One Step at a Time

“Why are you doing that?” you ask. 

“You’re soft,” he replies with a shrug, like your question was pointless.

Soft. Not your favourite word. It makes the corners of your mouth droop, and you try to catch his hands to stop him from prodding at you any further. 

Jack looks at you incredulously. 

“Hey.” He grabs your fingers. “Stop that. Let me.”

He continues pawing at you like a cat, practically making biscuits on your stomach. 

“Are you… are you, like, subtly trying to tell me to lose weight?” you ask. Worry taints your voice. 

Jack’s head whips up to stare at you.

“What?” he questions. “No. Why?”

“You’re poking me and calling me soft,” you answer.

“Jesus, bunny, I’m—no. I meant… I like touching you because you’re beautiful and soft and warm, like… just like you should be,” he explains quickly.  

You frown a little—a mix of disbelief and discontent. 

“Bun, c’mon,” he murmurs and grabs hold of your chin. “I mean it. You’re beautiful. My most beautiful girl.” 

His fingers mush your cheeks together, propping up your lips for him to kiss. You can’t help but giggle, which in return makes him smile.  

“That’s better,” he praises gently. “Haven’t I been loving you enough?” 

He rubs the tip of his nose against yours, then waits for your answer while his eyes bore into you. 

“No, of course you have,” you mumble.

It’s true. You really are nothing short of spoiled in that regard. 

“Hm,” Jack muses. “I’m not so sure.”

With that, he starts peppering the softest of kisses from the corner of your mouth to your jawline. Like a thousand little butterflies, he nibs tenderly at your neck. 

“Sweet babygirl,” he murmurs. “So gorgeous and she doesn’t even know it, hm?”

You almost roll your eyes. It’s not that serious, you want to say.  But then he kisses your collarbone, and one of his hands slips under your shirt, grazing the lace of your bra just slightly, and every word of protest dies down before it can even spill out.

“Jackie,” you gasp. 

“Uh-uh,” he replies, barely lifting his mouth from your chest. “Shh… let Daddy take care of you.”

Somewhere between the twentieth kiss and the third hickey, he had taken off your shirt and bra. Kissed your nipples one by one, then down your ribs to your belly. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispers as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your sweats and panties, then drags them down to expose every inch of your skin. The cool air hits your skin, causing goosebumps to erupt all over your tummy. 

While Jack discards his own clothes in no time, you reach down to take off your frilly white socks, but he stops you.

“Sweet pea,” he says softly. “If I wanted you to take ‘em off, I would’ve done so myself. Keep ‘em on.”

You smile sheepishly and nod. 

“Sorry, Daddy,” you murmur.

“Nuh-uh, no apology needed,” he replies.

He kisses the top of your head before he climbs onto you, your legs making room for him easily. His hard cock throbs against your core as he leans down to kiss you breathless, his tip almost painfully red. You wonder how long he’s been hard and how you didn’t notice. 

Despite that, he doesn’t enter you yet.  Instead, Jack folds you in half like you weigh nothing, hooking your legs over his shoulders easily. You squeak slightly, feeling utterly exposed at the new angle. 

“Pretty,” he whispers, then kisses your ankle just above the cuff of your sock. 

With one hand, he guides himself to your cunt, but not without sliding his cock through your wet folds first. He bumps himself against your clit twice, smiling when breathy whimpers fall from your lips. 

“Daddy,” you plead, “No teasing, please.”

“Oh, but it’s my favourite thing to do with my favourite girl.”

He smirks as you pout, then swipes his tip through your folds again, eliciting a soft moan from you. 

“I know that’s right,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you, baby.”

Then, without warning, Jack aims his cock at your opening and feeds you the first few inches. You gasp, your fingers curling into the thick sun-kissed skin of his biceps. 

“Easy,” he mumbles.

His fingers find your clit as he slowly buries himself to the hilt, watching your mouth fall open. He starts with little circles, practically no pressure, but your reaction is imminent.  Pleasure blooms through your core, and you gasp out another breathy “Daddy.”

 “You’re being so good,” he whispers. “Making the prettiest sounds for me and looking so beautiful at the same time.”

His weight keeps you folded in half as he slowly withdraws his cock from your cunt until only the tip of him is enveloped by your tight heat.  You can’t help it as you clench around him, your walls fluttering around him. 

“Fuck,” Jack grunts, “Oh, you’re killing me. Do that again, bunny.”

You can’t control it—it just happens as he thumbs at your clit, making you gasp and tighten. 

“Good fucking girl,” he whispers and thrusts back into you.  

This angle has him hitting spots you didn’t know existed. His tip bullies your cervix with every roll of his hips, forcing husky moans out of you. 

Every time you clench around him, he groans like it hurts. 

“Fuck, bunny,” he whispers. 

There seems to be only one solution: the next time he feels your cunt strangling his cock, he whips his head and quickly kisses the thrilly hem of your sock to keep him from cumming on the spot.  

"mhm," you huff. the divorce paper was real enough! just because it didn't have his or your name on it and was issued by the internet as opposed to an attorney didn't mean anything.

"and what was your reasoning again, baby?" jack mused.

"you don't love me anymore!"

jack sighs. "i tell you how beautiful you are before i leave for work, bring y’flowers everyday, and take you to dinner every friday, and you think i don't love you?"

"yeah, but those are the routine things!" you said. "so, you obviously don't love me anymore!"

jack put the paper down on the nightstand and approached you, backing you into the bed. "say it again, sweetheart."

you gulp at his proximity, sweat trickling down your face from the way his thumb tilts your chin upwards. "you. don't. love. me."

"yeah, okay," jack hummed. “if you really thought that, you wouldn't be wearing the shortest little skirt," he says, promptly hiking the garment in question up and making your breath hitch, "when you're trying to fucking divorce me."

"jackie-"

"mhm, there she is," jack said. he pushes you down onto the bed without further warning and pulls your skirt down your body, revealing your pussy to his hungry eyes. "and already so wet,” he tsks.

"hmph," you say with a huff. you turn away from his gaze, but it's short-lived as jack cranes your face back towards him.

"ah-ah. what do you have to say?"

you roll your eyes. "sorry."

"like you mean it."

"sorry," you say again.

jack doesn't have it in him to correct your attitude from that look on your face. god, his wife is just too cute.

you don't say anything else as he frees his cock from his slacks, slipping inside your aching cunt. jack is gentle with you as he rocks into you, whispering the sweetest praises that you'd needed for reassurance.

"tell me i love you. tell me how much daddy loves you, baby," jack coos as he cups your cheek, his thrusts slow as he fucks you deep.

"d- daddy loves me," you relent. "so much."

You shake your head instantly. "He's not an asshole," you protest. "He's just... busy."

Lena raises an eyebrow, her scepticism still evident. "Right... He's too busy to celebrate his girl." She looks up at the board, then back to you. "Didn't you just say he took a few days off last week? Could've saved one of those for tonight," she says. She steps closer, clasping your shoulder, "You deserve better, hun." Her tone is soft, but she's firm, head tilting to make sure you see how much she means it before she wanders off again.

You swallow, then shift your gaze back to Jack, who's watching you intently.

"He really isn't an asshole," you insist once more. You've perfected this routine by now. Deflect, downplay, defend. Your friends have already pointed it out—that he never makes you a priority, that you're better off without him.

Deep down, you know they're right. And on the nights you can’t sleep, you hate yourself for wishing he were different—wishing he were just a little more like Jack. The thought always sparks shame. But it doesn't matter; men like Jack don't go for someone like you. You're better off staying where you are—begging for scraps, taking whatever you can get. Because who would want someone like you? Too needy. Too clingy.

Jack doesn’t answer. His brows draw together, eyes searching yours for a moment too long before he nods.

You turn back to the computer again, though you can feel Jack still watching you from the corner of his eye.

A rom-com plays softly on your TV, muted lights falling on your tear-streaked face. It's ten minutes to seven, and though you'd been close to saving your day off for another night, you didn't want to have another conversation like the one earlier if you showed up.

Instead, you were just going to sit on the couch, eating from a tub of ice cream, not bothering to warm up proper food, and envying the love story playing out on your screen.

A sharp series of knocks interrupts your little pity party. You rub your eyes harshly, trying to erase any evidence of your crying before you shuffle to the door. Through the peephole, you spot greying curls first, and then you see Jack's face.

"What are you doing here?" you ask him instead of a proper greeting as you open the door.

If he notices your puffy eyes, he doesn't say anything. He just holds up a takeout bag and a wine bottle. "Celebrating your birthday," he says, like it's obvious. Crammed under his arm is a gift bag.

Your brows knit. "I thought you were working tonight?"

"I was," he nods, stepping closer and gesturing for you to move. You step aside easily. "I swapped with Shen."

"Why?"

He shrugs off his jacket, somehow not dropping anything. "Because you shouldn't be alone on your birthday." The firmness in his tone, the way he's looking at you, steals your breath. You've never had anyone look at you like that before—like they felt sorry for you.

Still, you can't help but ask, "But why? I mean—we just work together. You don't have to do this."

Jack frowns, stepping back towards the door, mistaking your confusion for discomfort. "I can leave if you want?"

"No—" you hurry to respond, your feet stepping toward him without meaning to. "That's not—"

"Okay," he says gently. "Now, where are your glasses?" He steps into your living room, says nothing about the tub of ice cream melting. Just sets down the bag, grabs the tub and heads for your kitchen. You grab some glasses as he places it back into the freezer.

It doesn't take long until he's got you laughing. His humour folds neatly into yours, and for a little while, you forget the ache in your chest and the silence of your phone.

"Okay, it's time for your gift," he says, once you've finished eating.

"Jack, seriously, you didn’t have to—" you protest. He'd already done enough just by showing up.

"I know." He nudges the bag toward you, effectively silencing you. "Open it anyway."

Inside the bag, nestled in soft tissue paper, is a small box. "Wait? Is that—" your voice trails off as you open the box, revealing a pair of earrings matching the ones you'd lost in the locker room weeks ago.

"Mm," he nods, then looks a little unsure. "Are they the right ones? I did it by memory, so I might have gotten it wrong."

“No, these are—" you trail off again, picking them up. They're an exact match. "How did you know?" How did he know you'd lost them? He wasn't there when it happened, and you hadn't mentioned it to anyone.

Jack shrugs, his mouth curling.

You throw yourself at him, arms gliding over his shoulders before you can second-guess yourself. "Thank you." You pull back, smiling at him awkwardly when you remember yourself again. "For these. For coming over. For... everything."

"Of course," he says. "I'll always be here for you." He shifts in his seat, clearly mulling something over, before he speaks again. "I'll be here until you realise your boyfriend is an asshole."

You sigh, "Please, let's not—"

"I’m not trying to make you feel bad," Jack says. "I just… I hate watching you think you deserve the way he treats you."

Your throat tightens painfully. "I don’t—Jack, I’m not easy. I know that. I need too much. I ask for too much. He just… he doesn’t have the energy, and that’s not his fault."

Jack’s jaw clenches, and he shifts closer, his hand landing centimetres away from yours on the couch. "Sweetheart, you ask for the bare minimum. You ask to be thought of. To be cared about. That isn’t too much."

You look down, twisting the edge of the tissue paper between your fingers. You don't know what to say.

Jack continues after a pause, "…I'll do that for you. If you let me."

You've lost your hearing. Surely. You jerk your head up to him, "What?"

Jack holds your gaze, sighing softly at the disbelief in your eyes. "I've been here the whole time," he says. "Wanting to take care of you. Wanting to be the one who shows up for you."

Your brows knit together, mind reeling.

"...You just didn't see me," he continues softly. “I thought I’d lost my chance—but I can’t just sit back and let you settle for less than you deserve.”

You shake your head automatically. "I—I don't know what to say."

"You don’t have to say anything," he murmurs. "I just want you to know something better is out there." You shift slightly, watching him carefully.

"It doesn't have to be me," he adds. "I just want you to be happy."

Your eyes burn. "...And if I want it to be you?"

It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny. 

You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster. 

Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem. 

Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment. 

And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now. 

That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you. 

So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was. 

It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule. 

But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven. 

You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably. 

You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed. 

The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it. 

It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message. 

Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.

You settled on: 

you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;) 

You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out. 

What a mistake. 

Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen. 

Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them. 

Why? 

Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you. 

Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing. 

You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt. 

He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either. 

And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him. 

It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency. 

“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably). 

He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway. 

Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be. 

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.

You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress. 

It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun. 

What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot. 

Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo. 

Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually. 

Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened. 

There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up. 

Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare. 

Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo. 

Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with. 

You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off. 

You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you. 

You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it. 

You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that. 

You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios. 

In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation. 

But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…  

Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you? 

A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification. 

Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍 

It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance. 

You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days. 

You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.

You woke up two days later and ran through your options. 

Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)

Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble) 

Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?) 

Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible. 

That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay. 

You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started. 

“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask, 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.

“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing. 

Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis. 

Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done. 

“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.  

“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second. 

He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own. 

And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze. 

When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. 

Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work. 

This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.

Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either. 

His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more. 

But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore. 

And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former. 

As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling. 

Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.

The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse. 

To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom. 

Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night. 

You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through. 

“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient. 

The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15. 

“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.  

You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room. 

“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now. 

You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life. 

“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his. 

“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”

Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.” 

“BP is down to 60!” 

“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.

Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty. 

“Must be the belly,” Santos said.

“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?” 

You shook your head. 

“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.

Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin. 

“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear. 

“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.  

Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked. 

“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway. 

Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked. 

“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.

Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student. 

Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there. 

“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.

You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot. 

“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact. 

You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder. 

“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them. 

You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to. 

He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat. 

“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin. 

“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face. 

Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.

Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips. 

“Dr. Abbot–”

“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought. 

“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.” 

“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes. 

He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. 

“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked. 

A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.  

“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there. 

You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence. 

“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin. 

You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.” 

He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending. 

You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.  

He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.

You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips. 

“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top. 

His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly. 

You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks. 

“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face. 

You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top. 

He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you. 

You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.

The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency. 

It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you? 

He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy. 

“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.

His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.  

You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art. 

But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools. 

“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself. 

You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine. 

The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation. 

“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it. 

You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”  

You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale. 

“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face. 

“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile. 

He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs. 

Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you. 

The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours. 

He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.

“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact. 

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?” 

You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said. 

“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop. 

“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?” 

You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight. 

He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign. 

“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it. 

“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone. 

A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits. 

Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him. 

“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now. 

He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.

His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face. 

He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway. 

Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing. 

“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?” 

No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there. 

He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden. 

He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.  

“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”

“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.  

And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much. 

He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve. 

“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument. 

“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb. 

“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger.  Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes. 

Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably. 

And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.

Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.  

You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve. 

“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.” 

You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome. 

“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit. 

You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out. 

“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning  your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout. 

“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore. 

He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him. 

Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.  

A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time. 

Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you. 

“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy. 

The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.

You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy. 

“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.  

Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm. 

It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him. 

Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could. 

Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought. 

Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath. 

Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up. 

He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse. 

“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated. 

“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.  

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together. 

“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you. 

“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice. 

“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.” 

You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s. 

“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.

he lets out a whimper. a real one. you feel him twitch inside you, and your walls flutter around him instinctively.

“i can,” he whines, burying his face in your tits as you lean forward. “i am, baby- fuck, you’re just- fuck, this pussy’s not fair.”

you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “then don’t cum yet.”

“i can’t not cum,” jisung pants, eyes wide and glassy. “she’s sucking me in, babe. she’s hugging my dick, i swear. she missed me. she missed me so much.”

you snort because he’s delusional. you’ve been on his dick all weekend. he hasn’t had a break since friday night, and it’s currently sunday, and you’re still finding new ways to mount him like he’s your own personal toy.

“maybe she just really likes you,” you whisper against his ear, clenching hard around him for emphasis. “she doesn’t want you to leave.”

“then i won’t!” he moans. “i’ll stay in her forever. just fuckin’- just keep me here.”

you hum, nails dragging lightly down his back as you bounce again. he gasps, hips bucking, already twitching inside you, but you just slow it down again. make it torturously slow. you want him to feel every single squeeze, every wet grind, everytime your pussy flutters around him like it’s in love.

and honestly? it is.

you’re obsessed with his dick. no other way to say it. it fits so good. hits so deep. you get wet just thinking about riding him, and jisung knows it. he lets you do whatever you want— anytime, anywhere, no matter what. you’ve jumped him on the couch, in the kitchen, even while he was gaming— he just put the controller down and let you climb on.

“don’t even need to warm up anymore,” he mumbles, in a daze as he watches where you two connected, entranced by the creamy slick gathering around the base of his cock. “just- slide right in every time.”

you smirk and rock your hips again. “she knows her favorite.”

“god, you’re so hot,” jisung groans, hands gripping tighter as his back arches. “and so fuckin’ wet. every time. i swear i could nut just looking at you.”

you pause mid-bounce, giving him a raised brow. “then don’t look at me.”

“too late,” he whimpers, “you’re so fuckin’ pretty on top of me, i can’t help it. your tits’re bouncing, your pussy’s warm, and you’re- fuck- grinning like you know what you’re doing to me.”

you lean in close, nose brushing his, voice sugary sweet. “i do know.”

and then you drop down, hard.

jisung chokes, arms trembling as he gasps into your mouth. “fuckfuckfuck-! baby, i’m gonna cum—”

“hold it,” you whisper, clenching again just to be evil. “you’re not done yet.”

“you’re gonna kill me—”

“you’ll survive.”

he doesn’t.

he cums two minutes later, twitching under you with his head thrown back and mouth wide open, moaning so loud the neighbors probably hear. you feel it flood inside— hot, sticky, messy— and you groan at the feeling, grinding down lazily as his dick throbs with aftershocks.

“fuck, jisung,” you sigh, kissing his neck. “you came so much…”

“you milk me, bro,” he pants, voice wrecked. “you milk my dick like you’re tryna get every last drop.”

you grin. “i am.”

his hands are still glued to your hips, but they’re trembling now, and his eyes are all dazed and sparkly. “i love you so much,” he mumbles. “you’re crazy. you’re my crazy, horny girlfriend and i wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

you kiss his nose.

then you lift your hips and let his dick slip out of you with a wet, nasty ‘pop’.

“wanna go again?” you ask sweetly.

jisung looks like he’s just been hit by a train. “babe.”

“i’ll ride you nice and slow this time,” you promise, already kissing down his jaw. “you don’t even have to move. i’ll do all the work.”

his cock twitches again, already trying to get hard.

“god, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathes, “but go ahead. sit on it.”

and you do. again. and again. and again.

You’re getting finger fucked in the back of the club, bass thundering through the walls and straight into your spine, and you feel absolutely zero shame about it.

In fact? This was the plan.

You didn’t spend forty-five minutes perfecting your eyeliner and squeezing yourself into a skirt that could double as a belt for nothing. You came here with a purpose. Get under someone new so you can forget about the someone old.

And the hottie with pouty lips, silver rings on his fingers, and a black jacket stretched distractingly across his shoulders walked right into your trap.

Hook, line, and sinful little sinker.

It all started earlier tonight when you found the skirt. The itty bitty, teeny tiny, little slutty skirt. You think it’s from your freshman year of college but you can’t remember exactly when you stopped wearing it—only that your ex hated it. And you can’t blame them. When you bend over, it becomes more of a suggestion than an article of clothing.

“Can you see my ass when I bend over?” you asked Giselle, twisting in front of the mirror and pretending not to admire the way the thin fabric hugged your curves. 

Giselle didn’t even look up at first, still crouched on the floor applying her mascara. “Babe,” she deadpanned, finally glancing over. “I think I can see your pussy.”

You straightened slowly. “Yeah?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

You leaned closer to the mirror, turned, checked the side profile. “Okay, good.”

Giselle barked out a laugh. “God, I forgot how much of a slut you used to be before that ex of yours had you on house arrest.”

“I was not on house arrest,” you said, shoving your tits up in your bra and glossing your lips. “You make me sound like one of those girls who lets their partner dictate their life.”

She just stared at you.

Blankly.

“Babe,” she said gently. “I love you. But you were.”

Okay.

Maybe.

You did cancel girls’ nights sometimes because they “didn’t like the club scene.” You did stop wearing half your closet because it was “too much.” You did stay home most weekends because the sex was too good and the drama of breaking up felt exhausting.

But that was before.

Before the fight. Before the breakup. Before you realised good sex isn’t worth shrinking yourself. 

So tonight? Tonight you’re expanding.

You’re looking for someone hung. Someone new. Someone who’ll fuck you in a grimy club bathroom because apparently good sex in the city is cheaper than therapy and way more effective after a breakup. 

Which is how you’ve ended up pressed into the back of the club, half-hidden by a shadow of bodies with the bass pounding so hard it rattles your teeth. The hottie’s palm is flat against your stomach holding you steady while his other hand slides between your thighs. His fingers dip under your microscopic excuse for a skirt, no hesitation, no asking. He nudges your panties aside and—

“You’re not wearing much under here,” he murmurs into your ear, breath hot, teeth grazing your skin. 

“That’s the point,” you shoot back.

He groans when he finds how wet you are. Then his fingers push inside you. Slow at first until he’s curling them. Your head tips back against him as the music swallows your moan whole. The crowd is thick enough to hide you—sweaty bodies, flashing lights, everyone too drunk, too distracted to notice the way you’re grinding back against his hand like a bitch in heat. 

“You always meet guys and let them fuck you in clubs?” he asks, thrusting his fingers deeper now, thumb brushing your clit in lazy, infuriating circles.

You laugh breathlessly. “No.”

He arches a brow against your temple. “No?”

“Just tonight.”

His grip tightens at your hip. “Lucky me.”

Right on cue with the beat dropping, he ruthlessly drives his fingers knuckle-deep into your pussy. Thank God the music is loud. Thank God you’re buried in the back of the crowd. Thank God everyone’s too busy losing their minds to notice you losing yours. Because the only one who hears you curse God’s name is the man massaging your g-spot. 

“No, baby,” he says, low and smug. “I already told you—my name’s Jaemin. That’s the only thing I wanna hear out of those pretty lips when I put my cock inside this slutty little pussy.”

You mewl into his shoulder. “Your cock isn’t in my pussy.”

“Not yet.”

Fuck.

The press of bodies brushing past you makes you shiver, heat crawling up your spine as his fingers keep working. People bump your shoulder and graze your arm—so oblivious, so uninterested, like they don’t know exactly what’s happening right here in the shadows.

You do.

And God—you love that.

“You like this,” Jaemin murmurs, mouth right at your ear now, voice swallowed by bass and sweat and sin. “Being right here. Where anyone could see.”

Your breath stutters when his thumb presses just right, when his grip tightens like he’s daring you to lose it.

“Don’t,” you whisper, even though your hips chase his hand.

He laughs softly. “Don’t what?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The music surges, lights flashing overhead, your body wound taut with the thrill of it—of being caught, of being watched, of being wanted this badly in the middle of a packed dance floor.

Your knees threaten to buckle, but he catches it.

“Bathroom,” he says, sudden and decisive, already hooking two fingers into your waistband. “Now.”

He drags you through the crowd without looking back, your hand clutched in his like property as he guides you. The bathroom door slams shut behind you with the lock clicking into place as your back meets cool tile. 

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m gonna share this orgasm with a crowd of people,” he growls into your skin as he flips your skirt up in one sharp, efficient motion. “You might not be my girl—but I worked for this orgasm. It’s mine.”

Why is that so hot?

Cool air kisses your bare thighs as your itty-bitty skirt stays bunched at your waist. He unbuckles his belt, and you feel your pussy pool at the thought of his cock inside you. When he spins you around, palms flattening against the tiles, you let him.

You think you hear the soft tear of foil, and it makes sense because you’re already needy, already waiting to be filled. He takes his time after that, dragging his covered cock through your slick, nudging your clit with the tip just enough to make you shiver and make your breath hitch. He does it again. And again. Like he’s testing how much you can take.

“Easy,” he hisses when he pushes inside and your walls tightens around him.

The sensation steals the air from your lungs. You’ve had good sex before—really good—but this is different. This is big. This is full. This is absolutely going to make your head go blank. And he’s only just started.

When he bottoms out, your body reacts before you can stop it. Your eyes roll back with a broken whimper tearing from your throat. Behind you, he lets out a low chuckle and it’s so damn sexy you swear it might be enough to push you over all on its own. He’s already stolen one orgasm from you, and the way he sounds now tells you he knows it.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice right at your ear. “Should’ve known you’d be such a good little slut the second I saw this little fucking skirt.”

You bite your lip, a groan slipping out anyway, your hands pressing harder into the tile. “Then hurry up,” you breathe. “Fuck me like the pretty little slut you think I am.”

He kisses his teeth at that, then moves. Harder. Faster. Like he doesn’t appreciate being goaded, like he plans on making you pay for every word.

His hips snap back and forth, rough and relentless. It’s brutal in the best way because your thoughts turn fuzzy. You’d take this punishment happily—over and over and over again—just to hear the sounds he makes when he loses control and pounds.

No wonder your ex hated this skirt.

If this is what it does to men—makes them pant and groan and crowd your space like they can’t get close enough, breath hot and heaving against your ear while they drive into you again and again—then yeah. 

You feel his thrusts growing sloppier as his control slips through his fingers. Your legs are just as weak, trembling beneath you. Every thrust is maddening, hard enough that your face presses into the white tile, his name muffled as your body finally gives in, tightening around him as you cum around his cock. 

“Good fucking girl,” he coos, voice low and wrecked.

His grip tightens on your flipped-up skirt, knuckles digging into the fabric to keep you steady. You feel him clutch it harder when his own body shudders, one last brutal drive into your hips. He stays there for a moment afterwards, unmoving, as he spills inside the condom. It’s filthy. Dirty. Utterly slutty.

Soonyoung might look like the jealous and possessive type, and truthfully, he was that jealous and possessive type in previous relationships, but he really doesn’t feel it with you. It surprises his members, especially Seungkwan, who has witnessed Soonyoung’s bad mood many times before this when his girlfriends ended up admiring someone else, like Jeonghan or Mingyu, more than him, making him feel second in his own relationship.

So when you tell the boys while having dinner with them that your bias in Seventeen is Seungcheol, they all fully expect Soonyoung to get annoyed, maybe even a little whiney and grumbly, but it doesn’t happen. In fact, he doesn’t even flinch. He’s completely laid back about it, one leg crossed over the other, arm draped over the back of your chair as you talk about how you admire Seungcheol as Seventeen’s leader. Dokyeom narrows his eyes at Soonyoung, but he doesn’t react. He just lets you yap on and on, unfazed. Undisturbed.

They don’t know the reason he’s so nonchalant about it. But they don’t need to know.

When you get home that night, and he has you kneeling in front of the couch, fingers entangled in your hair and pretty pink lips wrapped around his throbbing cock, Soonyoung fleetingly remembers Seungkwan’s words as they were leaving the restaurant.

“It’s very mature, hyung. I’m proud of you.”

It’s not maturity, Soonyoung wants to scoff. It’s this sight right here, the way you look at him with teary eyes full of adoration and reverence, bordering on worship. The way you relax your throat around him so he can shove your face down as much as he wants, fighting your gag reflex because you love his cock in your mouth so much. Who cares who your favorite member is when you’re so willing to get on your knees and let him use your mouth however he pleases?

When he tugs you off his cock, you gulp in a long, torn breath. You blink furiously to clear your eyes, wide and admiring as you watch him. You lick your lips and open your mouth again, sticking your tongue out, waiting for more of him. He groans.

“Little slut.” He grits out, pulling your head forward again so you can swirl your tongue around his flushed and leaking head. You swallow his precum like it’s a reward. Soonyoung feels dizzy with pride. He leans forward so his nose nudges against yours, foreheads pressed together, still holding you by the hair tightly. You try to push forward, whining in complaint when you’re unable to kiss him, but Soonyoung only grins.

“Tell me how bad you want me.”

And you do, because you’ve never shied away from it. You are shameless when it comes to praising him, unfiltered as you talk about how he’s the only man for you. If the members had spent less time focusing on his behavior and more time actually listening to you, they would be able to tell that it doesn’t matter who her bias is, she loves him miles above anyone else.

Soonyoung hums as you babble on, partially mindless already after the good face fucking he just gave you. He doesn’t have to touch you to know that you’ve already soaked through your panties, the black lacey number he had you put on before dinner because he intended on peeling the wet, ruined cloth off you when you got back.

“What do you want more, baby? My cock in your mouth or my cock in your pussy?”

He nearly coos when he sees your hesitation, the fight in your eyes. He loves how cock drunk you are, how much you love sucking him off. You could do it for hours, you have done it for hours. But he also knows that your pussy is weeping, clenching around nothing right now and so desperate to be filled. So finally, when you don’t respond, he makes the decision for you.

He lifts you up with a tight grip on your waist, tugging you over his lower half. He pushes your dress up until it bundles around your hips. As he expected, you’re wetter than anything, thighs already trembling a little with anticipation. If there’s one thing you love more than stuffing your face with Soonyoung’s cock, it’s stuffing your pussy full of him. And Soonyoung can see it now, the way your jaw goes slack and your eyes roll up when he pushes your panties to the side and sinks himself deep inside you, pulling you down until your pelvis is flush against him. You moan, so loud and pornographic that Soonyoung is almost afraid it will bleed through the walls and alert the neighbors of your activities. A part of him doesn’t care though.

He runs soothing hands over your twitching thighs, bites his lip at the feeling of your warm, gummy walls fluttering around him. He will never get used to this, to how tight you are, how he has to struggle to carve a way inside you because of how hard you clench around him. Or that look on your face, flushed and sweaty, as you try to get used to the intrusion. You’re a vision on top of him, and Soonyoung thanks the gods for his stamina and self control because he could bust immediately just looking at your face right now.

Instead, he leans back and sighs, tapping your hip with his index and middle finger.

“Come on, baby. Take what you need.”

This is his favorite way to watch you, on top of him, doing all the work as you desperately attempt to get yourself off by using his cock. It’s cute how bad you are at it, whimpering and tearing up when you just can’t seem to knock the head of his cock against your sweet spot. It reminds him that only he can truly satisfy you the way your body craves, even you can’t do it. It has to come from him. The surge of power makes his head spin a little, watching you struggle like this. He feels kind of sick about it, but it’s so hot that he can’t help himself.

It takes only a few minutes before you’re sobbing and begging him to take over. Tears now slip down your cheeks, adding to this beautiful, lustful, depraved image of you. Soonyoung palms at your ass, encourages you to keep rocking back and forth.

“What’s wrong?” He croons. “What is it, honey?”

He knows exactly what it is, can feel how badly you want to just get pounded and fucked, but he loves seeing you try and vocalize it, struggling to talk through the fog in your head.

“Please-” You choke out, voice high and shaky. You paw and claw at his chest, fisting his shirt between your hands. “Soonie, please.”

He wraps his arms tight around your waist, pulling you flush against his draped form. It immobilises you, and he plants a chaste kiss on your lips, soft and caring.

“It’s okay, my baby. Relax.”

You sigh into him, and pressed up against you like this, Soonyoung can feel how badly your body is trembling. He starts to feel a bit bad, but no matter. He’s about to make it up to you big time.

With his grip on you tight and his legs spread enough to plant his feet firmly on the floor, Soonyoung finally starts thrusting up, setting a furious pace immediately that has you gasping and moaning in satisfaction. He holds you in place with one strong arm, freeing his other hand to reach up and brush over your heated, wet face. He wipes your tears away, pushes your sweaty, damp hair back, whispers in your ear about how hot you are, how pliant and willing for him, taking his cock like a good girl. You whimper and cry more, and Soonyoung licks away the fresh tears. You clench harder and harder, twitching in his hold, and he knows you’re close.

When you come around him, it drives him crazy with need. You’re soaking his cock just the way he likes it, wet, sticky, filthy, running down his balls until he’s sure you’re ruining the couch too, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck. Not when you squeeze so sinfully around him that his own orgasm hits him like a train, muscles seizing as he dumps load after load of his cum inside your squelching pussy. He holds you close, both of your chests heaving as you catch your breaths. He can feel you plant little kisses over his cheeks and his neck. He can’t help but grin.

When he undulates his hips up into you, you gasp. Your eyes widen when you realise he hasn’t gone down at all, still throbbing hard, making the mess between your legs even worse. Soonyoung’s smirk is near devilish. You’re already whimpering and meeting his movements.

He knows he has absolutely nothing to worry about.

Your lips curved, affection tugging at the corners. He looked so wrecked already, just from asking. “You want between my thighs that badly?”

He nodded quickly, almost frantically, nose brushing your skin as he whined again.

You tilted his chin up so he had no choice but to meet your eyes. His pupils blew wide, breath hitching as he whispered, “Please let me taste you. I’ll be your good boy.”

You hummed, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Go on then, puppy.”

His shoulders relaxed the moment you spread your legs for him, like a command he’d been waiting on. He nosed up along your inner thigh, inhaling like he was already drunk on the scent of you.

“Slow, puppy,” you reminded, tugging his hair just enough to make him whimper. “Don’t make a mess yet.”

“Yes…” His voice was breathless, muffled against your skin. “Yes, I’ll be good.”

Jeno’s lips pressed against the damp fabric, reverent little kisses that had his lashes trembling. The sound he made was half-whimper, half-moan, like the scent alone was already too much.

“Smells so good,” he breathed, voice muffled against you. His fingers curled into the couch cushions as if to stop himself from tearing the fabric away.

You laughed softly, low and dangerous. “Then show me how much you want it.”

Jeno’s tongue flattened against the soaked cotton, dragging slow and heavy strokes that made you clench above him. The taste was faint but maddening, and he groaned into it, like he was drunk off the hint of you.

When he switched to little kitten laps, precise and needy, the fabric darkened even more under his attention. He pushed the tip of his tongue right against where he knew your clit was hiding, pressing hard enough that the wet cloth sank into every curve of your cunt.

“God— your taste even through this,” he panted, nuzzling against the heat like he couldn’t get close enough. His teeth scraped lightly over the damp spot, tugging the fabric just to feel you twitch.

His lips sealed around your clothed cunt like it was holy, drawing in until the fabric was soaked and his jaw ached. Every drag of his mouth was accompanied by a soft groan, as if he was the one being satisfied. When you shifted your hips just slightly, his whole body shuddered, whimpers spilling free like he couldn’t contain it.

“Good boy,” you praised, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “So desperate just to make me feel good.”

He whined, hips rolling against the floor in helpless frustration, but his mouth returned instantly to its task. He devoured the fabric, hard, until it stuck to your folds, and then licked it clean again, over and over. Every sound he made was needy and broken—whimpers, little groans, muffled begging into your cunt.

“God—Jeno…” Your head fell back, a soft moan spilling out. “Look at you,” you murmured, tugging gently at his hair until his flushed face tilted up. His lips were swollen, glistening with spit and your slick. “My needy little pup.”

“Yes,” he gasped without hesitation. “Please— please, just let me taste you for real. I’ll be good, I swear.”

The corner of your mouth curved into a dangerous smile. “Open.”

He obeyed instantly, lips parting, tongue already lolling out like the obedient pup he was. You hook a finger under the band of your panties and peel the drenched fabric aside, dragging it slowly across his tongue before baring yourself to him. His moan was guttural, chest trembling as the first unfiltered taste hit his mouth.

“Fuck—” His voice broke into a whimper as he dived in, tongue immediately circling your clit with sloppy reverence. His hands gripped your thighs tight, pulling you open, but it wasn’t greedy — it was worship. Every stroke of his tongue was messy, eager, grateful, like he couldn’t believe you were letting him this close.

“That’s it, puppy,” you breathed, hips rocking gently into his mouth.

He moaned into you, nose bumping your clit as he licked a slow stripe before enveloping it with his lips. The sound was obscene, wet, desperate: his whole face buried between your thighs like it was where he belonged.

When you tugged his hair again, he looked up at you, chin slick, pupils blown wide with need. The sight alone had your stomach twisting. “Good boy,” you whispered, and he groaned so hard his hips jerked against the carpet.

“You like that?” you teased, pressing your heel lightly into the floor near his knee.

His voice broke, muffled against you as he licked relentlessly, tongue tracing messy circles that had your thighs trembling. Jeno whimpered, grinding his tongue against you like he’d die if he couldn’t make you come.

Your chest tightened and your thighs clamped around his head. Your fingers carded lazily through his hair, nails scratching just enough to make his eyes flutter shut.

When you glanced down, the sight nearly undid you — Jeno on his knees, face buried between your thighs, eyes shut tight like he was praying. And when you thread your fingers into his hair again, his moan spilled directly against your clit, broken and worshipful, as though your taste alone was salvation.

Your thighs began to tremble for real this time, little jolts shooting through you as the pleasure built too sharp, too much. You tried to tug his hair back, gasping, “Jeno—wait, slow down—”

But he didn’t.

He only moaned into you, the sound guttural, vibrating against your clit. His tongue dragged faster, sloppier, like a man possessed. His hands gripped your thighs hard, keeping you spread open as his mouth sealed over you, sucking like he was trying to drink you dry. “God, you taste—” His words broke against your skin, lips already diving back down before he could finish. “Can’t stop. Don’t wanna stop—”

You squirmed, hips twitching away from the intensity, but he chased you, burying his face deeper, nose pressed firm against your folds as his tongue worked relentless circles over your clit. It was messy now, spit and slick smearing down his chin, dripping onto his chest, and he didn’t even care—he groaned like he needed it, like your taste was oxygen.

“Jeno—ah, too much—” you gasped, trying again to push his head back.

He shook his head against your whimpering, begging even as he licked harder. “Please—just one more, I’ll make you come again—let me, let me—” His voice cracked, desperate. “Need you to come for me, need to feel you.”

And when you finally did—shuddering, gasping, your thighs clamping around his ears—he only moaned louder, rutting helplessly against the floor as he kept devouring you through your high, dragging you over the edge again and again until your legs shook too hard to hold him in place.

Your cries got sharper with every orgasm, body twitching and straining under his insatiable mouth. You were long past the point of holding back, long past dignity—every sob, every whimper spilled out raw as he kept drinking you in.

“Jeno—ahh—” you plead, voice wrecked.

But he only growled into your cunt, sucking harder, tongue sliding over your clit again and again. His arms locked tight around your thighs, refusing to let you squirm away. Each time you thought it was over, he dragged another wave out of you, coaxing broken moans from your throat.

Your thighs were shaking violently, tears streaking your temples, and you felt yourself breaking open under his desperate worship. “Please—”

And then it hit—white-hot and unstoppable. Your body arched off the couch, and with a strangled cry you squirted against his mouth, slick soaking his chin and dripping down his chest.

That finally made him moan, guttural and shaking, grinding his hips helplessly against the floor as he latched onto you like he was starved. He kept lapping at you until every last shudder ran out of your body, until you were twitching from overstimulation, sobbing weakly and slumping back against the cushions.

Only then did he slow, panting hard, face glistening with spit and slick. His lips were red, swollen, trembling, his chest heaving like he’d just run miles. His eyes were wide and glassy.

You cup his flushed, ruined face in your hand, thumb brushing his wet cheek. He whimpered softly at the touch, nuzzling into your palm.

“Good puppy,” you breathed, voice low and wrecked but warm.

Oh, to be Seventeen's little free use doll, whom they treat like their own sex doll and comfort plushie at the same time. Minding your own business, writing or scrolling or reading? Not anymore :333 you're always getting swept off your feet— literally— because there is someone's strong arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you off the floor to be carried off to cuddle and touch. You can count on one hand the number of times you've been left alone without someone's hands on your skin. They pass you around, not just to be fucked dumb, but because everyone wants their turn to squeeze and play with their little dorm doll.

Movie nights would always end up with you stretched over multiple member's laps like a cat. Gentle hands draw up your arms above your head, half pinned down, half entwined with theirs. Your head is on one lap, your torso stretched over the next, legs in another's. In the darkness only lit up by the glow of the TV, it's hard to make out whose hand is petting your tit, pressing thumbs into the arch of your foot, or stroking the flat of your tummy. It's also hard to make out who's sliding fingers down your throat to keep your little whines muffled. Can't have you distracting them from the movie, right?

Seungcheol would be forever breaking up petty little fights that started from bickering over whose turn it was to have you (looking straight at bss) and taking it as an excuse to neatly pluck you from their arms and set you on his lap and wrap his arms around you. No amount of struggling will get you out of his grip, even though he finds it sooo adorable that you have to try so hard against a fraction of his strength. The squirming inadvertently makes him hard, so he flips you over so you're sideways on his lap, held up by one arm banding around your ribs, while he strokes along the curve of your back and gropes the flesh of your ass. Cheol is content with the softness of you on him, more than any completion.

Jeonghan thinks it's cute to ambush you. A midday nap is often interrupted by Hannie flopping on top of you and pressing his face into your back, sliding the point of his nose up the divot of your spine. Any and all activity is interrupted by him sliding behind you, hands sneaking under your shirt (if you're wearing one in the first place), squeezing your waist. He firmly believes there's no better place for his hands than the dip of your waist. That's where they end up even at night, sliding behind you on whomever's bed you're sleeping on for the night, his cock pushing into your warm, still wet heat. Fucking into you while wondering how many of his brothers had used you before he did.

Joshua, our resident sweetheart. He scoops you up like a child, both of you giggling, and sets off on little "adventures", as he was so fond of calling them. He affectionately pulls pretty clothes over you, dressing you how he pleases, then takes you shopping for more. Each outfit you try on earns you a little kiss. Shua thinks you're adorable in soft sweaters cropped too high, swishy floofy skirts that barely cover anything, cute stockings that hugged your thighs. He parades you around svt, forcing you to show off your new clothes, ignoring the blush high on your cheeks. No, his focus was completely on his teammates, watching their eyes darken at the glimpses of skin where delicate fabric rode up, where the pudge of your thigh stuck out over the lacy edge of the stocking. Later, he sets you on his lap— in front of everyone's hungry gazes— and knocks your knees open over his legs. Warm fingers soon find their place on your clit, further down to your hole. It's utter filth, the way his large hand stretches the fabric of your panties. Vulgar, really, when it's so obvious it doesn't belong there, but nothing feels more right when you fall apart around two of his fingers, his brothers' hands aching along his with the ghost of your release.

Junhui treats you more like a house cat than a sex doll. Always picking you up at random times of the day and carrying you to the couch, petting your hair, rubbing your back. He pokes your ribs and sides, just to see you twist away and push his hand down. Once, inexplicably, he grabbed your entire face as you would a cat you wanted to bother. The resulting cat fight (hehe) led to you straddling his face, your hands pinning his wrists down above his head. It was all a show really; he could push you off, flip you over, pin you down and have his wicked way with his dear kitty, all in the span of a breath, and you both know that. Yet, he let it happen because he loved the weight of you on his face, your pretty, breathy sighs and whimpers, your mewling when he didn't, wouldn't stop licking at your cunt. Jun loved when you initiated anything, cupping your pussy and affectionately calling you his "little cat in heat", scratching behind the cat ears he bought for you. He loved putting you face down ass up on the living room rug, where anyone could walk in on Jun slamming into you, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other pinning your wrists behind your back. If anyone walks in? Well, it's so commonplace they barely take note of it anymore, but sometimes—after a long day, or a hard practice— they push your teary face between their legs, cooing at how you rub your cheek against the bulge in their pants. Nothing relieves their stress and frustration like pushing your head down, large hand between your cat ears, seeing drool and cum and tears mix on your pretty face, but you curling up on Jun’s lap like a content cat comes in as a strong second.

Hoshi . Is bitey. Half man, half tiger, half toddler is really the only way you could even somewhat adequately describe him. He's forever teething against the soft inside of your thigh, licking at you until you cry, fucking into you like a rabid animal, pinching your cheeks and cooing over you, before burying his face in your neck and mouthing at the skin there. The other members teased you about the marks he left, pressing gently down on bruises new and faded. There was no embarrassing Hoshi, not when he proudly showed them off when he could, yanking your head back by the hair, exposing the delicate arch of your throat. His tongue laved over the bites, tasting the salt of your skin, and he paid no heed to your incessant squirming. Your shoulders are always adorned with perfectly circular bitemarks, to the point where the others were concerned by them. What they didn't know, not until Hoshi walked out smug and shirtless after a shower, was how much you marked him up as well (to Mingyu's scandalized gasp). You were usually so pliant underneath them, your hands always pinned out of the way and held down, but Soonyoung adored when your small hands tried to grasp onto him, when your pretty, sharp nails clawed at his back and shoulders, struggling to withstand the onslaught of pleasure. The result? Long, fine scratches adorning his spine, shifting under the toned muscles of his back and biceps. He wears them proudly like his own tiger stripes.

Wonwoo is a cat maid enjoyer trustttt. He is also a little shit. Even without the frills of the costume, the cat ears and his hand are permanently on your head. Number 1 headpat giver. Reading? His hands are stroking your hair. Sleeping together? His thumb is brushing over the arch of your ear. You do something mildly cute (breathe)? Pat pat pat. Loves cuddling you like a plushie against his chest, both while lying down and sitting up. The cuteness aggression is unreal. At least, it is until the sadist in him takes over. He loves nothing more than locking a remote controlled vibe against you and making you do menial household chores like dusting and scrubbing in your pretty, too-short outfit that did nothing to hide whatever lacy thing you had on underneath. His favourite is when you are on your hands and knees, pretending to scrub the floor, the ridiculously frilly uniform soaked through with water, skin slippery with suds, smelling like soap and desperation, all because he turned the vibe up too high, too quickly. He makes you come like that, shaking and crying on the floor. Once. Twice. You were well on the way to the third when he gathers you up in his arms and sets you on his lap, uncaring of the water soaking through his clothes. He presses a firm hand over your pussy, forcing the toy against your clit, and lets you sob your way through your climax. Wonwoo is gentle when he cleans you up after, undoing the ties of your dress with nimble, long-fingered hands, lowering your spent body into a hot bath, cradling you until you fall fast asleep against his chest. Of course, not without innumerous headpats.

Woozi has 3 loves in his life: music, working out, and you. According to him, there was no reason not to combine any of the three, which found you in his studio, curled up on his lap. His hands absentmindedly kneaded at your flesh, sliding from your chest down to the curve of your waist, palming at your ass, then up and over your thigh, to the round of your calf. Even the delicate swell of your ankles and the arch of your foot was not untouched, pale, elegant fingers stroking the skin and squeezing the entirety of your foot. Between the quiet of the studio and his warm hands, you barely notice the haze of dreamland drawing its veil over your eyes, or soft cushions meeting your back. You wake up to the soft click-clack of the keyboard. stretching, you watch your lover work.

One moment, you had been lounging on the studio couch— the next, plucked from it by a Jihoon that seemed to stomp in from thin air. His face, bright like the full moon, hovered directly over you, eyes meeting yours, glinting with quiet mischief. You blinked, and then you were weightless, rising, and your usually reserved Jihoon? Doing barbell curls of all things, using you as an exceptionally surprised piece of gym equipment. Usually, gym equipment did not stare at him with wide eyes and a mildly confused expression. Usually, gym equipment did not fist his shirt and cling to him. Usually, gym equipment was not this fucking adorable. What was Woozi to do with you, other than to set you on his cock and show you his new hip thrust PR?

Dokyeom gave Seungcheol and Hoshi a run for their money when it came to sheer clinginess, what with how you're folded into his side all the damn time. He's forever squishing you into his broad chest, arms and legs thrown around you, head buried in the crook of your neck. Rarely would you get to cuddle him back, because he seemed to have made it his life mission to bring any straying limbs back to your body and make you as compact as possible. Slender, long fingers wrap around your delicate wrists and pin them down, with seemingly little effort, but you can't move an inch. Forget being a plushie— you act as his living, breathing body pillow, always warm to the touch. Your skin? Free real estate. His hands are always roaming, cupping the curve of your tit, pinching your nipples and tugging until you arch against him. Further down, squeezing the softness of your stomach and pinching the narrowest part of your waist. Further, and he's stroking your thighs almost reverently, higher and higher until his palm is flush against your cunt, and he pets that too. It seemed like sacrilege to call it dirty, sexual; the slow drag of his finger against your clit was worship, your whimpers hymnal, your pleasure his offering. The scrunch of your face when you come is enlightenment to him. When he flips you over and pins you underneath him, Dokyeom can't help but think you're his own miniature goddess stolen straight from the altar, come to life and flushed and demanding under his reverent hands. When he's through with you, after carefully shaping your body into his, pressing you down into the mattress, bouncing you on his hips, drinking and eating from you until he can finally call himself somewhat sated, he cleans you like a devotee, presses his forehead against your sweat-damp stomach, and breathes you in, more fragrant than any incense.

You are Seventeen's doll, and Mingyu is their housewife. That's why he's always setting you on the counter next to him while he cooks, lovingly feeding you the first bite by hand. You looked so fragile to him like this, his oversized shirt falling off your shoulder, riding up your thighs, exposing impossibly soft skin. While dinner cooks, he spreads you on the counter as his appetizer, licking at you until you're begging him to let up, to give you a break. He finds your thrashing impossibly cute, how your thighs can't close around his shoulders, your helpless crying because it's too much for your little body to handle. It's so easy to manhandle you into whatever position he wanted, to hold you up and against him while he fucks into you. Some days, when he has too much energy, when practice and working out and taking care of others weren't enough, he would lift you up into the air and take you like that, your feet dangling off the floor. Out of everyone, you were the most doll-like with him, limp in his muscled arms while he uses you to his heart's desire. It had taken you so long to take him fully, needing days of prep before the first time. Days of him holding you down while he fingers you open, the pads of his fingers flush and rubbing against the soft, sensitive spot in you that your fingers could never reach by themselves. Days of Seventeen surprising you in the middle of the day by pushing a toy into you and forcing you to warm it. Days of Mingyu easing in inch by inch, making you come with each one, until you could finally, finally take his cock, flushed with pleasure and fullness and the endless praise spilling from his lips.

Minghao loves aesthetics. He asks you sit with him during his tea ceremonies, noting your perfect posture and neatly folded legs with an approving gaze. Everyone else is always bending you in half, but Minghao appreciates the neatness of your movement, the straight, elegant lines of your body, even in the mundane everyday— writing at your desk, molding the shape of your figure against one of his brothers', the swish of your skirt around your legs when you walked. It was in the smallest details to him— the tendons shifting under your hand, the stretch of an affectionate arm, the gentle arc of hipbone, the arch of your back off the bed when you come undone underneath his lips, his fingers, his cock. As far as Hao was concerned, this beauty was all the more perfect bound in cherry red rope, crisscrossing the narrow of your wrists and waist, digging into the fat of your hips and thighs. He spends hours with you in his studio, entwined together under warm afternoon sunlight, testing different patterns across your torso while your head leans against his chest. Every day was something different— arms tied to your ankles one day, calves and thighs bound together, forcing you to kneel, once tied to him while straddling him on a chair. The boundaries between his own touch and the bite of rope blurs, until the pinch of rope and the nip of teeth are one and the same.

You often called Seungkwan your "adorable boo bear", complete with holding up strands of his hair into fluffy bear ears. And indeed, he looked like a cartoon baby bear with his big eyes and clingy, soft tendencies. Evenings with him were always spent with you straddling him on the couch, your face buried in the crook of his neck, arms wrapped around each other, breathing the other in. He cared for you in a way that was softer, warmer, care which seeped in through your pores until you glowed from the inside out. Beyond nagging you to eat and drink water 2982139 times a day, he fetched you meals himself, held bottles to your lips, and scolded your ear off. When you were on his lap, however, the praise was endless. He didn't fuck— he rolled his hips into yours slowly, hands grasping yours, pinning both of you down, kissing the planes of your face slack from pleasure. It wasn't a powerplay like with the others, either. His hands are exceedingly gentle on your skin, holding you close, and closer, trying to merge the two of you together. Your own hand stroked his round cheek, resting soft against your palm. You were his doll and he was your boo bear, and that's all that mattered sometimes.

Vernon is the most peaceful of them all, never given to throwing you around like the others (or gnawing at you like Hoshi). It's simply enough to share company, and occassionally, cat reels. He holds you as casually as he does his phone, manspreading on the couch and setting you on his lap, wide hand palming the fat of your ass. The unspoken order—grind—hangs in the air, and you obediently oblige, pushing your hips against the seam of his pants, head falling into the perfect curve of his neck. He captures your lips with his, a soft, slick meeting. Unhurried, calm, like everything else was with him. He wasn't particularly inclined to pin you down and fuck you senseless (not that it didn't happen), but enjoyed the pressure of you on him, the gentle press of your hands against his chest. Afterwards, the two of you fall asleep together, hand in hand, space between your bodies like open fields ready for sowing.

Chan thinks you're the cutest ever, especially when snuggled up on his chest. He also thinks you're the cutest ever when you're overwhelmed and half dazed, making adorable little faces of pleasure and unable to speak from overstimulation. He likes making you whine into his neck and chest when his wandering hands squeeze a little too hard at your waist, ass and tits. Chan was always using his strength to his advantage, knowing it drove you insane, grinning cheekily when it did. Your pleasure was his, and he carved that knowledge in your mind until you knew it better than you knew yourself. Eye contact is a must for him, to the point where he stops moving if your eyes fall shut from the pleasure. His favourite activity? Placing you on one strong thigh, supported only by your entwined hands, and forcing you to grind and look at him until you're sobbing into his shoulder from exhaustion and frustration. His pants are soaked through, but you still couldn't find completion, needing more from him. Chan loved the desperate tears tracking down your face. Once he takes over, you wish you did it yourself— he's relentless, bouncing you on his thick thigh until you're cross-eyed and stupid from how good it feels. He keeps going, long after you've turned completely limp, using your body to vent his energy out. Afterwards, he collapses next you, and spoons you until you both fall asleep and wake up again, though you are significantly worse for wear. It's hard to stay mad when he flashes that boyish smile at you, with sweet kisses and promises of food.

a/n pt 2: if you see me post more fics with the same themes no you don't

feel free to ask if you want to see more from this universe (ot13 or member specific) because I have MULTIPLE scenarios that I haven't included here. Both fluff and smut reqs are accepted!