Simp-ly corny

“Later.” You tug the plastic bag from his hand, thunk it onto the entry table, and hook a finger through his belt loop. “Kitchen’s close enough.”

The fridge whirs, oblivious, while you drag him backward until thighs hit cool marble.

Pope can smell cilantro, gasoline from his truck, the sweet-and-salty rush in your sweat. You taste it, too, licking the hollow beneath his ear like a kid sneaking frosting.

“One track mind,” he mutters, masking a thick swallow when his jeans tent under your touch.

You pull back just far enough to look at him.

“That's not true. I think about a lot of things. They all just end —” Your hand settles over the hardening shape in his pants. “— here.”

He laughs a little, but it dies when you kneel.

You slip two fingers beneath the waistband, teasing skin before tugging down. Fabric puddles at his feet, leaving him bare and aching. You move to trace the underside with your tongue, a lazy path from root to head, then look up through your lashes.

“You leave me alone for hours.” Your hand tightens at the base of his cock, possessive. “What else am I supposed to wait for but you coming home and letting me have this?”

Pope guides himself to tap against your tongue. You happily oblige with an open mouth.

“Yeah? You wait all nice and good for me, princess, or did those needy little fingers wander?” He feigns a thoughtful hum. “Sheets looked a little rumpled when I walked in.”

He watches your mouth struggle to form words, tension fluttering in your cheeks where he fills them.

“Tried,” you admit, voice thick with obstruction. “Made it ‘til lunch before I… got impatient.” Your palm glides up his length in apology. “Does that still count as waiting?”

He winds your hair around his knuckles and tugs until you’re staring straight up at him, guiding your mouth off him with a soft pop.

Pope clicks his tongue, pity painted on like cheap gold leaf.

“Aw, sweetheart. Must've felt like torture, didn’t it?” His thumb smears the shine across your swollen lip, then lifts so you can see the string of spit stretch. “Don't worry, I'll help you learn some real patience... after you watch me finish what you couldn't wait for.”

MARIA NOTE happy tuesday besties! wishing u love in your heart and freakiness in your spirit! stay cunty! stay hot!

something you had always been ashamed to admit was that you were still a virgin despite being in your mid twenties. you had never even put your own fingers inside of you before.

you had ended up in the doctors office after realising you were finding it hard to get wet or anything inside of you.

the bed creaked beneath you every time you shifted. you were nervous to have to discuss this with someone, especially a doctor. it wasn’t exactly an emergency, but more of a personal worry.

you were snapped out of your thoughts when the door opened and a man walked in. he was tall and quite big, his eyes were kind and determined as he looked at you, lathering hand sanitiser on his hands.

“hello, i’m dr. abbot. i’ll be working with you today. what’s your name?” he introduced himself, dragging a metal stool over so he could sit in front of you.

you nervously told him your name, meeting his steady eyes with a shy look.

jack quickly picked up on how innocent you looked. he had seen countless nervous people in his years of being a doctor, but you had something else about you.

he nodded and reached for the chart that the nurse had taken previously. “it says here you’re having problems with.. penetration?” jack raised an eyebrow as he read the chart. that certainly wasn’t what he was expecting.

your face flushed as he read it aloud. your problem sounded stupid coming from his mouth. you nodded as if to confirm what he had just read. “y- yeah. i haven’t- i’ve never..” you mumbled before trailing off, the words dying on your tongue from the embarrassment.

“nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetheart.” jack immediately interrupted, catching onto your nervousness. he felt a perverted rush go straight to his dick when he realised he was going to have to help fix your problem.

the position jack had insisted you be in felt inappropriate, but he was the doctor after all.

jack slipped on some latex gloves as he watched you lie back and spread your legs, trying to avoid eye contact as much as possible.

“good job, sweetheart. that’s good.” he nodded as he moved to be standing over you. “i’m going to check how you react to penetration that isn’t from yourself.” he told you, carefully moving the gown you had on so that he could see your pussy.

a small gasp escaped your lips as he pressed the tip of his middle finger into your folds. the feeling grew more overwhelming the more he pushed in.

you whimpered as you felt how big his finger was. this was the first time you’d ever had anything inside of you, and his fingers were way thicker than your own.

“how does that feel?” jack asked when he pushed his finger into all the way. you felt unbelievably tight around him.

“o- okay, dr. abbot. it feels.. you feel big.” you sheepishly admitted. could you even say something like that to a doctor?

jack had to bite back a groan at the way you spoke. you really were as innocent as you looked.

“could you do some more? i just have to check inside. make sure everything is okay.” he told you carefully.

you nodded in submission. “okay, dr. abbot. whatever you need me to do.” you told him.

a few minutes later, you were soaked on three of jack’s fingers. the stretch had given you an uncomfortable burn for awhile, but the persistent pumping of his fingers faded into a pleasure you’d never felt before.

jack absorbed every whimper that came from you, the sounds only spurring him on further. he knew you were still under the impression this was still just an examination.

your hands reached out to grasp onto jack’s wrist as soon as you felt yourself growing overwhelmed. your brain was beginning to shut off from the feeling of it all.

“dr. abbot! i feel- it feels like a lot-“ you gasped, meeting his dark eyes. right before you fell over the edge, jack pulled his fingers out abruptly, the latex soaking wet with your arousal.

“you seem healthy. i think the problem was you needed someone who understood your body better than yourself.” jack said, sounding matter of fact in his diagnosis.

you felt confused and edged from what had just happened, but you were ultimately relieved to hear that there was nothing wrong with you.

you gathered your clothes as you got up from the bed. “thank you, dr. abbot.” you said quietly, watching as he walked out of the room with a smug smile on his face.

Like he hasn’t interrupted at all, you’re talking, hands moving the whole time, telling him how Miles took her to his cousin’s wedding as a plus one, introduced her to his whole extended family, and then got weird the second she used the word relationship in a sentence. 

Jack genuinely cannot follow half of this. He’s thirty seconds behind the whole time, stuck on the wedding part, trying to work out what kind of man brings a woman to a family wedding and then chickens out over a label. 

Honestly, he’s kind of enjoying not understanding it, watching you get worked up over somebody else’s nonsense relationship, all animated hands and soft pouts and that furrow between your brows that he’d kiss off your face if you weren’t so deep in it.

“Did she ask him what they are?”

“She’s scared to.”

“Why?”

“Because if she asks and he says nothing, then it’s real, it’s confirmed nothing. But, right now it’s like, undefined nothing, y’know? Kinda feels better somehow even though it’s like million times worse.”

Jack blinks at you, quite a beat too long. He has, in his entire adult life, never once thought this hard about anything that wasn’t a differential diagnosis. But, here you are explaining tiered levels of nothing, like there’s a flowchart somewhere for this. (He thinks you’re going to pull it up one of these days. Educate him, like you keep saying.) 

It should annoy him. It really should. Some kid your age too much of a pussy to know what he wants, doesn’t deserve the headspace you’re giving him, though he keeps that one to himself.

You flop down next to him mid sentence, grabbing his arm and using it as a pillow without asking, and he thinks, not for the first time, that he would listen to you explain literally anything for this long if it meant you stayed exactly like this against him.

His free hand finds your waist, thumb rubbing slow into the dip of it, like he can’t sit next to you for longer than a minute without needing his hands on you somewhere. “You know what I think?” 

“What?”

“I think you people invented whole new vocabulary so nobody has to just ask a question out loud.”

“Okay, boomer.”

“I’m not a boomer.”

“You said ‘you people.’ That’s such a boomer thing to say.”

“I’m fifty.”

“Boomer adjacent.”

He doesn’t really have a comeback for that, mostly because he’s laughing. You’ve created an entire generational subcategory just for him, like he needs his own little demographic bracket. 

Now you’re on some other detail about Miles and a group chat and a screenshot that got sent to the wrong person. 

Jack’s given up on the plot actually, checked out three Mileses ago. He’s just watching your face do fifteen different things in one story, outraged, then gleeful, then outraged again, hands doing most of the narrating on their own, and that’s a hell of a lot more fun to keep up with than Miles.

“Are you even listening?”

“No.”

“Jack.”

“I stopped around the screenshot thing. I got lost.”

“You’re useless.” You smack his chest for that, more out of principle than anything really. 

He catches your hand before you can pull it back, holds onto it, thumb running over your knuckles.

You’re now saying something about how Miles needs to lock the fuck in, or lose it.

Jack’s only half listening. He has zero clue what half your words even mean and somehow could not give less of a shit about that right now.