Dutiful Wildcraft

Jack Abbot had never been a good sleeper.

With insomnia, nightmares, and his night shift schedule, it was rare he got what would be considered a restful night.

But he loved spending his nights with you. 

Tangled in soft sheets, his head heavy against your satin pillowcases, the weight of your thigh thrown over his waist like an anchor, his arm wrapped around you as if holding you could hold the night back, too. With you, he could steal a few uninterrupted hours. Enough to feel human again.

And when he couldn’t sleep, he watched.

It wasn’t invasive. Not to him. It felt reverent. Like taking inventory of something precious in the quiet—proof that you were here, safe, warm, real.

You looked peaceful when you slept. The world couldn’t reach you in that state. The crease between your brows smoothed away. Your lashes rested against your cheeks. Your lips fell slightly open on each slow, even breath instead of pressing into the frown you carried through the day.

Jack noticed everything.

Including the fact that you drooled in your sleep.

The first time it happened, you’d woken with horror and wiped at your mouth, mortified. You couldn’t believe you’d done that—drooled on him, on his chest, like you were a child.

He’d caught your wrist before you could spiral, lips tugging at the corner like he was fighting a smile.

“Hey,” he’d murmured. “It’s fine.”

Then, softer, like a confession: “It’s… kind of cute.”

What he didn’t say—what stayed locked behind his teeth—was how the sight of you like that did something to him. How the softness of your mouth, made softer still by the glossy lip mask you insisted on every night, made his thoughts go darker than they had any right to.

How a small, careless shine at the corner of your lips could turn his chest tight.

How, if he lightly pushed at your cheek, he’d get another little gush of saliva to come out, and it reminded him too much of the way you soak around his cock.

How it made him think things he shouldn’t, want things he didn’t have the right to take while you were asleep.

Most nights, he didn’t.

Most nights, he simply watched. The way your breath would catch and settle. The tiny movements you made—one shoulder shifting, your thigh adjusting against him, your fingers curling in the sheets like you were holding onto a dream.

Most nights, he waited for you to wake.

Because Jack Abbott knew exactly where the lines were.

And he did not cross them.

But tonight—

Tonight you’re wearing that tiny pink slip you like, satin and lace that doesn’t so much cover you as it does invite the imagination. Your hair is spilled over the pillow. Your mouth is parted, drool dribbling out the corner of your mouth.

Despite his old age, he had no problem getting hard for you. Not when you looked like this. 

So innocent.

So peaceful.

So dirty.

His gaze drops to your mouth again.

The ache hits, sharp and immediate.

His hand moves before he can talk himself out of it—sliding down beneath the sheet, gripping himself over the fabric of his boxers, biting back a moan to avoid waking you.

He stays still.

Quiet.

But the ache builds, insistent, throbbing against the confines of his boxers. Jack's hand moves in slow, deliberate strokes, fabric rasping softly as he grips his hardening cock. The sight of you—lips parted, that thin trail of drool glistening on your cheek—fuels the fire low in his gut. His breath comes heavier, chest rising and falling. He shouldn't. He knows that. But the need coils tighter, demanding more than just his own touch.

His free hand reaches out, tentative at first, fingers brushing your cheek. The skin there is warm, soft under his calloused palm. He traces the curve of your jaw, reverent, like he's memorizing the feel of you. Then, unable to stop, he dips his thumb into the corner of your mouth, sliding it past your lips into the wet heat beyond.

God, you're so warm inside. 

Slick and inviting, your tongue brushing unconsciously against the pad of his thumb. A soft hum escapes you in sleep, and your lips close around him instinctively, sucking lightly as if it's the most natural thing. You stir—just a shift of your head on the pillow, lashes fluttering—but your eyes stay shut, body lax and heavy with slumber.

The sensation shoots straight to his cock. Jack bites his lip, stifling a groan as he pumps his hand faster, the friction not nearly enough now. Your mouth on his thumb feels like a promise, a tease of what's building inside him. He watches, transfixed, as saliva pools around his digit, your cheeks hollowing slightly with each lazy pull. It's filthy, this innocent response from you, and it makes his balls tighten, pre-cum leaking into his boxers.

But it's not enough. 

Fuck, it's not even close. 

He needs more—needs the velvet slide of your tongue on something thicker, something that pulses with the same desperate rhythm as his heartbeat.

Caution fractures. 

The lines he's drawn for himself blur into nothing. With a shaky exhale, Jack shifts on the bed, cotton sheets whispering against his skin as he maneuvers carefully. He eases his thumb free, a string of your spit connecting it to your lips. He shoves his boxers down just enough, cock springing free—heavy, veined, the tip already slick and flushed.

He positions himself closer, knee digging into the mattress, one hand cradling the back of your head like you're fragile porcelain. The other guides his cock to your mouth, pressing the broad head against your lower lip. It parts easily, still wet from before, and he pushes in—slow, shallow at first, savoring the enveloping warmth.

Your mouth stretches around him, tongue flat and unmoving beneath. He thrusts gently, hand steady on your face, thumb stroking your cheek in soothing circles. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet room—soft glucks as he rocks forward, inch by inch, until half his length is buried in the slick cavern of your sleep-softened mouth.

You stir again, a murmur vibrating around his cock. Your eyes flutter open, bleary and unfocused, gazing up at him through the haze of interrupted dreams. Confusion clouds your features—brows knitting, a sleepy whine building in your throat—but he doesn't stop. 

Can't.

"Shhh, baby," he whispers, voice rough with restraint, thumb pressing lightly against your temple. "'S alright. Just—fuck—just needed your mouth."

Your eyes widen a fraction, the fog of sleep warring with the reality of him sliding deeper. You don't pull away, though—body still heavy, mind catching up slow. He feels your throat work around him, a tentative swallow that sends sparks up his spine. He thrusts again, gentle but insistent, hand cupping your jaw to keep you steady.

It takes time for you to adjust. Your lids droop, fighting the pull back to sleep, but your lips seal around his shaft, sucking weakly as he uses you. Saliva drips from the corners of your mouth, mixing with his pre-cum, soaking the pillow beneath. Jack's thoughts fracture—so good, so perfect, my girl—tenderness twisting with the raw urge to chase his release. He watches your face, the way your cheeks flush, the soft sounds you make as he fucks your mouth in shallow pumps.

The tension snaps without warning. His hips stutter, balls drawing up tight, and he spills—hot ropes of cum flooding your mouth. You swallow without hesitation, throat contracting around his tip, taking every pulse down greedily even as sleep tugs at you. He groans low, body shuddering, hand petting your hair as he rides it out.

When it's over, he eases out carefully, cock softening as he tucks himself away. You blink up at him, lips swollen and shiny, a dazed expression lingering on your face. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your mouth—tasting himself faintly on your tongue.

"What... what was that for?" you mumble sleepily, voice thick and slurred, eyes half-lidded as you search his face. There's a note of surprise there, soft and wondering—he's never taken you like this before, not while you're drifting in dreams.

Jack hums low in his chest, a rumble of contentment as he brushes his thumb over your lower lip, wiping away the last traces of saliva and cum. "Mmm, just... I like that you drool in your sleep, baby," he murmurs, voice warm and husky, settling back beside you with his arm draped over your waist. "Gets me every time."

You let out a soft, tired laugh, nestling closer into his side, the weight of your thigh over his hip again as sleep pulls you under once more. Jack watches you for a moment longer, the night feeling quieter, fuller, before he closes his eyes too.

~~~

A/N: I FEEL LIKE A FREAK, NO ONE LOOK AT ME! anyways, I drool in my sleep and this thought just hit me after I woke up with my cheek soaked in my own saliva LOL // as always, feedback is greatly appreciated, reblog and lmk what you think! <333