I've been seeing a lot about reader cheating with Jack while Robby is on sabbatical, and while I love that so much, I'm raising an alternative: reader who cheats with Frank.
Frank who's back from rehab, separated from Abby, and just so full of anger and emotion that he can't seem to find a place for. It's his first day back in the ED, and he's spent the entire day suffering through Robby's cold treatment, constantly being undermined, so many side-eyes, and plenty of awkward conversations. Needless to say, he needs to expel all of this energy somehow.
Normally, he'd already be on the phone with Abby, but he didn't have that option anymore—not that he was too cut up about it. Regardless, he needs another solution. That's why he's finding your name in his contacts before he can convince himself he's making a bad decision. Robby is leaving straight from the hospital anyway—Frank had heard plenty of whispers all day about how the older man was leaving his girlfriend behind, perhaps even already setting his sights on a new woman.
Less than 15 minutes after he left the hospital, Frank was sitting back against the headboard of the bed you shared with Robby. A pillow sat in between him and the upholstery, a gentle protection to his back. He had you bouncing on his lap, the veins and ridges of his thick, angry cock rubbing deliciously against your walls as you rode him.
"God, F-Frank," you cried out unapologetically. "So fucking big—"
"He never made you feel this good, did he?" Frank was quick to ask, strands of his gorgeous hair falling in front of his eyes, beads of sweat dancing across his forehead. "Never filled you like I am."
Your head falls back, your hands gripping his shoulders as you work yourself up and down. "Not even a little bit," you pant out. A lewd whine escapes you as his hands make their way to your tits, squeezing your nipples before gripping each mound, kneading them.
"Yeah," he grunts. You clench around him when the tip of his dick hits a particularly delicious spot inside of you, eliciting a moan from him. "Shit—so fucking tight," he groans, his mouth falling open. "She never felt as good as you do either."
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Missing the oh pudge Patrick rn pls bring him back i beg!!
SMUT 18+, p in v, oral (f receiving), somno adjacent, fingers in mouth, little bit of breeding, one single thigh slap, not at all proofread, it's very obvious that i missed writing for dadbod!patrick
dadbod!patrick who's always ready for you. 5:30 in the morning and you're starting to stir because you have to get the kids ready for school soon, but you're a little distracted by the feel of him pressed against you. you're both laying on your side, his arm stretched across your body, and you can feel the weight of his belly pressed against your back, the warmth and comfort radiating through you. below that, though, there's something else: something thick and needy, poking at the flesh of your ass. you don't even need to turn around to know that he's wide awake, too. the sleep-schedule he'd built in his tennis years had never gone away.
"already...?" you sleepily grumble, your eyes still shut. you had barely woken up and as much as you loved him, you were not energized enough to move just yet.
"shh..." he whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. "just gonna take care of myself. that okay?" he asks sweetly, his voice low and a little raspy from sleep.
"mhm," you allow, and his hand is immediately finding its way between your legs.
he starts simply, just running his fingers through your folds, warming up your clit, building up your wetness so that he can eventually ease himself in. despite your barely awake state, it doesn't take long for his fingers to start moving smoother as your wetness grows for him.
"your pussy is always so good to me," he murmurs, pressing kisses to the side of your neck. "you're always so good to me. so lucky that you're my wife."
you could reach fifty years of marriage with him, and he'd still keep saying it—he always made sure to remind you of his love and his gratitude for you and the kids.
he pulls your thigh back gently, letting your leg rest behind you on his hip, opening you up for him. his fingers find your button once more, circling the spot until he hears you let out the sweetest, sleepiest little moan for him.
"feeling good?" he checks. "think i can get in there?" his beard rubs your shoulder as he asks the question, his face resting atop the area. he waits for you to acknowledge him before he reaches down, sliding his cock through your juices before gently pressing in.
his groan of satisfaction meets your moan in the air as he stretches you open easily, slowly bottoming out. you feel him reach the hilt and your walls flutter around him, eliciting yet another groan from him which lands directly in your ear.
your mouth falls open as he begins to move—you're still a little too sleepy to realize you're moaning just a tad too loudly for before 6am.
"gotta keep it down, baby," he reminds you. "don't wanna wake the kids up just yet." you can hear the teasing grin in his voice as he starts to roll his hips at a moderate pace, his thigh flexing to keep your leg securely anchored over his. the bed creaks ever-so-slightly in time with his movements, his tummy pressing harder against your back.
the hand that isn't still teasing your clit snakes around the top of you, finding its way past the fabric of the worn-out sleep shirt you're barely wearing and reaching its destination at your eager nipples. you all but squeak as he pinches one, rolling it between his thick fingers.
"can't have you being that loud, now, can we?" he snickers, playfully biting your shoulder. "lemme help you out, yeah?"
he keeps one hand assigned to your breasts, but his left hand moves toward your face, his middle and ring finger pressing at your mouth. your lips part, allowing him to slide them in, then immediately close as you swirl your fingers around his digits, sucking them in. the sweetness of your own slick mixed with the tang from the cool metal of his wedding band sets your senses alight, your eyes fluttering open.
he grunts rhythmically in your ear, pressing impossibly closer to you as his thrusts grow quicker, shallower, needier.
"getting so close," he groans. "so fucking close. gonna fill you up, 'kay, babe? maybe we can make another. then i can keep you in bed all day; see your cute, sleepy face all the time. wouldn't that be nice?" his voice is gruff yet airy as he spills all of his fantasies in your ear, the tired springs of the bed getting louder, now.
"fuck, patrick," you whimper as his fingers withdraw from your mouth, a long string of spit dangling between you. "you're so fucking needy," you jokingly whine. "nasty, too, talking about filling me up before the sun is even fully out."
"what can i say?" he pants, grin evident in his voice as he ruts into you. "you make me like this. i've got the sexiest wife in the world. it takes a lot of restraint for big man like me to not just keep you here like this 24/7."
you chuckle, but both of you know he's not entirely joking—patrick has proven many times that he's absolutely insatiable when it comes to you.
his hips stutter, his rhythm faltering as he thrusts into you, one, two, three more times before spilling his load into you, groaning far too loudly. there's so much of it, it leaks around the length of him, dripping all over your thighs.
before you can say anything, he flips you around, easily lifting your messy pussy to his bearded mouth to work you to your finish as well. "shit—patrick!" you exclaim, a cross between surprise and overwhelming pleasure. he doesn't bother responding, just lays a light slap against your thigh as a reminder to keep quiet as he sucks at your clit.
your hips roll against his face involuntarily and he moans in delight, the vibration traveling through your core as he holds you to his face, his giant hands tightly gripping your ass. his beard scratches deliciously against your skin as he eats you out like the hungriest man alive, making mere minutes before you're gripping the headboard for purchase, back arching as he drinks up your orgasm.
he helps you off of him slowly, laying you down onto your back as he takes a moment to catch his breath.
"feeling good?" he asks breathily, glancing over at your relaxed form.
"feeling great," you confirm, meeting his gaze with a lazy grin.
he matches your smile before slowly pushing himself to standing, crossing the bedroom to clean himself up and throw on his clothes.
"gonna go wake those little shits up," he tells you, pretending like he doesn't notice your eyes roving all over his sweaty, heavy frame.
you start to push yourself up as well, but he's quick to stride over and push you back down.
"i need to go make their lu—" you start to protest, but he cuts you off with a shake of his head.
"what you need to do is close your eyes," he tells you, pulling on a shirt. "ruined your beauty sleep, didn't i? get a couple more hours in, and stop worrying. i promise i can handle morning duty," he smiles gently.
you know he won't have an issue getting them to school on time, but you feel bad making him do all the work himself. "at least let me make br—"
"nope," he interrupts again. "i can handle pancakes for breakfast. and i'm sure they'll be fine with daddy's gourmet pb&js for lunch. or we can bring them taco bell later. they'll be over the moon. just lay your cute butt back down and go back to sleep, okay?" he instructs, now dressed in a truly stylish combo of a t-shirt with an indescribable stain and the most worn-out shorts ever.
you know it's no use trying to argue with him, so you let yourself lay back a little. "wake me up before you guys leave," you tell him sternly, eyes already starting to get heavy.
"we'll see," he snorts, wiping a damp towel between your thighs before pulling the covers back over you. "sleep well, baby," he whispers, his beard tickling your nose as he presses a kiss to your forehead.
a moment later, the sound of the bedroom door gently shutting is the last thing you hear before you drift off again, a satiated smile on your face as you dream of your loving husband.
being with harvey in law school and going up against him in mock trial... but harvey loves a wager, especially when it comes to winnings that are taken in the bedroom.
you end up destroying him, and that's how he ends up face down, ass up in your bed, your lubed up fingers stretching his tight little asshole open. he's already whining into the sheets, whimpering your name as his needy cock twitches and throbs.
you've already agreed that whatever happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom—that's how it's always been between the two of you. that's why he has absolutely no shame as he moans your name; as he begs you to move on from your fingers and use that cute little purple strap-on.
"so greedy," you tease him, your voice lilting in his ear. you scissor your fingers and he gasps your name, fisting the sheets.
"please," he begs. "you're fucking around, just give it to me."
"what's it gonna take to get you like this all the time?" you grin, slowly withdrawing your fingers. he whimpers at the loss, but you don't leave him like that for long.
you take your time lubing the toy up, making sure he's ready for you. then, you slide it in, breaching the tight ring of muscle once more. it swallows the toy, drinks it in easily. there's a beat, a moment of his body short-circuiting at the feeling before he lets out a groan that could shake the walls.
his eyes flutter shut, his voice coming back to him. "so fucking big," he whines, pressing his ass closer to you. you work your hips with long, steady strokes at first, careful, just letting him feel the push and pull of it. he's far gone now, moaning so loudly and openly.
you listen to him beg and whine for a few more minutes before you adjust the angle of your hips, and he practically screams at the sudden jolt of pleasure.
"holy shit, oh my god, holy shit—" he sputters, arching toward you. you think you notice a tear drip from his eye, but you don't say anything about it.
"you're taking me so well," you praise him, running a hand along the tense, flexed muscles of his back. "is that the spot? feels good?"
"god, ngh—yes, more—"
you listen, thrusting into him for a few moments more before white-hot ropes of pleasure are spurting out of him, soaking his stomach and his thighs and your sheets. you don't stop immediately, opting instead to draw his pleasure out for as long as you can, to milk those beautiful moans falling from his pink lips. his eyes are screwed shut and there's a slight chance that his grip has torn a hole in the sheets. you couldn't care less. he's never looked sexier.
once you've withdrawn yourself, you give him a few moments to catch his breath while you clean up. "you okay?" you ask him softly, bringing over a glass of water. sweat has his gorgeous hair plastered to his forehead. he's since rolled over, looking up at the ceiling before he turns his head to you.
"so okay," he replies, a relaxed grin on his face. he's still trying to catch his breath, a little. "so fucking okay. better than."
you grin at him, brushing your fingers through his hair. "you let me win, didn't you? you wanted this. you know you could've just asked, right?"
he snorts. "whether or not i let you win is privileged information, counselor. and on asking... i'll keep that in mind for next time."
he reaches for your hand, pulling you into him. neither of you pay any mind to the mess—it's obvious you aren't done for the night, anyway.
"next time," you teasingly murmur before pressing your lips to his.
i lost service so i think my ask didn’t go through ðŸ˜
but harvey specter + pussy eating ;)
pls delete if the other one went through lol
SMUT 18+
harvey who comes home after the most frustrating day ever—louis made a massive fuckup, a client made a stupid decision without consulting him, jessica made a move on one of his cases without clearing it with him, and so much more. he's spent the entire day being undermined and disrespected by those around him. he's desperate to get some ounce of control back.
he's got his head between your thighs before you can even try to ask him what's wrong. he found you lounging in bed with a book, nothing but one of his shirts on. he didn't even bother to discard his work clothes before he was on you.
he's licking heavy stripes through your folds, a finger working little circles on your clit to get you nice and soaked for him. he wants to taste you, drink you up. you're the closest he can get to holy nectar; better than any glass of whiskey he could dream of.
after a few minutes, he's got you soaked. he's adjusted. his big hands have pulled your thighs over his shoulders. he's fucking his tongue in and out of your tight little hole, the moans escaping you only fueling his desire. he's working you with some sort of objective in mind, one far beyond a simple orgasm. you're not quite sure what it is, but as his nose bumps against your clit, you realize you don't even care.
he's like this for what feels like hours. he barely comes up for air, barely speaks, but you can feel his hot breath as he pants against your flesh, making out with those lips paying no mind to the way you've gushed over his face multiple times now. you're so sensitive at this point that every time he moans against you, your thighs twitch, your hips buck, and you're starting to taste salt as tears drip from your eyes to your mouth.
it's only when you're crying that it's too much, that you need a break; your hands fisting in his hair and tugging, that he pauses for a moment. he comes up panting, your slick dripping down his chin and onto his collar.
"jesus fuck, harvey," you pant, breathy and shaky. "are you okay?"
"better now," he pants, chest heaving. the frown he walked in with has been replaced by an almost blissed out smile.
"let me take care of you, at least," you offer, pushing yourself to sit up. after spending so much time going down on you, he must be hurting from need.
"i'm all good, baby," he grins breathlessly, a little bashful. that's when you glance down and notice a large wet stain on the front of his slacks.
"harvey, as hot as that is, those pants were like, $600," you remind him, amazed that he was able to come untouched. he must've been needier than you realized.
"it's fine," he shrugs, stripping down before crawling up to you with a grin. "rene will be happy to see me anyway."
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Daniel Kellner finds himself seeking refuge in Chimney Rock and meets a certain Father Jud.
a/n: Thank you to @daeagon for putting this idea in my head!
warnings: Crossover between Disclosure Day (2026) and Wake Up Dead Man (2025) so kind of sort of spoilers but also kind of sort of not entirely plot accurate, some cursing, not proofread, I don't know much about Catholicism, this is just a little exploratory blurb so don't take it too seriously lol, the ending is awkward so let's not talk about that either
read it on ao3!
Daniel Kellner was sick and tired of running.
He knew his purpose, of course—he held the truth in his backpack, he had to get it out to the world. He and Hugo and everyone else had worked too hard to let it all go to waste. He'd be lying, however, if he said he wasn't beyond frustrated about the ease it seemed like the WARDEX agents were having in constantly finding his location.
Chimney Rock was far enough off the map that Daniel could have at least a full night's sleep—that's what Hugo said to him this morning, anyway. There was a strange confidence in his voice when he told him to be ready for Santiago.
"New York?" Daniel sputtered into the satellite phone. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Hugo, but I don't think that's exactly close to Kansas City." His voice was frantic, the panic seeping through his words. "I feel like they'll have an easy enough time finding me in the busiest city in America."
Hugo chuckled. Chuckled. Daniel cursed at him internally.
"I'm not sending you to the city, Daniel," he replied, his calm grin audible in his words. "Just be ready for Santiago. You need to lay low for a little bit."
"I don't exactly have time for a vacation—"
"This is far from that," Hugo interrupted. "You probably won't care for the place much. That's not a luxury you have, anyway. You might make a friend, though."
"A friend? A friend isn't going to he—"
"One hour," Hugo said firmly. "Santiago will be there. Don't be stupid."
The line went dead before Daniel could sputter out another protest. With a groan and several mumbles under his breath, he snapped the satellite phone and got moving.
By the time the sun was setting, Daniel was being welcomed into a tiny bedroom off the side of a small, old church.
"It's not the most luxurious," the Reverend spoke, apology apparent in his voice. Father Jud Duplenticy was his name, Daniel had just learned.
"I'm not really in a spot to care about luxury," Daniel replies curtly. "This is enough."
Jud nods, awkwardly shuffling to the corner of the room. Daniel blinks at him. Once, then twice. He sets his bookbag on the bed. This time, Jud blinks.
"Do you... need anything? Water? I have a few bottles next door, I can bring a couple," Jud speaks. He scratches at the back of his neck as he takes in the state of Daniel. His clothes were dirty, torn in a few places.
"How do you know Hugo?" Daniel asks bluntly, a confused frown on his face.
One side of Jud's mouth quirks upward ever-so-slightly. "I built him a mailbox."
"A mailbox?"
"When I was a teenager," Jud clarifies. "I was doing community service near where he worked. He started talking to me, one day. Told me he was looking for someone to build him a mailbox."
"Did he actually?" Daniel asks. "Need someone to build... a mailbox, I mean."
Jud's expression grows to an actual smile. "He needed a mailbox, but he had a guy, already. Fired him the day he met me."
Daniel's shoulders relax. "What kind of name is 'Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude'?"
Jud shrugs awkwardly. "Church name. Catholics, you know?"
4 hours later, Daniel has not gone to sleep. He has, however, learned a lot.
Jud Duplenticy used to be a boxer. After giving up on that, he worked random odds-and-ends jobs. Construction, warehouse shifts, things like that. His mom died when he was young. He was late to priesthood; one of the oldest students in his cohort, but he felt like he found his calling.
"I don't believe in God," Daniel tells the man, not quite sure whether or not he should be holding eye contact. "There isn't one, as far as I'm concerned. And I-I'm not sure why I'm telling you this, considering you're a priest and all, but I've just seen enough to know that there's no way. Or at least to feel like I know."
"It's not a requirement for you to believe," Jud murmurs, making a point to meet the other man's eyes. His voice is more solemn now, more intentional. "I didn't for a long time. I found Him eventually. But that doesn't mean that everyone has to. It doesn't mean that anyone has to, really."
Daniel nods slowly, allowing his gaze to rest against Jud's. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"You can ask," Jud replies, the rest of the sentence left unfinished.
"Community service," Daniel remarks. "What did you do time for?" Daniel finds himself itching to know the answer. Maybe it's just because he's curious, but maybe it's because three months on the run have ruined his sense of community and he's desperate to find a way to connect with someone. He tries not to think about it.
"Remember how I said I was a boxer?" Jud starts, his voice almost imperceptibly strained. He watches Daniel's nod. Sits with it for a moment before he continues.
"I was pretty good. Working my way up the circuit. But there was a match. A guy I really didn't like. And I killed him in the ring."
Jud waits for the look of horror from Daniel. The recoil, the gasp, the judgement. There's none.
"Forgiveness," Daniel remarks. Jud's brow furrows for a moment. "That was the appeal of the church, wasn't it? God's forgiveness."
"I thought you said you don't believe in God," Jud remarks, pleasantly confused by Daniel's understanding.
"I don't," Daniel is quick to respond. He looks away from Jud, back toward his bookbag. "I did three months, though. It's not the same experience that you had. But I was given an opportunity when I got out, and I thought I was being forgiven. That feeling is stronger than any of the good shit."
Jud releases air from his nose; a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Forgiveness and exploitation are easy to get confused when you're desperate for acceptance," he whispers, a slight shake to his voice.
Daniel looks back at him. "It's the worst kind of drug—thinking you've found your place. It's—it's like... you're so desperate to prove that you're not a bad person, so you do whatever it takes, and that little bit of praise takes you so far. It's so fucking euphoric. You do more, and more, and more, until soon enough you don't realize how far you're going, how much of yourself you're putting into it. It's fucked up. It kills you. It killed me. And I've spent the last 3 months trying to run away from it and fix what I've done."
Jud's hand clenches into a fist in his lap as he listens to the words spew from Daniel; hears the man's breathing quicken. There's a clench in his chest that he ignores as a beat passes between them.
"And then you get to a point where you realize the only way to find forgiveness is to give to others," Jud speaks, "because you feel like you've been—"
"—Selfish," Daniel completes, his eyes a little wet. "For too fucking long."
The two men look at each other for a few moments, understanding passing between them like an electric current. Jud feels like his head is spinning. It's the first time since he made it to Chimney Rock that he's felt like he's actually serving some sort of purpose.
"Genisis," Jud breathes after a long while. "It says that we're His supreme creation on Earth."
Daniel's breath quickens. "Hugo told you? You know ab—"
"Hugo implied some things. But it didn't take him for me to come to my own conclusions," Jud replies, standing up from the edge of the bed where he was perched. "What's the point of Him creating an entire universe if we're the only shitty creatures here to fill it?"
Jud walks toward the door now. Daniel stands too.
"I'm gonna go grab you those waters. You should try to catch at least a couple of hours," Jud remarks. Daniel glances out of the tiny window. He didn't even realize that the sun was beginning to rise.
"I don't believe in God," Daniel tells Jud again, his voice a little shaky. He's not sure why he brought it up; why he felt the need to say it again.
Jud's mouth quirks up slightly. "You don't. But you believe in something. You're here for something. You have a purpose; an obligation. That's all you need."
The small cross hanging on the walls tilts as Jud pulls the door shut behind him. Daniel walks over to fiddle with the blinds for a moment before he crawls into the tiny bed.
Several hours later, he's leaving the bedroom. He almost trips over the two plastic water bottles on the floor, but he leans down to grab them. He is, in fact, thirsty. There's a small, torn piece of paper underneath one. A phone number written in black ink and almost-chicken-scratch.
'A friend if you need one,' the note reads. Daniel makes a mental note of the digits.
For the first time in three months, he hadn't started his morning by running.
Heyyyy, I absolutely LOVE your harvey specter fics and I just absolutely adore the way you write him, You have his character so absolutely accurate. I was wondering if you could please do something with a lot of thigh riding?? I know its kinda niche kink wise but if you ever are bored and wanted something to write about him… That would be great :0 thank youuu
thank you anon!!! and everyone say thank you to the knicks for inspiring this lol
SMUT 18+, f!reader, use of "good girl" one time, unprotected p in v, the details from game three are obviously inaccurate even though i was watching lol, not proofread
Harvey gets out of a meeting he was dreading earlier than he expected, but unfortunately, it's a little too late for him to try to make it to Madison Square Garden. The sun has already gone down, the streets are full of folks donning their blue and orange, and there's absolutely nothing that Harvey wants more than to be on his couch, four beers in, screaming at his T.V. as he watches his beloved Knicks fight through game three.
The kitchen smells like rosemary and reduced wine, something rich and slow-simmered that you've been tending to for the better part of an hour. You're at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, neck exposed as you wear whatever random t-shirt of Harvey's you decided on for the night.
Harvey appears in the archway ten seconds later, still wearing the armor of his day—the charcoal suit that fits him like a glove, the tie knotted tight against his throat, the particular kind of exhaustion that settles behind his eyes when he's spent hours doing what he'd eloquently describe as 'wasting time on a bunch of bullshit.'
"You're home early," you say, turning, a smile already forming.
But he's already moving past you, pressing a kiss to your temple that barely lingers, his fingers working the knot of his tie as he walks. "Meeting ended faster than expected," he says, and his voice has that clipped, distant quality—the one that means he's already somewhere else, already calculating, already gone. "Missed the first half. Need to catch the third."
You watch him go. Watch the way he sheds his jacket over the back of a dining chair, rolls his sleeves to the elbow with precise, economical movements, pulls a beer from the fridge and twists the cap with a hiss that sounds like surrender. He doesn't look back as he moves toward the living room, as the blue glow of the television washes over his face and erases you completely.
The sauce simmers. You stand there, wooden spoon in hand, feeling the heat of the stove at your back and something colder in your chest. It's not that you didn't care about the game—hell, you were a diehard fan too—but you were an even bigger fan of your husband. Especially tonight, when you'd been itching for him to walk through that door and ravish you.
You give him ten minutes. Ten minutes of him settling into the leather, of the announcer's voice rising and falling through the doorway, of the distant roar of the crowd. Then you turn off the burner, walk to the bedroom, and open the back of his closet.
His Patrick Ewing jersey is vintage, faded orange and blue, soft from years of washings and hope. Game worn, a gift from the legend himself. You pull it over your head and let it settle, let it hang heavy against your bare skin, nothing beneath it but intention. It hits you mid-thigh, a tease of hem against bare flesh, and when you look in the mirror you see exactly what you want him to see: his team, his obsession, his desire wearing his colors with nothing underneath to hide behind.
You don't bother announcing yourself. You simply walk into the living room and stand between him and the television.
Harvey's eyes drag up from the screen with the slow reluctance of a man being pulled from deep water. They catch on your legs first, on the way the jersey barely covers you, on the fact that you're holding absolutely still while the game blares behind you. Then his gaze travels higher, to your face, to your mouth, to the challenge written in every line of your body.
"Move," he says, but there's no force in it. Amusement, rather. Intrigue, even. Well, he's a man. You're his sexy wife. He can't say much more than that. The smirk on his face is undeniable.
"No." You step closer, close enough to see the way his jaw tightens, the way his hand tightens around his beer. "You've been ignoring me since you walked in."
"I'm watching the game, sweetheart." But his eyes are on your thighs, on the shadowed space where the jersey ends and you begin.
"So watch." You climb onto his lap before he can stop you, settling your weight against his slacks with a deliberate roll that makes him exhale sharp through his nose. The fabric of his trousers is expensive, wool-blend, and you can feel the heat of him through it, the tension coiling in his muscles as you position yourself astride his thigh. "But I'm staying right here."
The Knicks are down by four. There's six minutes left in the fourth quarter, and the energy in the arena is frantic, desperate, electric. Harvey's hands hover at your waist for a moment, indecision warring with discipline, before he drops them to the couch cushions and forces his attention back to the screen.
"You want to fuck around?" He starts, and his voice has become something dangerous yet inviting. "Fine. Here's the deal. You stay quiet—" he turns his head just enough to catch your eye, "—you stay quiet through the end of the game, and I'll give you exactly what you're begging for. But you make a sound, you distract me, and there's nothing. Game over. Literally."
You nod, already breathless, already rolling your hips against the hard muscle of his thigh.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and turns back to the television.
You start slow. A gentle rock, a testing of pressure, feeling the way his slacks drag against your bare skin, the way the seam of his trousers finds you with devastating precision. The jersey bunches at your hips as you move, riding up incrementally, exposing more of your thighs to the cool air of the apartment and the heat of his gaze—which he's pretending not to direct your way.
Harvey takes a long pull from his beer, his throat working, his eyes fixed on the screen where the Knicks are fighting for possession. But you can feel him beneath you, the way his thigh tenses, the way his breathing has shifted from the steady rhythm of relaxation to something tighter, more measured.
You lean in, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and grind down harder. The friction is exquisite, building heat in slow, heavy waves, and you let your mouth find the shell of his ear, let your breath ghost across his skin in a silent moan. You're already dripping—you have been since you got home, practically, and even more so since you decided to take what he wasn't offering—and you can feel it now, the shameless glide of your body against the wool of his trousers, the dark spot blooming on his thigh where you're soaking through.
"Quiet," he reminds you, but there's a shake to his voice, and his free hand has found your hip, fingers digging in with a possession he won't acknowledge.
You nod against his neck, biting your lip to keep the sounds inside, but you can't stop the tremor in your breath, the shaky exhale that ghosts across his jaw as you find the perfect angle, the perfect pressure. You ride his thigh with abandon now, chasing the friction, your hips rolling in tight, desperate circles while the game roars around you. The jersey slips off one shoulder, hanging precarious and sacrilegiously, sports-wise, but you don't fix it—you let him see, let him pretend he isn't watching from the corner of his eye as you fuck yourself against his leg like your life depends on it.
The Knicks hit a three-pointer. The crowd screams. Harvey's hand tightens on your hip, pulling you down harder, and you gasp—actually gasp—and he turns his head, catches your mouth in a brutal, fleeting kiss that tastes like beer and a cautious acknowledgement of victory.
"Quiet," he breathes against your lips, and you nod, whimpering silently into the space between you, your forehead dropping to his shoulder as you grind down harder, faster, feeling the orgasm building like a storm inside of you.
You're close. So close. Your nails are digging into his shoulders through his shirt, your body trembling with the effort of keeping silent, of swallowing every moan, every plea. You can feel the wet spot spreading on his slacks, obscene and undeniable, can feel the way he's rock-hard beneath you, straining against his zipper while he pretends to care about free throws.
Thirty seconds left. The Knicks are down by one. You rock forward, pressing your mouth to his ear, letting him hear the way you're falling apart, the silent, breathy desperation of your exhales, the wet, filthy sound of your body moving against his thigh.
The Knicks miss their final shot. You feel it in the way his whole body goes rigid, in the way the air leaves his lungs in a curse that's half prayer, half defeat. The buzzer sounds. The Knicks lose by four.
Before you can even process the loss, his hands are on your waist, lifting, throwing you back against the couch cushions with a force that drives the air from your lungs. The jersey tears just barely as he shoves it up your body, as he yanks his zipper down with one hand and pulls you toward him with the other, and then he's inside you, filling you, fucking you through the couch with a violence that makes your vision white out at the edges.
"You," he groans, and his voice is desperate, emotional, nothing like the controlled man who walked through the door. "You make it all better. You hear me? You make it—" He thrusts hard, angling to hit that spot that makes you see stars, makes you cry out loud and unapologetic because the game is over and you don't have to be quiet anymore. "—you make everything better."
You come apart beneath him, around him, screaming his name while the glow of the lost game washes over your skin and he chases his own release in needy, punishing strokes, burying his face in your neck where the jersey has slipped completely off, where you're nothing but sweat and skin and the aftermath of victory stolen from defeat.
Harvey collapses against you, his weight pressing you into leather that smells like him, like beer, like sex. His breath is hot against your collarbone, his heart hammering against yours.
"Knicks lost," he mumbles, but he's smiling, you can feel it.
You card your fingers through his hair and hold him close, your body still trembling, his slacks ruined beyond repair.
"Did they?" you ask rhetorically. "I couldn't tell by the way you just used sex with me as a method to avoid your cortisol dropping."
He laughs at you, a little breathless, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. "I can make it up to you with a bath? And, you know, dinner?"
You grin at him. "And courtside tickets, baby. I don't come cheap."
