little lover

“So…”

Robby opens another beer, glancing up at Jack. His friend, already halfway through another bottle himself, stares at him with a shit eating grin- he's had it all night, since he arrived at Robby’s apartment. Like he's been waiting to talk about something. Itching to bring something up.

“So?” Robby asks. He takes a small, cautious sip. A nervous one. There's no possible way he could know-

“Who’s the special lady?”

He laughs. Shakes his head. Runs his free hand over his face, lingering over his mouth to hide the embarrassed smile that appears.

“How-”

“You're happy,” Jack says. “Giddy even. Like I've never seen before, actually. Figured it's gotta be a girl.”

Robby takes a long drink, catching up with his buddy just to prolong the inevitable.

“Yeah,” he finally admits. “Yeah she uh- we met at that new coffee place a couple months ago.”

“Barista?”

Robby nods. Jack nods along, slowly, thoughtfully.

“And?” He prompts, chuckling at his old, lovesick friend. “C’mon man, you're blushing like a schoolgirl over there!”

“I am not!”

“Robby.”

“What, she's nice, she- she wrote her number on my cup one day, I texted her. We’ve been seeing each other for about two months. Satisfied?”

“Dude,” he scoffs, “of course not. She hot?”

“Oh my god,” he groans, sinking deeper into the sofa. Like maybe it’ll swallow him if he tries hard enough. “She's… she's a beautiful woman.”

“Such a gentleman,” Jack scoffs. “It's just you and me, man, you can be a little crass.”

“It's not that, it's just-”

Robby sighs, deep in his chest. No avoiding it, really. He pulls his phone out. Michael Robinavitch isn't one to take selfies, and he knows he probably looks pretty goofy in the single one you took together last week at the park, but it's the only picture of you he has. He doesn't look Jack in the eye as he turns the screen to face him.

“Oh man,” he chuckles. “You are the last guy I would expect to date a girl half his age!”

“Okay,” he grumbles, shoving his phone back in his pocket.

“No, no, it’s great, man, I'm not judging! Fuck, you know I'm not judging,” he smirks. “I think it's great, she’ll keep you feeling young!”

“Or really, really old.”

“Well…”

“That's enough outta you,” he points.

He wasn't wrong though. There was something about you that brought out a side of him that he thought he buried and put to rest a long time ago. One that sings along when you play “oldies” that came out when he was a teenager and dances badly around your kitchen with you.

It's a while before Jack speaks again, long enough for Robby to be on his last sip when he asks, “does she call you daddy?”

Robby chokes on the last of his beer, sputtering as Jack smacks him on the back a few times, taking great joy in his pain if his laugh is anything to go by.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It's not- I don't-”

Maybe he could pass off the scarlet redness of his face as a result of his choking. And maybe the couch will finally swallow him like he's been asking.

“It's her thing, not mine. I just… go along with it.”

“Bullshit,” Jack says. He’s enjoying this conversation far too much. “You fucking love it.”

Robby stares at him. It feels… wrong to be into it. When you first asked if you could call him daddy in bed, he turned you down as politely as he could, afraid to come off as shaming you. You smiled, dropped it, and moved on.

But a week later, with your leg up over his shoulder and your nails digging into his back, it slipped out. Fuck daddy. He couldn't remember the last time he came so hard. It's been a regular occurrence both in and out of the bedroom ever since.

“Maybe,” he admits. “Maybe.”

Jack smirks, chugging the last of his beer and pulling the last two from the sixpack.

one night, you're riding one on the couch, bra pulled off to the side, matching panties ripped on the floor, when the other comes home. you expect a reaction, but he just drops his things calmly. eventually, he does come over, drink in hand, and gropes a tit.

"If I vagina is capable of pushing out a baby, then I'm sure I can handle your cock."

Unfortunately for you, he takes this as a challenge, and an hour later you're almost in tears.

"I-I can't, I can't, oh my god, I can't!"

★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ mdni manhandling, lowkey authority kink?, implied age gap, doggy style sex, bratty banter

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Simply thinking about Jack Abbot correcting your posture. 

He’s a doctor, so sure it starts there, in the territory of alignment and strain and long-term damage, all the tiny indignities a body absorbs when nobody’s paying proper attention to it.

And he worries about you, of course. Worries about the set of your neck and the rounded drag of your shoulders, about how you curl in on yourself over your charting like the screen might swallow you whole, about how you hunch over your phone texting those ridiculous little emoticons and memes he glances at with visible suspicion. 

So he makes an effort to fix it.

A broad hand behind your chair, angling it closer to the desk until your spine has no excuse but the lengthen. Two fingers slipped beneath your chin when you’re bent out of shape around your phone on the couch, tilting your gaze upward until the vertebrae stack properly and the ache in your neck eases. Even in transit — plate to sink, fridge to stove — he stops to cup your shoulders, easing them from your ears with a downward glide of his thumbs. 

A silent reward hums through the touch: a silent good girl, there you go.