Funtamazing

welcome to the library of freak nation:

a/n: for those who do not want to use twitter (like me), I paste the link into cobalt.tools and then you can download/watch it from there! hope that helps, happy watching ❀

▷ fucking on his shower chair · source · ⏱ 00:33 · ⚠ fauxcest ⚠

⟡ jack abbot ⟡

▷ getting pounded by dr. jack abbot after a long shift · source · ⏱ 09:56 · ⚠ you can literally pretend this is jack... ⚠

▷ filming you both in the mirror · source · ⏱ 00:55

▷ giving a thorough pussy exam · source · ⏱ 05:16 · ⚠ glove kink, medical malpractice, squirting ⚠

▷ inspecting your pussy in bed · source · ⏱ 01:37 · ⚠ glove kink, fully spread out pussy ⚠

▷ restrained to the exam table · source · ⏱ 01:18 · ⚠ bdsm, facefucking, slapping ⚠

▷ missing you while you're at work · source · ⏱ 00:22

▷ practice makes perfect · source · ⏱ 01:47 · ⚠ glove kink, sex doll ⚠

▷ riding his face · source · ⏱ 00:16 · ⚠ facesitting ⚠

▷ uncle!jack just needs to touch you · source · ⏱ 00:46 · ⚠ age gap ⚠

▷ dbf!jack punishing you for being too messy in bed · source · ⏱ 00:54 · ⚠ squirting, fingerfucking, sex toy usage, daddy kink, bondage, spanking, fully spread pussy ⚠

⟡ andrew “pope” cody ⟡

▷ he's eager to go down on you · source · ⏱ 00:11

▷ soaking your underwear in his cum · source · ⏱ 02:50 · ⚠ pussy slapping, spit, cumshot ⚠

▷ tattoo artist!pope hitting it from the back · source · ⏱ 00:23 · ⚠ hair pulling ⚠

▷ pounding you in smurf's garage · source · ⏱ 00:24 · ⚠ non-con (she says no!), bdsm ⚠

▷ teaching you what an older cock can do · source · ⏱ 09:12 · ⚠ age gap, choking, spanking ⚠

▷ masked!pope fucking you in the passenger seat · source · ⏱ 00:38 · ⚠ praise kink, glove kink, slapping, mask kink, choking, car sex, daddy kink ⚠

▷ punishing pope for being a bad boy · source · ⏱ 02:20 · ⚠ bondage, submissive man, blindfold, she does all the work (a warning for my pillow princesses LOL!) ⚠

▷ pope showing you how well he can eat pussy · source · ⏱ 05:01 · ⚠ fingersucking, choking ⚠

▷ giving pope the ride of his life after he gets back from prison · source · ⏱ 02:18 · ⚠ she does all the work (a warning for my pillow princesses LOL!) ⚠

⟡ titus danforth ⟡

▷ you're just his plaything · source · ⏱ 04:51 · ⚠ (lots of) spit, pet play, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, daddy kink (she also says "papa"), choking, facefucking ⚠

▷ father in law!titus fucks you before your wedding · source · ⏱ 04:00 · ⚠ rimming (f!receiving), hair pulling, choking, spanking ⚠

▷ rigger!titus punishing his pet · source · ⏱ 00:30 · ⚠ bondage (with duct tape), pet play (in caption) ⚠

⟡ sammy bryant ⟡

▷ taking you to the back of the station · source · ⏱ 02:19 · ⚠ size difference ⚠

▷ ruining your sleepwear · source · ⏱ 08:04 · ⚠ clothed sex, intrusive porn site logo (with dumb sound that broke my immersion LOL!) at 02:18-02:23 and 05:22-05:27, (lots of) lube ⚠

▷ porn star!sammy wearing a mask · source · ⏱ 00:18 · ⚠ filming, mask kink, mating press ⚠

▷ spoiling him after work with a good sucking · source · ⏱ 01:00 · ⚠ she does all the work (a warning for my pillow princesses LOL!) ⚠

⟡ multi ⟡

▷ jack asks his brothers pope and titus for help at the clinic · source · ⏱ 01:42 · ⚠ medical malpractice, foursome, glove kink ⚠

▷ your daddies take very good care of you · source · ⏱ 00:53 · ⚠ slapping, daddy kink, foursome, choking ⚠

▷ stepfather!jack and godfather!pope cum inside of you at the same time · source · ⏱ 00:14 · ⚠ double vaginal penetration, age gap ⚠

▷ jack and pope taking you in both holes · source · ⏱ 01:00 · ⚠ double penetration, anal ⚠

▷ pervy!jack and pope spitroasting you for over forty minutes · source · ⏱ 40:41 · ⚠ degradation kink (they call her a slut), facefucking, slapping, spanking, deepthroat, gagging, choking, spitroasting, hair pulling, spit kink, she actually says she's cumming (rare in porn lol!), manhandling, praise kink, anal fingering, fingerfucking, squirting (not very visible but they ask her "are you going to fucking squirt?"), rimming (m!receiving but no direct visual of his ass lol), creampie ⚠

▷ your dads jack and pope enjoying you together · source · ⏱ 00:30 · ⚠ double vaginal penetration, gaping holes (fully spread pussy and ass), anal (for a second at the end), fauxcest (bc I said so! lol!) ⚠

▷ jack punishing you for cheating by making you fuck pope · source · ⏱ 15:30 · ⚠ non-con (she doesn't know who's fucking her to consent to it), degradation (they call her bitch), bondage, blindfold, spanking, hair pulling, infidelity ⚠

▷ getting passed around by jack, pope and titus · source · ⏱ 21:51 · ⚠ foursome, spitroasting ⚠

You'd been going—quite literally— insane.

You couldn't even sit, couldn't relax, couldn't even eat a meal without your body sending an immediate lick of pleasure through your spine. Sure, at first, it was kind of funny. Just some oversensitivity issue you'd been having, making it very easy to lull yourself to sleep with your nightly routine of you and your trusty vibrator in your bedside table. A little embarrassing, maybe, but manageable.

At first.

But just the other day you'd woken up and— to your pleasure and ultimate discomfort—felt the need to orgasm before even getting out of bed. Before checking your phone. Before brushing your teeth. Before even pushing the blankets off your body. You thought you'd maybe just been ovulating early; your cycle was always a little out of whack anyway.

But as you'd sat up, it was as if you'd pressed just the right pressure to your already soaked center atop your twisted sheets, and your back arched sharply as you let out a hoarse moan. You were ten minutes late to work just to try to get it out of your system, but nothing worked.

It shook you. Confused you. Now it just downright annoyed you.

You weren't able to even work comfortably, couldn't eat, couldn't do anything without getting flushed and fidgety.

One day after work, you'd given in on the car ride home, one hand white knuckled on the steering wheel while you let yourself rock against the rough drag of the driver's seat, cunt sopping and needy from the day of twitching in your desk chair. You twisted in your seat so the seams of your panties tightened just right, arching your breasts so the seatbelt pulled across your chest. You welcomed the snug feeling of it, picturing some hot actor with his hands around you and not some polyester as you closed your eyes at a red light. It only took thirty seconds for you to climax, your mouth handing open and eyes rolling back in relief while your foot pushed harder into the brake. Your eyes flashed open when the car behind you honked because the light turned green.

But now it'd been five days, and something was very, very off.

"I just want to clarify, miss…" Dr Abbot—who happened to be cut from fucking Mount Olympus or something— was saying as he looked at the screen. "you're having… too many orgasms?"

You shook your head, your skin on fire as your stomach twisted. God, this was humiliating. And did they have to send you such a good looking male doctor? What was the matter with this ER, and why was everyone so attractive? Even the nurse who brought you back had perfectly coiled hair and plush lips with his scrubs stretched nicely over her shoulders when he'd led you to your private room. Maybe it was a symptom of your oversensitive folds making you think like this, turning every person in hospital cotton into some sort of eye candy.

You swallowed thickly, taking him in despite yourself. Dark graying curls, a couple days' worth of stubble, beautiful hazel eyes that kept flicking from your face to the chart. When he'd introduced himself, your pussy clenched with excitement before you were able to contain yourself. And he'd been so nice, he didn't deserve you all horned up for him like this for what you'd seen as a true medical emergency. Why couldn't they just send some old hag of a woman instead? Someone with cold hands and orthopedic shoes and zero chance of making your clit throb harder between your legs.

"It's just—um, I'm so…sensitive? Like, I can't even sit and relax. It's like, any movement or pressure just makes me—"

And as if on cue, you squirmed in your seat, more from the humiliation of having to explain your situation than anything else, and the paper beneath you crinkled beneath your weight. A little whimper slipped out before you could stop it when it pushed just right into your wet center, your hands flying to the hospital bed beneath you. You squeezed your eyes shut, horror flooding your blood.

When you opened them again, you saw a flush creeping up the doctor's next.

"Well," he said after a second, clearing his throat as his eyes dropped back to your chart with painful determination before dragging the stool over to sit in. "Okay. Do you mind if I take a look?"

You nodded feebly, sitting back. The hospital gown felt like sandpaper, rubbing far too perfectly along your already pebbled nipples. You bit your lip to hold back another humiliating moan as you moved.

"If you don't mind putting your feet in the rests," he said, his voice suddenly so soft and gravelly, one latex-gloved hand coming to your heel to guide your left leg. When you felt his touch, you twitched in anticipation. "There you go," he finished, not noticing, or maybe giving you some grace.

You squeezed your eyes shut, unable to look as he lifted your hospital gown a little, careful to keep the blanket over your knees for privacy.

"Need you to scoot a little closer," he murmured, "til your butt hits the edge, c'mon, little more— there. Good job."

Yeah, no. This was not fucking helping. Your pussy pulsed, another wave of arousal gushing at the sweet way he was talking you through the exam.

"I'm just going to take a look. One finger is all, okay? If you feel any pain, you tell me right away." But when he didn't hear anything from you, he added, "Hey—"

You opened your eyes, looking down to find his on you, his pupils a little blown out, his tongue dipping to wet his bottom lip. But there was still a very gentle look on his face, his head tilted slightly as he watched you. "Are you listening?"

You sheepishly smiled, letting out a long exhale, "Yes, I'm sorry—just nervous. I'm…sorry if I'm like… y'know…" you bit your lip, "already… wet."

He made a frown, shrugging a little, then smiled at you, "It's just body parts, sweetheart, it's all okay."

"And I didn't shave—"

"Never bothered me before—"

He seemed to catch himself, biting his lip with a bit of a knowing grin, sheepishly looking away too. "Like I said, just tell me if you feel pain, okay?"

You nodded, your hands squirming in the sheets beside you.

"Here we go, just one finger now. Easy does it," he said soothingly.

The pressure of one thick finger slid into your pussy, pushing in easily with how slick you’d become.

You sucked in a tiny breath, trying to hold back the sound crawling up your throat. Your eyes betrayed you anyway, rolling back into your skull while your teeth caught your bottom lip so hard you nearly tasted iron.

"How's that feel, hm?" he asked from between your legs.

"G-good." you cleared your throat, squirming a little, "fine, I mean."

He hummed pleasantly, and then twisted his thick finger, curled it up and to the side, pulled it out a little until only the pad of his finger was inside you, then slid it again, staying to one side then another. He was so slow, so practiced and methodical as he worked.

When he pushed all the way to the knuckle and crooked his finger up, you couldn't hold back the throaty moan that punched from your chest.

"Fuck—I'm so sorry—oh, I'm so sorry—it's just—"

"It's alright, let it out," he said, his voice thick and restrained. "Little more pressure now, sweetheart—"

You felt him push two fingers inside of you, and that was enough for you to break completely. You had half a thought to be grateful that the nurse had put you into a closed room, because now you were moaning in earnest, your hips lifting off the bed before you could stop them. God, did this doctor have the thickest fingers in the entire emergency department or something?

And was that a moan you'd just heard from him?

It was hard to tell when you were mewling like a god damn cat.

"Shit—shit—I'm—doctor, I'm sorry—I might—I'm getting really—"

"I want to see how your body reacts to certain pressure," he explained, a flash of his eyes peering over the hospital blanket. "It's okay if you experience an orgasm, sweetheart. You really are so sensitive, huh?"

There was a quirk to his lips that you only caught because one side of his eyes creased into the lines of his face, a gleam in his deep hazel gaze.

Your mouth opened, a yelping cry seizing from you as your head tipped back and your spine arched, toes curling as you came around his fingers.

But as always, it was never enough. Just as it came down, cresting and breaking through you, it was already rolling back in again, a hard pull under your skin like a harsh midnight ocean, your hips pushing up toward his hand in search of more.

"That's it, that's it, let me see it again," he murmured.

"Oh, I'm so sorry—I'm already gonna—" you whimpered, eyes rolling back, hips jerking a little. Another orgasm came yanking through you without any reprieve, and you sobbed out another moan, your hands twisting in the sheets, your skin hot and sweating under the hospital gown.

"I want to try one more thing, sweetheart, let me see if you can give me one more, that okay? One more, baby, do it for your doctor now—"

You nodded again, helplessly this time.

This had to be fucking illegal. A medical doctor in the emergency department with his fingers inside of you, making you come over and over again. But you didn't give two shits. It felt so fucking good. Your body was screaming for it, needing it, and your hips jerked suddenly harder than ever when you felt the press of his thumb on your swollen clit.

But when they jerked up, you felt the top of your mound hit something.

And both of you froze.

Because yes, you were in a post-orgasm haze, but that felt a lot like his mouth.

"Dr. Abbot?" you murmured, breath catching hard in your chest. "I'm so, so fucking sorry—I didn't mean—"

You could barely hold yourself together, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. God, you were so embarrassed, so pent up, there was nothing you could fucking do. You wanted to scream and run away from this room, to hide from the world with your vibrator and your dildo and just ride out whatever fucked up cycle your body was torturing you with.

"It's okay." he said.

But it was so quiet—just a whisper. He didn't peer over your hospital blanket again, or tease or give you any sign of the professional doctor he was—no gentle little smile, no careful explanation. Instead, he breathed in deeply. And when he exhaled, you felt his breath fan over your sopping entrance, over the mess you'd made of yourself, cool air moving across your inner thighs and down toward the top of the bed.

You whimpered, fingers twisting harder in the sheets as you waited.

"Do you mind…" he asked, and his voice had turned even rougher now, low in his throat, "if I test out one more thing?"

You shakily nodded, "S-sure."

Gradually, as if the world was moving in slow motion, you saw the tips of his hair disappear beneath the blanket. His breath getting closer, hotter, heavier. You felt the brush of his stubble along the crease of your thigh and you bit down on your lip so hard a sound broke through your nose instead.

Oh, fuck.

And then you felt the hot press of lips on your clit.

Your mouth parted again, a breath of relief falling from it before you could stop yourself, your knees falling opening wider, wider, your body melting down into the bed like it had been waiting for that exact touch all day. The blanket shifted over your knees, the paper beneath you crinkled.

"Oh fuck, Dr. Abbot—" you moaned.

He hummed in contented pleasure, and the vibration went straight through your clit, hot and bright with how good it felt. His tongue licked over you, slower the second time, tasting you with a patience that made your stomach flip and tighten at once. Then he suckled gently, and your hips kicked before his hand came around to push you back down. His deft fingers continued pumping in and out of you, faster, harder, curling in that same velvety spot inside of you that had you shaking beneath his touch. There was only his mouth, his fingers, and the wet, obscene squelch of your pussy being devoured.

You were a writhing, mewling mess on the bed. You humped his face without shame, using the stirrups under your feet as leverage, your hips grinding up against his mouth while your hand flew in his hair, the curls soft to the touch. The hand that held you down came up to swipe the hospital gown and blanket down from you, baring you to the room, to him, so you could see him eating at you.

And what a sight it was to behold.

This stunning doctor with his tired eyes and messy gray curls was eating you out like the world might end tomorrow. Like you might be his last meal on this god-forsaken earth. Slurping, moaning, licking to his heart’s content, his brows drawn together with a concentration so vulgar it made your stomach clench. You could do nothing but moan and watch, your hand fisted in his hair, dragging your slick cunt against his mouth again and again and again while his fingers kept working inside you.

"Ride my face, that's it, baby," he moaned.

It wasn't long until you were coming again. Bright sparks burst behind your eyes, this time stronger and headier, your body going to absolute mush as he kept kissing your pussy through it, licking, feeling every pulse of it against his tongue.

You twitched in his hold, whining as he just kept fucking going, his mouth wet and relentless, his voice muffled against you when he groaned, "One more. One more, can you give me one more, baby?"

"Noooo, no more—please, Dr Abbot—"

"Yes, let me see, want another, you make the prettiest noises—"

Your body arched lazily off the bed, another rolling orgasm taking you before you could brace for it. His face was drenched, your arousal dripping around his fingers, the slick sounds loud in the closed room. They should've embarrassed you—so wet and desperate and humiliating enough to make your eyes sting if your brain hadn't finally, completely turned off.

By the fifth orgasm, your body had gone limp on the bed, every muscle emptied out, your hand loose in his hair instead of pulling now. He kept kissing you through the last little aftershocks, softer than before, until your hips started shaking and twitching and your fingers pushed weakly at his forehead.

He stopped, gently dragging his gloved hand from your walls. You clenched around the abandonment of his touch, as he stood from his stool. Standing, he wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, stripping it off and throwing it in the trash.

He went to your chart, and you watched him sleepily through hooded eyes as he clicked through a few screens, his mouth pressing into a thoughtful line.

"Well?" you murmured.

His eyes glanced over to you. When you met his gaze, you couldn't help but let yours drop to where his cargos were much to tight, and a thick, eager bulge tented his pants.

"I'd like to keep you here for a couple hours of observation, if you're open to it. Nothing scary," he added, softer now. "I just want to monitor your heart rate, make sure your blood pressure stays stable, and get some IV fluids going. Your body’s been under a fair amount of strain."

"I…I'm just dehydrated?" you asked quizzically.

He smiled a little, walking back over to the side of the bed. "Not entirely sure yet. Which is why I need you to stay."

You nodded. "Okay."

"Good." His hands were careful as he helped your feet out of the stirrups one at a time, easing your legs down instead of letting them drop. Then he laid the blanket back over you, making sure your shoulders were tucked underneath. "Rest for now. I’m going to order the fluids, basic labs, and I’ll have your nurse come in to get you set up."

He began to turn, but you called out. "Hey—what about you? I can help—"

He looked down at you again, and there it was, that little grin, tired and pleased and trying very hard to behave. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, adjusting himself with a small shift of his hips.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I'm your doctor. I'm supposed to take care of you."

"But I want—"

"I know," he said, gently enough that your mouth shut around the rest of what you wanted to say. "But right now, you need fluids, rest, and a few minutes where no one is bothering you."

Your face warmed.

"We can discuss another round of testing and some aftercare instructions when I come back, okay?" he added with a wink.

You smiled sleepily. "Yes, doctor. That sounds nice."

"Good girl." He reached for the railing, pulling it up with a soft click. "Stay put. I'll be back."

Brendon doesn’t get home until eleven. 

You’re curled on the couch under the fluffy shark-patterned blanket you’d gotten him for his birthday (he’d told you it was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen, then proceeded to use it basically every day since), and the TV is playing some Netflix romcom you don’t really care about. He’d texted you somewhere around six telling you there was a trauma incoming and to not wait up for him, which meant you’d of course waited up for him. 

In the year the two of you’ve been together, you’ve learned that there’s no way to predict how trauma cases will impact him. There are days he comes home like nothing happened, days he comes home even more smug than usual. Then there are the days where he loses a patient or the outcome isn’t what he was hoping for, but he’s typically quick to make peace with it. He’s calculating, pragmatic. He knows when the odds are unfavorable and doesn’t dwell when they beat him.

Then there are days like today. 

Days when you know something has gone wrong the moment he steps inside the house. He’s not particularly talkative as a baseline, but usually he’ll at least call a greeting. Today there’s nothing but stony silence. The only sounds are the slight shuffle of him taking off his shoes and the click of the closet opening so he can hang up his coat. When he finally steps out of the mudroom and into the den, he does barely more than nod at you before disappearing upstairs.

You’re not upset. You might have been, once upon a time, but you know him well enough by now to know this is just how he copes. He’ll probably take a shower, eat something sad and beige and protein-heavy, then curl around you in bed like you’re the only soft thing in a world full of edges. He might talk to you, he might not. But he’ll hold you, and you’ll let him, and that’ll be enough for both you.

You sit quietly for a moment, expecting to hear the shower come on, and are startled when he instead comes back down the stairs wearing training shorts and an old t-shirt. 

“Bren?” you question softly.

He pauses. His spine is rigid, his jaw tense, and you can see the weight of every life he’s ever held resting on his shoulders in that moment. Something heartbreakingly vulnerable flashes in his eyes so quickly you almost miss it, before he hides it behind iron walls.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

Then he disappears into the basement. A few moments later, the sound of weights clanking together floats up the stairs.

Your heart squeezes, but you don’t follow him. You know he needs to work through whatever it is on his own. Instead, you turn the volume on the TV up to give him some privacy and busy yourself with cleaning. 

You grab his bag from where he’d dropped it in the mudroom and unpack it — putting the food he didn’t eat back in the kitchen and plugging in his laptop to charge. You wash the few dishes in the sink by hand and then spend some time prepping lunches for both of you for the following day. Then you go upstairs and throw his dirty scrubs in the wash along with a few other things. Really, there’s not enough laundry to warrant a load, but you need something to occupy you. No matter what he said, you won’t be able to sleep knowing how upset he is. 

Eventually, the load finishes, and you put it in the dryer. Then that finishes, too, and Brendon is still in the basement. A glance at the clock tells you it’s nearing 1:00 AM. You bite your lip. You’re exhausted, so you can only imagine how tired he must be. He’d been out the door by five that morning, and you know he’d had no break between his regular shift and the emergency trauma. You also know he hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, if his mostly untouched lunch was anything to go by. 

You start folding laundry while glancing at the clock every five seconds. You want to give him his space, but you’re also getting increasingly worried. You’re not quite sure where the line is between letting him process and leaving him to suffer alone. Eventually though, when you’ve reorganized your nightstand twice, when the hour hand is closer to the two than the one, you decide you should at least check on him. 

You pad softly down the stairs to the first floor and then pause at the doorway to the basement. You can no longer hear weights shifting around down there. In fact, it’s eerily silent aside from the low hum of the TV, and you feel a frisson of nerves as you descend the dimly lit stairs. 

“Bren?”

He’s sitting on the FID bench facing the wall of mirrors. Several dumbbells are discarded at his feet. Sweat stains his shirt and his brow, and he’s still breathing heavily from whatever set he just finished. He’s still apart from the rising and falling of his chest though, his eyes fixed unseeingly on one of the heavy rubber mats lining the floor. He doesn’t even move when you say his name, and you’re not sure if it’s because he can’t hear you or because he doesn’t have the energy to respond.

The two of you exist in silence for a long moment, and you know he won’t break it unless you do. Carefully, like you’re afraid any sudden movements will make things worse, you cross to the mini-fridge on the back wall. You grab a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap as you walk back across the room to stand next to him.

“You should drink something,” you say softly, holding it out to him. 

He might not want to talk about anything, but you can at least take care of him physically. Or you can try. He doesn’t take the water, and you only hold it out for a second longer before recapping it and setting it at his feet. Worry grips your chest like a fist.

“Do you-”

“You should go.”

You freeze. Your first reaction is hurt, which you quickly shove as far down as you can — this is about him, not you. Then comes the instinctual urge to obey. If he wants you to go, then you will. But just as your body is about to turn and move on its own, your mind catches up. 

“You said I should go,” you venture carefully. “Does that mean you want me to?”

He doesn’t say anything, which tells you more than if he had.

Feeling steadier now than you did a second ago, you go to round the bench and stand in front of him, only for his hand to shoot out and keep you from coming closer.

“You can’t be around me right now,” he reiterates tightly.

“Because of me? Or because of you?”

His gaze snaps up to you then, and you inhale sharply at what you see there. Fury, bright and sharp, cuts through you like a blade. Right alongside it is grief so raw it’s almost anger in itself. There are other emotions buried there, too — frustration, self-loathing, hopelessness — so many that he looks like he’s drowning in them.

“Careful,” he says lowly.

Your heart stutters nervously, but you don’t back down.

“If you want me to leave, I will, but don’t tell me to go because you think you’re protecting me.”

His jaw tightens, and he stands. Towering over you like he’s trying to intimidate you. It works and it doesn’t. Your body responds the way it always does when he’s this close — your heart rate picks up, your breathing goes uneven, and awareness prickles across your skin. But you’re not scared of him. You don’t think you ever could be.

“You want to be soft right now,” he grits out, teeth bared. “You want to be sweet and gentle until everything’s better.”

You shake your head slowly.

“I want to be whatever you need me to be,” you tell him.

Wrong answer, or right one. You don’t know. All you do know is he makes a low, mean sound, and takes a predatory step towards you. You instinctively back up. The backs of your knees hit the bench, and you drop down on it with a graceless oof. Now it’s your turn to sit while he stands over you. 

“You have no idea what I need right now,” he snarls.

Realization hits you so fast you feel dizzy, then ridiculous for not realizing sooner. The way he’s practically vibrating in his skin. The way he’s been down here punishing his body for nearly three hours. The way he seems to want you close and also want you as far away as possible. 

He feels out of control.

He’s not just angry, he’s not just grieving. He’s spiraling. Tough cases always challenge his need for control, but he’s also pragmatic enough that he usually bounces back quickly. Whatever control he felt he lost with this trauma, he can’t get it back. He’s been trying to — down here alone, for hours — but it’s clearly not working. 

He must see the realization in your face, because his expression shutters further, and he makes a low warning sound in his throat.

“Don’t,” he grits.

You don’t say anything, just reach out slowly and grab one of his hands. It flexes almost spastically in yours, but he doesn’t pull away. At least until you bring it to your mouth and brush a soft kiss across his knuckles. Then he tries to jerk it back, but you won’t let him. 

“I can’t be gentle right now,” he scrapes out.

“I don’t need you to be gentle.”

He growls in frustration and crowds even closer.

“You don’t get it, I don’t trust myself around you.”

Your heart breaks, even as determination solidifies in your mind. Slowly, slowly enough that he can pull away if he really wants to, you lift his hand to your neck. His fingers twitch as you wrap them carefully around your throat, and his breath punches out of him like you struck him.

“I trust you,” you whisper.

A brief pause—

And then he’s moving. He spits out a curse and then he’s hauling you to your feet. His mouth crashes into yours, and it’s all teeth and anger wrapped in desperation. The awareness that’s been humming under your skin since he got home morphs into arousal from one breath to the next. Your hands scrabble for purchase against his shirt as you do your best to keep up with his relentless pace.

“Brave fucking girl,” he hisses against your mouth.

You whimper in response, concerned, relieved, and turned on all in equal measure. He kisses you like he’s punishing you. He kisses you like he can burn out his anger through your body, and you kiss him back like you want it. You do, you think, when he yanks your head back so his lips can find your jaw. You want whatever he wants, want to be whatever he needs.

He worries a bruise onto your neck, more teeth than lips. It’s petty, mean. It makes your cunt clench around nothing. You tilt your head further back to give him more access, and he rumbles a low sound of approval.

“So eager for me,” he mutters against your skin.

You nod frantically — you are, you always are. 

You tug at his shoulders to bring his mouth back to yours. He allows it, indulgent. One hand is still buried in your hair, while the other bands like steel around your waist, and it presses you as close to him as possible and then closer still. He seems content for a moment, letting you guide the kiss, at least until he nips sharply at your lip and slides his hand back to your throat. It tightens just enough to make you work harder for every breath, and the feeling goes through you like lightning.

“Hmm, you like it when I get to decide if you breathe?” he asks. 

Your only response is a whimper, and his eyes flash dangerously. You feel dazed, floaty, and he’s barely touched you yet. The same thought must cross his mind, because his grip loosens for a second, and the hand at your throat reaches up to brush a strand of hair back from your face.

“I mean it,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “I don’t know how to be gentle right now.”

You hear him fighting to keep his voice calm, to truly give you the out if you want it, and that more than anything makes your decision for you. He might not trust himself, but you do. You know he won’t hurt you.

Slowly, keeping your eyes locked with his, you sink to your knees.

Something complicated crosses his face. Longing and vulnerability mixed with love so deep it’s pain. He looks at you like you’re tearing him apart and remaking him at the same time, like he’s dying and you’re the only thing keeping him alive. His hand, steady enough to piece bodies back together, shakes as it reaches out to touch your face. His thumb brushes reverently over your cheek.

“Brave girl,” he whispers again.

Then all the softness disappears behind steel. You watch him physically piece his armor back together— his breath evening, his shoulders straightening. His eyes glint like ice, and the hand on your cheek grabs your chin and forces you to look up. You stare at him, feeling small and exposed.

“Clothes off.”

The words are quiet, but there’s no doubt they’re an order.

Your breath hitches, but your hands move to obey without thought. They grab them hem of your sweater and pull it off. Next comes your bra, and you blush a little when you drop it on top of the sweater. He’s seen you naked a thousand times before, but there’s something about it that feels especially vulnerable when you’re on your knees like this. You start to get up, so you can take off your shorts, but his voice stops you.

“I didn’t say you could stand.”

A shock of heat lances through you and goes straight to your cunt. You make a small sound, somewhere between a squeak and a whimper, and stare up at him with wide eyes. He stares unblinkingly back. Hands unsteady now, you hook your thumbs under the waistband of your sleep shorts and panties and start tugging them down. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and mildly embarrassing trying to wiggle out of them while still kneeling. You have to contort and do a sort of shuffle to get them off,  but you finally manage it.

Now naked, you look up at him and wait for whatever comes next. The air in the basement is cooler than the rest of the house, and you feel your nipples start to pebble. The subdued lighting that usually feels soothing now feels too bright, too revealing. The only sound is the quiet hum of the fridge, which makes you hyper aware of your own breathing.

Part of you is uncomfortable, itching to move, to say something — anything to break this silent standoff. It doesn’t matter how safe you feel with him, the stark power imbalance between the two of you — you naked and kneeling, him clothed and towering over you — never fails to tug at something soft and unprotected within you. You force yourself to remain still though. As strong as the urge to retreat is, the need to obey is stronger.

“Eyes closed,”he says at last, and you comply gratefully. “Stay here.”

You’re startled when you hear him disappear up the stairs, but you obey and stay still. You think you hear him continue to the stairs to the second floor, but you can’t be sure. Then there’s nothing. Alone, waiting, the anticipation feels sharper. The rubber mat under your knees feels slightly too firm, and the air feels slightly too cold. Your legs are starting to cramp. Time passes oddly while you wait, and you’re relieved when you hear him coming back down.

Anticipation runs down your spine like a physical touch when you hear him come to a stop somewhere behind you. Your eyes are still closed, and you have no idea what he’s doing or if he’s even looking at you. The uncertainty, the feeling of being completely at his mercy, makes your thighs clench together. The action makes you suddenly aware of how wet you are, and an involuntary sound escapes your throat.

One of his hands comes to rest briefly on your head at the sound, grounding, then vanishes. 

“Hands.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but you know what he means. Carefully, you stretch your hands behind you. He moves, looping something around your wrists and securing them at the small of your back. You test the bindings once — snug enough they won’t slip off, but loose enough you could get out of them without much effort. They’re more symbolic than anything, but they still make your cunt pulse.

Next he slips something over your eyes. You open them on instinct, but aside from a vague haze of light, you can’t see anything through the fabric. Now truly unable to see and with your hands bound, your awareness of everything else around you skyrockets. You can feel the heat of his body behind you, hear the measured rhythm of his breathing. He trails a hand lightly down one of your arms, barely anything, and it sets off fireworks in your body.

He stands, and you feel more than hear him walk around you. He stops in front of you, one hand coming to rest on your face. You feel his fingers press against your lips, and you open obediently. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Your cunt clenches around nothing again. You suck lightly on his fingers, wishing it was his cock instead, and feel yourself getting steadily wetter. Your breasts feel heavy, your nipples tight, and you want him to touch you so badly it’s nearly pain.

“Good girl,” he repeats, then draws his fingers out. “Open.”

You do and are rewarded with the slide of his cock over your tongue. You make a grateful sound that would have been embarrassing if your brain was functioning. Instead, all you care about is the weight of him in your mouth and the low hiss he lets out when you start sucking.

“So eager to have my cock in your mouth,” he mocks.

You hum in agreement, lost in the taste of sweat and skin and the slightly bitter flavor of pre-come. 

He lets you play for a while, his hand resting lightly on the back of your head. You alternate between sucking the flared head, tongue flicking the slit until his hips twitch, and sinking down further until your jaw aches. His fingers card through your hair, misleadingly gentle, and you think then that you could stay like this forever. Your knees ache, and your shoulders are starting to protest, but all that matters is this. Him, his taste, the sounds he makes. You’re actively clenching your thighs together now, trying to get any friction on your clit. He lets out a mean laugh when he notices, but he doesn’t stop you.

You know his patience won’t last though, and you’re proved correct when his grip suddenly tightens.

“I’m going to fuck your pretty throat now,” he says darkly.

You make a sound that might be agreement, might be a plea, and then his hips snap forward sharply. You nearly gag around the intrusion — too much, too fast — but you force yourself to breathe through it. He hums in approval, and you fairly whine. 

He sets a slow rhythm, steadily fucking his way deeper with every thrust. His hand at the back of your head holds you in place, and you moan at the feeling of him bullying his way into your throat. You gag around him a couple times, spit sliding down your chin and tears pricking your eyes. He doesn’t stop. He knows if you really wanted out, you would slip the loose bindings and tap his thigh. But you don’t, and he mutters filthy encouragement as he slides even deeper.

“So fucking pretty like this-”

“Feels so good-”

“Fuck, baby, just like that.”

By the time you’ve finally taken all of him, you’re shaking, hips grinding down against nothing. Your jaw aches and you can feel the tears on your cheeks, but all you want is more. You make a desperate sound, and he groans in response, before slowly drawing back. A pause, then he returns with a harsh snap of his hips, and you’re whining. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you relish it. You want him everywhere, stamped on your body inside and out. 

His breath punches out of him harshly as he fucks your face, and for a brief second you think you could come like this. Untouched, just the taste and feel of him and the sound of his voice spewing filth.

“My perfect girl, take- ah, take my cock so fucking well.”

You swallow around him, and his hips spasm.

“Shit, don’t-. Baby-, fucking Christ.”

You know he’s getting close. He’s spending longer down your throat with each thrust, grinding your nose against his pelvis. His breathing goes ragged, and his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain. Sure enough, one, two thrusts later and he’s yanking you off his cock with a curse. 

You hear the obscene slide of his fist over his spit-soaked cock, and then you feel the first splash of come hit your cheek. He grunts as he fucks his fist, painting your face and chest. You moan at the feeling.

“Fuck, you did so well,” he says when he’s finally spent.

You preen under his praise.

“You think you deserve a reward?”

“Please.”

You sound wrecked, desperate, but you don’t care. Your body is hot, your skin too tight, and you want his hands on you more than you want your next breath.

He makes you wait for a minute.

He moves away from you, and you hear a rustle of cloth. You think he’s wiping his hands off, but you can’t be sure. Then he’s coming back over to you, and you’re nearly squirming in anticipation when he lowers himself behind you. His chest touches your back, and you feel his legs on either side of yours. It can’t be comfortable for him, but he doesn’t seem concerned.

“Spread your legs,” he tells you.

You do, ignoring the way your knees protest the movement. Now that you’re not focused on his cock, you’re fiercely aware of how long you’ve been kneeling. He doesn’t tell you to get up though, and any discomfort vanishes a moment later when his arms come around you and then his fingers are running through your folds. Your hips jerk forward.

“Oh, sweetheart. Did you get this wet just sucking my cock?”

You don’t answer right away, too focused on the feeling of finally, finally being touched. But his fingers stop when you stay silent, and you cry out in protest.

“Answer me, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp.

“Yes, what?”

Even after everything he’s already done to you, even with his come drying on your face, saying the words makes your cheeks burn.

“Yes, sucking your cock made me this wet.”

“Good girl.”

And then he shoves two fingers inside you without warning, and you nearly fall over. There’s no build up, no ease in. Just his fingers crooking in a practiced motion and rubbing relentlessly at the spot that makes you see stars. You moan, high and helpless. Your head drops back against his shoulder, and your hips move gracelessly as you chase his fingers. His thumb eventually moves to swipe against your clit, one brief moment of fire-tipped pleasure. Then his hand is withdrawing, and you nearly sob.

“Bren,” you cry pathetically.

He body pulls away from yours, but before you can protest, you feel something else moving between your legs. Not his fingers-

“Oh,” you gasp.

It’s a dildo. Not as thick as his cock, but definitely thicker than his fingers. Your walls clamp down around the intrusion. He fucks you shallowly with it, teasing more than anything, but you’re grateful for anything after waiting for so long. It’s more than enough to get you there, and your hips are starting to stutter when he says-

“No coming, baby.”

He actually laughs at your cry of distress.

“Don’t you want to be good for me?” he asks. 

That alone almost makes you come.

Your cunt spasms around the dildo, and everything in your body pulls tight. Yes, you want to be good for him, it’s all you want right now. Sometimes you think it’s all you’ve ever wanted. You garble out some version of that and preen at his murmured approval.

“Spread your legs a little more-, just like that. Sink a bit lower-”

You obey, not quite knowing what he’s trying to do yet, when you feel something against your clit and it clicks. Oh. You know exactly which dildo he’s using now. The dark purple one with the rabbit attachment at the base, which means-

The vibrator switches on, and you make a sound like you’re dying.

“Hmm, feel good?”

You’re nodding, babbling, something. 

“Now be a good girl and keep that in for me.”

He stands then, and while part of your mourns the loss of his warmth behind you, most of you is too focused on the incessant buzzing against your clit to care. It feels like it’s been years since he first kissed you, and you’ve moved past arousal into physical distress. You try to focus on something else, anything else. Your attention turns to your legs, which are cramping badly now, and your knees, which are aching as they dig into the ground. It doesn’t work though — you still feel like you’re a breath away from coming. 

That’s when you hear it.

A scraping sound, followed by the click of weights hitting each other. A few footfalls hitting the floor, then the same sound again. Your brain short-circuits. He’s working out. You’re kneeling bound and blindfolded, his come drying on your skin and a vibrator shoved up your pussy, and he’s working out. He must see the understanding dawn on your face, because he huffs out a laugh.

“Focus, baby.”

It takes a moment for your brain to come back online, even longer to notice the dildo is slipping out of you. You’d started rising up on your knees without realizing it, until only the tip is left inside of you. Startled, you drop back down without thought, only to yelp when the movement slams the rabbit into your clit. 

Another laugh, meaner this time, and then he goes back to his workout. 

Time ceases to matter. You can’t see anything, and your attempt to count the seconds that go by lasts approximately ninety seconds before you give up. The only thing you have to mark the passing of time is the rhythmic sound of him breathing his way through every rep, punctuated by longer pauses between sets. 

The base of the dildo perches precariously on the ground, held upright only because it’s inside of you. When you sink all the way down, it rests snugly inside of you, but it also pushes the rabbit directly against your clit. The stimulation is somehow too much and not enough at the same time — almost numbing after so long, but still just one wrong twitch away from making you come. But every time you rise up to get away from it, the dildo threatens to fall out. You can only lift a couple inches without it slipping, and the awkward half-kneel makes your already-trembling thighs scream after only a minute. 

You can’t stay pressed against the vibrator without coming, and you can’t get away from it without the dildo falling out. Either way, you’re going to disobey him. The thought fills you with dread, and you fight to be good, cycling between both agonizing positions. You don’t know how long passes like that. Your body is on fire, but your mind is full of static, the only clear thought you have: be good. You repeat it in your head until it’s all you know, all you are. 

You start drifting, experiencing things through a haze, like they’re happening to someone else. The need to come is still there, but it’s not as urgent anymore. It’s been muted by distance. You’re somewhere else, floating and far away and-

A hand lands on top of your head and you come crashing back into your body. 

Sensation comes back, ten times sharper than before, and your body convulses as you fight the sharp, stabbing need to come. You make an agonized noise. You’re sweating, trembling, and you’re so wet you can feel it dripping out of you. Every nerve ending is on fire, your legs feel like they’re going to collapse even though you’re already kneeling, and you need to come, you-

“Shh, breathe, sweetheart.”

You gasp out a breath.

“That’s it. Focus on me.”

He starts taking deep, even breaths, and you fight to mimic him. Slowly, the frantic energy in you eases into something manageable. His hand stays on you the whole time. It’s not gentle, not rough, but it grounds you enough that you’re able to settle all the way back into your body.

“Good girl, I’m going to turn this off now okay?”

His fingers tap lightly at the vibrator, forcing a whine out of you. But you nod, and he murmurs more praise. The buzzing switches off, followed by him removing the dildo altogether, and you don’t know whether to sob in relief or to wail at the loss. 

“Fuck, baby, you made such a mess. Are you sure you didn’t come without permission?”

You shake your head frantically. No, you were good. You’re always good. Panic wells up in you, and you garble out a protest. You wouldn’t do that, you-

“I believe you, sweetheart. Always so perfect for me.”

You wilt in relief.

“Next is your wrists, okay?”

He waits until you nod before slipping the bindings off. Your shoulders scream in protest when you bring your arms back in front of you. His hands are there immediately though, rubbing carefully to help you through the worst of it. And even though it hurts, even though your knees ache and the muscles in your legs feel like they’re on fire, you still moan at the feel of his hands on you. Your body is caught somewhere between overstimulated and touch-starved, and you arch into his touch even though it’s painful.

“Alright, sweetheart, hands and knees. Do you think you can do that for me?”

You honestly don’t know if your limbs can hold you up anymore, but you try. You’d do anything he asked you at this point. Anything if he’ll finally let you come. You place your hands on the floor in front of you and lean some of your weight on them. Encouraged when they don’t give out right away, you shift slowly forward until you’re properly on all fours. You’re shaking, but you don’t fall.

“Doing so well, my perfect girl.”

The praise washes over you like a physical touch, and your pussy spasms weakly.

“Listened so well; I’m going to fuck you now, okay?”

You’re beyond words a this point, but you make a desperate sound of agreement and arch your back as best you can. He makes an appreciative noise at the sight. One hand finds your hip, the other running down the length of your spine, and you feel all of it like you’ve touched a live wire. Then he’s moving behind you, positioning himself, and the noise you make when you feel the head of his cock against your swollen pussy is feral.

“So fucking wet,” he says, dragging the tip through your folds. 

And then he slams into you in one, harsh thrust, and you choke on a scream.

He sets a brutal rhythm immediately, his hands bruising your hips to hold you in place. The respite you got when he took the dildo out vanishes, and you’re suddenly back to teetering on the edge of coming. His cock is so much thicker than the dildo, so much longer — you can feel him in your throat. You can feel every ridge, every vein as he fucks you like he’s trying to mold you to the shape of him.

“Shit,” he snarls when a particularly rough thrust makes you clench around him. “This perfect-, ah, perfect fucking pussy.”

His shifts slightly behind you, and you wail at the change in angle. Every thrust sends lightning down your spine, pleasure so sharp in hurts. Your arms shake, then give out, and you collapse forward onto the floor. He doesn’t pause though, just tightens his grip on your hips until you know you’ll wake up with his fingerprints on your skin. The thought makes you moan.

“That’s it, baby, taking my cock so well. Like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

Your breath is coming out in pathetic little moans every time he buries himself inside of you, but you try to respond, try to say yes. The only thing you manage is an incoherent approximation of his name. 

“My smart girl, so cock drunk you can’t speak.”

You don’t know which part of that sentence affects you more. Either would suffice to ruin you, and you feel your wetness start to drip down your thigh. You’re so wet you can hear your cunt trying to suck him back in every time he withdraws. The sound is loud, obscene in the small room, but you don’t care. You want more. Want him closer, harder, more.

Like he can hear your thoughts, he hooks one arm around you and reaches between your legs. He thumbs your clit lightly, barely a touch, but you clamp down so hard you nearly force him out.

“Jesus fucking-, hngg, fuck, fuck.”

His hips stutter, the first crack in his iron control. He keeps rubbing your clit though, and you know without a doubt that if he doesn’t stop, you’re going to come. 

“P-please,” you gasp. “Bren, please. Please let me c-come. I-, ah, I need to come.”

“Sweetheart-”

“Please.”

You’re outright crying now. Crying, begging, willing to do anything if he’ll let you come. It’s not a matter of willpower anymore, it’s a matter of survival. Your body has been denied for so long that you’re either going to come or pass out.

“Shit, alright. You’ve been so good for me, baby, you can come.”

He delivers a particularly brutal thrust and pinches your clit, and you detonate.

Lightning explodes through you. Your body spasms with it, your hands scrabbling for purchase against the floor. Pleasure so intense it’s agony forces a sob out of your mouth. It’s too much, and you feel like you’re going to break under the pressure of it, but you can’t escape. His hands are still pinning you in place, and you’re too weak to move, so all you can do is lay there as it tears you apart.

Dimly, you’re aware of him coming, too. His hips stutter, then slam forward one more time before he’s twitching inside of you. He holds you through it, spewing a litany of curses and praise, but it’s like you’re hearing from underwater. You’re still coming, drenching his cock with it. Every time you think it’s over, another wave hits you, and your vision actually greys out for a second. 

When you finally settle back into your body, you feel hollowed out. Everything is too much, too sensitive. Your breath is coming in broken gasps, your legs are shaking, and you can’t stop crying.

When he pulls out, it’s relief and loss all at once. You make a distressed noise, but quiet when he scoops you up into his arms. He sits on the ground and settles you in his lap, and you immediately burrow as close to him as humanly possible.

“Shh,” he soothes. “You did so well, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you.”

The words are like a balm to your ragged nerves. 

“Listened so well, my perfect girl.”

You’re an absolute mess — a mixture of both your releases dripping from between your legs and tears mixing with the remnants of dried come on your cheeks. He ignores all of it, cradling you close. For a while, there’s only the sound of him murmuring reassurances in your ear, only the feeling of being totally surrounded and safe. He doesn’t rush you, and eventually you calm enough to accept the bottle of water he holds to your lips. 

“Can I take off the blindfold?” he asks once you finish drinking.

You nod.

The overheads in the gym are dimmed all the way down, but you still wince at the first stab of light. You have to blink several times to adjust, and the first thing your eyes settle on is the reflection of you and Brendon in the mirror. You look about as wrecked as you feel, and though he looks similarly exhausted, you can immediately tell that the simmering anger from earlier has cooled. His pelagic eyes are calm as they stare back at you, his hand steady as it cards through your hair.

“You with me?” he asks softly. 

You hum in agreement, and he huffs a laugh.

“Words, sweetheart.”

A weak spark of arousal runs through your body.

“‘m with you,” you mumble. 

You made a post online that's going viral and you don't understand why.

You just asked the internet a simple question…but the answers you're getting are changing your thoughts on your relationship with your dads.

Title: Is it weird that my stepfather [45M] and my godfather [45M] sleep with me [18F]? Post: Hi there. I live with my stepfather and his twin brother who is my godfather. I lost my mom recently and so my godfather moved in with us to help take care of me. I'm obviously an adult so I don't need the help but I do have a chronic illness so it has been wonderful having him around to help with things that are difficult for me to do like cooking and cleaning. Though, we only have one bedroom in our apartment since we moved so I could have better access to medical care. But it works out because my stepfather works nights so usually I sleep on my own in the bed and my godfather sleeps on our couch. But I felt bad that he's sleeping uncomfortably so I offered to let him share the bed with me and he didn't for a while but eventually caved after I told him it would make me feel better knowing he slept well. Now we've been sleeping together all the time and apparently that's weird? But he's practically my dad so I don't find it that weird but a few friends of mine have told me that it's really odd for me to sleep next to him as an adult. And it's apparently even weirder that sometimes my stepfather joins us when he's tired after his night shift and we're both still asleep in bed. I'm just looking to see if anyone else finds this weird…and should I say something about it?

People have flooded the comments of your post, telling you that your dads are “perverted creeps who are trying to take advantage of you” and it's especially bad because “you're not even related to them”.

But they're your dads…

And they've always considered you their kid.

So, seeing so many people online calling them predators makes you upset. Your dads are nothing but respectful of you. They take such good care of you.

You always wake up feeling good on the nights you sleep besides either of them. Even better when they're both there.

But you can't seem to escape the exhaustion you feel all the time…

Your stepfather, Dr. Jack Abbot, tells you that you simply have a rare condition that has you feeling more physically tired than other people but there isn't really any kind of solution to it. You just have to deal with it, unfortunately.

You are incredibly grateful to your godfather, Andrew Cody, who Jack calls “Pope”, for all of his help. You're spoiled by his cooking and he keeps the apartment spotless to help prevent you from getting any more sick than you already are.

A commenter had asked you when the fatigue started and you told them after your mom died. You had assumed it was because she died so suddenly. You never had a good relationship with her, especially after you found out she was cheating on Jack, but you seemed to take her death hard because that's when you began feeling so tired all the time.

Then, that same commenter messages you directly and tells you that they think your dads are doing something to you and that is why you have such bad fatigue.

What a crazy thought.

There's no way that could be true…right?

Your dads love you. They would never—

“What are you looking at, kiddo?”

You flinch when you feel hands on your shoulders. You quickly shut your phone screen off, hoping Pope didn't catch the message you were reading…

“Just some dumb video.” You lie through your teeth.

“It's almost bedtime.” He pats the top of your head. “Do you want to shower first or can I?”

“You can go first, dad.” You look up at him and he leans down, giving you a kiss on the lips. Like he always does.

Definitely nothing weird about that!

“I'll be sure to keep the water running so it stays warm for you.” Pope loves the smile you give him.

Whenever he showers before you, he just wraps a towel around his waist when he's done and then leaves the shower running so the water is nice and ready for you.

Again, totally not odd behavior that your godfather is constantly showing off his well built body to you.

“All yours, kid.” He nudges you towards the bathroom so he can get changed.

Your eyes dart down to the towel around his waist and then you quickly head into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You have no idea why your heart is racing all of a sudden. It's because you keep thinking about what that commenter had sent you.

I bet your dads touch you in your sleep. Maybe even fuck you. Makes sense why you're always so tired when you wake up but still feeling good.

That can't possibly be true. You've never had sex before so there's no way.

Wouldn't you have felt an ache if they had?

You…remember that you did feel an ache, the first few nights after you moved in with Jack when your mom died. But when you told him about it, he dismissed it as stress from the grief. And you believed him.

Because he's your dad. You trust him.

It had never even crossed your mind that he would do something like that to you in your sleep…

Him and Pope.

Your mind drifts to the obvious bulge you saw your godfather sporting when he left the bathroom. You may have never seen his cock bare before but you've definitely noticed the outline of it whenever he wears sweatpants. Or when he gets too close to you in your sleep and you can feel his morning wood rubbing up against your ass…

But that's just normal for a man! He isn't hard because of you!

That's what you're trying to fool yourself into believing…but the truth is, Pope has been waiting all day for you to fall asleep so he can use that perfect little pussy of yours to get off.

It's his favorite thing in the world, pumping a load of cum deep inside his goddaughter without you knowing that it's happening.

Ever since Jack told him that's what he has been doing to you, Pope had to move into with the two of you so he could join in on the fun.

He never knew how perverted his twin brother was. Perverted enough to marry your mom to have access to you, his pretty stepdaughter. Perverted enough to ask Pope to kill your mom so Jack didn't have to deal with the divorce and so he could keep you by his side. Perverted enough to make Pope your godfather so he could have access to you too.

It's hard not to be disgustingly infatuated with you. You're an incredibly beautiful girl, who is so naive and innocent that you let two predators lay beside you in bed consensually.

So, it isn't their fault that they have the desperate desire to touch you. You made them like this!

And they made your body incredibly horny for them, even though you don't know it.

You cum so hard when your dads touch you in your sleep. Sometimes Jack has to sedate you so they have time to change out the sheets and clean you up before you wake up.

When they're a bit rougher than they mean to, Jack will give you a dose of painkillers so you don't feel the pain as much. Those are the days where he really has to feign like your illness has flared up.

Like it did this morning.

You wake up with a cramp in your belly and Jack and Pope both still asleep beside you. Jack must've just gotten home from his shift because his hair is still a little damp from the shower he takes before he goes to sleep.

The shower he takes after he fucks you to his heart's content.

You shake him awake because you're nervous about the belly ache. “Dad?”

“What's wrong, kiddo?” Jack opens his eyes, looking up at your worried ones. “Is everything okay?”

“My tummy hurts.” You tell him, clutching your stomach.

“Here.” Pope stirs awake too, wrapping his arms around you, placing his big hands on your lower belly. “This will help.”

You feel a rush of something straight to your core when his hard cock presses up against your ass. Like a need for him to be buried inside of you.

Wait, what?

You snap out of your head because you can't believe you just thought that!

You turn your attention back to Jack. “I don't know why it hurts. I didn't eat anything weird yesterday. Just Pope's cooking, like always.”

That makes Jack look up at Pope. Because he knows Pope has been jerking off into your food. His brother does it out of a weird desire for you to always have him inside of you. Something that Jack also wants, but he settles for cumming in your pussy and your ass.

“You just need rest, kiddo.” Pope rests his face in the nape of your neck, giving you a kiss there that sends those same unnerving shivers down to your core.

“I-I think I'm going to go watch some TV.” You quickly scramble out of Pope's hold and he bites back a grunt of annoyance at that. “Maybe the distraction will help.”

You leave the room and when they're both sure you can't hear them, Jack turns to Pope and says, “I fucking told you we shouldn't have both stuck it in her pussy at the same time.”

“But you saw the way she squirted like crazy. She loved it.”

“That's not the point.” Jack will not lose his only stress outlet because Pope wants to figure out more ways to make you cum harder and harder.

Pope had told Jack about the message he read over your shoulder. And conveniently, you went out to the living room just now to watch TV and you didn't take your phone.

So, Jack grabs it off the nightstand and goes through it.

Finding your post about him and Pope.

Seeing the comments and the private messages about it.

And the most recent reply you sent to the commenter who told you that they might be fucking you in your sleep.

I think you might be right.

Jack shows everything to Pope, who takes the phone from him. He decides to go through your search history to see if you had looked into reporting them to the police because he can't risk going back to prison. Even though he knows you don't have any evidence to back up this claim. Him and Jack are very thorough with their clean up.

But all he sees are searches you made asking for advice on how to stop wanting to fuck your—

Jack catches the phone when Pope throws it to him all of a sudden. “What the fuck—”

Pope stalks into the living room and you're startled to see him staring at you with such lust in his eyes.

Then, his words send such a fright through you, “you want us to fuck you?”

“W-What?” Your throat goes completely dry.

Because how does he know—

You glance over at Jack, who has your phone in his hand, adjusting his prosthetic with his other hand since he had to put it on quickly.

Heat fills your entire body instantly.

They looked through your phone.

They know what you searched up.

“Why didn't you just tell us, kiddo?” Jack walks up to you, joining his brother's side. “We would be happy to fuck you.”

“I-I…” You don't know what to say.

Because what are you supposed to tell your dads that you want them to fuck you?

That's just insane behavior!

Almost as insane as your godfather sitting down beside you on the couch so he can grab your face and kiss you.

This is nothing like the short pecks on the lips your dads give you.

This is…intense.

You can hardly breathe and you yelp against his lips when Jack sits down behind you and his hands slip under your shirt, going straight to tugging at your nipples. You never wear a bra to sleep and now you're regretting it…

Or, are you happy about it? Because you're building so much slick between your legs with every rough tug.

It's like he knows just how to touch you to get you close to cumming already.

Jack's rough handling of your breasts coupled with Pope's feverish kissing has your head spinning like crazy.

You have to put a stop to this!

“Wait, dad—” You're suddenly tugged towards Jack, your back crashing against his chest, and now he has your legs pinned wide open by his legs on the couch. “What are you doing—!”

Pope suddenly rips your shirt off your chest, causing you to let out a shriek that has Jack clamping his hand over your mouth.

“Quiet, kiddo.” His words have your head going fuzzy. “I'm sure you wouldn't want our neighbors to hear you cumming because of your dads.”

You bite back another shriek when Pope rips apart your sleep shorts and your underwear, leaving you completely naked in Jack's hold. Jack keeps one hand over your mouth and then the other one goes back to your breasts, rolling your nipple between his fingertips, causing you to moan uncontrollably into his palm.

“She's fucking dripping.” Pope runs his fingers along the length of your soaked slit. “She wants to get fucked again already.”

Wait, what does he mean by again—

You gasp against Jack's hand when Pope buries his face between your legs, his tongue dipping into you right away. You squirm but Jack keeps you trapped, forcing you to accept Pope's incessant tongue.

Pope has watched you cum from his mouth many times by now, but this is the first time he'll see you cum while you're awake.

So he needs to make it amazing.

You choke back another scream when Pope sticks three of his fingers inside of you. You can't believe how easily they slipped into you.

That's when the realization hits that your dads have definitely touched you in your sleep.

Because how else would Pope knows exactly where to curl his fingers to have you squirting all over them?

The orgasms he's forcing out of you have you whimpering into Jack's palm, the intensity of the pleasure tearing you apart.

“We're going to need a new couch if you keep cumming so hard.” Pope degrades you right before his fingers start moving roughly side to side, forcing you to cum even harder than before.

It only gets amplified when Jack turns your head towards him and starts kissing you so he can silence you that way since he wants to play with your perky breasts using both hands. You moan against his lips when he pinches your nipples.

Then, you completely fall apart when Pope's lips latch around your clit and start sucking that sensitive bundle of nerves.

You can't stop cumming.

This can't be happening, it can't—

“Don't pass out yet, kid.” Jack breathes out against your lips. “Your dads still have to fuck you.”

“No, no.” You shake your head, looking at Jack and Pope. “Dads, please. We can't, we can't—!”

“Make her ride your cock while I suck her clit.” Pope tells Jack, who doesn't hesitate to listen.

You feel your stepfather’s huge cock hit your back. Then, you're lifted up by them both until Jack's cock is perfectly aligned with your entrance. Jack sets you down gently but Pope, in his impatience, just slams you down, drawing out another sudden squirting orgasm.

“Delicious.” Pope finds his way back between your legs. “Now ride your dad’s cock, kiddo.”

You refuse to do so but then Jack puts you in a chokehold, his muscular arm cutting off your air as he whispers, “bounce on it or I'll strangle you to death.”

“Here, I'll help.” Pope grabs your thighs and lifts you up almost completely off Jack's cock before slamming you back down.

You don't even have to do the work. Pope has no trouble helping you pound his brother's cock inside of you. He does this over and over again until you're cumming so much on his tongue as he plays with your clit.

Jack keeps you breathless with his arm tightly held around your throat while his other hand goes up to your mouth. “Open wide or else.”

You have to listen so you part your lips for his thumb to slip in.

“Suck on it, kid.” He instructs and you hate the pleasure that shoots through you when you do.

The oral fixation, the inability to breathe, Jack's cock buried in your pussy, Pope's tongue on your clit, it's all so overwhelming that you can't control the orgasms that consume you.

And it only gets more unbelievable when Pope shoves a finger inside of you alongside Jack's cock. He stuffs another finger in, then another, until you're so full that your eyes start to water from the stretch. Then, your body starts convulsing when his fingers curl inside of you, sending you into a complete frenzy.

Jack loosens his chokehold and pulls his thumb out of your mouth so you can gulp in some air. “Good girl, deep breaths. You can take it. You need to make room for your dad’s cock.”

You don't understand what he's saying. Jack's cock is already inside of you.

What does he mean by—

You let out a scream when you feel Pope's cock pushing into you from the front, replacing his fingers. Jack leans you further back, to give Pope more room to push into you.

“No, stop, it's too much!” You shove at Pope but he snatches your wrists with his hand and grabs the back of the couch for leverage with his other hand.

“It's nothing you haven't taken before.” Pope's words have you staring back at him with such shock. “You're doing so well, kiddo. Just a little more and my cock can kiss your womb like Jack's is.”

“Does my daughter like it when her dad's cock kisses her womb?” Jack asks you and you can't even find the brainpower to react.

Your dads are fucking you stupid. You actually can't think. Your mind is so entirely focused on their cocks splitting you apart.

That you haven't even taken a moment to realize they're fucking you raw.

“Wait, I'm not on birth control!” You wriggle in Pope's grip, trying to fight him again.

Jack has you back in a chokehold then, not letting you resist this. “It's okay if you get pregnant, kiddo. Your dads are here to help.”

“We'll take good care of you and our baby.” Pope gestures for Jack to move his hand down to your lower belly. He massages right above your womb, making you fully aware of how full you feel with both of your dad's cocks buried deep inside of you.

“Let's give your womb a lovely kiss now.” Jack suddenly thrusts his hips upwards, slamming the tip of his cock against the entrance to your womb, forcing you to squirt on their cocks against your will.

“Told you she loves it.” Pope follows Jack's lead, ramming his cock deeper, kissing your womb with the tip of his cock over and over again.

They find a rhythm that has you trembling between them. You're stuck, unable to move, your body growing almost limp from the pleasure searing your skin.

At a certain point, you give in completely. That's when Pope lets go of your wrists so he can grab a hold of your face and kiss you while he fucks you. Jack frees you from his chokehold so he can have one hand playing with your breasts while the other slips between your legs and rubs your clit.

You're overstimulated to the max, but you love every second of it.

Your dads are so focused on making you feel good, drowning you in a bliss that you will never be able to get from anyone else but them.

They've ruined you entirely.

“Say you want your dads to cum inside of you.” Pope demands, his words so hot on your swollen lips.

“Say you want your dads to fuck a sibling inside of you.” Jack's words surprise even Pope, who smiles devilishly at his fucked up brother.

They truly are twins.

And you're their fucked up kid.

“I want my dads to cum inside of me.” You can't believe the words coming out of your mouth as you cum on their cocks. “I want my dads to fuck a sibling into me. Please, I want my dads to fill up my womb.”

That seems to trigger your dads to pour endless amounts of their release deep inside of you. Hot ropes of cum flood your pussy and you can't stop the orgasms that the feeling of being so full causes.

You're still cumming when your dads slip their cocks out of you. You cum even harder when they each shove three of their fingers inside of you, plugging you up, keeping their cum from spilling out of you.

“I can't cum anymore…” You say even though you can feel it building from them curling their fingers, stirring up your insides in the way only they can.

“Oh, you can.” Jack knows you can because him and Pope have trained your body well.

“And you will. You'll cum until we're hard again and then we'll fuck you again. And again. Until you can't fit any more of our cum inside of you, kiddo.” Pope tells you before giving you a loving kiss on the lips.

Jack does the same, kissing you like you mean the world to him.

You must mean a lot to them.

Why else would they take such good care of you?

That's why you message back that commenter: I love my dads.

And Jack chuckles when he gets that message in his inbox.

What a cute kid he has.

He shows the message to Pope, finally revealing that Jack baited you into finding accepting them.

Pope shares a laugh with his brother, finding you so adorable.

They really love being your dads.

a/n: I love my dads sm, even when they do me so nasty oop-

honestly I'm impressed with myself bc I sped wrote this the moment I remembered it was father's day LOL!

a sense of warmth, pride bloomed in his chest every time you placed yourself in his embrace. sitting on his lap, taking his arms to wrap them around your waist or guide his hand to slide in the back pocket of your pants while you pressed into him at any given moment. sitting in craig's bar, on a stool with pope standing beside you when a girl walks by making eyes at him, he couldn't describe the exact reason why he felt the carnal need to pound you into the next day when you tugged him by the belt loops of his jeans until he stood between your legs. or even why he felt himself stiffening his jeans when you slid your hand on his hip beneath his shirt, nails grazing his abdomen and v-line, tugging him down by his hair with your freehand to kiss him heatedly. slipping your tongue in his mouth, kissing like two teenagers who've had their first taste of each others flesh, all the while you're staring the poor girl down who thought she could ever stand a chance against coming between you and him. he felt a small inkling to maybe say something when he watched you stick your foot out and smirk watching the girl tumble. the poor girl who was pancaked on the floor had brushed up against him in her drunken stupor while making her way around the pool. but he couldn't, not when you looked at him so sickeningly sweet.

he definitely should've checked you on the bratty possessive behavior when he brought you back home for the typical cody family dinner. baz had brought cath so it was only right that he brought you along. over the years, cath's resentment towards baz for the life he had brought her into had grew tenfold when she watched you take the life she could've had with pope. of course, she never loved pope the way that you did, the way he deserved. it didn't stop her from feeling like maybe there was a chance to get that back. it was only a moment, to anyone else it was fleeting but to you, to you it was like time had frozen and you were seeing red. pope was on his usual cleaning frenzy after dinner and cath came into "help". the context of situation was irrelevant, all you could focus on was the way she was looking at him, hand on his arm and eyes desperately searching for any indication that maybe he'd want her still. their backs were to you when you slammed the wine glass onto the floor, shattering it to millions of glittering pieces. pope's body jumps a bit at the sheer surprise before he's immediately rushing over to check on you, tears welling in your eyes as you mumble 'm'so sorry'. cath's hand drops to her side as she watches the way coddled you, checking for cuts and making sure your okay. he had dropped his attention from her so quickly their should've been no doubt in her mind that the version of pope that loved her wasn't there anymore. she should've really known when she saw the cold stare in your eyes when just for a beat, you pulled back the sniffling so she could really see who pope belonged to.

even more so, cath should've know when she passed by pope's bedroom where the door was cracked ever so slightly. in his haste to taking you back to his bedroom, you seemingly forgot to close his bedroom door all the way. pinning your body beneath his as his pants pooled around his ankles, your bottoms discarded somewhere in the room in the room as he fucks you. your nails are clawing at his back, crying his name with every slap of his hips against yours, cunt drawing him in deeper with squeeze and desperate plea that slipped past your lips. your eyes drifted to that crack, seeing her standing there. tears slipped out of yours.

"you love me andy? do-do you love me?" the question is for him but you're looking dead at her.

"love you so fucking much, angel," he grunts into your neck, punctuating every word with a wet kiss to your neck. his thrusts unrelenting.

"only me andy? you only love me right?" it's desperate, needy. he was right in the palm of your hand but the fear and doubt lingered in the back of your mind. you haven't torn your gaze away, the pleasure so intoxicating it's playing games with your vision. if she was really standing there watching you both like this.

you sigh loudly, dramatically. this is the third time this week that sammy has tried to go down on you at work. you've managed to keep him satiated with just dry humping in an elevator ride up until now in fear of getting caught. but when he clasps his shaky hands to actually plead, you finally give in.

you grab the collar of his button up that’s tight around his pudgy neck, pulling him until your back is pressed against the door. sammy panics slightly, his round, freckled face blotching red as he thinks you're moving to leave. he drops to his knees and whines, "please? i’ll be quick! promise!"

you giggle at his utter desperation to taste you. your thighs clench, your panties dampen at his pathetic tone. you reach down and cup his chubby cheek. he immediately nuzzles into the touch with a breathy sound. his meaty hands snake out to grip your knees that are exposed below your pencil skirt.

"i guess you have been a good boy today sammy…" you drawl, slowly draping one leg over his plushy shoulder. his pupils blow wide and his auburn curls shake with his rapid nods of agreement. "just a small taste and then we have to go back to work... okay?"

“fuck- thank you. thank you baby.” moving before you can blink, sammy hikes your leg higher up on his body and dives in between your parted thighs. you throw your head back in a gasp at the first long lick he takes of your clothed pussy. he groans so loudly when he finds how wet you are, your whole body vibrates with the sound. your hips instinctively buck towards him and he repeats the noise.

he grips your panties, tugging them up and to the side to make sure the fabric catches on your clit. his bulky forearm that keeps them held there presses you against the door. you moan at the jolt of pleasure appearing from the friction on your sensitive bud. sammy starts to lap you up. switching between tracing his tongue around your dripping entrance and sticking the warm muscle inside you and swirling it. “you taste so good- mmfhf- needed you all- all day sweetheart.”

you’re bitting your fist to hold back your noises, already squeezing your eyes shut at the white hot feeling sparking in your stomach. he paws at your opposite thigh with his free hand without even faltering his tongue’s movements. you’re then fully lifted of the ground and pinned to the wall, your thighs hugging his ears and your fingers gripping his now sweaty curls. it’s only then that you realize that sammy’s whimpering loudly from his place on his knees.

“s-sammy baby… you have to- ohmygod- have to be quiet.” he shakes his head rapidly. his nose rubs against your clit that’s already sensitive from the lace digging there. you squeal at the dual stimulation the firm stroking adds on top of his tongue slurping inside you. he presses his vein corded forearm harder into your abdomen to add even more pressure. your vision blurs at the edges.

“oh god! sammy im gonna- oh fuck!” your thighs start to shake around him as the tingling in your body grows tangible. bright and hot. you hear him release a whine in repsonse. pathetic and high pitched. you steal a glance down to see sammy bryant on his knees. eyes squeezed shut in pleasure of his own from licking your most intimate area. his meaty hips are humping into air. into nothing.

the sight is so desperate and wanting that you come with a muffled cry into your palm. legs shaking, walls fluttering and toes curling. he makes out with your achey core during your rise, peak and come down. when he's licked up every last drop of your orgasm, you sag against the door. sammy fixes your panties, then gently places you down.

rising to his full height, he gathers you in his strong arms and hugs you sweetly. his pudge you love so much warms you instantly. he kisses your cheeks and nose as you snuggle into him, before moving to place a soft one to your forehead.

It started on her very first day at the Pitt, a day in which she'd uncovered two pivotal pieces of information that no one had been made privy to up until that point.

Dennis Whitaker was living in the hospital.

Frank Langdon had a substance abuse issue.

Both these pieces of information could've served as gossip, but trinity had always considered herself a trooper, and so she kept her mouth shut about both of them.

Throughout her time at the Pitt, more and more news revealed themselves to her. And every single time, Trinity kept them all to herself.

Whether it was something as small as Ogilvie eating the sandwich Samira had been saving in the fridge, or as big as Dana asking McKay for another secret script of sedative to carry around in case of an emergency, Trinity always turned a blind eye and acted surprised whenever someone else happened to stumble upon the same piece of gossip and spilled the beans to everyone else at the Pitt.

But even with her angelic ability to keep her mouth shut, Trinity was, after all, just a person. And sooner or later, something would eventually be too juicy for it to not slip past her lips when probed just at the right moment.

It was only too bad that you happened to be on the receiving end of it.

-

Trinity liked you.

You were a useful addition to the many doubles she had a tendency to pull, always a good partner to have in the long hours under the bleed of the fluorescent white lights of the ED.

She liked to think (and was pretty sure) that the feeling was mutual.

The two of you shared a similar humor, usually placing either Whitaker or Langdon at the butt of every joke, bugging at Robby for more complicated procedures or gaslighting Shen into sharing his Dunkin's coupons with you.

You'd been aware of her thing with Yoyo back when it was no more than a situationship kept on the down low. Just like she was well aware of your moon-eyed crush on the greying night shift attending — information that she always kept to herself despite how obvious she thought you were.

And so she felt pretty confident in saying that she knew you pretty well.

But was she colored impressed when she came to find out that that was not true at all.

Because standing across from her, she found a scantily-clad you, body packed with glitter and hair with the most volume she'd ever seen, dancing to your heart's content up on the stage of the strip club Yoyo had insisted they check out for their weekly date night.

Yoyo had already been here multiple times, or so she had told Trinity right before parking up front about twenty minutes prior to that moment. Yet her eyes widened just as big as soon as she spotted you, fellow resident of Trinity's, practically naked on stage.

As her eyes widened, they turned to Santos', finding them just as wide and peeked at a tiny amused smile forming. Within moments they were both giggling to themselves, betting on a margarita as to how long it'd take you to turn your head slightly north in order to find two of your coworkers in the audience.

All in all, Santos had to admit that, damn, you knew what you were doing.

This was no side hustle or hobby. This was clearly something you'd studied the art of to a T.

But your performance only got better the moment you actually spotted Trinity and Yoyo, eyes wide and a stutter in your step as you walked your way to the pole found at the closest end of the stage.

Your coworkers made a show of cheering for you, wooing at you, throwing bills in your direction, sending one or two pointed whistles your way. Within moments your shock turned into annoyance, and the rest was pretty much history.

Weeks passed until this Trinity brought up the events of that night again.

(Other than the immediate aftermath in which Trinity chastised you for not sharing such an interesting bit of your life with your work bestie and you pleading that she keep her mouth shut about it at work).

And when it was finally brought up again, it was all accidental. Trinity swore by that! She was not the type to blabber about things that didn't concern her.

But it had been a very long shift, and drinks were being passed around at the park, and you had a little bit of leftover glitter on your cheekbone she somehow hadn't noticed in the past 18 hours and she couldn't help but to-

"Hah, what's with the glitter? This isn't your night job."

She'd said it with what sounded like a malicious snicker and happened to word it in a way that made you sound like a lady of the night, but, truly, she had not meant it that way! Had not even realized what she'd said until she realized all voices had quietened down and that the only sound to be heard was the odd cricket hiding around the bushes of the park.

You froze, eyes wide like bambi and a lips slightly agape in pure shock. All color seemed to drain from your face immediately as a strange sense of shame took over your features.

Rather than to immediately look to santos in shock, your eyes looked to the bench across from you where your two attendings sat, mortified at the sudden reveal and at the way in which all conversation seemed to half at Santos' words.

Across from where you stood were Abbot and Robby, pausing their side conversation to look over in your direction, with the former in slight shock and the latter with some amusement at Santos' sudden reveal.

Realization that she'd fucked up and embarrassed you in front of your crush made Santos feel even worse at her sudden blunder. She was hitting herself internally at every extended second of awkward silence.

In the pseudo socratic circle you'd always form when sharing a beer after a long shift at the park, multiple of your other coworkers also reacted to Santos' comment, including Whitaker choking on his beer and Javadi gasping out loud.

Langdon had been a little more reserved, simply lifting his brows in curiosity and Samira furrowing hers in confusion.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, your eyes swam over all the people around you, mortified, before landing back on Santos next to you. Your embarrassment morphed into irritation, now scowling at the girl before grunting out a response.

"Santos—! God damnit, I- I have to go."

And with that, you walked away despite all the eyes on you, ignoring santos as she spluttered a weak apology in your direction, hand landing on her forehead as she regretted the words that had left her lips.

"Night job?"

"Shut it, Huckleberry, that is not what i meant-"

"Oh my god, is she, like, a sex worker?"

Javadi's choice of language was respectful, but did not aid in santos' case after her fuck-up.

"No! What i meant was-"

"Dude, so not cool exposing her private shit like that."

This time it was Langdon, shaking his head as he aimed, threw, and landed his crumpled beer can into the trashcan to his left.

A few more chastising comments were given by a few other coworkers, leaving Santos no option but to, once again, blurt out something she truly did not mean to say.

"She's not a sex worker, okay? She's a stripper! Now shut up!"

Silence again.

Trinity winced as she took in the repetition of surprised reactions. She just couldn't stop fucking it up even further.

And in that awkward silence, she somehow managed to miss the outlier sitting on the bench across of her displaying all five stages of grief on his face as he took in the new information just given to him.

Abbot sat there, dumbly doing nothing as you walked away in mortification, as Santos continued to unintentionally embarrass you upon your exit, as everyone reacted to the newest and juiciest piece of gossip to hit the Pitt.

He couldn't help himself in the state of shock he'd arrived to. Couldn't even think about moving, much less listening to Mohan scold Santos and Santos promise she'd apologize as soon as she saw you and as she pleaded that no one ever bring up her fuck up ever again.

All he could do was think back to that tiny bit of glitter he'd also happened to spot the moment you'd clocked in and to all the other times in which he'd seen leftover glitter on your lid, on your cheek. He couldn't help but think of all the mumbled excuses you'd give as to why you couldn't join the night shift full time.

Everything suddenly came to light in a whole different way than he'd imagined, and the thought of you like that? Well, it sure had some sort of effect on him.

Unknowingly, Santos had not only ruined your life, but had also completely destroyed jack.

-

"Okay, so don't be mad."

"I already told you I'm not mad at you, Trinity," you sighed as you slipped off your stethoscope, facing your locker while gathering your things.

A few days had passed since the incident.

Santos had turned up at your apartment about half an hour later, groaning to herself as she told you about the aftermath of your sudden exit and very apologetic about it all.

After bribing you with access to her Doordash account for a month and offering to cover for you whenever your second job got in the way, no questions asked, you came around to letting it be water under the bridge.

You'd been lucky that the only people present to hear about your secret had been people you considered somewhat close.

Except that the thought of Jack Abbot, of all people, hearing of such a scandalous secret kind of made you want to die.

It wasn't that you were embarrassed, per se, but who'd want the sexy older guy they can't even maintain eye contact with finding out that you strip every other night? Sooner or later he'd do the math and realize that that was why you'd been rejecting his offers to be under his tutelage (and thus spending more time with him) during the night shift for twelve hours a night — because your side hustle got in the way.

You didn't want him to be... disappointed, for him to see you differently, to view you as cheap or as if you were selling your body. He respected you, and his respect was something you'd never want to lose.

Blatant judgment wasn't something you'd ever expect from Abbot, but the possibility existed within your irrational thoughts any time your brain decided to put those two parts of your life together. Even if your current relationship wasn't anything past mentor and mentee, you would be fine with it staying like that if it meant Abbot at least looked to you with a smidge of fondness in his eyes.

But Abbot hadn't said anything since Trinity blabbed.

There had been no sort of reaction from him, or anyone really.

Upon your return to the Pitt the following day, tail between your legs, no one had made any snarky quip or even looked at you weird after you'd been exposed and had dramatically run away. There were no further comments made other than Santos consistently apologizing over and over again in hushed tones throughout your shared shift.

And so you forgave Santos.

You were friends, and you weren't particularly embarrassed about moonlighting as a stripper for extra cash. It was just not something you openly discussed with your coworkers. You felt that reasoning was valid enough to keep it a secret.

Santos continued, "Well, maybe not now, but tell me that again in two minutes..."

At that, you closed your locker door, trying your hardest not to slam it. Perhaps you'd been a bit jumpy after all. Your guard was always high when it came to this subject.

"What did you do this time?"

Santos grimaced, groaning dramatically to herself and squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before seemingly ripping the band-aid off.

"Abunchofpeoplegottogetherandthey'reallgonnagowatchyouthisweekendatyourclub."

"What?"

She sighed, cursing under her breath and attempted it again.

"A bunch of people got together ... and decided they're going to go to your club to watch you perform this weekend."

Your heart dropped at the word 'club' and stopped altogether at the word 'perform'. You were pretty sure you were about to enter cardiac arrest in that very moment.

Every second of your life flashed before your eyes.

"Oh, my god, santos-"

"I swear I didn't tell anyone about where you work!" she started, a little frantic, "I guess Yoyo told someone upstairs about a cool new club we went to, and then that person told someone else, and then it reached Parker and Shen, — who did the math — and then princess suggested some of the girls go watch you, and then Whitaker decided to join in cause he's sorta one of the girls, and it turned into Langdon joining and I think maybe Robby for some reason? anyway, I think-"

"Oh, my god."

"It's not that bad—!"

You huffed in despair, hands coming up to your face and mutely screaming into them for a few moments. You needed to get it out of your system, and seemingly Santos understood that sentiment as she stood taking in your misery.

"You've completely ruined my life," you said blankly, emotionless.

Dramatic, but it felt that drastic at that moment.

"Well, uh- you should be glad! You know, that, uh, at least Abbot isn't going!"

The mention of his name only made things worse for you.

"Oh, god."

Santos was well aware of your crush on the older man, though she usually used it to tease you. It was bad enough that he was one of the few who had heard the news firsthand, but to even think of him seeing you on the job?

Fuck.

"Do you think he'll... go?"

Santos shook her head a little too quickly, clearly eager to atone and reassure you, not at all actually sure.

"He's an old man! And he works the night shift! You dance nights, right?" you nodded and she continued, "See? He'd have to take the night off, and when was the last time he ever did that? Nothing to worry about."

Her logic was somewhat sound, but her tone of voice assured you that it was mostly just wishful thinking.

And even if abbot skipped this particular outing, knowing that Robby or Princess would probably give him (and the rest of the staff) the 411 of your night job made your skin itch with anxiety.

"From one to ten, how bad would it be if i quit both jobs before then?"

Santos shook her head, lips pursed.

"You can barely afford your apartment on two salaries and tips, you'll be homeless within a week."

"Fuck."

-

After that, you occasionally heard a comment or two about the big night.

You weren't quite sure how or why this had become a thing, much less how it wasn't firing off alarms with HR that not only was one of their doctors openly a stripper — was there some sort of rule for that? — but also that a good dozen of her coworkers were joining in on some scheme to torment her for said stripping.

Okay, maybe 'torment' was a little much.

Mel and Whitaker seemed genuinely interested in watching you out of sheer curiosity. Langdon appeared a little awkward about it, but didn't want to be left out. Javadi was perhaps a little judgmental about it (and would probably vlog it for TikTok), but both her and Samira showed some amused interest at that side of your life.

Robby got a little red in the face when the subject was brought up by Princess in your presence, but he also hadn't shown any judgment.

Plus, you always knew that it was only sooner or later that some patron at the strip club would recognize you or that someone at the hospital would end up on a night out at the club.

You were mostly just glad that Abbot had made no comment thus far, nor had he even been around any time the subject was brought up.

Still, you were a little anxious as Friday night turned up and you bid your goodbyes to Trin and Mel as you headed to the club in order to get undressed and ready to perform.

The girls at the club were pretty much clueless that you'd be bringing in a flock of doctors into the audience that night. It was better that way. Better to keep both jobs as separate as possible (even if they were beginning to seep into one another).

With a few breathing exercises, you did your thing, with a pretty pink set of lingerie, some pumps a bit too high, and a dyson to aid in fixing up something that would allow for some extra volume in your hair.

You couldn't forget the body glitter either, obviously.

Looking in the swanky mirror backstage, you took in your appearance, already an expert in the art of making yourself up for your audience.

Santos sent you a quick text, letting you know everyone was here and that there was no sighting of Abbot, which at least worked in docking down your heart rate a few bpm from its accelerated speed.

The music was already booming outside, and from backstage you could get a sense of the fluorescent lights flashing across the main room.

With one final deep breath, you made your way to the entrance to the stage, a little self conscious at your coworkers seeing you like this, but ultimately sort of glad that the secret was out of the bag and that it was just your friends out there — some lighthearted teasing and a few exaggerated cheers wouldn't kill you, would they?

-

Jack's week had been an absolute rollercoaster.

While externally everything might've remained mostly stagnant in Jack's life, — a difficult statement to make for someone who works night shift in emergency medicine — it was mostly his internal turmoil that had been keeping his mind occupied as of late.

Nothing had happened due to his own doing. But, hell, he could hardly blame anyone else.

But in his messed up mind, he still sorta did.

And that blame fell strictly on second-year resident, Trinity Santos.

(Though Jack was very well aware that this was all his fault. All the fault of the horribly inappropriate way in which he'd been looking to another second-year resident under his care).

Luckily for jack, he had a handle on it — like he did on most things. With a few distractions, he could stop his mind from wandering after your hands graced his mid procedure. He could simply pretend that the sudden accelerated speed of his heart was due to his new anxiety meds, not because the pretty, young, resident he had his eye on was looking up at him with doe eyes, asking if she was doing good.

In jack's mind, there was absolutely no way in which his infatuation with you could possibly worsen.

And this had been the truth for the two years in which you'd been at the Pitt.

It all ended on that fateful night.

After 16 hours of continuous work, Jack found himself sharing some beers with the usual crew of the Pitt. it was always a similar bunch, usually gathering after the specifically strenuous shifts that forced them to remain a few hours past the clock.

In this past year or so, you'd become part of that small crew.

Usually, you'd stand by doctor king or doctor santos, flocking towards people your age (which he noted with a pained heart), rarely ever sharing the usual bench with him or even interacting with him past a polite nod of acknowledgement or a 'goodnight' directed at the group in general.

You appeared to be too exhausted after extended shifts, with your body clearly not having grown accustomed to the sudden overtime shifts at the Pitt just yet. you'd slump over on Santos' shoulder, or occasionally stand with an armed linked with Mohan to shift some of your weight onto her.

It was rare for you to speak up or highlight your presence in these occasions. By all intent and purposes, Jack was certain saw you as a shy, reserved type of girl. Sure, you had your moments of vivacity in between procedures, but you were always avoiding his stare, usually docking your face down whenever you were one-on-one with anyone of authority.

So the words that left Santos that particular night had completely blown the breath out of his lungs.

He had spotted that leftover glitter on your cheekbone — how could he not, when his eyes wandered to you during any miniscule lull in his day? Sometimes there were some speckles on your lid, other times hidden on your top lip, but he could have never conjured that this could be the reason as to why it was there.

"Hah, what's with the glitter? This isn't your night job."

Immediately, Jack's ears perked up.

Even in his older age, his mind went straight to the gutter.

With that teasing tone of voice, there was only one thing Santos could have possibly meant by your night job.

Then he looked to you, finding your bambi eyes expanded larger than he'd ever seen them, mortification filling your features as you panicked and blurted out a half-hearted curse to your friend and all but ran off.

Some comments floated around after that, but Jack blocked them out, only really looking after you as you walked away. He pursed his lips in genuine pity, wishing he could run after you — not that you'd want him to, anyway. His leg was settled comfortably on the bench, and putting it on to chivalrously chase after you would've only made things worse for you.

Then Santos spoke again.

"She's not a sex worker, okay? She's a stripper! Now shut up!"

Jack felt like he'd been shot — a comparison he could easily make, since, clearly, he'd actually been shot at before.

His heart rate went off the charts. His knuckles went white as he gripped his beer can, denting it a little in the process. His jaw tensed and teeth clenched. He wasn't sure if any of this was out of empathetic mortification for you, or if it was due to the images of you flashing through his head. You donning a pretty little number, body bathed in glitter as you performed on stage for all the pathetic idiots fishing for just one bit of attention from you.

(It was the latter).

After that, jack was unsure of what to do.

It was silently (or at least, mostly silently) agreed after that that no one was to give you any shit for the news Santos had not-so-graciously delivered about your personal life.

But, of course, as it always is with a gossipy department, a few whispers of when should we make a trip down there? Or small quips of curiosity in regards of your skill level were shared here and there. Jack didn't participate in them, but he was still privy to them all.

Jack avoided your eyes for a few days afterwards, but never once took part in making you feel any sort of way in regards to what had happened — even though his stupid brain kept conjuring the most inappropriate scenes of you every time you so much as crossed his mind.

So, even in spite of how self composed he'd been, he was a little shocked at himself when he found himself mentally adding himself to the list of people getting together to go check out the club you worked at.

(Garcia had gotten the idea in his head, with her nosy and expansive commentary mid surgery about your first sighting at the club. She went on and on about how you danced, what you were wearing, those bambi eyes popping out when you'd spotted Garcia and Santos in the crowd, the way in which you giggled and concealed a shy smile when they insisted on shoving dollar bills in your g string. It was all mindless gossip to her, but an impending heart attack to Jack.)

He hadn't planned it, not really. He'd heard Princess and Ellis discussing some group outing while he stopped by the nurses' station to pick up some charts, something about a girl's night to support one of the girls — not his words. He wasn't trying to be nosy, but to escape gossip at the Pitt was an impossible mission.

He didn't arrive with the little group that had formed, not even fully sure as to who'd be coming. All he had heard was your name and the time and place, and suddenly he was rearranging his schedule to make sure that he was off that night.

Sweat formed at the back of his neck as he stood there. The place seemed a little shadier than he expected, but he had no time to worry about your safety, not when he needed to muster the courage to walk in and put an end to his misery.

He was a little late, so surely he would've missed most of your dance. Perhaps he'd unknowingly orchestrated it as so. Maybe his subconscious was trying to retain the last remains of his sanity.

And so he walked in, steps heavy and a with some faux confidence in them.

-

Santos had been right. It hadn't been that bad.

Situated on a small table towards the left corner of the stage, you saw a familiar bunch huddled together, all with some fruity drink in hand.

Perlah and Princess were obvious attendees, though you were shocked to see Mel and Samira among the group. Trinity had come in order to provide emotional support, bringing along Whitaker and your favorite night shift duo — Ellis and John.

That had been it.

There was no Robby or Langdon or Dana.

And no Abbot.

Would it have been stupid to be weirdly disappointed by his absence?

Part of you had kind of hoped he'd be one of the bunch, but it was a conflicting thought you hadn't entertained much thus far. He was often present in group outings, usually brooding in the back with Robby or silently paying for a few rounds for the younger doctors.

You didn't allow yourself to ponder the thought for too long as you finished your set, shaking the thought out of your head as soon as it'd arrived.

How could you ever possibly want him to see you like this? Your brain was already scrambling as you tried to convince yourself he didn't see you differently after finding out. Everything was jumbled in your head, unsure as to whether you wanted your boss to see you half naked or not.

His demeanor had remained the same, but he was a pretty stoic guy a lot of the time. You couldn't tell left from right when it came to him.

But then the fleeting thought rushed back in once more.

Would he like to see you like this? Would he sit back and watch you work the pole, watch you bend and flip and twirl all around it as your bare skin shone with that cheap body glitter that made your thighs sparkle?

Maybe he'd finally see you in the way you saw him. Maybe that primitive part of him would come out and he'd finally look twice when you passed by. He'd picture the tiny pink lace under your scrubs, would avert his eyes when you caught him looking for a little too long.

But that was all a fantasy.

Because even at the perfect chance to show up, the one time in which it wouldn't have been odd or inappropriate for him to show up with the rest of the crew, he wasn't there.

It was stupid to be disappointed. You had tried to keep this from everyone in your personal life. And now, at the sudden chance to have the man you'd been going crazy over for the past year (and then some) show up and see you like this, you were sad? You were crestfallen and pouting and confused?

But you'd come to be somewhat of a professional at this.

So even when you looked down and did not find that familiar face down there, you still danced to your heart's desire, weirdly happy to have the cat out of the bag and to have your work friends show up to hype you up like this. It was dumb and silly, but you had your fun.

A little over an hour later and you were calling it an early night.

You stopped by the table, now with your robe on as your friends began to leave one by one. You shared some drinks, giggling when a tipsy Princess insisted on giving you all her leftover dollar bills that hadn't made it your way when you were performing.

The last man standing had been Trinity, who was no longer an anxious mess at the thought of having fucked up when she'd blurted out your secret. The shared laughs confirmed that it was all water under the bridge.

"See? That wasn't that bad. They liked it! I think Parker and Princess might've liked it a little too much, though."

You chuckled with a shrug, "Yeah. Wasn't as embarrassing as I thought."

"Aaaand Abbot was a no-show! Told you!"

It was unfortunate that Trinity was just as perceptive even when tipsy, because she did not miss that millisecond in which your disappointment showed on your face.

"Oh, my god- You wanted him to show?"

"Stop!" you shushed her, "It's not- it's not that i wanted him to, it's just..." you paused, "is he really just not interested at all?"

It felt pathetic even as you said it, and Trinity let you know as much.

"That is absolutely pathetic, man. Please pick yourself back up," she said, bluntly, sighing when she noticed your crestfallen demeanor, "Buuuut, maybe he just didn't show because he thought it'd be inappropriate? It doesn't mean he doesn't, you know, want you."

"You think so?"

"Yeah! I mean, even if he showed, how old is he? Like 60? His heart probably couldn't take it anyway."

That got a laugh out of you, shoving trinity lightheartedly.

"It's time I turn in," she paused, "But remember - you could jump any person in that audience and they'd thank you. Don't sell yourself short."

With those last words of wisdom, she lifted two fingers to her forehead and signaled a goodbye to you, leaving you to the more menial aspects of your job.

The disappointment wore off a little as you helped the bartenders clean up the littered napkins and tiny umbrellas scattered all across the floor, but it remained in the back of your head.

Maybe next time.

-

Jack felt like a coward as he stood out there for longer than seemed socially acceptable.

People came and went, some slightly under the influence, stumbling out of the building, others a little too happy for whatever went down in there. Jack immaturely hoped for a similar outcome for himself before mentally slapping the idea away.

She's your resident. She's so much younger. You shouldn't even be here, encroaching on her personal life like this.

But, even then, he stayed there. An hour passed, two, and he continued to lean against his car in the parking lot — an improvement to standing right outside the entrance like a creep.

From his spot in the parking lot, he could somewhat hear the muffled music coming from inside up until it halted altogether. His mind conjured up images of you dancing to the music, of fucking Parker and Shen teasing you as they threw dollar bills in your direction.

Surely that was an image he'd never forget.

That is, if he grew the balls to walk in.

"I've never bought into the whole 'wisdom comes with age' thing, but, you know, for someone so old, you have, like, zero wisdom."

That broke him out of his thoughts.

It was that familiar voice that had landed him in this situation in the first place.

The slight eyeroll couldn't be helped, neither could the sigh, which Santos clearly caught as Jack turned in the direction of the voice as he continued to lean against his car. His leg had started to bother him by then.

"What's that mean?" he nodded towards her.

"You're late," she began, confidence always oozing out of her even as she spoke to a superior, "You've been out here this whole time? thing's kinda over."

"Yeah?"

She nodded, taking a step forward, "Buuuut, I'm sure you could still catch her if you hurry," she paused in some hesitation before continuing, "She, uh, might be happy to see you."

That caught him off guard, and unfortunately his usually suave exterior broke for a second as he stuttered in response, "That- that right?"

Santos now had the upper hand, which she seemed happy to realize.

With pursed lips, she shrugged, hands behind her hips, "Nothing wrong with supporting your coworker in her ... personal endeavors."

Jack was practically useless in conversation by that point, and so Trinity bid a casual goodbye and walked away. Jack stood there, dumbfounded, a ringing in its head making its appearance as he thought about every decision that had somehow landed him there.

Before he could overthink it, he pushed himself off the hood of his car and walked towards the entrance.

Nothing wrong with showing support for a coworker.

-

"I guess I'm late, huh?"

The words made you stop in your tracks. Skin rose on the back of your neck. You were entirely sure that that could not be the voice you thought it was.

But then you turned around and found him. With that same intense stare that you felt was almost only reserved for you.

Suddenly you felt very self-conscious of what you were wearing, of the pleasers that made you five inches taller, of the silk robe riding off slightly at your left shoulder and giving him a pristine view of your lace-covered breast.

Within seconds you straightened yourself up, readjusting your robe and kicking off your heels as you fixed your posture like a soldier with their commanding officer. You felt as if you'd been caught making a mistake at work, overly apologetic to Abbot only to find that he wasn't on his way to scold you.

Due to your silence (and likely your incredibly awkward demeanor), Abbot cleared his throat and spoke again.

"Sorry i couldn't make it- or, not sorry? you probably don't want your attending coming around here, huh?"

You were too much of a deer in headlights to catch the self-conscious shift in his tone, eyes roaming all over him in his casual clothes, taking particular notice of his arms as they folded over his chest.

"Not- not at all," you finally spoke, "Just, maybe a little awkward? Or at least that's how it felt with everyone else ... The rest of the guys seemed to enjoy the show, though."

He hummed, "Too bad I missed it."

"Yeah," you nodded.

Another awkward silence.

"You could, uh- you could come next time, if you want to?"

Shut up. Don't continue that thought.

His eyebrows shot up as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Oh?"

"Y-yeah," you swallowed, "If you're free, that is-"

"Yeah," he coughed out, "I'm free."

You hadn't even told him what day yet. Your heart sped up.

"Yeah? You free next Friday night?"

He nodded slowly, breathing in deep through his nose.

You were convinced you'd caught his eyes run up and down your body. It'd been too quick and you'd been too nervous to be sure. but you were a good 80% sure it'd happened. It had you shuddering internally, somewhat annoyed that you'd thrown on the robe at all, that he wasn't looking at you in the pretty set you'd picked for that night.

"Everyone else coming too?"

You halted, "Oh, uhm, no, I don't think-"

"Good," he interrupted, not adding anything more.

It made you gulp.

"Y-yeah. I'll see you on Friday, then?"

He nodded, lips pursed.

"No, kid. I'll see you on Friday."

Again, he nodded in confirmation, a small smile overtaking his lips. Within mere seconds he had gotten the upper hand of the conversation, leaving you an awkward mess and with your skin rising up in goosebumps at the mere thought of him seeing you.

Unlike in every other interaction you'd grown used to having within the four walls of the club, you were awkward, fumbly, nervous and with absolutely zero game. Trinity would laugh in your face.

Those sultry eyes you were expected to throw at patrons were replaced by saucers, and your confident body language turned into you embarrassingly wanting to rub your thighs together at the confidence in which Jack Abbot had managed to secure a one-on-one with you in your panties.

You said goodbye in return, awkwardly stumbling over your words again as he winked at you on his way out.

All gravity almost left you as soon as he left, legs jelly and breath muted.

You were going to crash and burn come next Friday.

-

A few days passed and Jack was going out of his mind.

He couldn't stop thinking about that night at your club. Of the uncovered skin of your chest, your hair undone, your glossy lips, the slight sheen of sweat on your skin. Every small detail drove him insane.

All that faux confidence had left him as soon as he'd left your eyeline. His heart had been going a mile a minute the moment he walked into the place, reaching a worryingly high heart rate at those bambi eyes staring up at him like he'd caught you with a hand in the cookie jar.

The conflict in his mind between the sexy lingerie he'd gotten a peek of and those innocent eyes staring up at him stirred endlessly from the moment in which he'd bid you goodbye.

He hadn't meant to be too forward, but this had felt like his one chance, and with it he'd somehow signed his death sentence for next Friday.

Ss the days passed, the two of you worked as if nothing had happened whenever your schedules overlapped.

You were still the shy resident who'd squeak whenever caught off guard by him, messing with his poor heart at every turn. You'd share these looks sometimes. Looks that spoke of the anticipation you both felt for what was to come.

And as unsure as he felt about crossing that boundary (and as ashamed as he felt to admit it), this felt like some tricky, painful, extended sort of foreplay that was bursting at the seams.

In bed, he could feel his body itch as he attempted to find sleep. And at night, as he worked, he was constantly on alert at the possibility of your schedules overlapping and having to meet your eyes. You'd undone him without much effort. He couldn't imagine what would happen once he finally saw you on that stage.

Truly, he had no idea what he was doing. He knew he wanted you, but didn't know how to go about it like an adult. Instead, he seemingly opted for what he could probably label as voyeurism.

Because, really, what made him any better than the other rowdy, middle aged men vying for your attention as you worked a pole on stage?

Luckily Jack was used to this constant guilt, this endless turmoil in his mind. The self-depreciation wasn't new, either. It was just a little more glaring any time he'd think of you.

After endless thoughts of you under the pink and purple hues of the club, the days passed and jack finally found himself on the day of his impending doom.

Maybe he was being a tad dramatic about it all. But as soon as he stepped foot in that club during his working hours he came to realize that maybe he would've felt justified in being even more dramatic. His heart felt like it was about to give out.

You hadn't worked that day, clearly. He had opted for half a shift, knowing he'd have gone crazy if he stayed home all day but still wanting to ensure he made more than enough time for your...

Appointment? Date? Meeting? They all sounded either clandestine or suggestive.

He'd tried telling Robby about the whole thing. To try and alleviate some of the weight the whole thing carried. It had proved futile, though, and frankly a little predictable.

"You're- you're actually going? Alone? Isn't that a little... questionable?"

Inappropriate would be a better word for it, yeah.

The words were spoken with an annoying edge of shock and mockery. Jack couldn't say he appreciated them much.

"Hope you know what you're doing, brother."

That was as much reassurance as Jack was going to get from Robby on the matter. It was enough for a man already convinced of stepping into the fire.

When the time came for Jack to step foot in that place, the speed of his heart made him certain that he was on his way to cardiac arrest. The booming music coming from the building and the scent of alcohol mixed with smoke warned him to walk away, but the thought of finding you in there was enough to drive those thoughts away.

The first thing he saw as he walked in was the center stage. It was divided into three, parting towards the left, right and middle. On each flank was a stripper engaging with two or three men perched front row of each respective extension to the stage.

Next thing he saw were small tables scattered all around the place. Some were empty, others had one or two people enjoying a drink, while others were pushed away from the high chairs in favor of making space for a man, his lap, and a stripper sat on it.

He felt out of his depth.

Strip clubs had never been his thing. He held no judgement for the women who made a living inside them, but having gotten married straight out of college, this was just not a lifestyle he had ever engaged with.

After losing his wife, women were something he'd somewhat sworn off. This was the last place he'd ever expected to find himself at this stage of his life. Much less did he imagine ending up here due to the inappropriate work crush he'd fostered on the shy little resident he'd been trying to poach into joining the night shift for the past year.

You were nowhere to be found, and, to be frank, he was a little scared to make eye contact with anyone, lest they believe he's looking for a lap dance.

Jack Abbot and avoidance of eye contact were not two things that went together, he was well aware.

But his wavering confidence would only continue to build up through the night.

It took him a few minutes of wandering around in amazement and confusion until he eventually landed himself on an empty table somewhere near the back. You were bound to show up on stage eventually, right?

Seeing the other girls' performances made his palms sweat.

Would you be doing the same thing? Was he about to witness you in tassels, rhinestones, lace?

Would you sway your hips full of confidence as you marched your way to the pole? Would your muscles contract at the effort needed to swirl around it as you stared him out like a predator did its prey?

His questions only went unanswered for about ten minutes as the curtains connecting the stage to what jack could only assume was your dressing room suddenly flew open.

St the head of the stage, you popped up, standing tall and proud, and completely different from what he'd grown used to seeing all those shifts he'd shared with you these past couple of years.

Your every step was heavy and confident, heels clicking against the shiny floor of the stage. With your hands laid on your hips, your hips swayed seductively, achieving the goal of drawing in every pair of pathetic eyes drooling over you in the audience — Jack included.

Your skin was adorned by baby pink lace, legs, arms, and chest shining under the purple and pink hues of the club. Every inch of you was bare and open for his perverted enjoyment. The lace stuck to your skin and gave him a perfect view of your silhouette. He felt thirst invade his being.

Unable to take his eyes off you, Jack found himself sitting up on his seat, back leaving its recline as his body slowly began to gravitate from his seat into a fully standing position. He was like a moth to a flame, immediately affected by your magnetizing effect.

Every step was mocking torture. He knew his demise was nearing at every step that drew you closer and closer to the edge of the extended stage, where you'd grab onto that pole and finish him off.

He was unable to pay attention to the server who'd stopped by asking him if he'd like a drink, too enthralled by you to do anything more than wave them away.

By the time your manicured hand made its way to the pole, your eyes found his by chance.

There was a millisecond of surprise before that confident vixen consumed you once more. Jack couldn't help but gulp at that look in your eye. The balance shifted immediately. He was no longer your attending, but prey ready to be consumed.

He could have sworn he blacked out for your performance, falling back on his seat the moment you began to wrap your legs around the metal and swirled around it with expertise he never imagined you'd have.

Your every move was life-ruining for Jack. Pathetically, he regretted not camping outside that door waiting for the moment the doors flew open in order to stand a chance at a seat front and center to your show. There was bile forming in his stomach at the sight of every other man eyeing you down, being able to see you up close and throw their unworthy bills in your direction.

Jack thought to himself for a fleeting moment — I'd give you everything. All the money you need. I'd shove it in your purse while you showered in my bathroom. I'd deposit it into your bank account. I'd trap it in the hem of your panties as I watched you dance for me.

Shaking those thought away, he continued to watch you, rendered completely immobile by what he was seeing. The softness of your outfit (or lack thereof) made him dizzy. He ached to run his hand through the delicate lace, to softly snap the bra strap on your shoulder and have you whine his name in return.

He felt sick with desire, something he'd never experienced before. The culmination of feelings he already had towards you — the protectiveness, the adoration, the admiration, the infatuation — fought against the intensity of the lust he that was blossoming inside him. It was always there, but to have it swell, inflamed and threatening to burst made him lightheaded.

Every so often your eyes would find his. You'd send a little kiss his way, or a cheeky wink. Jack's heart boomed out of his chest at every instance.

After what felt like hours, you leaned down to gather all the loose bills men had ready for you, regaining that girlish and innocent air you always had as your performance ended. It was as if you'd been possessed, making your way back to your usual persona as soon as your set ended.

Jack had to brace himself for what he knew was coming. His hands felt clammy and his shirt began to stick to his skin. He had ascended and been brought back down multiple times within those short minutes. He needed to gain his cool back.

But then you walked over, smile shy and eyes giddy.

It was that same look you always had any time he'd call your name for a fun procedure. Even as you walked towards him (no longer swaying your hips in that torturous manner), draped in seductive lace and makeup that could make a man drop dead, he still saw that pretty girl he'd first fallen for.

Your eyes wandered away from his as you stopped at his table with a meek, "Hi."

"Hey," he started, not as smooth as he'd hoped, "That was... some performance."

The way you flushed was a visible, lips turning up in a shy smile.

"Yeah? you liked it?"

"I don't think it'd be appropriate for me to answer that question."

"No? Is your response not family-friendly, then?"

The banter was somewhat new. Back at work, you'd occasionally engage with his back and forth, but you weren't too receptive of it. He knew you were capable of it, as he'd heard you go at it with Santos every other day, but when it came to your superiors (or maybe him in particular), you were more meek.

Maybe it had to do with the way his eyes couldn't find yours. Perhaps you'd noticed the hard time he was having keeping them away from the bare skin he'd been salivating over just a few moments ago. And maybe that was why despite your usual shyness, he still saw some newfound confidence in how you spoke to him.

But two could play at that game.

(Or at least he'd try his hardest to regain the upper hand in order to properly flirt with you. It was the least he could do).

"Why don't you sit and I can tell you all my thoughts?"

Your face morphed from flirtatious to that bashful smile he was so used to seeing. With your eyes timidly downturned, you chuckled as you shook your head.

"As much as I'm sure we'd both enjoy that, I'll get reprimanded," your lips came into a straight line, nose scrunching a bit, "However," you let it drag a bit, "I have a better idea."

At that, you looked around you to see if there was anyone nearby before turning back to him with a smile.

"C'mon," you extended your hand towards his, "The couches are far more comfortable, and I know you've probably been on your feet all day."

He chuckled and took your hand, trying to ignore how sweaty his had been mere minutes prior, "Only took half a shift today. had an important... appointment with someone today."

"Appointment?" you asked, "That's an interesting choice of words, doctor," you spoke as he let you drag him towards the far end of the room.

"Don't wanna test my luck, that's all."

Once you'd made it to the booths, you led him to a worn couch next to a detachable table. Based on some of the other men on the couches, they seemed like the perfect spot in which to get some special attention from the dancers. Jack tried to not let his mind head that way, not wanting to test his luck and all that.

He sat down, comfortably leaning against the couch as you took the spot next to him. Rather than sit normally, you opted to sit on your knees, feet off the floor and body turned towards his own. It had him doing a double take, but he could only assume you weren't allowed to just casually sit unless you were entertaining a patron.

"Feeling lucky, Abbot?"

The added confidence in your cadence was really doing him in. He'd grown so used to your eyes fleeting away from his any time he found you looking his way, looking away if his attention landed on you. There was still a bit of that, but you were firing back. His flirtation was met with reciprocation and he was finding himself at a loss.

"After that performance any man would be lucky to have your attention."

Maybe it was too pointed, but you were so close, and your perfume was beginning to reach and penetrate his pores. The shine of your skin made it impossible to look away, as did the plush of your skin accentuated by the tight lingerie failing at properly concealing the most enticing parts of your body.

Those words seemed to reach a little deeper, and so you chuckled again, shaking your head.

"I'm sure you say that to all strippers."

It was deflection. He could've doubled down with how much seeing you up there — how much having you sat next to him with all your focus solely on him — made him lightheaded and stupid. But he wanted to drag the night as long as possible. He was willing to empty out his bank account if it meant you could sit there and talk to him all night.

He didn't need any funny business with you (as much as every bone in his body was aching for it). He just wanted to get his fill of looking at you, of getting this confident version of you to respond to his flirting, giving him at least some false hope that his infatuation wasn't purely one-sided.

And so he talked. Flirtatious comments came and went. The spaces in between were filled by talking about work, by joking about your weird schedules, your odd hobbies and how you both kept to yourselves in that regard. It was nice, tame, until a charged comment would suddenly pop up in the interim.

"I'm gonna get in trouble if I keep slacking off with you, Doctor Abbot," you said after a while.

Your voice had morphed over the course of your conversation. It was smooth and carried an air of seduction even if what you were saying was completely innocent in nature. Jack was losing his mind.

"Wouldn't want that, would we?"

You shook your head, eyes on his and a satisfied smile on your lips.

"But i think I have an easy fix for that."

That piqued his interest, though his poor heart began to speed up again.

Before he could come up with some flirtatious, yet ambiguous response, you were suddenly pushing his shoulder back, forcing him to recline against the plush of the leather couch and dragging your leg over his, easily straddling his thighs.

Your weight above him made him dizzy. His arms laid limp on his sides, fingers flexing with restraint. He absolutely could not touch you or he'd lose any remaining sanity. It was the one rule at strip clubs — hands off the strippers. It was the most torturous exercise on restraint he'd ever overgone. even if your hips were begging to have his fingers dig into the perfect skin.

A floral scent that had been floating around began to completely overtake him at your newfound closeness. He wasn't sure if it was your perfume or shampoo, or maybe whatever body oil you had on that gave your skin that extra sheen.

"This okay?" you asked at the sudden proximity, "Need to make it seem like I'm working."

Before he could stumble upon a response, you leaned in closer, lips gracing his ear.

"I can touch, but you can't, okay? Don't wanna look suspicious," you whispered, "Don't wanna be sent away to dance for some other guy."

It made him irrationally frustrated to hear of that possibility.

"More than okay," he huffed out.

"You sure? you seem a little tense."

Your nose dragged up his jaw, making him shudder. You weren't fully on him, but rather hovering above him. Your weight laid on your knees, leaving some space between his crotch and your own. The itch to pull you down internally clawed at him.

"Yeah, tense's one word for it."

Once you'd gotten your feel of making the skin of his neck rise in goosebumps, your lips trailed at his cheek, now facing him. Some distance remained between your faces, but not enough for it to be considered appropriate.

"This is weird, right?" you smiled, bashful again, "This is probably not the impression you had of me at work."

He chuckled, fingers digging into the couch beneath him, "Can't say that it was. It's a welcome surprise, though."

You hummed in affirmation before taking in a breath. There was a small glimpse of uncertainty in your eyes.

"So... you're not disappointed?" you began, rephrasing, "I mean... you don't think less of me?"

This caused him to draw his head back slightly. He needed to look at you properly.

And when he did, he found those same eyes that looked to him with worry any time you were certain you'd messed up. It was like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop, to be either objectified or scolded by the man who'd just been melting under you mere seconds ago.

"Kid," he shook his head in disbelief, "you're an adult, and you can do anything you want. Don't let anyone ever try and judge your choices when-"

"No, no, I- I know, I just- I want to know what you think."

That took him by surprise. It also arose a million questions in his mind.

Did you think he was that much of a hardass? That he wouldn't support anything you did, just because it was you doing it? Did you care this much for his opinion?

"Nothing you could do would disappoint me."

Seemingly working your way through a half-formed thought, your mouth shut back up before you could even begin. You gave him those eyes that were always causing him problems back at work. The eyes that held way too much admiration for someone as troubled as him.

You didn't say anything in response. Instead, your hand left his shoulder, reaching up to his cheek and tracing it as you looked down at him with your bottom lip jutting out.

Tucking at a stray curl that always formed next to his ear, you let the moment of fondness pass as soon as it began, smiling down at him once more.

"So, think you'll come again?"

Just like that, the mood shifted to lighthearted flirtation once more. your new normal.

"I'll be front row, kid."

-

A few weeks passed and Abbot kept up with his promise.

Well, maybe he wasn't front row, but he made it in time to see you up on stage doing your short little number twice a week.

It was unfortunate your schedules overlapped so much. He would've stood outside waiting to be let in every other night otherwise.

Every other meeting went just like the first one. They were all held under the pretense of curious innocence. Like ice slowly melting, never going further than tame flirtation.

The suggestive surroundings created an added element of heat that Jack couldn't overlook, but he tried his best. it only became harder when you'd come to sit on his lap, claiming the usual excuse of convenience so you could talk to him without getting reprimanded.

But was it necessary for your lips to trace his neck? For your fingers to play with the hair on his nape? For your breath to fan on his ear?

He'd grown used to the weight of your body on his lap. It was something he couldn't handle losing after just a few times of feeling it.

But despite that, he'd still discourage you wasting your time at the club entertaining him when you could be making money on another man's lap (though the thought killed him). It felt inappropriate to pay you himself, to encourage you to do more than just pretend to keep him busy and entertained, and so he kept his hands to his sides and simply pretended he was like one of the many other men.

And sometimes he felt that maybe he was just that.

But then one of your coworkers would call your name as you sat on his lap mid conversation, telling you that one of the 'big-spenders' was lonely in one of the private rooms, and you'd just give them a look that sent them on their way, one that told them you were busy with something more important.

Jack never questioned this. he simply enjoyed that it meant he could spend just a little longer with you on his lap.

Back at work, no word of these meetings was spoken.

A few looks were shared, a few sheepish smiles and silent agreements that yes, you'd be seeing each other in just a few hours. But nothing further was ever even suggested.

It was your little secret.

It gave Jack an extra edge to his life. The adrenaline spike your meetings gave him rivaled those at his shifts with SWAT.

He never got used to seeing you walk his way, to seeing the sway of your hips as you finished your set and made your way straight to him.

There was no longer any small talk before you were dragging him to a couch and settling on his lap. Your hands got more and more curious every time, though they always remained caressing his jaw and hair, never wandering southern of his neck.

And every passing day, he was growing sicker with want.

Tonight things played out slightly different.

The confident sway of your hips remained, as did the satisfied smile upon seeing the way he tried to subtly eye you up and down as you approached him.

The dragging to a couch in the back of the room was missing. Instead, you led him in a different direction, not speaking a word until you were behind a closed curtain, inside a tiny room that had a couch identical to those outside, just slightly less worn.

There, you parroted your usual moves, guiding him into his seat, but turning back to secure the curtains closed before heading back in his direction.

His heart was going a mile a minute. The velvety walls of the room felt suggestive in nature. The darkened hue of magenta filling up the space reflected perfectly on your skin, making jack gulp against his will.

You donned a burgundy set today. It was tasseled, under the false pretense of covering a little more than usual. Your every move caused the tassels to sway, giving him an eyeful of every curve he ached to touch, bite, lick.

"I thought a change of scenery would be nice."

You broke the silence, once again torturing him with that sway of hips as you sat on his lap again.

— Which was completely unnecessary. No one could see you. There was no need to assimilate, to act as if he was a client. You were alone. Jack didn't voice any complaint.

"Careful, you'll make me think I'm special."

You clicked your tongue, leaning into his ear.

"You are special, Doctor Abbot," you whispered hotly before pulling back and looking into his eyes, "And since we're alone... I thought I'd give a little more special treatment this time around."

Jack's throat went dry. His arms flexed at his sides. His body burned with unchecked desire. He'd been aching since the first time he saw you.

Without any other words, your hands guided his onto your hips, forceful as you made sure he gripped at the bare skin. The tassels tickled at him when his hands went under them.

"Kid..."

"I've never done this before," you began, but your voice remained sultry, "Take a guy back here, let him touch me."

As you spoke, your eyes panned down to his lips, making him lick them absentmindedly.

The gloss on your lips looked so enticing to him, he couldn't help but let his eyes wander as well.

"I usually do a few dances and call it a night. But I've been putting that off these past few weeks."

This time, your weight laid fully on his lap. There were only a few layers of separation between the hardness forming under his jeans and the softness of your-

"I can't focus with you in the room," you continued, "I can't entertain any other man when you're here."

Every word was breathless, and your eyes had lost any sense of subtlety, now fully focused on his lips. Noses bumped, hands reached new places. It was all too heavy for him to handle.

Jack was practically panting by then. Your breaths intermingled. Even your breath had him going dizzy.

"It was bad enough that I couldn't focus at work, and now... now I can't think unless it's your lap I'm sitting on."

"Baby," he moaned.

He couldn't help it. Not when you were so deliciously close. Your lips were a mere inch away from his. and any time he tilted his chin just a tiny bit closer, you'd inch away, forcing him to uselessly chase you.

"I couldn't touch you out there," you breathed out, bottom lip jutted out, almost touching his own, "Cause then I wouldn't be able to stop."

Greedy hands went up and down the bare skin of your back. Every so often they'd land back on your hips, pulling you inhumanly closer, silent in their plea for you to use him. he'd take anything you gave him.

Jack had never felt such desperation in his life. Sweat trickled down his brow, and a small whine threatened to leave his lips. His body pathetically arched towards yours. he was utterly fucked.

"I need you to touch me, Jack."

Jack.

It was always abbot, doctor, sir, never Jack.

It sounded like music coming from your lips.

But, still, he shook his head. his body acted against his needs. For some reason he needed to retain the very last bit of decorum that remained between you.

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

Shaking your head, you refused to listen to those words. Leaning in closer, your tongue peeked out of your lips, teasingly swiping at his lower lip. It was so quick anyone who'd seen it would've missed it. But to Jack it felt like someone had lit him on fire.

"Want you so bad, Jack," you all but moaned, "You've already had me on your lap so many times. Why keep pretending?"

Jack's hands squeezed your hips, stumbling over a response.

Again, you leaned in close. Your lips graced his.

"Kiss me, Jack."

Jack broke, taking the plunge and pressing his lips to yours.

There was nothing accidental or subtle about your first kiss.

Swallowing his groan, you pulled him closer, fingers running through his curls and pulling softly. Your mouths were open, tongues seeking out one other and puffs of breath being shared between you. He could feel your eyes flutter at the intensity of the kiss.

His hands could not find a landing spot. They squeezed at your hips, pulled you closer before running back up the length of your back and tangling in your hair, keeping you hostage in his kiss.

You'd lick into the roof of his mouth, drawing him in, making it torture to even think of pulling away. Your every sigh landed on his lips. Jack couldn't help but grunt at every flick of your tongue against his.

Within seconds of that first, animalistic kiss, your hips began to move against his. It was subtle at first, just a simple sway of your hips into his own. It caused an immediate reaction in him, making him draw a deep breath against your lips and pull you even closer.

The lack of fabric in your lingerie made it so it was just his clothes that remained an obstacle between you. It seemed to bother you pretty quickly into the kiss, as your hands began to paw at his shirt, dragging it up so you could feel at his abdomen.

Your hands were anything but shy, feeling him up like you were trying to meld into his skin. He couldn't blame you. Not when his own hands had been molding you against him, feeling every delicious curve available to him.

After some moments, he reached behind him to pull his shirt off all the way, not missing the tiny mewl you released against his lips at the short moment of separation between his hands from your body. Also gone unmissed was the pout you gave him when your lips separated for the first time.

A second kiss took place just a few moments later, only slightly delayed when you took a moment to eye his naked torso. There was lust in your eyes that made Jack shudder internally. Was that how he'd been looking at you every time you approached him with a new set of life-ruining lingerie?

Again, your hands went up to his chest, hands digging against his pecs. Scratching softly while your tongue attempted to fuck his mouth. He was delirious.

"Yeah, baby, scratch my chest. Just like that..."

That got a reaction out of you. It made you moan, It made you seek out his tongue, trap it in between your lips and suction. Your manicured nails dragged down his chest a little harder now, eventually finding his nipples and rolling. He could do nothing but pull you closer, groan into your lips, rock his hips upward and into yours with a newfound desperation.

"Jack," you sighed out as you pulled away. his lips followed yours, kissing you chastely a few times, "Want you to touch me more."

His hands had been up and down your torso, stuck to your ass and tits, but he hadn't wandered where he knew he'd find the drenched center that had already been dampening his jeans. He knew that the moment he felt you, there'd be no turning back. He'd want to come back again and again, beg you to pull him back here, to say fuck all to your job and let him take you in this tiny room every night. He'd change to days if it meant he could have this every night instead.

But that was too much to drop on you all at once.

Instead, he kissed you again, twirling his tongue in yours before his hand made its way between your bodies.

A full-body shudder overtook him when he reached that crook between your legs. The tiny thong hid nothing, trapped between your lips after all that grinding. Tracing the string with his fingers, a trail of wetness became trapped on his fingers.

He rubbed at you, tracing his way to your clit and circling at the swollen nub. It was begging for his attention, making you cry out at the lightest of touches.

You sighed his name right against his ear. Your hand dug into the skin of his shoulders, gripping onto the muscle as he circled mercilessly at your clit.

It started off slow, calculated, following a particular rhythm that had your eyes crossing. And once he got his fill of your pretty whines of his name, your incoherent pleas for more, he finally sped up, torturing your clit further.

"It's so wet, baby. All for me?"

You nodded pathetically, mouth open, lips gracing the shell of his ear, breath heavy.

Eventually his fingers reached further back, finding your opening. After one finger went another, squeezing into the tight fit of your cunt. It made his mouth water, to think of that pretty pussy weeping around him, unable to take him, too tiny, too tight for him.

You humped at his hand mindlessly, and he let you. He laid his palm flat as he fingered you, letting you rub that aching clit against his palm in the pursue of pleasure.

"Feels so good, Jack. Gonna make me come," you whimpered.

And as much as he wanted to have you shake and cry on his lap, to dig your nails so deep down his back that it scarred, he needed the first time he made you come to be with him, on his dick.

—And maybe also because he was so weak for you, so weak of mind and body that he could already feel his peak threatening to drag him under.

When he stopped his movements, you cried out, continuing to hump at his hand like a bunny in heat. it only served to break him further.

"Jack, fuck me- I'm begging you, please."

Nothing could've taken his breath away like those words. Those breathy, desperate words whined right into his lips. It took a herculean effort not to lose himself at that moment, not to grab you and bend you over and have his animalistic way with you. He wanted to. so badly.

"I'll give you anything you want, baby, you know that," he sighed out, brain completely melted, "I'll fuck you," he nodded to you, a little patronizing, a little dizzy with desire, "I'll take give it to you, baby."

You kissed him again, shamelessly moaning into his lips and going back to humping his bulge. His hands gripped at your ass, pushing you against him, desperate for the friction despite feeling like he was about to explode. You were the most delicious thing he'd ever had on his lap. he was desperate to have you.

Whining into his lips, you went to undo his belt, fidgety and all over the place. He could've helped you out, but he grew distracted as his lips trailed a path down your neck, suckling at skin without any thought in mind other than how good you smelled, how soft your skin was. There was no thought to all the marks he'd end up leaving behind.

When he finally reached your breasts, you'd finally undone his belt and unzipped his pants. He grunted as he lifted his hips and lowered his pants and boxers just enough to give you full access to his dick. You took hold of it just as his lips reached your breasts, fingers easily pushing your bra aside in order to have his fill of you.

He groaned against your tit, nibbling and pulling at your nipple with his tit as you wrapped your hand around him.

"Hnng- ffuck, you're so big, Jack," you panted out, one hand on his dick and another dug deep into his curls, keeping him attached to your breast, "It's not gonna fit."

There was a pout in your voice, he could tell as much. The words had their intended effect on him, making him fuck into your fist just once.

Yeah, it was gonna be a tight squeeze. It was gonna be so excruciatingly tight he ran the risk of cumming within ten seconds of your cunt suffocating him. But fuck if he wasn't going to drag your pussy up and down his cock.

He voiced as much to you.

"But this pussy's gonna take it. right, baby?" His lips trailed their way back up your neck, finding the shell of your ear. Your head tilted away, begging that he press his lips to your skin again, "Hmm? This perfect pussy's gonna take my cock, isn't it? That's what you've been wanting, sweetheart? A big cock in this tiny pussy?"

You fisted at him harder, faster. One hand clawed at his back, surely leaving marks over the ones you'd already left behind.

"J-jack, please— Need it so bad- been thinking about it for so long..."

He took over for you, nudging you so you'd raise your hips a little and taking a hold of his dick. Taking advantage of the angle, he circled his tip against your puffy clit. it was still begging for his attention.

It only made you whine some more. The music from the club drowned out the sound to anyone who may have been outside. but, then again, these sounds were not foreign between these walls.

"Yeah? How long, baby, tell me."

He was torturing himself. Getting the tip in, he swallowed back a groan at the tight fit. It was so warm and wet. It was heaven.

You sobbed out. You were a mess. Some eyeliner pooled under your eyes. The glitter on your cheek was damp with sweat. You were just as fucked up as him.

"Since- since I met you— couldn't get you out of my head. Want you so bad, Jack-" you gasped, feeling him bury himself a little deeper, "Need- need you so much- I'll be so good, baby, I promise-"

Finally, he buried himself all the way in. He knew in that moment he could never look at you the same. You'd broken him down night by night, torturing him with a new little set every time, making his imagination run wild with pictures of his fingers pulling at the delicate strings, at fantasies of bending you over one of those worn out couches and fucking you stupid.

And now he had you sobbing on his lap, grinding against him, using his body like there was no shame left in you.

His head rolled back to the cushion of the couch, hands gripping your hips unforgivingly as you fucked yourself on him. His hips followed yours, matching your rhythm, making you throw your head back in pleasure.

You shone perfectly under the fluorescent lights of the room. Your makeup was a little runny and your hair a little messy, but you still looked like a fucking dream. He couldn't believe he had such a pretty thing going crazy on his cock. The thought alone made him rock his hips harder against you.

Despite the discomfort, he put his weight on his feet, humping you like an animal in heat. The faster he went, the more cries of his name that left your lips. it felt like sustenance to him.

"Feel good, sweetheart? Huh? Tell me- tell me how good it is-"

"S-so good, Jackie- hnng- gonna come for you- gonna— J-jack, ffffuck-"

It drove him crazy. He needed more of you. He needed to die buried in you.

With one hand, he pulled your head in his direction, fingers gripping at your hair before slipping to the angle of your jaw. There, he held you in place, licking lazily at your lips as you continued to cry his name.

"Mouth open for me, baby. Tongue out- yeah, like that, gorgeous."

The kiss was absolutely nasty, but Jack couldn't help himself when it came to you. His tongue licked at yours, and like the obedient girl you were, you let him have his fill. He licked into your mouth, swallowing every tiny gasp when his hips drove into that perfect spot in your cunt.

When you came, you finally pulled away, stuttering a series of gasps of his name as your nails clawed down his back one last time.

He kept on fucking you, eyes clamped shut in pleasure. Your sounds continued spurring him on as he reached his peak. Your voice whispered in his ear seductively, almost making him lose his balance in the process—

"Inside- 'm on birth control. Come inside, please-"

Jack's eyes rolled back as he finally let go with a pained groan and one last thrust. His body deflated on the couch as he buried himself as deep as humanly possible, filling you up with everything he had to give. Atop him, your hands continued to run through his hair, adding that extra layer of pleasure for him.

Dome silence followed, though the music continued to sound off in the background. Your heavy breaths took up most of the sound in the small room.

"Jesus Christ, kid," he panted out, hands still intermittently squeezing at your hips, "I really hope you're not doing that to every guy you give a lap dance to," he chuckled, breathless.

You carded your hand through his hair, frowning jokingly at him.

"Told you I was giving you special treatment."

"'Special''s damn right."

More silence ensued; comfortable silence. Your bodies relocated slightly, with you still on his lap but cuddled up against him and him no longer hard. It was comfortable, even somewhat domestic. Every so often you'd kiss at his skin or him at yours. It was more than clear that this was no spur of the moment thing, that he was far more than any other man who'd ever walked through these walls.

Then you broke the silence once more.

"Remind me to thank Trinity for her big mouth."

Jack laughed under you, nudging you under his chin, kissing your hair chastely.