Mama raised a quitter, and a loser too

You’ve always been quick with your hands, quick on your feet, and quick to respond to a new emergency.

But you’re quiet. There’s a permanent weight on your shoulders, a subtle drag in your feet with every step you take, and there’s always a bit of gloom that seems to shroud your senses. Your hair is mussed and your eyes lack any glimmer to them, your entire color palette coming off as desaturated, greyer than it should be.

It’s not difficult to talk to you, really. You’re willing to gossip somewhat and pick up on a bit of teasing, and you’re not averse to spending time with your coworkers outside of the hospital, but anytime there’s nobody speaking to you, you’ve returned back to that tired stare.

Unlike most in the ER, the opinions you held on everyone were less rigid compared to your neighbor’s. It was rare of you to openly talk ill about somebody– usually, you opted for a formula closer to ‘they’re this.. But I see why’ or ‘it’s weird that they did this, but they had a reason to’. 

Empathetic would be a good way to describe you. Time and time again, you showcased a knack for quickly understanding the intimate nitty-gritty behind a patient’s snappiness or misery, and you worked closely with Kiara to get sadder patients the help they need.

But you are a little offputting. People aren’t used to talking to someone with a constant 4/10 mood like yours, and it usually takes people a touch longer to match rhythms with you. That said, you’re never impossible to talk to unless you’re having a downright horrible day. You’re included in plans with Mel and the WhitSantos duo from time to time, you’ve been a much-needed listener more times than you can count, and you know that there’s a sentiment among the night crawlers that you’d be a valuable hand for them. Which, you have been on the occasional picked-up shift.

So, while people let you do your own thing for the most part, Dennis thinks that you’re one of the best things that could’ve graced this ER.

He thinks you’re easy to talk to. He doesn’t feel pressured to act around you, knowing damn well you wouldn’t give a shit if he came off as lame (he knows he already does, but he tries to save some face…). He worries, sometimes, that you don’t like him, but his worries are soothed away every time you accept an invitation to hang out with him.

Your days, emotionally, are pretty bland. You’ve been working in emergency medicine long enough to where you’re not really phased by a lot anymore, and whatever’s left that does phase you isn’t usually enough to throw you off your beat. The whole atmosphere within the workplace is like a warm mist for you to walk through– uncertain and sometimes hard to navigate, but comforting.

But you could say that about yourself in general.

Therapy wasn’t an activity you really concerned yourself with unless you were really worried about the thoughts tumbling around in your head. Admittedly… you should care more about it. The fog lingers, a constant shadow over everything you do pervading every new event and interaction that happens to you. There’s a fatigue that’s seeped deep into the marrow of your bones, impossible to get rid of, sticking to you like tar.

You know it isn’t healthy. You know it’s not healthy when you bite and pick at the skin around your fingers until it bleeds, when you spend too much time pulling back a hangnail just for it to peel too far, making your finger throb with heat and pain as it drips with blood, still hot and stinging days later when you’re trying to focus on a patient.

You know it’s unwise when you press another finger against where it hurts, making it flare up further, the pain red-hot as it shoots up the nerves in your forearm, burning tracks that become more and more painful under your skin until you finally let go, unable to bear it further.

You know it’s not good when you do it at work, the blue latex of your medical gloves hiding the injuries around your fingernails, the press of one digit against another so subtle that nobody notices it. Your little fidgeting seems obsolete and harmless to the people around you, the unmoving notes in your face calling no attention to it.

You know you should stop when you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips hours later, hot and distracting, demanding your attention when you’re pulling your gloves off to clock out and go home.

If you really need it, you’ll reach out and ask for help. You’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again.

Someone who loves to help you, even when you don’t outright ask for it, is Dennis.

He’ll find you naturally after a shift, falling into step with you on your path to your locker. He doesn’t dangle unnecessary drama in your face or comment on how tired you are, poking gentle fun at the way you longingly gaze into the ER before you step out- ‘you’d live here if they let you’- and clapping a gentle hand against your shoulder when you finally huff out a laugh at one of his jokes.

You’re more than satisfied with just letting him talk, happy to sit there in silence as his voice steadily flows into your mind, even happier to exist in peaceful quiet with him. 

Nobody pays it any mind when you exit the Pitt at his side, knowing that he’s got a way of hooking you into talking to him that not a lot of people ever really master. He’ll drive you home (in your car), catching you up on whatever he thinks you might want to hear or finishing up conversations you two might not have had the chance to wrap up earlier. 

He’s still timid to a degree, but his growth in both experience and self-esteem since he came to the Pitt hasn’t escaped anyone’s eye. He’s more confident and sure of himself, more experienced with his words and how to place them, his eyes sharper than they used to be. You in particular have spent a couple of nights with him on your mind even before your relationship with him got as strong as it is now.

Perhaps it’s you projecting on him, or some kind of envy, but seeing him grow so tall and strong makes something ache in your chest. Truth be told… you hadn’t had a lot of faith in him after the disasters of his first shift. He’d come off as someone who took negativity too close to his heart, and you’d been ready to voice your condolences once he inevitably broke under the stress of the ER. 

He hadn’t, however. It made you so happy to be wrong about him.

You know he’s still not perfect– nobody is, obviously– and you know he still has some lingering problems, but he’s slowly, carefully climbing out of it. As he does that, his attention’s turned on you. Depression isn’t an unfamiliar feeling to him, and while he’s still facing his own demons, he wants you to know that you can lean on him the same way he’s leaned on you before.

Maybe to you, he’s just someone who buzzes around you more insistently than you think he should, the honest boy you screw around with from time to time. To him, you’re somewhat of a reminder of the good parts of home. Like a lamb who would stay up later than the rest of the litter to get some extra attention from him– and sleep better when he was the one to lull them to rest.

He doesn’t mind the mess of your apartment, navigating the clothes scattered haphazardly with a quiet ease that only comes from having been here a million times. So what if your home is a little unruly? You obviously know where everything is and whatever needs a place has a place.

“Are you sure Trinity’s okay?” you ask one night, trudging into your place, the brunette right behind you. “I feel like she’s been more irritable lately… I’m worried about her.” “She hasn’t said anything to me,” Dennis sighs in return, toeing off his shoes at the door and tucking them against the wall, the soles of his sneakers clunking slightly against the trim. “But I honestly doubt she’d tell me.” You huff out a chuckle, the sound dry and unamused in reality. “Figures.” Whatever smile you gain from your laugh drops quickly from your face, and you trudge deeper into the apartment, shrugging off your jacket and tossing it away without another glance. You’re tired, your feet and your back hurt, and you need to wash your hair. You’d spilled a considerable amount of blood on yourself today, and thankfully, you’d been allowed to use the shower behind the hospital to wash off. That hospital soap had not only irritated and stung at your damaged cuticles, it had left your skin feeling dry and tacky. You’ve wanted nothing more than to get home, slather yourself in lotion, and pass out. But you had company tonight, and you weren’t sure if you were happy about it or not.

Dennis’ gaze follows you, catching on immediately to the fact that you clearly didn’t have enough energy to take a full shower. He knew you were already cleaned from the hospital shower, but you could at the very least take a cold rinse… His hand soon finds your shoulder once he catches up to where you’d disappeared into the kitchen, his gaze only slightly disapproving when he sees that you’ve already reached for the tequila.

“Why don’t you go shower first?” he suggests quietly, careful not to aggravate the headache he’s suspecting you might have. “Just while you have some energy left.” A heavy sigh leaves you, your eyes laid on the bottle of alcohol in front of you. You need to wash your hair for sure, but your arms are so tired that even the thought of holding them up to wash and dry your hair makes them pre-emptively ache. Another day wouldn’t hurt. Some of that mousse on your bathroom counter and it would look good-as-second-day-hair. “Cmon,” Dennis prompts gently, squeezing your shoulder. “I can make something quick for us to eat while you’re in there.” “Okay,” you mutter reluctantly, turning and trudging off towards the bathroom, your shoulder weighing low like something heavy sits on each side. Your socked feet make minimal sound against the tiled floor, switching to the faintest, tiniest noise once you move onto the carpet of your living room. You disappear into the bathroom, the light flicking on and flooding the space in front of it before the door closes, the lock clicking louder than you feel it should. You’d gotten a new door handle after the last one had broke in some ridiculous accident- you don’t even remember what happened, really, you just know it involved one of your friends- and the new lock grated on your nerves on the bad days. Oh, well. It’s just a lock. Not the end of the world. Cool water soon cascades down your shoulders and back, your head slumped against the wall as you take a minute to just stand there and let some of your weariness be washed away. Some of the heat that’s been sitting in your feet and your fingers eases under the stream, the consequences of standing and walking all day reflecting in how your blood pools more easily than before. A good pair of compression socks would probably fix you right up.

***

Ten minutes of lazy scrubbing later, you’re stepping out of the shower, your bathroom rug soft under your feet while you towel yourself off. Distantly, you catch the smell of some kind of pasta- carby, easy on the stomach… hopefully, it’ll give you some more energy for tomorrow’s shift.

You’re padding out on quiet feet after another few minutes, having tugged on an old shirt and raggedy sweatpants. 

Just as you’d expected, Whitaker is plating some simple cheesy pasta- a twinge of guilt strikes you. You’ve hardly got any good ingredients, what if this was the only thing he could scrape together because of how ungodly empty your fridge is?

He’s put away your liquor. “I don’t think I’m feeling chatty right now,” you mutter apologetically as you sit down at your dinner table, nodding a small thanks when Dennis puts your plate in front of you- it looks good. You hope it tastes that way too. Everything’s been tasting differently lately. Perhaps you were just getting older and your tastebuds weren’t as potent as they used to be, or maybe your brain chemistry was changing from the constant weight it held onto. You choose to believe the former. Any good doctor knows that the tastebuds are their best right at birth, slowly losing their effectiveness with the long, tedious process of aging through life. Thankfully, it’s pretty difficult to mess up a simple dish like this. It tastes fine, and the two of you eat in silence. A distant thought blinks somewhere in your mind that you’re going to be craving this dish in a few days.. You try to savor it now while you have the chance.

Finding yourself standing next to Dennis a little while later, helping him was the dishes, you’re mostly spaced out until he finally breaks the silence, the sound of his voice startling you back to the waking world. “Could I wash your hair for you?” he’s saying, casting an almost nervous glance at you. “That shift was rough and.. I want to help however I can.”

You pause.

“Okay,” you say after a second. “Like, in the shower, or-?”

He shrugs a bit, chuckling to himself. “We could do it in the sink. I doubt you’d want to turn on the shower again, and we’d use less water..”

“Okay. That, um, sounds good.”

“We don’t have to if it’s not something-” he starts, sounding a little uncertain now.

“No, I want to,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s just not something I’ve ever thought about before.”

You head off to grab the right soaps, coming back to find the dishes quickly completed, leaving the sink free for you. Dennis has already moved a chair in front of the sink- after setting your shampoo and conditioner down on the counter, you sit down on the chair, settling into a comfortable position, and lean your head back into the sink.

The initial touch of water to your head is already warm- the water’s already been heated from your dishwashing just a few minutes prior. It sinks quickly through your hair to your scalp, Dennis pulling the gooseneck faucet around to wet the entirety of your mane.

“Is this a good temperature?” Dennis asks after a moment. He’s already pretty confident that he’s not burning or freezing you judging by your lack of complaint, but he wants to make sure. “Mhm,” you murmur, letting your eyelids sink. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he hums in reply, his fingers beginning to work through your hair. His fingertips massage your scalp gently, firm and confident against your head. 

This is exactly what you needed, you think to yourself, showing no reaction when Dennis squeezes your cold shampoo gel into your locks. Something is nagging at your attention, however, a realization pulling you out of your sweet bliss.

“I just realized I never asked you,” you say, opening your eyes again. “How was your day?”

He sighs, deftly starting to work the soap into your hair, lather and bubbles appearing under his palm and sliding over his skin where it meets your head. “Could’ve been better,” he mutters halfheartedly. “I don’t think anybody had much better of a day than you did.”

“I guess,” you reply with that same tired tone that’s overtaken his voice. “It is how it is.”

The two of you fall into another pleasant silence, your eyes closing as Dennis continues to work soap into your hair, rinsing it out after he’s satisfied that he’s gotten every strand. Your conditioner feels lighter than the shampoo as it’s spread onto your head- he applies it less liberally this time.

He’s warm where his waist lingers next to your shoulder. You can feel it radiating off of him, even if only distantly. You watch him step away, wiping the water off his hands on a nearby towel, his body turning to lean against the kitchen counter.

“What time is it?” You ask quietly, your eyes on him.

His eyes meet yours for a second before he looks over at your microwave clock. “Almost 11. Why?” You sit up slightly, careful not to drip soapy water on the floor, carefully keeping your head over the sink. “Stay the night.”

A pause. Guilt sinks deep into his features, and you can see in the way that he hesitates that he doesn’t want to say no, but he doesn’t want to intrude.

“Please.”

He can’t find enough confidence to reject the offer, especially not when it’s one he’s been quietly hoping for this whole time.

“If.. that’s what you want,” he says eventually. “I can sleep on the couch, or-” “My bed is big enough for two,” you interrupt, surprised momentarily by your confidence. You don’t let it show on your tired face, however… you’d sleep like a baby if you had a warm body like Dennis’ next to yours.

Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. You don’t do a lot of admitting anything, really.

“You’re not bothering me by spending the night, Dennis.” Your voice is stronger, more assertive than it’s been all day, and you can see the way it makes something in him falter. The words you choose are a calculated sting: if the roles had been reversed, you’d be feeling like a burden.

As far as he’s come with growing a backbone, he’s still got some of the way to go.

He swallows thickly. “Okay.”

There’s an imbalance to how he moves after that, hands moving with less certainty once he goes to rinse the conditioner out of your hair, trying to ignore how his heart is suddenly thudding loudly in his chest, hoping silently that you don’t hear it.

He watches you towel your hair just enough to where it’s not dripping wet anymore, but still pretty damp, but he doesn’t dare help you when you wring it out into the sink. Admittedly, his body doesn’t have the energy to be all buzzed and jittery like he would be had it not been 11pm after a grueling shift, but he can still feel some faint pins and static in the edges of his limbs, and he can feel that buzzing nervousness thrumming through his veins when you finally head him to your bedroom.

“You can change in the bathroom,” you say, handing him a shirt and a pair of shorts, pushing him towards the tiled room on the other half of your space. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me tonight, but I don’t think I want you watching me change.” As strained as it is, a small chuckle leaves him, his teeth flashing in an accidental grin. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “For sure.”

Maybe he feels a little bit more at ease by the time he’s actually climbing into bed with you, sticking strictly to the side that you’re not on, not wanting to invade your space.

“Goodnight,” he hears your voice say to him as you click off the last light in the room, plunging everything into darkness. “Sleep tight, Dennis.”

“‘Night,” he murmurs back, turning onto his side, his back to you, breathing out a careful breath. Finally allowing his eyes to close, his waking senses slowly succumb to sleep’s trance, letting him slip into relaxation believing that he won’t wake up curled with you tomorrow morning.

He’s wrong, obviously, but he doesn’t need to know that yet. All he needs to know is that he’ll sleep incredibly knowing that he was able to help you feel better tonight.

“Oh- Unh- oh, fuck !” Your breath comes in small, hoarse huffs, muffled by the mattress and soft pillows Jack has your face smushed against. His large hand pins your head down with ease, pushing you slightly into the cushioning with every rough thrust, creating a pleasant rocking sensation. You can feel a drop run down the back of your thigh from the generous amount of lube Jack had used, tickling you just the faintest bit but going unnoticed– you’re more focused on how his cock pistons in and out of you, firm and deep. His tip hits your prostate head-on with each deep plunge. The skin of your knees has undoubtedly molded to be coarse and textured from the towel placed between you at the start.

“What was that?” Jack’s voice drawls somewhere above you, a huffed-out laugh making your eyes flutter. You loved how cocky he sounded when he fucked you– it’s something you think you could very well have for breakfast, lunch, and dinner forever without getting tired of it. “I didn’t quite catch that. Say that again, sweetheart.”

“So good, Daddy,” you moan out, louder this time.

“Good,” Jack murmurs, adjusting his grip on your head, pulling a bit of your hair in the process; and hissing in surprised pleasure at how it makes you clench around him. “Thought you might be tapping out.”

“Mmhhnm, no, daddy..” you moan out, shaking your head as best as you can under his crushing grip. You’re drooling at this point, your spit collecting into a thick, dark puddle on the (formerly) clean pillows sticking to your face, cool air hitting the damp residue on your face every time Jack pulls his hips back. It’s delicious, all of it, but you know that it could be better… you arch your hips up further, the motion strained and a bit shaky. You’re sweaty all over, smelling like nothing other than sex and musk, and your ears have been ringing since your second orgasm. Your muscles burn from the varying positions you’ve been placed into, the aching like a painfully sweet acid.

“More,” you mumble, pushing yourself back on his cock with a pathetic whimper.

“More?” his voice drawls above you, the weight of his hand pushing you down further as he leans down to get a better look at your smushed face, his cock continuing to pound into you. His eyes glitter in the dim light that reaches his face, everything other than the shine faintly obstructed by fabric and shadow.

“Yuhs, please, daddy–”

The rest of your sentence is rudely cut off by a sharp yank of your hair, pulling your head up and earning a half-surprised half-pleased yelp out of you. Sluggish, your fuzzed senses distantly pick up Jack’s chuckle, low in a way that rakes over your eardrum in a way that makes you shudder. “You take what you get, sweetheart. Understand?” Even with his words, the sweat formed on his temple gives away that he’s having a hard time resisting the way your tight hole keeps sucking him deeper and deeper. “It’s rude to ask for more.”

“But I want more,” You whine, your voice ticked up in pitch at the new ache formed in your lower back– a result from the way you’ve been twisted up beyond what your spine comfortably allows. “I just- Nnh- feel like you could do, ah, better…”

Goosebumps sprout on your skin at the sharp wave of irritation you feel emanate off of Abbot, his eyes darkening as he leans in, breath hot in your ear with every burst of air that leaves his lungs in sharp huffs. His hand comes down to grasp firmly at your throat, his thumb and pointer pressed the slightest bit over your pulse points, forcing a fresh dose of vertigo into your system once your body recognizes the slowing of blood to your brain. His hips continue to slap firmly against your ass, his cock still hitting that sweet spot inside you, his rhythm purposeful and unchanging to torment you.

“You’d better watch your mouth when you speak to me,” his voice growls into your ear. “You’ve been so good all night, I don’t want to punish you, love.”

Too dazed to keep being bratty, you just close your eyes and nod faintly, managing a dry swallow under the weight of Jack's strong hand. The motion isn't enthusiastic, and it certainly lacks strength behind it, but it gets your point across. "Yes, Daddy."

Your voice doesn't sound any stronger.

His hand around your throat loosens, thankfully, the air you greedily suck in tasting sweet in your rediscovered freedom. He eases you back down to the pillows, brushing hair out of your face once you’ve touched back down fully. Blood rushing to your head, a thick heat spreads under your skin, almost burning in its intensity– spirals spin blankly in your eyes, your fingers clutching at the sheets once again.

“M’Sorry, daddy…”

“It’s okay, Pumpkin. I know how impatient you can get. Just don’t let it happen again, mm?”

You don’t realize how close you are to cumming until that sparking in your nerves makes your blood run cold, giving you only enough time to tense in warning before your legs start to shake, your muscles spasming beyond your control. Thick, creamy come spurts out of your cock in waves, painting the towel under you with sloppy strokes of white, the sight accompanied by unrestrained whines and gasps. Jack slows down to watch how your thighs tremble and how your release drips from you, his eyes lidded with a heavy satisfaction.

“Mmmn… Thank you, Daddy..”

“Not so bratty now, are you?”

Jack Abbot is a heavy sleeper, but not in the traditional sense.

You’d moved in with your boyfriend a little over 5 months ago, and you’d learned very quickly that he sleeps like a firefighter’s horse when it’s next to another person. Your warmth would mingle and mix with his over the night, your nearby presence soothing him greatly, keeping him deep in dreamless, refreshing sleep.

You’d also learned that he was a bit of a cuddler. He didn’t flaunt it or say it out loud, but many colder nights would come to an end with your bodies pressed against one another, practically welded together on the coldest winter nights. You preferred to have a cooler room when you slept, and he didn’t.. But you being next to him more than made up for it.

Mostly, he slept without disturbance or movement. You tended to move about a bit more, but not to the extent that it woke him up. Whenever it was that he did move, you’d sleep through it as well. Which, every now and then, left you with a crushing surprise in the late day when you did wake. It was also how you’d woken today after an active sleep.

Your head is sandwiched between the bed and his pecs. Usually, this would be an ideal situation, if not for the fact that he’s pretty heavy from all that muscle. His heartbeat pounds loudly in your ear. Your face is at a bit of an odd angle, your cheek smushed against the mattress and your nose half-buried in the sheets, and your eyes are having trouble opening all the way. The rest of his torso is pinning down one of your shoulders, and you’re not sure you could move at all without waking him.

Or at all, really.

He smells so nice. Just a little musky, a little sweaty in the summer heat despite the fan spinning on the ceiling… you inhale deeply, trying to catch as much of it as you can. His scent mixes with the base smell of wood polish and soy candle wax that permanently marks the room, and your eyes slip closed in momentary enjoyment. You’d live here forever, if you could. Anywhere in the world you could be, and you’d choose to be next to Jack.

It’s too warm, unfortunately. Your lower tolerance for heat, combined with his warm, slightly damp skin literally trapping you in the already-warm bed is chipping away at your patience. Being aware of his sweat is making you aware of your sweat, likely far worse than his. ‘Smelling bad’ is not something you want to be used to describe you.

“Jackie, baby,” you mumble sleepily, your voice muffled by the sheets. “Can you move, please?”

You wait 5 seconds for an answer of any kind, which quickly turns into 10, then 15… by the time it reaches 30 seconds, it’s easy to recognize that your words hadn’t broken past his unconsciousness.

It can’t possibly be this hard to wake an army vet, you think to yourself, disgruntled. Moving somewhat blindly, you take your free arm and try to lightly tap his shoulder. That’s the goal- but with how you’re stuck here, you can only hope that the skin you swat at isn’t that of his face.

He jumps slightly, the sudden feeling jolting him out of his sleep with a bit of a start. He doesn’t immediately see you in the dark and he doesn’t recognize the hard planes on your face trapped under his chest, so he props himself up on one of his elbows- giving you an escape as he looks around blearily for you. You pull yourself out from under him, disrupting his balance; he gives you a surprised look, his eyebrows raising with a sleepy inhale. 

“How long have you been down there?” he asks, his voice rough. His blue eyes follow your movements, following the grooves created by the muscles of your back, eventually sliding up to meet your face. “A while, I’m assuming.” One of your hands comes to run over your face, rubbing your eyes briefly. “My face is all hot.” “M’sorry,” Jack murmurs, reaching out to gently stroke your shoulder, squeezing gently. Sitting up, a few joints pop in his back, and he breathes out stiffly at the feeling. “I didn’t mean to crush you.”

You grumble unintelligibly in a reply, earning a small quirk out of the veteran’s lips. Scooching closer, he comes up behind you– he’s always had the advantage of waking up faster than you– and starts to knead gently at the firm planes of your trapezius, the calloused pads of his strong fingers pressing into your back. “Don’t be mad at me, honey. It was an accident.” He won’t tease you for it, but he loves the way his fingers make your shoulder sag and melt into his warm, loving touch. “So grumpy,” he mutters, pressing into a firmer knot. “You’re like an old cat. Like one of those old scruffy ones with a mean mug.”

“Mm,” you grumble, stretching your shoulders forward to give Jack more room to work. An itch has appeared on your back– right in between the blades. “Lower, please.” He huffs softly but obliges, switching from kneading to scratching lightly at your skin with the blunt of his nails, raking the hard keratin down your back with light, careful movements. “All huffy but you want me to scratch your back like this. Make up your mind.”

You don’t reply, so he keeps scratching at your back, hitting each place he knows you want scratched one at a time. Slowly and carefully, his hands make their way down from your shoulderblades to your ribs and soon down to the small of your back, scratching rhythmically all the way. It’s almost enough to lull you right back to sleep; your eyes are once again beginning to droop, the cool air of the room slowly bringing you down from the too-high temperature you’d woken up in, and Jack’s steady presence behind you easing your nervous system. The patterned, repetitive movements his nails take over your body is like honey in a cup of tea, and your head droops forward just slightly.

If you died here, you’d die a happy man. This is all life needs.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” he murmurs again, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder. His hand lays flat against your back, the warmth of his palm making your heart twist in your chest. “Will you forgive me?” Your eyes crack open faintly. “Maybe,” comes your answer. “I’m not sure yet.”

He hums quietly. “Don’t be like that.” Moving closer, he tucks himself up right behind you, your body slotting against his like you were made for it. His thighs bracket yours, and his arms move  to slip around your waist. “What can I do?” He’s leaning into your little game– one you hadn’t recognized that you were setting up. “I dunno,” you mutter, playing dumb, tilting your head slightly. “What can you do?”

You can feel a little hot puff of air against your neck, followed up by the gentle press of his lips. Feeling the way you straighten slightly at the feeling, his hands running over the coarse hair trailing down from your navel. “I can think of a couple things,” his voice purrs quietly beneath your ear, a hand flattening over your thigh, squeezing the meat there. “Do you have any ideas?”

You can’t stay mad at him when he’s so nice to you. “Hmm… no, I don’t.” You smirk, looking at him over your shoulder. “Care to show me yours?” A few more kisses are peppered over the skin of your neck, his nose brushing against you gently. You couldn’t have gotten luckier with you got as your boyfriend, you decide right there. This is the best man ever, and you’d die on that hill. His lips press a spot right under your ear, and your eyes flutter shut for just a moment, your head tilting to give him more room.

His other hand slides down to palm you through your sweatpants, his lip quirking slightly when he feels that you’re already half-hard. Kneading and squeezing in a way he knows you like, he leans back, already knowing how you’ll adjust your position– his eyes watch your every movement when you lean back with him and spread your legs, getting comfortable on the edge of the bed.

He’s soon hooking a thumb into your waistband, tugging your pants down just enough to free you– his eyes follow the bob of your cock as it springs free, a sight he’s seen dozens of times now. He’ll never grow tired of it. “Look at you,” he murmurs, taking your girth into his hand and stroking slowly, listening to the way your breath catches in your throat. “So pretty.” He comes up to smear the bead of precum forming at your tip, swirling it around before lifting his hand before your face.

“Spit,” he commands.

You spit into his palm, a string of saliva joining you briefly to him, quickly broken by his hand coming back down to your hard cock.

“Attaboy.”

His hand slides slowly from base to tip, swirling again around your glans, watching the pre continue to seep and leak in clear, shiny drops from your slit. He works it down over your shaft, mixing it with your spit, spreading it around with the steady flow you produce until you’re fully slicked up. The constant slide and pull brought on in the process has you leaning heavily back against him, your eyes closed, grateful moans and sighs leaving your throat every now and then. Once he’s satisfied with how slippery you are under his hand, he finally takes you into a proper grip, clenching his fist around you the way he knows you like it, a smirk gracing his thin lips when you groan loudly and obscenely. It’s the best he’s given you so far after so much focus on working you up to his satisfaction.

“That’s good,” you mumble, brushing your lips against his ear in a half-assed attempt at a peck. He huffs out a little laugh. “Yeah?” You sigh, exasperated, the sound having a little whine tied in with it. “Well, you could go a little faster. I might– ah– forgive you if you do.”

“Bossy,” he chides gently, but he does as you asked, speeding up the movements of his hands, rewarded by a pleased breath spilling from your lips. Hips beginning to cant up into his grip, a groan leaves you, the sound right next to his ear.

“Mhm, yeah, just like that, baby- nnh.” 

He adds a slight twist to his stroke– a loud moan comes out unbidden, your head falling back against his shoulder. Fucking into his fist, your brows knitting together, the heat in your belly suddenly flaring much brighter, creeping up your spine. Fingers coming up to tangle in his salt-and-pepper curls, your eyes shut, your lashes brushing against his cheekbone. “Ah- Jackie, I’m-” It’s the only warning you can get out before the net holding it all in snaps and lets everything go. With a cry, you come hard and fast- making an obscene mess with thick spurts all over your cock, his hand, and a bit of your tummy. The groan that reaches his ears is completely blissed out, more than happy to drink it all in, and he knows that everything feels like you’re listening through a blanket of cotton.

“Geez, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, his voice warm and buttery to your liquified senses. “Even when I really get you going, you don’t cum like this. Look at the mess you’ve made.” His clean hand pushes up your head slightly, letting you take in the sight. He watches the way your gaze slides over it all- from your softening cock in his hold, to your gloss splattered on his skin… sitting up a bit, you tug his hand to your mouth to lick yourself off of him. Lips wrapping around his fingers, the slide of your tongue tickles him on the way up, collecting the mess and taking it away with a greedy swallow. “Didn’t know I was making you into a slut,” he murmurs thoughtfully, his eyes locked on your face. “Lucky me.”

Rolling your eyes, you drop his hand and move to pull away– but he keeps you there, reaching out for the tissues before you can. Wiping you up, he tosses them into the trash, finally pressing a final kiss to your jaw. He takes extra care to ease your head back down onto his shoulder. “So, do you forgive me?”

“Mmm… dunno yet.”

An exasperated huff leaves him, and he shakes his head subtly. His clean hand smoothes up and down your arm, easing your overheated skin.

“I guess I’ll have to earn it, then.”

you’re laying in bed with your boyfriend, watching a movie; part of some series that you’d both seen before but never got tired of. Truthfully, you haven’t been paying attention for a good while, your mind instead opting to focus on the way Langdon’s fingers move over your perked tdick, and the way his brows are knit with a stern focus. You knew too well that he was running over the checklist of what he should be seeing and feeling, checking for sensation, stimulating bloodflow to reduce any risk of complications.

It was on his advice that you’d started injections rather than using the gel- he’d actually strongly discouraged the use of DHT gel, stating that it would be too hassling for you to get it monitored so closely due to the product not being FDA approved in the US.

Your eyes follow the nimble movements of his nimble fingers and the little circles and pats he executes over your dick, and you let out a pleased groan when he spreads your wings to check for dryness and atrophy.

“Looks perfect,” Frank murmurs, almost to himself. While you were not yet weeping, there was a considerable buildup of arousal at your center, which was now spread over his fingers. He sits up, absently licking the slick off his digits, looking down at you.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he says, coming down to press a kiss to your shoulder. “Everything’s growing perfectly and looking like it should.”

He can’t hold back a smile at the thanks you utter back to him, garbled through your sleepiness. This movie had a tendency to make your eyes droop. Settling to be more comfortable between your legs now that his examination was over, his fingers spread you open, making room for his tongue swiping between your wings.

A moan lazily leaves your throat, and you take a second to readjust as well, getting comfortable on the large bed you share with Frank.

“Getting so big,” he murmurs against your sex, flicking and swirling his tongue around your tip. “So big, so delicious..” his lips close around your dick, his groan reaching your ears, the movie now forgotten.

“Feels good,” You mumble out, eyes lidding and hips bucking gently. “Don’ stop, baby.” “Wouldn’t stop for the end of the world,” Frank moans in response, his grip on your thigh tightening, his thumb digging into the underside of your leg. You’d never met a man or woman who got pussydrunk quite like Frank did, and you loved it. This thick, glossy haze would come over his eyes, and he’d eat you like a starved man placed before a bountiful feast.

Since moving in with Santos, Whitaker had mostly kept to himself. Any urges that had come up in the first months had been pushed down, embarrassment coming over him at even the thought of being caught jerking off. If he absolutely had to, he dealt with it quickly and quietly.

As time went on and the two got more and more comfortable with living together, he’d grown more comfortable with the space. She went out more often than he did– he was usually invited, but sometimes chose to stay home– granting him some valuable alone time where he could breathe freely. He’d started to try and time his Testosterone injections closer to a time he knew she would be busy or gone, trying to make it easier to peacefully deal with the influx of hormones the shot brought on.

Tonight was one of those nights. Trinity was out with a couple of friends and wasn’t expected to be back until much later, giving Dennis ample time to do whatever he pleased. He’d done his weekly shot yesterday, the increase to his libido lingering insistently, nagging at his attention as he sorts this week’s load of laundry. 

By the time he’s started the second load, both the washer and the dryer running, he’s really fucking horny. His thighs are clenching and rubbing together while he’s trying to focus on getting the wash settings right, his movements unsteady. Sitting down is like a reward, his fingers immediately going down past the waistband of his boxers (he’d tossed his shorts into the wash) to circle the tip of his tdick. A groan spills from his lips, his head falling back against the wall at that first touch, eyes lidding.

“Fuck,” Dennis mumbles, feeling his walls clench instinctively, the teeniest bit of pressure making him want so much more. He forces himself to take a deep breath, taking some restraint to not go too hard right off the bat, forcing his fingers to move in controlled circles over the head of his cock. 

A steady, easy pace is found pretty quickly, Dennis’ wrist falling into a slight twist of back and forth. His free hand pushes his shirt up just enough to get it out of the way, the breathability of the cotton preventing him from overheating so soon– jerking off after a shot could get him real hot and sweaty– more testosterone makes a man run hotter than a woman by default. 

He’s totally fucking soaked, he realizes. His boxers are damp and hot, the air around his hands warm and humid. He’s slick with arousal and he knows his fingers are gonna get all pruny within a few minutes. Sweat is forming on his hand and making it slippery, his skin growing too warm, forcing him to pause just long enough to tug his underwear off and toss it in the hamper nearby. Cunt clenching slightly from the rush of cool air, he adjusts his position to keep going.

Little ‘unh, unh, ah-’s spill from his lips as he keeps going, his body growing hotter and sweatier– no doubt sweating off his deodorant, judging by the perspiration he feels rolling down his sides– his legs spreading wider, his pre thickly coating his fingers, his free hand pulling back the hood of his perked tdick.

It stops feeling as good after a while. Groaning in frustration, he squirms slightly, trying to find an angle that feels better, unfortunately failing. In all his wiggling, his foot rests against the still-running dryer, the heat and vibration of the newly-entered spin cycle catching his attention. 

Gingerly getting up, he climbs up onto the dryer with wobbly legs, cautiously straddling the edge- the tip of his cock touches the painted metal, the vibrating metal beneath him making him jerk away in anticipation.

Glancing towards the closed door like he expects Trinity to barge in, Dennis sucks in a few anxious breaths, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. This is ridiculous, he thinks to himself. I could just hump a pillow and call it a day.

But deep down, he knows that some measly pillow won’t do shit for him. He needs something firm, something with structure, and his wrist needs a break.

Carefully, he lowers his hips down onto the dryer, slowly planting his weight. A small “Ah…” leaves him, his eyes closing in bliss as his hips slowly begin moving back and forth, rolling and grinding his achingly hard cock against the warm metal. His arousal lubes up the rounded corner, his hips rolling easier, the friction going straight to his nerves. Biting his lip, Whitaker leans his head back, nails digging into whatever he’s using to keep his balance. “F-auh,” he moans, moving faster, grinding firmer against the running appliance. That familiar heat is building up low in his gut again, and he abandons making noise to focus on chasing that high. Faster, harder, closer, he keeps grinding, his movements quickening. The vibrating dryer feels heavenly. Every sensation occupying his senses keeps him to distracted that he doesn’t realize he’s about to cum until it’s too late– it slams into him, and for a moment, the only thing that exists is the sparks and fire shooting through his body, and the small nervous shocks lighting up his cock through every few seconds of his unusually intense orgasm. The vibrating under him only drags it out further, but he eventually has to admit defeat and pull himself up before he becomes overstimulated.

Sinking back down to the ground, he takes a minute to breathe through the aftershocks, his mind empty as he slowly comes down from the high, not noticing the ringing in his ears until a few minutes later. Clarity comes in a few moments after that– this room reeks of sweat and sex, he’s just made a complete mess on the dryer, and he needs a shower.