"As I live and breathe"

Today was Jack’s birthday. You’d been up half the night preparing. You wanted to make everything perfect so you could celebrate your man in the most fitting way possible when he got home from his long shift. He deserved it. He deserved a day that was all about him, where you got to dote on him and spoil him and remind him how much you loved him.

Jack didn’t like big celebrations – which meant no surprise parties or decking the house in decorations. He did his utmost not to make his colleagues aware of the date of his birth (claiming he had a reputation for being a ‘man of mystery’ to uphold), lest they bring in a shit store-bought cake and subject him to chirpy well wishes all night (god help anyone who dared to sing at him). No, a slow, quiet day at home involving his favourite movie, a cold beer and a well-cooked steak was all he needed to consider a birthday a success. So that’s what you were going to give him. With a few… added extras. Free of charge.

He’d been so good to you lately. He was the only reason you’d kept your head above water for the last few months of grad school; a life raft when you thought you might drown in the pressure. He’d made you dinners and packed you leftovers, run hot baths and played with your hair while you trauma-dumped about your papers and exams. He’d tucked you up in bed with a kiss every night and didn’t hold it against you that you hadn’t had sex for weeks now because there was barely any time and you were always exhausted - even on days when you’d promised but fallen asleep before he could so much as think about getting his dick wet. But you were out of the deep end now. School was done, and you had some time off before you started your new job. Time that would be Jack’s and only Jack’s.

His gifts were wrapped and sitting atop the kitchen counter: the next book in the series he was reading, a sleek monogrammed leather case for his ‘readers’, a new good-quality chef’s apron and a trio of handcrafted kitchen knives from the swanky homeware store in town. Plus, the refrigerator was stocked with everything he’d need to make his favourite meal, steak with garlic butter sauce, green salad and homemade fries.

Which, on the face of it, didn’t sound much like a gift at all. Surely Jack shouldn’t need to cook his own dinner on his birthday? But Jack enjoyed cooking. It served as a way for him to decompress after a long shift, due to the time and patience it took to make every element just right. You would be his sous chef. His glamorous assistant.

Besides, you were more of a baker, and you were hiding away a batch of homemade cupcakes just as you heard Jack’s key turn in the lock.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he sighed, stepping into the kitchen and inhaling deeply. “Tell me I can smell something delicious and I’m not just delirious after 12 hours of crawling the night.”

You slung your arms around Jack’s neck, and his hands immediately found purchase on your waist. Home.

“You're not dreaming, baby. I've been baking. Heard it was somebody's birthday today.”

“Hmm. Must be a lucky bastard if he gets to come home to the smell of freshly baked cake and the pretty sight of you in this sexy number,” he murmured, toying with the apron ribbon tied behind your back and grabbing a good amount of your ass he did so.

You smiled and reeled him in for a slow, time-stopping kiss. His mouth moved against yours with firm sureness, tried and true.

“Happy birthday, baby,” you whispered against his lips. “Do you want to know what I've got planned to celebrate?”

“Sure do.”

You couldn't resist another peck of his lips.

“Alright. First, you're going to have a nice hot shower - and make sure you use the fancy soaps we got from the spa that time, OK? I don't know why you insist on rationing them, but today is a special occasion.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Second,” you held your hand up, counting fingers, “you're going to open your presents and marvel at what an excellent gift-giver I am.”

Jack chuckled. You could feel the warm mirth rumbling through him, from his chest to yours.

“Third, you're going to rustle us up a delicious steak dinner/breakfast.”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“And what are you going to be doing whilst I’m slaving over a hot stove?”

“I will be delighting you with my sparkling wit and dazzling personality.”

Jack laughed and gave your ass another squeeze. “Sounds fair.”

“Fourth, you're going to eat as many of my signature lemon and poppy seed cupcakes as you damn well please.”

Jack moaned with bliss, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as if he could conjure up the taste of them already.

“Did you make them with the lemon curd?” he asked eagerly.

You scoffed. “Of course I did. It's your favourite. I topped them all with cream cheese frosting too, plus a little extra special something.”

Jack captured your lips again, his kiss seasoned with awe, happiness and gratitude.

“How did I get so lucky?”

Your cheeks warmed. You were never quite sure how to react when Jack put his adoration of you on display so openly.

You decided the easiest thing to do was to carry on with your list. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll like the fifth part best,” you said, trailing your hands from his neck to his shoulders, then flat-palmed to his chest. “We’ve both got the next day and night off, which means we can spend hours and hours in bed together. Sleeping…not sleeping…”

Jack hummed knowingly, his imagination filling in the rest as your words trailed off. “You're making me want to skip right to number 5,” he said playfully, waggling his gorgeous grey-tufted eyebrows.

You gasped with mock surprise. “No way, mister.”

You slipped out of his grasp and wiggled away before he could use his sexy silver fox wiles to seduce you into thinking otherwise. Jack needed to rest first, to leave the night behind, to shower, cook, eat and be merry. Then, over the course of the next couple of hours, you were going to seduce him. You’d keep the heat low and slow, so the air sizzled between you. Then, you were going to lay him down in bed, pepper his entire body with kisses, maybe even massage his leg for a while, and let him marinate in the feeling of being wanted, cherished and cared for before you let him sink into the molten heat of you…

“Minx,” Jack bit back playfully.

“I try. Now go shower; I'm hungry.”

Jack accepted your command with a smirk and strode towards the bathroom, but not before whipping off his shirt and using it to punctuate his exit with a cheeky whip of your ass as he passed by.

-

Anyone would have thought it was your birthday, the way the morning panned out. You got to sit back and sip wine while Jack took command of the kitchen, looking every inch the hot chef of your dreams (wearing a fresh white T, grey sweatpants and his new ochre canvas apron).

He was very impressed with his new set of knives and picked out the perfect one to chop the potatoes and salad with. His glasses sat safely in his new case, and he’d even held the new book up to his nose, inhaling the scent of the fresh yet unturned pages.

“You know me too well,” he’d said softly, by way of a thank you.

In addition to your front row seat to your boyfriend's culinary prowess, you were privileged enough to be his kitchen hand, fetching and delivering when required. It saved him from having to roll back and forth too much. Jack often preferred his wheelchair to his crutches after a long shift, and though he could manoeuvre around his adapted kitchen (with its lowered countertops) with relative ease, he appreciated help when he was tired. And you loved feeling like the two of you were a team.

Plus, you’d negotiated that Jack would give you a kiss for every item you retrieved.

“Butter and garlic as requested, chef,” you reported, giving him a sloppy salute.

Jack repaid you with one peck to your cheek and another to your lips.

“There are three cloves of garlic there, Jack. You owe me two more kisses.”

He obliged.

“I'm looking forward to handing you the salt and pepper. I wonder if I'll get a kiss for every granule and peppercorn.”

Jack snorted. “You’ll have to count them first.”

You shimmied back to your seat, swaying to the music you’d put on low in the background to accompany the sounds of Jack at work. The playlist you'd lovingly called ‘Oldies for Jack.’

He’d baulked when he first saw the title. “These songs from the early 90s,” he reasoned, scrolling through your choices, “you can hardly call them oldies.”

“Sure I can.” You read out some of the song titles and years of release. “These songs are older than me. I wasn't even a twinkle in my father’s eye when most of these hit the charts.”

“And don’t I know it.”

-

While you ate, the two of you settled into easy, casual conversation. Food had always been one of the greatest connectors for you both. It was how you met, after all.

You'd been in your first year of grad school. You’d worked for a few years after leaving college, but hit a wall with your professional development, so you returned to studying. Baking had always been a hobby of yours, so you started selling your wares at a local market to make some extra cash. And along came Jack. Once he’d had a taste of your baking, he couldn't come back for more fast enough. A few weeks later, once he’d had a taste of you, well, it was the same story.

“Are you ready for dessert?”

“Sure am.”

“Close your eyes then.”

Jack furrowed his brow. “I thought you made the lemon and poppyseed cupcakes with lemon curd and cream cheese frosting?”

You could have sworn you saw his lip quiver like a child's, as if the world might collapse if these cupcakes turned out to be a figment of his imagination.

“I did…”

“Then I know what those look like, sweetie.”

“Hmm. But I also said there was a little something extra special,” you reminded him. “So, close your eyes.”

Jack obeyed. You fetched your sweet culinary creations - already arranged on a fancy plate but covered with a cake tent. You gently placed the plate on the table and removed the cover, then adjusted a couple of the cakes so Jack got the perfect view.

“Tada!”

His eyes blinked open, and he gorged on the delicious sight before him: 12 perfectly baked yellow sponges, fluffy and flecked with black poppy seeds, made plump from oozing lemon curd. Each was crowned with a perfectly piped swirl of white frosting and finished with a curl of candied lemon rind, a sprinkle of lemon zest and the ‘something extra special’: miniature photos of Jack printed on edible sugar paper.

“I'm calling them my ‘Lemon Snack-a-Jacks” you said proudly.

Jack laughed, the sound rosy and full.

“I love them.” He leaned closer, examining the little pictures. They’d all been taken by you during your relationship, and each one sparked warm nostalgic chatter about the memories they contained.

Throughout the course of reminiscing, you ended up on Jack’s lap, gently scratching at his neck while his hand rubbed comfortingly at your thigh.

“Which one is your favourite?” you asked.

Jack picked up the cupcake with a picture of him in a smart dark suit. He was in the process of putting on a tie, getting ready for Whittaker's wedding.

“This one.”

“You look so handsome,” you cooed, caressing the greying stubble on his cheek. “And happy.”

“Happy because of who I was looking at when the picture was taken.”

Your cheeks warmed. He'd been looking at you. And he was looking at you the same way now. The soft adoration in his gaze almost made you cry. But you cleared your throat and selected a cupcake of your own.

“This is my favourite.”

It was a photo of Jack shirtless. You’d taken it unawares whilst he was dressing for work one evening, early on in your courtship. He looked a little bemused, as if he couldn't quite understand why you'd want a photo of him at that precise moment, not realising that you wanted a photo of him in every moment, so, long into the future, you could always look back at the man who had made you so gloriously, incandescently happy.

“It’s my favourite because you’ve got your tits out and they're your best quality,” you teased.

Jack gave your hip a firm squeeze of warning.

You nodded at the cupcake in Jack’s hand. “Go on, baby,” you urged. “Taste it. I know you're dying to.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

You both took bites at the same time.

“Fuck me, that’s so good,” Jack moaned. Your chest swelled with pride. Everyone always says food is the way to a man’s heart, but knowing that your food was the way to your man’s heart was the most gratifying feeling on earth.

Jack reached out to swipe a smear of crumb-covered icing from the corner of your mouth and couldn't resist cupping your jaw and drawing you in for a kiss. He hummed with satisfaction, like you were another delicious morsel of lemony cupcake goodness.

It only took him two more bites to finish his cupcake. The first few times you’d baked for him, Jack did his best to savour things, out of respect for the effort he knew you’d undertaken, but your lemon and poppyseed cupcakes were just too good. They were a revelation, he’d said. He apologised for wolfing his first one down so fast, but there was no way you’d accept his apology. You were flattered. You loved that he loved your food. “I baked them for you, Jack. You can have as many as you want.” Now, he knew that you’d always let him have another one, and another one, until he was satisfied.

You finished your cupcake too but saved the miniature photo for last. You caught Jack’s eye, then stuck out your tongue, placing the tiny topless image of him to it, letting him interpret the gesture however he pleased. Much to your delight, his response was to wrap a hand around your jaw and flatten his tongue against yours, dissolving the sugar paper; then he sucked your tongue into his mouth and turned the occasion into a deep, dizzying, drawn-out kiss.

Despite your original intentions for the morning, lowering the current temperature never crossed your mind.

Soon, one of Jack’s hands found its way into your shorts and under your panties. A whimper passed your lips as his fingers slipped amongst your silken folds.

“Jack,” you whined. “You're spoiling my plans. I was supposed to be seducing you.”

“You are seducing me, sweetheart. You seduce me every moment of every fuckin’ day.” His voice had grown deeper, gravellier, like it always did in these kinds of moments between you. He shifted his hips. “Can you feel that? Can you feel how seduced I am right now?”

You could. You could feel the solid length of his thick cock under you, demanding and urgent, just like Jack could be sometimes.

He was kissing you again, infusing your mind with thoughts of nothing but him. You melted into his touch, and your cunt pulsed needily around the fingers he pushed into you, but he pumped them only a few torturous times before pulling away and gathering the slick wetness that oozed from your core.

“Fuck, sweetheart. All of this, just for me?”

All you could do was nod dumbly as he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and smeared your desire all over his lips. He slipped his fingers into his mouth, using the last drops to coat his tongue.

“You wanna taste?”

His voice was rough, his breath heavy, and his eyes were dark, burnt from desire.

Your whole body quivered with longing. “God, yes.”

His lips sealed over yours. The flavours of lemon and lust exploded on your tongue and burst like fireworks behind your eyes. This time, Jack kissed you slow. You were something to be savoured.

“You’re the real snack here, sweetheart,” Jack whispered against your lips. “Juicer than a steak and sweeter than all the cupcakes in the world. Can't wait to dine on you for the rest of my life.”

------

Today was Jack’s birthday. You’d been up half the night preparing. You wanted to make everything perfect so you could celebrate your man in the most fitting way possible when he got home from his long shift. He deserved it. He deserved a day that was all about him, where you got to dote on him and spoil him and remind him how much you loved him.

Jack didn’t like big celebrations – which meant no surprise parties or decking the house in decorations. He did his utmost not to make his colleagues aware of the date of his birth (claiming he had a reputation for being a ‘man of mystery’ to uphold), lest they bring in a shit store-bought cake and subject him to chirpy well wishes all night (god help anyone who dared to sing at him). No, a slow, quiet day at home involving his favourite movie, a cold beer and a well-cooked steak was all he needed to consider a birthday a success. So that’s what you were going to give him. With a few… added extras. Free of charge.

He’d been so good to you lately. He was the only reason you’d kept your head above water for the last few months of grad school; a life raft when you thought you might drown in the pressure. He’d made you dinners and packed you leftovers, run hot baths and played with your hair while you trauma-dumped about your papers and exams. He’d tucked you up in bed with a kiss every night and didn’t hold it against you that you hadn’t had sex for weeks now because there was barely any time and you were always exhausted - even on days when you’d promised but fallen asleep before he could so much as think about getting his dick wet. But you were out of the deep end now. School was done, and you had some time off before you started your new job. Time that would be Jack’s and only Jack’s.

His gifts were wrapped and sitting atop the kitchen counter: the next book in the series he was reading, a sleek monogrammed leather case for his ‘readers’, a new good-quality chef’s apron and a trio of handcrafted kitchen knives from the swanky homeware store in town. Plus, the refrigerator was stocked with everything he’d need to make his favourite meal, steak with garlic butter sauce, green salad and homemade fries.

Which, on the face of it, didn’t sound much like a gift at all. Surely Jack shouldn’t need to cook his own dinner on his birthday? But Jack enjoyed cooking. It served as a way for him to decompress after a long shift, due to the time and patience it took to make every element just right. You would be his sous chef. His glamorous assistant.

Besides, you were more of a baker, and you were hiding away a batch of homemade cupcakes just as you heard Jack’s key turn in the lock.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he sighed, stepping into the kitchen and inhaling deeply. “Tell me I can smell something delicious and I’m not just delirious after 12 hours of crawling the night.”

You slung your arms around Jack’s neck, and his hands immediately found purchase on your waist. Home.

“You're not dreaming, baby. I've been baking. Heard it was somebody's birthday today.”

“Hmm. Must be a lucky bastard if he gets to come home to the smell of freshly baked cake and the pretty sight of you in this sexy number,” he murmured, toying with the apron ribbon tied behind your back and grabbing a good amount of your ass he did so.

You smiled and reeled him in for a slow, time-stopping kiss. His mouth moved against yours with firm sureness, tried and true.

“Happy birthday, baby,” you whispered against his lips. “Do you want to know what I've got planned to celebrate?”

“Sure do.”

You couldn't resist another peck of his lips.

“Alright. First, you're going to have a nice hot shower - and make sure you use the fancy soaps we got from the spa that time, OK? I don't know why you insist on rationing them, but today is a special occasion.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Second,” you held your hand up, counting fingers, “you're going to open your presents and marvel at what an excellent gift-giver I am.”

Jack chuckled. You could feel the warm mirth rumbling through him, from his chest to yours.

“Third, you're going to rustle us up a delicious steak dinner/breakfast.”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“And what are you going to be doing whilst I’m slaving over a hot stove?”

“I will be delighting you with my sparkling wit and dazzling personality.”

Jack laughed and gave your ass another squeeze. “Sounds fair.”

“Fourth, you're going to eat as many of my signature lemon and poppy seed cupcakes as you damn well please.”

Jack moaned with bliss, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as if he could conjure up the taste of them already.

“Did you make them with the lemon curd?” he asked eagerly.

You scoffed. “Of course I did. It's your favourite. I topped them all with cream cheese frosting too, plus a little extra special something.”

Jack captured your lips again, his kiss seasoned with awe, happiness and gratitude.

“How did I get so lucky?”

Your cheeks warmed. You were never quite sure how to react when Jack put his adoration of you on display so openly.

You decided the easiest thing to do was to carry on with your list. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll like the fifth part best,” you said, trailing your hands from his neck to his shoulders, then flat-palmed to his chest. “We’ve both got the next day and night off, which means we can spend hours and hours in bed together. Sleeping…not sleeping…”

Jack hummed knowingly, his imagination filling in the rest as your words trailed off. “You're making me want to skip right to number 5,” he said playfully, waggling his gorgeous grey-tufted eyebrows.

You gasped with mock surprise. “No way, mister.”

You slipped out of his grasp and wiggled away before he could use his sexy silver fox wiles to seduce you into thinking otherwise. Jack needed to rest first, to leave the night behind, to shower, cook, eat and be merry. Then, over the course of the next couple of hours, you were going to seduce him. You’d keep the heat low and slow, so the air sizzled between you. Then, you were going to lay him down in bed, pepper his entire body with kisses, maybe even massage his leg for a while, and let him marinate in the feeling of being wanted, cherished and cared for before you let him sink into the molten heat of you…

“Minx,” Jack bit back playfully.

“I try. Now go shower; I'm hungry.”

Jack accepted your command with a smirk and strode towards the bathroom, but not before whipping off his shirt and using it to punctuate his exit with a cheeky whip of your ass as he passed by.

-

Anyone would have thought it was your birthday, the way the morning panned out. You got to sit back and sip wine while Jack took command of the kitchen, looking every inch the hot chef of your dreams (wearing a fresh white T, grey sweatpants and his new ochre canvas apron).

He was very impressed with his new set of knives and picked out the perfect one to chop the potatoes and salad with. His glasses sat safely in his new case, and he’d even held the new book up to his nose, inhaling the scent of the fresh yet unturned pages.

“You know me too well,” he’d said softly, by way of a thank you.

In addition to your front row seat to your boyfriend's culinary prowess, you were privileged enough to be his kitchen hand, fetching and delivering when required. It saved him from having to roll back and forth too much. Jack often preferred his wheelchair to his crutches after a long shift, and though he could manoeuvre around his adapted kitchen (with its lowered countertops) with relative ease, he appreciated help when he was tired. And you loved feeling like the two of you were a team.

Plus, you’d negotiated that Jack would give you a kiss for every item you retrieved.

“Butter and garlic as requested, chef,” you reported, giving him a sloppy salute.

Jack repaid you with one peck to your cheek and another to your lips.

“There are three cloves of garlic there, Jack. You owe me two more kisses.”

He obliged.

“I'm looking forward to handing you the salt and pepper. I wonder if I'll get a kiss for every granule and peppercorn.”

Jack snorted. “You’ll have to count them first.”

You shimmied back to your seat, swaying to the music you’d put on low in the background to accompany the sounds of Jack at work. The playlist you'd lovingly called ‘Oldies for Jack.’

He’d baulked when he first saw the title. “These songs from the early 90s,” he reasoned, scrolling through your choices, “you can hardly call them oldies.”

“Sure I can.” You read out some of the song titles and years of release. “These songs are older than me. I wasn't even a twinkle in my father’s eye when most of these hit the charts.”

“And don’t I know it.”

-

While you ate, the two of you settled into easy, casual conversation. Food had always been one of the greatest connectors for you both. It was how you met, after all.

You'd been in your first year of grad school. You’d worked for a few years after leaving college, but hit a wall with your professional development, so you returned to studying. Baking had always been a hobby of yours, so you started selling your wares at a local market to make some extra cash. And along came Jack. Once he’d had a taste of your baking, he couldn't come back for more fast enough. A few weeks later, once he’d had a taste of you, well, it was the same story.

“Are you ready for dessert?”

“Sure am.”

“Close your eyes then.”

Jack furrowed his brow. “I thought you made the lemon and poppyseed cupcakes with lemon curd and cream cheese frosting?”

You could have sworn you saw his lip quiver like a child's, as if the world might collapse if these cupcakes turned out to be a figment of his imagination.

“I did…”

“Then I know what those look like, sweetie.”

“Hmm. But I also said there was a little something extra special,” you reminded him. “So, close your eyes.”

Jack obeyed. You fetched your sweet culinary creations - already arranged on a fancy plate but covered with a cake tent. You gently placed the plate on the table and removed the cover, then adjusted a couple of the cakes so Jack got the perfect view.

“Tada!”

His eyes blinked open, and he gorged on the delicious sight before him: 12 perfectly baked yellow sponges, fluffy and flecked with black poppy seeds, made plump from oozing lemon curd. Each was crowned with a perfectly piped swirl of white frosting and finished with a curl of candied lemon rind, a sprinkle of lemon zest and the ‘something extra special’: miniature photos of Jack printed on edible sugar paper.

“I'm calling them my ‘Lemon Snack-a-Jacks” you said proudly.

Jack laughed, the sound rosy and full.

“I love them.” He leaned closer, examining the little pictures. They’d all been taken by you during your relationship, and each one sparked warm nostalgic chatter about the memories they contained.

Throughout the course of reminiscing, you ended up on Jack’s lap, gently scratching at his neck while his hand rubbed comfortingly at your thigh.

“Which one is your favourite?” you asked.

Jack picked up the cupcake with a picture of him in a smart dark suit. He was in the process of putting on a tie, getting ready for Whittaker's wedding.

“This one.”

“You look so handsome,” you cooed, caressing the greying stubble on his cheek. “And happy.”

“Happy because of who I was looking at when the picture was taken.”

Your cheeks warmed. He'd been looking at you. And he was looking at you the same way now. The soft adoration in his gaze almost made you cry. But you cleared your throat and selected a cupcake of your own.

“This is my favourite.”

It was a photo of Jack shirtless. You’d taken it unawares whilst he was dressing for work one evening, early on in your courtship. He looked a little bemused, as if he couldn't quite understand why you'd want a photo of him at that precise moment, not realising that you wanted a photo of him in every moment, so, long into the future, you could always look back at the man who had made you so gloriously, incandescently happy.

“It’s my favourite because you’ve got your tits out and they're your best quality,” you teased.

Jack gave your hip a firm squeeze of warning.

You nodded at the cupcake in Jack’s hand. “Go on, baby,” you urged. “Taste it. I know you're dying to.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

You both took bites at the same time.

“Fuck me, that’s so good,” Jack moaned. Your chest swelled with pride. Everyone always says food is the way to a man’s heart, but knowing that your food was the way to your man’s heart was the most gratifying feeling on earth.

Jack reached out to swipe a smear of crumb-covered icing from the corner of your mouth and couldn't resist cupping your jaw and drawing you in for a kiss. He hummed with satisfaction, like you were another delicious morsel of lemony cupcake goodness.

It only took him two more bites to finish his cupcake. The first few times you’d baked for him, Jack did his best to savour things, out of respect for the effort he knew you’d undertaken, but your lemon and poppyseed cupcakes were just too good. They were a revelation, he’d said. He apologised for wolfing his first one down so fast, but there was no way you’d accept his apology. You were flattered. You loved that he loved your food. “I baked them for you, Jack. You can have as many as you want.” Now, he knew that you’d always let him have another one, and another one, until he was satisfied.

You finished your cupcake too but saved the miniature photo for last. You caught Jack’s eye, then stuck out your tongue, placing the tiny topless image of him to it, letting him interpret the gesture however he pleased. Much to your delight, his response was to wrap a hand around your jaw and flatten his tongue against yours, dissolving the sugar paper; then he sucked your tongue into his mouth and turned the occasion into a deep, dizzying, drawn-out kiss.

Despite your original intentions for the morning, lowering the current temperature never crossed your mind.

Soon, one of Jack’s hands found its way into your shorts and under your panties. A whimper passed your lips as his fingers slipped amongst your silken folds.

“Jack,” you whined. “You're spoiling my plans. I was supposed to be seducing you.”

“You are seducing me, sweetheart. You seduce me every moment of every fuckin’ day.” His voice had grown deeper, gravellier, like it always did in these kinds of moments between you. He shifted his hips. “Can you feel that? Can you feel how seduced I am right now?”

You could. You could feel the solid length of his thick cock under you, demanding and urgent, just like Jack could be sometimes.

He was kissing you again, infusing your mind with thoughts of nothing but him. You melted into his touch, and your cunt pulsed needily around the fingers he pushed into you, but he pumped them only a few torturous times before pulling away and gathering the slick wetness that oozed from your core.

“Fuck, sweetheart. All of this, just for me?”

All you could do was nod dumbly as he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and smeared your desire all over his lips. He slipped his fingers into his mouth, using the last drops to coat his tongue.

“You wanna taste?”

His voice was rough, his breath heavy, and his eyes were dark, burnt from desire.

Your whole body quivered with longing. “God, yes.”

His lips sealed over yours. The flavours of lemon and lust exploded on your tongue and burst like fireworks behind your eyes. This time, Jack kissed you slow. You were something to be savoured.

“You’re the real snack here, sweetheart,” Jack whispered against your lips. “Juicer than a steak and sweeter than all the cupcakes in the world. Can't wait to dine on you for the rest of my life.”

------

You had pushed. You liked to provoke, letting your smart mouth go off before thinking. The moment the response left your mouth, you regretted it and saw the muscles in Cassie's jaw twitch. But she was ever the professional, shrugging it off and continuing to teach, instructing Javadi on what to do. Rightfully, you were iced out at the current moment.

McKay had set the rules when the two of you got involved. She was an R3, and you were on the cusp of becoming an R2. Boundaries were established while on shift; both of you valued your jobs and didn't want to put them at risk. Cass was good with respecting them, while you toed the line now and then. At night, when it was just the two of you, she corrected your missteps. Giving you what you craved above all else.

It was hard for her to ignore. The way you begged for little bites, her hand around your throat, the slaps to your ass. Her calmness, her cool control, attracted you like a moth to a flame. You never liked the overly aggressive types, didn't care for orders being barked at you (oh, the irony of the profession you chose). Finally, she got the truth spilling from your lips. Those blue eyes fixed on you while she listened patiently, hand rubbing soothing circles on your belly. She was more than willing to give you what you needed.

That night, after making it through the shift where you put your foot in your mouth, you knelt at her feet as she lounged in the love seat. Sweat pants slung low on her slender hips, sleeveless crop top revealing a sliver of her toned stomach, and the golden chain dangling from her neck. Her reddish hair was free, falling down her shoulders in soft waves, those blue eyes fixed on you once more. A little bit of guilt twinged in your belly when you caught sight of the swollen, dark bags under her eyes. The telltale mark of an overworked resident. Thankfully, Harrison was with Chad this evening.

"You weren't thinking today," Cass murmured, dipping a finger under your chin.

You nodded. "Nope," you agreed, popping the p. A chill crept up your spine. You were only clad in a pair of black underwear, dampness clinging to them.

"I give you space, I give you respect at work. I expect you to give the same to me." A gentle scolding, but the weight of her words made your face flame with heat.

"I'm sorry, daddy," you whispered, giving your best puppy dog eyes. Mommy had been tested earlier in the discovery period, but that was a hard limit for her. Daddy, she liked.

Her fingers tangled in your hair. "Over my lap."

Slowly, you pushed to your feet and stretched across her legs. She took her time peeling the underwear down your legs until they pooled on the floor, leaving you bare and vulnerable. The way she stroked and caressed your naked backside made you whimper. You nibbled on your lip in anticipation of the first smack. You yelped when it finally fell. She alternated where her slaps landed, creating an even sting over your ass. Every inch itching from the burn. Your toes curled under, soft whimpers falling as tears gathered in your eyes.

"P…please, daddy, I'm sorry," you whined, squirming over her lap, but she kept you pinned down with a firm hand pressed against your lower back.

"Yeah? Are you, baby girl? I feel we've been repeating the same lesson lately," she said evenly, landing two stinging swats against a tender area.

"I'm stubborn," you sniffled.

Cass snorted. "You are, but I love you for it. It makes you a good advocate for your patients."

Her praise nearly made you break down into tears. "Thank you, daddy."

"I mean it," she whispered, rubbing your back and taking mercy on your poor, abused ass. "Just a few rough edges that need softening, but you're good at what you do."

She guided you into her arms, cradling you against her chest. You suckled on fingers while one of her ringed hands gently wrapped around your throat, squeezing it pleasantly.

"Do you need to come, baby girl?" she asked, sliding her hand around your throat between your breasts, then down your stomach.

You released her fingers with a soft pop. "Please, daddy, need it so bad."

"You ask so nicely," Cass purred, stroking your cheek with her wet fingers before nudging them against your opening. You shifted your thighs, allowing them to sink inside your needy pussy with ease while remaining curled against her chest.

You tugged the neckline of her shirt down and pressed your mouth against the smooth patch of skin just below her collarbone. No visible marks. You wanted to show her what a good girl you could be. Your teeth and mouth worked over her flesh while she steadily fingered you, curling perfectly inside. In the aftermath of soaking her fingers and leaving a purple mark on her skin, you began to feel floaty.

"I've got you, baby girl," Cassie whispered in your ear, keeping you wrapped up tightly in her arms.

"You always do, daddy," you murmured dreamily, eyes glazed over.

"You want me to fuck you?"

The question came between one rough grunt and another, his half-bare chest rising and falling as he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, looking at you with a visceral hunger to devour you. You felt your body respond to that slutty gaze of his—weak legs, pussy throbbing and burning with the ache of wanting him, breath ragged and heavy between your lungs, pupils dilated in awe as the man undressed just for you.

Jack didn’t stop devouring you with his stormy eyes, clouded with passion and desire: seeing you lying there in fragile, beautiful nakedness, legs slightly parted to reveal your wetness—all because of him—adorning his bed in the dim light of a cold afternoon, the fireplace crackling beside you, the air thick with the scent of sex, your sweet perfume mingling with his bittersweet sweat. It was driving him wild with lust and adoration. As soon as Abbot tore off his shirt, his voice came out breathless:

"No..."

"No!?" He raised a challenging eyebrow, hastily undoing his pants, where your eyes wavered at the sight of the thick bulge straining against his underwear. You wet your lips before speaking, matching his defiance: "No. I want you to split me in half with your cock. I want to choke on it today—no making love."

"Oh—" He gasped, then laughed smugly, yanking his pants off and pushing back the fringe that had fallen over his eyes before settling between your legs. He kissed your neck, his stubble prickling your skin, making you shiver. The tip of his nose trailed along the curve of your neck to your ear, his lips pressing hotly against your lobe as his deep voice whispered: "Are you sure you can handle all of me?"

Your hands wrapped around him—beneath your palms, his skin was soft, smooth, warm, and damp with a thin layer of sweat. You buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, breathing in his scent—wood, upturned earth, sweet sweat, him—before answering:

"If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have asked, Jackie."

You were his ruin.

Jack was (once again) certain of this as he pushed himself up on his arms just to look at you, with the perversion of someone who’d just been invited to destroy something. In this case, to destroy you. He smirked wickedly before leaning down to capture your lips in another slow, wet, messy kiss, grinding against your entrance as if he could already fuck you through the barrier of his underwear. His tongue, soft and possessive, tangled with yours as one of his hands guided yours to his back, then shoved it down his briefs, murmuring against your lips:

"Feel that? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Mhm..." You whimpered softly, giving his cock a teasing squeeze, drawing a low, almost restrained groan from him—one you swallowed in the kiss as you stroked him, your hips rocking against his. Abbot couldn’t take the sheer lust and adoration, roughly pulling your hand away, urgency taking over as he yanked down his briefs, letting them pool at his knees before grabbing you again, crashing his lips back onto yours.

You welcomed him with open arms and legs, so wet that the moment he lined himself up and pressed the head against your entrance, he sank into you with a long, drawn-out moan that sent a wave of unbearable heat through you—you loved hearing him moan for you. Drunk on your pussy, Jack whined:

"Fuck, you feel so good," he started pushing in, slow, deliberate, making sure you both felt every inch, skin to skin, in this dance. "So tight and—" He gasped when you clenched around him, laughing at the face he made—eyes rolling back briefly before shutting, biting his lower lip. He stopped thrusting, opening his eyes in a flash of blue darkened by blown pupils:

"If you keep squeezing me like that, I’ll fill you up—like, now!" He chuckled as you bit your lip, amused, your hands gripping his narrow shoulders for some semblance of control, your voice slipping between a whiny moan and a playful tease:

"Maybe I want you to fill me up, Abbot... Who knows? Maybe we’ll have a little baby in a few months."

"Slut," he growled when you clenched around him again, moaning like a complete whore for you, taking deep breaths to keep from coming right then.

"Come on, Jackie, fuck me good, my love. We’re just getting started, and I want you to ruin me," you murmured, staring into his eyes. Jack looked hypnotized—by you beneath him—his rough worker’s hands gripping your waist firmly, a shock running through both of you as he rolled you onto your side, one hand lifting your thigh over his. His cock had slipped out during the shift, drawing a giggly moan from you before he slid back in, pulling you into a tight embrace, his mouth going straight for your jaw, then your chin, before fucking you with the fury of a man consumed by desire.

Your moans grew louder, filling the room, your bodies pure flame, the world reduced to just this sweet, filthy moment between the two of you.

Abbot’s lips didn’t just devour you—they mapped every inch of your face, his tongue licking your lips, teasing you with kisses he trailed down to your cheek as he thrust deep, hitting that spot, one hand gripping your back to pull you harder onto his cock, slick, feeling you drip around him. It felt so good to be filled by him—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually—nestled between your soul and heart, sending spasms of pleasure electrifying your thighs, sweat-slicked and crying out in love for him.

"I’m gonna split you in half fucking you like this, my love—" gritted out, stopping his thrusts, making you whine at the loss of his cock. "—Oh, don’t look at me with those begging eyes, sweetheart," he murmured roughly, a tender hand cupping your face as he smirked. "I only stopped because this angle won’t let me shoot my cum deep inside that pretty little pussy, hmm?"

"Oh yeah? Then how are you gonna fuck me now?" There was no shame in these bedroom talks, at least not between you two. Your eyes gleamed, your breathing so heavy each word came out as a gasp, your hands gripping his arms.

Jack simply pulled out of you.

Empty.

Your little whine made him laugh darkly before his strong hands flipped you onto your stomach, one leg hooking over yours as he settled behind you, thick and heavy, sliding back into your soaked, desperate cunt. Your hands scrambled for purchase, gripping the sweat-damp sheets as Jack buried his face in your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin, his wild-honey scent enveloping you, his stubble scratching as his other hand slid down to your clit, rough fingers rubbing harsh circles:

"Like this, my love—taking you from behind while I make you squirm on my fingers..."

Your body was pure fire, Jack fucking you with his cock and his fingers—his thrusts slow on the way in, rough on the way out, his balls slapping against you, his fingers slick with your arousal, sending electric shocks through your legs. You rested your head on his forearm beneath you, looking up at him with pleading eyes, met only by the most wicked, sinful gaze. Abbot pulled his hand away for just a second, wetting his fingers with his tongue before returning to your clit with renewed vigor, watching you writhe between his cock and his touch, the pleasure building, building, until—

"Jack!"

His name tore from your lips in the most beautiful moan, music to his ears—and feeling you come around him, milking him, trembling, undid him. A choked groan ripped from his throat as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his hand stilling on your clit, instead splaying over your lower belly to keep you pressed against him.

You came together, staring at each other.

Smiling, satisfied, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips:

"Stay like this for a bit... Just to make sure you’ll walk out of here pregnant with my child."

"No doubt about that, my love. The way you came in me—the way you made me come..." You laughed, your body still floating from the aftershocks, sensitive, making you squirm beneath him.

You kissed again, this time letting it deepen, tongues tangling, tasting each other before—reluctantly—you pulled away, settling against his warm, comforting body, feeling some of his cum trickle out between your thighs.

Jack shifted over you, his chest pressing against your breasts as he kissed your chin, nipped your nose, sucked on your cheek—"Stop! You’re gonna make me all slobbery...!"

"Oh, you’re talking? The one who just got filled with my cum is complaining about manners?" His laughter against your neck filled the entire space, and you melted into his touch, his mouth lazily mapping your skin, your drowsy eyes fixed on the white plaster ceiling, the orange firelight casting dancing dust motes in the air. You felt like you were floating, even with Jack’s comforting weight on you.

Another kiss, this time on your lips, before Jack whispered:

"I love when you get like this... All dazed after I fuck you."

"How romantic of you—" You laughed, squeezing him tighter against your chest, wishing you could fuse with his sweat-slick body before wriggling free, lying back on the mattress, looking at him with love: "—but you’re right about that... I’m better when I’m with you."

"I doubt that’s just when we’re fucking..." He shifted, offering an arm for you to curl into, his other hand lacing with yours over your stomach.

"Yes, Jack... In everything."

"I feel the same, my love..." he whispered.

When you looked at him, his gaze was distant, lost in thought, and you wished you could read him completely—but you relaxed, reassured by the certainty that Jack would always tell you, in that beautiful voice of his, just how much you meant to him.

As if reading your mind, with the gentleness reserved for holding a delicate flower, Jack brushed your hair from your face, revealing your beauty to him fully, melting all over again. His lips curved into a smile of sincere love and devotion before pressing a kiss to your temple—long, lingering, as if he could telepathically whisper "I love you, love you, adore you, want you, love you" over and over with just that touch.

And so your bodies nestled in that cocoon of love and surrender, humming with pleasure—yours light and content, wrapped in Jack’s unwavering devotion, completely at peace.

It's then you become all too aware of your surroundings; you're in Bob's house, on his bed, whose sheets you have definitely soaked.

"Fuck, your sheets, I'm so sorry," you mumble as you try to get up. There's no way he would want to shower after-

"Hey! It's fine," his voice is soft, gentle, "I usually do laundry tomorrow, so they were going to get washed anyways."

Of course he has a set date for laundry.

When your friend first told you about Bob, you were unsure. You already had such shit luck on dating apps, there's no way a blind date could be better. Then your friend's girlfriend Nat vouched for him. She was a pretty good judge of character and if she was willing to recommend her copilot, he must be at least kinda decent.

It was worse. Bob Floyd was perfect.

He was an actual gentlemen. Not one of those guys that says he is and only holds the door on the first date. Bob listened, he genuinely wanted to get to know you.

At first you thought he didn't like you because he ended the date on an awkward side hug.

According to Nat that's just how he is at first.

But then Bob texted you back. And kept texting. Kept calling. Kept arriving on time with flowers. Kept slowly becoming more comfortable with showing physical affection.

Despite how wonderful he was, you two still did that awkward 'hey not that I'm wondering but what are we?' dance. You wanted to bring it up so bad and knew, in the back of your mind, that you could bring it up to Bob. That he would actually talk about it because he's a grown adult. But you had been burned before and spending time with him was just lovely, even if you were undefined.

Then tonight he brought you to the Hard Deck (you already knew Nat and pretty much the rest of the squad given her and Bob's combined stories). Introducing you to friends is a sign that you didn't plan to ghost someone, right?

He had left to grab you some more water (he insisted after seeing you take a tequila shot with Nat and Mickey). Not even a full minute had passed when some blonde Ken doll looking man walked up to you. Funny thing, pre-Bob, he would have been your exact type. But now you were reaping the benefits of having expectations. You wanted Bob.

Who jumped right to your defense. Who replied with "boyfriend" (same time as you) when asked who he was. Who after confirming that yes, you did mean that, took you back to his place and ate you out like it was his last meal.

Who now was leading you into his shower, pressing sweet and soft kisses to your bare shoulder. Who did not get an equal chance to come and wasn't bringing it up.

Instead he offered you his bottle of shampoo (actual shampoo, not the '12 in 1' stuff) and stepped aside to let you stand under his shower head.

He was so sweet and genuine, it drove you crazy. Bob probably wouldn't mention his lack of an orgasm.

Which is why you felt like the only logical thing to do was to get on your knees in the shower. For once, you actually wanted to return the favor. He made you see stars and was the sweetest man you had ever met, so why not blow him?

"Hey you okay- oh," his eyes widened when your tongue darted out to lick up his shaft. You never really thought a cock could be pretty, until you met Bob.

"You don't....have to um, you know-shoot," his head tilts back when your lips close around the tip of his cock. His breathing is uneven. Looking up, you can see his eyes shut in concentration, as though he's using all his willpower to not come.

“It’s good you came in,” Robby could sense the hesitation in your voice. The kind of hesitation he hears in most unsure parents' voices when they think a trip to the emergency room is unwarranted or unjustified. “A mother's instinct is usually to be trusted.” He smiled softly as he stepped a little closer to the bedside where your six-year-old lay with teary, tired eyes, a clogged nose and some weird-looking skin irritation. 

Robby does a quick visual examination, noting quickly that your son seems to be having trouble breathing. He could practically hear the pneumonia in his little lungs. 

“What’s your name, mum?” Robby asked as he shone a small but bright white light into your son's eyes. He wasn’t perplexed about this ailment at all; it had to be pneumonia with a touch of contact dermatitis from something he’d come into contact with. A plant from school perhaps? or a cream you’d used. 

“Y/n.” You replied. The name rang through Robby’s ears like a beautiful bell bellowing at midnight. The kind of ring that makes little ideas appear out of thin air. If he were a cartoon character…Robby swore a little lightbulb appeared above his head. 

What are the odds? A beautiful woman with a young son who just so happened to have the very same name that not three nights ago, Robby had practically forced out of Jack Abbot's mouth with the threat of a new night shift resident. 

“You look a little worn out too? After we draw some blood and get this little guy sorted, I think there’s a cup of coffee with your name on it at the nurses' station.” He smiled, pocketing his pen light. 

“Oh,” You sighed out a small chuckle. “These bags are permanent, Dr Robinavitch—“ 

“Please, call me Robby.” He replied quickly as he walked around the examination room looking for all the bits he needed for a blood draw. “It’s my treat, there’s nothing I can do for the permanent lack of sleep, but a little caffeine is good for the body, brain and soul.” 

“That sounds great, thank you, Robby.” You shifted in your chair to move closer to your son's side. His little hand now safely placed in yours. 

“I’ll uh, I’ll be right back,” Robby caught the sight of his senior night shift attending heading out at the end of his shift. The very same night shift attending that Robby knew would want more than anything to be informed about this particular patient. “Excuse me.” He held up one finger and was gone before you could even say okay. 

“Abbot!” Robby bellowed as he did a hop, skip and jump action past the nurses' station, where Dana was getting caught up to speed for her shift. “Hey—Jack!” 

Jack sighed softly to himself before he stopped in his tracks. His old army bag was slung haphazardly over his left shoulder. 

“Brother, I am five feet from freedom here, don’t do this to me.” Jack turned with a growl. He was just trying to get home after a long ass night. “I leave this emergency department in your capable hands.” 

“Not so fast,” Robby cooed as he clamped his hand down on Jack's backpackless shoulder. “I need a consult, sick six-year-old presenting with possible pneumonia—“ 

“Nice one, sounds like you already have a clear diagnosis, what the fuck do you need me for, man, I’m off duty till seven!” Jack whisper-hissed through his teeth. His leg had been killing him since three, and Jack could practically smell the bacon and egg roll from Caramels calling his name. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s your Y/n and her son, Oliver? Yeah—yeah, I think I’ve diagnosed that too,” Robby spoke as he rubbed the back of his head casually, like he was still trying to fake like he didn’t know it was you from the second he heard your name. “But I thought maybe you’d wanna come suss it out for yourself in case I’m delusional and can’t put two and two together.” Robby smiled as he watched Jack's entire demeanour change. It softened at the mere thought of you. 

“You said pneumonia?” Jack followed up as he walked into Robby’s shoulder, making sure to make contact just to get back at the dick-like foolishness he had presented with. “And you're sure it’s Ollie?” 

“Oh, you’re already on a nickname basis with her kid?” Robby’s eyebrows raised as he followed his own emergency contact back to the exam room. “I’ll be damned, do I hear wedding bells?” 

Jack didn’t reply; all he did was make strides to where Robby had come from. Worry had already begun to take its rightful place inside his chest. Sure, Jack Abbot knew how to keep a calm and collected composure…but not when it had anything to do with the family he’d started to feel a part of. 

It was casual. Something new. It wasn’t something that you had considered becoming serious or anything more than just two people spending some casual alone time together. 

Casual. It was supposed to be a no-strings-attached thing. No feelings. No baggage. No attachments. 

That’s how it started anyway…it didn’t stay that way for very long. How could it when Jack was all in from day one. He made that decision on his own terms. All it took was one date with you to know he was in this for the rest of his overextended life. One leg down be damned. 

“Hey,” it was the softest hey Robby had ever heard. “What are you guys doin' here?” Jack asked as he walked in with a proud chest and enough confidence to tell Robby everything he needed to know and more. 

This was Jack Abbot's found family. A second chance at all the things he lost when he lost a physical part of himself. 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” You started in a near panic. “He’s been up all night. I made an appointment with our primary for Wednesday but—“ you didn’t get a chance to speak before Jack was dropping to his knees beside your chair. 

“I’m your damn primary now, alright?” 

You knew well enough that when Jack Abbot said something, he meant it with full conviction. All you could do was hold back a small quicker with pressed together lips as Jack placed a hand to the back of your head and drew your forehand to his lips. 

Robby was rendered speechless. He’d never seen this side of Jack before. 

“Uh, not to interfere, but I should probably continue my work up on Oliver here so we can get some sort of treatment plan in action.” 

“I can do that, you go ahead and annoy some other attending for the rest of your shift, I’ve got this handled now.” Jack didn’t let Robby finish, and Robby knew better than to argue. He threw his hand up in surrender as Jack stood and looked around at where Robby had organised the equipment needed for a blood draw. 

“How long did you say he’s been like this?” Jack asked as he looked down at the little boy, half asleep in the hospital bed that made him look ten times smaller. 

“He was fine yesterday, I thought it was just a cold he’d picked up at school a few days ago, but—“ You paused as panic threatened to burst out into tears; you felt like you’d failed as a mother. “But he just hasn’t been himself since yesterday afternoon; he’s been up all night.” 

“Yeah, he’s gonna be alright, I promise,” Jack cooed as he placed a comforting hand on Oliver’s forehead. “We’ll pump him up with some fluids, antibiotics, and we’ll go from there. Good call bringing him in, I just wish you would have called me.” 

“Jack—“ You sighed, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to…it was more like you were afraid if you did…he wouldn’t answer. 

“Anytime, anything, anywhere.” Is all Jack said as he worked on your son. He was locked in like a madman on a mission. Healing hands that worked miracles on patients all night now worked over your sons like he had something to prove. 

And he did have something to prove…he wanted to prove to you that he was head over fucking heals for you. Making sure Ollie got the best care he could was only the tip of the iceberg. 

“Alright, Bud, I’m gonna need you to make a tight fist for me so I can take some blood,” Jack told your son what he was doing. “But you’re gonna need to look over at mum while I do that, alright?” 

“Isn’t my blood supposed to stay inside me?” Ollie mumbled as he felt the man who’d made him feel safe enough to call family tied off his blood pressure. All Jack could do was laugh as a big grin took over his tired face. 

“Yeah, most of the time, but right now I gotta take some so we can run some tests to see what’s making you feel so miserable, alright?” 

“Will it hurt?” Ollie asked as he looked towards you. 

“A tiny little bee sting, but after that? Nope, plus I can do this with my eyes closed,” Jack looked up at you with a teasing wink of self-reassurance. “But maybe just one eye,” He caught himself flirting as he popped in the butterfly needle. “See? Bet you didn’t even feel that, huh?” 

“Nope.” 

“Good, now I need to talk to your mum outside in the hall for a few minutes, but Princess is gonna come in and get some fluids set up to make you feel better, sound alright with you?” Jack asked your son as if the kid had any say in the matter. 

“Is she a real princess?” Ollie asked as he looked over to where Jack was looking at the small vial of blood. 

“Yeah, Bud, only the real deal for you,” Jack replied as he gestured for you to follow him out. You did just that, but not without saying a loving bye to Oliver. 

It wasn’t long before the two of you felt the weight of the entire emergency department’s eyes on you. Jack's day shift peers, who saw him as something of a traumatised enigma, all looked over like a mythical creature had just appeared. A rarity that was someone on a personal level with Dr. Jack middle name unknown, Abbot. 

“He’s probably going to be admitted for a few days,” Jack started as he eyed down whoever he could lock eyes with. First it was Santos…then Dana. “I can assure you he’ll be fine, but I wanna keep an eye on him for at least twenty-four hours to make sure he’s reactive to treatment. 

“Oh,” Your heart sank into your stomach at the thought of your son needing to stay here in the sterile, fluorescent environment. “Um—am I able to stay with him?” You didn’t know how any of this worked. This was all new territory for you. Up until now, Oliver never needed to be hospitalised. Hell, he’d never broken a bone so much as caught a cold. 

“Absolutely,” Jack turned to you, recognising the guilt that plastered itself across your face. “But hey, on a more important note,” Jack tried to lighten the mood. “Who’s running the café this morning if you’re here?” 

“Adam,” You replied politely as Jack reached for his phone. You caught the background clear as day. You, Jack, and Oliver at the park. “Why? And how is that more important than anything that’s going on right now?” 

“Well, I need to know whose handwork I’m gonna fork out the Uber up charge for.” Jack doesn’t look up from his phone. He’s already got Caramels cafe, the cafe you owned, up on his phone. “Two bacon and egg bagels, an iced coffee and a long black coming right up.” 

“I guess you haven’t eaten, have you?” Neither had you. How could you possibly eat when all you’d been doing was worrying yourself sick over Oliver’s battle with whatever flu or cold or illness this was? 

“Honey, it feels like I haven’t eaten since March,” Jack teased as he walked with you over to the nurses' station. Dana, with all her bright joy and glee, waited patiently for Jack to introduce you. “Dana, this is—“ He paused for a moment, girlfriend never felt right. It felt like a title reserved for high school lovers. “Partner, my partner Y/n, her son is just about to start a round of fluids and antibiotics,” Jack updated the woman whose eyes never left you. “Make it known, VIP treatment for the kid in room three until peds has a bed.” 

“Consider it done,” Dana replied. “I wish I could say I’ve heard all about you,” she continued as she smiled your way. “But Abbot here has an issue with personal and professional.” 

“Yeah, I think we both share that same issue.” You replied as you looked around yourself at everyone staring your way. “Do I have something on my face?” 

“No, darlin',” Dana chuckled. “It’s just not every day this department gets to see into the private life of Private Ryan here.” 

“Oh, eat me,” Jack growled as he motioned the two of you back towards where your son's room was. “C’mon, I don’t want these pariahs giving you the creeps any longer.” 

By the time you got back to your son, Princess had started an IV bag of fluids. He looked so small. So tired. But there was a sense of calm that came over you, knowing Jack was taking care of him. 

“You guys hang tight, I’ll be back with our food in a moment.” The pain in his leg hadn’t gone away, not for a moment. But the pain didn’t come close to the sheer amount of love that was pumping through Jack's veins. 

Adrenaline itself couldn’t compare. 

“Hey, Jack?” You couldn’t let him go without a kiss. You reached for his cheeks and danced the pad of your thumb over his greying scruff. “I love you, thank you for being here.” 

Jack swore his heart had skipped a beat. It didn’t normally do that. But when he felt your lips on his in view of all the emergency department to see, he couldn’t help but blush. 

“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, you know that, right?” He whispered in your ear as he drew you in closer for a hug. One of the hugs he reserved just for you. “And this breaks like three code of conduct rules, fraternising with patients.” 

“I’m not the patient,” You clearly reminded him. “I’m your partner.”

“You,” with gritted teeth, you bit out, “motherfucker.”

It was almost annoying how good Jack Abbot was.

More infuriating was the fact that he was your father’s sworn enemy, and somehow, you’d let him slide nine inches inside you today, the day before, and the day before that—going all the way back to last Halloween.

No more than two or three weeks ever passed where you weren’t sucking, fucking, or tonguing the sick bastard, and when you did, he always gave you rounds.

Occasionally, you felt a pang of remorse.

After all, you were your father’s favorite kid.

But that didn’t change the fact that you had needs, and Jack was an easy target; he’d been living next door to your family the last several years, and for as long as you could remember, you’d had a crush on the man. You just could never act on it until now, when you were already out of college, no longer living at home, and almost wholly free of the…dicier ethical considerations.

Was it wrong? Absolutely.

Were you often in the habit of thinking about that when Jack had you bent over a table and was hammering you senselessly, in secret? Hell no.

“Oh, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” you whimpered in a low, broken refrain. You clamped your legs tighter together.

And behind you, probably grinning from ear-to-ear, Jack squeezed your hips in either hand and chuckled.

Then, shortly, he ordered, “Get up. Now.”

The orgasm that had been growing and coiling and swelling inside you for the last five minutes—and what had very nearly come to fruition a moment ago—was stolen from you just as fast. Jack pulled out, and he turned from the old, rickety table he’d just been plowing you on. He strode in the other direction.

You were holed up in your garage. Fifteen minutes ago, you’d told your mom you would go and grab the cake—your dad’s birthday cake, for his 50th celebration. About five minutes after that, Jack had announced he was going to get more refreshments for the party.

This was meant to be a mid-event quickie, and now your neighbor was walking over to one of your family’s cars. Patting the hood affectionately and beckoning.

“No fucking shot, Abbot.” You shook your head, resolute. “We are not fucking anywhere close to that.”

The man must’ve had scrambled eggs for brains if he thought you’d even consider having sex on your dad’s 1975 Aston Martin V8. The thing was a classic in mint condition and your father’s prized possession. His baby. Frankly, aside from your mother and your siblings and you, that vehicle was his pride and joy. If someone so much as breathed too hard next to it, he’d have a meltdown. And that wasn’t an exaggeration.

Now Jack was stroking the hood underneath his palm.

Inwardly, you winced and wished you made better decisions in life. Maybe, someday soon, you would.

But that day was not today, apparently.

“Get your cute ass over here, sweetheart.”

Like clockwork, you took your cute ass over there. You only grimaced twice when your backside hit the bright, unblemished, blindingly cherry-red surface of the car and when Jack dragged you by your legs to the edge.

You spread yourself wide, let him flip the hem of your gingham dress over your hips, and shit—he felt good.

Twice as nice as when he was hitting it from the back. Now, gliding in until the firm, round globes of his balls kissed your rear, and the thatch of mostly gray hairs at the base of him tickled your skin, he felt like a dream.

Jack knew it.

He communicated as much when he planted a hand beside your hip on the hood of the car and started thrusting relentlessly. When he plunged in so deep the tip of his cock hit your cervix and you couldn’t keep a loud, shuddering cry from slipping out between your lips and he leaned in and kissed you, mouth smiling.

Between the breakneck speed of his thrusts and the wet, sloppy kissing, the man somehow managed it:

“Whose pussy is this?”

At first, you pretended not to hear him.

The arrogant prick already had an ego the size of Alaska and didn’t need any further encouragement. Plus, you were about to come, and you needed this.

So you let your head loll back a little, and you stopped kissing. You closed your eyes. Rolled your lower half furiously, feverishly in time with each maddening stroke, and you grabbed Jack’s shoulder for leverage.

In return, you felt him grip your chin abruptly.

He tilted up, forcing you to snap your gaze back open.

Your ankles had just crossed behind his back. He was canting his hips even harder than before, plunging to the furthest depths of your body and scraping your insides with an unspeakable, near-dizzying pleasure. Each thrust hit straight through to your core, and you could feel your warmth leaking out from where he stuffed you. Sweet essence trickled down his cock.

He tightened his hold on your face, “Whose is it?”

At the same time, a knot constricted in your stomach. Your toes curled, your breath hitched, and by the feeling that had started up from the base of your spine, you sensed your climax was as near as it ever was.

Fuck it.

With your eyes locked on his, you parted your lips.

Still bouncing on his cock, now reaching for his other shoulder with your free hand and then lifting yourself slightly off of the car, you held tighter onto Jack, too.

And you couldn’t help it: you had to smile a little when you said it, body all but bursting at the seams with your pleasure, “It’s yours, Jack. This pussy is yours.”

“All mine?”

“All yours.”

“Then let me come inside her.”

Fuck, if that didn’t take you by surprise.

Leave it to Jack to propose the most batshit thing.

You’d never let any man inside you without a condom. Never wanted to take that risk. It would be incredibly stupid for you to do it now, with your next door neighbor who was as old as your father—and was hated by your father, only invited to this party because your mother had made you ask—between your legs.

Again, you didn’t think. You made the bad decision.

You mumbled, ‘OK, whatever’ and then watched Jack Abbott withdraw, take off the condom, sling it somewhere over your shoulder, and push back in.

Your body welcomed him gratefully. Shaking when his cock made contact with your velvety walls and there was nothing in between you but the warmth and your own shared, sticky fluids, you almost couldn’t breathe.

He sawed in and out, again and again. Went mindless with it, apparently, as his brows drew in closer, and his whole expression tightened. The next groan strained.

“Aw, baby,” Jack said, almost mournfully. “Pussy’s fuckin’…chokin’ me. I’m gonna lose it in a second.”

You were, too.

You didn’t give him—or yourself—the chance to second-guess this braindead move and simply let him rut deeper inside. Kissed him messily and moaned.

Strokes went quicker, harder, wet and loud and frantic.

You felt him twitch; that was when you hit your end.

Your climax landed with a force you didn’t expect, and half your body seized at once. You shrieked. Your cunt spasmed around Jack, effectively milking his own release from his now-throbbing cock, and you felt every rope spit thick and heavy and warm through your walls. He coated your insides with his seed, and then he kept right on fucking you like the only awareness he might have possessed was in the tip of his member.

Jack grunted, and he fucked his spend deeper.

“That’s my girl,” he said softly. Kissed your forehead.

Still floating somewhere in the ether, you nodded back.

It went without saying another word that you were his.

“You ever let one of them…stuck-up, dick-for-brain boys your own age blow a load inside you like this…” And as if to emphasize his point, he pulled out and let a little white trail of semen spill out from where he’d been. “You and me are gonna have a talk, young lady.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but you were too tired.

When Jack told you to push more of it out, you did.

Five, six, seven slow pulses of your walls, and his seed came oozing out, trickling from a spent and sated hole.

Straight onto the fresh red paint of your father’s car.

You knew you had every reason to be humiliated at that, so you moved to stand, shortly. Tried to shake the thought out of your head. Smoothed the skirt of your dress down, then looked around, momentarily forgetting where the refrigerator in the garage was at.

Right.

There.

“You know,” Jack called as you started the other way. Yanking his jeans and his boxers back up, the buckle of his belt jingling as he did. “This car’s just as old as me.”

Mid-stride, you had to fight to keep from wrinkling your nose. You stopped in front of the fridge, swung it open, and grabbed the cake. Kicked the door shut.

“1975,” Jack stretched the sound of the number, grinning when he met your gaze and you drew closer.

Don’t make me kick your teeth in, Abbot.

You’d barely made it within spitting distance of the vehicle again before the man was pulling you to him, arm looping around your waist. You held back the cake.

“You’re gonna make me drop it,” you warned him.

Jack’s grin stretched wider. “Hate to see that.”

Just like your father would surely despise knowing what you and his archnemesis had done to sully his car. The look on his face, the raw, unmitigated ang—

“Hey.”

You meant to stop Jack with that word.

It didn’t work—he was already prying the lid off the cake’s container. Taking it off and flinging it sideways.

“Jack, that’s Dad’s fucking birthday cake!”

“Just taking a little off the top, OK? Relax.”

Before you could try and stop him, it was too late. The man dragged his middle finger through a big, thick, ivory-colored corner of the buttercream-frosted cake. Thankfully, the whole thing was so large, and the icing’s pattern so ornately, crazily drawn, that you really couldn’t tell where Jack had snagged from.

Still, you shot him a look that could kill.

“Are you crazy?!” you hissed. “Trying to get us cau—”

“Open.”

At Jack’s voice, your eyes widened a bit.

You didn’t notice it at first, but now you saw it plain as anything: your neighbor had lowered his hand to the hood of your father’s car. Swiped the finger loaded with icing through the mess of his cum still sitting on it, then lifted that hand again. Up toward your mouth.

“Ew, Jack, get the fuck out—”

You wanted to be grossed out by it.

“Open wide, sweetheart.”

You really, really, did.

“C’mon. That’s it.”

Your lips parted.

“Right there.”

You let it in.

“Good girl.” Jack grinned, seeing your mouth close around his finger coated with frosting and his come.

You swallowed and swore you’d start making smarter choices tomorrow. Seriously, no more fucking around.

The two of you started back for the party.

Right before you made it out, Jack pivoted.

“Shit. Almost forgot.” Jogging back to the car.

And, as if this afternoon couldn’t get any more depraved and disgusting, you watched your neighbor peel the condom you and him had used off the windshield of your father’s car. He waved it a second, taunting, before resuming his path back to you.

Out of habit, you jumped a little.

“Don’t even think about it, Abbot.”

But, luckily for you, Jack stopped short.

Instead of offering you another coital-flavored refreshment, the man paused at the car’s gas cap.

You groaned as soon as you saw him do it.

Smirking, Jack flipped open the metal door, and, without hesitating a second, he threw the used rubber in the place where a gas pump was supposed to go.

He shut it again.

You called him a lunatic.

As you strolled outside, back into the party and all of the noise, Jack took the cake so you wouldn’t have to carry it. Ever the gentleman and a strictly platonic friend who was trying his damndest to hide the fact that he’d just come inside his enemy’s daughter and had her eat it, he wrapped a casual arm around you.

He squeezed your shoulder. Leaned in close, once. And, as quietly as he could manage it, he whispered:

“Between you and that precious car of your dad’s, it looks like I’ve popped both of his cherries now, huh?”

He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all. 

He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.

Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips. 

God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants. 

It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.

But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.

Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you. 

The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days. 

Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast. 

Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.  

"My name is-"

But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again. 

Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.

For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.

And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.

He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. 

He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.

"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”

His eyes catch yours. 

“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."

You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants. 

The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty. 

Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs. 

And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room. 

What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator. 

As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring. 

You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut. 

You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.

But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt. 

Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina. 

By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting. 

But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.

Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.

He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.

After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.

At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.

He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.

You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled. 

"Could you stay for a moment?"

Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.

By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.

As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ. 

He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.

"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.

Jack clears his throat.

"Right. Yes."

Very articulate. 

"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."

You blink.

"The situation?"

"The fact that we've met before."

"Oh."

You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.

"Yeah. I noticed."

The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.

"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."

Jack immediately shakes his head.

"No, it's okay. You're good."

Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening. 

"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."

Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.

"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."

His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence. 

"I wasn't suggesting-"

"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."

Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.

You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.

"Right," he says finally.

A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down. 

You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there. 

Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."

The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.

For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.

Then you nod, still staring at the floor. 

"Okay."

"Okay. Yeah, good."

Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.

"I should go."

"Yes, thank you for staying back."

You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him. 

“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”

Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.

The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff. 

That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.

Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.  

It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick. 

You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake. 

And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special. 

And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before. 

God you sound fucking pathetic. 

And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations. 

In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too. 

Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face. 

Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.

As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you. 

Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.

And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.

The feedback only makes it worse.

Critical analysis underdeveloped.

Needs greater engagement with course material.

More depth required.

Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.

Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.

Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.

You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.

Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.

Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not. 

Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes. 

And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.

The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.

Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.

After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak. 

Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.

Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.

You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.  

Fuck your life. 

His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop. 

“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name. 

“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”

You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him. 

You set your paper on his desk and mumble.

“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”

“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”

You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything. 

"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."

He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints. 

He sighs.

“Wait, let me get my readers on.”

You sneak a glance up. 

Oh fuck. 

He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles. 

Yeah, pussy exploded. 

You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart. 

When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk. 

"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."

Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.

"It's actually the opposite."

“What?"

"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."

The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.

"But?" you whisper.

His mouth twitches.

"But I don't think you pushed yourself."

Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.

"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”

Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-

“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?” 

You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap. 

Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack. 

“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”

He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.  

“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”  

He inhales. 

“Look, follow my breathing.”

You try to, but it comes out stuttered.

"Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."

He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.

“In, and out, just like that.”

It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries. 

Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest. 

“You breathin’ better now?”

You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.

“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”

He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.

You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.

"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."

The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.

Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful. 

"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."

Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again. 

“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”

“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart. 

 He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.  

“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”

You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.  

“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.

You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again. 

“Yes, thank you.”

It slips out before he can stop it. 

“Good girl.”

Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices.  You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes. 

“I could help you, you know.”

You blink, confused. 

He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral. 

“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”

He pauses.

“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”

Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”

“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”

His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands. 

Slowly, you nod. 

“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”

He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up. 

“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”

You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair. 

“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”

You nod again. 

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Dr Abbot.”

He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.

He’s so handsome.  

Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”  

Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under. 

“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”

“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?” 

He taps your head. 

You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’ 

You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.  

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”

“Please, Sir, please touch me.”

“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”  

Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please. 

He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining. 

He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on . 

“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

“Fuck- right there.”

You buck up in his hold. 

And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.

“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.” 

You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.  

You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.” 

“That’s my good girl.” 

And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.

You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.  

“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”

“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky. 

And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over. 

You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.

In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.  

“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”

The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you. 

Did he just… orgasm?

Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive. 

And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens. 

You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place. 

"Fuck."

The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.

You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you. 

“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”

The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.

“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows. 

What the fuck?

You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.

And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes. 

Fuck old men. You hate old men.

After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.

He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you. 

The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.

It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again. 

Because you get a text from an unknown number. 

Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.   That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.

Then two minutes later. 

And I wanted to check in.  Are you feeling better?

Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself? 

The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable. 

Stop.

Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm. 

And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant. 

So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half. 

Hey, i’m okay thanks 

Wow, look at you go. 

His reply is almost immediate.

Good.  Good girl. 

You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words. 

You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious. 

You type something.

Delete it.

Type something else.

Delete that too.

Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely. 

What are you supposed to say?

Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?

Sorry for crying in your office?

Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?

After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.  

Can I see you?  Please.

Your breath stutters. 

yeah sure When do your classes finish today? At 3pm Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.

Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once. 

But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes. 

And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.

So your dumbass agrees. 

Okay ! i’ll see u soon  See you soon, sweetheart. 

Sweetheart. Yeah, you're actually gonna kill yourself. 

Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.

He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.  

What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.

And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will. 

You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.

Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.

He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.

And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.

But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope. 

And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone. 

He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that. 

But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it. 

And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.

Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.

And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up. 

Abbot, no. 

But the words slip out as you reach him. 

“Hey sweetheart.”

“Hi Dr Abbot.”

You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior. 

He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back. 

“Did you have a nice morning?”

He withholds a wince at the awkwardness. 

“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”

The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.

“Good, that’s good.”

Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.

For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.

Get your shit together, Abbot. 

"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."

Your eyes finally lift from the table.

“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”

He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?

That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?

None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense. 

"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."

That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms. 

“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”

Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.

“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."

"I thought so."

You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.

"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."

His shoulders loosen slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You shrug.

"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."

The honesty makes him wince.

"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”

You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply. 

“Apology accepted.” 

The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.

Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously. 

"What?" you question. 

"That isn't coffee."

"It literally is."

"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."

You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.  

"It has espresso."

"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."

"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."

You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.

For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.

He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell. 

Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar. 

“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”

Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.

"Sweetheart."

"What?"

"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."

Your grin grows, eyes sparkling. 

"Why?"

"Because I'm fifty."

That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it. 

Interesting. 

Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.

And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.

Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.

Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice. 

"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."

The words leave his mouth casually.

Your eyes flicker up.

"Oh."

A pause.

"I could come see you."

"In my office?"

You immediately look embarrassed.

"Only if that's okay."

God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.

"Sweetheart."

Your eyes lift.

"It's okay."

The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.

"Okay."

"Okay."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.

"Dr Abbot-"

"No."

"I can pay for myself."

"I know."

"Then-"

"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.

Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”. 

Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life. 

So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor. 

Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt. 

Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes. 

Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so. 

Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare. 

He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit. 

You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek. 

“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.” 

But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.

“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice. 

And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.  

You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk. 

He’d made you lick it off. 

Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense. 

The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks. 

Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need. 

But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you. 

Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.

Surely he's put two and two together.  

And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck. 

He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.

Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.

A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.

You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.

He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.

And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow. 

Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you. 

Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.

And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.

And for now, maybe it is.

The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.

Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks. 

Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating. 

But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.

He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.

The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife. 

And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.

“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour. 

He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something. 

“What?” he huffed out.

Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words. 

“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”

He jolted, hips thrusting up.

“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”

You said his name again, more firmly. 

“Stop dodging the question.”

He paused. 

“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”

“Jack.” 

He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before. 

“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”

He stayed silent. 

You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him. 

“I want to taste you, please.”

Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.  

“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.” 

He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.  

“Fine,” he grumbled. 

“Get off, c’mon.”

Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.  

He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room. 

Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly. 

“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”

You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs. 

Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out. 

It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest. 

You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around. 

Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him. 

“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”

You smirked, you vixen. 

“Shove it in, I dare you.”

He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath. 

He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch. 

Until you gagged. 

Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually. 

“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”

You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth. 

Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.

“Just like that, sweetheart”.

“Yeah, grip it harder”.

“Suck the tip, just like that.” 

And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue. 

He had never come that hard in his life. 

Panting harshly, he patted your head. 

“Swallow.”

Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life. 

There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything. 

While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either. 

But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.

He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him. 

However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave. 

Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.

All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.

Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.

He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy. 

When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk. 

Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you? 

As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him. 

His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.

Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.

Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm. 

Fuck. 

Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.

But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy. 

Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.

Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.

Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.

After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.

Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.

Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it. 

He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance. 

If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you. 

By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.

Because what exactly are you guilty of?

Making a friend? Talking to somebody?

The answer is nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight. 

Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you.  You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck. 

He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together. 

Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.

You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.

The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you. 

And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.

You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about -  or maybe pretending to be shocked.

Instead he'd practically fled the room.

By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over. 

Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.

A gruff voice immediately answers.

"Come in."

You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.

His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.

And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.

He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.

“Who the fuck was that boy?”

You’re confused. 

“Who?”

“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”

“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”

His jaw visibly tenses.

“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?

“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”

“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.

The correction slices straight through you.

“What?”

He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you. 

“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.” 

You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you. 

Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask. 

You swallow hard.

“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”

The words taste bitter.

“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”

His brows furrow immediately.

“That's not what-”

“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”

“Enough.”

You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.

You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.

“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”

Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.

“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.” 

You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him. 

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid. 

Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave. 

“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.

You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.

“Please.”

You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.

Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown. 

His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye. 

“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”

Then he inhales deeply. 

“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”

Jack closes his eyes briefly.

Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

You still. 

Your lip quivers as you stare at him. 

You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes. 

The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.

“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"

“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”

Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.

“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”

“Shh.”

His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.

“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”

Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.

You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him. 

Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human. 

Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.

But he stayed. And he saw you. 

You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.

“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately. 

A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.

Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.

Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.

Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.

That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating. 

Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.

And perhaps, you realise, so have you.

That’s when you know.

“I’m ready,” you breathe out.

Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”

“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”

He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.

“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.

“Yeah.” 

Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time. 

And God, its everything you fucking imagined. 

His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other. 

After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.

Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor. 

He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.

“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.

You moan, pressing against him harder.

“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”

You nod.

“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”

He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.

His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love. 

You glance down at his prosthetic. 

“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”

He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.

“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”

Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in. 

“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”

You whine.

“What are you waiting for then?”

He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you. 

“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”

A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.  

He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk. 

Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks. 

Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick. 

“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”

You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips. 

Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick. 

He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly. 

It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips. 

“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine. 

“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”

He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply. 

“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”

You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true. 

“Take your time, old man.”

He stills at that, grips your waist harshly. 

Looks up at you, his eyes darkening. 

“Fuck you,” he snarls. 

Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain. 

“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear. 

You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside. 

Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you. 

With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder. 

“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”

You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines. 

“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.” 

Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck. 

You nod, slurring your words.

“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”

“That’s it, good fucking girl.”

Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you. 

When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately. 

“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?” 

He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck. 

“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”

You shake your head, words muffled under his palm. 

“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!” 

He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you. 

“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”

God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk. 

“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”

Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes. 

He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw. 

“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”

You open your eyes, moaning. 

“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”

“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”

He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.  

“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”

He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack. 

You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.

“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”

His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills. 

“What’d you just call me?”

Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit. 

You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”

“No. Repeat it.”

He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly

“What did you call me?”

“Daddy,” you whisper out.

He pouts mockingly. 

“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”

And then he starts thrusting, harder than before. 

“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder. 

Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him. 

He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.

“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?” 

You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard. 

His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

You moan at his words. But you still have to come. 

“Jack please, please keep going.” 

He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily. 

He grips your chin in his palm. 

“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.

And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes. 

He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.

You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”

You laugh softly nodding. 

“Mhm.”

He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms. 

After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.

“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”

Your brows immediately furrow.

“Jack-”

He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you. 

“Let me speak.”

You sigh, but nod. 

“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”

Your breath stutters. 

“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”

A watery laugh escapes you.

“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”

He pauses. 

“I wanna be the person you come home to.”

Your breath catches.

“As your other. If you’d want.” 

You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.

“I love you.”

Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears. 

“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.  

You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.

“And I’d love to be yours.”

Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.

Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you. 

As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly. 

You both still. Before you burst out laughing. 

“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”

He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.   

“Fuck you, shut up.”

You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.  

“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.

His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.

“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”

You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old. 

Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out. 

“But my mouth still works,” he smirks. 

Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers. 

“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”

You whimper softly against his mouth. 

“Okay.”

“Okay, who, pretty girl?” “Okay, Daddy.”

He grins. 

“Good girl.”

omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.