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underskz · 2 months ago

Text

➪ ‘TIL NEXT TUESDAY

➪ mark lee x cisfem!reader ✩ w.c 8.5k — NSFW ✩ 18+ minors dni —

✰ NON-IDOL AU

pov: you're a camgirl with a secret admirer who's a little (okay maybe a lot) obsessed

note: y'all do not understand the pain,,, the struggle,,,, the trauma that this fic has inflicted upon me <//3 i quite literally started writing it last year on mark lees stupid lil bday and have been typing away at it for so mf long and have had to dig into the deepest filthiest depths of my brain to finally finish this,,,,, anyways welcome to my twisted mind and we can all blame mark lee my greatest enemy,,,, i hate u… anyways pls make note of the warnings !!! btw don’t ask me what website they’re using idk i couldn’t be fcked to think that hard

warnings: NSFW CONTENT, aka smut, obsessive behavior, viscerally lewd comments, uh lying LOL, wolf in sheep’s clothing energy (good church boy mark lee and his hidden demons <3), honestly both reader and mark r freaky (aww they match each others freaks!), readers thinly veiled shame kink, unsafe sex/no condom, barely any prep lol, not beta read bc im a full send girl (sorry for any typos etc LMAO)

There’s clearly something wrong with user ‘66golden_boy99’ and you can’t quite figure it out. Sure, he seems to be just another fan of your work. And maybe his comments tended to be on the imaginative side.

i wanna dick you down til next tuesday

stuff your guts this thursday and stay buried in you thru the weekend

til youre cryin to me about how you can feel my dick in your throat

how pretty would you cry for me?

That little voice in the back of your head whispers (the one that sounds far too much like Donghyuck), an annoying little I told you so, someone was bound to get obsessed. It wasn’t like you never considered or even feared the possibility.

But these comments, this person, there was something there. You click into a different video, scrolling down to a specific cluster of comments.

i wanna ruin you so fuckin bad

ruin that pussy for anyone else

wanna hear you beg me to stop

until it turns into begging me for more

sound fun sweetheart?

Every video, every clip, every single little teaser you post; there’s a thread from him. His stupid username right there, ‘66golden_boy99’ and a digital paper trail that ranges from being unforgivably horny to borderline demented and most of the time a combination of both.

fuck if i could keep you in a little cage…

i’d fuck u every day all day

turn you into my perfect little pet

made just for my cock

don’t you want that too?

You can’t help but let your mouth gape at that one, a cage? Your head spins at the thought, trying (and failing) to not let your imagination wander.

There’s a certain thrill that crawls down your spine, twisting itself deep into your gut and lodging itself there. An ache that just you can’t quite itch yourself, barely sated by these comments.

So yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with user ‘66golden_boy99’ but that could only mean there’s something wrong with you.

“Mark, read this! Isn’t it insane?” Donghyuck all but smacks him in the face with your phone.

“Oh! Um.” He immediately flushes, no doubt flustered by the nature of the comments along with the fact he’s one of your few friends who still gets a little red in the cheeks by your choice of profession.

Good church boy Mark Lee at your service. Who thankfully plucks your phone from Donghyuck and passes it back to you— most likely to avoid further being subjected to such filth in broad daylight.

“Don’t bust a tit Hyuck, it’s just some dude living out his freaky fantasy while hiding behind a screen.” You knew it was going to be brought up the moment you saw your friends, but you had hoped that Donghyuck would have the decency to not mention it while seated outside a popular cafe on a busy street.

Jokes on you for thinking he could keep his cool about this. The moment you had sent a screenshot to the group chat Donghyuck had been rearing for a fight, overly scandalized and always righteous whenever he thought his friends were being treated badly.

There was no way in hell you’d tell him those comments piqued your debased interest.

“It’s a little creepy.” Jungwoo settles on, stealing a blueberry off of your parfait. “He doesn’t message when you’re live though.”

“Nope, only comments on clips and videos.” You bite back your disappointment, maintaining an almost clinical tone.

“Does he even watch your streams?” Jungwoo questions as he attempts to swipe a strawberry this time, narrowly thwarted by you whacking his hand with your plastic spoon.

“What difference does it make? He’s a fucking perv!” Donghyuck snipes.

The answer is yes, he does watch every single one of your streams. Occasionally donates too, yet no messages. No live interactions.

“Hyuck, my whole fanbase are pervs.” You ignore the glare of an elderly woman as she passes by your table. “When did you become such a prude?”

It’s enough of a jab to send the man into a fit, ranting and raving about how he’s perfectly freaky enough and that his boyfriend(s) is (are) so into how weird and kinky he could get.

“Seriously though, is he scaring you?” Mark whispers, careful to not catch Donghyuck’s attention lest he starts laying into you about your “creepy” admirer again. Mark’s considerate like that.

For a moment you sit with the question, mindlessly spooning around your half eaten parfait. Were you scared? You knew full well you were bound to deal with the occasional creep when you decided to pursue camming as a full-time job after university.

But you weren’t— aren’t scared, initially you had maybe been a bit unnerved. Yet you hadn’t shared the messages because you wanted your friends to “save” you or anything. More so because you were shocked by the sheer audacity and of course by what was being said.

If Donghyuck wasn’t so busy talking about getting spit roasted much to the horror of Jungwoo, he’d be pestering you for the answer too. And you would’ve lied, told him that you were a little nervous but nothing that’d keep you from carrying on as usual.

Instead you have Mark asking, no trace of judgment behind his thick rimmed glasses, just a curious glint with a healthy dash of concern for a friend.

“He’s not.” Is what ends up coming out. It’s simpler than the whole truth, cleaner as well.

You couldn’t admit to one of your best friends that it sent a thrill down your spine, to have someone so obsessed they comment utter depravity on every post you make. That you’ve checked to make sure this mystery creep was watching your every stream. And that there’s nothing you’ve ever wanted more than to be craved so deeply, to be ached for, to be someone’s sole obsession.

“If you do get freaked out or anything, uh understandably so, we’ll figure something out. I’ll beat him up?” Mark offers one of his dorky smiles, and despite his statement inspiring little hope — seriously Mark is way too sweet to ‘beat’ anyone up — you still appreciate the sentiment. Offering him a big spoonful of whipped cream and strawberries for his valiant statement.

“Hey! Why does Mark get fed and I have to fight for a crumb?” Jungwoo cries out only causing you to roll your eyes and spark even more outrage from him.

You're thankful that the rest of the outing goes on without another mention of a certain fan of yours. Though Mark seems to be shooting more indiscernible looks your way than usual, but that’s easy to chalk down as him just projecting his own anxieties onto you.

When you all start to bid farewell Donghyuck wastes a few minutes to preach about the dangers of internet strangers, while Jungwoo goads and teases him until his nagging is turned onto Jungwoo.

Again Mark offers comfort — though you really have no need for it, considering the fact you honestly are enjoying the debased behavior more than you maybe should — and you pretend to appreciate it.

needa fuck you over and over and over

til your pretty lil pussy is gaping open

so i can see the way i paint you up inside

wouldn’t you like that?

Yes, you dig your teeth into your bottom lip, fuck yes.

You had just posted a teaser for your next video, a simple reaction to some random threesome video your subscribers had begged you to watch.

And as always without fail, only a few minutes after you’ve hit post your phone lights up with notifications from ‘66golden_boy99’. You should hate how much you look forward to it— how you’re practically gagging for it (him).

You remember his first thread of comments, remember the scandal that pumped through your veins as the words registered in your brain.

The thrill.

well aren’t you a sweet thing

He had started it off so normally.

you look like you dont care for just any kind of fun

you look like u need to be fucked within an inch of your life

thrown around and violated like a stupid little toy

i could do that

It’s the only time he hadn’t ended with a question. The only statement needed to stake his claim, to solidify his place.

It planted the seed right in your lust ridden mind, the growing need to see more and more. It becomes a sick little ritual, to go looking for his comments just after you tuck yourself into bed under the guise of resting for the day.

You’re desperate enough to reread old ones, to stare at the same comments from days or even weeks ago. Sometimes he’ll throw you a bone, coming back to leave another thread of comments for you to find.

wanna fill you up so bad

make you take it over and over and over

til my cum is dripping outta you for days

so that all that’s in your pretty head is the thought of my cock pumping you full

wanna make it happen?

Maybe it’s the way you’ve never replied to them, or even acknowledge them in a stream. It doesn’t deter him from continuing, his perverted dedication proving something to you. Something twisted and delicious and all too tempting.

need you so bad

just need to use you over and over and over and over so fuckin bad

turn you into my own pretty fleshlight to use whenever i please

just wanna use you all up baby

how much can you take?

Thursday streams are one of your three weekly streams, and while it had marginally less viewers therefore profit than your Friday and every other Saturday ones, it was by far your favorite.

The chat is far more relaxed, which means you have a better chance to interact with viewers, to have a more intimate stream.

It means you can instead sit at your desk, dressed in nothing but an oversized white tee, playing with your hair and batting your lashes. While making idle conversation as your viewers dutifully pay you compliments and donate small amounts as a hello.

66golden_boy99: hey there

“Oh? Golden boy? And here I was thinking you weren’t interested enough in having a live convo with me.” You wonder if he waited for this, a Thursday stream with an even lower than usual number of viewers to finally send his first message in chat. Was your little freak shy? Only able to sling his filth when nobody was paying attention?

Too late for that, he was in your sights now.

66golden_boy99: nah just liked sitting here and watching you too much

“Is that so?” You feign distraction, looking off towards the side as you tap your chin thoughtfully. “But here I am, doing nothing. Isn’t that boring?”

There’s a flood of no’s in the chat, messages ranging from horny to sweet about how some like just chatting and others saying that you should at least take off your shirt.

“My shirt? It’s only been twenty-ish minutes since I’ve started and you all don’t wanna butter me up first? Tell me how pretty I am?” You’re accused of being a tease, which is of course your exact angle. Some of them bite, sending cooing comments about how they’d love to see your shirt off, some going as far as to send in a few dollars.

$200 from 66golden_boy99

it’s okay sweetheart, show em what’ll be mine

Your jaw drops, because while he had tipped in the past, it was never this much. You can’t help the shiver that itches down your spine, ‘what’ll be mine’ he says, like he already has you in the bag.

“Aww you wanna see me that bad? Everyone say thank you to Golden Boy!” You goad, making a show of hooking your thumbs in the hem of your shirt. Slowly you drag the fabric across your flesh, inch by inch exposing how you truly had nothing under your flimsy excuse for clothing.

66golden_boy99: and where’s your thank you?

“That’s right, you were so generous after all, I should give you a little treat to show my appreciation.” Again you flutter your lashes. “How do you want me?”

66golden_boy99: spreading your legs like a desperate slut

66golden_boy99: wanna see you fuck your fingers

66golden_boy99: cmon babe show off your perfect pussy and open yourself up for me

“Anything for you.” And maybe you’re a little fucked in the head for how much you mean it.

You’ve never had a favorite before. Nobody in your chat, comments and so on have ever caught your attention. They’ve never bothered to be so interesting, to be so openly obsessed.

Slowly you let your hands wander, cupping your tits before letting your fingertips dance along your ribcage, inching down, down, down.

You pathetically think of him, wonder who’s on the other side of the screen. It could be some old man, or some greasy incel, maybe it’s someone you’ve met on the street. It could be anyone, and it sickens you almost as much as it excites you.

Carefully, you plant your feet on the edge of your desk, sliding down a few inches in your chair as you spread nice and wide for the camera.

“This what you want?” The words jumble in your mouth as your fingers continue to find their way south. You dig your nails into your thighs, moaning loudly at the bite of them into your tender skin.

Shame was something that had long escaped you in this field of work, only the tastefully faked sense of it ever gracing you these days. But there’s that all too familiar burn crawling back into your chest after almost years of nothing. Scorching away at your insides as your fingers drag along your waiting pussy.

You’re wet, you’re wet and it’s because of some fucking freak on the internet. Your eyes zero in on the chat, hoping to catch a comment from him.

66golden_boy99: fucking perfect for me always so good

It’s all you need to keep going, to let wanton moans tumble out left and right as your back arches into your own touch.

The sense of shame doesn’t diminish, doesn’t fade as you tease your clit and pump your fingers pitifully into your sopping cunt, loudly bemoaning the fact you didn’t grab a toy.

66golden_boy99: you’ll cum just like this baby, no toys, just your fingers and wishing it was me instead

“Nnn- please.” It’s whiner than you’ve ever heard yourself, because goddammit you are wishing it was him. Old man be damned he had a wicked way of speaking, of sneaking into the dark recesses of your mind and ripping you open. Exposing a side of you that you’d long since buried, a side of you craving to be devoured wholly.

Pleasure snakes through your body, dropping down into your belly as you cum with a whimper. You make a show of bringing your fingers to your lips, tongue flicking out to taste yourself, that sick part of you hoping it makes him want you more.

You slump against your chair, mindlessly answering chats as you fix yourself into a more comfortable position. You don’t bother looking for your shirt, letting your viewers enjoy watching your chest rise and fall in panting breaths, admire the way the sweat gleams on your skin.

You hope his eyes are glued to his screen. You hope you’re driving him absolutely insane.

“I fear I might be tapped out for the night, but don’t worry there’s always Sunday.” You manage to get out a real sentence, your brain still a little mushy from the post-orgasm haze. “Sweet dreams everyone!”

You take a moment to let the chat fill with well wishes, a few more donations and scan for a message from one user in particular.

66golden_boy99: good night sweet thing, dream of me

And oh, you just might.

Ending streams were nothing special, just a click of a button and your privacy was all yours again. Leaving you with a plethora of thoughts, a tiny remnant of that formerly elusive shame and a craving for something or more accurately someone.

Send a friend request to 66golden_boy99?

What did you have to lose? What did you have to gain?

There’s a little angel on your shoulder in the shape of Donghyuck, your ever annoying moral compass, telling you to go shower and to never feed into this anonymous man’s delusions again.

While the little devil on your shoulder shaped like Yuta does nothing, sits there and smirks at you knowing full well you’ll choose his route.

You always do.

Sorry Hyuck.

Friend request sent!

Three days go by, no comments, no messages on stream, nothing. Absolute silence.

You can’t help yourself but watch each excruciating second tick by, waiting for something, anything from him. Three whole days of obsessively checking your phone, every social media tied to your occupation and nothing.

It’s like he up and fucking forgot about you. And maybe three days seems too short of a timeline to be losing it, but this is a man who has been all over your account — and notifications — for months.

And he gets scared off by a friend request.

God, you should’ve known better than to trust Yuta, even if he was just a figment of your imagination at that moment. Though the real Yuta would’ve said the same thing anyway, therefore still making this whole ordeal his fault.

But as fun as blaming your friend and obsessing over whether your twisted little admirer would accept your request, let alone give you something to work with nowadays. It was driving you up the fucking wall.

You need a distraction, and you need it badly.

Your usual and immediate reaction to having nothing to do and needing attention would be to ask Donghyuck to go out and do something stupid, but the lucky bastard was on vacation with his boyfriend(s?) probably getting fucked into the new year.

So you’re left to consider your options but Jungwoo is definitely still at work and Yuta just left to visit his family. And your other friends lived too far.

That only left you with Mark. God, you need more friends in close proximity. Not because you don’t like Mark, you adore the man if anything and still consider him one of your best friends. It's just that despite all the years of friendship the two of you just haven’t figured out how to quite mesh conversationally like the others.

You need more spark, conviction. Mark Lee talks like a wet noodle came to life and decided to use ‘yo’, ‘dude’ and ‘woah’ on a permanent rotation.

At least he’s a great listener.

And since he’s one of your closest friends nonetheless, he would have no problem with you coming over to eat his snacks and lounge on his couch while he works from home.

So you shoot him a text.

TO: marky markmarkly sparkly can i cum over ;P

FROM: marky markHaha sure dude! I told you stop spelling it like that > <

TO: marky markprude be there in 10 want coffee ?

FROM: marky markSure! Caramel latte please :3

He even texts like a good and innocent church boy. But he’s definitely had girlfriends, and that one boyfriend, so there’s no way he’s a virgin. Is it possible to be a blushing virgin in spirit and at heart?

“Hey beautiful, what can I get ya?” The barista’s stare is nothing short of sleazy, not even bothering to make eye contact as he tries to magically see through your clothing.

“I’ll take a caramel latte, lemme double check what my boyfriend wanted, hmm just a regular coffee.” And okay it’s a little demeaning to Mark to switch your coffee orders in front of this greaseball.

The boyfriend comment works well enough, if you take the guy opting to just stare at your ass as you walk out the door instead of bullying you for your number a win.

Thankfully Mark's apartment is just around the corner, and somehow you manage to key in the code not once but twice despite carrying two drinks.

“Marky! Coffee!” Immediately he comes tumbling down the hallway, eyes wide with confusion. His hair is sticking up in different directions, his glasses crooked and half-hanging off his face. His sweat stained white tee, and low hanging gray sweats only the cherry atop the homebody trainwreck sundae of a man before you.

“Hey, yo, shit! Uh dude!” He stops a few steps in front of you, scratching his head sheepishly. “I thought…you would take longer.”

“Do I look like Jungwoo? Or worse, Yuta?” You feign offense with a dramatic gasp.

“Nah! Ha…ha, um come on in, it’s a fuckin’ mess but like you know, ‘m swamped with work and…”

You hand him his latte and push past him, barely batting an eye at the nightmarish state of his apartment. There’s mountains of paperwork and books stacked along the walls, empty food boxes, bags and wrappers scattered across the floor (along with any other available surface) and you’re trying desperately to not gag at the state of his kitchen.

“Johnny would clean?” You muse as you kick aside an empty pasta box.

“Johnny would clean.” He sighs. Johnny, being Mark’s roommate, along with (one of) Donghyuck’s boyfriend(s???) is currently on vacation. On top of that, from what you've heard, he’s barely been at the apartment at all the past few months. Definitely too busy catering to every single one of Hyuck’s whims and dramatics.

“I could help?”

“Woah! I couldn’t ask you that, I made this mess on my own. I’ll clean it er.. eventually.” He gestures loosely.

“Mark Lee.” You muster up your best deadpan tone. “I’m so bored I’m gonna chew my own hand off, please let me help you clean your awfully disgusting apartment.”

“That bad?” He snorts.

“I think that pile of dust moved on it’s own.” At least you’re hoping it’s a pile of dust and not some undiscovered rodent that thrives in the apartments of bachelors with piss poor cleaning habits.

“…I think you’re right. Hey um, lemme just shower and change, I think I’m just as gross as this place. We can clean together. So just…” He shoves aside the pile of laundry inhabiting the couch just enough to give you a place to sit. “Sit for a second?”

The poor guy looks like he’s on the brink of a meltdown, and if you didn’t know Mark as well as you do you would’ve called an ambulance. But he just always has that air around him, exhausted and overworked— but always smiling through it.

“I’m in no rush.” You pat his arm before taking a seat in the space he so generously carved out for you. The second Mark walks off to the bathroom you make yourself nice and comfortable, switching on the TV, straightening out some of the magazines and assorted papers on the coffee table.

Mindlessly you even start folding some of the laundry next to you. The thought of taking pictures and sending them to Donghyuck so he could show Johnny just how far his roomie has fallen in his absence promptly interrupts your side task.

But to your dismay you find your phone is barely holding on by a few measly percentages. Looking around the living room you know there’s definitely no hope in trying to find a charger on your own. So instead you head off towards the bathroom, following the sound of the shower pouring down.

“Mark!” You knock harshly, hoping he can hear you okay.

“Yeah?” His voice comes through clear, sounding only a little startled by your sudden presence.

“Need to charge my phone!”

There’s a moment of pause and you can only assume it’s because his room is so hellish he can’t even remember where he put the thing.

“By my bed!”

“Thanks!”

His room is actually better than the living room and kitchen, not by much, but still better. You navigate around the clothes and books strewn about the floor. Giggling at his wastebasket full of balled up tissues and a used up bottle of lotion, you definitely couldn’t wait to tell Donghyuck when he gets back.

Making fun of Mark was an art, a beloved pastime of your friend group. And he always took it like a champ.

You plop down on his unmade bed, looking around for his charger. It’s half under the bed when you spot it, tugging the cord only for there to be a bit of resistance. Carefully you lower yourself to the floor, yanking at the charger and forcing Mark’s IPad to come flying at you.

“Shit!” It lands next to you face down on the hardwood and you pray to whatever gods that you haven’t cracked it. Slowly you pick it up, carefully flipping it over as you prepare yourself for the damage.

“Oh, my god.”

Because it’s not cracked, it’s not even locked, it’s still open to what Mark had been watching last to be exact.

One of your streams, one of your streams with you bent over one of your pillows, both holes stuffed with toys in the perfect position for the camera to see everything. It’s not even a new video, you haven’t done anything like that in months.

There’s a blur in your vision as you shoot up, lightheaded from standing up straight so suddenly. A scorching heat begins to burn in your gut, creeping through your veins.

You can still hear the shower going, and you know it must be wrong, to go through his private device like this but…it’s you. He’s been watching you, one of your most bible-thumping, prude-built friends who can barely look you in the eyes and blushes whenever you or your friends make dirty jokes, has been watching your debaucherous streams and has never said a word.

Sure, Yuta and Jungwoo have confessed to watching more than once and Donghyuck is a fucking mod for your streams. It never bothered you if your friends watched, it wouldn’t bother you now.

But this is…this is different. He kept his viewership a secret, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. Was he too embarrassed to say? Was he afraid it’d ruin your friendship?

You close out the video, looking through his watch history which consists solely of your videos, looking at who he follows — you, only you, and you can’t tell if that’s a good thing yet — and now the used tissues in his trash bin don’t feel so funny anymore.

“Oh.” You mutter lamely as you open up his comment history. Fucking oh.

66golden_boy99: wanna fuck you with my tongue til youre squirting all over my face

And your world collapses, punctuated by the sound of the shower turning off— yet that’s lost on your ears. You can’t hear anything but the furious pound of your heart trying to dismantle your ribcage, your blood rushing through your veins and sloshing around your head.

Mark Lee, sweet, kind and innocent. Mark Lee, who stutters just talking about who he likes. Mark Lee, the resident saint of the group.

Is him.

The man who’s been peddling filth into your mind, who’s been haunting you every time you decide to start your stream or post a video, skulking around every comment section with your name on it.

Is Mark fucking Lee.

“Heya! Did ya find…it.” It’s cinematic honestly, the way his stride slows as his eyes frantically flicker back and forth between you and the IPad. “Y-Y-You!”

It’s instantaneous, his face turning a brilliant crimson as he trips over himself to grab the tablet and throw it haphazardly to the side.

His chest is heaving, panic creasing his features as you look him over. He kept the same color scheme, you think emptily, white tank top and gray basketball shorts. It does nothing for your brain as you stare at him mouth agape.

“I c-can explain?” He has the audacity to squeak, to look ashamed even. He’s trying to hide behind his bangs as they fall over his eyes, trying to look so innocent despite his filthy secret coming to light.

“Why didn’t you accept my friend request?” It’s probably not what you should open with, and Mark’s jaw simply hanging open at the question might be a testament to that.

“…What?” His croaks, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t accept it, why? And where have you been, it’s been three whole days? I’ve been fucking waiting for—”

“You’re not mad?” His voice is still uneven, and even a pitch higher.

“Mad? Mad? I’m pissed, you, you idiot!” And you are. Probably. Your mind so fucked from trying to comprehend this newfound piece of info you don’t even know where to begin with how you’re feeling. So mad must be the best place to start.

“For months I’ve been wondering who had the fucking balls to send these freaky borderline insane comments.” He flinches. “Wondering just who the hell was making me feel like, like…that.”

“I—”

“And it was you! Right under my nose, looking at me with those stupid round eyes and big glasses a-and you just pretended like you knew nothing? …I got off to you on stream?” You hate the way your voice sounds so high in your ears, teetering on the edge of full blown shrieking.

“Please, I’m sor…”

“When Hyuck showed those comments were you even ashamed?” You hiss.

He’s blubbering now, eyes pinned somewhere to the ground; half cooked sentences or maybe excuses scattering about the floor with the rest of his mess. It’s all lost on your ears, a million different thoughts in your head drowning it all out.

His hands raise as if admitting defeat, even beginning to back away in a pitiful attempt at escaping but like hell you’ll let the fool get away from you now.

“Goddammit, Mark Lee, look at me!” And he does, his mouth snapping shut and eyes focusing on you. His stupid glasses are nowhere to be seen, giving you an unfiltered front row view of how his pupils are blown wide. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean…what?” You could kill him, you really could because how after all these months of sending you towards the edge with the crudest, filthiest words he can barely say a proper sentence standing before you.

“Any of it! All of it, was it all just talk?” You must’ve hit a nerve. He’s silent again, eyes narrowing for a moment at the accusation. But it slips away, a fickle persona he shoves down.

His hands lower to his sides.

“...What do you want?” His voice is more even, eyebrows knitting together.

You know what he’s asking — he was obvious like that, his heart always worn so proudly on his sleeve — because even now with his disgusting secret out in the open between the two of you. He has the audacity to try to take the gentlemanly route of getting you to explicitly state what you want from him, if you want him.

When all you’ve been waiting for was for him to take.

“What do I want, huh? Let me tell you what I think first.” You know this will definitely make or break what happens next, and maybe even your friendship. But you’re sick of his games, of dancing around whatever the hell was going on between the two of you. “I think you’re all bark and no fucking bite, I think you hide behind a screen because you’re a coward and you probably couldn’t fuck your way out of a wet paper bag.”

His eyes narrow once more.

“You hide behind your good little god fearing boy next door persona when you’re a freak who likes watching one of his best friends get off on camera!”

He takes a step closer.

“I think you’re filthy and depraved, a repressed weirdo with disgusting kinks. A borderline incel!”

And another step.

“I bet the second you actually got inside of me you’d cum and cry yourself to sleep in a matter of seconds.” His expression darkens at that, and now you’re starting to think that you should stop.

But where’s the fun in that?

“You couldn’t handle even half the shit you said online, you cowardly little prude, you tiny dicked—”

You don’t realize his hands are on you until you're backed against the wall, one tightly gripping your hip while the other lands on your chest keeping you firmly in place.

“You never shut up. Even in your streams and videos you're constantly yammering on, whimpering and whining and begging.” His voice is low, buzzing around your ears and in your head. You look down at the tent forming in his shorts, mouth drying and watering simultaneously.

“That for me?” Your tongue feels thick as you look up at him through your lashes.

The hand on your chest inches up, until his palm settles against your throat and you're left wondering if he’ll indulge you by tightening his fingers. Even just a little.

“Even now, can’t shut the fuck up.” He moves in closer, until his hardened cock is against your thigh and he’s forcing his knee between yours. “I asked what you wanted, not for you to insult me.”

“You-”

“So I’ll tell you what I want.” And you feel so wildly out of your depth, there’s a cognitive dissonance you can’t quite escape. Good church boy Mark means wholesome activities, ice cream in the park, farmer’s markets and, and–

“And then you’re gonna try again for me.”

“M-Me?” It comes out lamely. Is this really Mark Lee? You think belatedly. Looking at you like he wants to tear you apart inch by inch with nothing but his teeth and tongue.

“I want you on my tongue, on my cock, want you begging for me to stop but it’s all just a filthy fucking lie. I want you to want me to ruin you, this, us.” His voice is raspier, laced with a desperation and craving you’ve never heard before and damn do you need to hear more, so much more.

“So try again. Tell me what you want.” And you can see it, that plea in his eyes for you to just say it. To know you want this as badly as he does, the promise, the threat of him finally letting go looming over the two of you.

“Want.” You grab him by the face, pressing your nose against his and staring into the black depths of his pupils. “Want good boy Mark Lee to die right before my eyes, wan’ you to eat me ‘til nothin’ is left.”

It’s slurred, you’re delirious, so drunk off the way he’s already hard off of you screaming at him (or maybe it was getting caught), at the way he’s demanding you to express your want for him when you’d rather just be on your knees.

But the thing is you always have wanted, craved. That underlying itch to see one of your best friends let loose, the borderline wanting (what you thought was) a random stranger to break into your apartment and do filthy, unmentionable things to you. When you flipped over that IPad thinking you broke it to find yourself being the object of his debauched desire, when you saw his username on the site.

You ached.

It’s stupid and toeing the line of embarrassing with how badly you want, no, need him, how turned on by the fact he doesn’t even know which person to be in front of you. Doesn’t quite know how to be both.

“Let him die.” Is all he can say, having the audacity to take advantage of your stupor to kiss you. To push you back up against the wall and slot his lips against yours, pulling back just to dive back in before you could truly feel his absence. Over and over each one messier, hotter than the last as a debaucherous hunger flows between the two of you.

“You don’t get it.” He mumbles, pressing himself firmly against you, sweat starting to prickle against your skin. “When y-you started camming I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

And suddenly you could see it, vividly. Just behind your eyelids was Mark hunched over in his bed, one of your streams or videos playing in the background as he furiously chased his release. Only to be left wallowing in the shame of jerking it with cheap lotion to you, forced to clean himself off with even cheaper tissues and spending the rest of his night completely alone.

“Your perfect fucking pussy, for everyone to see…when I’ve been waiting.” He rasps, hands finding their way back onto your body. “Couldn’t stand it, couldn’t fuckin’ stand it.”

“Mm, Ma-ark…” Without hesitation he twists his head, allowing himself to sink his teeth at the base of your throat. Pulling away to focus another dark look at you, that heady mixture of unmitigated want and wicked promises swirling in his eyes.

“S’All I could think about, even with our friends.” He noses along your jaw, nipping at your earlobe as his breathing turns ragged. “Wanted to haul you onto the table and fuck you ‘til your head went dumb, ‘til all was left was you squealing like a fuckin’ whore while they all watched.”

There’s a cartoon halo of stars around your head, surely there is, each word from his mouth adding another to the ditzy constellation circling your brain. This is him, this is Mark ‘Golden Boy’ Lee and his once hidden (and so deliciously unhinged) silver tongue.

“Pl-Please, oh fu— please.” His lips are back to working against your throat, and just as you try to reach up and grab at him, to try and sway him into relieving some of the tension building in the air.

He steps back, yanking at your arm.

Yet he doesn’t give you a chance to simply fall, or even react. Instead he uses your off-kilter balance to push you onto your knees, thankful that he’s a sloppy loser when you land on a pile of clothes.

“This.” He doesn’t bother being shy about tugging his shorts and boxers off in one fluid motion. “This is how I want you.”

He pauses, as if to let you admire the view and you’re not nearly above doing so as your eyes roam so shamelessly.

Of course he’s cut, with neatly trimmed hair adorning his groin. And though he's just above average in length, he definitely makes up in girth. You think hazily that calling him tiny dicked was definitely a lie.

Your mouth waters.

He lets out a low chuckle of all things, surely laughing at the way your eyes have widened. And maybe you did let your tongue swipe over your lips in anticipation.

“Go ahead, before I make it hurt.” His words are delayed, understanding creeping in slowly; impaired by having long let that fog of desperation cloud your mind.

You move before you can think, nosing along the side of his cock, pressing a kiss to a cute little mole that you hope to revisit at a later date. But for now you’re flattening your tongue against the base of his shaft and dragging it up his length at a frustrating rate.

He’s heavy on your tongue, thick and heavy and so so hot, and fuck he tastes good or maybe you’re just already addicted. Doomed from the start.

There’s a war raging in your mind, whether to try your hardest to please him with your mouth, all too tempted to hear the pretty, desperate sounds he’ll make and maybe it’ll earn you a bit of praise. Or to tease until he’s pissed off enough to throw any regard for you and your (throat’s) wellbeing out the window.

The latter is far more appealing.

Coyly you look up at him again through your lashes once more, bringing your tongue to tease at the tip of his cock, licking off a bead of precum forming.

“Are you tryin’ to blow me or piss me off?” Ah, so he has you all figured out.

“Haven’t decided.” You reply properly by taking his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before sinking further down and ignoring the slightly uncomfortable stretch of your lips. You could get used to this.

Languidly you try to mind your teeth as you sink further down, your jaw aching at the unprecedented stretch. Shallowly you bob your head, barely giving anything as you look up to meet his burning gaze.

“Enough.” He groans, clearly sick of the teasing as his hand comes around to hook his fingers around the back of your head.

It’s enough of a warning as your hands come up to grip at his bare thighs, whimpering at the first tentative thrust. Unable to escape, knees aching and you can’t help but wonder how damp your panties will be by the time you get them off.

He’s careful at first, not to be too rough in his movements, trying to be considerate of your comfort. It’s ridiculous, and you let him know as much by stabbing your nails into his thighs only forcing him to accidentally bottom out.

Tears well in your eyes as you choke, gagging around the sinfully thick intrusion into your throat.

“Woah! Fuck, I’m sor-”

He starts to pull away, and desperately you chase after him. But the fucker pulls out, grabbing you by the cheeks to look you in the eyes.

“Do I have to start calling you names again?” Your voice is already wrecked, but not nearly enough, it could be worse, so much worse. If he would just fully let go. “Or are you just scared?”

He blinks at you, once, twice, those stupidly big eyes of his narrowing into something dangerous.

“Two taps if it’s too much.”

“It won’t be.” You barely finish the sentence as he grabs you on either side of your head with both hands, pressing the leaking head of his cock against the seam of your lips, precum smearing across. You barely open your mouth before he’s shoving his entire cock down your throat again.

You can see him, blurred by the tears stuck to your lashes, watching you with such reverence as you pitifully try to relax, still unable to avoid gagging and choking. Yet this time he offers no reprieve, keeps you firmly in place as tears stream down your face and your nails continue to dig into his thighs.

“T-That’s it, choke.” The break in his voice sends something hot through your chest, snaking through the rest of your body and creeping into your veins. How embarrassed would you really be if you came just from having your throat fucked?

“Where are you?” Your wandering thoughts immediately cease, drawn back in by his fingers dancing along your cheekbone before settling at the back of your head.

He doesn’t even have the decency to let you catch your breath after pulling your attention, shallow thrusts turning reckless as he fucks your face with little regard for you— it’s everything you’ve every wanted from him.

It sends another surge of heat down into your belly, pooling between your thighs and now you’re wondering if your poor panties will even be salvageable after this.

“Fuck that’s it, so fuckin’ good for me.” He bites his lip, and a part of you wishes you could be tugging on it too with your teeth.

Use me, use me, use me. The thought fills your mind, leaving room for nothing else but Mark and his cock and your jaw and throat struggling to keep up.

Frantically you tap on his calf, his response instantaneous.

“You good?” He pulls out again, swiping his thumb along your bottom lip to wipe away a mess of spit and precum.

“Need you,” and you could care less how your voice shakes and rasps, “need you in me so bad. Fuck me.”

Your fingers dig into his thighs as you muster up the best pitiful look possible, silently begging for more.

“C-Condom, need, condom.” He huffs, looking around his room frantically.

“Like hell, what happened to painting my insides huh?” Shakily you stand up, managing to push him towards the bed which he doesn’t even bother resisting. “Thought you wanted your cum dripping from my pussy for days.”

And he fucking growls, the sound so wildly animalistic you can barely believe it came from him.

“That what you want? You wanna feel me for days?” You’re on your back in a matter of seconds, his forearms landing on either side of your head to cage you in. He’s staring you down with an uncharacteristic intensity; a predator sizing up his prey.

“Ruin me for anybody else.” It comes out broken, desperation seeping from each word. How much more do you need to bend before he finally breaks?

He’s back on you, a barrage of teeth and tongue assaulting your flesh as his hands leave no part of you untouched, kneading and feeling. Just as you try to bring your own shirt over your head he pushes away your hands, allowing him to take over stripping you bare.

Each caress of his fingers leaves a trail of fire, almost too hot to bear.

“Please Marky, please.” It comes out high and whiny and so very needy. “Touch me more.”

“I’ll give you what you want, just lemme…fuck lemme look at you.” He catches your wrists just as you try to bring your hands up to cover your face, pinning your arms against your sides as his eye shamelessly trace over your figure. There’s a glint of something hungry, swirled with something akin to adoration.

“Y-You like m-me, you’re obsessed.” You

“Yeah, I really fucking am.” He’s grinning, all teeth with a hint of gums that makes your heart somehow pound even harder and you know you’re well and truly fucked. “Like you s’much gonna keep you on my cock forever.”

He lets go of your hands, grabbing at your thighs to spread them apart, callused fingers dragging up until he’s almost carelessly pressing a finger into you.

“Fuck, you can… o-oh keep me!” You whimper as he bullies one, then two more fingers into your throbbing cunt— there’s a determination bordering on desperation creasing his brow in order to prep you as quickly as possible.

“Next time, I’ll spend fuckin’ hours doin’ this.” You whine as he drags his fingers out of you.

His hands hook under your thighs, pressing up and up until he can hook your legs over his shoulders and he’s pressing the blunt head of his cock against your hole. There’s a slight sting as he pushes in, the stretch unfamiliar and despite how wet you are some lube would’ve helped.

But you well and truly could care less.

“I don’t care who sees this, you, I’m the only one who gets to touch, the only one who gets to fuck you like this.” He rasps, bottoming out in one harsh thrust and punching the air out of your lungs.

He’s kind enough to let you catch your breath, indulging you with a few soft kisses along your jaw and nipping at your bottom lip. But it doesn’t last long, following a sloppy kiss with a tentative grind of his hips, then a soft thrust.

Those desperate whines you usually play up for your streams easily escaping your lips as he builds a steady rhythm.

“Yes, yes, yes, Mark.” It’s perfect, every single thrust is perfect, the way you're folded in half, the feeling of his fingers digging into you, the strain of toned muscles under flushed skin; so fucking perfect. “Only you.”

And you mean it, fully, wholeheartedly without any hesitation. Only Mark, if that’s what he wants then you want it too, whatever Mark wants he can have.

“M’Close, fuck, I’m so close.” You whimper, raking your fingers through his still damp hair.

“Already?” It spears through your chest, harsh and burning and tears down your belly.

There’s a split second of perfect silence interrupting the sound of skin slapping against skin, a ringing in your ears followed by the crash of your heart into your ribcage.

Pleasure slices down your spine, rippling through your body in crashing waves and leaving your head spinning.

He fucks you through the high, any chance of a coherent thought spilling right out of your ears, his name garbled and strained as it forces it’s way past your lips.

He slows, as if he’s about to waste both your time and do something stupid like pull out and finish on your stomach. And like hell you’re letting that happen, grabbing at his head with both hands and smashing your lips together, pulling away just enough to stare into blown pupils.

“Cum inside me, you bitch!” His teeth come down on your bottom lip, the bite of iron and tang of sweat and spit swirling together on your tongue dizzying, intoxicating. He slams back into you with a force you didn’t know he had, swallowing down a broken moan from his lips as he spills into you.

“I’m still gonna stream.” The two of you have settled on his now made bed, tucked under the covers. You had no problem letting Mark dress you in a clean tee and boxers, watching sleepily from his desk chair as he made his bed before depositing you in it.

“I’ll still watch.” He hums.

“And comment?” It brings up the matter from earlier, the one you never got an answer to. “Why didn’t you?”

“I…I didn’t know what to do. Uh, it was one thing, hiding, but then I thought you…didn’t…”

“Didn’t?” You raise your head, trying to level your gaze to his.

“Didn’t like m- it, the comments, those messages in chat, all of it. Thought you were just tryin’ to message me to stop. And then I got scared you somehow knew it was…me.” He has that sheepish look smearing his features, a hand coming up to scratch at his nape.

You stare at him silently, watching as his eyes bounce around your face searching for some hint of what you could possibly be thinking.

“Look where that got us, I can’t even feel my legs, oh my god you have to fuck me on stream, please!”

“H-Huh? Live? Yo I can’t just-”

“Think about it, Marky.” Aching hips and sore muscles be damned, you somehow manage to climb into his lap and straddle his thighs. “Fucking me, on camera, for everyone to see just what you do to me. I’d be so good for you.”

You can see it, what little resolve he had starting to crumble, just a little more.

“Don’t you want that?” It’s his words and he knows it, starting to see the monster he’s created. You run your fingers along his jaw, settling one hand on his shoulder while the other comes up to muss up fluffy brown locks. “Stretching me on your fat cock for my pitiful little viewers to see, wishing it was them driving me insane.”

“Baby…” The pet name from his lips is instantly addicting, and you need so much more of it.

“Please.” And now you’re not sure what you’re begging for, your body screams for you to stop, to not roll your hips against his because it’s far too soon to be fucked into the mattress again.

“If, if you don’t stop doing that.” He groans. “You’re not gonna be able to stream tomorrow.”

You blink.

“Wow you really are my biggest fan.”

“Huh?”

“Got my schedule memorized and everything, does that mean we could do it tomorrow? You’ll fuck me on stream tomorrow?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Seriously I–”

“Actually, cancel it.” He’s hooking his hands under your thighs, drawing you closer. “Don’t look at me like that, I said cancel it.”

“Mm, I don’t know if I can go again yet.” But there’s no conviction behind your words.

“You’re fine, I’ll do all the work.” You’re fine he says, it sends a thrill up your spine right into your brain, reworking the entire chemistry in there. It had been there in the back of your mind, slipping in somewhere between finding out his secret and that first kiss.

You’re absolutely hooked, simply addicted, to Mark Lee.

“Okay.” You grin at him.

#mark x reader #mark lee x reader #nct x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct dream x reader #nct smut #nct 127 smut #– miki writes #– mark

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windyengel · 5 months ago

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DCXDP Ghosts mate for life (and dead)

It is logical to think that when a ghost finds their partner, is for the afterlife.

Ghosts are basically the souls of those who died and passed to a better state of being, striping them of all the things that could restrain them from following their obsessions.

And even Neverborns, they are ideas given enough power to develop a soul.

So it is logical to think that when a ghost finds their partner, when their core identifies them as their selected partners, is for the remaining of the afterlife.

Sure, they don't have to be lovely dovey the whole time. They fight, "break up" maybe even try to kill each other.

But at the end of the day they get back together.

Danny thought he wouldn't have to worry about that until he went fully dead. He thought that even though he had a ghost core, he was human enough.

He dated Val and Sam and he didn't get ghost attached to them (aside from the protection obsession, but that's mostly because he thought of them as his people)

Then he fooled around with Tuck and even Dash and he didn't form any kind of intense, over the top attachment.

(He still will go feral if someone ever dared to even threaten them or hurt them, but when Tuck and Star started to date he was the first to celebrate for them)

So Danny thought he was save.

That is until he was in his first semester of College in Gotham U, when he was walking back to his dorms at night and someone tried to mug him.

Now, normally he would easily deck the mugger and go his merry way. But this time, before he could do anything, someone fell from the roofs directly on top of the mugger.

And as Danny sees this vigilante take down the mugger, his core does a little purr and pull towards the man, and Danny can only think oh shit and now what do I say to my possible soulmate

-------------------

Tim has never felt more embarrassed in his entire life.

He had been following this guy since he saw him walking alone through Gotham a couple of weeks ago.

At first it was because he was worried that the guy will get mugged working so close to Crime Alley.

(He did get robbed, but decked the man right across his face so hard that the mugger got knocked down)

Then because Tim was curious, full detective mode about this guy and his ability to fight.

Then just because.

He figured out his name was Daniel and he worked in a small coffee shop, and attended the Gotham U aerospace program on a Wayne scholarship.

He figured out he came from a tiny town and was Vladimir Masters legal heir

He discovered he liked to eat midnight burgers and eleven shots of espresso on a coffee cup.

And he knew, now that he was right in front of him, that he had the clearest blue eyes he has seen. It was like seeing deep into a glacier.

Damian had found him stalking following the guy to keep him safe and had pushed him off the roof. And now he was right in front of him.

And he had no clue what to say.

#dead tired #tim drake #danny phantom #tim x danny #soulmates #because Danny is technically the king of souls #and Tim is his core chosen #dpxdc

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g-k444 · 1 month ago

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imagining camping, sharing a sleeping bag w u because you forgot yours n i wasnt gonna have u shivering with no warmth during the night

you clamber on in n it's real snug, as you'd expect. it's a sleeping bag.

but we get to talking n settling down, until eventually we find a mutual silence - before i drift off - leaving you awake n unable to move in fear of waking me

but maybe an hour - a few hours - maybe in the morning - i wake up because of your moving

i wake up, groggy and ready to drift back off, but horrified by the feeling of agitated moving behind me. shuffling, very rhythmically - with a grunt following, confirming my suspicions.

you were masturbating.

you were fucking wanking when we were sharing a sleeping bag, and i could feel your arm move with every thrust of your cock into your hands - your hips pushing your cock to fuck into your palm, making your bulbous head push into my bum with each stroke

i couldnt move. nor say a word. what would you do if you knew i were awake? i figured you'd get yourself off and go back to sleep.

never did i imagine that i'd feel you get to restless you'd plunge your hands beneath my pyjama bottoms to pull my panties n bottoms down - grabbing my pussy through my legs to pull me up to an angle so that you could slot your cock into my unexpecting pussy, planting your hands on my hips and thrusting into me

my mouth fell open - not facing you - so you couldn't see... but shocked by your confidence, assuming i was sleeping and confident enough to fuck me under those pretences

your cock lurched my insides with every thrust, pushing deep with your hands manoeuvring my whole body by the hips to fit yourself into me better

one hand leaves my hips - reached around to go beneath my shirt, grabbing a palmful of my boobs that hung to one side as i slept, your hand slapping he flesh before vicing painfully around it to use it as a grip to thrust your twitching cock into me

until you reached your climax - where i felt you pull out, much to my relief. maybe you'd go cum outside - on your roll mat instead of in my sleeping bag i'd graciously offered.

wrong.

i feel a sticky spurt across my flower, my pussy coated in thick substance as a groan behind me sounds.

and once my pussy was sufficiently coated in your seed and had your fingers play around with the unconscious lips, smearing your cum everywhere - i feel you pull my panties back up to my hips with my joggers, pressing the now cold fluid against my pussy and keeping it there. your sperm up against my pussy as if for safekeeping.

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humanjarvis · 9 days ago

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alternative medicine

synopsis: after a tough mission, you stop by zayne’s house for a checkup. but caleb thinks you should’ve come to him.

tags: condescending jealous dom caleb, stubborn reader but justified, friendly zayne cameo, caleb’s got a weird scent thing, bickering, massage, groping, cockwarming, riding (forced), non pip-squeak pet names (baby & princess), manhandling, biting, marking, boob slapping, hair pulling, rough…not sex?

pairing: caleb x fem reader/mc

word count: 2.2k

a/n: yall didn’t think i could still write dom caleb did u. maybe i can’t and this sucks. anyway i have turned the wholesome caleb text above into a monstrosity. if ur partner ever gets jealous when u go to the doctor irl u should ditch them immediately

The blare of a car horn outside your bedroom window rouses you from a deep sleep.

Late morning sunlight greets you as you blink your eyes open, surveying the mess you’d left your room in when you’d flopped into bed last night. Clothes, gear, and bags strewn all over the floor…yesterday’s mission had really taken a lot out of you.

And when you try to sit up on the mattress, you find it took even more than you thought.

Because your body hurts. Stiffness and soreness in every muscle, to the point where every movement has your limbs screaming in pain. Even your worst period cramps couldn’t compare to the army of cells trying to tear themselves apart in your body right now.

You’d really overdone it.

Staring at the ceiling, trying not to breathe too hard in case that hurts, too, you rack your brain for options.

Back to sleep? Back to sleep would be good. Would be great, if you didn’t have plans with Caleb tonight. And flaking out this late would only make him worry.

Power through it? Maybe. But as you try to rise again, a sharp burn in your abdomen has you gasping and crashing back down. Maybe not.

Medicine? The sensible choice. But you’d been so busy with work lately that you hadn’t been to the pharmacy in ages, and everything you had that might have helped you was expired.

Lucky for you, you have friends in high places.

“Ow,” you groan, wincing at the sudden pressure on your neck. “Yes, it hurts when you touch there.”

“As I warned you it might,” Zayne replies smartly. “Who was it that requested this exam, again?”

“Sorry,” you grumble, lips tugging into a deep frown. “You’re using your free time to see me, I know. I’ll be quiet.”

Your friend in a high place was off work today, you’d learned when you texted him earlier. And while you’d been more than happy to leave him in peace and let him enjoy his day, when he’d learned of your condition, he’d all but insisted you come over for treatment.

So with gritted teeth, protesting limbs, and a quick stop to a nearby coffee shop, you’d made the short trip to his neighborhood. When you’d sucked up the pain and knocked on his door, he’d welcomed you with open arms, especially when he saw the milk tea you’d brought as compensation.

“You don’t work for the rest of the week, correct?” Zayne asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Nope. We had it so rough yesterday, Jenna gave everyone a long weekend. I’m free to writhe around in agony ‘til Monday,” you answer, grimacing as he checks your forearms.

“No need. You have a moderate case of overexertion—which might feel agonizing, but it’s nothing simple painkillers can’t fix,” he decides, stepping away to rummage through a cabinet.

“Here, take these,” he says, holding out a familiar bottle of medicine. “One pill every six hours until the pain stops. You can keep them for future use, but let me know when you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks, Dr. Zayne,” you sing, sliding down from his bar stool to give him a friendly hug. As his large hand pats your back, you breathe in his scent: clean and light, with a hint of jasmine. “What would I do without you?”

As you swing open your apartment door and flick on the main light, a hulking figure startles you much less than it should.

Freshly showered and in his nightclothes, Caleb is already inside, flipping through a book as he lounges on your armchair. An hour early, but what did you expect, coming from him?

“Hello to you, too,” you greet him wryly. “Of course you can come in. Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

“Well, this is my second home. Would be my first, if you’d let me sleep on the couch,” he quips, a boyish grin lighting up his face as he reaches you in four long strides. “Sorry for bein’ so early, pip-squeak. I just couldn’t wait to see you.”

“Mm, I missed you too,” you admit, standing on your tiptoes to give him a chaste peck. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day—I’m just so tired,” you whine, falling into him dramatically.

A half-second after he catches you, Caleb falters. “Did you go to a cafe today?” he asks hesitantly. “You smell different.”

“…No?” you blink slowly, staring up at him in confusion. “I got some milk tea earlier, but I only went through the drive-thru. What do I smell like?”

“Like jasmine,” he frowns, scanning you with slightly narrowed eyes.

“Oh, that. I said I was tired, right? It’s because of my mission yesterday. I could barely move when I woke up, so I went to see Zayne earlier. You know he loves jasmine stuff—his house smells like it a little, too. Anyway, he gave me some medicine for the soreness. I’ll probably take some before we go to bed,” you explain, fishing the pill bottle out of your purse and rattling it in the air.

“His house?” Caleb asks, voice strained with alarm.

“What?”

“You saw Zayne, but not at his office. You went to his house for medicine?”

“Uh, yeah,” you shrug simply, leaving his embrace to stand up straight. “He was off today.”

On Caleb’s face is a mix of disbelief, betrayal, and envy. But you, too busy fiddling with the pill bottle, are too distracted to notice.

When you look up again, his only emotion is cool, confident resolve.

“Alright then, pip-squeak,” he cheers with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “We gonna watch the movie, or would you rather mess with that bottle all night?”

Your movie night starts off slow, normal, with all the whispered jokes and casual touches of the ones before.

So when Caleb puts more pressure where his hand rests on your shoulder, you think nothing of it, at first.

But when that hand starts groping and squeezing, fondling your soft flesh under the thin fabric of your shirt, you swivel your head and eye him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Just givin’ you a massage, pip-squeak,” he grins, his murmur barely audible over the gunfire on screen. “You’re still sore, right? Let me help you out.”

Unconvinced, you scrutinize him until his innocent smile dissolves your willpower. “Okay,” you say warily, turning back to face the screen as large hands caress your body. “Thank you. But don’t distract me—this is the good part.”

***

The whole third act of the movie passes, but Caleb never stops. Your shoulders, arms, stomach, hips—every part of you he can reach, pliant under his eager touch.

And you can’t focus.

It’s when his wandering hands greedily squeeze the fat of your breasts that you pause the movie with a choked gasp.

“You don’t have to…I’m not sore there,” you chide, cheeks flaming from embarrassment and something more.

“Hm? Is it not helping? With the way you gasped just now, I’d think it felt really good,” he mocks, leaning in to tease you up close.

“It’s not bad. You’re just…being thorough,” you grumble, retreating from his advance.

“More thorough than Zayne was earlier, I hope,” he shoots back bitterly, and it all clicks into place.

Scoffing, you turn to face him fully, making his hands fall to your sides. “You can’t be serious. Of all the things to be jealous of—”

“I’m jealous that my girlfriend would go to another guy’s house for help when she has me on speed dial.”

“Oh my god, Caleb, you’re not a doctor! I would’ve called you if I needed a ride home or something, not if I needed medical help.”

“When was the last time you saw a doctor just because you were sore?” he lifts a brow, slowing his movements on your body. “I can help you just like this. You’re feelin’ better since I started, right? I can tell you are. You’re less tense, and you don’t wince when you move anymore. That’s me. Not him.”

He’s not wrong. Since he started his massage, your muscles had relaxed almost miraculously, as if his hands were the antidote to your pain.

You won’t tell him that, of course. Pride and all.

“I’d be perfectly fine with Zayne’s painkillers,” you snap haughtily. “I don’t need you for everything, you know.”

At that, Caleb freezes entirely.

But only for a moment.

“Is that so?” he asks lowly, breath fanning the shell of your ear. There’s a threat in his voice. A promise. Things never ended well when he took that tone with you.

“Wait,” you try to backtrack, nervously bracing your hands against his chest. “I didn’t mean it like that, I-I just—”

Before you can plead your case, Caleb hauls you up and into his lap, molding your back to his front with an iron grip.

“I know exactly what you meant, pip-squeak,” he whispers in your ear. “But I thought you’d be tired of me provin’ you wrong by now.”

As you squirm helplessly in his hold, his hands return to your chest, pulling your shirt up to pluck and grope your tender skin. It’s hardly a massage anymore, with how rough he’s being—rolling your nipples under skilled fingers, tugging them until they ache with pleasure. When he cups one breast with merciless ownership, making your flesh spill out between his fingers, you moan and wriggle in his lap, reigniting the burn in your thighs.

“Still hurts?” Caleb asks, laying his head on your shoulder tauntingly.

“N-no, it feels g—”

He cuts you off. “It does, huh?” he pouts with feigned pity. “Poor baby, still so tight…don’t worry, I’ll loosen you up.”

Before you can react, he lifts you slightly to free his hard length from his sweats. Under your skirt, his hand pinches the fat of your ass hard before he slides your soaked panties to the side.

And then slowly, steadily, Caleb lowers you down on his waiting cock, inch by devastating inch.

Your mixed gasps fill the room as you adjust to the feel of each other—you suction his length, he savors your warmth.

“This better, princess?” he grits out, one hand still fondling your breast while the other grips your hip.

“Caleb,” you groan, annoyance and arousal blending together.

He coos in response, pressing a gloating kiss to your hair. “Aw, it is? I know it is.”

Chuckling breathily behind you, he slaps the flesh of your breast with a reverberating smack, and you squeal as your skin ripples. “He didn’t help you like this, right? I hope he didn’t,” he jeers. “Otherwise, I’ll have to pay him a visit.”

Hissing at the lingering sting on your chest, you stomp his foot with your smaller one. “You are so childish! It wasn’t like that.”

“You’re melting around me, baby,” he ignores you, shifting his hips to press deeper into you. “You don’t need those pills, you don’t need him—not while I’m here. I’m the first one you tell. First one you cry to. No one else. Isn’t that right?”

Mewling at the new angle, you shake your head wildly, bringing an arm up to tug at his hair.

Huffing out a laugh, Caleb sinks his teeth into your neck in warning, sucking harshly before lapping at the mark. “No?” he asks, grinding your hips into his so roughly that stars cloud your vision.

“When you're hungry, you call Caleb. When you're thirsty, you call Caleb. When you're happy you call Caleb, when you're sad you call Caleb. And when you’re sick, you still. Call. Caleb,” he finishes, punctuating his last command with three punishing thrusts into you. “Say yes.”

Stubborn as ever, you deny him, still squirming in his grasp. But when he bounces you on top of him, forcing your aching thighs and ass against his swollen base in slick, lewd slaps, you lose the dignity you had left. “Yes!” you squeal in submission, digging your nails into his thighs to ground yourself. “Y-yes, I’ll come to you when I need something. Always. I should’ve this time, I’m sorry.”

As soon as the words leave your lips, it’s like the tension in the room evaporates.

Sighing contentedly, Caleb wraps an arm around your middle, pulling you flush against his chest to lay a kiss on your temple. “I know you are. But it’s okay now, right? Lesson learned for next time.”

“Next time,” you agree dazedly, eyelids drooping as his length still pulses inside you.

“Now, why don’t you pass me the remote? We have a movie to finish.”

The movie ended an hour ago.

But Caleb was far too satisfied watching you doze off on his cock to ruin the moment.

Now, slipping out of your heat with gentle precision, he gathers your sleeping form in his arms, cradling your head to his chest.

You smell like him now. Good.

Carrying you to your bedroom, he lays you down and slips a loose t-shirt over your head before pulling the covers to your chin.

For a moment, he watches you, a serene smile gracing his lips in the moonlight.

And then, he dips a hand into his pocket, fishing out the stolen pill bottle and dropping it in the trash.

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phagodyke · 10 months ago

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weekend melancholy is starting to kick in >~<

#im gonna go and do my food shop etc to keep myself busy and hopefully my 2nd meds will kick in and we'll be able to handle it together #i think i kind of do this so regularly bc my brain is just processing everything bc i dont rly have time during the week #all cool tho im doing good overall def on the up n i feel way more capable of coping emotionally which is nice. i <3 meds #also.. possibly settling on the idea that i might be agender. very tentatively. lots of experiences n thoughts coming together rn #ive been reacting in unexpected ways to a lot of gendered shit atm which has made me reconsider the way i think abt myself #but very difficult to articulate it to myself let alone anyone else. so ive been sitting with it for now until it precipitates #gender stuff has never rly affected me much or ive never been in a place to explore it which is why i havent thought abt it super hard #but im not the sort of person who needs a lot of internal exploration to figure out my identity like im v self aware tbh #and while im wildly indecisive abt most things in my life for some reason i never have been abt stuff like this. i learned abt lesbianism #like idk 9 years ago-ish and straight away was like yeah that makes sense for me. never looked back since #n similarly ive experienced forms of gender dysphoria before n just immediately dealt with it symptomatically n moved on #its never been smth to agonise abt for me like i know what makes me comfortable in my skin so theres no question abt doing it #and ik im privileged to be able to do that. and also it helps that gender for me is mostly divorced from external perceptions #+ that im v autistic so social pressures dont stick to me very well. i mean yeah i was bullied for it as a kid but i was stubborn asf #so yeah from the moment i realised i was genuinely uncomfortable/upset abt it earlier this week i was like okay. lets try this instead #its given me pretty instant relief from any distress i was feeling so far which is nice. rare respite from one of my torture labyrinths #just testing out internally whether it frames things more clearly n makes me feel more myself/at peace before i choose to stick w the idea #but not gonna do a whole coming out fanfare either way. dont think i wanna change how ppl interact w me + im still a dyke #so i dont consider it relevant to anyone else unless they share a similar understanding of gender to me. or if we're v close #ill prolly broach it w other trans friends eventually bc insert philosophers talking image. but to everyone else its business as usual #happy to play my cis-sona at work. + w new queer ppl i meet ive been introducing myself recently w mirrored pronouns instead of any/all #and i think i prefer that. virtually indistinguishable but theres smth nice abt inviting ppl to recognise me the way they do themselves #like translating + localising a non-gendered language into a gendered one... simplifying decisions abt how to perceive me #and ofc ppl are still gonna perceive me however but idc much unless we're actually friends. the rest is all a performance anyway #doubtful anyone on here ever has reason to refer to me but if u do for some reason... im freeloading off ur pronouns now btw <3 #but yeahhh. much 2 think abt. i need to read more alien/ai sci fi.. non-human sentience has been such a comforting concept lately #but yea tldr i woke up one morning this week like damn im prolly agender but i have a full time job to go to rn so idc abt that #.diaries #okkkk my dex is kicking in im no longer on the verge of tears lets go get these groceries wooohoooo

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abbotjack · 2 months ago

Text

Overtime .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

pairing : dr. jack abbot x reader x dr. michael "robby" robinavitch

summary : You told yourself you were just taking your time. Just late for a blind date Samira set up. But the truth is, you stayed behind on purpose. You listened to their voices. You waited. You weren’t supposed to want this—not from them. But you've been holding it in for too long. And they’ve been watching you just as closely. INSPIRED BY PREVIEW FOR NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE.

warnings/content : Threesome (M/F/M). Vaginal and oral sex (f. receiving). Set in a hospital locker room. Praise, light power dynamics, subtle possessiveness. Emotionally restrained men. No m/m interaction. No protection used. Yeah really no plot just filth

word count : 4,672

18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

The trauma bay smells like alcohol swabs and synthetic latex, and something heavier clinging underneath—stale blood or antiseptic, it’s hard to tell which. Someone’s wiped down the counters but not the floor. There’s still a puddle under the base of the gurney, shiny and half-dried, not enough to slip on but enough to keep you standing a little off-center.

You leave the curtain half-drawn behind you as you head toward the locker room. Not in a rush. You don’t move like someone eager to get out—you move like someone delaying something they haven’t put a name to.

Your body’s on autopilot. The kind of post-shift shutdown where your hands still flex like they’re gloved, your spine’s too straight from twelve hours of standing, and you haven’t realized how hungry you are until your stomach knots around nothing.

The hallway lights feel too bright. The door handle cold against your palm. You step inside and let it swing shut behind you. The air is still. Not silent, exactly—just muffled. Contained. The hum of the vents.

You stop at your locker and open it. A half-eaten granola bar sits on the shelf next to your spare scrubs. Your hand rests on the hem of your scrub top. You don’t pull it off.

You just stand there. Listening.

Not to yourself.

To them.

From somewhere down the hallway you can hear Jack and Robby trading tension like it’s clinical procedure.

“You pushed the paralytics too early,” Jack says, voice low and clipped. “She wasn’t ready.”

“She was already bottoming out,” Robby answers. “I didn’t see you moving any faster.”

“If I waited, we would’ve had a stable line.”

“If you waited, she would’ve lost her airway.”

It’s not yelling. They don’t yell.

It’s quiet. Controlled. So precise it hurts to listen to. Like they’ve done this before—not just here, but in a hundred trauma bays before this one, in years they never talk about.

You know the way they argue. You’ve watched them do it across body bags and shift changes. But this time, you don’t move on.

You just stay.

You reach for your phone.

8:07 PM – SAMIRA don’t ghost me

8:08 PM – HIM still good for 8?

8:08 PM – SAMIRA please go i told him you were hot like ER hot he’s new he’s NORMAL u need normal just flirt kiss him if he’s not annoying

You stare at the screen for a long moment. Type out :

Still at work...

Then delete it.

The plan was simple. Leave on time. Shower. Maybe mascara. Meet Samira’s friend for a drink somewhere tolerable. You hadn’t been optimistic, but you’d said yes. You even wore a lace black bra, not too sheer, just something that made you feel like a person under the hospital layers.

But instead, you’re still here.

The voices carry again.

“You want clean intubation? You wait for visualization.”

“You want a pulse? You don’t wait at all.”

And then, clear as anything, you hear it—

“You always think you’re right.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

You’re halfway out the locker room before you realize you’re moving.

One hand still on the doorframe, body loose with something between exhaustion and defiance.

You don’t think. You don’t plan it.

You just lean into the hallway, and say,

“Looks like two old white guys who still can’t figure out how to intubate a patient.”

The silence that follows is surgical.

Jack’s head turns slightly at the sound—reflexive, automatic—but the second he sees you, something shifts.

A flicker of recognition. Like a signal’s been hit.

His shoulders square. His mouth goes still.

He turns the rest of the way. Not fast. Just… deliberate. Like a spotlight locking on. His eyes skim your face, your chest, then back to your eyes—taking in everything and giving nothing back.

Robby follows a second later. He’s already smiling like he can’t decide if he’s impressed or pissed.

“Oh, I know she’s not talking about us,” Robby says.

“Well I know she’s not talking about me,” Jack mutters.

You lift a brow. “And if I am?”

You hold their stares for a breath longer than you should. Then you turn. Not fast. Not flustered. Just… done.

You walk back into the locker room without a word and leave the door open. You don’t have to look to know they’ll follow.

And they do.

Jack enters first—quiet, unreadable, his presence pressing in without needing to speak.

Robby follows a beat later. He exhales, half-laughs under his breath, and says :

“You’re mouthy today.”

“I’m post-shift,” you reply, not facing them yet. “And this is the third time this week I’ve heard you two go at it like divorced dads at a resuscitation workshop.”

“You’re still here,” Jack says, watching you. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had a date.”

Robby’s brow arches. “Had?”

“Supposed to meet someone. Samira’s friend. He just moved back to Pittsburgh.”

“You're not going?”

You glance over your shoulder at them. “Clearly I’m running late.”

You don’t wait for their response. You just pivot—slow, deliberate—like the conversation’s over. Like you didn’t just hand them the truth in a sealed envelope and walk away from it.

Jack shifts. Robby studies you.

You add, quieter now, without turning back :

“Figured if I stalled long enough, maybe I wouldn’t have to go at all.”

A beat.

“Guess I’m just not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood for what?” Jack asks.

You hesitate—just for a second.

“Nice,” you say.

And that’s when it happens. That snap in the room. Like someone closed a valve too fast. The pressure spikes.

“You wore lace,” Jack says.

You stop mid-step. Turn slowly. Blink.

“Excuse me?”

“That strap peaking out doesn’t look standard. You wore lace under your scrubs.”

Robby’s gaze flicks down, measured. “On a trauma shift.”

“It’s what was clean,” you lie.

It sounds false the second it leaves your lips—thin and fast, like you’re trying to sweep something off the floor before anyone notices. And both of them notice.

Robby doesn’t correct you right away. He just tilts his head, eyes flicking briefly down the center of your body—not ogling, but noticing. He lingers at your waist, then lifts his gaze back to your face, calm and unshaken.

Then, without a hint of mockery,

“No,” he says softly. “It’s what you picked.”

The quiet that follows isn’t comfortable. It vibrates.

You shift slightly, the hem of your scrub top sticking to your lower back. Your chest feels too tight in the tank beneath it. The lace underneath is starting to itch, but not from discomfort—just awareness. The fact of it, now exposed, somehow makes it feel sharper against your skin.

Jack’s still watching you—shoulders squared, hands at his sides, not moving. But it’s the stillness that unsettles you. The patience of it. Like he’s already read the outcome and is waiting for you to catch up.

“And you stayed,” Jack says, voice low.

Not accusing. Not surprised. Just the truth.

You look toward the exit, like that’ll help you regain control. Like pretending you’re still on your way out will change what’s already unfolding.

But you don’t move. You don’t even blink.

His voice drops—not teasing anymore. Just steady. Clinical. Like he's reading vitals straight off your chart, and he already knows how the story ends.

“You haven’t changed. You didn’t go to your car. You didn’t even unclip your badge.”

Robby's voice cuts in—smooth, but anchored with something harder.

“You’ve been waiting.”

A pause.

“You missed your date on purpose.”

You laugh, too quickly. It’s not convincing. It’s the kind of sound you make when you feel the edge of something sharp and pretend it doesn’t hurt.

“Right. Because standing around while you two argue like it’s foreplay is a great way to spend a Friday night.”

Jack doesn’t even flinch. “You mouth off in the pit. You flirt without smiling. You track us when we speak.”

You shift your weight. “I track everyone.”

“Not like this,” Robby says, voice tighter now, like the act of calling it out is doing something to him too.

Jack’s eyes narrow—not in anger. In certainty. “You ask us questions you already know the answers to. You stall your movement when we pass you. You hold the vitals clipboard like it’s a shield and a dare.”

“You wait for our shift overlaps,” Robby adds, voice lower. “You take the longest hallway. The one that goes past trauma, even when it’s not the most direct.”

“You hold eye contact longer than anyone on this floor,” Jack murmurs. “Until it matters. Then you look away.”

And you do.

You already did.

You didn’t even realize you dropped your gaze until Jack took that step forward and the room got hotter.

You look down at your shoes like that means something. Like it gives you back a piece of yourself.

But it doesn’t.

Jack sees it.

You hear it in his tone—how something in him tightens.

“You think we don’t see it?”

Robby’s voice is quiet, but it lands heavy. “You think we haven’t wanted to say something sooner?”

Your pulse climbs to your throat.

You make yourself look at them—at both of them.

Their faces are unreadable, but not blank. You can feel it radiating off them—attention. Restraint. Intention.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask.

Jack doesn’t hesitate.

“Because the second we say it, we’re not just talking anymore.”

The air between you cracks open.

You feel your stomach dip, your chest clench, your calves tense like they’re bracing for something that hasn’t touched you yet.

The silence this time is worse.

It lingers.

It buzzes.

You realize you’ve been holding the edge of the locker the entire time—so tight your fingertips are red.

You swallow, but your throat sticks.

Then you say it :

“You think I wore this just to get your attention?”

Robby doesn’t move. His voice doesn’t change. But his gaze drops—slowly—to your clavicle. He watches the way your pulse shifts under the skin.

“Did you?”

You try again. “No.”

It barely makes it out. Too breathy. Not defiant—just unraveled.

“Then why aren't you going on that date?”

You know the answer. You’ve known it since you stood in front of your locker too long. But saying it? That’s something else.

“Because I didn’t feel like sitting across from some guy who’s never set foot in an ER and explaining why I showed up thirty minutes late and still covered in adrenaline.”

You look at them now, full on.

“I’m good at this. I’m better than good. And I’m not going to spend the night pretending I’m smaller just to make someone else feel bigger.”

Jack’s gaze sharpens—not cruel, not even surprised. Just locking in. Like a monitor flatlining and spiking at once.

“He wouldn’t have known how to talk to you,” Robby says. It’s not a dig. It’s a diagnosis.

Jack, quieter now, “He wouldn’t have known how to see you.”

You almost respond.

But your mouth stays open and useless. Because they’re right. And you hate that some part of you wanted to hear it from them.

Robby steps forward. Not crowding you. Just present. Enough to tilt the room.

“But we do.”

Jack’s voice is a whisper of heat.

“We’ve seen you. All along.”

It sinks into your chest.

You feel your jaw twitch. Your vision tightens.

Jack continues. “We’ve watched you lead. Watched you pull two lives back from the edge this week. Watched you make choices most residents would’ve hesitated over.”

“You think we haven’t noticed that your hands don’t shake when it matters?” Robby says. “You think we don’t see how much it costs you to keep control all the time?”

“You’ve been waiting,” Jack says again. “You just didn’t know if we’d be the ones to break it.”

You shiver. You don’t know if it shows.

Your breath catches on something inside you, and suddenly you’re braced between them—not physically, but gravitationally. Like they’ve closed in without moving.

“I don’t—” you start, but Jack’s already stepping behind you.

“You don’t have to lead right now,” he says, voice low, close to your neck. “You don’t have to perform.”

“You already did,” Robby says. “And we saw it.”

“You’ve been better than most of the other residents for months.”

“You just never let anyone say it.”

“You called the chest tube before I did,” Jack says. “And you did it without hesitation.”

Your whole body aches now. Your shoulders. Your legs. Your hands. All of it. Like tension has been your armor and now it’s slipping, inch by inch, to the floor.

“You moved,” Jack says, “like someone who knows what they want.”

Robby watches your face. Your breath. “Do you?”

You try to answer. Nothing lands.

Jack is behind you. Close enough now that the air bends. That your spine straightens without permission.

“You want permission,” he murmurs.

You nod, barely. “Permission for what?”

"To stop pretending you don’t need this.”

“To be seen.”

Jack, a little closer, a little deeper, “To be told you’ve been good.”

You inhale sharply.

Jack leans in—his breath just behind your ear.

“You’ve been so good.”

You break.

“You’re standing still,” Robby says softly. “For the first time all day.”

And it’s true. You don’t remember when you stopped pacing, bracing, pretending. But you’re still now. Still and shaking and too full of something you can’t name.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat.

“You’re not supposed to do anything.”

“Just stay,” Robby says. “Just let go.”

Your fingers slip from the locker. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And when Jack leans closer—

“Say it,” he whispers.

Your voice cracks.

“Close the door.”

And Jack moves.

The lock clicks.

The air shifts. And you're not the same.

It’s not that it gets hotter. It just presses down—thick, charged, intentional. You’re not used to this kind of quiet. Not in the locker room. Not between them. Not like this.

You don’t turn around. You just stand there—heart hammering, breath shallow, arms loose at your sides—because the thing you’ve been circling for weeks? It’s not circling you anymore. It’s here. It has you.

Jack doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. You feel him behind you like a current. Stillness, held so tightly it hums.

Robby’s in front of you, leaning back against the lockers. Watching. Palms braced behind him. His gaze is steady—assessing, not predatory. Like he’s watching your vitals rise in real time.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. But then Jack says—

“Turn around.”

You do. Slowly.

Your pulse is in your throat now. You’re not trembling, not really. Just over-aware of everything—the heat of your own skin, the way both of them are looking at you like they’ve already decided.

“Take off your top,” Jack says. Calm. Commanding. A tone you’ve only heard once before, during a double code. It made your hands steady then. It makes them ache now.

You peel your scrub top over your head. Fold it. Set it down.

“Tank too,” he adds.

You hesitate for half a second. Then you reach for the hem and lift.

The fabric clings slightly, damp from heat and wear. As it pulls over your head, the lace edge of your bra drags against your ribs—cool, sharp, suddenly too exposed.

You know they can see it now.

Robby shifts off the lockers, gaze steady.

“That’s not the kind of bra someone forgets they’re wearing.”

Your mouth dries out.

Jack’s eyes rake over your chest—slowly, deliberately—and when he speaks, his voice lowers.

“Take it off.”

Your hands fumble at the clasp, just for a second. It’s not nerves. It’s exposure. You’ve stripped down a thousand times in hospital locker rooms, but never like this. Never while being watched.

The lace hits the floor. You don't reach for it.

Jack steps in close enough to ghost his fingers over your collarbone. He doesn’t look at your breasts. He looks at your face.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he murmurs.

Behind you, you feel Robby’s warmth draw near. He’s not touching you, but his presence is a second gravity. You’re caught in the pull of both of them.

“You’re not shaking,” he notes, voice low.

“Should I be?” you ask.

Jack’s eyes flicker.

“We’re not going to be gentle.”

Your breath catches.

Robby moves behind you, hands bracing gently on your waist, not grabbing—just anchoring.

“You want us to take it from here?” he asks. “You want to stop thinking for once?”

You nod. Not because it’s polite. Because it’s the only thing left in you.

Jack leans in. “Good.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not rough either. It’s contained—all sharp control, jaw tense, mouth firm, tongue deliberate. Like he’s tasting you to see if you’re telling the truth.

You kiss back. Open-mouthed. Hungry. Barely holding your balance.

Robby’s hands trail up your sides as you kiss Jack, fingertips dragging gently over your ribs, your sternum. When Jack breaks the kiss, you’re already breathing hard.

“Bench,” he says.

They guide you to it. You sit, knees slightly apart, spine straight.

Jack drops to one knee in front of you. His hands go to your waistband. He looks up. “Yes?”

You nod again. “Yes.”

He slides your scrub pants down slow, watching your face. You don’t look away. Your underwear is next—low-cut, black, delicate. His thumbs hook into the sides and pull them down in one smooth motion.

Now you’re bare. Fully.

And they’re both still fully clothed. That does something to you. Something low and sharp and needy.

Jack’s hand smooths up your thigh. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“You’ve been so fucking good,” he says. “You kept it together all shift. Gave everything to your patients. Took nothing for yourself.”

He leans in.

“That ends now.”

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue starts slow—flat, firm pressure over your clit, no teasing. No buildup. Like he’s been waiting for this and he’s not wasting time.

Your hips twitch, but his grip locks you down—one arm slung under your thigh, the other braced across your stomach, holding you exactly where he wants you.

You can barely breathe. Your hands scramble for something to hold.

Then you feel Robby behind you.

He climbs onto the bench, one knee beside your hip, chest flush to your back. His arm wraps around your shoulders—steady, grounding—and his mouth finds your jaw.

“Relax,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “Let it happen.”

Jack’s mouth moves with maddening precision—every flick, every circle deliberate. Not fast. Not gentle. Exactly what you need. Like he’s been studying the way you breathe for weeks.

You whimper. It escapes before you can catch it.

“Good,” Robby whispers. “That’s good. Let us hear you.”

Jack groans low into you and your hips twitch again. You can’t help it.

“Jack—” you gasp.

He doesn’t stop. His grip tightens. You feel his tongue change rhythm, pressure intensifying just enough.

And then—

You come.

It hits like a wave, cresting hard and then crashing down your spine. Your body shakes with it. Jack holds you through the whole thing—never backing off, never letting up until you’ve ridden it to the end.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is wet, eyes dark. Controlled.

“You’re going to come again,” Jack says.

You barely have time to breathe before he stands and undoes his belt.

Behind you, Robby doesn’t move far. His hand slides up, slow and deliberate, until it rests gently at your throat—not choking, just there.

His mouth finds your ear again.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

Jack pushes his pants down just enough. His cock is thick, flushed, hard.

He strokes himself once. Twice.

“You want this?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“You ready to be fucked like you deserve?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your thighs go weak at the praise. It shatters something soft inside you.

Jack lines up. Grips your hips. Pushes in slow—inch by inch.

He’s big. Stretching. Real.

You gasp. Clutch his arms. He groans when he bottoms out.

“You take it so well,” Robby murmurs behind you.

Jack starts to move—deep, even thrusts. His hips roll, grinding against your clit every time. You can’t stay quiet. Not with the way he fills you, not with Robby’s hands on your skin, not with both of them murmuring praise you didn’t know you craved.

“That’s it,” Jack growls. “Take me.”

“You’re doing so well,” Robby breathes, lips at your neck. “So fucking good for us.”

You’re going to fall apart again.

“Jack—”

“I’ve got you,” he pants. “Don’t hold back.”

You don’t.

The second orgasm is messier. Sharper. It rips through you like a current, and this time, when you cry out, Jack slams into you and holds.

You pulse around him. He groans.

And then he comes—hips pressed deep, cock twitching inside you, a low growl caught in his throat.

The locker room goes still.

Your head drops back against Robby’s shoulder. You’re breathing like you just ran a trauma code—fast, uneven, body humming from the inside out.

Robby’s arms stay wrapped around your waist, anchoring you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw.

You nod.

Jack’s still inside you, hands gentler now—steadying your hips as you both come down.

“You did so well,” he says, quiet and low.

You exhale. A shaky laugh escapes—half-sigh, half-something else. Robby kisses your shoulder. Your skin still buzzes with aftershock when Jack finally pulls out.

You whimper—barely audible, not from pain, but from the absence. The sudden ache of being empty.

Robby doesn’t let you fold in on yourself. His arms stay around you, his chest flush to your back, his hands firm at your ribs. Holding you there.

“Easy,” he whispers, brushing damp hair from your neck. “You did so fucking good.”

Jack steps back. His pants are still open. His cock glistens, softening, but he doesn’t tuck himself away. Doesn’t move far.

He just watches.

Your eyes flutter open.

Robby shifts slightly behind you—just enough to look down at you from the side.

“She’s not done,” he says, voice quiet but certain.

Jack doesn’t answer. But the way his jaw clenches—you know he agrees.

“You okay?” Robby asks again, lips brushing your temple now.

You nod.

He smiles, slow and crooked. The kind of smile that means something soft is about to feel dangerous.

“Good girl.”

Your body jolts at the words—like your nerves haven’t caught up yet, like the phrase reached something deeper than muscle.

Jack smirks. “She likes that.”

“She loves that,” Robby murmurs. “Don’t you?”

You nod again. This time slower. Your throat is too tight to answer out loud.

“Up,” Robby says gently. “Let’s get you on your back.”

He helps you shift—guiding you gently by the waist as you lie back along the bench, your spine pressing into the cool surface, legs still parted and loose from the high.

Then Robby slides down from the bench. Jack doesn’t move. He stays where he is, leaning against the wall.

Arms folded. Cock still out. Watching.

Robby presses your legs apart with both hands, thumbs stroking gently along the inside of your thighs.

Then he lowers his head. Close. Close enough that the heat of his breath makes you twitch.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs.

“She’s a mess,” Jack says. “Made for it.”

You let your head fall back. Your chest rises, tight with expectation.

Then Robby’s tongue licks slow up your center, and your hips jolt.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t test the waters.

He dives in.

He eats you like it’s his job. Like he’s been thinking about this for weeks.

And maybe he has.

His mouth is precise — all tongue, lips, and breath — alternating pressure and rhythm, soft where Jack was firm, deep where Jack was tight.

You’re gasping by the second pass. Your thighs twitching.

Jack steps in, crouches beside the bench. His hand finds yours and grips it — firm, grounding — as Robby mouths your clit and groans into you.

“She’s close already,” Robby murmurs, not lifting his head.

“She’s been close since I pulled out,” Jack mutters. His free hand trails along your breastbone, tracing lazy lines between the soft curves of your chest.

“You holding back on us, sweetheart?” Robby says, flicking his tongue against you.

“No—” Your voice breaks. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Jack says.

Robby’s mouth works faster now, tongue circling, flattening, sucking you into the space between his lips and holding you there while your body starts to shake.

“I’ve got her,” Robby murmurs.

Jack strokes your arm, smooth and slow. “Let go.”

You do.

The third orgasm rips through you. It’s a full-body collapse — thighs trembling, fingers digging into Jack’s arm, head thrown back. You moan loud this time, and neither of them shushes you.

Robby doesn’t stop.

He works you through it — mouth never letting go — until your legs start to twitch uncontrollably and your voice cracks from the noise caught in your chest.

“Easy,” Robby says. “That’s it.”

You’re gasping. Trembling. Raw.

Jack leans in, kisses your jaw. Then your mouth. Then your cheekbone.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs. “You should see yourself right now.”

Robby finally pulls back, chin soaked, breathing hard. He leans in and kisses your inner thigh—slow, reverent.

“You’ve got nothing left to prove,” he says.

You want to answer. You can’t. All you can do is lie there, letting them both touch you, praise you, look at you like you just gave them something holy.

Which maybe you did.

You smile, lips swollen, hair plastered to your forehead. You exhale slowly, like your body’s still remembering how to breathe.

Robby runs a hand through his hair and rises to his feet, then offers his arm without a word.

You take it. Let him help you sit up, your legs shaky. Jack is already tucking himself back into his boxers, and zips his pants without a word.

He doesn’t wipe himself off. Doesn’t look away.

He moves like he’s still in it—like he’s taking every part of you with him.

No one says anything.

You find your clothes from where they were dropped and pull them on slowly. You don’t bother with the bra.

You grab your phone from your locker where it was buzzing, thumb hovering over the screen for a second too long.

9:12 PM – SAMIRA well??? did you kiss him?? is he weird pls tell me you didn’t ghost again girl don’t make me call the ER, i swear this guy is TOO GOOD to waste!!! if you’re hiding in a supply closet again i’m going to strangle you

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter. “Samira’s texting me.”

Jack lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Robby leans in just enough to see.

“She really thought you were gonna make it to that date, huh?”

You snort, exhausted. “She probably already told him I got called into another trauma.”

Jack wipes a hand down his face. “Not technically a lie.”

Robby smirks. “You gonna tell her the truth?”

You lean back against the lockers, phone still in your hand, and exhale.

“What—‘sorry, got fucked on a bench instead’?”

Robby whistles low under his breath. “Yikes.”

“Bit much,” Jack agrees, but he’s not even trying to hide the smirk.

“Pretty sure you’re done with blind dates,” Robby says.

You slide your phone into your pocket, still smiling.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

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