to come in but i-i have to see the bus times or call an uber and i don’t even know where my golf shoes are and-”

“just tell them no, then sweetheart,” he says, and you blink at him.

“but i should really go. if it’s busy it’s like enough to pay half my rent, and-” jack sighs, moving his hands from your shoulders to your waist.

“i don’t think you should have to worry about things like this.”

the way he says it, it sounds very final, very firm and absolute.

“i wish it was that easy,” you say, but when you turn to meet jack’s eyes again, he’s already looking at you intensely.

“it is. let me care of it.”

and it’s jarring. letting him pay for every date—though you paid for the ice cream after date two, something you pride yourself on—is one thing. letting him pay for coffee because he sends you money when you mention you’re going to the coffee shop to work is… something. but letting him pay for your life—your rent and your bills—is something else entirely. it’s dependence, it’s serious, it’s what you’d expect if you were engaged or his sugar baby or something—

“stop overthinking it. you know how much i like you, right?” you nod dumbly. “then let me take care of it. let me take care of you.”

unfortunately—it’s way, way too easy to give in. you’ve never been the spoiled sort, ever, but with jack, you get to be. you tell work you can’t come in and you don’t feel incredibly guilty about it for the first time. you get to go on your lunch date and then kiss jack goodbye and tell him to have a good day at work, instead. jack sends you a direct deposit for your rent, and you think he’s made a mistake at first—it’s almost double what you need. you call him to tell him about his mistake but he says the same thing he always does.

i know. the extra is for you. don’t worry about it, kid.

it’s incredible what those five words can do to your body and soul. it gets worse—the next time you see him, when you’re hearing home after a day of classes and he’s heading to the hospital, he takes out a little box and hands it to you, telling you to open it at home. and then he kisses you until your knees are weak and drops you off at your apartment.

on the elevator, you open it—a pretty necklace with a glittery diamond that probably costs three times your monthly rent.

you’ve never thought you’d get used to be spoiled like this so quickly—but you do. it’s not like you need so many luxurious things, but the little luxuries add up so quickly to the point where you’re overwhelmed. a new pair of shoes for every day because your old ones were hurting your soles. a large coffee and a pastry when you go to the coffeeshop to work. when your laptop stops working, you don’t freak out and cry like you’re programmed to do, you just tell jack and he helps you pick out a new one a few hours later.

intoxicating is the only word you can use to describe jack abbot and his affect on you.

and after another date—matching earrings for your necklace this time, ones that he helped you put on—you end up in apartment, staring at the bustling city below you from his huge windows. jack comes up behind you, kissing your cheek and then your ear, which makes you laugh, and then your shoulder and your neck, and you melt into his touch.

you’ve been doing nothing but kissing for the time you’ve known him, and you think you’ve been fed up for long enough. actually, you know you have, but he’s been the one insisting to take it slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off.

you wrap your arms around him and bring him in for another kiss, though this one feels slightly different. hot and wet and hard, the two of you pushed so tightly against each other that your mouth hurts. you open it further to let him push his tongue inside, and you realize as fun as this is, you need more. you need whatever jack abbot will give you.

his hands—still enough to make you think voltage is buzzing through them because every time he touches you, you feel like you’ve been hit with a live wire—grab your waist and roam up and down your back. you moan into his mouth and jack pulls away briefly, letting you catch your breath.

“please, jack?” you ask, and that’s all he can let you get out, smashing his mouth against yours again.

you squeal when he picks you up, carrying you to the bedroom and letting you land on his bed with a gentle thud.

“i wanted to stay out there,” you say softly, running your hands over his shirt, exploring his chest. your hands go to the buttons, undoing them even through your hands feel a little shaky.

“yeah? why’s that?” jack answers in that quiet, rough voice that makes you so wet you can’t think straight. he hovers over you, leaning into press another kiss to your neck that makes you moan. “wanted to give everyone a show, huh?” he presses his lips to yours and you giggle against them.

“s’not my fault you have such big windows.” then, emboldened, you keep going. “maybe i just wanted to show everyone that i can take care of you too.”

jack pulls away, staring at you with those eyes. those eyes, those eyes. it’s enough to drive you crazy, the way his gaze is so intense. you feel chills run through your whole body despite how hot and flushed you feel. you can’t help it—jack abbot makes you feel every emotion in the book at the same time.

“yeah, kid? you want to take care of me?” you nod, your hand finishing unbuttoning his shirt and helping him take it off.

“please, jack. i really do.” you let your hand wander to his bulge, palming him while biting your lip at the sheer size you’re feeling. he’s so big it’s going to hurt—though right now you can’t think about anything other than getting him inside your mouth so you can finally begin to take care of him how he’s been taking care of you.

“next time, kid, i promise-”

“ja-ack,” you whine. you think you’ve gotten a little too used to getting exactly what you want from him. it’s his own fault—he shouldn’t have spoiled you so much.

“come on, sweetheart. i thought you’d be good for me, huh?”

“but i wanted to-” you feel jack’s hands wander up your thighs, searching for the fabric of your panties, but he can’t find it. instead he feels the wetness between your legs, the your juices coating the inside of your thighs. he chokes out a laugh, burying his head into your neck like he can’t believe the sight in front of him.

“you’re not wearing anything underneath this?” he asks, and you shake your head, biting back a smile. “oh, kid. you’re in for it now.”

you squeal again, trying to fight his hard grip but jack keeps you firm in place, his lips crushing down on yours again, his tongue in your mouth. he pulls your dress up until it’s bunched around your thighs, and he’s still in his slacks but you want him inside of you so badly that you don’t think you can wait for the clothes to come off.

“shh,” jack says against your ear, nipping at it right above your pretty new earrings. “i’ll give you what you want. i just gotta stretch you out first.”

the words are enough to make your eyes roll all the way back—your head hits the pillow with a thud. jack keeps you distracted with a kiss while your wrap your hands around his neck. his finger get closer and closer to where you want them, and when he slips inside one thick finger, you gasp against his lips.

“yeah?” he teases, “feel good? i know, sweetheart, just take it.”

the stretch of just one is incredible, but then he adds a second, pushing them in and out with his palm flush against your clit, the pressure building in your stomach already.

it’s a combination of everything, you think. the soft sheets that smell like him, the way you’re both too eager to even take your clothes off. how the jewelry you’re wearing is from him, just because.

and finally, his weight on top of you, even when you’re begging him to let you take care of him for once, he can’t rest, he can’t stop it, like it’s so engrained in him. like his only mission in life is to take care of you.

jack adds a third finger and you don’t think you’ve ever been so stretched out in your life. panting against him, you lean in for another kiss, sloppy and wet.

you pull back so you can stare at jack’s expression while he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, so wet that he’s almost slipping out. he’s flushed, pretty silver hair damp against his forehead, and you reach over without thinking to brush some of it away.

“c’mon kid, cum for me. i know you want to. let me take care of you, hm? don’t think, don’t think, just cum-”

and you do. it’s explosive, though you’ve always thought this sort of orgasm was impossible for you to achieve. you guess nothing’s impossible when jack abbot is the one doing it. you hear him before you fully feel it—fuck, yes, good girl—and your entire body tenses and tightens as that coil low in your belly snaps and washes over you. if you had ever thought his touch was electric, then today it was lightening. he rides you through it, not stopping until you’re practically pushing his hand away, and even then, he only stops to laugh against your sweaty skin.

like he knew it’d be too much for you. like he’s only just begun breaking you in.

every muscle is aching and sore by the end of it. your body collapses into his mattress and you flutter your eyes shut, still leaning for another kiss, even when your brain is so tired it can’t think straight.

“good job, sweetheart,” he says, and you hum against him. “you think you’re ready for it?”

when he says it like that, you can’t help but nod.

jack lines himself up with your leaking cunt, and you can’t imagine what a mess you’ve made on his nice sheets. but when he pushes inside you, your eyes roll back again and you lose all train of thought.

damn him—you can’t even keep a sentence coherent anymore. it’s not fair.

you feel so full. your toes curl and your muscles scream at you, but with jack’s grip tight on your hips, the fabric of his pants rubbing against you because he had just taken himself out, not taken them off entirely, it’s hard to complain.

he sets a rhythm that makes you cry out against him, so loud that you’re worried his neighbors will hear. but jack doesn’t seem to care, encouraging you, hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars over and over again.

the sheer size of him is enough to make you cum again, you think, deliriously and delusionally.

your eyes are shut tight, but when you open them and meet jack’s eyes, you smile at him like you can’t believe this is real.

“j-jack,” you moan, unsure of your own volume. you hear the bedframe thud against the wall repeatedly, feel jack hold your legs up to get deeper in you, if that’s even possible. he looks down at where you two are connected, like he’s unable to pull his gaze away from there. “jack, it feel s-so good,” you hiccup, wet eyes meeting his.

“yeah, kid?” he asks, the words coming out in a shuddery breath. “fuck, oh fuck.” hearing him say that makes your toes curl, and when he picks up his pace and starts battering against that one spot in you, your feel it again—the electric current washing over you and running through each nerve, making your limbs into jello and your heart race so fast you think it’ll thud out of your chest.

you dig your nails into jack’s back, leaving little crescent shaped marks in your wake. and when you bring him for another kiss, you whisper it against his lips, watery eyes blinking up at him through wet eyelashes, just because you felt like you had to say it.

“thank you for taking care of me, jack.” you feel it before you hear him—his hips stuttering, streams of hot cum filling you up endlessly until you’ve made a mess all around him. he groans loudly—a noise that you wish you could hear on repeat from how good he sounds, how good you made him feel.

none of this is grounding—it’s so extremely un-grounding that you feel like you’re floating on clouds.

though you wish he wouldn’t, jack pulls out of you. his sheets must be ruined by now.

“you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, and you can’t believe this is your life.

“yes. are you okay?” you ask quietly, throat sore.

“yes,” he says, with a laugh, he helps you pull the skirt of your dress down and curl up next to him. his chest is warm and you think you could fall asleep pressed up against him like this.

you trace patterns on his forearm where it rests next to you and stare at all the freckles.

“we should have stayed out there. the sun’s setting soon.”

“yeah?” “yeah. i like your apartment.” you sigh and mew next to him, curling in closer, close to sleep.

“yeah, kid? how would you feel about moving in?”

♡ thanks for reading!

2K notes · View notes

faerykingdom · 10 days ago

Text

boss — joel miller x reader

THIS IS A NOTHING BUT MILES SEQUEL — you can read it as a standalone but i highly recommend the reading of the first part.

𝒮ummary: Joel found you a job, and he might regret sooner than he expected.

𝒲arnings: rough sex, standing sex, dominance and submission, power play, LOTS of dirty talk, oral sex (m! receiving), possessive!joel, shower sex, mutual aftercare, alternative universe/no cordyceps

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: weeeeeeeeell if you like this too i can turn it into a series idk bye

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 4,5k

You never planned to end up in a place like this — a dusty workshop reeking of cedar, motor oil, and hot coffee. You didn't even have a plan when you left. Just the crumpled twenty-dollar bill in your back pocket, the smell of beer on your mom’s latest boyfriend still clinging to your body, and the road ahead cracked wide open under a sky that didn’t care if you lived or died.

That’s where Joel found you.

But that was a week ago.

Now, you’re working at the same carpentry firm — him with the sawdust in his beard, hands always busy with wood and steel. You, the “office girl” — typing invoices, answering phones, wearing skirts just short enough to get attention and tops just tight enough to make Joel grit his teeth when you bend over the filing cabinet.

You rent a shitty two-bedroom with a girl who parties too much and leaves her underwear on the doorknob to signal not tonight. Doesn’t matter.

Work's got eyes on you both — especially the boss, Mitch, who seems to enjoy bringing you along on site visits way too much.

Today, you’re standing in a half-renovated kitchen, clipboard in hand, watching Joel kneel by a row of unfinished cabinets. His forearms flex as he drills into the oak. Sweat gleams along his neck.

You lean against the doorway, watching him work. Not saying anything. Not yet.

Then, when he glances up at you, you smile slow. Lazy. The kind of smile that means trouble.

“Need anything, boss?”

His jaw tightens.

You love that.

He doesn’t answer. Goes back to work like you didn’t just say it the way you always do when you want to see him lose that iron self-control of his.

Mitch comes out from the backroom. “We’ll need the materials list by end of day,” he says, ignoring the tension between you and Joel like it’s not radiating off the drywall.

You scribble something on the clipboard. “Sure thing,” you say. Then add, just loud enough: “I’ll check with Joel about measurements. He’s so good with his hands.”

Joel’s drill stops mid-screw.

Mitch heads out. And you stay. Of course you do.

Joel doesn’t look up.

“You keep playing with me like that,” he mutters, low and dark, “and I swear, I’ll bend you over that counter right now and make sure Mitch hears every sound you make.”

You tilt your head, bite your lip.

“Promises, promises,” you whisper.

And that’s the problem.

It’s been six days since you’ve had a moment alone. Six days of teasing glances, hidden texts, lingering touches that could always be explained away if someone asked. Six days of pretending that what happened last week didn’t happened at all.

But Joel’s hands are twitching now. His breath deeper.

He’s close to breaking.

And you’re gonna be the one to shatter him.

The next day, you dress deliberately.

A pale blouse that clings like it wants to be peeled off. That little black skirt — the one Joel calls “criminal.” Hair done up just enough to show off your neck, and lip gloss that catches the light when you smile.

You’re twenty minutes early to the shop.

You bring coffee. Not for Joel.

You hand it to Adam — tall, sandy-haired, new to the crew. Sweet enough. You don’t even really like him, but you like what happens to Joel’s face when he catches you laughing at something Adam says.

You lean against the breakroom counter, sipping slow, voice syrupy-sweet. “No one warned me you’re so funny,” you tell Adam. “You make the mornings go by so much faster.”

Joel walks in mid-sentence, jaw already tight. He doesn’t say a word. Just walks to the back wall and pretends to look for something in the tool cabinet.

You keep going. “So you’re free Friday? Maybe we could get drinks.” You cock your head. “Or is that against, like, union rules?”

Adam blushes, stammers something, but you’re not listening anymore. Not really. Your eyes drift back to Joel — and just for a second, your gaze meets his in the reflection of the metal cabinet door.

You know that look. Storm-level rage. Thunder under the skin. Hunger on a leash.

When Adam finally leaves, Joel doesn’t move. Not at first. Then, slow and heavy, he closes the cabinet and turns around.

“You trying to get yourself fucked in the breakroom?” he asks, voice low and flat, like a growl.

You smile. “Oh? Did you not like me talking to your friend?”

Joel walks toward you. Every step slow, deliberate.

You pretend not to notice. You walk past him, grazing his arm with your fingertips — casual, harmless. But your perfume hits him, and he catches your wrist.

“Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t walk away.”

“Why?” You pout, twisting your wrist a little in his grip. “Gotta get back to the front. I’ve got invoices, and Adam’s voice is just so soothing. It’s like—”

He drags you back.

You bump into his chest. His hands go flat on your hips.

You look up at him, wide-eyed. Innocent.

“Something you need, boss?” you ask sweetly.

He leans in. Breath hot against your ear.

“I swear to god, you push me one more inch and I’m gonna fuck you so hard on my tailgate the whole damn crew will hear you scream.”

You blink up at him. You whisper, “Good.”

He curses under his breath and backs off. You know he can’t touch you here. Not yet.

But you walk away swaying your hips just a little more, smile smug and dangerous.

You’ve got him burning now.

He’s going to come for you tonight.

And you’ll be waiting.

The sun’s going down by the time the day wraps. You’re still feeling smug — high off the way Joel wouldn’t look at you during the site clean-up, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might crack a tooth. You love this game. You love how easily you get under his skin.

You step out of the site office, flipping your bag over your shoulder, expecting your usual walk to the bus stop.

Then you hear it.

Joel’s truck engine.

Low, steady, growling in the corner of the parking lot like something alive.

He’s parked facing you, engine running, door already unlocked.

You hesitate, a smirk tugging at your lips. He’s leaning against the driver-side door, arms crossed, that storm in his eyes back in full force.

He jerks his chin. “Get in.”

You arch a brow. “You gonna give me a ride like the first time?” You drag out the word ride, just to see his nostrils flare.

Joel doesn’t flinch. Just repeats, voice like steel:

“Get in the goddamn truck.”

Something in you twists — hot and sharp. The game is shifting. That tightrope between teasing and consequence just snapped.

You climb in.

You expect him to take the usual route — toward your apartment, the shitty little one you share with a roommate who eats your snacks and forgets rent. But after the first few turns, you know.

He’s not taking you home.

The road curves east, toward the edge of town. Trees thicken. Streetlights vanish. And the truck’s cab gets heavier with every mile, like silence is pressing on your chest.

You glance at him. “Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer.

You chew your lip, not smiling anymore. He’s gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing stopping him from grabbing you instead. His jaw ticks. There’s a scrape of five o’clock shadow along his neck, sweat still dried on his collar from the day.

Then you see it. His driveway.

The same house where he first brought you in from the cold. The one with that old couch you’ve been bent over more than once until you left the house.

He kills the engine and turns toward you.

“You wanna act like a brat,” he says slowly, “then you’re gonna get what you’ve been begging for.”

You tilt your head, challenge rising. “And what’s that, boss?”

His eyes darken.

He leans close — hand on your throat, not squeezing, just reminding you of how easily he could.

“You’ll find out inside.”

And this time, there’s no teasing in his voice.

Just heat.

Possession.

Inside, the door barely clicked shut before he was on you.

He grabbed your wrist — not roughly, but with purpose — and backed you against the wall like gravity had shifted and pulled him into you. His breath hit your neck first, hot and ragged.

“You think I didn’t see what you were doing?” he said, voice low, voice dangerous.

You looked up at him — and you didn’t smile this time. You just let your lips part, your voice soft. “I don’t know what you mean.”

That broke it.

Joel kissed you like he was starved for it. Like every second he’d held back today had burned through him, cell by cell, until there was nothing left but this need. His mouth crashed into yours — rough and unyielding, his beard scraping your skin, his hands already sliding down your hips, over your thighs.

His tongue pushed deep, tasting, claiming, his groan low in his throat when your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt. He pressed his body into yours, the hard line of him unmistakable against your belly, pinning you in place.

“You don’t wear panties to work,” he said against your lips, each word shaped by disbelief and dark, raw hunger. “And then you flirt with some kid like that?”

You tilted your chin, whispering just against his mouth, “I thought you didn’t care.”

Joel growled — growled — the sound vibrating through his chest, through yours. He grabbed your waist and spun you around, pressing your front to the wall. One large hand slid up your spine, pressing gently between your shoulder blades until your back arched, presenting your ass to him like you were made for it.

Your skirt rose easily under his hands, riding up soft thighs he knew better than anyone. You felt his fingers graze between your legs — bare skin, slick heat — and he paused, his breath catching.

“Jesus fuck,” he breathed. “Soaked. You were like this all damn day?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were too busy biting your lip, eyes half-lidded, forehead resting on the wall like you were dizzy from the heat coiling inside you.

Then came the sound of his belt — slow, deliberate. A hiss of leather sliding through loops, the dull thud of the buckle as it dropped.

He didn’t rush.

He stepped behind you, letting the weight of his cock press between your thighs — thick, hot, pulsing. He dragged the tip slowly through your slick folds, groaning low when you rocked your hips back against him.

“You want this?” he rasped. “Tell me.”

You swallowed, voice catching. “I want it.”

He nudged just barely into you — enough to make you gasp. “Say it right.”

“I want you to fucking take me, Joel.”

That was enough.

He pushed into you in one long, slow stroke — not brutal, but deliberate, stretching you inch by inch, until you felt impossibly full. He stayed there for a breathless moment, buried to the hilt, both of you shuddering, adjusting to the heat, the stretch, the weight of it.

Then he pulled back.

And thrust again.

Slow, punishing, deep. His hands gripped your hips, grounding himself in you, using your body like you were the only solid thing left in the world. He stayed close, chest over your back, breath hot in your ear.

“You’ve been driving me fuckin’ insane,” he said, his voice low, thick with something primal. “Do you even know what you do to me?”

You moaned, eyes fluttering shut. “Show me.”

And he did.

He fucked you slow — not soft — dragging every sound from your lips with every roll of his hips. His fingers found your clit, rubbing with firm, perfect pressure. You were trembling already, one hand pressed to the wall, the other behind you, clawing for his thigh, for anything to hold on to.

When your climax hit, it crashed through you like a wave, pulled from you by his name ripped from your throat.

“Joel—”

He slammed into you once more, then again — his own control unraveling. He cursed, loud and broken, as he emptied himself deep inside you, hips twitching, hands clutching your waist like he might come apart if he let go.

You stayed there a long moment, both of you catching your breath, the room thick with sweat and silence and heat.

His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, holding you back against him. His lips found the curve of your neck again, quieter this time.

“You’re not going home,” he murmured.

You smiled, breathless, eyes still closed. “Didn’t bring anything to wear.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Good.”

Joel just takes it out of you when he carries you to the bathroom.

His hands stay on you the whole way — firm, claiming, still twitching with the aftershock of that first round. He sets you down just long enough to twist the shower knobs, steam rising fast and thick, fogging the mirror in seconds.

You catch his eyes in the reflection.

Ravenous. Like he hasn’t even started yet.

But you’re not done either. Not even close.

Joel steps under the spray first, letting the water rush over him — dripping off his hair, down the lines of his chest, over the scars that cut across his stomach like history carved into skin. You follow, slow, deliberate, eyes locked to his.

He reaches for you, and you let him touch — hands on your hips, pulling you close. He kisses you again, deep and messy, tongue dragging across your lips like he owns every inch of you.

“You really went the whole fuckin’ day with no panties?” he mutters against your mouth, voice rough and wrecked.

You grin. “Did it for you.”

He laughs — low and sharp — and you can feel him twitch against your thigh already.

“Yeah? That why you were whoring it up with Adam too?”

You press your chest to his, mouth at his throat. “Jealous, boss?”

“I’m fuckin’ furious.”

“Good.”

And then you drop.

Down to your knees on the wet tile, water streaming over your back. You wrap your hand around him — thick, already half-hard again, twitching in your grip — and you look up at him with that same wicked glint you wore when you walked into the breakroom at morning.

“You gonna behave this time?” you ask.

He chuckles, but it dies fast when your tongue flicks out, slow, dragging along the underside of his dick. His hand goes straight to your hair.

“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” he groans. “Little mouth made for suckin’ cock, ain’t it?”

You hum around him, lips wrapping wet and tight. You take your time — lips sliding down until you feel the tip at the back of your throat. You gag once, shallow, and he twitches.

His other hand grips the wall. “Shit—keep goin’—fuck, just like that.”

You don’t stop. You bob your head, twisting your wrist, messy, filthy, drool dripping down your chin as you suck him deep. He’s close — you can tell by the way he groans, that heavy sound he makes when he’s just a few seconds from breaking.

And right when he jerks his hips — just when he growls, “Gonna come, baby, open that fuckin’ mouth for me” —

You pull off.

Completely.

Stand.

His eyes snap open, furious, betrayed, panting like you just shot him in the chest.

“The fuck?”

You lean in, tongue tracing the shell of his ear.

“Did I say you could come?”

Joel groans — loud, ragged — cock twitching, his whole body fighting to hold on.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous fuckin’ game,” he growls.

You smile. “You like it.”

His hand finds your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. “One of these days I’m not gonna stop when you say.”

You moan at that, rubbing against him, dragging your wet skin across his, your body made to fit his.

“Maybe that’s what I’m waiting for.”

You turn your back to him, plant your hands on the shower wall, and glance over your shoulder.

“You want it?” you ask, voice dark and sweet. “Earn it.”

He’s on you in seconds — hand gripping your hip, lining himself up behind you, rutting against your soaked entrance. But when he starts to push in—

You stop him again.

“Uh-uh.”

You reach back and wrap your fingers around him, holding him there — teasing his tip against your folds, letting him feel how wet you are, but refusing to let him take.

“You don’t get to come,” you whisper. “Not yet. You get to beg.”

Joel laughs — but it’s broken now, desperate. “Fuckin’ brat.”

You roll your hips just enough to drive him insane. “Your brat.”

The pressure between you builds slow and heavy, coiling tight as hell. And you’ve got him on the edge — right there — held in your hand, panting like a man being tortured by the best thing he’s ever felt.

He’s going to break.

And you’re going to watch.

You’ve got him right where you want him — back against the shower wall, cock twitching in your grip, soaked in water and need. His breathing is wrecked. His jaw clenched like he’s grinding his teeth to stay upright.

He’s dying for it.

But you—you’re calm. In control. Smiling like the fucking devil.

You slide the tip against your entrance, slow and slick, letting it drag through your folds until your thighs tremble. You bite your lip as you sink down just an inch — just enough to feel the stretch. His hips jerk forward on instinct. You slam your palm against his chest.

“No.”

He growls. Actually growls.

“You wanna come so fuckin’ bad,” you pant, voice all sugar and venom, “you’re gonna take it exactly how I give it to you.”

Joel’s hands grip your hips hard — bruising hard — and for once, he doesn’t fight the pace. Not yet. He watches you sink down, inch by inch, jaw tight, eyes locked to the way you’re opening around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You feel that? You feel how fuckin’ tight you are?”

You drop your full weight on him — fast — and the sound he makes punches the air out of his lungs. He twitches inside you, thick and deep, and it sends a sharp jolt through your spine.

You don’t give him time to catch up.

You start riding him hard.

Water’s still pouring over both of you, soaking your hair, splashing with every slap of skin on skin. Your nails dig into his shoulders for balance. His cock stretches you with every drop, every grind, every bounce of your hips.

“Fuck—ride me just like that,” he pants, head back, eyes rolling. “Fucking ruin me.”

You slap him. Not too hard — but enough to make his eyes snap back to yours.

His mouth open. Deliciously.

“I’m not done with you yet,” you snarl. “So don’t you fuckin’ dare come.”

His hands dig into your ass as you slam down on him again, and again, faster, wetter. Your thighs burn, but you don’t stop. You’re soaked inside and out — water mixing with slick, the obscene squelch every time he bottoms out inside you drowned by your own moans.

“You love this pussy,” you sneer, breath ragged. “Say it.”

“I love this fuckin’ pussy,” he spits, head swimming, hips bucking to meet every savage roll of yours. “Goddamn—tightest fuckin’ cunt I’ve ever had—”

You grab his face, dig your nails into his jaw. “Whose pussy is it?”

“Mine,” he snarls. “Fuckin’ mine, baby, please—”

“Say it louder.”

“Mine, fuck!”

Your grin splits wide, teeth bared.

“Good boy.”

You lean back, brace yourself on the opposite wall, and fuck him harder — letting gravity do the work, letting that angle hit so deep it punches sounds out of both of you. He’s throbbing inside you. Fighting not to come. Sweat and water sting your eyes.

You slap his chest again, harder now. “You close?”

He grits his teeth, growling. “I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it—please—”

You stop moving. Clamp down. Still fully seated on him.

He lets out a roar of frustration, fists slamming the tile.

You lean in close, voice a filthy whisper against his ear.

“You don’t come till I say, remember?”

He’s panting, trembling under you — cock twitching deep inside, trapped in the hottest, tightest squeeze of his life.

And you smile.

Because you’ve got him.

You’re still sitting on him, cock buried so deep it feels like he’s carved into your spine — your hips still, your walls pulsing around him in slow, agonizing aftershocks.

Joel’s breath is ragged. His head leans back against the tile, water beating down on his face, hands clawing uselessly at your hips like he’s seconds from exploding.

“Baby,” he groans, voice torn apart, “I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

You tilt your head. Run your tongue along his throat in a way that makes him moan louder.

“Then don’t.”

That’s all it takes.

His grip tightens — and then he moves.

Fast. Brutal. Like he’s lost every scrap of control he fought to hold. He slams you against the shower wall, water cascading over your bodies, hips grinding into you with desperation. You gasp as your back hits the tile, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Fuckin’ mine,” he growls, his hand wrapping around your throat, thumb pressing beneath your jaw. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to own.

You stare up at him, soaked, panting, lips parted — and that look in your eyes?

You want this. You want every second of it.

He drives into you — hard. Deep. Over and over, the sound of skin slapping echoing off the tile, louder than the shower pounding the floor.

You’re moaning now, eyes fluttering, nails raking down his back. “Fuck, Joel—fuck—”

His hand on your throat tightens. Not choking. Holding. Reminding you who’s finally snapped.

“You like that?” he growls, voice shredded. “Like bein’ used? Like gettin’ filled up like my little fucktoy?”

You can’t even answer.

He’s fucking you into the wall now — pure drive, hips brutal, cock slamming into you like you asked for this punishment. Like every second you made him wait lit a fuse he’s now letting detonate between your legs.

You cling to him, one arm over his shoulder, your mouth at his neck. “Come for me,” you whisper, raw and wrecked. “Fill me the fuck up.”

That’s it.

He growls, loud, guttural — feral — and slams into you with one final thrust. You feel it — the twitch, the pulse, the thick, hot rush as he empties inside you, holding you tight against the wall, hand still on your throat, like he wants to brand you from the inside out.

“Fuckin’ take it,” he snarls through gritted teeth. “Take every fuckin’ drop.”

You whimper, head thrown back, the heat of him spilling into you, soaking you, claiming you all over again.

He stays buried inside, hips rocking slow now, still grinding through the last few pulses of his release. Breathing hard. His forehead presses to yours. His hand finally drops from your throat to cradle your jaw.

He looks at you — really looks. Wrecked. Possessive. Tender in the way only something this filthy can feel.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmurs, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smile, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded.

“Worth it.”

Your body is wrecked.

Spent, soaked, and trembling from the last, brutal crescendo — his come still dripping down your thighs, your back pressed against the wet tile, the imprint of Joel’s hands lingering on your hips, your throat.

But you don’t move.

You just breathe.

His forehead is still against yours. His chest rises and falls like he’s trying to catch something that slipped too far away. You watch the muscles twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes soften only now — after he’s buried himself in you, after he’s let go.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks, low, husky.

You shake your head, lips brushing his. “No. I liked it.”

He exhales like that unties something in his chest.

The water’s starting to cool, finally washing away the heat of what just happened. Joel pulls back slightly, looking down at your body — the bruises blooming, the red fingerprints he left, the mess between your thighs.

“Let me clean you up.”

It’s not a request.

He reaches for the soap, lathers it between his rough palms until suds run down his fingers, and then he touches you like you’re glass — careful, methodical. He washes your stomach, your legs, sliding two fingers between your thighs to catch the slick that still leaks out of you. He doesn’t speak while he does it. His jaw’s set, focused, like he’s fixing something broken.

You lean into him, let your head fall to his chest. Let him scrub your arms, your back, the corners of your mouth where spit and moans still cling.

“You don’t have to,” you murmur, lips barely moving. “I’m okay.”

He grunts. “I know.”

But he keeps doing it.

When he finishes with you, you take the soap from him and wordlessly return the favor — rubbing it slow over the scarred muscle of his shoulders, dragging your fingertips through the trail of hair on his stomach, watching the way his body responds to your touch even now, in the aftermath.

You kiss a scar just below his ribs, the one you’ve never asked about.

He doesn’t stop you.

By the time you step out, wrapped in a towel that’s three sizes too big, the kitchen already smells like garlic and butter.

Joel’s shirtless, wearing sweats that hang low on his hips. His hair’s wet, pushed back, and he’s barefoot on the tile as he moves around the stove with practiced hands. A skillet sizzles. Eggs. Toast. Something warm and grounding. His back is to you, but you can see the tension’s bled out of his shoulders.

You pad over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to the middle of his spine.

He lets out a low chuckle. “You hungry or just tryin’ to steal body heat?”

“Both.”

“Mm.”

He sets a plate down a minute later — thick-cut toast, scrambled eggs, fried potatoes crisped in oil — nothing fancy, but it smells incredible. He slides the plate toward you and grabs two forks.

“Eat,” he says, nudging your thigh with his knee. “You need it.”

You sink into the chair, towel slipping a little. Joel doesn’t bother hiding the way he stares at your bare legs, but he doesn’t say anything. Not this time.

He sits across from you, chewing slowly, watching you between bites like he’s still trying to believe you’re real. Like maybe if he feeds you enough, you’ll stay.

You take a bite and groan.

“God, this is good.”

He smirks. “’Course it is. I only fuck and cook like this for you.”

You laugh. “Well, shit. I better never leave.”

His smirk fades, just a little. That quiet, raw look creeps back into his eyes. Not possession this time. Something else. Something more fragile.

“Don’t,” he says.

Just that. Quiet. Gruff. Real.

You meet his eyes. Smile.

“I won’t, boss.”

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faerykingdom · 11 days ago

Text

Bigger in Texas

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel won’t fit.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Size kink (seriously, don’t read if you hate big dicks / disgusting descriptions) Penis and pussy pronouns. Virginity loss. Age gap. Praise kink. Daddy kink. Joel ‘hung like a fucking horse’ Miller is a soft dom and also a good teacher. Competence kink (?)

Note: Somebody made a fic challenge to use penis pronouns, and I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. If y’all find them please show them this and tell them I love their brain 🫠

Update: @sp00kymulderr you’re a legend for this. Dick pronouns are engrained in my brain, and I’m forever grateful.

Word count: 2.3k

This wasn’t the life Joel Miller had pictured for himself.

The dead coming back to roam the world and eradicate most of its population, for one. The cold. Finding his baby brother way out here in Wyoming with a wife and a child on the way. The looks he was getting these days. It’s not like he’d asked to get mixed up with a girl your age. It just happened. And since damn near every-fucking-thing that had “happened” to him since outbreak day fifteen years back had been bottom of the barrel, full-blown nightmare territory, the second he saw a good thing fumble across his path, he’d seized it—you.

You, who were young enough to be his daughter.

You, who’d never seen a man fully before meeting him.

You, who hadn’t squeezed so much as a finger in herself.

But much like his past, Joel Miller was a sordid and sick kind of man, and he had the cock to prove it: presently weeping precum at the site of your softest, tightest hole, smearing the pearly-white slick through your folds with a sound so sweet it was nauseating. Begging for entrance.

“Oughta have a boy your age pop your cherry, kid.”

It was simple.

“Ain’t right havin’ a man my age all in your guts.”

And true.

The head of his cock made another wet, sickening noise through your folds, and as though instigated by the sound, your eyes flitted to the source. You smiled.

“Probably. But I want you,” you answered. Soft.

Joel got harder, and he hadn’t thought that was possible. His gaze joined yours, and the sight nearly finished him.

Beneath him, your legs had spread wider, showcasing that perfectly glistening seam alongside the head of his cock. He looked huge. Or you looked small. Or perhaps it was both, and he was old, and he really shouldn’t be doing this at all, but then his hips stuttered a bit and his length pushed in. Joel hissed and seized the headboard.

It wouldn’t even go in. The tip just stretched the rim.

“Baby, fuck—” Joel whimpered.

“He’s so big.”

Three little words from your lips, and it almost did him in.

Again.

You wriggled your hips and flashed another happy grin.

“He wants in, daddy. I can feel him pulsin’ like I am.”

You volleyed a look up to Joel as if to say, ‘So that means we’re ready, right? Will you let me have him?’

And, strangled by guilt as he was, Joel couldn’t resist.

He let his big, bulbous, leaking head sink in the tiniest bit, and he let out a groan. Your walls were so tight. This was him, too—his tip was oversized, just like the rest of him—and when it notched in an inch, Joel could see the pain flash quick in your eyes. His hips moved to retreat.

But then your heels were lifting and digging in his ass, and though strained, your voice made it out, weakly:

“Don’t, daddy. I want him.”

Joel couldn’t dream of refusing.

And his vision blurred more at that word, him.

“I-I know. He wants you too, baby—”

Another quarter-inch.

“—so, so bad.”

“Daddy!”

Joel had to blink to try and wake from his daze. His tip was so warm, hugged so perfect and snug and wet, that he didn’t even realize that was all that fit. He was stuck.

You whimpered again.

“‘S’too big, daddy. Just make him go in.”

Your eyes rolled with indignation and overwhelming pleasure alike, and your hips squirmed again. This time, you tried to nudge him in deeper, but your body simply wouldn’t budge; you’d reached the widest part of him.

“Honey, it’s—”

“Hurtin’! I need you inside me.” you cried, impatient.

“Just takes a little time to get there, darlin’—”

“Well, get to it, then. A tip ain’t enough.”

Joel’s face flushed. He might’ve been forced to bite back a laugh under any other circumstances, but this was your virginity. His bed. Your naked bodies, together, tonight.

He wasn’t about to rush it now and fuck everything up.

“This tip’s about to paint your pretty insides white and make you wait til next week to try again if you keep it up.”

That made you go still.

You shook your head while Joel released the headboard from his grip and took your hip in it instead. He grunted.

“Sweet pea, you gotta see—” he resumed, voice low, “—it won’t feel good for you or me if I just…push right in.”

You sighed, feeling his hold tighten.

“Tongue and fingers only do so much. You gotta learn.”

You whined, digging your feet in deeper when his tip drew back to your entrance. Looking a bit squeamish.

“Be brave…and patient for me.”

From the look in your eyes, Joel could tell you probably hated him right now. That was just fine. He adjusted his hips to a more comfortable place, and then he pinched your hip bone. He nudged you back, and he let you wait.

Then, right when you opened your mouth, he sank in.

Joel thrusted with only his tip, the size of a small lime, and he fucked your hole gently. Back and forth. Shallow.

It did enough. You squeezed both his forearms.

“Oh, daddy.” Your bottom lip trembled as you said it.

With his free hand, Joel smoothed your hair back.

“Yeah, what is it, baby?” he murmured, dulcet as ever, “Thought you said the tip ain’t enough for you, sugar.”

His words came slow. His strokes were delivered quick, though tenderly. Your brain appeared to be in a fog, or a trance, as your chin dipped down toward your chest, and you watched him breach the first inch of you repeatedly.

“Curious little thing.” Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle now.

“He’s so…” you trailed off.

You squeezed his arms, and he squeezed your hip back. He let you watch him fuck you with only his tip, and when your head began to tilt back from the strain, he reached up with his other hand and held the back of your neck. He felt you clench at that, and you both groaned.

“So…big,” you finished, eyes glazed.

“I know.”

This went on for the longest time: Joel stretching the first precious inch of your pussy with the head of himself, you watching and breathing deeply, whimpering occasionally, and him holding at the nape of your neck like a softer touch might lose you to him forever. Was this teaching? When you clenched again, he reckoned it was.

“That’s it, honey. Watch her swallow me.”

“Stretches real pretty for the tip, doesn’t she?”

“Bet she can’t even fit another inch of this cock.”

Suddenly, your head was jerking up under his hold.

Eyes flaring with a hot, juvenile kind of anger: “I can!”

Joel clicked his tongue against the backs of his teeth and pretended not to hear. He also had to feign indifference when your walls tightened and all but choked his head and a wave of new pleasure surged up through his body.

“She can, Joel, I’m serious!”

Another two seconds of this and Joel sensed he might see tears. Though his gaze had trailed up to yours, and the look in his appeared stern, deep down, he was just as quick to want to cave. He just hid it better than you did.

“You think so, sweet pea?”

“I know so. I need it.”

“Need him?”

“Y-Yes.”

How sweet you seemed. How naive you must be.

Joel might’ve been mean, but he wasn’t cruel. He also liked teaching lessons as much as he enjoyed showing you the way, so in the next second, he obliged. He took the last shallow thrust of his tip and sank into your cunt.

As he filled you, you whined. It only took an inch or two.

“Da-a-ddy. Please.”

You must’ve been begging for lenience. Joel retreated.

Then, much to the man’s surprise, you kicked your feet. Not in relief but in protest, shaking your head up at him:

“Put him back. Please. D-Deeper.”

It was as though Joel’s brain had exited through the back of his head and all rational thought escaped him, for the moment. The only voice he heard was yours. It was pleading. And in between your legs, you were soaked.

So drenched to allow him another inch. Then another. Then another. Joel fucked in gently and felt a seismic wave of pleasure seize his limbs—and likely yours, as well. It was as though in two blinks, you’d forgotten the pain altogether. You were suffused with need instead, eyes wincing and lips curling and sounds leaving your throat like an animal in heat. Want him deeper, please.

Joel sawed back and forth with just those five or so inches and made you writhe underneath him. Felt you clamp down on his thick, slippery cock and heard the remnants of your shared arousal making sounds as your body accepted him. Stretching wider. Getting wetter. Bringing him closer to the edge with every breath.

“She’s doin’…so good f’me,” Joel told you, brainless.

His thumb drifted to your clit. He rubbed it gently. No sooner had he finished the first circle around that nub when your hips were stirring again—this time incensed.

“Daddy.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Joel kissed the top of your head, thumb insistent. When his eyes met yours, he was surprised to find them wet this time. Tears pooling and streaking down to your temples while your body bounced gently beneath his thrusts. A whimper trembled out, and Joel slowed.

He could tell from that look you didn’t want him to stop, though. It just felt so good. So, instead of dropping his pace too much, Joel cupped your chin in one hand, and with the other, he kept thumbing at your clit. Humming.

“Poor thing’s never had something this big in ‘er, huh?”

You shook your head. Cried a little more.

Joel kissed the tears on one side, lips smiling as he did.

“I can tell, baby. But she’s taking it so well.”

“Y-Yeah?”

His hips sped up a little. The thrusts were still shallower than they normally would be, given your state, but they seemed to be working well enough. You winced again.

Joel kissed the other side of your face to take more tears.

“Uh-huh,” he answered, “Openin’ up real nice for daddy.”

It was like his words worked as well as his thumb on your clit. You whimpered again, lips parting a little wider now, and the sound that came out was as desperate and feverish and fuck-drunk as Joel had ever heard it.

“S-Say it again,” you pleaded.

“Say what?”

“That he’s…stretchin’ me open. Makin’ me his.”

The soft, slick resonance between your body and his seemed to amplify even more—you were getting wetter, and Joel’s thrusts all but shook the bed with their force.

His eyes darkened when he felt you tighten again.

“Yeah? You like hearin’ all the filthy fuckin’ things your daddy’s doing? The way he’s breakin’ you in for him?”

You nodded. Your throat constricted with a moan.

And, just when a fresh set of tears seemed to be close on the horizon, Joel lowered himself to you. He held you to his chest, hips working relentlessly, and he watched your face screw up in pleasure. A trace of pain surfaced again, but it was soothed with a kiss. Joel grinned against you.

Between your thighs, his cock was throbbing with a feeling just as big. He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. Hurting and aching and needing as you were, he had to make sure that you would cum first.

When his cock grazed a fleshy, sensitive patch inside your walls, he knew it wouldn’t take much. He went on:

“C’mon, sugar. Daddy’s split you open on his cock so nice, least you can do is cum for him. Can you do that?”

His nose brushed yours. His thrusts sped up. You nodded, quickly, and when he shifted in the bed with his thumb still on your clit and his lips and his stubble grazing your mouth with every push of himself, he felt it.

It was a small pulse, at first.

Joel thought you might be adjusting—clenching—again, when the lips that were trembling against his own parted more. Your arms wound around his neck, and suddenly the throb of your walls around his member got tighter and tighter and tighter. One more second and your cunt might’ve squeezed the hot, sticky seed right out of his body and flooded your insides with it, but then came release. The ‘o’ of your mouth let out a shriek, at last, and your body went soft around him, beneath him, whining in turn, ‘Daddy, daddy, please’ while the muscles once taut and unflinching gave him reprieve. Fluttering repeatedly.

Joel fucked you through it. He talked you through it.

He stroked your hair, and he held you tight. Called you his sweetheart, pretty thing, perfect girl, you’re doin’ so good f’me. Keep going. That’s right, cum all over daddy. He told you to take what you needed, and without another word, he felt just that. Your cunt spasmed around him, and you consumed every inch he gave and drank every drop of spend shooting out in thick spurts.

You fell boneless on the bed when all was said and done.

You looked happy, and that made Joel even happier.

He stroked your cheek, and you leaned into it, clearly drained while your gaze held his in a weak sort of look.

It was soft. Loving, even. It could’ve been romantic.

Then Joel’s hand slipped down to the nape of your neck again. Your muscles were limp, like all the rest of you, but somehow, he was able to hold you up. Tilt your chin a bit.

Make you peer down between your shaking legs, where his cock was still sheathed inside you—partly, anyway.

Your eyes widened. Joel grinned.

“You did great, baby. Ready for the other half of him?”

can y’all believe this image is what inspired this fic HA

it’s only Thursday i’m sorry 😔

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