no minors 18+ | late 20s | she/her | semi-retired fanfic writer | DO NOT REPOST MY WORK and be aware all work is fictional unless stated otherwise | Masterlist
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One very important piece of information I need to point out now is that I write all my stories with a female reader in mind. I do not specify: hair color/type, race, body types, eye colors unless it is a necessary factor for the story. As a woman of color I want everyone to be included so I try my best to avoid those details. Besides writing a specific gender, age plays a very important role here. I do not write fic with minors romantically involved with a fictional character or actor. This being said minors are not allowed to access any of my writing or adult content that I may reblog. If you are following me and I see that you are a minor or do not have your age in your bio I will block you. I’m sorry but I will do everything I can to protect myself and other blogs from being deactivated or worse all because a minor accesses and consumes adult content.
Actors
All RPF is marked with ‘AU!’ to clarify that I do not personally know them and do not and will not write with purpose spread negative things about their families and personal relationships
Films & Shows
Marvel, DC,The Night Agent, Shadow and Bone, Top Gun, The Mandalorian, The Witcher, The Punisher, Criminal Minds , Star Wars, Supernatural, Peaky Blinders, GOT, Walking Dead, Daredevil, and more
Okay so I’ve been getting a lot of comments that my masterlist isn’t working for some reason (gaah tumblr whyyy). And since it’s the DDHTK masterlist that’s been getting a lot of complaints, I decided to make a rebloggable version for it so you guys can easily navigate through the parts. :)
Characters: Negan x You/Reader
Synopsis: Negan takes a liking to you, Rick’s daughter.
Warnings: NSFW although parts are individually rated
cw: smut, reader is getting head from abbot lmao
jack abbot, who is absolutely insatiable when it comes to giving you head. the man will eat and eat and eat, not bothered one bit when your thighs clamp around his head, so overwhelmed that you're tugging on his hair and very nearly shoving him away.
jack abbot, who loves pleasing you because he likes making you feel good, but also because it makes him feel useful. makes him feel like his body is more than just a body. he's convinced that getting a woman to come from his tongue takes more skill, more perception, more observation and interpretation, and he loves nothing more than being an overachiever. he loves how pliant you get, how breathy your sounds are, how you can never seem to stop your hands from roaming, desperately trying to find something to grab onto, to ground you.
jack abbot, who will nudge at your core through your jeans, pressing his nose against the seam, putting just enough pressure and friction there that you're teetering on the edge. he knows exactly what he's doing, and he has absolutely no plans of taking your pants off until you've orgasmed.
"you wanna come? yeah? you gonna fucking finish on my face through your pants?"
had a dream about this exchange last night, and woke up with that last sentence on my mind. i am not okay!!
Summary: Jack Abbot’s resident wakes up in his bed and it’s possibly not as devastating a development as she might’ve thought
WC: 1,958
Warnings: morning after/implied sex but it’s not described in anyway at all, literally it’s just mentioned a few times because they wake up together, inappropriate relationship between attending and resident
-
Something felt wrong the second you woke up. It took you another second to figure out what. This wasn’t your bed. This wasn’t your bedroom. And there most definitely should not be an arm slung around your waist. And there also most definitely should not be a solid chest against your back. You woke up in your own bed in your own bedroom alone pretty much every morning. So what the fuck was going on here?
The arm belonged to a buff white man. That’s all you knew. A lot to go on, surely. You shifted slightly to reach for your phone and the man behind you woke up.
“What’s the time?”
Shit. Fuck. Holy fucking shit. You knew that voice. You’d never heard it so low and gruff from sleep before but it was undeniably…
“Dr. Abbot?” You asked cautiously.
“Yeah?” He replied.
“I uh I should probably go…” you began to sit up a bit more properly.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” But his grip on your waist loosened instead of tightening up anyway.
You half glanced back at him. “You… don’t want me to go?”
“I’m not kicking you out.” He elaborated.
“What, are you gonna cook me breakfast?” You joked.
“If you wanted, I could, yeah. What would you want?” It wasn’t a joke to him.
You turned to face him fully now. “You’re serious.”
He shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“You’re my attending and I’m your resident.” You pointed out the obvious.
“You’re also a woman.” He reminded you.
Oh. Right. With needs and wants and desires, right? The need for food. The desire to stay in his arms forever. Wanting what you knew you couldn’t have.
“You’re in a position of authority over me.” You reminded him, again stating the obvious.
A half smile adorned his face. “Not last night, I wasn’t.”
“Jack, I’m serious…” the use of his first name wasn’t helping matters - you knew this, but it had felt so natural leaving your lips.
“Okay… we can let HR know, get ahead of this thing if you like. Or…” he trailed off.
You cocked an eyebrow. “Or?”
The smile on his face widened slightly. “We don’t tell anyone.”
“You think that’s wise?”
“I can be professional about this if you can.”
“It can’t affect our professional relationship.”
“I can compartmentalize.” He just had all the answers, didn’t he? “Trust me, no one at the hospital is gonna know about this.”
“Princess and Perlah can never know.”
“They’ll never know.” He agreed.
“You have to promise.” You insisted.
“I promise.”
“I mean it, Jack. You know how those two are.”
He nodded. “I know you mean it. And I do know how they are. Relax, alright? It’ll be fine.” He tried to assure you.
“No one can know.” You reiterated.
“No one’s gonna know if we don’t tell them. But I gotta know… do you regret last night, sweetheart?”
“What? No. I never meant to imply that I did.”
“You just wanna hide this.”
“You’re the one who suggested not going to HR.”
“Because that’s a headache neither of us needs. I just wanna make sure neither of us is hiding due to shame. This is just… practical, strategic.” Of course the ex-Army medic thinks of paperwork as a headache and is thinking of a strategy. It’s a wonder he wasn’t a tactician.
“So you don’t regret last night?” You asked him.
He physically recoiled at the notion that he ever could. “God, no.”
“You’re not… hiding me?”
“Our business is our business. It’s no one else’s. We can be professional, keep our personal feelings out of the workplace.”
“I just… I don’t know what this is.” You gesture between you two with your finger.
He shrugged. “It can be whatever you want it to be.”
“What if I don’t know what I want this to be?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Really?” You asked skeptically.
He met your gaze and held it. “Until you give me an answer, yeah, really. I’ll wait for you.”
“You’re serious.”
“Very. You’re worth the wait.”
“That’s… wow. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for wanting to stick around you. You should be cursing me actually.”
A soft chuckle made its way out of you. “Cursing you?”
“A surly ex-Army combat medic caught feelings for you.” He sheepishly admitted. For a man who seemed intent on making you uncomfortable at work with his frequent and often prolonged eye contact, he was sure having difficulties making it with you now.
“You’re not so bad.” You assured him shyly.
A small smile quirked at the edge of his mouth. “That’s awfully nice of you to say.”
You scooted slightly closer to him on the bed. “Do you think that of yourself?”
“You’re young. I’m… not so young anymore. What use am I to you?”
“You make me feel seen and appreciated everyday at work, last night you made me feel desired and you have the absolute audacity to ask me what use you are to me?”
He scoffed. “You say that like you don’t deserve the appreciation and admiration.”
“Do you see literally any other man stepping up the way you have in my life?”
“Well… I guess not. Believe me, I’d notice if there were.”
“Luckily for you, I’m not so much of a catch.” You joked… It was a self-deprecating joke and he didn’t care much for it.
“I made love to you last night and you have the audacity to tell me you’re not a catch?” He threw your words back at you.
“What’s anyone else gonna want with me, hmm?”
“What’s anyone else gonna want with me?” He threw that back at you too.
You sighed heavily. “God, we’re weirdly perfect for each other, aren't we?”
“Precisely why I’d make you breakfast and why I think I’d be devastated if you wanted to leave.”
“That breakfast still an offer?”
“Always.” Easy answer. Always would be.
“I like eggs.”
“I can make eggs. You can go grab some clothes of mine if you want. I’m gonna go… take care of my leg.”
“Those’ll fit?”
“Wait and see, I guess.”
You went over to his dresser to go through his clothes as he went into his bathroom. Surely none of them are gonna fit you. Are you gonna be one of those cute girls wearing a guy’s boxers and his clothes? His shirt perhaps? You got a pair of his boxers (they were huge) and put those on. He had a big ass old olive green t-shirt that you threw on over the shirt (bra be damned). And yeah, you looked cute as hell.
“I have a new spare toothbrush you can…use…” He said as he was coming out of the bathroom but trailed off, stopping upon seeing you in his t-shirt with obviously no bra on. “Comfortable?”
You nodded. “Mhm. And thanks, I'd like to brush my teeth before I go.”
“You can use my toothpaste.”
“...thanks…” This was entirely too domestic but you weren’t about to up and leave now.
He quickly busied himself away in his kitchen. But you were not far behind as you followed him and hoisted yourself up on the stool at his kitchen island. You had the most scrumptious view of his ass in these shorts he’d put on. They were older basketball shorts but god, did his ass look yummy in them.
You couldn’t believe how lucky you were to be blessed with the view of his behind while you sat in his house and he made you eggs and drank the coffee that he made you. He was also wearing a “Kiss The Chef” apron. You suddenly realized that it was past sunrise.
“Didn’t Robby mention something one time about you doing nude sunrise yoga?” You blurted out.
His hand holding the spatula stilled. “He what?”
“I uh um… is that… not true?”
“No. It’s not. I do push ups nude at sunrise.”
You almost choked on your coffee. “You what?”
He chuckled slightly. “You okay back there?”
“Fine.” You grabbed a napkin to dab at the wet spots on the table. “Jesus Christ.”
“You need the Heimlich?”
“I’m fine. Focus on your eggs.”
“I don’t do anything nude besides shower and have sex, by the way.”
“Robby lied? Shocking.”
Jack chuckled softly. “He was probably trying to deter you from interacting with me.”
“That was supposed to be a deterrent?”
He shook his head. “Guess it didn’t work.”
“Lucky us.”
He glanced back at you, eyes flitting to your chest in his shirt. “Very lucky. You want cheese or anything with your eggs?”
“Sure.”
“What kind?”
“You have more than one?”
He sighed. “Actually I think I just have cheddar.”
“So… cheddar…”
He plated the eggs, set them on the island in front of you, and went to his fridge. “Uh… guess I’m living up to the widower claims…”
“Meaning what?”
“I don’t have any cheese…”
“That’s okay.” You assured him.
He sighed again and shook his head. “No, it’s not… I need to get my shit together.”
“You’re doing fine.” You soothed him.
“Am I? This fridge is barely used,” he closed the fridge door, “my home barely lived in…”
“So change that.”
He tilted his head, fixing you with a queer look. “Just like that, huh?”
“Well I get that you’re a doctor. Duh. I’m a doctor too. But you can still make the most of what you’ve got. No one’s standing in your way except yourself. You wanna spend as much time as possible at home? Do that, if you want, if that bothers you so much.”
His mouth set in a straight line, he observed his surroundings. After a few moments' consideration, he dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “Nah, I’d probably get bored here.”
“No wonder.” You huffed.
He crossed his arms. “Excuse me?”
“You live like a Spartan, Abbot.”
He fixed his gaze upon his bare walls. “You can take the man out of the military…”
“It just needs some color.” In truth, it probably needed a bit more but that was a start at least.
“Other than black or blue or drab olive green, right?”
“And…” you looked over into his living room at his couch, “brown…”
“Yeah well I would get some red in here if it didn’t remind me so much of blood.”
“Maybe some yellow would be nice.” You remarked, looking around his home. “It’d bring some color and some happiness and some brightness. Like… even just some sunflowers, something simple like that. Or tulips… tulips are nice. You have no pictures or paintings - that’s not helping any either.”
“So what, I should hire you as my interior decorator now?”
“I’ll accept payment only in Belgian chocolate.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” he walked so he was standing behind you as you sat, “ma’am but I think I can make that work.”
He wrapped his arms around you from behind and pressed a kiss to your head. “Think I might keep you around for some pretty decor.”
You almost choked on your eggs. Your arm swung back to swat at his ass. “Now you know better than to be calling me that.”
He nuzzled your neck. “You know I was only joking.”
“Lucky for you, yes, I did know.”
“Still wanna keep you around.” He admitted.
You turned slightly to face him. “Did I say I was leaving?”
“You almost left.” He reminded you.
“Almost. But I think “almost” is gonna turn into “never” now.”
“Don’t say shit you don’t mean, sweetheart.” His voice almost cracked on the word “don’t”.
Your expression hardened slightly. “Don’t you dare tell me what I don’t mean, Jack Abbot.”
Hiii! I really like your content and i was wondering if you could write something about daryl like maybe he was married before the apocalypse and had a kid but he thought they died or something and never brought it up but then he saw them in alexandria as soon as he walked in and couldn’t believe they were alive and mybe some fluff or smut with that if you want i read something like it somewhere but it didn’t feel complete
My Way of Life
pairing: Wife!Reader x Daryl
summary: After being separated from his wife and child for almost 6 years, how will Daryl react when he suddenly finds them safe in Alexandria?
warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, fluff, soft!Daryl, dad!Daryl, unprotected sex, oral sex (fem receiving), mating press (sorry I had to), YEARNING!Daryl, kissing, mentions of drugs and alcohol, angst!!, 8.5k words.
author's note: I hope you like this because I had so much fun writing it (and cried a little, but it's okay). I made the daughter unnamed because I want this to be inclusive to everyone. In my mind, Daryl is absolutely a girl dad. I hope that this was to your liking!! :) Also sorry it took so long, I go through my requests chronologically for my own sanity because apparently I can only work on one fic at a time or I'll explode.
Daryl burst through the door, stumbling through the threshold of your apartment. The sound made you jump in your seat, eyes fluttering open.
It was 4 in the morning.
A sick, twisted feeling coursed through your stomach. Daryl moved inside, with Merle in tow. A dry laugh escaped your lips. "Do you have any idea what time it is? Hell, any idea what day it is, Daryl?" Approaching him, the smell of alcohol filled your senses.
His voice slurred as he started speaking. "S'late. Tryin' to go to sleep. Merle's gonna crash here tonight." Daryl spoke like he had any authority in this moment, like he owned the place.
Like he owned you.
"The hell he is! I don't want him here." Wordlessly, Merle collapsed onto your couch and snored into the cushions. Your jaw tightened as you listened to Daryl's excuse.
"Sweetheart, we can talk in the morning." He rubbed his face and groaned softly in annoyance.
"You've been gone for 3 fucking days, don't sweetheart me." You fought back the tears that threatened to fall down your face, stinging your eyes.
Daryl frequently went on lengthy benders, spent days drinking and smoking with his older brother Merle. You would have broken up with him, divorced him.
If not for the 5-month-old that lay sleeping in your arms.
"You're gonna kill yourself. Merle's making you do these things, making you act like your father." The mere mention of Daryl's father from your mouth made him shut down.
"You shut your damn mouth." He mumbled.
"No, because you and I both know that this shit is going to kill you. And then what, you're just gonna leave me with her?" You looked down at your daughter.
His daughter.
"Are ya' gonna step up and be there for her? She doesn't even know what you look like." You stroked her cheek gently, a sad smile on your face.
"You don't-" His voice broke, breath hitching as he watched her. The baby's sleeping frame wriggled, closed eyes flicking around. She was dreaming.
"I'm gonna go to my parents' house in Virginia for a month. Takin' her with me, she'll get plenty of love from her grandparents." You heard almost a strangled whimper from Daryl, quickly pushing it away and moving to your shared bedroom.
Where you had a suitcase packed.
"Were you planning this? Wanted to leave all this time?" Daryl followed you close behind, sifting through all the things that you had already packed away, his hands shaking.
"I want to make this work, Daryl. I do, for her." You set your daughter in her bassinet.
"But I can't be the only one raising her. She needs a father who is here." You packed the rest of your items that you'd need for the trip.
"When you can handle this. When you're sober, we'll come back and try this again. That's all I want." You stopped in your tracks when you noticed what Daryl was doing.
He stood by the bassinet, staring at his daughter with sad eyes. Reaching down, he pulled a blanket over her body, tucking her in gently.
"Daryl, you can do this. You can move past this and be in her life again. But you gotta show me you can change." You grabbed the sides of his face gently.
He didn't respond. He accepted it, without pushing back.
That morning, Daryl watched you leave. He hadn't slept that night, and couldn't look you in the eye.
The world ended shortly after.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
Phones went down within the first few days; he didn't even have a chance to call you.
Never got to see you or his daughter again.
As he moved from camp to camp with Merle, he searched the surrounding area outside of Atlanta. Looking for you, for any sign that you were here.
Any hope that you and his child were alive. His brain was frantic, coming to the worst conclusions. Realistically, how could someone raise a child in this?
When Daryl and Merle finally found Shane and his group, it was the first day that Daryl fully felt the weight of what was missing. Seeing the children in the camp, the families that were fighting through this, it made his chest tighten.
He silently cried to himself in his tent that night.
Merle caught onto his longing to see you and his baby girl right away. Watching the way Daryl would stare at Lori and Carl, like that was something he wanted.
"Bet you miss your piece of tail right about now, huh?" Merle laughed to himself. Daryl's stare shot daggers into Merle.
"Don't call her that." His stomach churned at the mention of her. She wasn't a piece of tail. She was the mother of his child, his wife.
"Just sayin', man! You oughta move on, ain't nothin' you can do about her now." Merle shrugged as he skinned a squirrel they had found, his brows furrowed as he focused on the task.
A flip switched in Daryl, and he quickly shoved Merle away. "Shut your damn mouth." His breath was rapid now, emotions heightened. "And you-" His voice cracked ever so slightly. "You're the reason she ain't here-"
Merle was the reason they had that fight that night. But Daryl knew that fight wasn't the only reason you had left.
Merle wheezed a laugh at him. "Now you know it ain't my fault, brother, that's all yours." He eyed Daryl as he was breaking into a heaving mess.
"Don't you blame me for bein' a deadbeat, did a mighty fine job of doin' that all on your own."
Deadbeat. Like his father.
The word hit Daryl like a truck, smashing his heart into pieces. Because it was true. You had spent weeks begging him to pull himself together and be there for his baby girl.
And now he'd never have the chance to see her again.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
Daryl carried that guilt with him past the farm, the prison, and the horrific events that followed the group like a plague. His silent burden that would never be shared with another soul. Each tragedy, each person they lost, made Daryl feel heavier inside.
After Judith's birth, he saw Rick as the man he could never be. He showed up for her every time and was able to be who Judith needed to survive.
It reminded Daryl of what he was missing. Would his daughter have smiled up at him with big precious eyes? Would she have looked like you, with gorgeous hair and the cutest face?
When the group had been approached by Aaron to come live in Alexandria, Daryl had a feeling that this would just be another community that would fall to the circumstances.
To the dead outside.
By the time the group had reached the gates, Daryl had accepted the fact that you were gone. That he'd never wake up to see your sleeping frame next to him. That he'd never get to press a kiss to your lips again.
And that his daughter was gone, no longer alive. Even if she was alive, what kind of life was this for a child?
The gates of Alexandria slid open wide to let the group through. Daryl eyed the men who surrounded them with narrowed eyes.
Although Aaron had already explained the 'amenities' that the community boasted, it was surreal to see it in action. People were walking by pushing wheelbarrows of flowers and crops, and children of varying ages were playing on the front lawns of their homes.
Homes. The word felt unfamiliar in itself. Deanna cautiously approached the group, accompanied by her two sons.
It was almost too good to be true, like this was some kind of front for evil actions that lay behind the clean rows of housing, behind the trees that cornered every sidewalk.
"Welcome to Alexandria. I think you'll find that we are a good group here. My name is Deanna, I am the leader here. Before we do anything, I want to make sure that everyone is safe, so I'm going to have to ask all of you to drop your weapons off."
Daryl felt an immediate surge of caution. Leave his weapon?
"Y/n!" Deanna called your name to signal that she was ready for you. You were in charge of the weapons inventory in Alexandria.
A task you took seriously from the moment you came knocking on Alexandria's door near the start of the whole thing.
Daryl swallowed at the sound of your name, remembering how your name felt leaving his lips. Like pure honey.
A small sliver of hope rose in his. He knew that you were in Virginia when everything went down.
Maybe this is where you ended up?
"That lady over there is Y/n. She's our weapons inventory. She knows all there is to know about guns, bows, you name it. We will briefly take your weapons while we interview you." Deanna pointed to you.
Daryl followed Deanna's eyes, his breath stopping.
It was you.
You were here.
Breath hitching, he felt as if time had stopped in its tracks. You were alive.
Daryl's jaw went slack; he felt like the air had just been punched out of him.
Eyeing your cart, you began your speech about weapons. "Alright, everything you got, just toss it in here. We'll make sure everything goes back to the rightful owner."
Daryl couldn't even process what you were saying. His eyes went blurry, tears welling up before his brain caught up with what he was seeing.
He watched your movements, watched you fumble with your shirt nervously.
Like you did before.
A hand on your hip, you glanced up at suspicious eyes from their leader, Rick. "And I mean everything. I don't wanna have to search-"
A shiver ran through you as you made eye contact with him.
With Daryl.
Daryl stepped out from the group, his steps unsure and shaky. He felt as if his legs could give out at any moment.
Tears broke from your eyes, a hand gently slapped across your mouth to stop the loud sob that came out of you.
Nothing else mattered. The rest of the group could come in and ransack the place for all you cared. Daryl was here. This was real.
Dropping his crossbow without a second thought, he crossed the distance between you in a few long strides. He stopped in front of you, his dirty face stained with tears now.
Glancing you over, it was as if he was making sure you were real.
Daryl practically collapsed into you, enveloping you in a tight embrace. Your arms flew around him instinctively, sobs now wrecking you and coming out without thought.
His hands were shaking as he took your face in his hands. No words were shared, just a longing look that you hadn't seen in him.
Not since the two of you first shared your vows.
In the sound of the intense emotions both of you felt, Daryl just looked at you, admiring your features. His thumb brushed over your cheek, clearing the teary mess that had accumulated. He pressed his forehead to yours, one hand coursing through your hair, the other tightly wrapped around your waist.
"You-" Your voice was hoarse and barely audible. Speech felt impossible, like all you wanted to do in this moment was feel him.
Feel his hands on you, feel that he was actually here.
Daryl didn't even care about the eyes on him; he could only think of you. He pulled away to get another look at you, like he needed to check that you were still here.
Saying nothing, he then pressed a desperate kiss to your lips. One that you returned immediately, humming into his mouth. The kiss wasn't hungry, but it was deep nonetheless.
You were convinced that the man you loved was dead. That there was no way of ever seeing him again. This whole time, you spent feeling guilty, feeling like you robbed him of something.
But he came to you.
"Here. Kept them all this time." You spoke in between gasps as you grabbed your necklace, on which sat two rings.
The ring you had secretly packed away. That you would have returned to him once he got sober.
Daryl was breathing heavily, adrenaline and emotion rushing through him as you handed him the wedding band. He slipped it on after several seconds fumbling with it, his shaky hands making it hard to do much of anything.
It was all too much. Daryl buried his head into your shoulder to just hold you.
Rick stared at Daryl in confusion. Daryl had never mentioned any woman in his life. Deanna recalled your interview when you first arrived with your 1-year-old daughter.
You mentioned your husband, a man named Daryl. A soft smile came to her face as she recognized what this was.
A reunion.
"Alright, Y/n is a little busy, so I'll take over for her. All weapons go in here, don't betray our trust, and we won't betray yours." Deanna eyed the pair of you before taking over your job temporarily.
It was like there was a bubble in which the only thing that Daryl could focus on was him and you. Nothing outside of that was important right now.
After everyone had put their weapons away, Deanna approached the two of you. "Listen, I'm going to have to be mean for a second and pull him away to do an interview to make sure he's a good fit. Is that okay?"
Daryl pressed soft kisses into your shoulder, swaying you gently as he just stood there. Allowing himself to feel, to hold you in what felt like a lifetime.
"Daryl-" You tapped him. The sound of his name from your lips almost made his knees collapse from underneath him. He'd dreamt of that sound, longed for it to ever fill his ears again.
"Honey, it'll just be a second." You managed to get him to pull away from you.
You watched while the group walked with Daryl to go to where the interviews were taking place.
Rick pulled Daryl aside. "I'm assumin' you knew her?"
Knew her? What a goddamn understatement.
"My wife." Daryl felt tears well up at the mere mention of you.
Rick's eyes widened. He ran a hand over his face in shock. Daryl hid this for years. Hid his immense grief.
"We'll talk about it after your interview. We will all be right outside. If anything goes wrong, just holler for us." Rick gave Daryl a quick nod before sending him in.
Daryl was barely focused during the interview, staring out the window at you, eager to get back and make up for missed time.
Once it was over, he was practically running to you. "See? Quick." You pressed your forehead to his as his shaky hands found yours.
Daryl asked a question that had been burning in him since he saw you. "My girl?" He prayed with bated breath that she was alive, that nothing had happened to her while he was hundreds of miles away.
"She's alive." You smiled at him as he let out a shaky breath. He let tears fall again, kicking himself for being such a mess.
But he couldn't help it. It was like somebody had sifted through his dreams and made one of them a reality.
"She's here?" Daryl knew that his daughter wouldn't remember him, but just seeing her would make all the difference.
Knowing that you've kept her safe all these years.
You nodded. "Wouldn't go anywhere without her. She's a little badass, you'll see." You laughed to yourself.
Daryl closed his eyes, absolutely melting at the sound of your laugh. Hell, he hadn't heard you laugh since he started going on his benders after his baby girl was born.
Only, his baby wasn't exactly a baby anymore. He missed everything.
Her first steps, her first words.
"She won't remember me," Daryl spoke softly, like this was a dream and he'd wake up to a walker growling above his face at any moment.
"She does. Been showin' her pictures of you and tellin' stories. She asks about you every day." Your words made him fall apart all over again.
"How old is she?" Daryl felt a sadness overcome him when he thought of what he'd missed. What he never got to see his precious baby accomplish.
"She's six. And I know what you're thinkin'." You put a hand on his chest, stopping him in his thoughts.
"You have time. Time to be in her life. I think we need to give this-" You gestured between the two of you. "Some time before you see her again. Tomorrow."
Daryl inhaled sharply. What's one more day when he thought he'd never see her again?
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
The group decided to sleep in the same house for the first night, out of fear of potential safety risks. Daryl felt torn. He wanted to be able to hold you, but he also had his group to look after.
"Stay with me tonight? These are good people." Daryl was holding your hands, his affection such a drastic change from his usual grumpy nature.
"Yeah, I'll get Olivia to babysit for me."
Babysitting. In the damn apocalypse.
Daryl let out a chuckle at the absurdity of it all and reluctantly let go of your hands to let you go talk to whoever Olivia was. In that moment, Rick approached him.
"I understand if you want to stay with her tonight." He placed a hand on Daryl's shoulder.
"Nah, don't wanna disturb her."
Rick laughed softly. "Daryl, she's been through a lot. She looks like a tough woman at that. Not much you could do to disturb her-"
"My daughter."
Rick froze in his spot, his jaw wide open. "Shit." He sighed to himself.
"You've got a wife and a kid?" Rick asked, rubbing a hand over his face. "You never told us, man."
"Wasn't proud-" Daryl cut himself off with a choked sound.
"Proud of what?"
"How I ended things. Made her leave." Daryl didn't have to explain anymore; Rick just nodded in understanding.
"I'm here for you, brother. And I'm glad you found 'em." Rick smiled. It was a little funny, seeing the archer so worked up when he was usually stone cold.
"She's staying here tonight. I-" He ran a hand through his hair. "Need her here."
Rick chuckled. "I get it, man. If you trust her, I do too."
While the sun began to set, Daryl busied himself by helping the group settle into the living room. The minute you walked through the door, Daryl dropped what he was doing with Glenn to go see you.
Glenn laughed and shook his head.
"She's okay with you bein' here?" Daryl asked about his daughter. You snicker at him.
"Are you kidding? Auntie Olivia treats her better than I do." You wrap your arms around his neck.
Daryl nodded and pressed a short kiss to your forehead.
Once everyone was settled for the night, Daryl sat in the kitchen with you. It was a little bit away from everyone else, so you were able to talk in peace.
"I can't believe you're here." You breathed out a shaky laugh, sitting on the floor with him. "Feels like a dream I'm gonna wake up from."
Daryl held your hand, now quieter than he was earlier. More reserved.
Now, you hadn't seen him for 6 years. But you knew your husband and his tells.
"What's wrong? C'mon, I'm your wife, I know when you're acting weird." His stomach flipped at you referring to yourself as 'your wife'.
He could not get you close enough in this moment. Hand-holding would not suffice. "Need you close." He mumbled.
You smiled at him before moving into his lap. It reminded you of home and how you'd sit on his lap when he'd need something to ground him.
You tried to ignore the several pairs of eyes on you from the dark living room.
"Now tell me. Get it out now so we can get some sleep." You felt him melt against your hand when you held his face.
"M'just sorry." He started, his senses burning as tears welled in his eyes.
"Oh, baby." You let out a small pout and let him continue.
"Should'a been a better husband, better father." His heart was pounding out of his chest as tears were now freely flowing.
"I let you down, didn't even come lookin' for ya'." You could tell he was beating himself up for this.
Hard.
"Stop. Nobody would blame you for not comin' hundreds of miles to check if we were alive. I'd have done the same thing." You pushed some of his hair out of his face, admiring the features that had changed since you last saw him.
The hair, for one. And then the scars that were littered across his skin.
"Messed up bad. Ya' gave me a second chance 'n I never took it." He spoke through choked sobs, intentionally quiet.
The group had never seen him so emotional, and yet nobody blamed him.
"Looked for ya' everywhere we went. Promise." Daryl was holding onto you tightly now, his head lying against your chest, longing for closeness.
"I believe you."
God, this guilt was eating him alive.
"Never forgot about ya'. Thought about ya' every night." He was such a weeping mess, absolutely torn to shreds as he bared his guilt to you.
"Still love ya'." He confessed everything he could.
"I love you too. Never stopped." You held Daryl's face in your hands and pulled him in for a soft kiss, one that he melted into.
Daryl pulled away to swipe at the tears streaking his face. "Stop makin' me cry, woman." He spoke softly, partly because the group was trying to sleep.
But the other part of him felt a little embarrassed by how many times he'd broken down crying today.
"Would be weird if ya' didn't cry. Just shows how much you love me, Mr. Dixon." You pressed a kiss to his cheek, his stubble poking your skin.
"Now, we should probably get to sleep. Got a long day tomorrow, save those tears." You teased him, a wide smile on your face, hurting your cheeks slightly.
Daryl just shoved his face into your shoulder in response, utterly spent from such an emotionally exhausting few hours.
"Gotta say though, I'm likin' your new hair. It's kinda sexy." You spoke through yawns, your eyes heavy as they fought off sleep for a few seconds.
Daryl huffed against you and pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
The two of you fell asleep in that position. With you straddling his lap, legs wrapped around his torso to be as close to him as possible.
Daryl was like a completely different person.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
Morning came quickly, and Daryl's breath hitched at the sight of you when he woke up.
Because you were still here.
It wasn't a dream.
The group stirred awake with the sun, discussing plans for the day and whether they like the community.
Your eyes flickered open, locking in on how Daryl stared at you with infatuation, pure love.
"Good morning, Daryl." You stretched out of your position on his lap. "Sleep well?"
For the first time in years, Daryl could actually say yes.
"Do you think she's ready to see me?" Daryl was practically shaking in anticipation. Because today was the day, he'd be able to see his daughter for the first time in almost 6 years.
"Oh, she's ready. I'll have to let her know you're here and let her process that, but once she does, you can meet her." You smiled at the thought of how she'd react.
"Ya' think she'll like me?" He swallowed, feeling a rising shame start to make his stomach churn.
He'd missed so much. He doesn't even know what she likes.
"She will." You knew it was his insecurity talking, but you shut it down anyway.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
Daryl was sitting on a bench outside your place, listening as you explained to your daughter. He fidgeted with the rips on his jeans, his eyes staring into the cracks in the pavement as he struggled to keep himself calm.
It was torture waiting for you, for her.
From where he was sitting, he was able to hear you clearly as you spoke to her.
"Sweeheart, I know that I've told you all about your dad." You could hardly contain the smile that grew on your face as you held your girl close to you.
"I want you to know that he found us. He's here right now." Hands wrapped around your daughter, you soothed her through her sudden excitement.
"Now, he wants to see you so bad, honey. But remember, the last time he saw you was when you were a teeny little baby. He's a little nervous, but you can help him be brave, right?" You thought back to all the stories you told her about Daryl.
"I wanna see him!" Your daughter was practically bouncing with excitement, a wide smile on her face. Daryl let out a breath of relief he hadn't known he was holding.
She wanted to see him. Wanted to know him.
"Alright, let's go!" You held your daughter's hand as you led her out to where Daryl was sitting, waiting eagerly.
Daryl hastily stood up from the bench and turned around to face the two of you. His heart was pounding, the sound echoing loudly in his ears.
There she was, walking out of the picture-perfect house. Her hair was done up nicely, as if the world outside had no real effect here.
And she looked like you. Your cute little smile, the same bouncy personality.
Daryl breathed out a laugh of disbelief. The odds of reuniting, of finding his family in a place like this.
Maybe there was a god out there listening to his prayers.
He had dreamed of meeting his daughter for years. And still, it looked nothing like this. She bounded over to him, her feet pounding against the pavement as she ran.
And once she was close enough to get a good look at him, she paused. Daryl's heart could have stopped right there as she stared up at him with a sweet smile.
With wide open arms, she wrapped around him tightly, as if she'd known him just as long as he'd known you.
A quick glance from her made him tear up. "Hi, Daddy."
That was more than he could handle. He fell to his knees and swooped her close, his large hands enveloping her as if she'd dissolve like sugar.
Daryl pulled away for a second to get another look at her. He couldn't believe that this was real. His daughter had scrapes on her knees, and her overalls were covered in what looked to be a mixture of dirt and some food mess.
She looked like her mother.
"Are you sad?" His daughter asked, her tiny hands grabbing onto his face, curiously feeling the stubble that marked his skin.
Daryl shook his head. "Just happy I found ya'." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, ignoring the tears that had streamed down his face.
He felt as if he'd cried more in the past day than he had his entire life.
Then, she pulled a picture out of her pocket. "You look different!" She showed him the picture, crinkled and slightly faded.
As if she'd kept it in her pocket all this time.
Daryl let out a laugh. It was a picture of him from high school, his lanky frame sitting on a beat-up motorcycle. And his hair was practically a buzz cut compared to what it was now.
"Yer' right. Got more hair now, don't I?" He held his daughter on his hip as he lifted her off the ground. Daryl let her play with his long hair, warmth wrapping him up entirely.
"Mama said you ride motorcycles!" She brushed the hair out of his face, examining his facial features.
"She's right." Daryl snickered at the way she pulled his hair back, almost like she'd put it in a ponytail.
"Can I ride it? Please?" She begged, her puppy eyes a new experience that he wasn't expecting.
And they worked just as intended. Daryl was a pushover.
"That's up to yer' mama. Maybe later."
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
Alexandria was holding a welcome event to ensure that Rick's group felt that they belonged in the community. It was nothing particularly large, just some food and drinks around a campfire.
The group had barely seen Daryl the whole day. He was following you and his daughter around like a lost dog.
In a way, he really was.
But the two of you had convinced him to show up for the event instead of sitting in your house and learning how you lived. With a fair amount of grumbling, Daryl agreed.
Approaching the group with his daughter on his hip, her hands braiding his hair as much as a 6-year-old could, Daryl ignored the looks of shock and awe.
"Who's this?" Carol spoke with a smile. The child was a spitting image of her mother, but she had Daryl's hair color.
"My girl, thought I'd never see her again." He was so proud, so eager to show his daughter off as his own.
"Daddy, you said I could ride yer' motorcycle. Mama said liars get grounded." His daughter didn't process the laughter that rang out from the rest of the group.
"She's stubborn like her dad." Carol took a sip of some of the wine that had been provided. "Has your dad shown you his bow yet?"
His daughter shook her head. "No, Daddy was crying too much." Daryl rubbed his face, trying to hide his embarrassment.
Carol pretended to gasp loudly. "Was he really?" She shot Daryl a teasing look, snickering at the hidden middle finger he held up to her.
"Yeah! He was crying a lot!" Daryl ignored his daughter's betrayal and kissed her forehead.
"That guy over there named Rick has a daughter, too. She's younger than you, but she's really cool. You wanna go say hi?" Daryl pointed to Rick's daughter, Judith.
"Okay, bye Daddy!" His daughter slid off his lap and ran up to Rick. She tapped his knee and then asked if she could play with Judith.
The two stayed nearby, playing with sticks and flowers on the ground.
Now that his daughter was preoccupied, Daryl turned his attention to you. "You kept her thinkin' about me. Thank you." He was so glad to hear that his daughter knew him and had heard stories about him.
"Didn't want her to feel like you didn't exist. Wanted her to know that you were a good guy."
"I wasn't." Daryl furrowed his brows. "But I've changed." Daryl hoped you could see it, that you weren't just pitying him.
"I know. You're sober, for one. But there's a difference in how much you care. About her and me." Your eyes traveled to your daughter as she played with Judith.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
Daryl carried your daughter home, her eyes barely open as she fought off sleep. "Not tired yet!" She wriggled in his grasp.
"Judith needs her sleep." Daryl walked inside with you, one hand holding yours, and the other holding your daughter close.
"And you do too, missy." You lifted her out of Daryl's arms and instructed her to get ready for bed.
"Thank you for today, Daryl. She absolutely adores you. Told me earlier that she wanted you to live with us." You wrapped Daryl into a tight hug, breathing in his scent.
Cigarettes and wood smoke.
"Would ya' want that? Me living here?" Daryl had hoped you would say yes, but he'd also understand if you needed some space from him.
A small scoff came from your lips. "Are you kidding? She'd kill me if I didn't make you stay with us. I wouldn't mind if you lived here; we'd finally be together again."
Together again. Daryl melted at the thought of that.
"Daddy?" A quiet voice came from his daughter's room. You smiled and gestured for him to go see her.
Daryl was pulled in by her voice, his heart bursting when he saw her. His daughter was in her pajamas, already in bed with her eyes hanging low as she continued to fight sleep.
To talk with him one more time before she slept.
"What do ya' need?" Daryl stood by her bed, a smile stuck on his face.
"Tuck me in?" She asked sweetly, how could he refuse?
Poor Daryl was wrapped around her little finger. He just nodded and grabbed her blanket, fluffing it up and tucking the edges to her comfort.
Just like he had when she was a baby.
"That better?" He asked, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She nodded and closed her eyes. For a second, it seemed as though sleep had taken her under its wings.
"I love you, Daddy." That little voice. Those four words that made Daryl's heart hurt all over again.
He practically abandoned her when she was born, and yet she loved him?
Daryl pressed his hand to hers. "I love you too. I'll see you tomorrow." He sat in a chair adjacent to where she slept.
His eyes tracked her breathing, unsure of whether he might still be trapped in a very elaborate dream.
"Honey, you've been staring at her for like five minutes." You leaned against the doorway, the sound of your voice startling him a little as he was lost in thought.
"Wanna make sure she's okay. That she's real." He stood from the chair and made his way over to you.
"C'mere." You managed to drag him away from your daughter's room, closing the door gently.
"I know you think that this is gonna fade away when you wake up, but I promise this-" You press a kiss to his cheek. "It's real. We are real."
Daryl's hands found your waist, his large hands caressing your skin the same way he had done since the two of you made it official about 10 years ago.
"Everyone called me crazy, y'know? Said that I should move on." You scoffed, your body swaying lightly against his. "Never did."
Daryl felt his cheeks heat up at your confession. "I didn't tell anyone about you. Regrettin' that now, but I didn't stop thinkin' about ya' for one second."
"I sure hope so." You laughed, your eyes falling to his lips for a moment as they tugged up into a confused smile.
"You what?"
"I sure hope you weren't thinkin' about other women while I was here speakin' so highly of you." You smirked at him.
Daryl hummed in agreement. "Never." Which was completely true, his mind never strayed from the woman he thought he'd never see again. You liked that answer, running a hand through his long hair.
The woman he could never just "get over".
"Jus' thought about you. Only you." Daryl melted into your touch, his breath hitching at the way you lightly tugged at his hair.
"Oh yeah?" Her words sent a shiver down his spine. "What were you thinking about?" Your finger traced circles on his chest, your eyes glancing up at him with a revived energy.
Daryl's mind went blank. He stuttered out anything. Anything to keep your hands on him.
"Your touch. The way you feel." His hands gently squeezed at your waist, feeling the way you rolled your hips into his instinctively.
"Yeah? You wanna feel me?" You grabbed his hands, placing them on your tits, relishing in the way his eyes were glued to you.
Daryl felt blood rush to his face and elsewhere as he gently squeezed your breasts in his hand. "Need this off." He tugged at your shirt, pulling it over your head.
You obliged his desperation, unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the floor. Daryl sucked in a quick inhale, almost as if the wind had been knocked out of him at the sight of you.
"So goddamn pretty." He pressed a kiss to your neck, humming against your soft skin. "Been thinking about you like this." He spoke between needy gasps.
"Dreaming of these-" He leaned down to press sloppy kisses against your breasts, his spit gathering as he sucked on your nipples.
"Daryl-" You pulled his face up to yours. "My bedroom. Don't want to do this here." You were still standing in the living room, gasping and rutting against each other desperately.
Daryl hummed in agreement. He didn't want his first time with you since you left to be hastily performed on a couch.
You led Daryl to your bedroom, and he had slipped his vest off somewhere in between that time, tossing the heavy garment onto the floor.
"Missed ya' so much." He spoke, his words breathy against your skin as he pressed soft kisses to your neck.
"I know, baby-" You gasped as he bit at your skin gently, leaving small, pleasurable bruises. "Missed you too."
Daryl could hardly contain himself, his brain working in overdrive to comprehend what was happening. You were here, and he had the whole night to show you just how much he thought about you on lonely nights.
And he just couldn't get enough.
His hand held the back of your head, pressing a hungry kiss onto your lips, his tongue slipping in like he had kissed you millions of times before.
Like no distance had ever been between you.
The heat between you increased, the feeling unbearable. To relieve it, you tugged at his shirt, slipping it off of his chest. Your hands found his skin, the rough scars outlining the years you had spent apart.
Before it even registered in your head, you were falling backwards onto your bed. Daryl climbed over you in an instant, his large arms landing beside your face, trapping you beneath his frame.
And then, his hands were all over you. Pressing against your skin desperately enough to leave bruises as his soft kisses made their way down your chest. Wordlessly, his hands found the button of your jeans, his rough fingers fumbling with it before releasing it.
"Daryl, please-" You whined against him, pressing your hips up against his, a desperate need for friction coursed through your veins. Acting on that impulse, Daryl pushed your hips down firmly.
"Been waitin' years to see ya' like this. Gonna need some time to look at ya'." He whispered into your ear, the sickly sweet words drawing another pathetic whine from your lips.
He silenced it this time, his mouth moving with yours, swallowing your whimpers as he yanked your jeans down your legs. The sound of the fabric slapping against the floor made you wrap your legs around his waist as he made out with you.
Daryl managed to pull away from your lips, smiling at the whine that left your mouth. "Relax, sweetheart. Not lettin' you go ever again." With that, his eyes found your body, tracing the curves that looked downright sinful against the sheets.
In your blind lust, you hadn't even seen him lower his body just off the bedframe. A hiss left your mouth as Daryl licked a stripe up your clothed cunt, his eyes lighting up at the way you reacted to him.
"Been thinkin' about how pretty this pussy is." He pressed his tongue against the cotton, humming at the taste of your arousal that had been pooling since he started kissing you out in the living room.
"Gonna let me have a taste?" Daryl knew you, knew how much you adored his mouth on you.
"Anything, fuck please!" Your hips instinctively bucked up against his lips as he pressed open-mouthed kisses against your panties.
"Since ya' asked so nicely." He slid the garment down your thighs, his eyes immediately glued to you, and how wet you were for him.
Daryl couldn't hold himself back anymore; he grabbed your hips with a bruising grip. Pulling your body to him, his face was inches from your soaked cunt.
Making up for lost time, Daryl's mouth began working on you, tongue flicking against your clit. He took you in his mouth, sucking at your clit as you became undone above him.
Your moans echoed around the room, your hands shakily moving down to grasp at his hair. His eyes glanced up at you as he dragged his tongue across your folds, humming against your skin. Your sounds were addictive, sending waves of pleasure down to his cock as he fought back the urge to come at the sight of you.
"Keep makin' those sounds f'me." He was practically groaning against you now, his right hand keeping your hips firmly pressed against his face as his left hand palmed his painfully hard erection. "Fuck-" His mouth left your pussy for only a second as he bit back his own premature orgasm.
Then he kept going, his tongue wasting no time in pushing into your entrance. Your whimpers got louder as your hips thrusted against him. His nose pressed against your clit, the feeling making your legs shake as you held them beside Daryl's head.
"Holy shit-" A loud gasp escaped your lips as Daryl slipped a finger in, his mouth sucking at your clit. You couldn't control your movements anymore, your hands tugging at Daryl's hair for some kind of purchase.
Daryl smirked as he felt your legs threatening to close around him, your mind clouded by the absolute pleasure he was providing you with. "Ya' like that, baby?" He thrusted his finger into you, eyes watching for your reaction.
Your eyes rolled back into your head as your hips jerked with his every thrust into your cunt. Daryl couldn't get enough of this, of your delicious reactions.
To think that he ever let you walk out that door.
"Yes! Don't stop, please!" You were begging him to continue, to bring you over that edge that drew closer with every thrust.
Daryl felt it, the way your cunt fluttered around his finger as your moans of his name got higher. He wouldn't dare stop now, a look of pure awe on his messy, soaked face.
Then he remembered something. A move that drove you crazy every time he did it.
Daryl curled his finger, hitting your spot effortlessly as he stroked it. From your reaction, he could tell he did it right. Your back arched against the bed, your whole body shuddering from the immense pleasure.
"Fuck-" Your orgasm hit you suddenly, the pleasure making your vision go white as Daryl rode you through it. He lapped at your cunt needily, taking everything you were giving him as you came around his finger.
"Let me feel it, I got ya'." He mumbled against you as he worked you through your orgasm, his eyes on you the entire time, wishing he could have taken a picture in this moment. To always know how beautiful you looked when he went down on you like this.
Once you were a whining mess, Daryl slowly pulled his finger out. God, he was a mess. His beard was soaked with your wetness, his pupils dilated with adoration for you. His hair was tangled from your frantic hands.
"Need you-" You ignored the ache in your legs as you sat up to unbutton his jeans for him. "Need to feel you inside." You felt the imprint of Daryl's cock against your hand, bulging against his pants needily as you unzipped them.
Daryl helped you by shoving his jeans and underwear off hastily. You took in a sharp inhale of breath. You remembered Daryl was hung, but not like this.
"Bet you jerked off to me through the years, didn't you?" You were genuinely curious about this, and whether you were alone in the fact that you got off to the memory of him almost every night.
Daryl's hips jerked forward as you ran your thumb over his tip, his breath hitching. "When it was safe. Thought about ya'." He left out the part where he'd barely been able to keep you off his mind, and how he wouldn't last very long thinking about your beautiful body.
"Me too. Forgot what you felt like." His cock twitched in your hand, letting you know how worked up he was. How your words made him feel. Daryl was slack-jawed now, eyes glued to your hand and how you slowly pumped him. Small groans left his mouth, his brain struggling to keep up with your words.
"Gonna make you remember-" He mumbled as he pressed soft kisses against your neck. You shuddered at his words; the anticipation was killing you.
"Come show me then." You wrapped your arms around him, bringing him down with you as you lay back onto the soft, plush bed.
Daryl's mouth found yours. His kiss was still just as hungry as before. His breaths were ragged, like he was losing control over his own actions. He brought his cock into his hand and lined the tip up with your pussy. He hummed into your mouth as he slid the tip up and down your juices.
The warmth radiating from your core made him whine against you. "Ya' ready?" He would have stopped there if you needed him to; he would have settled for whatever you gave him. Daryl wanted you.
In any capacity he could have you.
With a nod, Daryl pushed into you slowly, eyeing your reactions as you took him in by inch. You were so tight, your warm cunt fluttering around him as you tried to adjust to his size. Daryl held back the urge to kiss you as your mouth flew open in an 'o' shape in a silent gasp.
He was thick, the stretch of his cock a painful yet thrilling reminder that all you'd ever wanted was here, standing in front of you.
"Doin' good f'me. Almost there." He held his forehead against yours. He listened to your shaky exhales as you tried to relax enough to take him. Once he was buried to the hilt, he pressed a kiss to your head.
"Take all the time you need, got all night." He was lying. He was so close to losing it and cumming inside you. Because he'd thought about this moment for so long. Many nights spent with his hand wrapped around his cock, a feverish layer of sweat covering his body as he jerked off to the thought of you.
You gave yourself a few seconds to adjust to his size before you gave him the okay to move. Daryl almost let out a groan at that, his hips slowly starting to thrust into you.
"God, I forgot how good you felt." You let the words slip from your mouth without thinking, your brain fogged by the sight of him above you.
Daryl let out a quiet groan at your words, his brows furrowed as he focused on you and not the throbbing desperation coursing through him.
He didn't want to rush. Not when he finally had you back in his arms, and you had the rest of your lives together.
His pace sped up. "Can't talk like that, sweetheart."
"Why? Thought about how you'd fill me up so good-" You were cut off by your own moans that echoed around the room as Daryl lifted your legs to throw them onto his shoulders. His cock thrusted into you deeper, hitting a better angle that had your eyes rolling back helplessly.
"M'bout to if you don't stop." His words held no venom, broken by shaky breaths as he fucked you into the sheets. The sound of skin smacking filled your ears as his hips pounded into yours, at a pace that was frustratingly not enough.
"Daryl, please-" You were a mess underneath him, your chest heaving as you moaned breathily. "Need more."
He obliged your command, his thrusts snapping faster into your cunt as he gripped you tighter. You were positive you'd have some bruises tomorrow, but it made this whole situation a lot more real.
"Fuck! Just like that!" Your back was arched off of the bed as his thrusts hit that exact spot that made you scream his name. Daryl groaned above you, his hands tightly wrapped around your legs to keep you on him.
As if he couldn't get deeper, Daryl leaned forward to press a kiss against your lips, pushing your legs further back to accommodate him. His cock pressed deeper into you, your body trembling as his thrusts were relentless.
"Oh my god-" You cried out his name, your hands grasping onto the sheets for something to hold on to while he drilled into you with no abandon.
Daryl made a mental note of what drove you crazy. He hadn't ever tried this position with you, but now it had become his favorite. He let out open-mouthed groans, now focused on hanging on to make you come before him.
"Please-" You felt tears prick at your eyes, the pleasure being almost too much to bear. "Please, baby, I'm so close!" The familiar pressure rose inside you, eyes shut tight as moans flowed out of you uncontrollably.
"I know, sweetheart." He could feel it, the way you fluttered around him, the way you were writhing underneath his grasp. Your cunt squeezed around him, earning a string of curses from his mouth. He was so damn close to bursting.
"Give it to me, please. Wanna feel you." It was his turn to beg now, his voice broken and dry.
As if he had control over you, your second orgasm washed over you in an all-consuming, white-hot wave. "Oh fuck!" Your hips jerked against him, meeting his thrusts as he worked you through your overwhelming climax.
"So good- fuck!" Daryl let out a strained moan as his own orgasm hit him suddenly, his thrusts became sloppy and stuttered as he spilled into you. Short gasps left his lips as his body shuddered against yours.
You both came down from your orgasms, your brains foggy from the immense pleasure still rocking through you. After a minute of cooling down, you gestured that you wanted him to hold you.
Daryl pulled out slowly, both of you cringing at the feeling. "Wasn't too rough?" He looked at the marks he left on your skin. You laugh. "Please. You've been rougher." You remembered that time your friends were concerned about the amount of hickeys on your neck and chest after a romantic night with Daryl.
Daryl grabbed a towel from your bathroom, gently swiping at the mess he'd made on your sensitive skin. Then, he collapsed on the bed next to you, his face buried in the soft blanket.
"Not fair, you don't get to go to sleep without holding me, Mr. Dixon." You whined and lightly slapped his back. He wordlessly reached an arm out to wrap around your waist and dragged you across the bed to his body.
He buried his face into your neck, ignoring the way you stifled a giggle as his stubble ran across your skin. "I love you. So much." The confession made your heart soar every time you heard it.
summary: med school had gotten boring to jack abbot and michael "robby" robinavitch. in an attempt to liven things up, they settle on two things: serial killings and making you theirs no matter what.
tags: ghostface!medstudent!rabbot x reader, possessive!boyfriends!rabbot, med school scream au, dark!rabbot, ooc rabbot, no age gaps!, violence, medical inaccuracies, murder, improper use of medical tools, morally gray reader (idk fam she finds out but doesn't turn them in), 5.6k words of pure smut (threesome, coercion/slight dubcon, degradation, blood kink, fingering, piv-unprotected sex, blow job [when in Paris], sloppy seconds, overstimulation), small time skip at the end NSFW 18+ MDNI
notes: I feel like I am very qualified to write this as someone who has scream in their top 4 on letterboxd and has written stuilly x reader fan fiction before, so I am well versed, I also love horror and have been wanting to write a few more darker fics on the side (still throwing around the idea of a saw inspired jack abbot fic), MY TAG LIST IS CLOSED, please enjoy!
word count: 14.9k (making this the longest one shot I've ever written)
You set your coffee down with a small thunk on the long classroom table somewhere in the middle of the lecture room. Your binders and notebooks joined next, placed down more carefully to not tip the cup over, because spilling your caffeinated beverage before 8 am would have been a tragedy in and of itself. Your backpack sat nicely in the seat to your right, and to your left you placed one textbook exactly in the middle.
One for Jack, and one for Robby; just as you'd been doing since you met them during orientation of your first year. Because where one of them was, the other wasn't too far behind with you, their added third to their duo, falling somewhere in the middle.
Even though Robby was already an MS4 whereas you and Jack were MS1s, he'd known the curly-haired redhead during childhood and scooped you up right along with him. Now halfway through your second year where Robby wasn't as around as either you or Jack would like, he promised to at least sit with you when he got called in to assist during the few lectures of the ACLS provider course. Today happened to be one of those golden moments where all three of you got to be together again.
Normally, you liked to be the first one in the room to get a feel for the atmosphere and not be rushed to find a nice seat. Doing so had grouped you and Jack in Gross Anatomy and Histology last year, and you would have liked to keep the streak going, however, as you looked around the room, your eyes caught on a male student sitting front and center with his hands folded.
You fought the urge to scoff. Who fucking picks front row?
Taking a seat, your head ducked closer to your backpack, and your hands dug around to find at least one of your good pencils before Jack decided to use them all for himself.
"Are you looking for something?" the guy's voice echoed from the front.
You didn't even look up over the desk when you answered. "Just needing to find a pencil."
He fell quiet for a few moments, and you were sure he was watching you struggle to reach the bottom of your backpack, hoping that he'd stay quiet or at least look away. When you failed to grasp anything pencil-shaped, you straightened back up and squeaked when you came face to face with the guy, jolting at the sheer suddenness of his presence. He was holding a regular number 2 pencil out near your face, sharp end almost between your eyes. If you'd been any closer, your nose would have tapped it.
"You can have one of mine," he said, more insisting for someone you didn't even know.
You eyed him carefully. He was taller than you, you noted, and that even if you were still sitting down, he'd probably tower over you the way he was doing as he waited for you to take the yellow pencil. Your lips pursed together.
"I'll be fine," you answered. "My friends probably have extras."
"But I'm offering you mine. It'd be rude not to take it."
Your stomach flipped. This guy probably wasn't going to stab you with the pencil in broad daylight right before class was about to stop, but your mind went sailing right back to last night's news that yet another student had been murdered while studying in the top floor of the library, and a chill raced up your spine.
"You just go ahead and keep it; I think I'll wait," you muttered, eyes tearing away from him to look at your coffee, the steam rising steadily through the hole in the lid.
He scoffed loudly. "Well, if you're not going to take my pencil, can I at least get your name," he said as though you had to compensate him for "wasting" his time.
"Why would I give you my name if I don't even know yours first." You paused before adding with a smirk. "We're not supposed to give out our names to strangers."
From your peripheral as you turned to look toward the door, you saw him physically contemplate your words.
"Stephen with a ph," he pushed out, and you swore little droplets of his spit hit the cover of your binder.
You desperately wanted to drag a sleeve over it for good measure, but that would just open another can of worms.
His name didn't ring any bells. He certainly wasn't a part of your friend group, and you knew he wasn't the type of guy that Jack would go out of his way to befriend either.
"Now, tell me your name."
Your fingernails curled into your palms, mind willing for either Jack or Robby to walk right through the doors in some divine intervention. You were more than capable of telling the guy off, but why would you when either one could do it for you.
Women in STEM you always told them after you managed to get them to do something for you.
When you failed to answer and give up your name, Stephen hunched forward and placed both hands on the desk. Sadly, his weight and abruptness made the entire thing shake, and before you could reach out, your coffee tipped over and spilled in the opposite direction, right onto his shoes and pants. Your lip automatically slipped between your teeth in an attempt to not laugh as he yelped and cursed loudly. Yet, when he turned back towards you with fire in his eyes and out stretched hand with the pencil curled between his fingers, your face dropped.
"You bitch," he growled while shoving the pointed end in your direction. "You ruined my shoes!"
This time, you were the one to scoff. "You shouldn't have shaken the table like that, so really, you ruined your own shoes all by yourself."
His face flushed red, and his eyes practically bulged out of the sockets; he looked as though he were less than a second away from exploding and going off on you when the door opened wide, reviewing the two you had just been manifesting.
Your head whipped so hard in their direction that you winced at the twang in your neck, and your chest heaved in a sigh of relief.
"No, dude, I'm telling you, this class absolutely sucks," Jack loudly announced, hands gripping his backpack straps as he waddled in. "Just be glad we get here early because by 8 all these seats are fill—"
His words died in his mouth when he finally looked away from Robby and over to where you normally sat, and his expression dropped at the sight of Stephen still towering over you with the pencil in your face. He halted abruptly, causing Robby to follow his line of sight. You tried your best to smile and slightly wave when you met their hazel and deep brown eyes, but the damage had already been done.
Jack scowled something fierce, and his knuckles turned white. He took no time in resuming his walk over. Robby stayed close behind, height feeling more dramatic than normal.
"Heeeyyyy," you drew out before pushing up out of the seat.
Neither said nothing in return, opting to take their normal spots at your sides. Jack's hand planted in the middle of your lower back while Robby slung an arm around your shoulders, large hand squeezing gently when it rested against your upper bicep.
Jack's chin jerked out at Stephen. "Who're you?"
Stephen straightened slightly and puffed out his chest like that was going to do anything. "Stephen Miller."
"Stephen Miller," he echoed before turning to you, his eyes softening. "Do we have a problem here?"
"I was just trying to be friendly man—"
"He wasn't talking to you," Robby cut in. His eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them.
In response you raised your head slightly. "No problem. Just having a conversation."
"Didn't look like a very friendly one," Jack muttered. "You sure, sweetheart?"
"Yeah." The corner of your mouth twitched slightly, but you knew both of them could see right through you. "I'm sure."
Jack and Robby wanted to press more. Their chests had tightened the minute they saw this boy standing over you with what looked like intent to harm. For all they cared, they'd go straight to the dean and report him for violent tendencies, but the look in your eyes and normal want for no animosity kept them close. However, they did share a knowing glance over your head, something that you missed completely as you began to gather your stuff from their seats.
The door burst open a beat later, and students began filling the classroom. Stephen finally sulked back to his chair but not without one more heated glare in your direction.
"What the fuck was that about?" Jack muttered as he slung his backpack down to the ground.
You rolled your eyes. "I guess my search for a pencil was louder than I thought, so he asked if I wanted one of his. When I said no and that I'd probably just steal one of yours, he got . . . angry? I don't know; it was weird. And then he knocked my coffee over," you retold, the last little bit coming across as more whiny than you would have liked, but you were a second year med student for fucks sake.
Coffee kept you sane, and that asshole had taken your morning dose away from you.
"Sorry we didn't get here sooner," Robby stated while getting his papers out, and you fully turned his way.
This had been the first time in months that you got to see him. Between his countless hours as an R1 over at an ER a few towns over, about a two to three hour drive one way, and dealing with his own personal shit, he'd been gone long enough that a short beard covered his jaw and space between his nose and lips. You couldn't help yourself as you reached up and lightly scratched at it.
"When did this get here?" you asked, desperately trying to change the conversation.
His facial hair was soft beneath your fingers, and you felt the way he slightly leaned into your touch.
"I already gave him shit about it; don't worry, sweetheart," Jack announced loudly. "He leaves us for—what?—three months and comes back with a face blanket?"
Robby chuckled and leaned away to look at his friend over your shoulder. "Laugh it up, kid. You're just mad because all you can grow is that upper lip caterpillar."
"Please, let's save the bickering until the clock hits at least ten o'clock," you laughed.
Jack opened and closed his jaw while he made a talking motion with his hand, to which you lightly smacked hip upside the head before taking a seat. Almost instantly, Jack's left hand found the top of your knee.
"But seriously," he muttered, leaning closer so his voice didn't carry much, "are you okay, though? That guy . . ."
You placed your hand on top of his. "He's fine. I doubt he could do much damage with a pencil."
"You never know," Robby huffed. "I'll be back soon; gotta check in with Professor Barlowe." He leaned down and pressed a very light kiss to your temple, something he'd started doing recently, and then clapped Jack on the shoulder as he passed.
Your brows furrowed slightly when you noticed the way Jack let his eyes trail Robby, but you kept your thoughts to yourself. The two had always had a stronger bond than you would ever realize, and if they wanted to let you know if anything changed, you'd let them come to you first before asking invasive questions.
So, instead, you settled on asking about the homework. "Were you able to get it all done? I was up forever."
Jack pulled out a small stack of papers. "Yeah. I finished them this morning. Had a bit of a late night but managed to get a decent amount of sleep." He smiled widely, crooked teeth on full display. "How about you?"
"Uh, I don't know if you listen much to the radios but there was another stabbing last night," you murmured.
His eyebrows rose. "No shit?"
"Yeah." You swallowed thickly. "Miles Pennington. He was found by the janitors in the library. No one knows who did it since all the cameras have been out since last semester, but he had five stab wounds and thirteen clean incisions."
"How do you know all this?" he asked, shoulders hunching slightly.
"My friend works the late night desk. She's the one who called the police and stuff. I'm surprised you didn't know any of this Mr. I have a police scanner and listen to it for fun."
His head leaned back as he barked out a laugh before he looked back toward you, mischief gleaming in his eyes. "You're trouble; you know that?"
You let your eyes quickly trail the freckles that dotted his outstretched neck. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it kept me up most of the night, because—" You looked around before leaning in closer. "They think all the recent killings are all connected."
Jack choked on his spit. "What?"
"Every single one of them had calls from an unknown number on their hand-held mobiles that ranged from five to ten minutes."
Under the desk, Jack's fingers tightened and curled into a fist. Through the adrenaline high, they'd, once again, forgotten to grab the fucking mobile.
He hoped he was able to keep a calm expression to hide the way his heart was beating wildly beneath his sternum. However, his breathing must have quickened, because he watched the way your brows furrowed with concern.
"Are you okay?" you asked, scooching forward in your chair to give him a once over.
"Fine," he managed to get out. "Just . . . I think I forgot one of the questions."
"Oh, that's okay," you said, hand already sliding your copy of homework over without a second thought.
Jack's heart clenched at your kindness that he definitely didn't deserve. Not when he was the one to give Miles every single one of those incisions with a scalpel Robby swiped from work. The guy was so close to graduating and becoming a resident, but he just had to go and flirt with you last Christmas, blatantly asking if you had plans to "stay warm" during the break. He had almost killed him then, already envisioning the way the blade would sink deep into his gut, before Robby had given him a look, eyes screaming to be patient.
He only had to wait until midterms, get him alone, and have Robby make the call and give him what they dubbed "The Test" over a call before he could pin him to the ground. It had been easy with very little struggle, even with his vision clouded with that white opened-mouth mask they'd found in a going-out-of-business Halloween store. Cash payment; no trail, no evidence.
Jack was already starting to itch again, that vein deep need to spill blood instead of stopping it from flowing, to cause harm instead of protecting.
You snapped in front of his face, and he blinked rapidly.
"You're spacing out again," you said. "Do you need to take a break? I doubt we'll get in trouble if we sneak out to get more coffee."
He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." His finger tapped on your homework. "Thanks for this . . . again."
Your hand rose and covered your mouth as you giggled. "No problem. I cannot have you flunking this class, Jack Abbot. I don't think I'd survive without you."
"Nah, you're smart enough," he said after lightly flicking your temple. "You'll probably match your first try with whatever hospital you choose."
"You think so?" Shyly, you tucked a piece of fallen hair behind your ear.
Jack met your eye with a ferocity you hadn't seen. "I know so."
Heat flushed to your cheeks and spread down your neck into your top, and you quickly looked back down at your papers and binder. You took one glance toward the front, eyes locking onto Robby where he stood discussing something with your teacher.
"Guess I just need to survive the next two years and hope I don't get a phone call myself," you whispered loud enough for Jack to hear over your scratching pencil and the beginnings of the lecture.
It was almost like you'd been put under a trance every time the lesson began to not miss anything important. Because of this, you missed the way Jack locked eyes with Robby over the tops of the students' heads. His older friend barely glanced in the direction of Stephen, and the slight nod he got sent a pleasured chill racing over his skin.
Jack couldn't wait to feel the slick of Stephen's blood and organs against his black leather gloves as he cut him up once clean slice at a time.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The phone's cord tangled around your finger as you giggled into the chunky receiver while Robby told you about one of the pranks his attending played on him because he fell asleep in an on-call room.
"And then, they had the fucking audacity to page me, and I went running before I fell face first into the hub!"
"And then what?" you laughed breathily, leaning back until your head hit your pillow.
"Then so many casualties came in after, and I was stuck with the cast on and unable to help! I had to wait hours before they could get it off."
"Did it teach you not to fall asleep?" you questioned with a smile that he couldn't even see, but Robby could definitely hear it in your voice.
He smiled as well, lips practically kissing his phone. "For a bit, but then I managed to find an excellent napping place."
"Did Benton tell you off for it?"
"Nope." Robby looked down at the paper in his hand, fingers playing the frayed edge. "He actually woke me up with my acceptance papers."
You sat up straight and gasped loudly. "Michael Strausser Speer Robinavitch! You got accepted into their emergency surgery program, and you didn't fucking tell me in person! You ass!"
"It just slipped my mind."
A scoff flew from your lips and echoed in his ear.
"It just slipped my mind," you mocked, voice dipping into a lower tone that didn't quite match Robby's all the way. "Did you tell Jack?"
"Yeah," he breathed.
"And how'd that go?"
Robby pursed his lips at the memory of Jack screaming at him before kissing him right on the lips. "As well as you could imagine."
"He just . . . worries about you, I think," you tried to console with your lip between your teeth. "Worried about you several hours away, worried that he won't be able to catch up."
"Did he tell you about his plans after med school?"
You nodded on instinct before catching yourself. "Y-yeah, he did. He's brave for it."
"Only Jack could want to be an Army field medic," Robby grumbled while running a hand across his jaw. "He's insane."
A low hum rumbled through your chest in agreement. "He wants to help people, but I don't understand why he thinks he needs to do it under active fire."
For some reason, tears pricked at your eyes, and you rapidly tried to blink them away. To keep them away, you did your best to sniff quietly, but the sound was louder through the phone than you thought.
Robby frowned, and his brows pinched. "Hey, why're you crying?"
You chomped down on the inside of your cheek before replying, "I don't want him to get hurt, and he's going to be so alone over there. It breaks my heart every time he wears that stupid Army crewneck he got at the recruitment office."
He knew exactly which one you were talking about; he pulled the damn thing off Jack's freckled body earlier that morning right after he got back from slicing the kid in the library with blood still crusting at his shoes and at the stretches of skin the robe didn't cover. Robby had licked it all off before taking Jack's cock in his mouth.
"Did I lose you over there, Robinavitch?" you asked when you could only hear heavy breathing.
Robby raised his brows and smirked. "Oh, am I simply Robinavitch to you now?"
"It's what you get for keeping important information from me!"
"Okay, baby, okay," he mused, laying it heavy on the small pet name. “Have you decided what you’re wanting to do after school? We could always use you over at Sacred.”
Nervously, you twirled the phone wire around a finger. “Actually . . . I’m thinking about looking into an endo fellowship.”
Your words hit him right in the stomach. “What?”
You huffed. “Yeah, I know I said I might go into emergency med, but Robby, I don’t think I can keep up with that life. Seeing all those traumas would fuck me in the head.”
“So, Jack’s leaving me, and now you’re leaving me?”
“Don’t put it like that. You’re a big boy; you’ll be fine.” Your eyes glanced around the room before widening when you caught the time. "Fuck, Rob, I gotta go. I'm supposed to meet my roommate for breakfast tomorrow before my 8 am." You paused before adding. "Thanks for talking to me. I've really missed you, ya know?"
"I've missed you too," he confessed, "a lot."
"It's not the same without you. I have Jack, but I think I can say we both feel incomplete when you're not here."
"Feel the same out there," he whispered. "I'll let you go, but I'll give Jack a plan for lunch so we can all meet up, yeah?"
"Sounds good, Robby. Sleep well," you said before ending the call.
Your hands raised high above your head, and a soft moan slipped through your lips as you stretched. Needing to use the bathroom one more time, you softly slipped from the bed and padded toward the connected suite. You still had no clue how you managed to get a room with a bathroom, but you were never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
However, only a few feet away, your phone screeched a loud shrill into the air. Your cheeks puffed as you blew out air, mind thinking that Robby probably forgot to tell you something important. Your hand curled around the receiver and raised it to your ear.
"Robby, I swear if you forgot about something again I'll—"
"Hello?" a distorted voice cut you off, and your stomach dipped ever so slightly at the unfamiliar caller.
"Um, hi?"
"Would you like to play a game?"
You frowned deeply. "No thank you. I think you have the wrong number. Goodbye."
The phone clicked back into the stand, and you turned away once more, ready to get peeing over so you could get some sleep. Yet again, your phone rang, and you jumped at the noise. This time, you stomped back over and ripped it right out and up to your ear.
"You shouldn't have done that," the voice tsked. "Because now, if you hang up again, I'll have to kill someone for you."
Your blood ran ice cold. "How is this?"
"Uh, uh, uh, I ask the questions here, sweets. And you still haven't answered my first one: would you like to play a game?"
"Fuck you," you spat. "Is this Stephen from class, because I swear if this is just some elaborate prank, I'm going to report your sorry ass to the dean."
"Oh, she has a mouth on her," he—because this had to be a man—laughed. "What fun you and I are going to have."
"I'm not going to play whatever stupid game this is, Stephen."
"Sorry to tell you, but this isn't Stephen," he growled, and the sound had you shaking slightly.
Knuckles turning white, you gripped the phone tightly. "Then-then who is this?"
"Can't tell you that or it'd ruin the surprise!" He sighed and clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Now, I will ask for the last time, do you want to play a game? Or should I start killing your friends? What are their names again? Jack and Michael?"
"If you hurt them—"
"You'll do what? You don't even know my name? But I know yours, Y/n."
Your skin itched, and you whirled around, almost like you swore that you felt someone's eyes on your body. You stepped up to your window and cracked the blinds open with a finger. When no one seemed to be standing outside, you let the slat fall back down.
"Will you play now?"
A thick glob of saliva fought back against your attempt to swallow it down. "Fine. I'll play. What are the rules?"
"If you can answer my questions, I won't kill poor Stephen here."
In the background, you heard muffled screams and cries that matched the student who had held a pencil to your face. Tears slowly streamed down your face as it fully settled that the man on the other end wasn't playing around, that a life was in your, a mere med student's, hands.
"Don't hurt him, please," you whimpered.
"Such big emotions for a stranger. Oh, you're going to be such a good doctor one day." He cleared his throat. "Question one: a twenty-three-year old comes rolling in after being involved in a motorcycle accident. Her BPs seventy-eight over forty, heart rate’s one-forty. She has absent breath sounds on the left, and her trachea’s deviated to the right. What kills her first?”
“How am I supposed to know that? I’m only a MS2, fucker.”
“You’re smart enough to know it. All that time spent with that emergency resident, and you can’t remember anything?”
“Just give me a second!”
“I fear Stephen doesn’t have ‘a second,’” he taunted, and in the next moment, a pain-filled wail muffled through your phone, causing a sob to rip right from your throat.
“Okay, okay, just—” You pinched your eyes shut as you tried to think through the question. “Tension pneumothorax,” you settled on before holding your breath.
“And your treatment to keep him alive?”
“A-a needle decompression followed by a ch-chest tube.”
The distorted voice paused on the other line. “Correct. See, I knew you would get it. You’re so smart, Y/n.”
You unsuccessfully tried to wipe the tears from your cheeks, but your eyes kept replenishing them. “Okay, I answered your fucking questions, now let the guy go.”
“I’m sorry. Was I not specific? We still have three more to go before I think of letting Stephen here see another sunrise. Next question: A trauma patient arrives talking to you. Five minutes later, they’re confused, then unconscious. What do you suspect is happening?”
A frustrated groan bubbled through your chest. “I need more information.”
“If your patient is unconscious, you don’t get more information. Tick, tock, sweets, Stephen’s counting on you.”
“It-it could be something like an epidural hematoma?”
“And what would be the classic artery?”
“The middle meningeal artery.”
“I’m so proud of you for getting that correct.”
Instead of feeling elated, you were so close to throwing up that you could taste the tang of bile on your tongue. “What’s the next one?”
“Feeling confident, are we?”
“Ask the fucking question.”
“You’ve got penetrating trauma just left of the sternum. Blood pressure is dropping. Neck veins are distended, and the heart sounds are muffled. What’s the diagnosis, doc?”
“Cardiac tamponade,” you answered instantly. It had been one of the homework questions from the ACLS provider course you had with Jack.
“Treatment?”
“Emergency thoracotomy if they’re crashing. Pericardiocentesis only if it’s the bridge.”
“I guess you really can stay awake during your classes. Now, for the final question: your last trauma patient just received a massive transfusion after losing too much blood like poor Stephen will if you get this wrong. All seems to go well until the monitor suddenly shows a widening QRS, peaked T waves, and then ventricular tachycardia. What is killing the man on your table?”
Your stomach dropped to your toes. This should have been the easiest one. You should know this.
“It’s hypocalcemia,” you stated.
The line went silent.
“Did I get it? I got it, you mother fucker,” you growled.
However, all you got was a click on his tongue. “Wrong.”
All blood drained straight from your face. “Wha-what? No, I’m certain it’s hypocalcemia. It’s the textbook definition of it.”
“The diagnosis you’re looking for is actually hyperkalemia. You would have needed to administer potassium instead. Well, the calcium would have been the protocol, but it wasn’t the answer I asked for.”
“N-no,” you stuttered out with another sob wracking your body. “Please don’t hurt him. Let him go.”
“I gave him a fighting chance like all good doctors do. But sometimes, in the real world, we can’t all save our patients. Say goodbye to Stephen. He’ll be missed in class.”
Your throat constricted in a gag as wet slashing sounds echoed through your phone speaker. You should have turned it off, but you stayed frozen to the middle of your room, mind fuzzy and close to dissociation as Stephen’s wails rattled and echoed in your brain. He gave a particularly loud screech that followed almost a ripping sound, something you’d heard before from medical tapes used in surgical classes, the tell-tale noise of someone wrongly cutting through skin and tendons.
In a few moments, he quieted before the line went fully quiet, save for the heavy, distorted breathing from the assailant. All you could manage to do was whimper and tremble.
“Thanks for playing, sweets. Better luck next time.”
The drawl of the dial tone echoed in your ear until the receiver slipped from your hand and landed in a loud thunk against your carpet. Your knees almost buckled as you tried to make your way back to your bed, bathroom break far forgotten. It didn’t even cross your mind as you sat shaking on the comforter, hands clenching the blanket.
All you could hear were Stephen’s moans and cries, and if you could get past those, the man’s words rang freely.
Say goodbye to Stephen. He’ll be missed in class.
The killer was in the ACLS provider course. One of your classmates just murdered Stephen and probably all the other guys too.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“What’s so important that we had to meet before your first class, baby? Thought you had plans with your roommate,” Robby’s voice sounded behind you, and you flinched violently at the suddenness. “Woah, it’s just me.”
Your red-rimmed wide eyes looked up at him from the empty space at the small coffee table in the on-campus cafe, and his cocky smirk dropped as he took in the paleness and horror that had been plastered on your face since that phone call late last night. Robby grabbed the top of the chair and dragged it out to sit. His knees bumped against yours while his hands gently rested on your cheeks, fingers tilting your chin in order for him to look you over, ever the doctor.
“What’s wrong?” he questioned. You sleepily watched his eyes flicker down your face in an obvious fashion. “What happened?”
You jerked out of his hold and looked back down to the table. “Let’s just wait for Jack.”
Almost as if he were waiting for you to say his name, Jack plopped down into the seat opposite of Robby, the three of you making a triangle around the table. He too was wearing a smile that dropped just as quickly as Robby’s had moments earlier. At least he didn’t start going full doctor on you, but his concern was evident in his pinched expression.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, eyes glancing over toward Robby.
“That’s what I asked,” the brunette responded without looking away from your shaking form.
“I-I wanted to tell you both before the n-news got out,” you stuttered between shaking breaths.
Jack leaned forward and placed both his hands on the table. “What news? I think you’re scaring us a bit, sweetheart.”
“Stephen wa-was murdered,” you squeaked, “last night, right after I finished talking to Robby.” Your pointer finger picked at your thumb, loose skin catching with every scrape.
“Did your friend have to call in another one in the library?” Jack asked.
You shook your head. “No. I did.”
“You did?” Robby echoed, and his concern morphed into confusion. “Was he murdered in the girls’ dorms?”
Another shake of your head. “No.” Tears welled in your lashline, and you squeezed your eyes tight as another wave of Stephen’s cries rang through your memory.
Jack licked his lips and leaned back in the chair. “Well, didn’t you say the killer calls his victims? So, unless you’re a ghost, you should have been far away from whatever happened.”
“You two don’t understand!” you screeched, not caring if a few people turned their heads toward you. “He called me. I had to listen to-to—” Bile burned up your throat as you slapped two hands over your mouth in case it decided to spew between your teeth.
“Jeez,” Robby muttered as he dragged a hand down his jaw. “You had to listen to him getting . . . ya’ know.”
“Murdered,” Jack filled in casually, like he wasn’t concerned at all about what you’d just confessed. Although, he did do a good job at looking a bit surprised. “But why would he call you?”
“I don’t know,” you whimpered, arms coming to wrap around your middle as you hunched in on yourself. “One minute, I thought I was talking to Robby, and the next I thought it might be Stephen because of the pencil incident, but then I tried to hang up again, and . . .” you trailed off right as you remembered what the distorted voice had told you.
“And what?” Jack pressed.
“He said if I hung up and didn’t play his game, he’d kill you two.”
From the corner of his eye, Jack looked over at Robby for the briefest moment before scooting his chair closer to you to wrap you in a hug. Your pliant, shivering body went willingly right into his embrace, and he couldn’t help the smirk that stretched onto his face.
Everything was going to plan better than they had expected. Sure, calling you hadn’t been their first line of action, but looking at you now, so scared, so terrified that they were in danger, made them feel like they should have called you first. Robby initially had been the one who wanted to call and hear your panicked little whimpers, but he’d been the last caller. At least Jack had the decency to record everything, and Robby didn’t remember the last time they had both cum so hard while fucking as they played your delicious sounding cries, its echos joining the perfect symphony of their moans. It was almost as good as having you there with them, but they had to get you willing.
And right now, you seemed on the verge of being just that. They’d planted the seed of doubt in your mind that they weren’t untouchable, that they might be the next victims.
Jack ran a hand up and down your back in soothing motions, and you pressed into his chest, eyes meeting Robby’s worried-looking brown hues across the table.
“Did you already give your statement?” he asked.
“Yeah; last night,” you sighed. “My roommate found me crying, and she was the one to call. Everything happened so quickly.”
Jack pressed his cheek into the top of your head. “Did you recognize the voice?”
“No. It was all distorted.” You tensed suddenly. “But he did say something weird.”
Robby eyed Jack wearily. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “He said that Stephen would be missed in class, but—I mean, wouldn’t that imply that the killer was in the same class as us?”
Jack mouthed a quiet fuck and closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that; he needed himself as far from the scene and victim as possible. Robby normally got away with it since he was supposed to be three hours away while Jack made sure his alibi of being in his dorm room stayed air-tight.
“Did you tell that to the police?”
The corner of your lip turned downward. “I-I think? I don’t know; I can’t remember.” Your words started to slur into a whine, and a single tear slipped down your cheek in frustration.
“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Jack cooed, hand never stopping in soothing circles while he held you. “Tell you what. Why don’t you and I go down to the station after class if you’re feeling up to it.”
Your stomach gurgled at the thought of having to retell what you went through for the sake of adding one more detail, and you swallowed thickly even if your mouth had gone dry.
“I don’t think I want to go to class. Seeing the empty seat . . .” If you thought about it for long enough, you knew you’d start crying all over again. “Can we just stay here? Or go to the fountain outside?” You’d been looking at Robby, but you pulled back from Jack enough to look him in the face. However, when neither of them answered right away, your stomach sank. “Oh.”
Robby cupped a hand at his neck, a familiar thing you’d seen him do for a year straight when he got stressed or nervous.
“Jack and I promised that we’d help out with an advanced simulator today for the fourth year students after you two’s first lecture.”
That was utter bullshit; they hadn’t been asked at all, but they needed to get away from you for a couple of hours to really let you sink into helplessness and paranoia. The longer you went without them with the thought that any moment they might be stabbed and sliced, the more you’d run into their willing arms no matter how they decided to break the news about their late-night activities.
You pulled fully out of Jack’s embrace, and the freckled boy had to stop himself from bringing you right back in, hands already itching to grab onto your arms. But he pulled himself together; he would have all night with you once they got you right where they wanted.
“Will I at least see you both before Robby has to go back tonight?” you asked, finger going back to pick at your thumb, face wincing when a spark of pain shot up your digit. You looked down in time to see blood well under the flap of skin.
“Of course. I’ll be at Jack’s dorm after I finish up with the final night class,” Robby said and finally smiled. He leaned over and softly pinched your cheek. “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite girl.”
A rush of pleasure crept up to his chest at the sight of your heated cheeks, and somehow, evening couldn't come soon enough. After you stood and left, probably headed toward your dorm to try to get some sleep, Jack turned towards Robby with a flick of his head.
“Tonight?” he asked, lips stretching into a wide smirk.
Robby didn’t even look his way, eyes still planted on your figure. “Tonight.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Three raps of your knuckles against the wood door and a muffled Come in! from Jack had you pushing the creaky thing open and stepping right into his dorm. You eyed the small piles of clothes that you tried not to step on as you made your way toward his bed. Jack was leaned back against his headboard with a sleepy look on his face and pajamas on his body: a pair of much-too big sweats (that you guessed probably belonged to Robby) and that fucking Army crewneck.
“Would it kill you to clean once in a while?” you asked while taking a seat right at the edge of the mattress.
“There’s a system to it. Left side of the room is for clean clothes, and the right is for dirty,” he responded with a shit-eating smirk.
You rolled your eyes and turned to face him as much as you could without lying stomach down on the bed. “You’re such a boy.”
“At least my room’s not dripping in makeup,” he shot back, face scrunching in disgust. “It’s almost like I can smell it from here.”
“No, that’s your hairspray.” You reached out to ruffle his curls, but his hand darted out and wrapped around your wrist before it could get any further.
Jack pulled slightly, and you followed, knees digging into the comforter so he could bring you closer. “You know better than to touch the curls.”
“Then don’t make fun of my makeup,” you muttered before ripping your hand out of his hold. Using your hands, you pushed yourself further up the bed and mirrored Jack with your shoulder against his and back against the headboard. “How’d that simulator thing go?”
His lip curled. “As well as it could be. Fuck, I hope we’re not going to turn out to be like those stuck up know-it-all assholes. They think they know every damn answer.”
You nudged him slightly. “As long as we study and actually know the answers, we can act as asshole-y as we want to.”
He ran a hand through his hair and scoffed. “That’s the thing. We asked the question for the mock-up ER, and one of the guys in there—total douche—didn’t even know the protocol for hyperkalemia.”
“It’s potassium instead of calcium,” you rattled off mindlessly before pausing.
Jack turned slightly. “Yeah. How the fuck did you know that?”
Your eyes locked onto your feet. “It-it was one the question I got wrong before Stephen—” Your mouth quivered. “Fuck, it’s all my fault.”
“Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true, Jack,” you muttered. “I killed him.” Panic began to lick at the edges of your mind, and your chest started heaving in pants. “I killed him. I killed him.”
Jack pushed up off the headboard and hovered halfway over, hands raising like he didn’t know where he could touch you without sending you over the edge. “You gotta breathe, or you’re going to pass out on me.”
His words were like he was talking underwater, and you couldn’t even process what he was telling you to do. This was not a part of their plan, but Jack had to make due with what he could before Robby got back from killing one more student, a guy who had looked at you way too long in your pharmacology class. Before he could really think things through, Jack cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you deeply.
The feeling of his lips broke you out of whatever hysteria threatened to take over, and you found yourself mimicking his movements as you kissed him back, lips moving against the other while your hands found purchase in his crewneck. Your eyes fluttered shut before snapping back open when Robby popped in your mind. You pulled back instantly and wiped your lips as though that would get rid of what just happened.
Jack took in your debauched look, you clearly liking that he kissed you, but the worried look you had sent his heart racing the wrong way.
Had they read you wrong the entire time?
“Jack,” you breathed. “We can’t.”
He cocked his head. “Why can’t we?”
“Robby.”
“What about him, sweetheart.”
You looked at him earnestly. “Aren’t you two . . .” You left words unsaid in case you were the one to get this wrong.
Jack almost looked bashful as he replied. “You’re always too damn smart. Catching onto things before we could even tell you.” He leaned back in though and pressed another kiss to the side of your mouth. “We are . . . together, but—” He dragged his eyes over your body with a heated look. “But we want you too.”
His words had you blinking rapidly. “What?” you laughed out, but one look from him said that he wasn’t joking around. “Are-are you serious?”
He clicked his tongue against his cheek. “Deadly.”
You weren’t too sure who moved first, but you met his mouth once more halfway. You moaned loudly at the feeling of his lips and teeth mushing against yours. His hands rose and planted on your hips, fingers curling into the small pudge against bone and pulling you into him, hips dragging along the blankets until you were seated on his lap. Your knees dug into the mattress on both sides of his thick thighs as you held onto his face.
Jack shivered with glee at the feeling of your grinding weight on top of him, cock already stiff below Robby’s pair of sweatpants hugging his legs. He bucked up slightly into your dampening core, and your jaw dropped enough for him to slide his wet tongue right into your hot mouth. He languidly licked around your teeth before playing with the tip of your tongue. You couldn’t help but think that if he was this into your mouth, you wanted to imagine what it’d feel like against your clit. At the vivid picture popping into your imagination, you ground down harder against his bulge.
Jack being large wasn’t surprising; not with the amount of tight pants he liked to wear, but you never imagined yourself being able to feel it nestled against your clit through your thin pajamas. As you continued to rock back and forth, he let go in order to play with the hem of your shirt before lifting it over your head and tossing it to the ground. His eyes widened slightly when he realized you’d foregone the bra.
“Fuck,” he muttered after pulling back to really look at them, hands rising to cup your breasts.
With his pointer fingers and thumbs, he pinched your nipples into soft peaks, drawing a higher-pitched whine from behind your teeth. By now, your underwear were soaked with slick arousal. Without warning, he leaned in right as your back arched and took one bud into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed, and a loud sucking noise squeaked out of his lips. You jerked at the feeling and sank your hands into his hair.
“Jack,” you breathily sighed.
“That’s me, sweetheart,” he retorted after letting your nipple go with a wet pop just to do the same to your other one.
You normally weren’t one to cum just from stimulation to your breasts, but the hazy feeling from grinding on Jack’s cock and his lips and tongue circling your nipples started to well in your stomach. Your jaw dropped again as a loud moan shuddered out of you after he bit down on the sensitive peak before running a soothing, wet stripe over it. He pulled back again to lightly blow on the heated flesh, and his cooled breath made goosebumps race up your skin.
He dropped a hand to play with the waistline of shorts, and you lifted your hips to allow him to get your sleep shorts and underwear off in one go. They quickly joined your shirt at the floor, and his hand had just started to trail between your thighs when his bedside phone gave off a loud shrill into the air. Jack acted as though he didn’t hear it, lips still suckling away at your chest.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” you panted between the grinds of your hips.
“Just let it ring,” he responded, but the sound had already ripped your attention away from between your legs.
With a smile, you reached over and picked up the phone, mind too full with pleasure to even think of the last time you picked up a phone without knowing who was on the other line. Really, you should have been more careful, but with Jack under your naked body, all caution was out the window.
“Jack’s busy right now,” you giggled into the phone, “but I can give him a message—”
“Hi, baby.”
Your hips stilled, and your blood froze at the sound of the distorted voice. A dizzying feeling replaced the warmth of pleasure in your system, and you could barely get out a response that wasn’t a small, terrified noise.
“Has Jack left you that speechless already?” he continued, voice sounding louder than it had last night over the phone. If you really thought about it, it felt as though he was right next to your ear. “Go on, baby. You were looking so pretty getting messy over him. I was really enjoying the show,” he growled, voice suddenly right over your shoulder instead of through the speaker.
You dropped the phone and whipped around right off Jack’s lap, and panic seized your chest, because right by the door, a tall man draped in black fabric and a hollowed-eyed white mask stared back at you. You started to scramble as a small scream ripped up your throat, but Jack was quicker. He grabbed your hips and brought you back to this lap, this time facing the masked intruder. His arms wrapped around your middle and held you through your struggles and tears.
“Jack, what the fuck!” you sobbed, hands wrenching and nails scratching at his arms. “Let me go! We’re going to die! Let me go, please!”
Instead of doing what you demanded, Jack tucked his chin onto your shoulder as the man started stalking toward the bed. With each step, your struggles grew. By now, Jack’s arms were littered with bleeding stripes from your desperation to get away, but that only added to his pleasure, cock never failing to fade into softness against your back. Your chest heaved and tightened the closer the man got before he stopped at the foot of the bed.
You watched with wide eyes as he raised a small box to where his lips would be under the mask before his empty gloved hand suddenly lifted the stretched-chin until the mask slipped from his face, and Robby’s dark brown eyes locked on yours.
His lips curled into a devilish smirk. “Surprise, baby.”
For a split second, you thought you’d pass out, suddenly overwhelmed with everything in a dizzy sensation.
“What?” you sputtered.
Jack hummed over your shoulder and ran a finger down your tear-streaked cheek. He pouted when you met his eye from the corner of yours.
“Aw, sweets, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Not enjoying our little surprise?” he taunted before a chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Awww, Mikey, look at her. The poor thing’s shaking.”
Robby let the voice modulator fall to the floor with a dulled thunk that kept your heart racing against your ribcage. In a desperate attempt to keep a distance between you and Robby, you tried to fling yourself to the side, but Jack just tightened his arms around you more.
“Not so fast,” he said. “Not when we haven’t gotten to the best part yet.” One arm let go so his hand could grip your chin to keep you facing Robby. “Go on and spread her legs for me.”
Without hesitation, Robby kneeled at the edge of the mattress and crawled until he reached where your feet planted against the comforter. His brown eyes, the hues almost black with lust, watched you intently as he placed his gloved hands on your naked knees. Yet, when he tried to part them, you swung a foot and connected it right between his legs, drawing a grunt from deep in his lungs.
He shuddered, his hand reaching down to palm himself over the long black robes he wore. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he fought to get air back in his lungs. As his hand pressed down harder, he groaned, looking up at you through his eyelashes. The inky blackness of his pupils swallowed the brown of his irises entirely.
The motherfucker liked that.
Jack’s hand slid down from your jaw and wrapped around the front of your throat, and his fingers squeezed lightly against the sides of your neck, sending a fuzzy wave to your brain, and your breath hitched, body stilling in his grasp. His lips softly grazed your ear as he whispered, “Be a good girl and stay still for us. You’ll like it, I promise.”
He jerked his chin out towards Robby, and you could only watch him finally grip your knees. In one fluid motion, he wrenched your legs apart, revealing your glistening cunt to both of them. Robby hummed lowly in amusement.
“You’re so wet for us, baby,” he mused and lowered his face until he was inches away from your core.
An embarrassed heat flooded your face and neck when he inhaled sharply. If you bucked your hips to get him to move back, you’d just shove his nose right into your folds, and if you withdrew them, you’d grind right into Jack’s cock. You were stuck, and neither seemed to be concerned with how you felt.
“Please let me go,” you pleaded with a whimper and squeezed-shut eyes. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Jack tutted against your ear. “It’s not that we don’t believe you, sweets, but . . .”
“We’ve already waited this long to have you like this,” Robby finished his sentence, finally pulling back from between your legs to look down at you as he ripped the gloves off. “We can’t let you go after we’ve worked so hard to get you right where we want.”
“You fucking murdered people,” you spat, body beginning to shift unconsciously as a result of your fear . . . or something closer to simmering arousal that you didn’t even want to admit to. “And now you think I’m just going to sit here and enjoy this?”
“Well, yeah,” Jack smacked his lips. “Cause even though you’re putting on a big show of being brave even if you’re terrified—” He reached down and ran a fingertip through your cunt from hole to clit before holding it up to the light to show just how wet it was. “Your body is still begging for us.”
You shivered against him. “It’s not—I’m not begging.”
Jack sighed loudly. “That’s okay; we know you will once we get started.” His hazel eyes met Robby’s gaze. “Go right ahead, Mikey.”
“Robby, please don’t,” you whispered as he leaned back down, bare fingers coming to grip at the soft insides of your thighs. “Don’t do this. I—”
You bit down on your lip to stifle the first moan that threatened to burst out as Robby’s tongue began to lick at your puffy folds, fingers curling into Jack’s freckled forearms and thighs jolting at the feeling. He held them down. His tongue moved inward and stiffened into a point to drag upward to your throbbing clit, the texture of his tastebuds adding to the buzzy stimulation. He toyed with you, going from circular motions to biting down gently with his front teeth. As he tilted his face to get a better angle, his beard rubbed against your inner thighs, and the scratchiness of it added to the burning pleasure from your core.
If he continued, he’d leave a lasting reminder of beard burn for you to remember this night.
Above, you refused to look down at him, lip staying between your teeth as he tried to break you. Jack was having none of it, and the hand around your throat pressed harder into your pulse points, cutting off your circulation to flood your brain with a hazy feeling that made the pleasure from Robby’s ministrations grow tenfold.
It was only when he licked around your sopping entrance that a keel ripped from your throat, and the sound was like music to their ears.
“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack muttered as he let go to allow oxygen to rush back in. “That’s what we want to hear. Keep going, Mikey. I wanna hear more.”
“Just keep her steady,” Robby responded against you, and his words sent vibrations tingling through your cunt, drawing out another heady moan. He continued to go back and forth from your clit to your hole before the first finger breached the tight entrance. “Oh, fuck, she’s tight,” he groaned, cock throbbing as he imagined sinking deep into you.
“Yeah?” Jack breathed. “Saved yourself just for us, sweets?”
“No,” you moaned out, hips slightly rocking to alleviate the stretch. “Nooooo shit!”
Robby sucked your clit as he began to pump his finger in and out, your innermost muscles clenching in uncontrollable spasms around the digit. Slowly, he felt you begin to loosen and suck him back in. Your head tilted back against Jack’s shoulder when he curled his finger upward, expertly finding your soft spot. Your back arched, and your hips raised into Robby’s face, making his nose catch against your clit.
A wave of pleasure washed over you. Your once tense muscles had relaxed as endorphins fought to replace your terror, leaving you close to putty and pliant between them. Your legs widened instinctively when Robby added a second finger.
“Oh—fuck!” you wailed out when both fingertips rubbed along your walls, slick gushing out with each thrust. “Robby!”
“There we go,” Jack gleefully said, voice filled with nothing but content as he felt your body drape against him, all fight draining the closer they got you to cumming. “I told you that you were going to like it.”
Somehow, Robby managed to get his fingers to reach further, and stars dotted your vision by how deep you could feel him. You didn’t want to imagine how deeper he could get with his cock—wait.
You were giving in. You couldn’t; this was wrong. They killed people. You needed to get away fast.
“Robby!” you parroted and followed with a moan as your lower belly simmered with something that was about to snap. “Gonna cum! Wanna cum!”
Finally, you looked downward and met his lidded gaze through his eyebrows, lower face hidden behind your soft mound as he continued to lick and suck and graze your bundle of nerves with his teeth. He was close to sending you right over the edge, but there was one thing they both wanted to hear.
They wanted you to beg for it.
Jack finally unwrapped his arms from your middle to start palming at your breasts again. “C’mon, sweets. Mikey’ll make you cum, but you need to ask nicely for it first. Just say the magic words and—” He pinched and pulled and twisted your nipples, and a cry ripped right out of you, “—he’ll give it to you.”
Your eyes burned with unshed tears, and somewhere deep, the need to push back flickered before being doused with a rush of arousal. Robby added a third finger and quickened his thrusts, causing a squelching noise to fill the room.
Finally, after feeling the heat about to boil over in your core, you whimpered out the smallest, “Please.”
Robby groaned against you, and bit down hard on your clit while curling upwards with stiff fingers. You came instantly, walls clenching rhythmically while Robby kept his pace steady to draw out your high for as long as possible. He watched the way your thighs shook and the way your arched beautifully, stomach curved out high as Jack continued to pull and grab at your breasts.
You all but collapsed back against Jack’s chest when Robby finally pulled away, your sticky arousal coating his lips and chin and also the three fingers that he stuck in his mouth. He held eye contact with you as he swirled his tongue between the slots. Jack huffed behind you.
“I want a taste,” he demanded, and Robby quickly leaned over you, robes draping across your heaving chest, and kissed Jack.
The loud slurping noises coming from over your head made you groan when your hole clenched around nothing.
“Tastes good,” Jack muttered before licking across Robby’s lips. “Tastes so fucking good, sweetheart,” he addressed you even if he was currently occupied. He bit down, and Robby whined as a metallic tang filled their shared saliva.
You lied there, and for a moment, your mind caught up to the situation at hand. Robby and Jack were the murderer—murderers? One to make the call, and the other to kill the student. Through the initial shockwaves of your orgasm, your stomach dipped, and you pushed up slightly, hoping they were both too into the other to miss the way you tried to inch across the bed. Jack pulled away suddenly and reached across, hands planting on both sides of your hips. Air rushed from your lungs at the sheer amount of his strength as he flipped you in one fluid motion and put you on your stomach.
“No, fuck you,” you whined against the covers. “I’ve never—”
Jack’s hands maneuvered you like a personal doll: knees pushing into the mattress and hips high in the air. He used his knees to knock yours wider to fit behind. You tried to push up on two hands, but he sent you right back down with a strong enough push between your shoulder blades. He held you down and pulled down the waistline of his sweatpants just enough to pull his cock out, lips parting in a hiss at the cold air enveloping his heated flesh. He sighed when he got a hand around himself, and the tip spurted out a line of precum. He used his palm to spread it across his length before he notched it at your entrance.
Your body tensed at just the feeling of the large head already barely fitting even if Robby had managed to get three fingers in you.
“Wait,” you said and gripped the comforter. “No, no, please wait, please, Jack, I’m a virgin, wait—”
As though your pleas fell on deaf ears, Jack slowly started to sink into you. He shuddered when your warmth sucked in the first inch like your cunt needed him even if you thought you didn’t.
“Fuck, sweets,” he hissed. “Robby said you were tight, but fucking—can’t believe I get to be your first.”
You gasped at the stretch and intrusion, and he kept feeding himself into you even after the first bit of resistance. You’d mold perfectly around him soon enough. Your inner thighs shook and tensed as he pushed in further, and sweat collected at your brow line as your body heated under the pressure. You shut your eyes tight, but that only made it difficult to concentrate on anything but the feeling of Jack’s massive cock bullying its way into you.
Jack pulled back slightly, and the drag of the head along your walls had you gasping for air.
“Too much for you?” Jack cooed as your whimpers hit his ears. “Shhhh, it’s okay, sweetheart, you can take it; I know you can.” He slowly pushed back in. “Take a deep breath for me, yeah? Big streeetch,” he drew out until the entirety of his length sat inside you.
Your chest heaved as much as it could into the mattress, and your jaw dropped to take in lungfuls of air. You felt too full, like one wrong move and Jack would rip you in half. It only got worse when he started to thrust, and his tip started tapping against your cervix with no more room to push into.
“J-Jack, f-fuck,” you stuttered, and tears once again streamed down your cheeks. “Please—fuck!”
He rocked his hips against yours to the point that his balls slapped against your ass with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am inside you?” he grunted while his hands tightened around your hips. “Fucking taking all of me. Such a needy girl for my cock.”
You bit down on the comforter, muffling your whines in an attempt to keep how much he was affecting you to yourself.
“Oh, sweets, that won’t do,” Jack tutted and sank a hand into your roots, fingers curling around the strands and yanking your head upward with a yelp. Your hands scrambled to get under you to relieve some of the pressure, but Jack didn’t stop thrusting, and the motion had your breasts swinging in the air. “Mikey, give her mouth something to do.”
You eyes widened because under Jack’s fucking, you somehow completely forgot about Robby. But now as he shrugged off the robe and unbuckled his pants to get his cock out, you started sobbing once more.
“Please don’t do this. I loved you two,” you weakly confessed, mind warring against your needy body, but all that did was make Jack angle his hips on an upward thrust to hit that spot that made you wail.
Robby fisted his cock while he raised your chin up, and his eyes softened for a split second. “You’ll just have to learn to love this version of us, baby, because we love you just like this.”
His words hit you in the pit of your stomach, and suddenly his words broke something inside you.
This was Jack and Robby, your two best friends who’d do anything for you. You couldn’t keep fighting against them if you tried.
Your jaw chomped shut hard enough that your teeth clicked together, but both of them were one step ahead. Jack let go of your hair and snaked a hand between your thighs to start circling his fingertips against your clit as he continued to fuck into you at a slowed pace, really wanting to draw this all out.
You couldn’t help the moan that flowed freely at the double stimulation attacking your cunt, and your jaw unhinged enough to let Robby slip the tip of his cock between your teeth. Instantly, the salty tang of his precum coated your mouth. He held the sides of your face and pushed in deeper.
“Another deep breath, baby,” he groaned before he thrust into your mouth, giving you barely any warning to brace for his cock to fill your mouth.
Your throat constricted in a gag, but a flick of Jack’s fingers around your bud paired with a harsh thrust pushed you forward until your nose right into Robby’s navel, his wiry happy trail filling your senses with his deep musky scent. Above you, Robby arched into the feeling and groaned into the air. You were now filled on both ends as you desperately tried to breathe in through your mouth.
Robby’s cock nestled against your tongue and a few inches down your throat. He was definitely longer than Jack, but the redhead had a much thicker girth than the brunette. Jack planted both his hands on your shoulders and pulled you back until Robby almost slipped right out. You sputtered and coughed from the lack of air, and a string of saliva wiggled down from your mouth to the bed.
In just a breath later, they resumed, and you moved upwards and backwards on them like a pig on a spit. You felt dizzy between the white-hot pleasure Jack gave your cunt and the fuzziness that took over when Robby slipped down your throat. Both men moaned and grunted when you seemed to clench down on them at the same time.
“Fuck, you weren’t kidding when you said she was—shit—so fucking tight,” Jack moaned when your walls spasmed around him, nearly cumming from the feeling. “You any close, sweets? Wanna feel you cum on my cock.” His words went straight to your body, and your pussy tightened. “Oh, you like when I talk to you? Is that right?”
You whined in response and nodded. .
His fingers picked up against your throbbing clit to meet his thrusts, and your stomach flipped with the onslaught of never-ending ecstasy flowing through your lower half. He could tell you were close when you started leaking around him, inner thighs sticky and wet enough to transfer onto his when he pushed into you with wet plap, plap, plap, plaps.
At your front, Robby continued lazily thrusting into your mouth with jerky motions, knowing that once Jack filled you, he’d have his turn to sink deep into your pussy. His head leaned back when he managed to make you gag, and your throat constricted and caught his tip. His large hand basically covered the back of your head. He kept you tucked against his navel even when you tried to jolt back to get more air. His soul thrummed at your panic, and he wondered if you could feel him get harder between your teeth.
“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” sputtered around Robby with every draw and snap of Jack’s hips.
“Just give in, sweetheart,” Jack whispered into your ear after slotting his stomach into the dip of your back. “Let us know that we’re making you feel so good.” Using two fingers, he pinched at your clit just as his hips began to stutter, a tell-tail sign that he was about to cum as well. “Fucking—shit—give it to me.”
With a muffled cry, your body shook as your second orgasm ripped right through your body. Jack could barely fuck into you with how hard you were clamping down on him as your cunt wept and dribbled onto the bed.
“Good—fucking—girl,” he punched out with three forceful thrusts. His hands planted back onto your hips, and his fingers curled white-knuckled into the skin so hard that you knew you’d have his fingerprints bruised into you by morning. His lower stomach pulsed when you began to whimper from overstimulation, and the sound had his cock throbbing. “Fuck, gonna fill you up, sweets. Gonna cum, gonna—fucking shit!”
He thrusted hard once, twice, three times before he stilled, cock spurting release into your fluttering hole. He had squeezed his eyes shut, but he peaked through his eyelids to see Robby lean over with a hand between your legs. The air knocked right out of Jack’s lungs when your cunt clamped down on him again near the end, and he guessed that Robby had rubbed right against your clit. Jack’s chest heaved through his high.
“Good job, sweetheart,” he muttered, giving little rocks of his hips to prolong his own pleasure, dick already softening just a bit. “You took me so well; so well.”
His hands loosened from your shoulders, and without any strength left in your wobbly arms, you fell right back into the bed, body twitching in the aftershocks. A whimper climbed from deep in your chest when he finally pulled out. Your hole clenched and pushed out a thick glob of the mix of your rapidly cooling slick and his cum from your walls.
You felt his finger drag along your folds to catch it just to push the mess right back in, drawing a mewl from your lips. Too tired and fucked out to care about what they did next, you let your hips lower until they rested against the bed. You heard some shuffling through the haze, and the next moment, your body flipped over. Each of your limbs tingled with warmth, and you let out the smallest giggle.
You enjoyed that more than you’d ever admit to it.
“What’s so funny, baby?” Robby asked as he took off the rest of his clothes just as Jack was taking off his crewneck but leaving his sweats still on.
Your eyes fluttered shut. “Think it’s funny that you said you loved me, but you killed people,” you slurred.
Jack and Robby shared a look before the taller took his place near your feet.
“Stephen deserved it, baby,” Robby darkly muttered. “And all those boys who came before him.”
Jack ran a soothing hand up and down your leg. “You’re our girl. We couldn’t let them live after how they acted towards you.”
Like he did earlier, Robby parted your legs, leaning down for half a heartbeat to press a small kiss to your twitching clit before trailing open-mouthed kissed up your stomach until he reached your lips. As though all fight drained out of you with the last climax, you matched his advances and kissed him back, legs absentmindedly parting to let him hover over you.
You were the one to break the kiss when he rutted his cock through your sopping, overly-sentivie folds. Your breath hitched high in your throat before breaking to give way to a shuddering moan. You tried to push him off, but his lips stayed glued to your neck.
He reached down and positioned his cock head to your entrance, and he slipped in with no resistance, the added lubrication of Jack’s spend and your relaxed muscles adding to his eased thrusting. The back of your head pushed deep into the mattress, and you swore you could feel Robby all the way up into your throat. Through lidded eyes, you caught the sight of Jack already hard again in his hand, his hazel eyes watching intently as Robby started to fuck you.
“Hnnngggg,” you moaned through your teeth. Robby’s tip hit your cervix with each forward movement. “Oh my—fucking—please, Robby!”
“Only took two orgasms to get you begging, hm?” Jack asked, and he reached over to pet at your face while simultaneously fucking up into his hand. His fingers traced your lips before he plunged them into your mouth. His breath stuttered when you started softly sucking on his digits.
“Whatever you’re doing up there,” Robby grunted, hips snapping into the heat of your walls, “she likes it. Her cunt’s clenching—shit—around me like a fucking vice, man.”
Your high-pitched whine came out all muffled through Jack’s fingers. Without someone holding your hips down, you began to meet Robby’s thrusts in shallow grinds. Where Jack’s cock stretched you out to the point of bliss, you wanted Robby’s length to stay buried deep to constantly rub against your walls. He must have understood what you wanted, because he stopped with the full thrusts and ground against your hips. The thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbed deliciously against your swollen clit, and you whined at the added stimulation.
After having climaxed twice so fast, it didn’t take long before you started to writhe under Robby’s frame, close to cumming without needing much.
“Gonna—” You gagged when Jack pushed his fingers in farther. “Gonna,” you warbled.
“Gonna cum already for us, baby?” Robby grunted. “Well, when you do, I wanna hear you cry my name, okay? Want your pretty mouth to spit it out.”
You nodded shakily and tried to respond, but Jack’s fingers were too deep for anything eligible to come out. After thrusting them a bit more and getting them slick with your saliva, Jack pulled them out of your mouth. You squealed loudly when his fingers rubbed between your clit and where Robby was rutting into you.
“Ooohhhh,” you breathed. “Jack! Feels good!”
“Yeah? Does it feel better when I do this?” Suddenly, the pressure inside your walls exploded as Jack nudged his pointer finger into your hole, digit brushing against Robby’s cock to make you feel fuller than you ever had. “I bet that feels really good for you, sweetheart. Got your hole all nice and filled to the brim.”
He tried to angle his wrist as best he could to press upward, and your thighs tried to close around his hand, but Robby’s hips kept them spread wide open. Needing to alleviate the pressure, you dug your feet into Robby’s lower back and arched into his chest. In one more movement to grind against Jack’s hand and Robby’s cock, you came instantly in a soundless scream.
Robby folded over as your walls suddenly clamped down on him without warning. Your chest shook in a deep sob as the pleasure almost became too much. But through the shivers and pinpricks of euphoria, you remembered what Robby had asked.
“Michael!” you screamed, hips jolting uncontrollably against him. “Micahel! Michael!”
Like some Pavlovian effect, Robby groaned loudly with stuttering hips, cock spurting with hot waves of cum deep inside and fusing his and Jack’s cum to your cunt. No matter who you else might fuck in life, they’d always know that their cum was in you first.
“Such a good baby,” Robby spat, mind barely keeping up with the feeling of your warmth entrapping his cock. “So smart for remembering. Fucking love it when you say my name. Fucking love you.”
Your eyes had squeezed shut yet again right before you felt splatters across your face and heard a plethora of curses and moans from Jack above you. Some of his cum painted across your eyes, and you could only lie there and take his spend to your face.
For a moment, you ceased to exist on the bed, mind floating blissfully somewhere else as you stewed in the slowing waves of your probably final orgasm. It wasn’t until you felt a warm, wet towel against your face did you open your eyes again. You blinked rapidly to clear them of the gloss that had taken over, and Jack cooed softly as he wiped his drying cum from your cheeks.
“There she is,” he whispered. “There’s our girl. You did so well for us, sweetheart. Can’t believe we got to finally do this with the girl we love.”
There it was again: their declarations of love.
You wondered if it was all a ploy, but with their soft touches and slow roll of your pliant body to settle between them as sleep licked at your body, something settled inside your chest. Sure, they’d killed people, but they’d been right about what they said. Stephen deserved it, deserved what they did to him along with all the other boys who’d made you uncomfortable before meeting their ultimate demise.
They’d done it all for you . . . because they loved you.
Your lip twitched into a soft smile as you relaxed into the blanket Jack tossed over the three of you.
“I love you both, too.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Morning light was the first thing to cause your closed eyelids to glow as your body slowly woke up. Instead of gently being lolled from your sleep, you became instantly aware of where you were and more importantly who you were between. Sometime after falling asleep, you’d managed to tuck yourself under Robby’s chin while Jack clung to your back, their shared heat making the bed feel like a furnace. You shifted. One leg slipping from between Jack’s, and your hips tilting away from Robby’s.
Yet, you’d barely moved a few inches when Jack was the second to wake up. He muttered something sleepily before tightening his arms around your middle.
“Don’t go,” he slurred, voice still thick with sleep.
“I need to pee,” you whispered back, but all you really wanted was to retreat to the bathroom to wrap your mind around what had happened last night: their confessions, them fucking you, you confessing your love for both of them. If you stayed any longer, the dream of last night might become reality, and you weren’t ready to face the possibility that you might become their next victim.
Robby shuffled slightly at your front and nuzzled his cheek into the top of your head. “Pee here. Pretty sure Jack’s into that,” he sighed, almost like he was seconds away from falling back asleep, however, his eyes shot open when Jack whacked him in the face with a spare pillow.
“I don’t have a piss kink,” the redhead groaned, not even opening his hazel eyes. “I just think it’s hot.”
“Then it constitutes as a piss kink, kid.”
Jack pushed up with one arm while rapidly blinking the sleep away. “Can we not kink shame your boyfriend, please? We get one morning with her between us, and you start spouting bullshit nonsense.”
“Guys,” you whined. “Enough.” Your head tilted down until your forehead connected with Robby’s chest. “Let’s just get this all over with.”
Jack paused with another pillow mid-way in the air, fingers letting go to let it drop down to the bed. He slightly curled around your shoulder and tried to meet your eye. “Get over with what?”
Robby twirled a piece of your hair around a finger. “What’s going on in that head, baby?”
“I already know what will happen next. You’re going to tell me that last night was a fluke, and I’m about to show up on the news as another dead body,” you spat. “So, please, make it painless and get on with it.”
Over your head, Robby and Jack shared a look of concern before Jack plastered himself along your back.
“No, sweetheart, no,” he cooed. “That’s like the exact opposite of what’s going to happen. We weren’t lying when we said we loved you.”
You shook your head and closed your eyes. You didn’t believe them. How could you after all they’ve done?
“Listen, baby,” Robby started as he pushed back to make you look at him, “Jack and I love you so much, and the thought of us never being able to have you pushed us over the edge. It’s like an itch we can’t scratch unless we get rid of the problems.”
“And the problems were all those boys who either thought they had a chance or made you uncomfortable by thinking you wanted them back,” Jack growled, and the noise went right to your core. “We fucking love you so much, and it was agony to see them hurt you, so we hurt them in return—like, take them out entirely.”
“No one messes with you unless they want to mess with us,” Robby stated. “But we’d never hurt you, baby. I think we’d both rather kill the other if we ever did.”
They both waited in silence for you to answer, and for a moment, they thought that you were able to push away, grab your clothes, and run out the door with how heavy you were breathing. But then, they both noticed the way your thighs shifted together, and it dawned on them that you were into this—them killing men just for you.
“You really mean that?” you finally asked, voice meek and scared for them to laugh and yell psych!
“We’d let you kill us if we didn’t, sweetheart” Jack said, voice steady and strong. “Our hearts beat only for the other and you.” He placed a kiss on your bare shoulder before lightly biting into your skin.
Robby inhaled sharply. “We’ll stop . . . if you want us to. No more games, no more murders—”
“Unless you want us to,” Jack added. “Say the word, and you’ll have a heart on a platter if you wish.”
A loud groan rumbled through your chest, and your hips jutted back against Jack’s front. “You two can’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not?” Robby asked, and you could hear the smirk in his words.
“Becasuse—” You squeaked when Jack suddenly palmed at your breasts under the covers. “Because it makes me feel . . .”
“Good?” Jack filled in, but you shook your head.
“Loved. It makes me feel loved, and it’s fucking crazy to say that, because you’re willing to murder people if I ask for it.”
Your thighs parted when you felt Robby try to prod between them, and a lazy sigh exhaled from your lips as he slowly started to circle your clit through your puffy folds that were still slick from last night’s activities.
“We’re willing to do a lot more than murder,” he muttered, lips pressing into every inch of your face. “But we have you now, and unless anyone thinks they can get through us, we won’t need to put any more bodies in the ground.”
“Promise?” you asked with a pant catching the end of the word.
“Promise,” Jack grunted, hips bucking into your ass.
“Promise,” Robby echoed.
“Okay, okay,” you said. “I was also telling the truth when I said that I loved you both. Just wanting to make it clear that this goes both ways.”
“Good,” Jack said as he placed two hands on both sides of your hips. “Now, flip on your front. I wanna feel your cunt cum on my cock again.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ ·
Night was not the best place to be hanging around a parking lot in the middle of Pittsburgh. Unfortunately for Brendon Park, he found himself doing just that around an hour after his shift ended at 9 pm, eyes narrowed at his slashed tires on his brand new Porsche. Someone had done this, and all he needed to do was wait for the stupid tow truck and security officer to come help him out. He could have left it for the morning and gotten an uber, but Park was a proud man.
And yet, what did they say about pride? It commeth before the downfall.
He was so busy huffing and puffing while stalking back and forth along his car that he failed to hear the twin footsteps rapidly approaching behind him. He didn’t even know he wasn’t alone until a white-hot pain in his side froze him in his tracks. His torso twisted, but that just dug the scalpel in deeper. He stumbled to get away, but all he was met with was another parallel stab to his other side.
Automatically, Park applied pressure over the blood already soaking through his scrub top. He looked down and hissed before looking for his assailant. He squinted into the dark, and his breath hitched when twin robed figures stepped out into the small bit of light coming from a close to burning out lamp. It was almost like the two were from a slasher movie in the 90s with their hollowed-eyed halloween masks and glittering robes that donned their bodies, keeping Park from knowing who had just stabbed him twice.
“What the fuck?” he hissed as he backed up into his Porsche’s driver door, hand trying to grip the handle but failing because of his blood’s slickness. “I’ll give you money or whatever the fuck you want but stay right over there or I swear I’ll call the cops.”
One of them tilted his head, and Park felt the dead eyes stare right through his soul.
He watched as the other—the taller one—raised a box to where his mouth would be behind the mask.
“You wanna know what we want, Brendon Park?” he asked, voice distorted through the modulator.
“I’ll give it to you,” Park grunted, the pain blooming up his sides and into his chest. They must have hit one of his kidneys and possibly an organ with how fast the anguish was spreading, making it hard to breathe in and out.
The taller looked down at the shorter, and their eyes met before they nodded. Park’s eyes widened when they both produced longer knives than the shorter ones they stabbed him with. The modulator rose again, and what he said next sent a chill right through Park’s stomach.
“We want to see what your insides look like.”
Without a beat, the two robed figures pounced on him, and in just a few minutes, Park slunked down to the concrete, leaving a painted bloodied smear across his car’s door. With satisfaction pumping through their veins, the two watched as he took his last wheezing breath before dying in a puddle consisting of almost all his blood. His body wouldn’t be found until the morning with stab wounds littering his body. His fault for parking away from everyone else in fear of his car getting scratched.
Only when the two were sure they were the only breathing beings in the lot, they ripped off the masks, and Jack huffed loudly.
“Murder was so much easier in med school when I wasn’t missing a fucking leg,” he grumbled while shifting his weight onto his real leg. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked salt-and-pepper curls.
“Tell me about it,” Robby answered. “If he were any shorter, my knees would have given out if I had to bend down.” He kicked at Park’s leg and smirked when the body recoiled slightly. “But man did that feel good.”
“I’m kinda glad he decided to go off on her. Last mistake he’d ever make, but nothing beats the rush of this.”
The memory of Park berating you in the middle of their ER flashed through their minds. They'd seen the way you flinched under his words in a way they hadn't seen in decades. They'd wanted to kill him right then and their, but Robby and Jack weren't ones to break their promises, however, the next time all three of you had the day off, you told them what you wanted between moans as Robby sandwiched you between his and Jack's chest.
"I want him gone," you had whimpered out, forehead pressing into Jack's collar bone while Robby rocked you back and forth on his cock.
"Want who gone, sweets?" Jack questioned before grunting loudly when his tip notched against your clit.
"Park—shit—I want him gone."
You wanted them to kill Park, and they were never ones to disappoint.
Robby went to say something, but the shrill of his iPhone had him digging and floundering through the drapes of robes. When he managed to bunch the fabric, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone, answering it without a second glance.
“Hello? Michael Robinavitch speaking.”
“Do you want to play a game?” a voice answered from the speaker, and the two glanced at each other with devilish, knowing smiles.
“Depends on what type of game it is, sweetheart,” Jack responded, crossing his arms against his chest.
“I wanna know how much it’ll take to make you two scream.” Your small laugh followed, you not being able to take this as seriously as the two had back in school.
Robby brought his phone up closer to his mouth. “I don’t know the exact answer, but I think you can start with being naked and face down on the bed by the time we get back.”
“I think that can be arranged. Get home soon, or I might have to play the game myself.”
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' think—"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
——
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"
"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles.
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating app….
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.
So… he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross.
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.
"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"
"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like that…"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
——
Four miles away, a phone lights up…
——
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
——
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? 😇
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.
——
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is.
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.
He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.
Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me then…
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
——
You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
“John?”
“Evenin’.”
Fuck.
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
“So you actually do ring,” you manage.
“Said so on the profile, I think.”
“I half thought it was a bit.”
“I don’t really do bits.”
“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.
“That meant to be me?”
“It’s uncanny, I know.”
The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”
“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”
“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”
“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”
“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
“No?” you tease.
“I had imagined I’d see your face.”
“Been imagining, have you?”
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”
“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”
“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
“Is that what it’s come to?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.
“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”
“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“I could do a weeknight? After work?”
There’s a pause on his end.
“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”
“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”
“It is,” he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”
“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”
“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”
“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”
“Lie-in, according to my profile.”
“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.
“Night, John.”
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
——
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.
The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
——
Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it.
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
“Fine.”
“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”
John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or…?"
"The same."
“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
——
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
———
You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
“It’s just a pub,” you tell her.
She doesn’t seem convinced.
———
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.
You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling.
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You don’t have to wait much longer for him.
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.
“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.
“So are you.”
“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
“What’ll you have?”
“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.
“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”
“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.
“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”
“The lads — your guys from work?”
“Yeah.”
“They what, talked you into it?”
“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”
“And what made them do that?”
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.
“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”
“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.
“Their exact words were a bit different.”
“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”
“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”
“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”
“Away?”
“Away.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Doing…?”
“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”
“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”
“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”
“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”
“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it.
“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”
You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.
“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”
“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
“No—I know. I just—”
“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”
“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”
“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
It’s going well.
It’s going suspiciously well.
And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—
“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”
He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”
“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it.
“Say it out loud anyway.”
“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”
“Ten.”
“Mm.”
“A whole decade.”
“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”
“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”
“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”
“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”
“Mm.”
“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug.
“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.
“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”
“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue.
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.
“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”
“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”
“Yeah? And what was the answer?”
“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”
Something in your chest slides sideways.
“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.
“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”
You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—
“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you grin.
“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”
“I suppose I could be patient.”
“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.
“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.
And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.
“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.
“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
“Walk me home?” you ask.
“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”
“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.
——
The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he—
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"So…”
You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.
"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.
“Can I look at you now?” he tries.
“Yeah.”
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”
“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”
“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”
“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”
“When you put it like that…”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”
And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.
“Would you like to come up?”
——
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering.
He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean.
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.
Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“Not at all.”
“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”
“Mm?”
“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”
“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.
“Definitely not.”
The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”
“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
“Can I?”
“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
“Oh my god— okay— okay—”
“Mm.”
“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"
"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”
"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"
John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.
"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"
"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”
"—okay maybe move a little—"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.
“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek.
“Don’t think, then.”
It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You don’t think.
He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—
“Harder?” he asks against your ear.
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.
"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob.
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves — it takes you under, and you pull him with you.
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—
How good—
How gorgeous—
You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—
It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
“No?” you ask.
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.
“Alright," you agree.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.
"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
——
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.
“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: a quiet night alone in the dorm turns into an unforgettable first meeting for you and john logan.
pairing: john logan x fem! reader
warnings: not much honestly, a bit of nudity (reader is in a bralette), cussing
notes: here's my first ever john logan fic!!! pretty short but very cute and i def wanna write more for him the future so feel free to send a message with a request!!
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / next
Honestly, having the dorm to yourself for the night was kind of amazing.
You loved Hannah and Allie, you really did, but sometimes you desperately needed a little alone time. Especially because your apartment had somehow become the designated "Allie Freakout Headquarters." Midterms? Allie panicked here. Relationship problems? Here. Hockey drama? Somehow also here.
Peace and quiet had become a rare luxury.
So you took full advantage of it.
You finally tackled the mountain of clothes that had been steadily growing on your bedroom floor because, honestly, between classes and work, you hadn't had the energy to care. The laundry still wasn't folded, but at least everything was off the floor.
Then, after staring at the stack for weeks, you finally caved and organized the massive record collection you, Hannah, and Allie had accumulated. Alphabetical order. Artist first, then album. It was weirdly satisfying.
By the time you finished, the apartment actually looked...clean.
For once, there weren't any assignments hanging over your head. No papers due at midnight. No readings you'd procrastinated until the last second. You could finally breathe.
Headphones settled comfortably over your ears, you cranked up Just Like Heaven by The Cure until it drowned out everything else. Within minutes, you were dancing around the apartment.
Barefoot. Baggy gray sweatpants hanging low on your hips. A black lace bralette that was comfortable enough to lounge in.
Not another soul around to judge you.
You wandered from room to room with your eyes closed, singing every lyric from memory, using a wooden spoon as a microphone before eventually swapping it for your hairbrush. You spun dramatically through the living room before launching yourself onto your bed, performing for an audience that definitely did not exist.
Completely lost in your own little concert, you never heard the knock at the front door. Or the second one. Or the sound of someone trying the doorknob.
Outside, John Logan frowned.
"Hello?" he called through the door, hearing movement somewhere inside.
He knocked again.
"Hannah?" he called louder. "Garrett said to grab his jersey! He left it here!"
Nothing.
He waited another few seconds before sighing.
Garrett's text was still open on his phone.
If they're not there, spare key's under the mat. The one that says "Go Away Please."
John had been hoping someone would answer. Breaking into his friend's girlfriend's apartment, even with permission, felt a little weird. But Garrett had practice, wanted his jersey back, and apparently trusted the girls enough to leave a spare key outside.
John shrugged.
"If I get murdered," he muttered to himself, fishing the key out from under the mat, "I'm haunting him."
The lock clicked open. He stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind him. The apartment was empty.
Well...
Mostly.
He could hear footsteps somewhere down the hallway.
And...
Was that singing?
"Hannah?" he called cautiously.
Nothing.
"Allie?"
Still nothing.
The singing only got louder. John stood awkwardly in the entryway for another second before taking a few hesitant steps farther inside. Then someone came spinning out of the hallway.
You.
Eyes closed.
Hands running dramatically through your hair as you belted out the chorus with absolutely zero concern for the outside world.
John froze. He should probably say something.
Instead...
He watched.
Not in a creepy way.
Just...
You looked so genuinely happy. You were dancing around like no one was watching, which, until about ten seconds ago, had been completely true.
A grin slowly spread across his face. He'd never seen you before, but judging by how comfortable you looked, you obviously lived here.
And...
You were really pretty.
Like...
Really pretty.
Then your eyes opened. You froze mid-spin.
Your brain took approximately half a second to register the fact that there was an unfamiliar six-foot hockey player standing in your living room.
You screamed. "What the fuck?!"
John nearly jumped out of his skin.
"It's okay!" he said immediately, throwing both hands into the air. "I'm not robbing you!"
You stared at him. He stared back.
Neither of you moved.
"I—"
"You literally broke into our apartment!"
"I used the key!"
"That's somehow worse!"
"No, wait—"
You grabbed the nearest object you could find, a throw pillow, and pointed it at him like it was a weapon.
"Explain."
John couldn't help the nervous laugh that escaped him.
"Garrett sent me."
Your eyebrows pulled together.
"...Garrett?"
"Yeah." He nodded quickly. "Garrett Graham. Hannah's boyfriend?"
You blinked. "I know who Garrett is."
"Right. Good. That would've been awkward."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"He left his hockey jersey here and texted me to come grab it because he's already at the rink. Said there was a spare key under the mat."
You stared at him for another few seconds.
Then...
Very slowly...
Your shoulders relaxed. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"...I almost hit you with a pillow."
"I've taken body checks harder than that."
A reluctant laugh escaped you. "Don't get cocky."
"Oh, I absolutely am."
You rolled your eyes despite yourself.
Silence settled between you for a second.
Then John smiled. "I'm John, by the way."
"The John Logan?"
"The one and only."
You couldn't help smiling. "I'm Y/N."
"Nice to officially meet you."
You smiled politely before noticing his eyes flick downward for the briefest second. Following his gaze, you looked down. Black lace bralette. Bare shoulders. Barefoot. Hair sticking out in every direction from your one-woman concert.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Heat rushed to your face so fast it actually made your ears burn. You immediately folded your arms across yourself.
"I—"
John's own face turned red almost instantly. "I wasn't—"
"Nope."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"I know."
"I swear."
"I know!"
He looked genuinely horrified with himself. Which somehow made the situation even funnier. Trying to recover what little dignity you had left, you cleared your throat.
"Hannah's room."
John blinked. "What?"
"The jersey."
You pointed toward the hallway.
"It's probably in Hannah's room."
"Oh."
Right. The reason he'd come over.
"Thanks."
He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving you enough time to dramatically bury your face in your hands.
"Oh my God..."
Of all days...
Five minutes later, John reappeared holding Garrett's jersey triumphantly. "Found it."
"Nice."
Neither of you seemed entirely sure how to end the conversation.
John scratched the back of his neck. "Well..."
"I should probably..."
"Yeah."
He reached for the doorknob before pausing.
Turning back toward you, that signature Logan grin spread across his face.
"Oh."
You looked up.
"Great song, by the way."
Your eyes widened.
"You could hear that?"
"You were kinda killing your eardrums with those headphones."
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. "Oh my God."
"And," he continued, clearly enjoying himself now, "your air guitar technique?"
"No."
"Pretty impressive."
"No."
"Eight out of ten."
"You need to leave."
John laughed. "Fair."
He opened the door. "See you around, Y/N."
Before you could think of anything remotely clever to say back, the door clicked shut behind him. The apartment fell silent again. You stood there for several long seconds.
Then slowly slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor. "...Shit."
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: after an embarrassing first meeting, your new job as briar hockey's team photographer keeps bringing you and john logan together, and what starts as playful teasing quickly turns into effortless flirting, shared laughs, and an invitation she can't quite bring herself to turn down.
pairing: john logan x fem! reader
warnings: not much honestly, cussing, probably inaccurate descriptions of both hockey and photography
notes: okay here's the second part!!! i'm enjoying writing john logan fics sm already AND once again if you have an requests always feel free to ask!!
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / pervious / next
"So..." Allie began slowly, folding her arms across her chest. "Logan was here while we were gone last night... and he caught you dancing around in a bra?"
You groaned. You honestly regretted opening your mouth. Normally you couldn't keep anything from Hannah or Allie, but maybe, just maybe, you should've made this your first secret.
"For the thousandth time," you sighed, rubbing your temples, "yes."
Allie exchanged a look with Hannah.
"So..." Hannah started.
"No."
"He walked in—"
"Yes."
"You screamed?"
"Yes."
"He saw the whole concert?"
You dropped your head into your hands. "Yes."
"Hairbrush microphone and everything?"
"Especially the hairbrush microphone."
Both girls dissolved into laughter.
"Oh my God," Allie wheezed, leaning against your desk for support. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry but that is objectively hilarious."
"It wasn't hilarious," you mumbled into your pillow.
"It kind of was."
"It was traumatic."
"It'll be funny in, like, three days."
"Maybe thirty years."
Allie crossed the room before sitting beside you on the bed, gently cupping your cheeks between her hands.
"Babe."
You looked up reluctantly.
"It really isn't that bad."
You stared at her. "It absolutely is."
"No, listen." She smiled reassuringly. "At least he didn't walk in during that skincare phase where you looked like you were auditioning for a horror movie."
Hannah gasped dramatically. "The charcoal face mask!"
"And the coconut hair mask at the same time," Allie added.
"You looked... moist."
"I hate both of you."
"We're just saying," Hannah laughed as she plopped down beside you, "it could've been way worse."
You flopped backward dramatically onto the bed. "I'm never showing my face again."
"Oh my God," Allie laughed. "You're so dramatic."
"No, I'm realistic."
"You are absolutely dramatic."
You hugged one of your throw pillows tightly against your chest with a defeated groan. "That was literally the hottest guy I've ever seen, and I was jumping around my room pretending a hairbrush was a microphone."
"You also screamed at him."
"I accused him of breaking in."
"He technically did break in."
"With permission!"
You buried your face deeper into the pillow. "I've ruined my life."
There was a brief silence.
Then Allie's eyes widened. "Wait."
You looked up cautiously.
"You think John Logan is hot?"
You pointed a finger at her. "That is completely beside the point."
"No, no, no." Hannah sat up straighter, grinning from ear to ear. "That is absolutely the point."
"It is not."
"Y/N." Hannah grabbed your shoulders dramatically. "We’ve gone to Briar for three years?"
"Yeah?"
"And have you shown any interest in literally any hockey player?"
"...No."
"Any football player?"
"No."
"Any lacrosse player?"
"No."
"Any guy?"
You hesitated. "...Not really."
Hannah looked triumphantly at Allie. "Exactly!"
"You think John Logan is hot!" Allie practically squealed.
"Oh my God."
"This is huge."
"It is not huge."
"It is for you!"
You sighed heavily. "It doesn't matter."
Both girls stopped smiling.
"It really doesn't," you continued quietly. "He probably thinks I'm a complete weirdo."
"He doesn't."
"You don't know that."
"We kind of do."
"You guys have seen me dance."
"Yeah?"
"It's... not exactly graceful."
"It has personality," Hannah offered.
"It has enthusiasm," Allie corrected.
"It has something."
"It has embarrassment."
Allie nudged your shoulder. "Okay, but what if he doesn't care?"
You blinked.
"What if," she continued, "he thought it was cute?"
You gave her the flattest look imaginable. "You're delusional."
"No, I'm optimistic."
"I vote delusional," Hannah chimed in.
"Traitor."
You sighed again. "You two seriously need to let this go. I'm not getting a boyfriend anytime soon, so we can all just move on."
Allie stared at you. Then rolled her eyes so dramatically you thought they might actually get stuck.
"Y/N, you are being so self-deprecating that it's starting to annoy me."
You frowned.
"You're gorgeous."
"Allie—"
"No, let me finish."
She pointed directly at you.
"You're funny, you're smart, and honestly?" She shrugged matter-of-factly. "You have amazing boobs."
Hannah immediately burst out laughing.
"That is... definitely one of your stronger selling points."
"Oh my God."
"I'm just being honest!"
"What if he's an ass guy?" Hannah asked thoughtfully.
Allie gasped. "Impossible."
"There are ass guys."
"There are, but Logan?"
"Hmm..."
The two of them immediately launched into a full-blown debate about whether John Logan was an ass guy or a boobs guy, pulling in increasingly ridiculous pieces of "evidence" based on absolutely nothing.
You decided it was healthier not to participate. Instead, you reached into your pocket for your phone. The screen lit up. Your eyes widened.
"...Oh my God."
"What?" Hannah asked, still halfway through arguing that hockey players appreciated athletic thighs.
You stared at the time again. "...Oh my God."
Without another word, you practically launched yourself off the bed.
"What are you doing?" Allie asked as you hurried to your closet.
"I completely forgot!"
You yanked on a pair of low-rise jeans before pulling a fitted black long-sleeve shirt over your head. It stopped just above your waistband, leaving a thin strip of skin visible. You shoved your feet into your Uggs before rushing over to the vanity, quickly twisting your hair into a messy bun.
Not perfect. Good enough.
"Uh..." Hannah watched you sprint around the room. "Should we be concerned?"
"I have to be at the rink in fifteen minutes!"
Both girls blinked.
"The rink?" Allie repeated.
"My photography internship starts today!"
"Oh!"
You hurried over to your camera equipment, breathing a sigh of relief when you remembered charging everything the night before. One camera body. Backup batteries. Memory cards. Lenses. Laptop. Everything was quickly stuffed into your oversized tote bag.
"Wait," Hannah said. "Today's your first day?"
"Yep!"
"And you forgot?"
"I was a little distracted!"
You slung the bag over your shoulder before grabbing your keys. "I'll see you guys later!"
Before either of them could respond, you were already halfway out the door.
A second later, the front door shut behind you. Silence settled over the apartment.
Hannah slowly turned toward Allie. "...Maybe we should've told her."
Allie grinned mischievously. "Nah."
She leaned back against the couch with a smirk. "It's way more fun this way."
Hannah laughed. "Poor Y/N has absolutely no idea."
"And neither does Logan."
Something told them this was going to be very entertaining.
—
Coach Jensen had been talking for what felt like an eternity.
Five minutes in, Logan had completely checked out, and judging by the glazed-over expressions on most of his teammates' faces, he wasn't the only one. The entire team stood on the ice in full practice gear, sticks resting against the surface as Coach Jensen continued pacing along the bench.
"I need every single one of you to keep your heads in the game this season," Jensen continued. "I can't have anyone slacking off, and I definitely can't have anyone assuming talent alone is enough to win hockey games."
Logan absentmindedly shifted his weight from one skate to the other. Beside him, Garrett let out the quietest sigh imaginable. Tucker was twirling his stick. Dean was looking everywhere except at Coach.
Nobody was listening anymore.
"I expect every one of you to—"
Coach Jensen stopped mid-sentence.
The sharp sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the otherwise quiet rink. Nearly every player instinctively turned toward the entrance.
Logan did too.
A girl hurried down the stairs leading to the bench, an oversized tote bag bouncing against her side and a camera hanging around her neck. She looked like she'd sprinted across campus to get there, strands of hair already escaping the messy bun she'd clearly thrown together in a rush.
Logan recognized her immediately. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Well...
This was unexpected.
You slowed to a stop beside Coach Jensen, still catching your breath.
"Hi, Coach Jensen," you said with an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry I'm late. I promise it won't happen again."
Jensen waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. We were just about to get started."
You let out a quiet breath of relief. "Thank you."
Coach Jensen turned back toward the team.
"Alright, listen up for a second."
The players' attention shifted from him... to you.
"This is Y/N," he announced. "She'll be our team photographer for the rest of the season. She'll be covering games, events, and she'll also be around for practices every now and then."
Every set of eyes landed on you.
You offered an awkward little wave. "Hi."
A few of the guys nodded politely.
Someone in the back gave you a quiet, "Hey."
Trying not to feel intimidated by the twenty-something hockey players staring at you, your eyes drifted across the lineup.
One face. Then another. Then—
Oh.
Your stomach dropped.
John Logan.
Your eyes widened ever so slightly.
Of course. How could you forget that?
Your smile faltered for the briefest second before you quickly looked back toward Coach Jensen.
Maybe if you pretended not to notice him—
Curiosity got the better of you. You glanced back.
Big mistake.
Logan was already looking at you. And smiling. Not laughing. Not smirking. Just smiling. Like he was just as amused by the coincidence as you were horrified.
Heat immediately crept into your cheeks. It definitely wasn't because of the cold air inside the rink.
Logan noticed. Of course he noticed. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning even wider.
She remembered him.
Cute. Very cute.
You, on the other hand, were seriously considering whether it was too late to quit your internship.
"Alright," Coach Jensen called, clapping his hands together. "Let's get to work. First drill."
That finally pulled Logan's attention away from you.
Beside him, Garrett gave his shoulder a playful shove. "Quit staring and get moving."
Logan scoffed. "I wasn't staring."
Garrett gave him a look that very clearly said sure you weren't before skating off toward the shooting drill that had already been set up.
With a small shake of his head, Logan pushed off after him, skating backward across the ice while casually glancing over toward the bench. He watched as you spoke quietly with Coach Jensen for another minute, nodding along while he pointed out a few things around the rink.
Then you hurried over to one of the seats in the front row, right against the glass.
Setting your oversized tote bag down beside you, you carefully pulled out your camera body and lenses, double-checking your settings before attaching the zoom lens. After a quick test shot of the empty net, you frowned slightly.
The glass. It was going to cause reflections.
Thinking it over for a second, you picked everything back up and walked down toward the players' bench instead, where you'd have a much clearer view of the ice.
Much better.
You adjusted the camera strap around your neck before lifting the camera to your eye, testing the framing as the team got into position for drills.
Then, almost without thinking, you looked up.
Logan was already looking at you. Again.
This time, though...
You didn't immediately look away. You held his gaze for a second. Long enough to feel the familiar warmth creeping into your cheeks.
Long enough for him to notice.
The corner of Logan's mouth lifted into an easy smile.
He raised one gloved hand in a small wave.
A simple, almost teasing little hi.
You couldn't help it. You smiled back before giving him an equally small wave with the hand that wasn't holding your camera.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
Then—
Clack!
Garrett smacked the blade of his stick against Logan's.
"Hey, Romeo."
Logan looked over.
"The puck," Garrett said, nodding toward the drill. "It's over here."
A few of the guys nearby chuckled.
Logan rolled his eyes. "Relax."
"I'm perfectly relaxed."
"Mhm."
Garrett skated ahead with a grin. "You've looked at the photographer more than you've looked at Coach all morning."
Logan simply shoved Garrett's shoulder as he caught up to him.
"Shut up."
Garrett only laughed harder.
—
The two-hour practice flew by. To your surprise, you actually had a lot of fun.
By the end of it, you'd filled multiple memory cards with photos. Hockey was so much faster than anything you'd photographed before, and while you'd definitely missed a few shots early on, you'd started getting the hang of tracking the players through your lens.
By the final drill, you were actually proud of some of the photos you'd captured.
As Coach Jensen blew the whistle to end practice, the players quickly skated toward the tunnel, chatting amongst themselves as they headed for the locker room.
You stayed behind on the bench, carefully packing away your equipment. Camera body. Extra lens. Memory cards. Batteries. Everything had its place.
You had just slung your oversized tote bag over your shoulder when a familiar voice spoke up.
"Get any good shots?"
You looked up.
John Logan was leaning casually against the boards, one arm resting across the top as he looked down at you.
You blinked. You hadn't even noticed he'd stayed behind. Your face warmed almost instantly.
Get it together, Y/N.
You forced yourself to smile. "I think so."
"You think so?"
"I won't really know until I look through all of them."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Fair."
You adjusted the strap of your camera bag.
"But yeah," you added. "I think I got some good ones."
"Good." He smiled. "Would've been a shame if you froze your ass off in here for nothing."
You let out a small laugh. "I wasn't freezing."
"You weren't?"
"No."
You shifted your tote bag higher onto your shoulder, trying your best to sound convincing. "Not at all."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"
"Really."
He looked you up and down for a second. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable. More like he was gathering evidence.
Finally, he smiled. "You spent the entire practice hiding your hands inside your sleeves."
You instinctively looked down.
Sure enough...
Your hands had disappeared into the sleeves of your sweatshirt again.
You immediately tugged them back out.
"I..."
Logan laughed.
"I wasn't cold."
"Mhm."
"I wasn't!"
"You absolutely were."
"I just like oversized sleeves."
"Oh, that's what it was?"
"Exactly."
He nodded slowly, pretending to believe you. "Totally unrelated to the fact that it's, like, twenty-five degrees in here."
You crossed your arms. "It's called fashion."
He laughed again, shaking his head. "Right. My mistake."
"It was."
"You know..." he said, pushing himself off the boards, "for someone who claims she wasn't cold..."
"What?"
"...your nose got red."
You instinctively reached up and covered it. "It did not."
"It did."
"It absolutely did not."
He grinned. "I've got pretty good eyesight."
"You're making that up."
"I play hockey."
"Congratulations?"
"My vision's great."
You couldn't help laughing. "You are unbelievable."
"So I've been told."
There it was again. That stupidly charming grin. The one that made it incredibly difficult to stay embarrassed around him.
You rolled your eyes, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "I should probably go edit these."
"You probably should."
You took a few steps toward the exit before turning back.
"...Thanks."
"For what?"
"For not making the whole..." You awkwardly gestured between the two of you. "...apartment thing even more embarrassing than it already was."
Logan's expression softened just a little. "I thought it was kind of funny."
You groaned. "Please don't remind me."
"I'm serious."He shrugged. "It was cute."
You stared at him. "...Cute?"
"Yeah." He smiled. "I've definitely seen people embarrass themselves in worse ways."
Your heart did an annoyingly dramatic little flip.
"Besides," he added, taking a few steps backward toward the locker room, "you've got good taste in music."
You laughed, shaking your head. "I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel better."
"It should."
He flashed you one last grin. "See you around, photographer."
Before you could think of a witty response, he disappeared through the tunnel toward the locker room.
You stood there for another few seconds. Then let out a slow breath. He somehow managed to be even more attractive when you actually talked to him.
—
"These are really impressive for your first time shooting hockey, Y/N."
A genuine smile spread across your face as your photography professor clicked through the photos from yesterday's practice on your laptop.
"I mean it," he continued, pausing on a shot of Logan taking a slap shot. "Sports photography has a steep learning curve. The pace is fast, the lighting isn't always great, and hockey is one of the harder sports to shoot."
You smiled proudly. "I definitely figured that out."
He chuckled. "But you've got a good eye. You know where to be, and you're already anticipating the action instead of reacting to it."
He closed the laptop before handing it back to you. "I think with a little more experience, you're going to be very good at this."
"Thank you."
You carefully slid the laptop back into your backpack.
"I struggled a little at the beginning of practice, but I think I started figuring it out toward the end."
Your professor nodded. "It shows."
"And there's a game tonight," you added excitedly. "Hopefully I'll come back with even better photos."
"I'll be looking forward to seeing them next week."
"Thanks, Professor."
With one last smile, he moved on to another student's work.
You packed the rest of your things, still smiling to yourself. It felt good. Really good.
You'd been nervous about taking on the internship. Sports photography wasn't something you'd ever done before, and walking into that rink yesterday had been intimidating enough without realizing John Logan played for Briar.
But hearing your professor praise your work...
Maybe you really could do this. The thought stayed with you as you left the building and stepped outside.
The bitter winter air hit your face immediately. You instinctively hunched your shoulders and buried your chin deeper into your hoodie as fresh snow crunched beneath your Uggs with every step.
"I hate winter," you muttered to yourself.
Still...
You couldn't stop smiling. You kept replaying your professor's comments in your head as you made your way across campus, so caught up in your thoughts that you didn't notice the three hockey players walking toward you from the opposite direction.
Garrett was in the middle of telling some story that had Tucker laughing so hard he nearly walked into a snowbank.
Logan, however, wasn't paying much attention.
"...and then the professor actually believed him," Garrett finished with a laugh.
"No way," Tucker said, shaking his head.
"Swear."
Logan wasn't really listening anymore. His attention had drifted across the crowded sidewalk.
Then he spotted you. Walking by yourself. Head down. Smiling to yourself.
Without even thinking about it, he slowed to a stop.
Garrett and Tucker took another few steps before realizing Logan wasn't beside them anymore.
"Uh..." He gave them a quick pat on Garrett's shoulder as he started backing away. "Yeah, I'll catch you guys later."
Garrett frowned. "What?"
"I'll see you guys at the rink."
Before either of them could ask another question, Logan turned and jogged across the snow-covered path toward you.
The two of them watched him disappear into the crowd.
Garrett blinked. "...What was that about?"
Tucker followed the direction Logan had run. A few seconds later, he spotted you.
"...Oh."
Garrett looked where Tucker was looking. "Oh."
The corners of Garrett's mouth slowly lifted into a grin.
Tucker snorted. "I give him two days before he's asking Hannah for her number."
Garret shook his head. "I'll give him until after tonight's game."
"Hey, photographer!"
The familiar voice pulled you out of your thoughts.
You turned around to see John Logan jogging to catch up, a crooked grin already spread across his face. Despite yourself, you smiled back.
He finally came to a stop in front of you, letting out a small breath as if he'd run just enough to catch you before you got too far ahead.
You shoved your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, partly because of the cold and partly because you suddenly didn't know what to do with them.
"I do have a name, you know."
"I know." He nodded thoughtfully. "But photographer is more fun."
You raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"
"I think so."
"I disagree."
"Well..." He shrugged, that annoyingly charming smile never leaving his face. "Good thing I'm the one saying it."
You rolled your eyes. "Okay, sure."
The two of you started walking again, falling into step beside each other as you made your way across the snowy campus.
After a moment, Logan glanced over at you. "I see you finally dressed for the weather today."
You looked over at him, confused. "What?"
He motioned toward your outfit.
"Hoodie. Jacket." His eyes flicked down to your Uggs before looking back up at you. "Actual winter clothes."
You laughed. "I was wearing winter clothes yesterday."
"Were you?"
"Yes."
He gave you a look. "You spent two hours at the rink trying to make that long sleeve feel like it was warm."
"I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
"I just like oversized sleeves."
"Mhm."
"And for the record," you added, trying to defend yourself, "I survived."
"Barely."
You gasped. "I did not barely survive."
Logan laughed. "You had your hands hidden inside your sleeves the entire practice."
"They were comfortable."
"They were freezing."
"They were not."
He shook his head, smiling. "I don't know... I think today's outfit is a much better strategy."
You nudged his arm lightly with yours. "Are you always this annoying?"
"Only when people lie to me."
"I wasn't lying."
"You were."
"I was being... optimistic."
He grinned. "Well, I'm glad to see our team photographer is appropriately dressed today."
You smiled despite yourself. "How thoughtful of you."
"I have my moments."
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you continued walking.
Then Logan glanced over again.
"So," he asked, "how'd the photos turn out?"
A smile immediately returned to your face. "My professor actually loved them."
"He did?"
You nodded, your smile growing bigger as you talked. "He said they're really good for my first time shooting hockey. He said I have a good eye for where the action is going to happen."
Logan watched the way your entire expression changed.
Yesterday, you'd been so embarrassed around him that you could barely look at him for more than a few seconds.
But now...
You were completely different. Your eyes lit up when you talked about photography, and there was this excitement in your voice that he couldn't help noticing.
She's cute when she's happy.
The thought came so easily that it almost caught him off guard.
Actually...
She was cute all the time. But seeing you talk about something you clearly loved?
Yeah. That was something else.
"I told you they'd be good," he said, a small smile pulling at his lips.
You glanced over at him. "...You literally never saw them."
"I didn't have to."
"Oh?"
"Nope."
He shrugged. "You cared enough to stand out in a freezing rink for two hours taking pictures. I figured they'd turn out pretty good."
The confidence in his answer made you laugh before you could stop yourself.
"There it is," Logan said, pointing at you triumphantly.
You looked over. "What?"
"You laughed."
"So?"
"So..." He grinned. "Yesterday you looked like you wanted to crawl under the ice every time I talked to you."
Your cheeks warmed. "I did not."
"You kinda did."
"I was just embarrassed."
"I noticed."
You groaned. "Thanks for reminding me."
"Anytime."
You nudged his shoulder again. "You're the worst."
"Nah."
He looked over at you, smiling. "If I was the worst, you wouldn't be laughing."
Another laugh escaped you.
"There it is again."
"Oh my God."
"Twice in one conversation."
"You've been counting?"
"I've got to keep track of my victories somehow."
"You call making me laugh a victory?"
"Absolutely."
You shook your head, smiling. "You are unbelievable."
"I've been told."
The two of you walked a little farther, the conversation feeling surprisingly easy.
And maybe that was the weirdest part. Yesterday, you'd been convinced John Logan walking into your dorm was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to you.
Now...
You were walking across campus with him, laughing like you'd known him longer than a day.
"Don't let this go to your head," you finally said.
His grin only widened. "Too late."
The two of you eventually reached the building where your next class was located.
You slowed to a stop outside the entrance, motioning toward the doors. "My class is here."
A small blush crept onto your face as you said it, mostly because you suddenly felt weirdly aware that this was the end of your little walk together.
Logan noticed. Of course he noticed. But instead of pointing it out, he just smiled down at you.
"Well..." he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I'll see you later then."
You nodded. "Yeah. See you."
You turned toward the steps, starting to walk toward the entrance.
You'd barely made it a few steps before—
"Hey, Y/N!"
Your entire body froze. You slowly turned around.
A few students nearby had already looked over at the sound of Logan's voice. Of course they had. Because apparently John Logan had no concept of speaking at a normal volume.
You looked back at him, trying not to laugh. "Yeah?"
This time, your voice was noticeably quieter.
Logan's grin widened. He absolutely knew what he was doing.
"You coming to the game later?"
The question was much less dramatic this time, his voice finally at a normal volume.
You smiled. "Yeah. I'll be there."
His face lit up slightly. "Good."
He started walking backward, still facing you.
"See you there then!"
You stared at him for a second. Then, because you didn't know what else to do, you gave him a thumbs up.
A thumbs up.
Out of every possible response...
A thumbs up. You immediately regretted it.
The people nearby were definitely looking now.
Logan noticed too. And judging by the laugh that escaped him, he found your embarrassment incredibly entertaining.
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your smile. "Bye, Logan."
"Bye, photographer."
You shook your head but couldn't stop yourself from smiling as you quickly turned and walked into the building.
The second the doors closed behind you, you let out a quiet breath. You had no idea why your heart was beating a little faster.
It was just John Logan.
That was it.
Nothing more.
At least that was what you told yourself as you walked toward class, desperately trying not to think about the warm feeling settling in your chest.
—
"Are you serious?"
Allie stared at you in disbelief.
"...What?"
You instinctively looked down at yourself, trying to figure out what she was talking about.
You'd gotten to the rink early so you could get settled before warmups started, making sure all your camera gear was ready to go. A few minutes later, Allie had texted asking you to meet her and Hannah in the lobby before they headed to the stands.
You looked down at the oversized blue long-sleeve Briar Hockey shirt you were wearing.
Okay. It wasn't exactly fashionable. It hung almost halfway down your thighs, the sleeves were far too long, and it looked like someone had handed you the first shirt they found in the equipment room.
But...
"Coach Jensen told me to wear something with Briar Hockey on it."
"So you picked the least flattering thing they own?"
"I didn't pick it."
"Babe." Allie stepped closer, grabbing the excess fabric around your waist. "You're gorgeous. We can work with this."
She tugged the material back, trying to see what it would look like tied. "There."
"Allie."
"It has potential."
You laughed, gently swatting her hands away. "I'm working."
"I know."
"So I'm not tying hockey merch into a crop top."
"You could."
"I won't."
"It'd be cute."
"It'd get me fired."
Allie rolled her eyes dramatically before throwing her hands into the air. "Fine."
She sighed. "But I'm finding you something cuter for next game."
Before you could answer, another voice joined the conversation.
"What is that?"
You turned just in time to see Hannah walking over.
She took one look at your shirt.
"...Oh."
You groaned. "Not you too."
Allie pointed triumphantly. "See? She gets it!"
Hannah tilted her head. "...Why is it so big?"
"I don't know," you defended. "I didn't exactly spend twenty minutes looking through all the options. Jensen just told me to wear Briar Hockey stuff, and this was clean."
"But..."
You crossed your arms. "It's warm."
Hannah nodded thoughtfully. "Fair."
Then she frowned again.
"But why not a hoodie?"
You sighed. "Because the hood gets in the way when I've got my camera strapped around my neck."
"...Okay, that's actually a good point."
"Thank you."
You looked between the two of them.
"Besides, it doesn't matter."
Both of them raised an eyebrow.
"I'm just taking pictures."
"So?"
"No one's going to be looking at me."
Allie snorted. "You've met hockey players, right?"
You ignored her.
"You two, on the other hand..." You pointed between them with a smile. "Actually look cute."
Allie grinned.
"Aww."
"Thanks."
Then she immediately pointed back at your shirt.
"But I'm still finding you something less hideous."
"What exactly is less hideous?"
The familiar voice made all three of you turn around. John Logan stood a few feet away, hockey bag slung over one shoulder as he made his way toward the locker room.
He'd clearly caught the end of the conversation.
"Noth—"
"Oh, nothing," Allie interrupted before you could finish.
She smiled far too innocently. "We were just telling Y/N that Coach Jensen made her wear Briar Hockey merch, and Hannah and I think the long-sleeve is... well..."
"Horrendous," Hannah supplied.
"A little tragic," Allie corrected.
"And she'll probably freeze in the rink."
You shot Allie a look that practically screamed, Are you serious?
She pretended not to notice.
Logan's eyes shifted from Allie...
...to Hannah...
...before finally settling on you.
A slow smile spread across his face. "Oh, is that right?"
You immediately shook your head. "I'm fine."
"She's not," Allie answered for you.
"I'm literally standing right here."
"And I'm literally helping."
Logan chuckled.
"I wasn't cold yesterday either," you muttered.
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Oh, don't start."
"I distinctly remember someone insisting they weren't freezing."
You pointed at him. "I knew bringing that up would come back to haunt me."
"It absolutely was."
Before you could come up with another comeback, Logan quietly set his hockey bag on the floor. Without saying another word, he shrugged off his tan Carhartt jacket.
You frowned. "...What are you doing?"
He held it out toward you. "Wear this."
Your eyes widened. "What?"
"You said the shirt's warm."
"It is."
"But the lobby isn't and neither is the rink."
You looked between him and the jacket. "I can't take your jacket."
"Sure you can."
"I'll give it back before the game."
He shrugged.
"I've got about twenty pounds of hockey gear to keep me warm."
You still hesitated. "I don't know..."
Logan smiled. "Humor me."
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then, with an exaggerated sigh, you reached out and took the jacket.
It was warm from where he'd been wearing it. "...Thanks."
"You're welcome."
He picked his hockey bag back up before taking a few steps toward the locker room.
Halfway there, he looked back over his shoulder.
"See you in there."
You smiled despite yourself. "See you."
The second he disappeared down the hallway, the silence lasted all of three seconds. Then Allie slowly turned toward you with the biggest grin you'd ever seen.
"Oh..."
Hannah was grinning just as much.
"My..."
You closed your eyes. "...Don't."
"God," Allie finished anyway.
"You are never hearing the end of this."
You groaned, pulling Logan's jacket on as the sleeves swallowed your hands. "...I hate both of you."
"No, you don't," Hannah laughed.
You looked down at the jacket, unable to stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips.
"...Yeah," you admitted quietly.
"I really don't."
—
The game had gone surprisingly well for Briar.
By the start of the third period, they were already up by three goals, and the energy inside the arena was electric.
You'd quickly realized one thing, though. You definitely did not understand hockey as well as you thought you did.
Every few minutes the crowd would suddenly erupt around you, whistles would blow, or everyone would start booing for reasons you couldn't quite figure out.
More than once, you found yourself looking over at Hannah with a confused expression.
"What happened?" you'd mouthed through the glass.
She'd either yell, "Offside!" or "Penalty!" while making some gesture that honestly didn't clear anything up.
You'd just nodded like you understood. Truthfully, it didn't really matter. You weren't there to analyze the game. You were there to capture it. And judging by the thousands of photos sitting on your camera's memory card already, you were doing exactly that.
You'd managed to catch huge saves, hard checks along the boards, celebrations after goals, and even a couple of shots of Coach Jensen yelling from the bench that you were pretty sure he'd either love... or absolutely hate.
The guys had also figured out pretty quickly where you were stationed. Every now and then, someone would skate past the bench, notice your camera pointed in their direction, and shamelessly pose before rejoining the play.
Tucker had pointed dramatically at the camera after scoring. Garrett had flashed an exaggerated thumbs-up while waiting for a faceoff. Even Dean had somehow managed to wink at your camera before skating away.
You couldn't help laughing every single time.
They really were impossible.
But your favorite photo so far...
That belonged to Logan.
After scoring his first goal of the night, he'd skated toward the glass with a huge grin, throwing one fist into the air before pointing toward the Briar student section as his teammates swarmed him.
You'd managed to catch the exact moment.
His smile. The excitement. The spray of ice beneath his skates.
It was easily your favorite shot of the night. You couldn't wait to edit it later.
As the third and final period got underway, you lifted your camera back to your eye, adjusting your settings one last time before the referee's whistle echoed through the arena.
The game only got better from there. Briar came out flying, adding three more goals to the scoreboard before the final buzzer sounded.
6–3.
A pretty successful first game, if you did say so yourself.
You stayed focused even after the clock hit zero, snapping photos of the team celebrating at center ice before they broke apart to skate around the rink.
A few players tossed pucks over the glass to kids in the front rows. Others waved to family and friends in the stands. Garrett somehow managed to get Coach Jensen laughing. Dean was pretending to sign an imaginary autograph for one of the freshmen in the student section.
The whole atmosphere felt lighter now that the pressure of the game was gone.
Once you were sure you'd gotten everything you needed, you finally lowered your camera.
Time to pack up.
You settled onto the front-row bench behind the glass, setting your camera in your lap as you carefully detached the lens before placing both back into your padded camera bag. Extra batteries. Memory cards. Lens cloth. Everything had its place.
You were so focused on packing that you barely noticed the players still skating around the ice.
Tap.
You looked up. Logan was standing on the other side of the glass.
He had one glove off and was tapping the glass lightly with his knuckles, his helmet tucked under one arm and his hockey stick resting against his shoulder. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction after taking his helmet off, and despite looking exhausted, he still wore that same easy grin.
You couldn't help smiling back. Still holding your camera, you continued packing while looking up at him.
"Good game!" you called through the glass.
He leaned in slightly so he could hear you better. "Yeah?"
You laughed. "I mean it."
You pointed toward him. "You okay? You got hit pretty hard a couple times."
Logan looked down at himself before shrugging. "Nothing I can't handle."
You smiled. "I figured."
He nodded toward the camera sitting in your lap.
"You get some good shots?"
Your face immediately brightened.
"Some really good ones."
His eyes lingered on you for a second.
There it was again. That smile. The one that always seemed to appear whenever you started talking about photography. It made him smile too. He liked seeing you excited.
Before he could say anything else—
"Logan!"
Garrett's voice echoed from near the tunnel.
"Hurry up!"
Logan glanced over his shoulder.
"One sec!" he called back.
Garrett groaned dramatically before disappearing toward the locker room.
Logan looked back at you.
"So..."
He rested his forearms on the top of his stick.
"We have a party at the off-campus house every time we win."
You tilted your head. "Oh?"
He nodded. "You gonna come?"
A teasing smile spread across your face. "Is that an invitation?"
Logan laughed softly. "If you want it to be."
You pretended to think about it for a second.
"Hmm..."
He pushed away from the glass, beginning to skate backward toward the tunnel. For a second, you thought that was the end of the conversation.
Then he called back across the ice.
"Come!"
A few nearby teammates looked over at the sound of his voice.
Logan either didn't notice or didn't care. "I want you there!"
The smile that spread across your face was impossible to hide.
"I guess I have to go then!"
"You do!" He flashed you one last grin before turning toward the tunnel.
Just before disappearing inside, he glanced back over his shoulder.
You were still standing exactly where he'd left you. Still smiling.
He smiled to himself before finally heading into the locker room.
You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head as you zipped your camera bag shut. Maybe Allie and Hannah had been onto something after all.
Description- What happens when Jack's wife returns from the bar bathroom and finds another woman with her hands on her husband
CW- reader is jealous as all hell, another character attempts infidelity, Jack has a damn good time, casual and not literal mention of violence, takes place in a bar, implied alcohol consumption
AN- This spawned into existence while I was waiting to pick up my gal from the dentist. It's by far the shortest thing I've ever written, but I usually struggle with length anyway (that's what she said)
You’d be an idiot if you thought it would never happen. That no one would ever see Jack Abbot, the handsome, muscular man with beautiful steady eyes and a heart you couldn’t help but trust the first time he smiled, and wish that they had him for themselves.
You knew it happened, that people gave him a second glance when they passed him on the street, subtly looking him over head to toe and admiring the nice shape of him, the way he moved with quiet confidence, not taking up more space than he needed to make a show of himself like some did. He was handsome, he was attractive, he was beautiful and sexy and cute all rolled into one. You knew these things, and you knew others would too. How could they not?
That didn’t make it any easier to see as you returned from the bar bathroom.
The woman was standing between your stool and Jack’s at the bartop, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder as she tossed her head back in a laugh. Her chocolate curls fell down to her shoulders, catching the dim bar lighting and shining like a rich sleek metal as it moved.
Something in your stomach twisted, something dark and ugly that you didn’t care to think about, filling you with an undeserved surge of anger. You wanted to smack her hand away from him, to yell in her face to back off.
The black metal band on his finger was clear as day. You could see it from nearly across the room, glinting in the hanging lights where his weathered hand wrapped around his lowball tumbler. She must have been able to see it with how intently she gazed at him, drinking him in as if she’d never seen a man before.
That made it all the worse. Accidents happened, a stumble turning into brushed shoulders that could be laughed off, but this, this, was purposeful. It was a choice she was making, to cozy up to Jack, to not look at his wedding band as if it would merely poof out of existence.
Fuck that.
You were storming over before you realized it.
Jack’s face lit up as he spotted you, still a few feet away.
“There’s my girl,” he greeted warmly. His arm was outstretched, welcoming you against his side, the spot by your stool still occupied by the pretty brunette woman who’d had her hands all over him.
“Hi, baby,” you said sweetly, stepping into his embrace and leaning even closer, one hand cupping his cheek to steady him as you kissed him deeply. He made a small sound of surprise in the back of his throat, but kissed you back without hesitation, his arm wrapping further around you to hold you close. His eyes were dark when you parted, a faint questioning look passing behind them as you grinned at him coyly, bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“Making friends?” you asked lightly, settling yourself sideways on his lap, making sure to favor his good leg before you pressed one more kiss to his temple, your fingers combing through the thick curls at the back of his head. When you turned to face the woman, smiling overly sweetly at her, you felt a sick twinge of satisfaction to see the way her lips pursed together tightly.
“Sweetheart, this is Jessie,” Jack introduced, gesturing to the woman. His words lilted with faint humor, like he was watching his favorite reality show and the drama had just gotten good. “She was just complimenting my shirt.”
You laughed weakly. Of course she was. Just the thick flannel, surely it had nothing to do with the way he filled it out with his broad shoulders and thick, bulging biceps.
“It looks like really good quality,” Jessie said, desperately trying to sound neutral. “What is it, cotton?”
Jack hummed, looking to you with a faint smirk. “I wouldn’t know,” he admitted. “This one bought it for me.” His arm tightened around you for a moment, giving you a slight squeeze.
You frowned, your hand running up and down his chest to feel the fabric as you thought. She wasn’t wrong, it really was a good shirt. You’d always loved the soft feel of it under your hands when you ran your hands over his shoulders, sometimes bunching the fabric in your fists when he caught you off guard with an especially deep kiss.
“I don’t remember.” You chuckled, giving her an easy smile. “Guess I’ll have to check later when he takes it off.”
Jessie nodded once in silent understanding, swallowing thickly before she picked up her drink from the counter. It was so close to the one you’d left Jack to look over for you that it had left a ring of condensation on the edge of the napkin you used as a coaster.
“Right, well, I guess I’ll leave you to it,” she said, doing her best to paste on a cheerful smile to match her overly chipper tone. Her words sounded hollow, her finger tracing the rim of her glass as her eyes moved between you and Jack.
You only nodded, giving her an almost sympathetic smile to watch her go from your perch on Jack’s lap, fingers still twirling through his curls in a way you knew from countless hours curled up together that he loved. You picked up your own glass to sip, and Jack had to duck his head into the crook of your neck to muffle the sudden laugh he let slip at the way her eyes widened when she saw your wedding ring.
A flicker of pride went through him, glad that even after so long together, he had made the right choice that day. Hours of designing had gone into your set of rings, months spent deliberating every curve of the band and cut of the stone before he finally showed you, wanting to make every detail perfect for you, to give you something as beautiful as you were that you would never want to take off. And you never did.
“Have a good night, Jessie!” you called as she retreated.
Jack gave you a warm look when she was out of earshot, dark hazel eyes trailing over your face like he wanted to catch every detail of it.
“You handled that mildly,” he drawled, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes glimmered, the corners creasing the way they always did, bearing the weight of his hidden smile for him.
You laughed, adjusting your position on his lap to wrap both arms behind his neck.
“Careful, Jack,” you teased. “I might think you liked seeing me all possessive.”
He only hummed, the deep vibration carrying through his chest and into your side pressed against it, lifting one shoulder before letting it down into a small shrug.
“You expect me to be upset to have you all over me, playing with my hair?” He gave you a cocky smirk, gaze lowering for just a moment to your lips before flicking back up. Your breath caught, and he noticed, head tilting slightly as he looked up at you through his lashes that had no business being so thick.
“Thought for a moment you might smash a bottle over her head,” he continued, though his voice had dropped. His hand gripped your thigh, pulling you higher up his lap as he adjusted how he sat on the barstool. It couldn’t have been comfortable for him, but he was far from complaining. “That what you want, honey? Me having to stitch her up?”
The thought of his hands on her made you angry enough to bite your tongue.
“That’s exactly why I didn’t,” you pointed out smugly, nestling even closer until the tip of your nose brushed the bridge of his. “I’d much rather keep you as my private doctor, Jack.”
He laughed through his nose, his unblinking gaze meeting yours without dropping. “I’ll be your anything, baby, but I don’t think I should be your doctor.”
You rolled your eyes, giving his scruffy cheek a kiss before fully melting against him, nuzzling into the side of his neck.
“Have it your way then. I’ll just make Robby my emergency contact.”
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ summary: a quiet night alone in the dorm turns into an unforgettable first meeting for you and john logan.
pairing: john logan x fem! reader
warnings: not much honestly, a bit of nudity (reader is in a bralette), cussing
notes: here's my first ever john logan fic!!! pretty short but very cute and i def wanna write more for him the future so feel free to send a message with a request!!
୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / next
Honestly, having the dorm to yourself for the night was kind of amazing.
You loved Hannah and Allie, you really did, but sometimes you desperately needed a little alone time. Especially because your apartment had somehow become the designated "Allie Freakout Headquarters." Midterms? Allie panicked here. Relationship problems? Here. Hockey drama? Somehow also here.
Peace and quiet had become a rare luxury.
So you took full advantage of it.
You finally tackled the mountain of clothes that had been steadily growing on your bedroom floor because, honestly, between classes and work, you hadn't had the energy to care. The laundry still wasn't folded, but at least everything was off the floor.
Then, after staring at the stack for weeks, you finally caved and organized the massive record collection you, Hannah, and Allie had accumulated. Alphabetical order. Artist first, then album. It was weirdly satisfying.
By the time you finished, the apartment actually looked...clean.
For once, there weren't any assignments hanging over your head. No papers due at midnight. No readings you'd procrastinated until the last second. You could finally breathe.
Headphones settled comfortably over your ears, you cranked up Just Like Heaven by The Cure until it drowned out everything else. Within minutes, you were dancing around the apartment.
Barefoot. Baggy gray sweatpants hanging low on your hips. A black lace bralette that was comfortable enough to lounge in.
Not another soul around to judge you.
You wandered from room to room with your eyes closed, singing every lyric from memory, using a wooden spoon as a microphone before eventually swapping it for your hairbrush. You spun dramatically through the living room before launching yourself onto your bed, performing for an audience that definitely did not exist.
Completely lost in your own little concert, you never heard the knock at the front door. Or the second one. Or the sound of someone trying the doorknob.
Outside, John Logan frowned.
"Hello?" he called through the door, hearing movement somewhere inside.
He knocked again.
"Hannah?" he called louder. "Garrett said to grab his jersey! He left it here!"
Nothing.
He waited another few seconds before sighing.
Garrett's text was still open on his phone.
If they're not there, spare key's under the mat. The one that says "Go Away Please."
John had been hoping someone would answer. Breaking into his friend's girlfriend's apartment, even with permission, felt a little weird. But Garrett had practice, wanted his jersey back, and apparently trusted the girls enough to leave a spare key outside.
John shrugged.
"If I get murdered," he muttered to himself, fishing the key out from under the mat, "I'm haunting him."
The lock clicked open. He stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind him. The apartment was empty.
Well...
Mostly.
He could hear footsteps somewhere down the hallway.
And...
Was that singing?
"Hannah?" he called cautiously.
Nothing.
"Allie?"
Still nothing.
The singing only got louder. John stood awkwardly in the entryway for another second before taking a few hesitant steps farther inside. Then someone came spinning out of the hallway.
You.
Eyes closed.
Hands running dramatically through your hair as you belted out the chorus with absolutely zero concern for the outside world.
John froze. He should probably say something.
Instead...
He watched.
Not in a creepy way.
Just...
You looked so genuinely happy. You were dancing around like no one was watching, which, until about ten seconds ago, had been completely true.
A grin slowly spread across his face. He'd never seen you before, but judging by how comfortable you looked, you obviously lived here.
And...
You were really pretty.
Like...
Really pretty.
Then your eyes opened. You froze mid-spin.
Your brain took approximately half a second to register the fact that there was an unfamiliar six-foot hockey player standing in your living room.
You screamed. "What the fuck?!"
John nearly jumped out of his skin.
"It's okay!" he said immediately, throwing both hands into the air. "I'm not robbing you!"
You stared at him. He stared back.
Neither of you moved.
"I—"
"You literally broke into our apartment!"
"I used the key!"
"That's somehow worse!"
"No, wait—"
You grabbed the nearest object you could find, a throw pillow, and pointed it at him like it was a weapon.
"Explain."
John couldn't help the nervous laugh that escaped him.
"Garrett sent me."
Your eyebrows pulled together.
"...Garrett?"
"Yeah." He nodded quickly. "Garrett Graham. Hannah's boyfriend?"
You blinked. "I know who Garrett is."
"Right. Good. That would've been awkward."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"He left his hockey jersey here and texted me to come grab it because he's already at the rink. Said there was a spare key under the mat."
You stared at him for another few seconds.
Then...
Very slowly...
Your shoulders relaxed. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"...I almost hit you with a pillow."
"I've taken body checks harder than that."
A reluctant laugh escaped you. "Don't get cocky."
"Oh, I absolutely am."
You rolled your eyes despite yourself.
Silence settled between you for a second.
Then John smiled. "I'm John, by the way."
"The John Logan?"
"The one and only."
You couldn't help smiling. "I'm Y/N."
"Nice to officially meet you."
You smiled politely before noticing his eyes flick downward for the briefest second. Following his gaze, you looked down. Black lace bralette. Bare shoulders. Barefoot. Hair sticking out in every direction from your one-woman concert.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Heat rushed to your face so fast it actually made your ears burn. You immediately folded your arms across yourself.
"I—"
John's own face turned red almost instantly. "I wasn't—"
"Nope."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"I know."
"I swear."
"I know!"
He looked genuinely horrified with himself. Which somehow made the situation even funnier. Trying to recover what little dignity you had left, you cleared your throat.
"Hannah's room."
John blinked. "What?"
"The jersey."
You pointed toward the hallway.
"It's probably in Hannah's room."
"Oh."
Right. The reason he'd come over.
"Thanks."
He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving you enough time to dramatically bury your face in your hands.
"Oh my God..."
Of all days...
Five minutes later, John reappeared holding Garrett's jersey triumphantly. "Found it."
"Nice."
Neither of you seemed entirely sure how to end the conversation.
John scratched the back of his neck. "Well..."
"I should probably..."
"Yeah."
He reached for the doorknob before pausing.
Turning back toward you, that signature Logan grin spread across his face.
"Oh."
You looked up.
"Great song, by the way."
Your eyes widened.
"You could hear that?"
"You were kinda killing your eardrums with those headphones."
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. "Oh my God."
"And," he continued, clearly enjoying himself now, "your air guitar technique?"
"No."
"Pretty impressive."
"No."
"Eight out of ten."
"You need to leave."
John laughed. "Fair."
He opened the door. "See you around, Y/N."
Before you could think of anything remotely clever to say back, the door clicked shut behind him. The apartment fell silent again. You stood there for several long seconds.
Then slowly slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor. "...Shit."
requests always open. even if i don’t respond, they are all on a list to start writing. this is a shame free place. i also never take any ounce of feedback for granted and use it to know what you guys want to see more of / are liking most.
masterlist …
18+ minors do not interact.
john logan:
having to call your ex when your car breaks down at night…
tags: chef!jack abbot x fem!reader, based on The Menu, suicide (not reader), off page murder, canon movie violence, misogynist (not jack), power imbalance, small age gap, pet names, morally gray reader, dark!jack abbot, smut, oral (fem!receiving), piv (unprotected), afab reader, 18+ NSFW MDNI
notes: big thank you to @oxalaia-quilombensis for co-writing this with me!! please go follow her, she has amazing jack abbot fics that I just eat up! I hope you all liked reading this as much as I liked planning and writing this and, like always, if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy!
word count: 8.2k
Each wet smack of food in between teeth and tongue slathered with too much saliva grated against your bones and made your skin itch.
Your knuckles stretched white against the table’s edge, and your fingernails molded crescents into the table cloth. Your eye twitched continuously in a manner that made it impossible to ignore. With each minute that ticked by, you found yourself wishing you hadn’t accepted the food smacker’s invitation to dine at the exclusive North & Vine, the restaurant ran by word famous chef, Jack Abbot.
The man wasn’t foreign to you; his face was pretty much on every cooking magazine you could get your hands on. With his salt-and-peppered curls and no-fucks-given attitude paired with a highly seasoned and awarded background for serving the country on the battle front, Jack Abbot was a spectacle for Instagram foodies and middle-aged home cooks alike. His smile being easy on the eyes also didn’t help the flutter of your stomach when he flashed you a quick one on the way in from the tour of the island.
However, you couldn’t help but feel unsettled as the courses went on, especially when murmurs picked up when the third course was handed out. While people shifted in their seats, you stared at your “date” while he wolfed down his course without a second thought. Your hands did not move; your stomach did not hunger. No matter how fancy or how insane the courses were, you couldn’t find it within yourself to pick up the fork. Each deconstructed course that was gently settled before you twisted your stomach into knots. Your hindrance to dine also didn’t go unnoticed.
“Are you going to eat that?” food smacker—Tyler’s—voice sounded louder than necessary, but it was enough to tear your eyes away from the heavy door that not one person went in or out of the whole evening.
You glanced down at the plate and glared at its circulatory shape filled with a sauce and two scallops. “No.”
His fork grated through the last wipe of his food as he wiped his face. “Can I have it then?”
“Be my guest.” Your glare turned as sour as the first lemon course smelled when he rolled his eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“You’re acting like a child,” he hissed, small specs of food flying from his lips. “Do you know how much I paid to have us here?”
You scoffed. “I wasn’t even your first choice, Tyler.”
“Shouldn’t have been my second either.” His hand reached over the ornate center piece and snatched your plate, carelessly letting it fall in front of him. “Everything I do for you, you hate it.”
“That’s because you never ask me what I think before you use your card,” you shot back in a whisper. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“You’re so fucking ungrateful. You finally have someone cooking for you, and you’re being wasteful. Maybe next time I’ll leave you in the kitchen so you can complain about your own cooking.” He stuck your scallop into his jaws and clamped down with an overexaggerated moan. “Oh, that’s good.”
Even if you wanted to hide your disgust, your face said it all. Here he was, moaning and ass-kissing a chef who didn’t even know his name, belittling you for something he couldn’t even do himself. Before you had given him the benefit of the doubt, he was living off of microwaveable meals while stealing stock photos for his own blog.
The red flags were there, but the loneliness that bubbled in your chest had you chained to this . . . beast of a man. There was nothing sophisticated about him, contrary to how he portrayed himself online. Every like he got on his sad posts was somehow so ego boosting, he claimed he was better than the chef standing a few yards away. The thought had you scoffing. And unfortunately, he thought the sound was meant for him.
He thrusted a fork in your direction. “Oh, shut up. You haven’t eaten a bite, so keep your mouth shut.”
Your teeth caught your tongue. He wasn’t worthy of your building anger.
“Is there a problem here?” a new voice asked before being followed by a full choke.
You looked over your shoulder and followed the tan apron up to a crows-feeted grin. If you leaned in close enough, you’d accidentally brush against the head chef. To your utter surprise, he was looking at you instead of the one currently gobsmacked even if he thought Jack Abbot was talking to him.
Tyler smiled widely to the point you spotted a small stem of green stuck in teeth. “There’s no issue here. My date just isn’t—”
Chef Abbot held up a hand, effectively silencing Tyler. “I wasn’t asking you.” He turned his body so that you were the only one on the receiving end of his attention. “Is there a problem here, miss?”
A thick swallow slid down your throat. “No, chef. We were just talking.”
You hoped he didn’t catch the way you broke eye contact halfway through speaking; if he did, he didn’t say anything either, only choosing to hold out a hand.
“Then let’s just have a nice talk. Come with me please,” he said, voice deep and borderline sultry it went straight to your core.
Hesitantly, you placed your hand in his, instantly surprised by the sheer warmth of his skin. You didn’t look back as he softly guided you toward the kitchen, the noise of the chefs growing with each step. When you got closer, he dropped his hand, and for a moment, you missed the feeling before it planted itself in the middle of your back, his fingers slightly gripping the small pudge of your sides.
“I was not aware you’d be attending this dinner,” he said close to your ear. “And I make it a priority of mine to make sure that I know exactly who is eating my food.”
Your shoulders hunched in on themselves. “I guess I was a last-minute surprise.” You shook your head. “Or maybe a last-minute disappointment. I wasn’t exactly the first choice to accompany the man at my table for tonight.”
He stopped you midway, allowing the heat and chaos to blend beautifully into your skin. “I’ve noticed you don’t seem too fond of my cooking.”
A bashful smile spread onto your face. “I’m sure it’s great, Chef, but . . .” you trailed, eyes lighting with the fire from the grill.
He shifted behind you, subtle enough to not show how much he was affected by the sound of Chef pushing through your lips. “But it’s not for you, is it?”
The softness and understanding almost surprised you. Your hair swayed softly as you shook your head in backwards agreement to his words.
“It’s not.” Your gaze lingered behind his shoulder at your table. “I thought maybe it could be if I tried hard enough.”
“That’s the thing about food,” he started. “You shouldn’t have to try to like it. Food is so moldable like that. We make it into something that we know we’ll like. When force-fed, it becomes rotten and sour on the palate.” He leaned over and ran a fingertip through an off-white sauce before presenting it close to your mouth. “Try for me?”
Your body tensed under the command, but you couldn’t help but follow his words, tongue peeking out to run hotly across his finger. Your eyes widened at the perfect blend of salt and tang and cream.
“Oh,” you breathed.
His smile widened. “Is that more to your liking?”
“Yes. I think that’s the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.” A heat bloomed across your face as your mind caught up with what you just said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he responded, reassuring you with two large hands on your shoulders. “I’m glad I’m capable of making something you’d actually enjoy.”
“I knew you were more than capable,” you softly said, your looks melting into one of embarrassment. “It was my fault; I apologize for being so picky.”
Short tsk, tsk, tsk clicked against his cheek while he shook his head. “Please. You’re hardly the pickiest eater I’ve had the pleasure of serving in my restaurant.” His eye caught something behind your shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, darling, the next course is about to be served. Will you please make your way back to your table?”
You fought the pout that tried to make its way onto your face and simply nodded. “Yes, Chef.”
His eyes stayed trained on your figure the entire walk back to the corner table where Tyler looked a mix between rage and burning jealousy. Once you were seated, his greasy hands splayed across the table cloth as he leaned forward.
“What the fuck was that?” he spat. “Is this some sort of ploy to embarrass me? You’re such a bitch, you know that? You can’t eat his food, but you can give him bedroom eyes? How pathetic—”
An echoing clap cut him off, and all eyes in the room turned toward Chef Abbot, who stood tall before his kitchen.
“Let’s begin our next course, shall we?”
___________________________
Jack couldn’t quite hold back the smile that spanned across his face when he looked right at the pig sitting across from you—the diner who had managed to sneak her way onto the island. He clearly had a list of just a few, simple rules, and somehow Tyler fucking Ledford had broken all of them.
The first had been inviting you instead of his first choice; Jack wasn’t ever keen on changing his guest list up. The second had been taking his phone out during each course in the most non-discrete way known to man; he hadn’t even been smart enough to turn the damn shutter sound off. And the third had been the way he belittled you when nothing Jack made tickled your fancy; the customer was always right.
Tyler had been running ramped for far too long, so Jack, in all his spare time (which was none) walked right over and didn’t even spare him an eye.
And oh how much more beautiful you were up close; he could hardly contain himself. His mind raced with ideas of what he wanted to do with you, all ranging from making you the best meal you’d ever tasted to laying you across the table and taking you right then and there.
Instead, he had to be smart.
Jack offered you his hand, which you took almost immediately, yours slightly smaller and fitting so well in his palm. Unconsciously, his fingers tightened around yours while you stood, and he had to fight back the biggest smirk when Tyler’s jaw dropped. As long as Jack was breathing and acting as head chef, that pig wouldn’t get an ounce of his good graces. To throw oil into the flame, he guided you by the waist right into his kitchen knowing he shouldn’t be toying you at all since he planned to kill everyone in the room by the end of the night.
But the way you leaned into him, the way your dress hugged your figure, the way your cheeks heated under his gaze made him yearn for you the way all chefs yearned for their best recipe.
And he just had to go and let you lick sauce right off his finger like he was in his own personal kitchen at home. A moan had threatened to rumble through his chest at the fleeting warm and hot feeling around his digit, and Jack tried to rid himself of the thoughts of his fingers in other places that belonged to your body.
However, nothing would touch the feeling of the way your eyes lit up when you finally enjoyed something he had made. You were teachable; you just needed the right chef to open your eyes to a whole new world of flavors and textures. Jack would make sure it’d be him to do so. He almost hated the way he had to send you back to that table like he was banishing you to the edge of his kingdom.
Yet, good things come to those who wait.
This time, he couldn’t help the shiver that wracked his body as all eyes turned toward him even if he was only looking towards you. His hands firmly clasped together near his front.
“Guests, so far tonight, you’ve taken a culinary journey through our island through each course I have prepared for you tonight. However, for this next course, I want to switch things up a bit.”
Everyone seemed to shift at his words. Jack Abbot did not just switch things up. Never once since North & Vine opened did he ever stray from his two-Michelin star menu. Top chefs kept everything the same so that the customers got the consistency they deserved. But tonight, his customers did not deserve his consistency, did not deserve Jack at his best. His hazel gaze shifted to Tyler.
“I keep tabs on all my customers because as much as you all know about me, I wanted to know about you.” He took a small step forward. “Mr. Ledford.”
Tyler looked pathetically like one of those stupid crusty, white purse dogs that old women loved to fawn over as he perked up at the sound of his name.
Another step. “I’ve been following your page, your ratings, your own recipes you like to flaunt all over your social media.”
The man looked close to wetting himself out of excitement when he stood. “Chef Abbot, you don’t know how much that—”
“So,” Jack interrupted, “tonight you will cook for us, since in your last post you boasted that you could recreate my famous pommes purée. Because according to you, no one can . . . fuck up simple mashed potatoes.”
Jack’s chest puffed when his ears caught the small sound of a giggle from your direction when Tyler froze in his spot. Jack looked over his shoulder at his staff.
“Come. We even have a coat for you.”
Begrudgingly, Tyler shuffled across the way until he stopped near the front of the kitchen. Jack didn’t turn his way, instead staying facing his guests.
“Please.” He opened his arms, hands widespread. “Join us in the kitchen so we can watch this bright, young talent follow his dream.”
The scrapes of chairs against the floor were music to his ears, because Tyler was now just moments away from utter humiliation, his punishment for breaking each and every one of his rules. Jack wetted his lips as you seemed to be extremely eager to be the first to get close. Your heat had him inching closer, wishing his bare arm could press against your open skin. The dress that dripped from your body had him itching to tear it off.
Patience.
It was time to revel in the way Tyler was about to make himself a fool.
Jack let his sly smile slide right onto his face each time the man burnt his hand on a stove before quickly giving him faux pouts and an overly saccharined tone that held zero ounces of actual concern. His chefs, on the other hand, couldn’t hide their disgust when Tyler burnt the butter or all but beat the potatoes instead of gently folding them through. Even you seemed to know better.
“It’s the motion supposed to be folding and clockwise?” you whispered, lips dangerously close to his face.
Goosebumps raced across Jack’s arms at the feeling of your hot breath against his hear. His eyes stayed forward, face not moving an inch, when he responded just as quietly.
“You know my method.” He hadn’t plated it as a question.
You shied again under his shadow. “I watch your “Yes, Chef” on Food Network when I’m bored. Clearly someone lied about doing that too.”
“How much has he lied about?”
Your chin jutted out. “His photos are either stock images, or he pays people to get him pictures if he can’t get into a restaurant.” You crossed your arms. “I do most of the cooking when we’re together. He burned pasta the other week.”
Something surged deep in his chest at your blatant honesty and willingness to spill everything about the fraud you were supposedly seeing. Jack wanted—no—needed him gone. He stepped half an inch closer to you, finally letting his skin brush against yours. It delighted him to feel the small response that your body gave him.
He wanted to reply, wanted to feel your words against his chin, but the loud, unceremonious clatter of a plate against the steel counters had everyone flinching and drawing their attention back to the horrible mess that was happening before them.
Jack raised an unimpressed eyebrow while Tyler acted like he himself was about to earn a Michelin star. Jack’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding down on each other at the thought of putting a small bite of that burnt mess into his mouth. No one could make him do that either, so, he took one look at the slop and leaned in.
“Everyone,” he announced, “come look at what Tyler has made for us.” His spine straightened, back stretching the white shirt he wore beneath his apron. “Come see this absolutely pathetic attempt at what he has deemed simple mashed potatoes.”
Tyler deflated visibly with splotchy red cheeks and tears lining his already droopy eyes. Jack didn’t hide his smile this time. He slowly stalked toward the man and leaned in close, lips barely an inch away from his face.
His tone was low and dangerous as he whispered. “You came into my restaurant with pants too big for your wretched ass. You broke my rules, you insulted your woman in my presence—” Jack didn’t dare to let his eyes drifted over to where you were watching. “You are a sorry waste of space. Why don’t you do us all a favor and use that bucket in the closet wisely.”
A loud sniffle whistled through Tyler’s nose. He didn’t nod, didn’t make a big deal about it. All he did was step back, shed the white coat from his shoulders and leave the small area, seemingly heading toward the men’s room.
Jack turned back toward his guests. “You may all return to your seats for the next course.”
However, when they all turned to move, Jack gently reached out and tugged you back into him. Your breath hitched at the movement, only returning to a semi-normal pace once you were settled into his side.
“Is something the matter, Chef?” you asked.
Jack shook his head. “I seem to have misplaced an ingredient I need for dessert, and I was wondering if you’d be so kind to go get it for me?”
Normally, you wouldn’t have been so eager to please, but with the way Jack was looking down at you with heat and season in his eyes, you couldn’t help but nod with wide, wanting eyes.
“I’d be honored.”
His lips stretched into a grin. “Good girl. What I need is the bottle of vanilla that I keep in my cabin—you know the one?”
You gave him another nod.
“It should be in my pantry; middle shelf,” he listed. “The door is unlocked.”
“Pantry; middle shelf,” you repeated, and the verbal confirmation made Jack’s soul sing.
He was going to love every second of devouring you. His hand lightly tapped your behind as he shifted past you. “Get to it, darling.”
Jack let his eyes trail your back while you walked away, his tongue running along his bottom lip before sinking his teeth into the plush flesh. The only way he stopped looking at you was when you slipped out of the door and out of sight.
With a heavy and almost relieved sigh, Jack turned back towards his diners and clapped loudly once again. All eyes turned his way, and an unexplainable pleasurable feeling bloomed in his chest.
“Let’s continue with our final course: dessert.”
___________________________
Your kitten heels clicked softly against the concrete path, casting a small echo in the vast forest. You kept your arms wrapped around your middle as a chill hugged your bare skin. Each step further into the trees had your heart skipping beats. Whether it was the unnerving want to obey Jack’s instructions or the feeling of being so exposed with no one around, you weren’t sure what you were feeling during your walk while your stomach flipped.
The cold had you missing Jack’s heat even if you had barely brushed against him. His warm palms and sturdy mass had you wanting more, had you dreaming of what it’d be like to belong to him. Surely, he’d never let you go hungry. Surely, he’d speak kind words. Surely, he’d never make you doubt his intentions.
You’d been so lost in your head, glimpses of Jack’s hands dragging along your body, that you almost missed the small cabin you’d seen hours earlier on the tour. The structure reminded you of something out of a horror film. Nothing gave a good plot like a lonely woman coming across an empty cabin in the woods. However, even with the frightening feeling, you continued on, hand reaching out to open the door when you got close enough.
You expected the hinges to creak under your push, but it seemed like Jack didn’t just take care of his kitchen; he seemed to take care of what he was given by the looks of the well decorated interior. A lamp in the corner had been left on, allowing the living room to bathe in yellow light. A rug silenced your steps as you walked through and straight to the kitchen where the pantry wasn’t hard to find at all.
When the pantry door opened, you were hit with a warm aroma of spices and herbs. Bundles of dried leaves hung from the ceiling while neat containers filled with various grains and powders lined each shelf. And right where Jack said it’d be, the middle shelf was lined with clear bottles topped off with vanilla beans suspended in ambery liquid. Your weight shifted onto your toes as you reached up, fingers curling firmly around the closest bottle before holding it to your chest.
Since the job had been done, you took your time walking through Jack’s house, only stopping once to look at the singular framed picture hanging on the wall. You smiled when you realized that the young, auburn-haired man in the photo was none other than Jack. He held an award at his front and was surrounded by a few people. What you couldn’t look away from was a smile that seemed so much more genuine than the ones he gave to cameras for magazine photos. This smile was filled with crooked teeth and paired with squinted eyes. You even allowed yourself to gently trace a finger down his face.
You could have stayed there all night, but the soft chime of a clock down the hall had you jolting. With the vanilla still closely clutched to your front, you swiftly left the cabin with the door clicking behind you. This time, the trip went by faster with your heels clicking in a speedier pattern. Soon, the restaurant came back into view, and a surge of anticipation raced through your body, causing your heart to flutter. The thought of possibly getting to see Tyler after getting humiliating had you skipping a few steps on the way up.
However, when you opened the door, you paused at the sight of a completely, empty restaurant. Your eyes trailed the empty tables and chairs, mind struggling to come up with any logical explanation for why everyone must have left. You took another step in and let the door close behind you with a loud thud. You didn’t stop walking until you got to the middle of the floor. Twisting, you tried to find at least one person, yet, the whole place remained strangely dead and quiet.
That was until you heard a small shift in the kitchen.
Your eyes immediately caught the origin of the noise. Jack was standing there, back leaned against the stainless steel of the prep table island, arms crossed over his broad chest. His apron was gone, leaving him in his crisp white shirt and dress pants. You drank in the sight before your eyes shifted behind him.
Scanning the open space of the kitchen and dining room, you found his missing apron, the article of clothing hanging from a hook over Jack’s left shoulder. Something dark was splashed across it, staining the tan leather. You didn’t dare allow yourself to imagine what it was.
“Where is everyone?” You took a few tentative steps forward, stopping just before the single step that led up into the kitchen. “Where did everyone go? Where’s Tyler?”
Jack’s eyebrow quirked as he looked down at you, now only five feet away. He looked almost disapproving of your choice of questions. Your stomach twisted into a knot. You weren’t exactly sure why his disappointment gave you such a visceral reaction, but you didn’t want to feel it again.
“Is that really your first concern?”
His arms uncrossed, hands settling on the reflective counter behind him. Your eyes greedily tracked the flexing of his forearms when he shifted. The muscles moved tantalizingly under that warm skin that you just wanted to reach out and touch.
“I—” Your jaw snapped shut.
Honestly, you weren’t really sure what else you should be focused on at this moment, standing in the eerily deserted space that had only minutes before been filled with your fellow diners and the veritable army of staff.
“Give me the vanilla, darling,” he ordered with his hand reached out, palm open and waiting for the bottle still clutched in your hands.
You eagerly complied, feet rushing up the step until you were face to face with him. Gingerly, you placed the bottle in his hand. It was difficult not to let your mind wander to how his fingers dwarfed the jar, wrapping around it in a way that your own small hands hadn’t been able to.
A smirk quirked at his lips. “Good girl.”
The warmth that shot through you from head to toe at Jack’s words of endearment was almost pathetic. Just two words had you preening at the slightest bit of praise from this man, ready to roll over and present him your belly like a loyal dog.
His torso twisted as he placed the vanilla down before straightening when he looked back at you with a hungry blaze in his eyes.
“Are you ready for dessert?” he asked while pushing off the counter to close the already miniscule space between you.
“Yeah,” you replied, all soft and breathy, eyes locked on his.
One of those big, capable hands settled on your waist and gently maneuvered you until you’d taken his place with your back against the cold steel and your thin dress acting as the only thing to protect you from its chill.
“Up.”
His command had you rushing to comply, palms pressing into the metal and lifting yourself up and onto the table. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you wondered if sitting on the workstation broke a few health codes, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as Jack crowded into your space. His hips found their place between your open thighs, legs spreading them wide to accommodate himself.
“Do you know what the worst part about being a chef is, honey?” he muttered.
All the air left your lungs as he bent down, his head nosing at the sensitive skin of your neck. Goosebumps broke out across your body as his breath ghosted over your pulse.
When you didn’t respond, his hands gripped the pudge of your thighs hard enough to bruise.
“Answer me.”
Jack tugged your hips closer to the edge, allowing the hardness hidden by his jeans brush between your legs. You melted at the feeling.
“I-I don’t know,” you finally answered, eyes fluttering and lids threatening to close as the anticipation of what he was about to do to you burned through you.
“My food always smells so good,” he continued. His hands were hiking your dress up now, fingers pushing the flimsy fabric up your thighs. Once the fabric bunched to his liking, he dragged his nails lightly over the bare skin as he went, only stopping when the silky skirt was pooled around your waist, your entire legs bared to him. “And I get so hungry, but sadly there's never any time for me to eat.”
A breathy whimper fell from your lips as his tongue darted out to lick a stripe up your neck. He blew against the wet spot, and a delicious shiver wracked down your body. The cold air of the restaurant stiffened your nipples until you were sure they were visibly poking through your dress.
“Jack—” You shifted forward, body aching for more.
“Uh-uh, that’s not my name, pretty girl,” he corrected with his face was directly before yours, lips almost touching as his hand slid halfway into your hair. “In my kitchen, you call me Chef or Sir. Do you understand?”
You nodded frantically, eyes wide and staring up at him.
“Use your words like a big girl.” His hand tightened fractionally, lightly pulling at the roots of your hair to keep your head still.
A thick gulp of saliva slid down your throat. “Yes, Chef.”
“That’s my sweet girl.”
His lips finally met yours in a gentle almost teasing way. The kiss was chaste, entirely too soft and modest for the position you had found yourself in. It was nothing more than the careful brush of his lips against yours, yet, his grip in your hair and the commanding aura he exuded kept you from pushing for more.
“Now,” he said after parting from you. His hand still on your waist dropped to the top of your thigh. “Since I am utterly famished, are you gonna let me eat my fill?”
Your mind was working at maybe a quarter of its usual capacity. You weren’t sure exactly what he was asking of you, but you didn’t want to be on the receiving end of his disappointed glare again. Not to mention, you were pretty sure you’d do anything this man asked of you. Even the briefest touches of his skin against yours had you ready and leaking.
“Yes, Chef.”
“Good girl.”
Jack pulled back, his hands leaving your body as he kneeled before the table. Your brain finally caught up to just exactly what he was planning when his hands found the hem of your most certainly ruined panties.
“Wait, Jack—”
His eyes were hard and dark as he looked up from where he sat. You swallowed hard, realizing your mistake.
“Sir—”
He was slowly growing tired of being kept from his meal. “What’s the matter? You gonna make me go hungry?”
His head titled, and his soft curls tickled against the soft, plush skin of your inner thighs.
You shook your head as an embarrassed burn grew across your face. “That’s—Tyler never—I haven’t—”
Jack’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Tyler, glancing between your soaked underwear and your face. Bringing up your waste of space boyfriend at this moment probably wasn’t a wise move, but your mouth had worked before your brain.
“What about him?”
Your whole body jolted against the table after Jack’s index finger ran over the lace of your underwear, brushing a feather light touch against where you needed him the most.
“H-he wouldn’t—if I didn’t—”
It was impossible to get the words to come out in a coherent sentence when his finger wouldn’t stop applying that maddeningly soft touch. He kept it just enough to have you wanting and needy, but nowhere near to supply any real, substantial pleasure.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” Jack encouraged. “You can do it. Tell Chef what that piece of shit did that’s stopping me from enjoying the best meal of my life.”
“H-he wouldn’t go down on me,” your voice trembled, and the sound had Jack mercifully stopped his teasing.
The tip of his finger settled right over your clit, though, lightly touching the bundle of nerves through the soaked fabric.
Your eyes slipped shut, forcing the words out and trying desperately not to focus on the barely-there sensation. “If I didn’t shave. He s-said it was dirty, and it would ruin his palate, and I didn’t shave this morning—”
Jack’s grip on your hips tightened. “Hey, look at me.”
Your eyes peaked open, meeting his. His pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the hazel iris that danced with shades of green and gold. He was impossible to look away from.
“I’m not him, and you need to forget about him. I want you, exactly as you are.”
His hands once again trailed down to the waistband of your panties, and this time you didn’t stop him. Lifting your hips slightly, you let him pull down the ruined scrap of lace, face heating even further when he pushed it into his back pocket.
“And don’t worry; my palate is a lot more refined, sweetheart.”
You let Jack move you to his liking. He tugged you closer, until your ass was nearly hanging off the table. Then both of your legs were lifted with your thighs settling over his shoulders as he leaned in.
The first touch of his tongue was tentative and exploring. He traced it through your folds almost reverently, all the while humming in satisfaction at the taste. But—much to your chagrin—he avoided your clit, choosing instead to lap up as much of your wetness as possible.
“Sir, please,” you whined, dragging the last syllable out in a high pitch. Your right hand slipped through his curls while the left extended behind you, bracing against the table to hold you up. “Fuck, I need more.”
“Yeah? S’that not enough for you?” he slurred, face staying buried against your cunt. His fingers came back and stroked downward over your entrance. Slowly, one pushed inside, sliding in down to the knuckle and curling upward. The pad of his finger pressed against the sweet, spongy spot inside that had your hips jerking against his hold on you. Quickly, a second joined the first, both of them incessantly pushing against you. “How’s that, sweet girl? Does that feel good?”
“Yes, yes, please!” Your eyes were fluttering closed again while your hips rocked mindlessly as they chased the high that the pleasure he brought you promised. Already, you started shaking against him, thighs clenching shut around his head.
“Fuck, you taste so good.” His tongue flattened and licked from where his fingers were working right up to where you really needed his mouth. “Can’t believe that manchild tasted this and still treated you like that. Fuck, I’m never letting you go.”
You didn’t have very long to unpack his statement before his lips were closing over your clit. His tongue traced tight, quick circles over the bud while he sucked and kissed.
It wasn’t long before his fingers, his lips, his tongue, all of it was throwing you towards a cliff: one that you feared you might not make it back from.
But you couldn’t fight—didn’t want to fight that rising tension, that rubber band of pleasure that was growing incredibly close to snapping. Your hips continued to rock against his face. You moans echoed out across the deserted dining room and mixed with the filthy wet noises and groans coming from between your legs.
If Jack could tell you were almost there, he gave no indication. He did not speed up or change his tempo at all and instead kept his fingers and tongue steady and consistent.
“Oh-oh!” your voice broke as the climax crashed through you. It ripped ragged, gasping moans from your mouth, every muscle in your body contracting, your walls pulsing around his fingers. Your eyes pinched closed while your arms tried to keep yourself upright as the pleasure tore through your every cell.
Each wave crashed over you, unceasing as Jack kept up that same pace. He didn’t stop, even when your hand scrambled at his head and words begging and whining when the sensations teetered on the edge of too much.
“One more,” Jack growled out, husky and demanding and spoken into you with his mouth a fraction of an inch off of you before he went right back at it.
“No, no I can’t, sir, please!”
Your cries fell on deaf ears.
The biggest waves had died out, dissipating as the orgasm steadily ran its course, but the aftershocks wracking your body were still jerking through you at random intervals. Combined with the way that Jack still has not stopped his ministrations, you were quickly becoming a mess.
Your hand that had kept your upright gave out, leaving you to fall flat on your back against the metal surface. The shock of the cold caused your back to arch, pushing your hips even further into his grasp while he built you up again.
Embarrassingly fast, you were back on the edge again and nearly there as Jack just stayed steadfast and methodical, never deviating from the rhythm he’d honed. He handled your body like he’s known you for years, not hours.
You were pretty sure you were crying, but you were already so lost in the sensations of him that you couldn’t even tell if the wetness on your face was tears, sweat, or drool. All you knew was that this man, this strange, magnetic chef, was tearing you apart and building you back up again.
The second orgasm hit just as quick, if not quicker. Your vision grew black for a nanosecond before your hips jerked and twisted, body trying to simultaneously get away from his hot tongue while also getting more of the feelings he’d thrust upon you. The orgasm burned through you, visceral and violent in a way the first hadn’t been. It felt like every nerve in your body had been set alight with searing hot pleasure.
Your legs shook, and your arms were too weak to lift yourself back up. All you can do was lie there and try to learn how to breathe again. Finally, Jack came back up for air. However, you didn’t have long to recover before he pulled you up and crashed his lips against yours.
“Taste so fucking good,” he muttered the words into your mouth, letting you swallow them, along with the taste of yourself still on his tongue. He felt filthy and so fucking hot. “Gonna let me fuck you now, honey?”
You nodded before you could second guess yourself, already craving even more of him.
Jack pulled his white t-shirt over his head, and for just a second, your eyes tracked a spot of something dried and red that crusted on the hem. You didn’t have long to consider it, though, because his hands were yanking your dress up and over your head, leaving you completely naked before him.
“Move back,” he directed you, large hands guiding you to scoot further up the empty table until you were laid out fully on the surface.
The table was longer than you were tall, and it stretched almost the length of the kitchen like some kind of altar. And here, laying on the same space that his team had worked on just hours before, you felt like some sort of offering. To what entity though, you weren’t entirely sure. All you knew was that Jack wasn’t going to stop until you’d been thoroughly fucked and spent.
The predatory hunger in his eyes as he stripped off his jeans and boxers in one go, now baring himself completely to you, reignited your own hunger. The length of his body was beautifully tanned and freckled with soft edges curving around hard-earned muscle.
His cock was nothing to scoff at, either and definitely more than double the size of Tyler’s (although that wasn’t saying very much). He was fully hard, tip resting against his lower abdomen, shining with precum in the low lighting of the kitchen.
Jack’s movements were steady and sure as he climbed onto the table, nudging apart your knees again to make room for himself while he hovered over you. His weight settled onto you in a mouthwatering way. He held back just enough to not crush you but to instead allow you to feel every inch of his body against yours. Your legs bent at the knees and curled around his lower back to anchor him in place.
“If I fuck you,” he breathed, his head dropping down to let his breath fan over your cheek, then lower still until he was laying soft, brushing kisses against your neck. “You’re mine. Forever. I’m not letting you go.”
Your breath hitched at his words. Forever was a long time, especially considering you barely knew him apart from magazines and your guilty pleasure cooking show. But in the time that you had, he’d shown more interest and care than any other man you’d been with. Your body was certainly screaming at you to give in and take everything he was willing to give.
So, before you could really consider the consequences, you agreed.
“Yes, sir, I’m yours.” Your legs tightened around him, dragging the thick length of him through your dripping folds. “Please, fuck me. I’ll leave Tyler; I’ll be yours.”
He chuckled darkly as he guided the head of his cock to your entrance. He pressed in slowly, and you could feel everything. Each and every centimeter of his length felt like it was splitting you apart, right down the middle.
For once, Jack took his time, letting you get used to the heat and weight of him with his bare skin on yours as he pushed deeper than anyone had ever been inside of you. When his hips were finally flush with yours, you felt impossibly full. His head settled just below your cervix, and every tiny rock of his hips grazed your sensitive depths. One of his hands gently brushed a stray piece of hair away from your face before settling on your cheek.
“You don’t have to leave Tyler, pretty girl.” Jack looked immensely satisfied, his hips pulling back slowly as he braced his forearms beside your head. He laughed again at your confused expression until it melted off your face as he drove back into you, hard. “He’s already been taken care of.”
“Jack, what—”
In the mix of pleasure and confusion, you’d forgotten the honorifics he’d demanded, and he punished you with a hard thrust in, his hips jolting your body up the rapidly warming metal and punching a whine deep out of your throat.
“Don’t forget your manners like he did, sweetheart,” he tutted as his pace settled into lazy, grinding thrusts that had your head spinning even more than the brutal ones had.
“S-sir,” you sputtered, though your mind was still focused on figuring out exactly what had happened to your now ex-boyfriend. “What did you—fuck—what did you do to him?”
“I didn’t do anything but give him a little motivation.” Jack’s hand grasped your jaw before forcing your head towards the closed pantry door, just off to the left. His tongue darted out to trace over the shell of your ear. “He made the choice to . . . remove himself from the equation.”
“O-oh fuck, he’s-he’s dead?”
Your eyes were wide as Jack finally turned your face back towards his. You desperately tried to scour his face, searching for any sign he might be messing with you. But with half-lidded eyes filled to the brim with pleasure, and your mind struggling to come up with a good reason to be saddened over Tyler’s apparent suicide, the need for an explanation swiftly melted from your body.
“Want to know a secret?” Jack asked as he hovered over you, eyes dragging down your face. He leaned back in close enough that his hot breath wafted over your face. A smirk stretched across his face while he spoke. “They all are.”
Your almost closed eyes shot back open, and your jaw dropped to gape up at him. Jack just continued smirking back at you, his mouth dropping onto yours as his hips picked up the pace, tongue twisting around yours between your teeth.
You let him kiss you, offering no resistance even as his words replayed in your mind. The way he’d said it made it sound like he had killed them. All the guests, maybe even his own staff. But the more you thought about it, the more you found out that you simply didn’t care. You didn’t know those people, so, why should you care if they were dead?
You had known Tyler, but he was a piece of shit, and no part of you wanted to grieve him.
“All of them?” you whispered before licking your tongue across his lips.
Jack grunted into your mouth, pulling back just enough to break the kiss. “All of them. You and I are the only living humans on this island.”
“Oh fuck.” Your back arched into him as he struck a particularly sensitive spot inside you. The perverse, dark little part of your brain also blamed your reaction on his confession. Sure, it didn’t necessarily bother you that he’d killed them, but you weren’t ready to admit it might have even excited you. “W-why?”
“Why, what?” Jack moved faster now, his polished demeanor falling away as he began to chase his own climax.
“Why did you—oh shit, right there, please! I—” You were interrupted by Jack pulling one of your legs from around his hip, sliding it up and over his shoulder to pin you wide open beneath him.
“Why did I kill them?” he provided between the swing of his hips.
You nodded frantically as your head fell back against the table. You were writhing against the surface, on the fast track for your third orgasm of the night.
Jack laughed breathlessly; his hand that wasn’t braced on the table moved between your legs to find your clit. “You really want to know?”
“Yes!”
You were meeting his thrusts against him now, the pressure and friction almost too much for you to handle.
“I didn’t like them.” Jack’s teeth grit together as he pushed the words out, but you got the sense that had more to do with the exertion of his own approaching climax. “Some of them were rude, some of them fucked me over once or twice,” he panted, hips pounding into yours, clearly chasing his own ending, and yours in the process.
You were right there, almost ready to snap once again.
He continued despite his slipping restraint. “Some of them were—oh fuck—fucking annoying, and all of them, especially your p-precious little boyfriend,” his voice dripped with venom as he brought up Tyler, “were too fucking self-absorbed to appreciate the beauty right in front of them.”
With that, you came, the sensation less intense than your second, but still powerful enough to have you gasping for air, mind going blank as the heat of it flowed through your veins with the initial wave. You came snapping back, air filling your lungs as your body pulsed around Jack. Each rhythmic clench of your walls sent sparks flying up your spine and your legs jerking and twitching.
Jack finished soon after, his hips finally losing all rhythm. His whole body went still for a moment, before he was pressing as deep as he could, spilling into you and falling down with a hand splaying near your shoulder, just barely holding up his weight to avoid crushing you entirely, but he still had you bent nearly in half underneath him, leg still slotted over his shoulder.
His lips found yours, the kiss slower and sloppier than before as you both panted and moaned through the radiating pleasure. You stayed that way as you came down. The kiss slowly grew more coherent, less panting and licking to more lips and tongues dancing. If he didn’t just fuck you three ways till Sunday after murdering a handful of people, it could have been almost romantic.
He gripped your hips firmly when he pulled out, the both of you lightly hissing at the feeling of parting. Your chest heaved while he quickly pulled his pants back on before helping you sit up, his hands finding the sides of your hips like they were magnets. Without much want to do anything, you draped your arms across his shoulders, fingers finding the small curls at the base of his neck. Jack reveled in the feeling of your bare skin against his naked chest. He gently brushed a hand across your forehead.
“Did you enjoy your meal, Chef?” you asked with a sly smile. “Was it to your liking?”
Jack shook his head and chuckled. “It was fucking delicious, sweetheart. But—” He leaned in and pressed another chaste kiss to your lips. “I think I didn’t get enough to satisfy my hunger.”
You pouted playfully before biting your lip. “Well, we can’t have Chef Abbot go hungry; can we?”
His right hand slid from your waist and splayed between your breasts. “Lie back down, sweet girl. Let Chef have his second course.”
