Hello!! May I request a Frank Castle fanfic with a young reader (preferably female, please)?
Thank you! <3
Glitter All Around
A/N: I hope this was what you’re looking for! 🤞🏻 it’s not very long, but it’s what I had kicking around up here in dream land!
Triggers: Age gap! Reader (Frank is 40 reader is 25?) , AFAB! Reader (mentions of reader wearing heels, she her pronouns.), I think that covers it?
Summary: you have Frank questioning if he’s too old to love someone as young and sweet as you. He is wrong.
He notices the bag first. It’s covered in little charms and patches and things. Little animals, a hand sanitizer that looks like those ugly foam shoes, a patch with a song quote. It’s not exactly practical at all times, though whenever he needs something (an Advil, a bandaid, a lighter, a knife.) she seems to have it, so maybe practicality cannot be judged by outward appearance, but it’s difficult not to all the same. Where to him things are tactical, to her things are… personal. A piece of her given up freely for anyone who cares to look and see. It’s unsettling to him. He lives in a world where giving of one’s self can equal death, but she’s just… so giving.
Then there’s the pictures. Pictures of his hands, pictures of her lunch, pictures of them on dates, pictures of a particularly pretty sunset, pictures of celebrities, pictures of her purse. Pictures, pictures, pictures. All the time pictures. He doesn’t know why she takes them. She’s constantly capturing moments of her life that seem so mundane and costly to him. When he was her age, photos were reserved for the real thing usually, moments you can’t help but wish to keep, to him her constant barrage of photos both by her and sent to her seems so frivolous. Then one day he looks on her phone to see an album labeled ‘Frankie.’ He clicks it out of curiosity and finds hundreds of photos of their lives together. Frank holding a kitten she found two months ago, Frank fastening her ridiculous pink heels, Frank at a gun range when he forced her to learn to shoot, Frank holding one of her little trinkets. (a snookie? A smishki? Whatever.) All kinds of little moments that he wouldn’t think to capture, all labeled, all there, and all cherished.
She also talks to strangers on the street. He finds this to be particularly concerning, because who she speaks with is always something he concerns himself with, but she opens up so freely to anyone who would listen. Especially if their dog is cute. How many pictures has Frank received of his girl with a stranger’s dog? Innumerable. Frank had never in his life thought to take a picture with anyone’s anything without knowing them for years. He supposes it’s just because she feels so… young?
He can’t put his finger on it. Yes, she’s 15 years his junior, yes she is young, but he’s never felt more old.
He feels jaded, sure. Life has a funny way of picking Frank up and spitting him out as fast and brutal as it can. But old? Eh, maybe. He can’t help but feel old though, like he can never fit in her little pink sparkle world. But there she is, reminding him every day that even when he thinks he’s too old, too jaded, too out of touch with her life, she’s there to remind him he is right where he belongs.
——————three days ago————————
“What you looking at, killer?” He calls her killer, not because she’s especially strong, or mean, or scary, but mostly because when provoked his little sweet girl could be vicious.
“Just taking a picture Frank, you look extra hot today building that coffee table.” She smiles broadly, nodding at his work. Frank playfully rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, well why take em if you can’t post em, Sweets?” He says, cocking an eyebrow, “wouldn’t you be better off with someone a little more young? A little less criminal?”
“Frank Castle you take that back!” She gasps, outraged. “I am perfectly happy with my grumpy old man thank you SO very much!”
Frank scoffs in disbelief, tossing down his screwdriver and giving her his pouty stare, the one that means buissness. “Sure thing honey, being with me is such a walk in the park.”
“Now I never said it was easy!” She laughs, “but it also is t hard to love you. You constantly think about my safety, always making sure I’m back home, always walking on the side closest to the street, always double checking the apartment before I go in.” She starts, tossing her phone away on the other couch. “You always take care of me, ask me if I’ve eaten, taken my medicine, always making sure I drink enough water.” She starts crawling toward him. “You don’t laugh at all my silly little trinkets, or my TikTok addiction, you always let me take my silly little photos.” She reached h and placed herself gently on his lap. “You may be older than me Frank Castle, but you are never ever an inconvenience, or shameful, or too old. True, you may be a criminal, and I may never get to have a quote-un-quote ‘normal life’ with you, but you have all the things I need. You have wisdom, you have kindness, you have love to give. You’ve been through things, sure, but all of those things have culminated in the man I adore and cherish.” You end your tirade with a smacking kiss on his chin, snuggling into his warmth. “Besides, if we’re judging things based on age and relevance, you and Karen Page would make a lovely couple.” He goes to cut you off, “I’m just saying!”
“No baby, nobody could ever replace you,” Frank sighs, “Maybe I needed a young thing like you to bring a little light back into my life.”
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I go feral for husband!Frank <333 TY for the request :) (another one from the old account that I hadn't answered) - not proof read
warnings: husband!frank, protective!frank, minor mentions of violence, SMUT, MDNI, oral (f receiving)
Oooooh anon I LOVE THIS!!! Thank you for this req!!! You just KNOW he would be sooo freakin protective!! I also feel like he would toy with the guy a little (unless he was physically trying to advance on reader then it would be a completely different situation) - anywhos imagine this
--
Sometimes you wake up with a cleaning itch and with Frank at work you take the opportunity to do a deep clean of your shared home. You're in your own world, music blasting in your little home shorts and tank top.
There's a nice breeze going so you open up the big windows around the house after you mop the floors to air everything out. You're so in your own world that you're completely ignorant to the tradesmen on the opposite side of the street.
After throwing all the rubbish into a garbage bag you drag it to the front door, contemplating for a minute - you could wait for Frank to come home and take it out but ah just get it done now you think, that way Frank can relax when he comes home.
Unfortunately, you catch the attention of one of the tradesmen as you make your way out of the front door lugging the garbage bag out. He's standing in front of his van with is high-vis uniform, eyes following you between your path to the bin and back to the front door.
You're so oblivious that you don't even hear the rumble of Franks truck down the street as he returns home from work, too focused on wiping down the window panes. When Frank gets closer to the house he immediately clocks the workman leaning against his truck and watching into your home, through the open window - like a predator.
He slows down a little before driving past your home and parks his truck a house away from both of yours. Walking up the footpath opposite to your house he stops next to the workman.
"pretty aint she?" Frank says, following the mans eyes as he looks into the open window watching you, his pretty baby, so blissfully unaware. The way you're bopping along and singing to your music as you clean. He tries his very best to level his tone and mask the way he wants to rip the mans eyes out.
The man looks at Frank and stands up a little straighter as if he is afraid he's been caught out till he see's how Frank is also dressed in high vis and cargo pants, assuming he must be another worker. He relaxes back onto his van after being lulled into a false sense of security by Frank.
"hell yeah brother, don't know how anyone can live across that and do nothin about it" the man laughs "been watching her all day and damn" he finishes letting out a wolf whistle his eyes never leaving you. The comment fills Frank instantly with rage, been watching you all day?
"yeah? you gonna do something about it?" Frank grits out, his fists balled and teeth clenched.
"I might, she ain't had a man home the whole day - maybe she needs one, i'll show her what a real man feels like huh" he laughs again looking over to frank before his face drops.
He see's the way Frank is staring back at him with a stone cold look and anger in his eyes. Franks hand grabs the back of the guys head and pushes his face into the pane of his van. "That's my fuckin' wife, if I see you hanging around here again, i'll be cleaning the road with your face - got it?" he grits out, nostrils flaring "get the fuck outta here" he spits out, banging the guys head against the metal of his van with a clang.
"s-shit I didn't know man" the man whimpers before running back around to his van and driving off. Frank stands in the middle of the road staring down his van as it rounds the corner. He looks back to your house and see's you walking around, still in your own little world.
-
You turn towards the door when you hear it open
"Frankie!" you say brightly, blissfully unaware of the fact that Frank had almost caved someones head in for watching you, you didn't need to know he thinks to himself.
He loved you like this, happy and unbothered - as bad as he felt that you did all of this yourself he knows that it's like a form of therapy for you. Home alone, your music blasting as you busy yourself cleaning. This was your home, he wanted you to feel safe and he took that responsibility upon himself.
"hey sweetheart" frank replies, feeling the way the tension instantly leaves his body- he could tell you've been cleaning for most of the day. Your wrinkled shorts and messy hair with the rubber cleaning gloves up your forearms.
He walks over to you, places his hands on your hips and pulls you into him giving you a kiss. He chuckles at the way you keep your arms outstretched beside yourself, not wanting to get the dirty gloves near him but still wanting his lips on yours.
"been busy huh?" he muses looking around him
"Almost done honey" you reply with a quick peck before bouncing off.
Frank laughs a little before he picks up the mop bucket and takes it to the laundry to empty it and rinse it out for you.
-
When he makes his way back to the living room he see's you lighting a candle - gloves thrown in the sink.
"you eat today?" he asks coming up behind you
"mhm had lunch not too long ago, you?" you nod, feeling his arms wrap around you.
"yeah..house looks nice baby, thank you" Frank smiles
"yeah? you're welcome Frankie now you can relax huh" you say turning in his arms to face him.
he gives you a simple u-huh before he picks up up and wraps your legs around him. A gleeful shriek escapes you when you feel his grizzly beard nuzzle down your neck as he places kisses down it.
He walks you both over to the couch and places you down. He sinks to his knees in front of you and pushes your legs apart - slotting himself in between.
Your feet come up to rest on the edge of he couch as Frank leans forward to kiss you again. Your lips open for him as you deepen in the kiss, tasting his tongue and your pussy all of a sudden realises just how much she's missed Frank all day.
Frank breaks apart to bring your legs together and you feel his hands pull your shorts and panties from under your hips and peels them off your legs.
"babyyy.. what are you doing" you say with a breathy laugh.
"I'm relaxin, thought you wanted me to relax honey" he drawls as he throws your shorts and panties over his shoulder and picks your feet up to place them back where they were on the edge of the couch, spreading your legs wide open for him again.
The heady scent from your cunt fills his senses instantly and pulls him further down between your legs like his been hook, line and sinker-ed. He can't wait to taste you, can't wait to thank you, cannot wait to make you scream his name so loud that the whoever is trying to look in from the windows knows they could never make you feel as good as he can.
Without a second to spare he dives in - his broad tongue licking a fat stripe up your slit. Instantly making your hips twitch "uhh fuck baby" you gasp as your hand grips into his hair. He grunts into your pussy in response as he laps away, licking up your juices as both his palms stay firm on the underside of your thighs keeping you nice and open for him to dine.
He can smell the sweat from your labours of the day and loves the way it mixes with the salty sweet nectar from your cunt. "taste so good baby, been working so hard for me today huh" he grunts into your pussy with a deep inhale as his hands start massaging your thighs.
Sighing at the relief of your tense muscles and they feel of his tongue your breath hitches when you feel his lips suckle around your clit "gggodd yess-feels so good Frankieee" you whine as your hips start to unconsciously grind into his mouth.
"y-yeahh honey thats it been missin my wifes pussy all fuckin day" frank moans as he hooks his hands behind your ass and pushes you harder into his face. The sounds of him slurping at your cunt are wiped out by the sound of your cries when he pushes two of his fat fingers inside your hole "Fuuuuck Frank oh my god" you all but scream.
Frank's fingers find that sweet spot inside your walls instantly as his mouth returns to your clit and he starts sucking away. You look down at him, the site of him slobbering between your legs has your chest heaving. He looks so beautiful like this you think to yourself. His eyebrows furrowed in pleasure as he look up at you with his pleading brown eyes begging to taste your cum.
You feel the tightening in your belly as your hips start to grind back and forth, fucking yourself on his fingers. His lips continue suckling away at your clit when you start to pulse around his fingers " yesyesyes-fuuuuckk m'coming frankiee ohmygoddd" you cry out as your thighs start to tremble and lock around his head.
"c'mon baby thats it, give it to me fuck" he begs into your pulsing cunt as your chest heaves off the back of the couch - your orgasm hits you, your walls tighten around Franks fingers pushing into your wet hole, his lips locked around your sensitive clit. He doesn't ease up as he works you through your high, not until he feels your legs turn to jelly as they fall open again, loose and relaxed.
He kisses his way back up to your lips. Your eyes flutter open as you look up at him, his lower face glistening with your cum and his toothy grin. You push yourself up and lick his lips, tasting your salty release before kissing him. Your legs come down off the couch, each foot placed on either side of him as you stand up,
"c'mon puppy" you coo at him sweetly as you run your fingers through his hair "let me show you how nice the shower looks now"
He places one last kiss on your cunt before he stands up, you hold his hand and lead him back to the bathroom.
You really were excited to show him how clean the shower was....
---
a/n: TY FOR THIS REQUEST!! I am such a slut for husband frank!! <3
A self indulgent little blurb to heal my eldest daughter woes
Warnings: none really? independent reader who has a hard time letting people do things for them, sweet Frankie
wc: <1k
—
You've always had to do it all yourself. It's fine, you even preferred it that way, is what you told yourself - no one would mess it up, no one would disappoint, no one would have a chance to prove that they actually didn't care.
and then you met Frank..
It had taken a couple grocery store runs before you begrudgingly agreed to let him carry most of it into the house. However, much to Franks dismay you hadn’t made it easy for him to do the ‘bigger’ things for you. Car troubles? You were already making an appointment with the mechanic. Light bulb needs replacing? You were already out to the shops to get a new one. Tap is leaking? You were already watching a YouTube tutorial on how to fix it yourself.
Frank took it all in stride though, a challenge, he thought to himself. He would just need to start being more proactive. You hadn’t even noticed that your mrs’s fix-it jobs seemed to not occur as much. It wasn’t until one day you came home to find frank under the hood of your car.
“Frank? What happened?” You stand behind him confused. He turns around facing you smelling of grease “oil needed changing” he replies so nonchalantly before kissing your forehead and turning around to continue his task.
You’re silent for a little before the realisation dawns on you. Trying to count back to the last time you actually took your car in for a service before you pipe up “Baby have you-have you been taking care of my car?” You ask puzzled. He doesn’t even give you words as a response, he just grunts and shrugs his shoulders. “Frank.. you-you don’t have to do that for me” you say softly. He sighs as he finishes what he was doing and closes the car hood. He turns to you again, wiping his hands clean with a rag before pulling you by the hips into him.
“I don’t have to do anything honey, I want to” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You don’t reply, your mind still trying to trace back the last time you had to fix something that went wrong in the house… or had to do anything for that matter that required a DIY YouTube tutorial or a call to some handyman. Nothing, your mind draws a blank.
“Have you been-?” You don’t even finish your question before Frank interrupts like he can sense the spiral your thoughts are entering “yes” he kisses the tip of your nose before he continues “and you listen to me, I like doin’ these things for you. Okay?” He implores, looking deep into your eyes.
“I-but I can do it myself baby it’s okay” you reply softly. He sighs, softly shaking his head with a smile. You were always strong and fiercely independent, it’s what he loves about you but god were you stubborn “I know you can, but let me? Yeah?” He insists.
You cup both your hands on either side of his grizzly face “Frankie you don’t have to-no one has ever-” you feel the sting in your eyes, you stop yourself before your voice cracks fully. You’re not sure that you can remember the last time someone loved you like this, loved you to the point of doing menial tasks to ease its burden. Loved you in a way that meant you didn’t even have to think about when your cars next service was. “Baby, you have done so much for me, y’hear me? You loved me when I didn’t think I was worth it, but you stayed huh? Kept taking me in, helping me clean up my shit” he say, softer this time before continuing “i could change the oil in your car for the rest of my life and it ain’t gonna be enough for all the shit you had to deal with cos of’me… I love you honey, just let me show you I do in the ways that I can okay?” He finishes kissing the side of your eye where a tear had escaped unbeknownst to you.
You squeeze his face a little tighter before giving him a soft kiss “I love you Frankie”
—
a/n: is writing fanfic just therapy? Anyways, frank castle is so eldest daughter boyfriend coded (or im just projecting)
Mateo Diaz, level headed nurse with his shit mostly sorted, is starting to think something might be wrong with him.
The first time The Pitt Mateo Diaz sees you cry over a broken washing machine, he thinks two things simultaneously.
One: your landlord is an asshole.
Two: he would apparently now kill for you.
The second thought is the one that concerns him.
Because Mateo Diaz is, by every measurable standard, a stable human being.
He pays his bills on time. He meal preps on Sundays. He works impossible shifts at the hospital and still remembers to call his mother back. He owns matching Tupperware containers. His plants are alive. He has a retirement account.
He is not the kind of man who loses his mind over the girl next door standing in a laundromat at eleven at night holding a dripping hoodie and trying not to cry.
And yet.
“There’s a drainage clog,” you say thickly, wiping under your eyes with the heel of your hand like you’re annoyed at yourself for being upset. “It flooded half my kitchen.”
Mateo stares at you for a second too long.
You live across the hall from him in a building that could generously be described as holding itself together through prayer. Thin walls. Flickering lights. The smell of old carpet permanently embedded into the stairwell.
He’s seen you dozens of times.
Sleepy in oversized shirts collecting takeout.
Laughing on the phone with someone while carrying groceries.
Curled up on the landing with a book when the fire alarm went off last month.
Pretty every single time.
But tonight you look exhausted.
“Did maintenance come?” he asks.
You laugh once. Bitter. “Three days ago they said they’d send someone.”
Mateo looks down at the soaked hoodie in your hands.
Then back at your face.
Then sighs internally because there it is again—that weird tight ache behind his ribs.
“I’ll come look at it.”
Your eyebrows lift immediately. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
And that’s the problem.
Your apartment is chaos.
Towels everywhere. Water stains creeping under the cabinets. The sink making an alarming gargling noise every thirty seconds.
Mateo crouches under the sink in gray sweats and an old T-shirt while you hover nearby apologizing every two minutes.
“You seriously don’t need to keep saying sorry.”
“I just feel bad.”
“You didn’t personally attack the plumbing.”
“I might’ve spiritually.”
That gets a laugh out of him before he can stop it.
You brighten at the sound like it’s a reward.
God.
That feeling again.
Mateo tightens something under the sink harder than necessary.
“You always try to fix things yourself?” he asks.
“My father believed hiring people builds weak character.”
“Your father sounds annoying.”
You snort. “You have no idea.”
He finds the clog eventually. Ancient pipes. Grease buildup. Building management neglect.
When the sink finally drains properly, you clap quietly like he performed surgery.
“You’re incredible.”
Mateo nearly hits his head under the cabinet.
Because it shouldn’t affect him that much.
It’s a sink.
He fixed a sink.
He literally works trauma cases.
But you’re looking at him like he hung the moon and suddenly he’s warm all over.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
After that, somehow, you become part of his life.
Not intentionally.
It just… happens.
You knock on his door one morning because your car won’t start.
He helps jump it.
A week later he brings you soup when he hears you coughing through the wall.
Then you start leaving baked goods outside his apartment with sticky notes.
Thanks for not letting me die of plumbing failure.
I overmade banana bread again.
This one isn’t poisoned probably.
Mateo keeps every note.
Which feels incriminating somehow.
The worst part is how easy you are to be around.
You talk to him naturally, like he’s always belonged there.
You sit on his counter while he cooks.
You steal fries off his plate.
You wander into his apartment without knocking after particularly brutal shifts because somewhere along the line he gave you his spare key “for emergencies,” and now apparently emotional distress counts.
Sometimes he comes home from the hospital bone-tired and finds you asleep on his couch with one of his hoodies bunched under your cheek.
Those nights are the hardest.
Because Mateo stands there in the doorway staring at you and thinking things he absolutely should not be thinking about his neighbor.
About your mouth.
About your legs tucked beneath you.
About what it would feel like if you let him hold you.
And Mateo Diaz is starting to think something might genuinely be wrong with him.
“You like her.”
Mateo looks up from triaging charts at Dana with immediate suspicion.
The Pitt has taught everyone in the ER to notice everything eventually.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She brought you lunch yesterday.”
“She was being nice.”
“She wrote your name with a heart over the i.”
Mateo stills.
“…No she didn’t.”
Dana grins slowly. “Oh, so you did notice.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“She pretty?”
“She’s my neighbor.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Mateo rubs a hand over his face.
Because yes.
You’re pretty.
Beautiful, actually, in ways that sneak up on him.
The sleepy morning version of you in fuzzy socks.
The laughing version.
The sad version.
The angry version.
All of them ruin him equally.
“She’s—” He exhales sharply. “I don’t know.”
Dana watches him carefully.
And softer now, says, “You haven’t dated anybody in a long time.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Mm.”
Mateo hates when people mm at him.
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” Dana says gently. “That’s the issue.”
The thing is, Mateo has his shit together externally.
Internally?
Different story.
His last relationship ended quietly and badly at the same time. Years of slowly becoming emotionally exhausted until there was nothing left to save. Since then, work became easier than trying again.
The ER makes sense to him.
People bleeding out make sense.
Grief makes sense.
You do not.
Because you make him hopeful.
And hope is terrifying.
One night, around two in the morning, someone pounds on his door.
Mateo jerks awake instantly.
Hospital training.
Adrenaline immediate.
He opens the door to find you standing there in pajamas, pale and panicked.
“I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “I know it’s late, I just—I think something’s wrong with Mrs. Hernandez downstairs.”
Mateo’s already moving.
The elderly woman in 1B is slumped awkwardly near her kitchen table when they enter.
Mateo drops beside her instantly, calm settling over him like muscle memory.
Pulse weak.
Skin clammy.
Stroke symptoms.
“Call 911,” he tells you sharply.
You do it immediately.
No hesitation.
No panic.
Just action.
Mateo talks Mrs. Hernandez through every step while waiting for paramedics, and when he glances up once, you’re watching him with wide, frightened eyes.
But not frightened of him.
Trusting him.
Completely.
The paramedics eventually take over.
Mrs. Hernandez stabilizes.
The adrenaline crash afterward hits hard.
You’re both sitting on the apartment building steps at nearly four in the morning when you quietly say, “You were incredible in there.”
Mateo huffs softly. “Part of the job.”
“No,” you murmur. “I think that’s just who you are.”
That lands somewhere deep.
Dangerously deep.
He looks over at you.
Your hair is messy from sleep. Your face tired. Your hands wrapped around a terrible vending machine coffee.
And Mateo suddenly realizes something awful.
He’s in love with you.
Not infatuated.
Not attracted.
Not flirting for fun.
Actually, properly, devastatingly in love with you.
“Oh,” he says aloud before he can stop himself.
You blink. “What?”
“Nothing.”
But he says it too fast.
You narrow your eyes.
“Mateo.”
He stands abruptly. “You should get some sleep.”
“Why are you acting weird?”
“I’m not.”
“You literally just looked at me like you discovered religion.”
“I’m going home.”
“Mateo—”
He practically flees upstairs.
Because this is bad.
This is catastrophically bad.
For the next week, Mateo avoids you.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
He answers texts slower.
Keeps conversations shorter.
Leaves for work earlier.
Because now that he knows, every interaction feels loaded.
When you smile at him, he notices too much.
When you touch his arm, he thinks about it for hours.
When you lean against his doorway in shorts and one of his old shirts asking if he wants takeout, he genuinely forgets his own name for a second.
This cannot continue.
Unfortunately, avoiding you turns out to feel significantly worse.
His apartment is quieter.
Lonelier.
He keeps listening for your footsteps in the hallway.
He misses you so intensely it becomes physically irritating.
And then one evening there’s a knock at his door.
He opens it to find you looking furious.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Straight to it then.
Mateo sighs. “I’ve been busy.”
“Bullshit.”
You push past him into the apartment.
He lets you because stopping you would require functioning properly.
“I did something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
Because I’m in love with you.
Because you’re my favorite part of every day.
Because I can’t look at you without wanting things I’m terrified to ruin.
Instead he says, “It’s complicated.”
Your expression shifts instantly.
Hurt.
“Oh.”
Mateo immediately regrets everything.
“No, that’s not—”
“You don’t have to explain.” You fold your arms tightly. “I just thought we were friends.”
“We are.”
“Okay, then why does it feel like you can barely stand being around me?”
That hits like a punch.
Mateo steps forward immediately. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it isn’t true.”
Your eyes search his face.
And suddenly Mateo realizes he’s cornered himself.
Because he cannot tell you the truth without detonating everything.
“You matter to me,” he says quietly.
You go still.
“So what’s the problem?”
Mateo laughs once under his breath. Tired. Defeated.
“You.”
Your breath catches.
He shouldn’t continue.
Absolutely should not continue.
Instead:
“You make me insane,” he says softly. “I think about you constantly. I miss you when you’re not around for like three hours, which is embarrassing considering we live across the hall from each other.”
You stare at him.
Completely silent.
Mateo’s heart pounds harder.
“I tried not to—”
“You’re in love with me?”
The room goes very still.
Mateo closes his eyes briefly.
Then opens them.
“Yeah.”
You inhale sharply.
And for one horrifying second he thinks he’s ruined everything.
Then you whisper, “Mateo, I’ve been in love with you for months.”
Silence.
He just stares.
“You—what?”
You laugh nervously. “I thought you knew.”
“No, I absolutely did not know.”
“You let me keep a toothbrush here!”
“That’s not universal!”
“It kind of is!”
Mateo actually starts laughing then.
Real, helpless laughter.
Relief crashing through him so hard his knees almost give out.
And then you’re laughing too, eyes bright and disbelieving.
“You idiot,” you murmur.
“You absolute idiot,” he replies fondly.
Then you kiss him.
And Mateo understands instantly why people write poetry.
Because your mouth is soft and warm and familiar in a way that feels unfair somehow.
Like he was always supposed to find you.
His hands slide to your waist automatically, pulling you closer with a sound low in his throat that makes your breath hitch.
You kiss him harder immediately.
Which.
Jesus Christ.
Mateo backs you gently against the counter, smiling against your mouth when you laugh breathlessly into the kiss.
“You have any idea,” he murmurs between kisses, “how hard it’s been not doing this?”
“I literally fell asleep on your couch like six times.”
“You wore my clothes.”
“You cooked me breakfast after night shifts.”
Mateo kisses you again because honestly you both sound insane in retrospect.
When he finally pulls back, your forehead rests against his.
And for the first time in years, Mateo feels something settle quietly into place inside him.
Peace.
“You staying over?” he asks softly.
You smile immediately. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Months later, the building plumbing bursts again.
Water floods the hallway.
Someone’s screaming downstairs.
Mrs. Hernandez is loudly blaming capitalism.
And Mateo stands in the middle of the chaos with you tucked against his side laughing so hard you can barely breathe.
Your apartment is technically unlivable for the next few days.
Mateo doesn’t even pretend to consider alternatives.
“You’re staying with me.”
You grin up at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Then softer, quieter, so only you can hear:
“Always, if you want.”
Your expression changes instantly.
Open.
Warm.
Certain.
“I want,” you whisper.
Mateo kisses your forehead while the building continues collapsing around you.
And somehow, for the first time in a very long while, everything in his life feels exactly right.
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the first time Jack Abbot calls you sweetheart, you blush so hard you both think you're going to explode.
The first time Jack Abbot called you sweetheart, it was entirely by accident.
Which somehow made it worse.
Or better.
You still hadn’t decided.
The ER was chaos.
Not unusual chaos — not the manageable kind where everyone moved quickly but knew what direction they were running in. This was the kind that left the entire department buzzing like exposed wiring. Ambulance sirens screamed outside every few minutes, nurses were moving at near-sprinting speed between bays, and somebody in triage had apparently thrown up on a police officer.
Twice.
You’d been on your feet for eleven hours already, your coffee had gone cold somewhere around midnight, and your scrub top had a stain on the sleeve you were trying very hard not to identify.
Jack looked worse.
Not that he’d ever admit it.
He leaned against the nurses’ station beside you, flipping through a chart while rubbing a hand over his jaw. His curls were a mess from dragging his fingers through them all day, and exhaustion sat heavy beneath his eyes.
Still annoyingly attractive.
Still unfairly calm.
Still somehow capable of making every nurse in the emergency department straighten slightly when he walked past.
You were trying not to look at him.
Which was difficult because he kept standing so close.
“You alive over there?” he asked without glancing up from the chart.
“Barely.”
“Mm.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Good. Builds character.”
You shot him a tired glare. “I have enough character. What I need is eight consecutive hours of sleep and an iced coffee the size of my head.”
“That’s ambitious.”
“Jack,” you deadpanned. “I’m one difficult patient away from eating drywall.”
That finally earned a real laugh out of him.
Low.
Warm.
Dangerous to your emotional stability.
You hated how much you liked making him laugh.
A trauma alert suddenly sounded overhead, the intercom crackling loudly through the department.
Everybody moved at once.
Jack straightened immediately, exhaustion disappearing beneath sharp focus as he started toward the ambulance bay. You followed close behind him automatically.
“Twenty-year-old male, MVA,” a paramedic shouted as they rolled the gurney through the doors. “Possible internal bleeding, decreasing BP en route—”
The next fifteen minutes blurred together.
Voices overlapping.
Gloves snapping into place.
Vitals shouted across the room.
You worked beside Jack without thinking, both of you slipping into that strange rhythm healthcare workers developed together under pressure. Efficient. Fast. Instinctive.
At one point you reached for gauze at the exact same time.
His hand brushed yours.
Neither of you pulled away immediately.
Then the monitor alarm screamed.
Everything snapped back into motion.
By the time the patient stabilized enough for surgery, your adrenaline had completely crashed. You leaned heavily against the counter outside the trauma room, scrubbing a hand over your face.
Jack stepped beside you a second later.
“You okay?”
“Mhm.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out standing up.”
“I might.”
“You eaten today?”
Silence.
His eyebrows lifted slowly.
“Oh my God.”
“I had a granola bar.”
“At what time?”
“…Seven?”
“It’s almost one in the morning.”
You shrugged weakly. “Time is fake in the ER.”
Jack stared at you for a long moment before sighing through his nose. “C’mon.”
“What?”
“You’re eating something before you fall over and become my paperwork problem.”
You followed him mostly because you were too tired to argue.
The staff lounge was unusually empty for once, lit softly by buzzing fluorescent lights. Rain hammered steadily against the windows outside, turning the entire hospital grey and muted.
Jack dug through the vending machine with the seriousness of a surgeon.
“This place is criminal,” he muttered. “Why are there seventeen kinds of pretzels but no decent chocolate?”
“You’re very passionate about this.”
“You should be too, sweetheart, this is a humanitarian crisis—”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Jack froze mid-sentence.
You froze staring at him.
And then you felt it.
Heat exploded across your face so fast it was physically painful.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Jack looked horrified.
Not because he regretted it.
Because he realized exactly what it did to you.
Your entire face burned hot enough to qualify as a medical emergency.
He stared.
You stared back.
Neither of you spoke.
The vending machine hummed innocently in the background while both of you visibly short-circuited.
Jack recovered first, barely.
A slow grin started pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Well,” he said carefully, voice rougher now.
You covered your face immediately. “Don’t.”
“Oh my God,” he laughed softly. “You’re blushing.”
“I know.”
“Like, aggressively.”
“I know, Jack.”
“That might be the hardest I’ve ever seen somebody blush.”
“You are making it worse.”
“I kinda wanna do it again.”
Your head snapped up so fast you almost got dizzy.
Jack was leaning back against the vending machine now, looking entirely too pleased with himself despite the faint color creeping into his own cheeks.
“You’re blushing too,” you accused.
“Am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Little bit,” he admitted.
Something shifted then.
Tiny.
Fragile.
But unmistakable.
The teasing faded slowly from his expression, replaced by something softer. Something more careful.
His eyes stayed on yours for a second too long.
“So,” he said quietly. “Sweetheart, huh?”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“You did that on purpose.”
“No,” he admitted honestly. “Actually didn’t.”
Which somehow affected you more.
Because that meant it had slipped out naturally.
Like he already thought of you that way.
Jack looked at you for a long moment before stepping closer, just enough that your pulse started acting stupid again.
“You know,” he said softly, “I’ve been trying very hard not to flirt with you at work.”
You blinked.
“What?”
His laugh was quieter now, almost nervous. “Thought I was being subtle.”
“You are not subtle.”
“Damn.”
“You literally stare at me across the nurses’ station.”
“I thought that was mysterious.”
“It was medically concerning.”
He grinned at that.
Then his expression softened again.
“You never seemed uncomfortable,” he said carefully. “So I kept doing it.”
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.
Rain rattled softly against the windows behind him.
The hospital noise felt far away now.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” you admitted quietly.
Jack studied your face like he was trying to decide whether he was allowed to believe you.
“And the blushing?”
You groaned.
His grin widened.
“Sweetheart.”
Your face immediately reignited.
Jack actually laughed this time, full and warm and delighted, one hand covering his mouth like he couldn’t believe he’d discovered your fatal weakness.
“Oh, that’s dangerous information.”
“You’re evil.”
“No,” he corrected, still smiling. “I’m in love with you.”
The words hit the room so gently you almost thought you imagined them.
Jack looked equally surprised they’d come out.
But he didn’t take them back.
Didn’t look away.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You—”
“I know,” he said quickly, softer now. “Bad timing. Weird place to say it. But honestly? I think I’ve been in love with you for months and apparently all it took was one accidental sweetheart to ruin my self-control.”
Your eyes burned suddenly.
God.
You were exhausted and emotional and completely wrecked by this man.
“You absolute idiot,” you whispered.
Jack smiled carefully. “That a good idiot or a bad idiot?”
Instead of answering, you stepped forward and kissed him.
He made a small startled sound against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, one hand sliding instinctively to your waist while the other cupped gently against your jaw.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he’d wanted to do this for a long time.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathless, Jack rested his forehead lightly against yours.
“You have any idea,” he murmured, “how long I’ve wanted to do that?”
“Probably about as long as I’ve wanted you to.”
His eyes softened completely at that.
Then his grin returned slowly.
“So hypothetically,” he said, “if I called you sweetheart again—”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Sweetheart.”
You hid your burning face against his shoulder while he laughed quietly into your hair, arms wrapping around you tightly as the storm raged outside and the ER chaos continued somewhere beyond the lounge doors.
But for the first time in months, neither of you rushed back toward it immediately.
noah wyle wearing suspenders in the big year of 2026 is killing me especially after watching him wear his slutty little suspenders every episode of er and it is making my brain do things
Jack Abbot knows he comes across as the worst kind of alpha. Imposing, overbearing, a tad aggressive at times. He’s got the mean mug and potent scent to match it too. Jack Abbot is the type of alpha that those right-wing podcasters talk about, the type of alpha that makes omegas go lightheaded and has betas' knees buckling.
And he despises it.
When Jack was younger, it wasn't too bad. It helped him in the army, even through a lot of med school. People like listening to alphas, it's wired into their biology. Sure, omegas never wanted to stick by him longer than they needed to, but he respected that. Jack may be a textbook alpha in a lot of ways, but he tries hard not to be an asshole.
At the age of twenty-six, and at the height of his raging pheromones, Jack found and married Claire, his wife. She was another alpha and could keep the man in check from the day she married him to beyond the grave.
But now she's gone, and Jack Abbot is fifty and alone without her to soften up his edges. Well, Claire never softened Jack. She was a headstrong alpha herself. It was more of Jack's love for her, its all-consuming nature, that made him somewhat of a functioning member of society.
Jack's okay with it for a bit, in a dark way likes to see how people avoid him, how afraid the med students are to greet him in the evenings. Then one day, Lena presents the new group of interns for the night shift. There's four– two alphas, a beta, and an omega. He's surprised to catch your scent, omegas aren't common on night shifts, but Jack supposes it's time for a positive change.
He shakes the alphas and beta's hands with a firm nod, but when he gets to the end of the line, you cross your arms over your chest.
"It's good to meet you, Dr. Abbot," you mutter, eyes anywhere but on Jack.
He tilts his head, leaning forward so you're forced to look at him. "You alright?"
Your shoulders abruptly hunch in. You nod, "Yes, sir. Just looking for... a patient."
Jack nods. Then, because he thinks you need it, he morphs his face into his best mimicry of a smile. Hopefully it goes better than the time Dana said he looked like a shark.
"There's plenty to go around," Jack says through pulled lips. "Have at 'em."
In the blink of an eye, you're gone. Jack drops the smile and returns to his far more natural frown. From the other side of the hub, Parker Ellis, who had been watching the entire exchange, scoffs. "Nice first impression," she snorts. "Next time, try not to make it look like you're gonna bite the poor kid's head off, okay?"
Jack furrows his brows, "What?"
"What do you mean 'what'? You're a scary alpha, Jack," Parker grabs a tablet, shrugging. "You're frightening the omega."
His frown deepens as Jack raises his head, scanning the ED for you. He finds you huddled with the other interns. While they chat animatedly, your mouth is shut. Most importantly, you're staring at Jack, eyes wide as you shake like a goddamn leaf.
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♡ synopsis: when you accidentally slip up at work and refer to robby by a paternal nickname, you shut down from embarrassment. unfazed, however, he encourages you to continue doing so in the future if it provides you with a feeling of stability in the workplace... and then he takes things outside of it.
♡ content: fauxcest, age-gap, power imbalance, daddy kink (reader calls him dad, dada, & daddy), fingering, cuddling
You brought an unexpected spark to Robby's life when you started your residency at PTMC. Not because you were a firecracker, but rather a warm, beautiful fizzle that never seemed to taper.
Something he could rely on to provide light in the darker moments which were slowly morphing into an endless tunnel.
He never meant to lean on you, but was nevertheless grateful when you finally seemed to do so back, indicating to him that his affections weren't quite so one-sided like he initially feared. You were like two pillars, who, if one fell, so did the other. But so long as they remained perfectly aligned, they would never topple.
He's made an effort over the years not to show favoritism—it serves only to be a distraction and, not to mention, hindrance toward med students' and residents' educations and training—but it just... Came natural to him with you.
Robby knows others have started to catch on. Whether his staring, affectionate touches, pet names, draping you in his hoody when you seem cold, or bringing you treats before you each start your shared shift is the culprit for their noticing his adoration, he's not sure.
Doting on you is one thing. A welcome aid in helping you flourish beneath his tutelage. But the growing attraction he's garnering toward you—someone young enough to have come from him—is a problem.
It is the aforementioned distraction.
Instead of studying charts or emptying the board over the nurses station, he chooses to stare at you. Instead of tugging on gloves during a trauma case, he takes an extra millisecond to brush a palm along your arm or back just to make physical contact. And instead of listening to the more solid differential diagnoses of his fellow attendings or senior residents, he asks for your train of thought just to hear your voice.
His own personal spot of sunshine.
You've slowly become his religion.
He'd be a better physician and teacher for it if he finally managed to create a bit of needed distance and reign in his adulation, but that idea goes right out the window the day you call him an unintended name, and your dynamic soon thereafter shifts entirely.
Treating a UTI is something Robby should've delegated to someone below him so that he could otherwise assist on a trauma case next door, but when he saw you wander into South 10 to aid, he couldn't help himself.
Now that the room is empty, save for the pair of you, you're enmeshed in silence while you each put various packaged supplies away before jumping onto the next case.
"Dad, can you—" Suddenly, and with quiet alarm, you go entirely still.
With shoulders now drawn tightly together, you blink dewy eyes in silent panic.
Oh God. What did you do?
His head snaps back in your direction and Robby studies you with a look of surprise. "What do you need, sweetheart?" he asks quietly while leaning back on his heel. Standing across the room, he attempts to glimpse your face, but you're turned too far away for him to see it.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to. It just came out." Wiping away unexpected tears, you shake your head then continue on.
Robby slowly rounds a gurney and takes calm, measured steps toward you. "It's alright," he reassures soothingly. "I didn't mind."
He's just trying to minimize your mortification, you think. Somehow, though, it just makes you want to call him as much yet again.
"Is that how you think of me sometimes?" Robby asks while sliding a hand down your back.
You shrug.
"Talk to me, honey," he insists.
"Around here," you begin while swallowing down the lump in your throat. "Everybody does, I think. And... I can't imagine how much that must weigh on you. How heavy it is to carry all of us; this hospital. So, I don't mean to make it worse—"
"You didn't," he interjects with a shake of his head. "It means something to me that you see me as that: a father figure. Someone to be trusted in that capacity."
You can't keep talking about this.
"It won't happen again," you assure while stuffing sterile gauze back into a supply cart.
Robby's hand retreats into a pocket. "I'm not saying that you can't. At least when we're alone together."
Your brows knit together and you turn to him. "What?"
Robby's head tilts and he studies you with a fond smile. "I haven't always done the best job at hiding my favoritism of you." He ghosts the back of his index finger down your soft cheek. "Means you get preferential treatment."
He shrugs casually. "So, if calling me that puts you at ease when you're here, you can." Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, he shuts the drawer you've now finished with. "I'd prefer it."
It's been three days and you haven't done it again. If anything, it seems like you're avoiding him now. Every effort Robby makes to reach out to you is met with resistance when you slip from his grasp to instead work with McKay, Langdon, or even Dana.
He's chomping at the bit to pull you back to his side where you belong.
"How's my girl?" Robby asks with a playful smile while rounding on you.
Glancing up from the glossy iPad you're currently getting a quick bit of charting accomplished on, you blink up at him. "Oh. I'm okay. You?"
Robby bobs his head from side to side. "Be better if I understood why you seem to be avoiding me all of a sudden." He slides the least bit closer while resting a forearm atop the counter in front of you. "This behavior have anything to do with what happened the other day?"
Returning to the tablet, you try to flit through the thoughts in your mind like organized folders, but ultimately come up blank in terms of a reply.
Pressing the wealth of his broad chest against your side, Robby leans in closer. "I told you I was okay with it, sweetheart." Cupping your opposite shoulder in his hand, he brings his lips close to your ear. "I keep hoping you'll say it again." He shrugs. "Just to see how it feels."
"I-I already did," you stammer.
"It'd be intentional this time," he mutters. Robby watches you type for a moment. "Can you try for me? If you feel comfortable with that?"
Your fingers halt atop the digital keyboard. This seems rather important to him, but the potential of calling Dr. Michael Robinavitch a paternal name... The butterflies in your stomach are now fluttering so hard that you fear you may be sick from nerves.
"D—" you pause and swallow thickly.
"Go on, honey," he encourages. "It's just you and me."
"Dad," you whisper.
A smile tugs at his bearded lips. "Thank you," he rumbles with renewed relief blooming in his chest. "Remember, anytime we're alone. Alright?"
You tilt your head to look at him and your nose nearly brushes against Robby's because of how close he's standing. "Okay... Daddy."
You figured you'd try it. Maybe it'd feel less strange and cringe-worthy than the more formal 'dad'.
He cocks his head and squints an eye in silent debate. "Much prefer the other one," he states with a peck on your forehead.
In the last handful of weeks, you've become rather accustomed to your new... Well, you don't know what other word to use for it, other than arrangement. It took a bit more incentive on Robby's end to keep the momentum going at the beginning due to your hesitation, as well as laughing from nerves every time he tried to lay down some fatherly conviction initially, but now it's become a daily custom.
Hourly, really.
He's unaware, but his ordering you lunch a few times and offering to buy whatever it was that he glimpsed in your Amazon cart when he spied over your shoulder to see what you were window-shopping for one afternoon weren't the reasons you kept doing it. It was because of how happy it seemed to make him—how he'd beam each time you gently gripped the sleeve of his hoody with a playfully murmured 'Hi, dada' during slower moments in the ED. Robby doesn't seem to mind that one either, so you fluctuate between it and Dad.
Like this morning, when you were hopping up and down in the staff lounge, trying quite poorly to knock down a coffee cup so that you could have a bit of caffeine before your day officially began. You were just considering dragging a chair over to stand on when Robby swung inside. "Somethin' you need help with, sweetheart?"
Shrinking in embarrassment, you eye a stack of paperboard cups that're mocking you from the top shelf. "They're supposed to be kept on the counter next to the coffee pot," you complain.
He chuckles. "Honey, if you wanted coffee, you could've just called or texted me. I would've picked you up some on the way in."
With ease, he grabs the desired items and sets them down in their rightful place. "Have you ate yet?" he questions with crossed arms.
Tugging a cup free from plastic wrap, you pull out the coffee pot and begin to carefully pour. "Well... No. Not yet."
You nearly wince when he sighs.
Time for a lecture.
"Sweetheart, how many times do I have to tell you to stop leaving the house on an empty stomach? Every time you do, it's only two hours into your shift before you start shaking from low blood sugar."
You frown, then turn toward the fridge and roll your eyes while searching for creamer.
If Robby saw you do that, there'd be hell to pay for it later. He dislikes when you get bratty, even minimally. You've gathered that he prefers you sweet.
"It's a choice between breakfast, or another half hour of sleep." You unscrew the cap of caramel creamer and begin to pour. "I choose sleep," you mumble.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "God forbid you do what your father asks you to."
Tucking the bottle back away in the shared fridge, you almost burst into laughter.
Sometimes this still feels like a bizarre form of roleplay to you. Maybe if you were closer in age, or he wasn't the chief attending of the ED and so incredibly intimidating to top it all off, then you wouldn't find it hysterical.
"Not trying to make you mad," you say quietly while sipping your steaming drink. "It's not your job to worry about me. Especially when there are people coming in with heart attacks, strokes, and—"
"As my daughter, yes, it is," he states firmly with hands planted on hips.
You sip again, but very slowly to hide your smirk.
You're mostly amused because he's taking this whole thing so very seriously.
"I'll eat a bagel on my next break, ok? Or a candy bar."
He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. "This fuckin' kid," he murmurs. Lowering his chin again, he glares daggers at you through narrowed eyes. "Candy bar. So pure sugar."
You sigh, then go to step past him, until Robby grabs you by the forearm. "I will get you something from the lunch cart when they bring it around. And whatever I put in front of you, I expect you to eat. Understand?"
"Yes, dad."
He runs his thumb along the soft skin of your inner arm while silently considering. "Come back to my place with me tonight so I can make you dinner," he says with a much softer tone.
You glance up to him.
Releasing you, he cups your cheek instead. "As my..." he sighs. "I want my little girl to feel just as comfortable at her dad's place as she does at her own. And if the only way I can get you to eat something decent is by making you, then so be it."
You smile up at him while batting your lashes. "Chicken nuggets for dinner?"
His smile instantly fades while a brow is raised instead.
You snort, then take another sip of your coffee. "I'm kidding," you explain. Standing on tiptoes, you kiss his stubbled cheek. "Whatever dada wants, he gets."
On the dot two hours later, a wrapped sandwich is tossed down in front of where you sit at your work station. "Eat up," Robby barks. "Dad's orders."
Walking over to a computer cart with long, steady strides, he retrieves his readers from his scrub pocket and slides them over the wide bridge of his nose before watching you from a distance.
You look at him out of the corner of your eye and note how he only turns to the monitor in front of him once your meal is halfway gone.
Once naught is left but plastic wrap, you swivel in his direction, ball it up, then toss it into a trash can.
He nods while mouthing 'good girl' before heading into an exam room.
Your tummy squeezes excitedly when you watch him go.
Kneeling beside you, Robby rests a forearm atop the counter you're seated at charting. "You got much left to do?"
You shake your head and pluck the dictation device from your lap again. "Just the rest of this chart."
He slides a palm over your knee before giving it a solid pat. "I'll wait 'til you're done, then."
Watching as he leans back before fishing his phone out of his pocket, you nod with a grateful smile. "Ok, dada."
Slipping his glasses onto his nose, Robby slides his legs under yours.
"Oh, shoot," you hiss. There's a particular remark you meant to make on your last patient, but neglected to. God forbid you forget it again while finishing up with your current chart.
It never ends.
Swiping a stack of sticky notes from the edge of the desk, you glance around in search of an ink pen. "Could you hand me that, Robby?" you ask while nodding to a ballpoint resting next to his elbow.
He continues studying his cell, so you wait a second. Reading something, perhaps?
"Robby," you exclaim with a raised brow.
Is he ignoring you?
"Hellooo?" you drawl.
You could swear a smirk just ghosted across his lips... And with his legs beneath you, you can't just roll over there.
A figurative lightbulb dings to life then. "Dad?" you bark with growing irritation.
Locking his phone, he grants you his full attention. "Yes, honey?"
You shake your head with a sigh. "Pen."
Plucking it from the desktop, he hands it to you with a smile, accompanied by a mischievous wink.
Now being within the confines of his home, you'd think Robby would feel far more at ease. Instead, watching as you stare up at him waiting for direction, he feels suddenly out of his depth.
He doesn't want to squander this moment.
"Would you like to take a shower while I get started on dinner?" he asks with a thin smile.
"Oh," you say with a start. "Well, besides a change of scrubs in my bag—"
"You can wear something of mine," Robby suggests while pulling you along toward his bedroom.
"It'll be more like a nightgown," he remarks while holding up a dark blue t-shirt. "But at least you'll be comfortable."
You gingerly take the soft cotton garment from him and clutch it happily to your chest. "Thank you, dada."
His eyes shimmer in the low light the moon provides through the bedroom window that stands at his back, and he cups the base of your scalp. "You're welcome, sweetheart."
He dithers for a moment, then with the quiet scuffle of socked feet on hardwood floors, turns you around to lead you toward an awaiting shower.
Dining on a heaping plate of saucy, seasoned spaghetti—he made more than he should've in an effort to impress—and buttery slices of garlic toast, Robby watches from beneath his lashes and in-between bites of his meal as you gradually clean your plate.
He can't help the sense of satisfaction that settles upon him at the sight of you so safe and content in his home; at his table. Washed in his soaps, wearing his clothes, eating food he prepared for you.
He wants to ask if he's a good enough dad to you, but feels strange about it. Is he being ridiculous? Somehow immature? A man his age playing surrogate father to his work subordinate because he's that fucking desperate for a family...
It's not your problem to solve.
What if you've only kept on with this whole ruse because you're afraid of displeasing him?
Pushing the dish away, he finds that he's suddenly lost his appetite.
God, he's fucking sick.
"You okay?" you ask after a swift slurp of spaghetti, followed up by a generous sip of tinkling ice water.
Crossing his arms, you feel the energy of the room shift suddenly into that of tightened tension.
"Just lost my appetite," he rumbles.
You drop your fork and it clatters against the edge of your porcelain plate. "Did I...do something?"
He lowers his chin and shakes his head infinitesimally. "It's not you."
Your chin wobbles. "Do you want me to leave?"
Robby's eyes of darkened brown flit to yours. "No. No," he replies while leaning across the table toward you. "I'm just...getting in my head. I'm sorry, baby."
"About?" you ask warily.
"Are we—" he sighs and scrubs a calloused hand down his tired face. "Are we being foolish here? Playing at daddy-daughter like we have some right, or even valid reason to?" His eyes search yours for an answer. "You're not just going along with it to stroke my ego, right? Because it'd gut me to find out that the only reason you've let it ride like you have is to benefit me."
"Oh, Robby," you sigh dolefully.
Prying his strong arms apart, you lace your fingers between his and hold fast to him. "No. Not at all. I know sometimes it's been for the sake of playfulness. At first, did it feel a bit absurd? Sure. But not now. Now, just like you wanted, it brings me comfort and makes me feel...special. That you see me in such a way in return, I mean; want me to be that for you."
He rolls his head to the side and studies you. "Are you sure?"
Lifting his hand to your lips, you press a tender kiss to the back of it. "Yes, dad, I am."
Now consoled, his lip twitches in contentment. "C'mere," he commands with a slight jerk of his head and wave of his hand while pushing his seat back.
Rising from your own, you settle yourself sideways in his lap and circle his neck with your arms.
Sliding a palm between your legs, he encourages them apart with a careful push. "Spread your legs for me, baby."
Plopping one foot on the floor, you grant him requested access to what lies between your thighs. Pressing two fingers against already slick folds, he prods gently against your fluttering entrance.
Lying your head on his shoulder, your eyes gently close when Robby swipes a lubricated fingertip across your clit, followed by easing a single digit inside you. "That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs.
You card your fingers in his hair while clutching at the neck of his shirt with your other palm. "Y-yes, dada," you whimper.
"Good girl," Robby utters with a kiss.
Apparently work isn't the only place Robby sees fit to teach you at.
You feel like you're learning new things about your body right now. Like how if someone pushes down on the lower portion of your belly—right above your pubic mound—while fingering you with rapid abandon, it feels even more pleasurable than ordinary masturbation.
Interrupted only by the occasional swipe of his tongue across your swollen clit, you clutch helplessly at smooth sheets of dark grey which smell satisfyingly of Robby. His cologne: hints of pine and fresh rain, and soap: a hint of masculine musk.
His personal aroma is like that of the color evergreen. Homey, verdant, and wild.
Lifting your hips slightly, Robby pushes them back down while hammering his fingers away between your slick, stretchy walls.
"Ooooh my fucking God," you cry while letting your legs fall apart again.
"Hey," Robby pants while staring at you from beneath hooded lids. "Look at me, young lady."
Lifting your head, you force yourself up onto your forearms. "W-What?"
"I don't wanna hear foul language like that ever again. If you do say it again, I'm washing that mouth out with soap," he spits.
You throw your head back down against a fluffy pillow. "S-sorry, dada," you whine.
"It's alright, sweetheart," he coos. "Just know..." he says while swallowing the saliva that's pooling in his mouth. "That you're never too old for me to put you over my knee."
Your eyes roll back in your head. "Ah... Okay."
Pulling his fingers from your cunt, he snaps his hand, then flexes it while you start to whimper from the loss of sexual stimulation.
"Please," you blubber while digging your nails into your scalp.
"Fuckin' hand is cramping," he mutters. Easing his index and middle fingers from his non-dominant hand between your pulsing walls, he gets back to work.
"Y-You just cursed," you complain.
"Dad gets to set the rules," he states before kissing your clit with a loud smack. "Doesn't mean he's obligated to follow them."
Your head lulls to the side. "No fair," you whisper.
He chuckles. "Think you'll forgive me when you finally cum all over dada's fingers."
Cuddled against Robby's soft chest, you snuggle against warm, doughy skin that's smattered with curls of dark hair.
You love it here.
"There's something I've been thinking about," he mutters before pressing his lips to the crown of your head.
You hum in interest.
"I worry about you and burnout," he elaborates. "Some days I can tell are better than others, but... The ED is the one place where I feel like I have use; purpose. After, I come back here—to a silent, empty house where the only person I have to look after is myself."
You slide a leg between his and curl it around his calf.
"I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of. I mean, do you like living alone? Having everything resting squarely on your shoulders?" Robby questions while stroking your arm.
You yawn and plant a palm against his pec. "Are you...asking me to—"
"Move in," he interrupts. "At least temporarily to see how it works out." He lovingly kisses your brow. "I always assumed I'd have a wife one day. Kids. Maybe one of which would be a daughter." He tightens his arms around you like vines. "Seems those things found me in the end."
He chuckles darkly. "Two for one, apparently."
You smoosh your face against his chest. "Whatever dada wants," you say while readying yourself for sleep. "Dad gets."
He splays his palm against your naked back. "Thank you, honey."
You tilt your head back, and he brushes a kiss over your lips.
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thinking about jack and/or robby trying to talk you thru your orgasm and you're just like omg SHUT UP
ty for requesting :D i couldn't decide on jack or robby so i did both lol hope you like it!!
bug's three year celebration ♡
Jack Abbot can’t help himself.
He gets lost in the feeling of you on top of him, and in the white-hot adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The long shift had taken its toll on him. He’s usually a ticking time bomb under pressure, all calm when he needs to be, but bound to snap when the hard part’s over.
You, on the other hand, have a tendency to get mean. You get short with people, and a little snappy — not entirely unkind, but still losing yourself in the work. It takes some coaxing later on to find yourself again, for Jack to get you sweet again.
It was, in all honesty, the perfect concoction — you and Jack. He needed somewhere to let go, and you needed someone to tame you. You were good co-workers, and even better lovers.
“You love this shit, don’t you?” Jack pants from where he’s pressed between you and the unmade bed beneath him. He watches with a lidded gaze as you roll your hips over his lap, which is now coated in a fine layer of your glittering honey.
His strong hands hold tight to your waist as he shifts his hips, angling them slightly forward. It presses his stiff cock further inside of you, and makes your sensitive clit brush the coarse thatch of graying hair above his cock with each movement. Your broken moan swells in the quiet bedroom and makes his lips thin into a crooked smile.
“You just needed to get it out of your system, huh? Is that it?” he murmurs through labored breaths, though he isn’t looking for a response out of you. He knows you won’t give him one. You learned to tune out his incessant rambling a long time ago.
“That’s okay. C’mon. Take what you need, baby. Take it—”
“Shut up…” you huff bitterly, with your eyes shut tight.
Your nails dig crescent shapes into his pale skin as you brace yourself on his scruffy chest. The bed creaks beneath your bodies as you grind over his hairy thighs in rapid, rhythmic motions, hopelessly chasing your orgasm.
The need to cum swells within you, knotting somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach, but never snapping the way you need it to. Your body denies you the pleasure you so desperately crave and, for the first time ever, Jack’s fucked-out babbling isn’t helping.
“What is it, baby?” he mumbles in a gruff voice that borders on sympathetic. Even with your eyes closed, you can hear the distant smile in his voice. “You still mad at me, huh? Is that it? ‘Cause this pussy’s still obsessed with me, honey, I can tell—”
“Oh, my god— Shut up—”
You lift your left hand from his chest and cup it over his mouth, with your thumb resting under his stubbly chin. His eyes widen at the sudden act of dominance, and you feel his smiling curling beneath your palm.
You stopped being mad at him for calling you out during a particularly intense surgery a while ago, but his insinuation that you still were reignites the fire within you — a simmering that you can feel in your stomach, a tightening coil threatening to snap. You chase that feeling when it begins to rise within you once more, so close you can almost taste it.
Your heavy head tips back, and your mouth parts with a silent moan.
You feel Jack humming against your palm. “Mhm,” he mumbles in muffled praise. “That’s it. Take what you want—”
You press your hand tighter to his mouth, suffocating his words as your orgasm rushes through you. The warm feeling in your stomach spreads to your tingling limbs as your drooling pussy flutters with merciless aftershocks.
You melt on top of the hard body beneath you, hiding your face in his neck and pressing your racing heart against his. Your bare chests heave together with panted breaths. You feel his rumbling with a quiet laugh as his wide, softly calloused palms smooth over the expanse of your sweat-slick spine.
“Atta girl…” he praises lowly, between the wet kisses he presses to your shoulder. His scruff scratches your delicate skin and sends chills pebbling in his wake. “There she is… My sweet girl…”
The honeyed moment is shattered by your monotone voice, half-muffled in his neck, “Jesus Christ, do you ever stop talking—?”
His right hand parts from your hip to swat your ass.
Your whine gets buried in his neck then, too, as you writhe against him at the distant stinging feeling. His smile curls against your shoulder as you arch your back, pressing your ass further into his hand, silently begging him to spank you again — to tame you.
“See?” he hums into your skin. “You can be sweet for me, can’t you?”
—————
Michael Robinavitch is methodical to a fault.
He forgets, sometimes, that sex is more about the experience than the endgame. He gets so focused on making you feel good that he forgets that he can take his time — that sometimes you want him to, that sometimes you want to feel him for as long as you’re possibly able.
Your buzzing body is pressed between his broad one and the mattress below. Half of your face is buried in the pillow, while the other half is pressed into the side of Robby’s. His beard is coarse against your delicate skin as his mouth brushes the shell of your ear.
“Cum for me,” he commands in a whisper, panted breaths fanning over your burning skin. “C’mon, baby. You can do it. Cum for me—”
Your whine swells in the silent bedroom. You are completely at his mercy this way, smushed beneath his large body, with his scruffy chest flush against your back, and with his left hand curled under your thigh. The pads of his gently calloused fingers rub mercilessly at your clit as he punches into you in shallow thrusts, never pulling too far out of you, and forcing you to feel every ridge of his twitching cock.
“No, Robby,” you whine in protest.
“It’s okay,” he coos sympathetically in your ear. “I’m right here. You can cum for me—”
“Don’t want to,” you say in a broken whisper. “Not yet.”
Robby laughs, sharp exhales through his broad nose. You can feel his stomach shaking against the curve of your spine. “Not yet, huh?” he echoes. “When have you ever turned down an orgasm?”
You sigh when his thrusts slow to a stop, and his fingers still on your swollen clit. You melt into the mattress when the urge to cum dwindles like a snuffed-out flame.
“Don’t want it to be over too soon…” you confess in near-inaudible murmurs. “Want it to last…”
“We have all night, baby,” Robby murmurs into your ear, softening all over again, as his hips tilt forward and back again.
His cock presses further inside your velvet walls. Your cunt clenches around him despite yourself, suckling him in deeper. His mouth curls into a smile against your skin when a whimper sounds in your throat.
“Go ahead and cum. I know you need it. It won’t be the last time, either, I promise—”
“See? No—” you moan and lift your head from the pillow. Your bleary eyes open to glare half-heartedly at the man behind you. Robby’s deep brown eyes are squishy around the edges, far too soft for how sinfully he’s fucking you now. “Don’t talk like that. That makes it worse.”
“You don’t want me talkin’ to you?” he laughs breathlessly, almost hurt.
You lift your left hand from where it had previously been fisting the sheets below. You cup his cheek, and his scruffy beard scratches against the soft skin of your palm.
“I want you to stop coaching me,” you correct in a gentle murmur, lidded eyes darting back and forth between his darker ones.
His brows pinch. “What do you mean?”
“We’re off the clock, Robby,” you remind him with a soft smile. “You’re not my boss anymore. You don’t have to tell me what to do.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know,” you interject in a quiet coo, scratching gently at his brunette beard, growing slowly gray in patches. You smile when he leans instinctively into your hand. “But you’re allowed to take things slow. You know that?”
Robby melts against you at the reminder. He nods lazily against your palm.
“So let’s go slow,” you whisper, with a hint of a smile quirking at the edge of your mouth. “We got all night, remember?”
Robby grins back, weighed down with a palpable desire. “Hell yeah, we do.”
