It’s After Jack Abbot Greets To You In The Kitchen With His Usual Kisses To You Nose And Lips, Plus

My girl boner is through the roof rn

The neck The jawline The smirk 😩

Four of my FICS on ao3 were scraped by nyuuzyou. Lmao fuck you for using using AI to do dumb shit like this go fuck yourself

Update: deleted all my shit bc you’re not gonna get to read shit now you dumb bag of bricks.

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

Two weeks until the Ides of March!

How are you practically married to one of the biggest names in fashion and fumble that hard?

Sinners? A master class in allegory. Should be taught in every single film and lit class.

grief is so crazy like what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. does she know i loved her. i miss her so much. i catch myself doing things she used to do. i wish i could call her. i miss her so much. i do a crossword puzzle. i cry while washing the dishes. does she know i loved her? my heart feels like a hummingbird. i miss her so much. what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. what if i forget.

Sharon Tate photographed during an interview in her Belgravia apartment, 1965

between abbot and robby, who's a boobs man and who's an ass man? 👁️👁️

SO GLAD YOU ASKED! 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor. not beta read. we die like men.

warnings/content: NSFW / explicit content, smut-heavy character headcanons, soft dom!Robby, possessive/control dom!Jack, breast/nipple worship, ass-focused positions and dominance, reverse cowgirl, explicit language, overstimulation, very obsessed men. One wrecks you from behind while gripping your hips like he can’t let go. The other worships your chest like he’s never seen anything more important. Choose your fighter—or don’t.

Robby :

Robby is a boobs man.

You don’t need him to say it. You feel it. Every time his hands settle just a little higher than they need to. Every time you catch his gaze flick down when you're changing in front of him, like he’s trying to memorize the way your shirt clings before it slips off.

He always starts there. Even when you kiss—messy, open-mouthed, frantic—his hands slide up beneath your top, fingertips brushing warm skin, until they’re cupping you like instinct.

He palms you slow. Presses his thumbs over your nipples like he’s checking your pulse.

And when you gasp?

That’s when it happens.

He gets still. Focused. Lips parted, breath already coming heavier as he does it again, watching the way your body reacts to just that.

“God,” he whispers, voice thick, “you’re so sensitive here.”

He says it like a confession. Like he’s been thinking about this—you—for weeks.

He drags your shirt off, slow and careful, not like he’s rushing to get you naked, but like he wants to see every inch of you revealed. The second you’re bare, his hands are on you again—warmer, firmer, heavier—and his mouth follows before you can even breathe.

His lips wrap around your nipple, tongue teasing soft at first, then deeper, wetter, until your hands are in his hair and your back’s arching off the bed. He groans against your chest when you whimper. He lives for the sound of it.

You can feel him grinding against your thigh, hard and leaking through his boxers, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t fuck you yet.

Because this? This is what gets him off.

The way you squirm beneath him. The way your nipples stiffen in his mouth. The way your thighs press together, slick and aching, while he does nothing but kiss and suck and worship you with his mouth.

And he takes his time.

Switches sides. Leaves one nipple wet and flushed and still throbbing while he moves to the other, his hand kneading slow in time with his tongue.

You’re soaked before he ever touches you between your legs.

But he knows that. He likes that.

And when when he finally slips his fingers inside you—he doesn’t speed up. He just fucks you slow with his hand while his mouth stays on your chest, watching you unravel from the top down.

You come once just like that—legs shaking, fingers clawing at his shoulders—and he groans when you do, grinding into the mattress like he feels it, like your orgasm hit him just as hard.

And even then, when he finally pushes inside you, slow and deep and perfect—he still brings one hand back up. Presses it flat over your chest like he’s grounding himself. Like that part of you is his.

You whimper his name, and he just moans right into your skin.

“You feel so good like this,” he says, voice broken. “God, baby… I’m not gonna last.”

You clench around him. He gasps. And when you come again—tight and messy and desperate—he follows with a groan so raw it makes your whole body shake.

He collapses on top of you, still deep inside, still panting against your chest, one hand tangled in your hair, the other resting between your breasts like it belongs there.

Because to him?

It does.

Jack :

Jack is an ass man.

You figure it out in pieces.

Every time he pulls you in for a hug, his hands settle low. Too low to be casual. Not obscene—never that—but deliberate. Centered. Cupping you like it's habit. Like he always means to.

He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t ogle.

But his palms always find their way there. When he’s walking behind you. When you’re standing too close at the nurses’ station. When you shift in your seat and his gaze flicks downward just for a second, like your body gave something away you didn’t mean to show.

It builds in quiet moments.

Until one night, he doesn’t stop at just looking.

You're already half-undressed when he sits back on the edge of the bed, legs open, cock hard and waiting, fingers curled loosely around the base like he’s been waiting all damn day for this.

“Turn around,” he says. Low. Calm. Absolute.

You do.

You climb into his lap facing the wall, knees bracketing his thighs, back arched—already soaked, already throbbing before you even sink down.

And when you do?

He groans.

Not loud. Not uncontrolled. Just a quiet, fuck dragged through his teeth like your body knocked the breath out of him.

His hands slide to your hips, then lower. Gripping your ass like he’s molding it, memorizing it, like this—this—is what he’s been thinking about every time he kept his mouth shut at work, every time he let you walk away without touching you.

“You feel that?” he mutters, thrusting up once, deep and slow. “That’s what you do to me.”

He sets the rhythm. You don’t ride him—he moves you. Guides your hips with firm, unrelenting pressure, pulling you back again and again, until the sound of your bodies meeting is thick and wet and loud enough to drown out your breathing.

You try to hold the pace. Try to keep some control. But he’s not giving you the chance.

He shifts his grip, palms spreading your ass wide, and watches himself slide into you again and again. Slow at first. Then faster. Until your thighs are shaking and your moans are spilling out too freely.

“You look so good like this,” he says, voice rasped, jaw clenched. “All open for me.”

He fucks up into you, hard, precise—like he knows how to break you. Like he’s done it before. And when your body tightens, spasms, already close—he knows that too.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “You come on me just like that.”

You do.

You come hard, head back, body writhing in his lap—and he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t let up. Just keeps fucking into you, brutal and steady, until he follows with a low, guttural sound and comes so deep you feel it in your stomach.

Even then—his hands stay exactly where they started.

Gripping your ass like he owns it.

Like he’s not finished.

Because Jack is an ass man.

And once he finally gets his hands on you?

He keeps them there.