Sometimes You Need Dialogue Tags And Don't Want To Use The Same Four

Stained glass 💕

first thing

jack abbot x female reader

summary: lazy mornings with jack are few and far between, but they always exceed your expectations or jack topping you from the bottom while you ride him first thing in the morning!

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, literally nothing but smut, established relationship of some sort (let your imaginations run wild), p in v sex, dirty talk bc of course, excessive use of the nickname baby, jack being a veryyy lowkey pleasure dom

word count: 1.1k

author’s note: i’m a firm believer that our dear dr. abbot has a filthy mouth, so of course i had to write something nasty for him. the lack of smut for that smug son of a bitch is criminal. also i am convinced that he would call you baby in bed, but only in bed. i dont think he’d be one for pet names, but something about him being all pussy drunk and calling you baby through low raspy groans. yeah. that is all… enjoy!

“You havin’ fun up there?” Jack’s voice was peppered with self-righteous teasing. His words melted into the air through a lazy drawl as you straddled his lap, his dick buried deep between your legs.

Fifteen minutes ago, you were both fast asleep, bodies intertwined under his linen sheets.

You stirred awake in each other's arms, a tangled mess of limbs in the soft yellow hues of morning light that fought through the blinds. Slow sensual touches on bare skin led to your body on top of his. Feeling the familiar stretch as you sunk down on him, you took your time rolling your hips and coaxing quiet grunts from the man below you before either of you could even think about getting out of bed for the day.

It was rare for you to have an upper hand in the bedroom. When it came to Jack, dominance was his territory, the power associated with it fed his ego. It was uncommon to catch him in a moment of vulnerability, but sometimes you found him trading his strong willed attitude for a more docile demeanor. It often appeared when he was preoccupied or overcome with the need for relief, giving into the soft comfort of your hands on his body. He had to be just needy enough to willingly let take the lead, and even then, he could never fully submit.

He used his words in retaliation.

Maybe his rigid frame would melt under your touch, or his inhibitions would fall to the side at the sound of your pathetic little moans, but he would always rely on his words to remind you who was really in charge. 

“Nice and slow just like that.” The deep rasp of his voice echoed between your bodies; his instruction still laced with sleep. 

A smirk peeked through his slumber worn expression, fingertips resting at the flesh of your waist as your body pressed into his.

His head fell back into the pillow, eyes threatening to close, and you could feel his fingers hug harder into your skin with each rock of your hips.  

“There you go.” He held you, trying his best to let you set the pace, but desperately wanting to tighten his grip and drag you along his body— rough and impulsive. 

Your fucked-out stare scanning him from above was the only thing keeping him in check.

Your pleading eyes begged for control. They practically oozed with desperation as you rode him. It was enough to make his grasp soften as he surrendered to your desire, watching as you used him to please yourself. Used him. His dick pulsed at the notion. 

Jack was addicted to you, mind numbingly obsessed with the soft gasps that fell from your lips every time you came. He swore those sounds alone could give him a buzz unlike any drug. Some nights, he’d make you finish on his fingers so many times he’d lose count. He needed to make you feel good— wanted to watch the way your body reacted to his touch. It held a different kind of control, witnessing you give yourself over to him with your back arched and your head thrown back.

“Show me how you want it baby.” His voice was attentive as he fed into your delusion of power. 

You were grinding into him. Your movements bordering on pitiful with your palm flat against his chest as you held yourself upright. Little whimpers of surrender made their way from your chest with each pass of your hips over his, angling yourself just right so that his tip brushed against the perfect spot with every movement. 

Fluttering shut in the inevitable anticipation of release; your eyes left his. You were basking in the warmth of his hands on your bare body; one of them trailing up your torso, the pads of his fingertips tracing into your skin, higher and higher until,

“Eyes on me.” Delicately, he held the nape of your neck, forcing your stare back on his as he pulled you closer to him. 

You dumbly nodded your head. Handing him back an ounce of authority as you followed his command through a hooded gaze.

“Look at you. So goddamn pretty for me.” 

Your jaw went slack at his words, mouth slightly open and brows knit together as the pressure building in your abdomen threatened its release. 

He could feel each greedy response of your body— could sense your impending orgasm with every clench of your thighs, and he was done letting you take the reins.

His hips snapped up to meet yours. Thrusts moving in tandem with each grind of your hips.

“Shit- you feel too fuckin’ good.” Profanities spilled from his throat at the satisfaction of having full control.

He was holding onto your hips and fucking into you from below. The tensing of your body and the sweet moans dripping from your tongue only adding to his pleasure. You were his. He needed it— craved the promise of your devotion in the breathless praise of his name on your lips.

“Come on baby let me have it.” Growling out in a low moan, he all but begged you to finish for him— finish on him. Pushing you right over the edge with just a few simple words and the persuasive quality of his voice. 

Your walls hugged tight in obedience, a string of whines leaving your throat as you came undone around him.

“There she is.” His statement of recognition seeped with affection while his grip on your hips remained unrelenting.

The high of your release persisted as Jack’s thrusts kept purpose, his hands on your body holding you steady. 

“Got another one for me?” A sadistic warmth took over his voice, and he drove into you harder. The question obviously rhetorical as he made sure to hit the spot that made you clench around him.

The day began around you as gentle sunlight filled the room, but neither of you had a single thought of getting out of bed anytime soon.

Should I write a little some some for Jack abbot even tho I’ve never seen the show. The fics I read on here are scrumptious and have left me inspired

date sweet men. men who can articulate themselves. men who are soft spoken. men who are patient with you. men who respect their own bodies. men who are kind to your soul. men that are gentle. men who have self control.

PEDRO PASCAL ‘Ballerina’ World Premiere, London May 22, 2025

Columba 

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end) 

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

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The Newlyweds (jack abbot x f!reader)

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Word Count: 1.7K Rating: E

Summary: You and Jack are enjoying married life.

Warning: established relationship, implied age gap, language, mentions of alcohol, possessiveness, domesticity, wife kink? ring kink? mentions of birth control (IUD), descriptions of explicit smut, breeding kink (this man would become insane if you brought up starting a family), jack is a loverboy (or pussy whipped), fluff, smidge dirty talk, implied smut, i think that’s it

A/N: Okay, I wrote a lot of Jack in the last week and a half because I had time off. I wouldn’t expect this type of consistency moving forward. Back to reality tomorrow… Sunday scaries are real. I hope y'all enjoy!

Jack Abbot Masterlist

No matter how much time had passed, Jack still found himself enamored by the very sight of you. He still couldn’t believe he was your husband. Because honestly, how the fuck did he land you?

He was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world.

He never thought he would be the type of man that was hosting a fucking housewarming party. He used to be so closed off and guarded—until you.

Before you, he was just a guy who thought he’d never find the one who made everything feel right. But you proved him wrong. You showed him that love didn’t have to be complicated or loud. It could be simple—sharing quiet evenings watching TV together, cooking meals side by side, and finding joy in the everyday moments.

Your love was steady.

You were laughing at something that Robby said while he shoved a taco down his throat. You were drinking a beer, wearing this pretty little dress, and spinning your wedding ring slowly with your thumb.

Jack's jeans suddenly felt tighter—cock stiffening behind his zipper while he continued to grill the burgers.

The truth was, Jack had never been a particularly traditional man. But…the day that he slipped that ring on your finger and made you his wife was the happiest day of his life.

You were officially his. His perfect girl.

You and Jack had never been too interested in the whole wedding day extravaganza nightmare. So, you got married in a simple, elegant, satin white gown at City Hall. Jack wore a classic black-tie ensemble. You two kept it very simple and stress-free, and had a very intimate contingent of friends and family during brunch at your favorite restaurant after signing your marriage certificate.

It was perfect.

Jack took two weeks off for the honeymoon. The Pitt was shocked at the amount of time he was taking off.

You were shocked yourself.

You split your honeymoon between the lemurs and landscapes of Madagascar and the white sand beaches of the Seychelles.

It was expensive, and he didn’t care. You two could afford it. The honeymoon had been paradise.

All that mattered was your happiness. He wanted to surround you with beauty, adventure, comfort—and most of all, love. Because seeing you smile, knowing that he could give you the world, that was all he ever truly wanted.

A year ago, a few weeks after your honeymoon, Jack remembered the day you first showed him the house. It was a modest place, filled with potential, but it was your eye for design that transformed it into something truly special. He knew nothing about choosing paint colors, art pieces, or arranging furniture, but he trusted your instincts completely. Watching you move from room to room, envisioning each space—bringing warmth with carefully curated decor, adding personal touches that made it feel alive.

There had been some renovations, a kitchen that needed modernizing, a backyard that begged for a little more life, and a basement that needed to be finished. You had handled everything, working with contractors and an interior designer. He knew, deep down, that while he was the breadwinner, you were the heart of this home. You were the one who made everything feel right, comfortable, and beautiful.

You had given him peace—something he had always craved but never thought he could achieve.

Later that night, after everyone had left with their bellies full of food and a nice buzz, Jack lay back against the headboard, his eyes drifting lazily as he watched you.

The bathroom door was still open, and he could see the way your shoulders rolled as you reached for the lotion, the gentle arch of your back as you applied it, the smoothness of your skin catching the soft light.

His gaze lingered on you, feeling a warmth settle deep in his chest. You were so effortlessly beautiful—every movement, every little gesture, made his heart squeeze. His eyes then followed as you stepped inside your shared bedroom and reached for his T-shirt, pulling it over your head with a soft sigh. The lace panties you slipped on were delicate, a subtle tease that made his pulse quicken. He appreciated the quiet intimacy—the way you made yourself comfortable, the simple act of slipping into his clothes and then into bed.

Finally, you crawled into the bed, your body curling toward him. You settled your head on his chest, right where he wanted it, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. His fingers traced gentle patterns on your back.

Then you spoke.

"I’ve got a doctor’s appointment on Monday," he watched your face, noting the slight shift in your expression, the quickening of your breath. Jack’s instincts kicked in, and he couldn’t help but assess you—looking for signs, reading between the lines.

"It’s just my annual check-up exam with my gynecologist," you clarified with a small smile, sensing his concern. "I think…"

"You think what?" he prompted softly, his eyes searching yours for clues, for any hint of what was really going on behind that little smile.

You hesitated for a moment, then said, "I think it’s time I take my IUD out."

His mouth fell open, trying to process what he had just heard.

Jack's mind drifted back to a night when you two had been dating for about a year, and he had just spent Thanksgiving with your family. Your brother had just recently had his first child.

"Is that something you would want one day? Kids?"

Your eyes widened, lips parting in surprise. His question had clearly caught you off guard.

"Yeah," you had responded softly. "When my career is stable, I want kids someday. But only if the person I ended up with really wanted them too."

He could tell you were nervous. This was one of those serious relationship conversations. Jack paused, knowing what you might be thinking—how he was older than you, probably at that stage of his life where he would rather avoid changing diapers and sleepless nights. He realized that you might think that kids might be a dealbreaker for him.

Jack chuckled softly, teasing a little. "Am I not ending up with you or something?" he added with a grin. "Because let me tell you, I can’t wait to start a family with you someday."

Your eyes glistened with tears, and you reached up and kissed him sweetly, making him groan. One moment, you two were kissing innocently enough, and suddenly, he was pushing into you, nice and slowly, filling you completely. A gasp escaped your lips as he fed you his cock and watched your face as you took him inch by inch.

He loved seeing the look on your face and the noises you would make when he first stretched you open and filled you. He would never tire of feeling your pussy grip him tight and your fingers digging into him whenever your body would tense, and he would be mesmerized by your soft cries escalating as you got closer to the edge. He was selfish, and he wanted to ruin you for any other man as you had ruined him for any other woman. He loved watching you come apart, seeing your face contort in complete pleasure, and then work you through the aftershocks. He loved the scent of you, feeling surrounded by you, and feeling you everywhere whenever he would lose himself and come deep inside of you.

It was never enough, he always wanted more of you. All of you. You were his entire world.

He proposed a month later.

Now, he found himself coming back to the present, a quiet question lingering on his lips.

"Hey," he said softly, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. "I know you’ve been waiting for that promotion at work… are you sure you’re ready now?"

He wanted to make sure that you knew how much he valued your independence, and that your ambitions mattered just as much as his career.

"I’m ready."

Something primal emerged from the back of his mind as soon as you said those words to him—they went straight to his cock and his brain went fucking fuzzy.

He gently shifted your body beneath him. With a confident motion, he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in slow, deliberate kisses. Each sweet kiss became more urgent than the last. His hands found your hips, guiding you to lie more comfortably as he pressed his body closer to yours.

He cupped your face with one hand, his thumb softly tracing your cheekbone, while his lips explored yours with hunger. His hands moved to smooth over your sides, guiding your legs to part slightly, giving him better access as he continued to kiss you. He couldn’t wait to bury himself in your tight little cunt and fuck his seed deep until it would fucking take.

Just thinking about it made him crazy.

He was so fucking hard.

Jack groaned, voice breaking as he rutted against you. "You feel that? How bad I want you? How much I can't wait to fuck a baby in you?"

"God, yes! Fuck, Jack, I'm—I need—" you whined brokenly. He shoved your panties to the side, and you felt his finger slip inside of your soaked cunt while his thumb caressed your clit.

He knew what you needed.

And even though he knew you wouldn’t get pregnant tonight...

He took pleasure in fucking you full of him.

Because—practice makes perfect.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

No Pressure Tags (folks who interacted with other Jack works): @abbotjack. @takingitdaybyday-1. @houseofodd. @midniqhtt. @letsgobarbs. @chixkencxrry. @akgirl1993. @roses-and-grasses. @hansfics. @strange-hyperfixations. @la-vie-est-une-fleur29. @stellamarielu. @emmalyn2233. @alyssaficdir. @marvlstark. @thiccstonmatthews. @butyoudidthis4what. @fanficsilike-okaylove. @billet-douxxx. @probablyreadinsmut. @beskardroids. @cosmoscoffeee. @mercvry-glow. @superhoeva. @asxgard. @abbotsanatomy. @thepencilnerd

Thank you so much for reading! If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging thots.

Every, " I can do it myself" girl needs an "I know, but let me do it for you" man.

jack seems to be so composed in your writing, especially during sex. is there ever a scenario you could see him maybe losing control/composure during?

Oh, definitely—Jack’s composure isn’t just habit, it’s armor. But under the right pressure? He’ll break. And when he does, it won’t be loud or reckless—it’ll be raw. Quiet.

Here’s where I think he’d lose control—physically, emotionally, or both. 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor.

warnings/content: rough sex, deep emotional repression, emotionally charged confessions, unprotected sex, dom/sub energy without labels, messy pacing, loss of control, clingy post-sex silence

1. When He Thinks He’s Losing You

You shouldn’t be here.

Not after what you said. Not after the door slammed. Not after you’d spent the past few nights curled under someone else’s blanket on someone else’s couch, trying to forget how his voice sounded when he didn’t ask you to stay.

But it’s raining, and you’re here. And Jack opens the door like he knew you’d be on the other side.

Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares.

His gray curls were tousled, flattened at the sides like he’d been dragging a hand through them too many times. The shirt he’s wearing is soft, white, the collar stretched, the hem sitting uneven over a pair of sweats. He stood still, but not at ease—his weight angled slightly, one leg bearing just a little more than the other. The prosthetic stayed grounded, subtle in its silence, like something his body adjusted to without thinking—something you’d learned to notice only when he was this still.

He looks tired.

He looks like he hasn’t been able to stop thinking.

You speak first. Quiet. “Can I come in?”

He nods, barely. His jaw twitches like it pains him not to reach for you.

You toe off your shoes in the entryway. The house smells like coffee, antiseptic, and whatever candle you left half-burned in the kitchen—still faint in the air, like the memory of your warmth hasn’t fully left.

He closes the door behind you. Doesn’t move.

The silence between you presses down—thick and unfinished.

“I wasn’t sure you’d open the door,” you say first. Voice quiet. Uncertain.

Jack huffs through his nose. Not a laugh. Not quite. “I wasn’t sure I should.”

Your voice drops. “I didn’t come to keep fighting.”

“I didn’t think you did,” he says. Then, after a pause: “But you did leave.”

You nod, once. “I left. You shut down. Not that different.”

It lands. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just stands there, still, eyes locked on yours like there’s more he wants to say but no good way to say it. He breathes out, sharp at the edges, and you know—it got through.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he says.

You nod again. “Neither did I.”

It hangs there for a moment—we hurt each other. We didn’t mean to. But we did.

Then finally, you say it. Not softly, not dramatically. Just truthfully.

“I missed you.”

And that—that—is what breaks him.

His hand’s in your hair before you can breathe. His mouth finds yours—desperate, uneven, like the words he didn’t say are still stuck in his throat and this is the only way to let them out. Not polished. Not careful. Starving.

He's everywhere—your jaw, your waist, the small of your back—like he doesn’t know what to hold onto first. His body crowds into yours, chest to chest, thigh slipping between yours without finesse, without warning. It isn’t about sex. It’s about contact. Closeness. Like he’s trying to fit both of you back into the same breath.

“Jack,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Hey—”

He kisses you harder.

“I can’t—” His voice breaks at your throat. “I can’t do that again. I can’t watch you leave and pretend it didn’t fucking gut me.”

Your hands find his chest first—flat against the worn fabric, fingers curling into it like you’re trying to steady both of you. He’s burning beneath it. You slip your palms beneath the hem, not tugging, just touching, just wanting—a wordless way to say me neither.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathe.

That’s when something in him gives.

He grabs the back of your shirt and pulls it off, fast and clumsy. His own shirt’s gone next—tossed to the floor. You catch a glimpse of the scar trailing along his ribs, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow.

His hands move to your waistband, not asking. Just moving. Just needing. He drags your pants down with both hands, catching your underwear with them, tugging hard until they’re off and forgotten on the floor. Then his hands are back on you—raking up your thighs, gripping the curve of your hips.

You start to reach for him, but he’s already gathering you into his arms—like instinct took over before thought could catch up. You cling to him without hesitation, arms winding around his shoulders, legs locking at his waist. He carries you down the hall without a word, without pause, like getting you to the bed is the only thing anchoring him now.

He lays you back on the bed and follows you down.

No teasing. No pause.

Just Jack—pressing into you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding himself between your legs. You’re already wet. Already open. And when he pushes in—deep, slow, all at once—his breath leaves him in a broken exhale.

He stills.

Not to tease. Not to hold back.

Because it wrecks him.

He lowers his head, jaw clenched tight, arms shaking with restraint. You feel him tremble above you—one, sharp tremor—and then he starts to move.

Not rhythmically.

Not smoothly.

Just fucking desperate.

Every thrust is erratic, forceful, like he’s been holding this back for days, weeks. He can’t find a pace. He can’t breathe through it. He’s rutting into you like it’s the only way to stay grounded. Like it’s the only place he knows how to be.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t slow down. He presses his forehead into your neck—sweat damp, teeth clenched. He makes no sound. But you feel it.

The unraveling. The shudder in his hips. The way he drives deeper, harder, chasing something even he doesn’t have words for.

And when he comes—he doesn’t curse. Doesn’t groan.

He just breaks.

Whole body locking up. A silent, shuddering gasp against your skin. Hands gripping too tight. Hips stuttering through the aftershock.

And then stillness.

He stays inside you.

Doesn’t move.

Just breathes—shallow and wrecked—his weight braced against your chest like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling further.

2. When You’re in Control—And He Didn't See It Coming

He’s lying on the bed, propped against the headboard. Bare chest rising slow and steady like he’s trying not to let the day get to him.

And then you crawl into his lap.

No warning. No words. Just your body over his, thighs straddling his hips, your skin barely covered by the oversized shirt he left folded on your side of the bed. His shirt. Still carrying his scent.

His hands move automatically—to your waist, to the back of your thigh—but you push them back. Gently. Firmly.

“Let me,” you whisper.

His brow lifts—only a little. The only sign of tension is the flicker in his jaw, the way his thigh shifts beneath you. But he doesn’t stop you.

You lean in, kiss his collarbone, run your hands over his chest, the scars and the muscle and the years of wear he never talks about. You don’t rush. You don’t ask. You just slide your hand lower—over his stomach, beneath the waistband of his sweats—and wrap your fingers around him.

That’s the moment he falters.

His head drops back against the headboard. His mouth falls open. One of his hands fists the sheet beside him, the other grips your hip—tight, like he needs something to hold onto. He bucks up into your hand once, twice, breath caught in his throat.

“Don’t—” he rasps. “Don’t tease.”

You do.

You stroke him slow, deliberate, watching the tension build in every part of him—his abs flexing, his breath shortening, the way his eyes shut like he’s fighting not to give in. You feel him throb against your palm, hot and heavy and helpless in your grip. He’s panting now, voice shredded when he tries to speak.

And when you finally slide down onto him?

He gasps—sharp and strangled. His hips jerk upward and he catches himself on instinct, trying not to lose it too fast. But you ride him with control, your hands braced on his chest, grinding down slow and deep until he’s twitching inside you, his voice stuck in his throat.

His hands fly to your hips again, gripping hard, trying to hold you still. You lean down, brush your mouth against his ear.

“Let go.”

And he does.

He flips you onto your back, his mouth crashing into yours, and drives into you with everything he’s been trying not to feel. No rhythm—just need. His voice is raw when he breaks, forehead pressed to yours, thrusting so deep you swear you’re going to come undone from the inside out.

“You wanted to see me lose it,” he growls, breathless. “Here.”

And he fucks you like it’s not just sex—it’s relinquishing. It’s him, undone.

3. After a Day That Nearly Broke Him

He doesn’t say a word when he comes in. Just shuts the door, tosses his keys somewhere near the counter, and disappears down the hallway like the house is too loud, even in silence. You hear the shower.

By the time the mattress dips behind you, you’re barely awake.

But then you feel it—his hand. Heavy. Flat against your thigh beneath the sheets. He doesn’t trail it up, doesn’t ask, just presses. Like he needs to know you’re warm. Real.

You shift toward him, barely murmuring his name—and he’s already on top of you. No words. No preamble. Just his body moving over yours like a weight he can’t hold anymore. His mouth finds your shoulder first—open, hot. Not a kiss. Just breath and teeth. Desperation.

His hands work fast. Pulling your sleep shorts down, dragging your legs apart with his palms wide on the inside of your thighs. Breath stuttering as he fits the head of his cock between your folds.

And then he pushes in.

Deep. All the way. In one solid thrust that stretches you wide and makes your whole body jolt. You gasp, clutching his forearms—but he doesn’t move. Not yet.

He just stays. Buried to the base, forehead resting against yours, his body trembling with restraint.

“Jack…” you whisper.

His jaw is clenched tight. Breath shaking. His hands grip your hips hard—too hard—but you don’t stop him. You don’t want to. You know this isn’t about rhythm or foreplay. This is him trying not to break.

And then he starts to move.

It’s not fast. Not sloppy. It’s intentional. Each thrust deep and full, grinding into you like he’s trying to anchor himself inside your body. You feel every inch of him dragging slow and thick through your cunt, your breath catching every time his hips meet yours.

His arms cage you in. His mouth is at your throat, hot and wet and lost. Not saying anything—just making small, broken sounds against your skin.

You moan his name again, and that’s what shatters him.

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, the sound obscene, wet, raw. You cry out. He doesn’t pause.

Again. Harder.

He’s shaking now—his abs tensing under your hands, his breath rasping in short, uneven bursts as he fucks you harder, deeper, wrecklessly, like something gave out inside him and there’s no pulling it back.

You feel him pulse inside you before you hear the sound he makes—low, guttural, broken. His whole body tightens, chest pressed to yours as he comes hard, buried deep, cock throbbing with each wave as he empties into you, mouth open against your collarbone, completely silent now.

He stays inside you. Breathing. Not moving. One hand slides up your side and stays there.

You don’t ask what happened at the hospital.

You just hold him like he’s still unraveling.

Because he is.

4. When You Break Him With Words

He’s already fucking you when it happens—slow, deep, focused. Jack above you, heavy with control, arms braced tight on either side of your head. His chest brushes yours with every roll of his hips, thick and steady, cock sliding in slow and hot with the kind of precision that only comes from someone who never lets himself get carried away.

He doesn’t talk much during sex. Just the occasional sharp breath, a low curse when you clench around him. Mostly silence. Measured. Like everything else he does.

His body covers yours completely—his weight, his warmth, the subtle difference in how he shifts to keep balance—but there’s nothing hesitant about the way he moves. He knows your body, knows how to make you fall apart. He just rarely lets himself need it.

Tonight’s no different.

Until you say it.

“I love the way you fuck me,” you breathe—first, casual. And he grunts, lips brushing your jaw, pace unchanging.

But then: “I love you.” “I mean it.” “I want all of you.”

That stops him.

Not entirely. His hips stall mid-thrust, chest tight against yours, his jaw locked so hard you feel it in the weight of his breath. His cock throbs inside you, thick and full and unmoving.

You cup the side of his face—fingers slow, tender—and say it again.

“I mean it, Jack. I want you. All of you. Not just this.”

He exhales through his nose—sharp. Controlled. Like he’s trying to fight the way that lands. You feel it in the way his arm flexes. In the way his cock twitches inside you, untouched and aching.

Then suddenly—he moves.

Faster. Rougher.

He drives into you like something cracked, like if he keeps fucking you hard enough, he can shake the words out of his head.

But it’s too late.

They’re already inside him.

He fucks you with his whole body—thrusts rough and deep, every stroke dragging moans from your throat as he hits you just right. Your thighs are hooked around his waist, back arching into him, nails raking down his shoulders as he starts to unravel.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he mutters, voice hoarse and close to ruined.

“I do,” you gasp, holding onto him tighter. “Jack, look at me.”

He does.

And his rhythm falters the second your eyes meet.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His whole body stutters.

He growls—actually growls, low and guttural—as he drives into you harder than before, pace snapping, control slipping completely. You feel him start to lose it—his hips jerking, cock throbbing so deep inside you it makes your vision go white. He’s there, on the edge, and trying not to be.

You dig your heels into his back and pull him closer. “Don’t hold it in.”

His eyes flutter shut. His mouth crushes to yours, desperate, brutal, all tongue and teeth. His thrusts go ragged—sloppy and devastated—until he buries himself fully and groans, deep and wrecked, as he comes inside you.

You feel every pulse, hot and thick, his cock twitching deep inside your cunt as his whole body jerks. His arms are shaking. His breath is gone.

And still—he doesn't move.

Just stays there, pressed full length against you, forehead buried in your neck like if he lifts his head, he’ll say something he can’t take back.