Summary: When your worst fear becomes a reality and all you have on the other side is a brown eyed boy.
Pairing: Wally Clark x Reader
Warnings: Death, Drowning, Bullying
Edit: I am terrible at editing, and I tried my best so I'm sorry if you find any mistakes. This is my first full story I am releasing out into the world.
Word Count: 3330
I’ve never liked swimming.
People say it makes them feel free, but I felt anything but free. Every chance I got I avoided water at all costs. It's suffocating. Something about floating in a body of endless water and possibilities always made my skin crawl. One major problem that contributes to my fear is the fact that I can’t swim. I don’t blame anyone for this setback because I've never asked how to or showed interest. My inability to swim didn’t become a problem for me until my senior year of high school. I’ve gotten out of swimming class every year up until now and I had no choice but to take it. I tried to tell the swimming coach and counselors privately that I couldn’t take the class. All they said was I could stay in the shallow end. That I’ll be fine. I believed them.
Word spread quickly throughout my class that I couldn’t swim once they started noticing I wouldn’t leave the 4ft mark. I didn’t really care, all I cared about was getting through the year. I was never really popular which didn’t matter much to me but being in this class never made it more obvious how much I hated it here. I felt eyes on me at all times which only made being in the water worse.
It was March 12, 2015. Only a couple months left of school and then I’d be off to NYU living my dream of being a writer. First I had to get through 4th period swim class of course. I walked into the girls changing room preparing for the next 50 minutes of anxiety as I put my swimsuit on. I folded my dark blue jeans, my gray sweater, and a white tank top with lace on the trim that I wore under the sweater. Making my way to the pool I started putting my hair up in place of a hair cap I seem to have forgotten. Staring at the water I can see the bottom but it doesn’t stop the feeling of wanting to crawl up from my throat. Half the girls were already in the water preparing for a game of volleyball. Step by step down the ladder my hands begin to shake and my mouth becomes dry like I just ate pancakes. I make my way to the back to avoid any confrontation or any chance of being involved in the game. The one thing good about this class is it has a perfect view of the sky. I always get lost staring out at it wondering who’s also looking back. It makes me forget the situation I’m in and my environment. That's until a ball lands in front of me and about 15 girls are looking back at me waiting for my next move. I pick it up with my now calmer hands from before and spike it. Thankfully I made it over to the other side and the girls immediately turned back to the game. Not without some dirty looks but quite frankly I don’t really care. I watch as Mrs. Withers gets a call which seems to be serious as she tells us that she needs to step outside and when the bell rings to just go ahead. It’s only 10 minutes later when the shower bell rings and I feel the crushing weight lift off my shoulders. The other girls split based on which ladder they are closest to heading to the locker room and I help one of the girls get the volleyballs together. Making my way back to solid ground I rush to put the balls away not wanting to be one of the last to leave. I grab a towel on the rack near the other end of the pool as I make my way back seeing the last of everyone leaving. At least that’s what I thought until I heard someone behind me scream “Wait up” before running past me tripping me in the process. Losing my balance I watch as the one who screamed leaves the room leaving me alone. I hit the water with a loud splash waiting to hit the bottom to kick back up only to never feel my feet hit the concrete. I try to reach for the surface but everything I try seems to pull me down further. I panic, feeling my lungs on fire from filling with water. I tried to scream but no one could hear me and no one ever would. Everything was starting to go black and everything was becoming numb. All I could think about was how much I would miss out on. Finally, everything goes dark and I feel like I’m floating but I’m not, I’m being pulled up. I grab onto whoever’s pulling me up as if my life depended on it. Once I reach the surface my lungs fill with air as I begin to cough unbearably with my eyes screwed shut. I feel myself being hoisted up on the ground and out of the water. I’m pulled into the person who saved me as I am unable to move from exhaustion. When the person holds my face to center it I finally open my eyes as I am met with wide brown ones.
“Are you okay”, he’s breathing heavily as I study him blocking out his yell to someone to bring his jacket.
I feel a warm weight on my shoulders seeing its a blue and white letterman jacket out of the corner of my eye.
“Thank you for saving me” I give him a weak smile but all I get in return is an expression filled with nothing but sorrow and guilt.
Still seated on the floor I hear a horrified scream from beside me causing me to whip my head towards the chaos. Suddenly time stops and everything goes silent as I choked out a sob watching as a student and Mrs. Withers pull my body out of the water. The whole class comes to watch as they try to resuscitate me but nothing is happening. I feel the stranger push my head into his chest and I begin to cry harder than before. He repeats “I know’s” and “I’m sorry’s” as my world comes crashing down on me.
Hours later we are still in the same position my hair and clothes dry now along with a tear-dried face. It’s dark outside with only the poolside fluorescent lights to illuminate our two figures. I begin to shiver more and more as the stranger who pulled me out of the water rubs my back and arms.
“We need to get up, you're getting too cold” he whispers, pulling his body to get a better look at me.
I lift myself up getting a better look at him as well as I memorize his long structured face, beauty marks, and brown eyes. After a minute I nod and try to stand up realizing that I’m still exhausted, the position not helping adding to the pain. He helps me steady myself and fully extend as he holds my hands making sure I’m okay.
“You should take a shower and change into your regular clothes, I’ll probably do the same and I will explain everything once we're done. Okay?”, he says softly with an uneasy half-smile waiting for my response.
“Okay,” I whisper back at him not wanting to raise my voice feeling it’ll be too much to handle.
His smile fills out more as he nods and begins to turn away to do the same tasks as me. I begin to turn away as well before I realize I never got the guy's name who pulled me out of the pool and stayed with me for hours.
“What’s your name?,” I said, grabbing his arm to stop him from walking away.
He looks down at my hand holding his arm which makes me see I’m still holding onto him causing me to let go.
“Wally, Wally Clark”, he said with a wide smile that made me feel alive again for just a split second.
After warming up from the shower I changed into my clothes from before that were neatly folded. As I begin to walk out of the locker room I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look back at the girl staring at me feeling disconnected from who she was or what she could’ve been. I take a heavy breath before opening the door to leave and face the reality of my situation. Stepping into the hall, the school looked unnatural to me with the lights off. I look over and see a less wet and cold Wally approach me with the same smile as before.
“How was the shower? Do you feel better?”, he asked one right after the other.
“The shower was good and I’m doing the best I can with the fact that I am already dead,” I said, peering up at him only noticing now how tall he really is.
“I know it's hard and I’m sorry it happened this way but I will try to explain everything the best I can.”, he said, extending his elbow out for me to take it as we began to walk further down the halls.
And Just like he said Wally kept his word and explained everything to me that he could. Like how we’ll never be able to leave school grounds unless we pass on. He also showed me all the other kids stuck here just like us and told me how some passed. As well as the weird support group that the kids attend in the gym. Even though he’d joke he never sugar-coated anything, which I couldn't help but appreciate. I won’t lie, the first couple of weeks were rough. I was plagued by the memory of what happened as well as the thoughts of the future I’ll never get. It definitely didn’t help that everyone at school was mentioning it and not in a sorrowful way. During those few weeks, Wally helped a lot with trying to be a distraction so I wouldn’t focus on others. I guess one of the perks of being dead is being able to duplicate belongings so I was able to get my phone and journal. I found the perfect spot on the football field to just listen to music and lie down. I’d close my eyes and imagine what life could’ve been but I knew I couldn’t do that forever, so I started to write more. It was easier to put my wishes and fantasies on pages without having to dwell on them. I usually kept my writing to myself so around 7:30 every day I’d go to my little bubble of solitude on the field and write. It was May now so the sun would start to set around 8 giving me enough light and a view.
“What are you writing?'' I suddenly hear Wally's voice right next to my ear.
“Jesus Christ Wally you scared me to death”, I said, jumping in reaction to the sudden deep voice, placing my hand on my heart and dropping my journal.
“I mean it's a little too late for that someone must’ve beat me to it.”, he said smiling at me as he sat down next to me grabbing my journal to open it.
I glare at him and snatch my journal back.
“What too soon?”, he said with a stupid grin trying to get my journal back.
“Just a little,” I said, scrunching my nose.
“No but seriously what are you writing? You come out here every day and write in that little journal.” He said leaning back on his arms a bit more to get my full face into view.
I try to hide the blush that has crept up on my face when I realize that he’s been watching me come out here. After a moment I brush my hair out of my face and am met with those famous brown eyes. I take a deep breath before explaining to him my reasons.
“I don’t want to stay stuck in the living because all it’ll do is bring harm. All I thought about for the past couple of months was what I’ll miss but I never stopped and processed my death. I’ve been hurting for all the things I couldn’t change and it caused me to push anything away, even you. So I thought why not write my wishes and wants down so they don’t stay on my mind. At least this way I can close the journal.” I said with a tiny smile looking up at him as he was staring back intently listening.
“Before I died I wanted to be a writer and I had my whole life planned out, I was going to attend—“
“NYU, I know,” he said, finishing my sentence before I could.
I watch as Wally sits up straighter and scooches closer to me before tilting his head. I can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say because he’s fidgeting with his necklace. I wait for him because there’s no point in rushing, I have all the time in the world.
“I’ve been watching you for a long time,” he says with a breath held in waiting for my response.
One of my eyebrows lifts as I tilt my head in response to the slightly weird statement.
“Oh god, that came out creepier than I meant it to. What I meant to say was even when you were alive I knew who you were.” He said laying back fully down in the grass.
I watched as he covered his eyes with his hands with a frustrated grunt like he was trying to revert into a hole.
“What do you mean?”, I said moving towards his laid position to where I’m now bent over leaning towards him leaving my crisscross position to now on my knees.
I grab his hands that are covering his eyes and pull them down to his chest as I hold them to keep him from covering his eyes again. How he’s looking at me I can tell he’s debating with himself. I wait and listen before I watch as he closes his eyes.
“The first time I saw you was during your freshman year in the library. I was looking for something to watch for group movie night. I had Rhonda yelling at me in one ear and Charlie telling me something in the other. I was getting a little annoyed but then I looked between the bookshelves and there you were.” He takes a pause to look at me and I squeeze his hand in return to continue.
“You were tucked into the corner where the bookshelves meet, where no one could see you. In your hands was The Devil’s Highway by Luis Alberto Urrea. I watched as you cried the further you got into the book. After that day I came back to the library every day to see you. I even started picking up some of the books you read, but I couldn't finish half of them though.” He said with a small smile on his face and in his voice.
He sat up which caused him to become closer to me while he took my hands instead of me holding his. He was looking at the grass for a minute while rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles. When he looked up I could see that he was tearing up making my heart ache.
“I knew you had anxiety when it came to swim class because you couldn’t swim so I’d go to try and help. Even though you couldn’t see or feel me, I was always there.” He said lifting his hand up to tuck a loose strand of my hair that fell.
His hand stayed in place as he cupped my cheek and I went to ask why he was tearing up because of this before he spoke.
“I watched you die. I was there and I couldn’t do anything until it was too late, that’s why I was there. I had to watch you struggle knowing I couldn’t grab you or even scream for help.” He said with his voice croaking with the struggle of what he’s had to go through.
My eyebrows furrowed as I watched the walls I built up crumble down with one look at him. I never knew he’d been holding in something like this for so long. If I had known I would’ve never tried to shut him out. I was scared of what had happened and how my life had ended but I never thought about him. He was always there and whenever I needed help he was right by my side. I moved from my position pulling him into a soul-crushing hug. It took him a second to respond to the sudden gesture but after a couple seconds, I felt his arms wrap around me.
“Wally my death wasn’t your fault, I need you to know that.”, I softly spoke while hugging him harder, feeling him return it.
We continued hugging for what felt like years but could never be enough for me to be satisfied. One of my arms is coming up from under his arm grappling his shoulder while the other is around his waist. His arms are wrapped around my waist and I can feel his hands rubbing small circles on my back. Looking up from being tucked away in his shoulder I notice the sun is beginning to set. I begin to pull away and when I make eye contact with him again he’s only a mere few inches away from my face. I raise my hand to brush his hair away from his face as it has flattened from the hug. My hand slips down as it trails from the side of his head to where it now rests on his neck. He’s staring at me the whole time while I do this and when I look up to meet his eyes my heart quickens. Well, I imagined it quickened. There’s something about those brown eyes I’ve grown fond of that makes me feel alive again. His eyes flash down to my lips and back up to my eyes like he’s silently pleading. I give into his wants that now become a need for me and all I can do is nod. His hand comes up to my face pulling me towards him as our lips meet. The kiss felt like everything in my little life led up to this moment. Nothing else seemed to matter to me but the boy in front of me right now who just confessed that he’d been watching me for years. Wally’s the one to pull away first. I slowly opened my eyes to look at him wanting to capture this moment forever. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear before cupping my cheek and giving me a quick peck. I can’t restrain my gleaming smile as he pulls away for the second time.
“Well I’m glad we got that cleared up”, he laughed as he spoke.
I glared at him while punching him in the arm causing him to fall back but not before dragging me down with him. I land on his chest relaxing in his touch like it’s something I've been craving but have been deprived of. We lay in comfortable silence as I felt Wally rub circles with his thumb on my hip.
“I’m glad it was you who found me. I don't know what I would’ve done” I said, being the first one to disturb the still air.
“I am too,” Wally said into my hair as he kissed the top of my head.
We lay there all night even when the stadium lights came on we just talked about everything and anything. Maybe the afterlife won’t completely suck.
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: in which you get drunk, and jack abbot takes it upon himself to take care of you.
content warnings: implied age gap, sort of a size difference?, reader's drunk so she's veryyyy dizzy, they are kind of aware of the fact that they like each other but also they're doing nothing about it, i think that's it? lmk if i missed something
a/n: hii!! this is my first jack fic ever, so i'm quite nervous!! but i hope you like this <3
The bar was loud enough to be comfortable, quiet enough to pretend you were having actual conversations. You'd stopped trying to follow conversations along about an hour ago.
Your finger traced the condensation on your glass.Under the table, your foot found Jack's. You'd started this maybe thirty minutes ago, toying with his foot idly while he talked to Robby about whatever. You weren't listening anymore.
Jack let you.
He didn't pause his conversation or acknowledge it at all, except he also didn't move his foot away. So you kept going, brushing against him, hooking your foot around his, pulling back, finding him again. A lazy game only you were playing.
After a while, your foot got tired. You stopped toying and just settled your foot over his, letting it rest there and he held it.
You'd been careful, obviously. You knew which leg was his prosthetic. But honestly? You were pretty sure he'd have let you do it anyway. Jack was like that with you. Let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try.
Jack kept talking and holding your foot. But when you stopped moving, he turned.
You were slumped slightly in your seat, one hand against your cheek, finger still tracing the glass mindlessly. The position made your lips pucker slightly, your focus entirely on the nothing you were drawing on the condensation. Bored. Tired. Drunk enough that you'd forgotten to pretend otherwise.
Jack had to suppress a smile at that. He lifted your foot gently, then set it back down and slowly untangled his from yours.
"You okay?" he mumbled, low enough that Robby wouldn't hear over the bar noise.
"Yeah." You kept tracing the glass.
Jack turned his body fully toward you now. His hand came up, barely touching, just fingertips as he brushed your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear from the side he was seeing.
"I'm not sure you are, sweetheart."
He let his hand drop from your hair, and for the first time all night, got a proper look at your side profile.
You finally lifted your head off your hand and turned to him. "No, I am. I promise." You rubbed your eye softly.
Jack shot you a look, that look, the one that said he didn't believe you but wasn't going to argue.
He turned back to Robby, to whatever conversation they'd been having. But he stayed close. And as he did, his hands found the scarf you'd been wearing all night. He started to work it loose, realizing exactly how overheated you must have been.
You let him.
Because it's Jack. And Jack takes care of you. Always has. Always will.
Even Robby didn't budge, kept talking like nothing was happening, because honestly? This was just how Jack was with you. How he'd always been and Robby had stopped mentioning it months ago.
At some point, Jack finished with the scarf and spoke without looking at you. "You should stop wearing that so much." He folded it carefully. "It's May."
You were slumped against the back of your seat now, warm and loose and not really tracking much. "It's really pretty, though." You sounded like a child. But that was a given. You were drunk off your ass.
"Yeah. It is." Jack glanced at you and shook his head fondly.
While you slouched and let the bar noise wash over you, he reached for your bag and opened it. He carefully tucked the folded scarf inside, then set your purse back down within your reach.
Usually you'd hang out with Trinity at the bar, but she'd gone God knows where with Victoria at some point, leaving you stranded at the table with Jack and Robby and their never ending medical talk. Not that you minded, necessarily. Jack was here.
Plus you were tired. You hadn't slept well, hadn't slept well in days, honestly, though you'd never admit it. So you had no idea why you'd even come in the first place. Maybe it was because this was the first day off you'd had in ages. And sitting at home alone, watching baking competitions while you ate chocolate straight from the wrapper, had sounded kind of sad. So you'd come out.
Maybe it was also your chance to see Jack in outside clothes. Not that you didn't enjoy seeing him in his scrubs, you did, obviously, you weren't blind, but there was something about him in regular clothes that hit different. The way his jeans fit. The shirt he’d worn tonight was dark grey, the sleeves tight against his biceps.
Too bad you were too drunk to really appreciate it tonight.
The bar seemed louder now. You weren't sure if that was your drunkenness perceiving it that way or if the crowd had actually picked up. Either way, the noise was starting to press against your skull in a way that wasn't entirely pleasant.
You noticed a little drip of beer left in your glass, just a swallow, really, and you picked it up and drank it, plopping the glass back down satisfied that the little yellow was fully gone now.
Your not quite existent thoughts were interrupted by Jack’s hand brushing up and down your back. "How are you feeling?" He leaned in closer, mouth near your ear.
Ah. The bar had gotten louder. You weren't imagining it.
You turned your head, slightly caught off guard by how close he was, close enough to count his eyelashes, but you didn't pull back.
"Okay." You mumbled it, then turned your head away again, facing forward. Jack stared at you anyway. You could feel it.
"Jack."
"Hm?"
"Stop staring. I'm fine."
He chuckled, a sound you felt more than heard. "You're not fine."
His hand stopped moving, resting flat against the middle of your back. "Come on. I'm taking you home." His thumb started moving again, just brushing back and forth.
You sighed loudly, turning your head back to him. "Will you carry me home?" You were joking. Obviously. Being ridiculous. Drunk and warm and not wanting to move.
"Sure." Jack said it like it was nothing. Like carrying you home was the most natural thing in the world. He was already scooting off his seat.
"Jack!" You smiled despite yourself, rubbing your eyes tiredly again.
He smiled back, softly. And you knew, even drunk, even with your head spinning slightly, that he would have carried you either way. Joking or not.
That was just Jack.
The bar swayed slightly as you scooted out of the booth. Or maybe that was just you. Hard to tell at this point.
Jack was already standing, waiting at the edge of the seat with his hands.
You stared at his hands. Not on purpose.
Okay, maybe a little on purpose. But in your defense, they were right there, in front of you, and you were drunk enough that staring felt justified. His fingers, the way his knuckles looked, the silver band on his ring finger.
You stared anyway. Your drunk brain had apparently decided this was fine. Normal and acceptable behavior.
Luckily for you, Jack was good at reading the room. Or, more accurately, good at pretending he hadn't noticed whatever embarrassing thing you were currently doing. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes. "Come on, sweetheart."
You finally glanced up, shaking whatever expression was on your face into something less obvious, and took his hands. He pulled you gently off the seat, and then the world decided to keep moving even though you'd stopped.
You stood there for a moment. Then another moment. Then a moment too long. Your eyes squeezed shut as you gripped his hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Jack didn't move, instead he stood there, watching you with something soft in his expression that you couldn't see because your eyes were still closed.
After a beat too long, he got worried. "Hey." His voice was quiet. "Don't sleep on me." He let go of one of your hands and touched your cheek. Barely.
Your eyes opened immediately. "'M not asleep." The words came out mushier than you intended. "Just dizzy. Really dizzy." You blinked at him, trying to focus. "Please don't let go."
"I won't." He dropped his hand from your cheek but kept the other one firmly wrapped around yours. "You okay with me just holding your hand, or do you need more support?"
"Waist." You didn't even hesitate. Didn't even have it in you to be embarrassed about how quickly that came out.
Jack smiled. "Okay."
He didn't say anything about how that was exactly what he'd been hoping for. Didn't let on that his heart did something dumb when you said it. Just gently grabbed your arm, draped it over his shoulder, and slid his own arm around your waist. "You good?" He turned his head to look at you, close enough that you could see how hazel his eyes were.
"Good." You smiled up at him.
The walk to his car was long. Way too long, honestly. Jack had parked outside and every step felt like three. You stumbled twice. He just tightened his arm around your waist and kept going.
At some point you realized you hadn't said goodbye to Trinity or Victoria. You mumbled something about it, half panicked and Jack just shook his head. "It's okay. Robby will let them know."
Eventually, finally, you reached his car. And then he had to let go of you to get the door open. You groaned loudly. The kind of groan that belonged in a teenager having a tantrum, except you were a grown adult who was simply too drunk and too tired to care about dignity.
Jack started chuckling.
"You find all of this too funny." You leaned heavily against his car, glaring at him with zero actual heat. "I don't like it." He was still chuckling as he opened the door. Soft chuckles that made him shake his head slightly. "Stop making fun of me." You tried to sound stern. It came out sleepy.
"I'm not." He was smiling. "I promise." His hand found your waist again and you felt yourself relax into the touch before you could stop it. "Watch your head."
He guided you down into the seat carefully, one hand on your waist, the other hovering near the top of the door frame like he'd catch you if you forgot to duck. Which, honestly? You might have. The night was fuzzy.
You plopped down into the seat, your head lulling against the headrest like it was too heavy to hold up on its own. The leather was cool against your warm cheek. Nice. You might just stay here forever.
"There you go." He said it quietly.
Jack pushed the door wider, so he could bend down to your level. The interior light spilled over both of you as he leaned in, reaching across you for the seatbelt.
"You smell nice," you mumbled.
He clicked the belt into place. "I smell like a bar."
"You smell nice." You said it again, correcting him.
Jack paused, looking at you properly now. The kind of look that missed nothing. He realized then that you were much drunker than he'd thought.
He smiled anyway, shook his head slightly. He reached up and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear like it was muscle memory now, so you could see him better.
Not that you were looking. Your eyes were closed again.
But then his fingers brushed your skin, and your eyes fluttered open, startled by the closeness. He didn't mention your staring, didn't comment on how your breath caught slightly. Just held your gaze for a moment, before speaking quietly.
"You want to go to your place or mine?"
Your eyes went wide. Wide enough that if you'd been sober, you'd have been mortified. "Is your place an option?" The excitement in your voice was impossible to miss.
Jack's eyebrows lifted slightly and he pulled back a fraction. His hand rested on the side of the door, steadying himself.
"Yeah." His voice was measured. "I'm concerned about you. You've had way too much alcohol. I'd rather not have you out of my sight."
You tilted your head, processing this. "I can take care of myself."
His arm traveled up to the top of the door frame now, leaning in slightly as he looked down at you. The position made him seem bigger somehow. "I know you can." He reached down, catching your hand just as you were about to rub your eyes again. His fingers wrapped around yours gently, stopping you. "But I'd still like to help."
You stared at him. Then your eyes dropped to his hand holding yours. "Okay." It came out small. Nothing like your usual self.
Jack smiled. Then he let go and straightened up, pulling the door closed.
You watched him through the window as he walked around the front of the car, the night dark behind him. He opened his door, slid into the driver's seat, and glanced over at you. "Doing okay?"
"Yeah."
He nodded back, satisfied with that, and started the engine.
The ride was quiet. Your eyes were closed, just letting the movement of the car rock you gently while the warmth from the seat seeped into your tired body.
"I can't wait to see your home." The words came out before you fully realized you'd spoken them.
Jack glanced at you briefly, then back at the road. A red light was coming up, and he slowed the car to a stop. "Why's that?"
You tilted your head against the seat, turning to look at him properly. The streetlight above cast warm orange light through the windshield, catching the lines of his face.
"'Cause I just wanna know more about you." The words hung in the air between you, and you watched the slight shift in his eyes, the way he held your gaze a moment longer than necessary.
Then he nodded. "Guess you will in a couple of minutes."
You smiled. "Do you have a cat?"
"No, I don't have a cat." He paused, glancing at you again as the light turned green and he started moving. "You think I'm capable of taking care of a cat?"
You raised your eyebrow at him, still smiling. "You're doing a great job with me right now." He'd been taking care of you all night. All the time, really, if you thought about it. Which you tried not to. Usually.
Jack turned his head toward you for a second, but long enough for you to catch the look on his face. He was surprised, maybe, like he hadn't expected you to say that. "You're comparing yourself to a cat?"
You shrugged. "Cats are nice. I'm nice."
He smiled. "Yeah. You are nice."
You felt your face warm, shy in a way you hadn't been a moment ago. "Yeah?" you asked, voice smaller now.
"Very nice." He said it like he meant it.
You made a happy sound. The kind of sound you couldn't have stopped if you tried, because Jack Abbot just called you very nice, and he was your boss, and also your crush, and also currently driving you to his apartment, and none of that made sense but all of it felt right.
"You're nice too," you said softly.
Jack didn't respond. Just kept driving, eyes on the road, but you caught the barely there smile at that.
You stared out the window for a while, watching streetlights blur past. But your brain was still turning, still willing to say things you'd never say sober. "Ellis said you're nicer to me than to everyone else."
There. You'd said it. Put it out in the world.
Jack's hands tightened on the wheel. Ah. He got it now. Drunk you was honest. Vulnerable. The kind of vulnerable that usually hid behind jokes and deflection and pretending not to care.
"Would that be a problem?" he asked, testing the ground.
You shook your head, still looking out the window. "No." you paused. "I just wonder why."
The car slowed. You heard the engine cut out, felt the sudden stillness settle around you. You glanced outside but you didn't really look. Pretended to, though.
"Seriously?" he asked.
You met his eyes. And suddenly you weren't just drunk anymore, you were aware of how the car felt smaller now.
"You're asking too many questions tonight, Jack." You grumbled it, but it came out nervous. The kind of nervous you get when you ask something you weren't sure you wanted the answer to. "Just answer the question."
He chuckled. Almost nervous, if Jack Abbot even got nervous. And you realized, dimly, that you'd never heard him nervous before.
"I'm not answering this one." Your heart dropped, but he kept going. "Because you know the answer already."
He was staring at you and you stared back, frozen, because yes. Yes, you did know. You'd known for a while, probably. Known in the way he looked at you, the way he found you in a crowded room, the way he let you get away with things he'd never let anyone else try. Known in the foot under the table, the scarf folded into your bag, known in the way he was driving you to his place.
But hearing it straight up like this while drunk off your mind was something you hadn't expected.
You looked away first. Your heart was too loud, your face too warm, your brain too fuzzy to process the weight of what just happened.
The silence stretched.
Then, softly Jack spoke again. "Come on. Let's get you inside."
You bit your lip, watching as Jack got out of the car. The door closed with a solid thunk, and then he was walking around the front, headlights catching him briefly before he disappeared into shadow, then reappearing at your door. He opened it softly, the night air rushing in cool against your warm skin, and leaned down to undo your seatbelt.
"Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He said quietly. "I'm sorry."
You shook your head immediately. "Not uncomfortable." You reached for his hands without thinking. "Just…" You searched for the word. It floated somewhere in your fuzzy brain, just out of reach. "Shy?" You smiled up at him, hoping that was the right one.
He smiled back. "Shy is good."
You smiled back, warmth spreading through your chest. Then he was helping you out of the car, guiding you up and out until you were standing, leaning against the doorframe for balance. He shut your door and the car beeped twice as it locked.
You stayed leaned against the car for a moment, looking at him. He stood in front of you now, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you.
"I know your answer." You said softly, barely meeting his eyes. "You know. Before. I know it."
He uncrossed his arms, let them hang at his sides. "Good."
You smiled at him and he smiled right back. "I hope you say it properly one day."
"I plan to, sweetheart." He promised. "Trust me."
You watched him for a long moment. "Soon?"
The word came out smaller than you meant it to. You reached for his hand, not as dizzy anymore or maybe just not noticing it, and he took it immediately. His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
"Soon." He smiled softly.
You smiled back, heart full to bursting, before finally letting him guide you away from the car. He kept looking at you as you walked, making sure you weren't about to fall. You weren't. You were mostly dizzy on love, if that made any sense at all. It probably didn't. You didn't care.
He helped you up the steps to his building, one hand firm on your waist, the other ready to catch you if you stumbled. You managed just fine, though, even found yourself grinning at the ordinary miracle of walking and of his hand warm through your shirt.
At his door, he fumbled with keys for a second before finding the right one. The lock clicked open.
"You're rich," you mumbled as you stepped inside.
He chuckled behind you. "Well, I'd hope so after twenty years of being a doctor."
You giggled at that and you heard him smile even before you turned to see it. He pushed the door open wider, and you managed to walk in on your own, looking around as the space opened up in front of you.
"Woah." yeah, he was most definitely rich.
Jack locked the door behind you, and then he stepped closer, hands coming up to brush softly at your waist, steadying you as you took it all in.
"You like it?" His breath warm against the back of your neck as he helped you out of your jacket.
"You're not messy!" you said, maybe too loudly. "Everything's organized."
You pulled off your shoes and tried your best to put them away neatly by the door. They ended up slightly crooked but together, which felt like a win.
Jack sighed behind you, worried more than anything. You heard him hang your jacket and bag up.
When you turned around, he was watching you with that look. The one that probably meant that he was calculating your blood alcohol content, probably whether you needed water or food or just to be sat down before you fell over.
"You're worrying," you said.
He raised an eyebrow. "I'm always worrying."
"About me?"
He held your gaze for a long moment. "Yeah. About you."
You smiled and then you stepped further into the apartment, still taking everything in, when Jack glanced down at your feet. His eyes caught on two different socks and he grinned to himself.
"Jack, you have a really nice house," you mumbled, wandering toward a shelf against the wall. It was covered in random things. A dusty trophy from some old sports thing. A couple of framed photos, faces you didn't recognize. Some diplomas. A stack of books with worn spines.
"Thanks, sweetheart." His voice came from somewhere behind you. "But we should really get you to sober up."
You turned your head toward him. He was standing there watching you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, a small smile playing at his mouth.
"Am I sleeping here?" You weren't on your tiptoes anymore, trying to see the top shelf. Instead you turned to him, meeting his eyes.
"Would you like to sleep here?" He asked it gently, giiving you the choice.
"Would you like me to sleep here?"
He didn't hesitate. "Of course I do."
"Okay." You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly shy again. "If I'm not a bother, I'd like to stay."
He crossed the distance between you, hand finding your lower back as he led you down a short hallway. "You're never a bother."
He stopped at a door, pushed it open, and flicked on the light. His bathroom was clean, just like the rest of his place. He motioned you inside. "Wait here."
He pulled the toilet seat down and you plopped down gratefully, suddenly aware of how tired you actually were.
Jack disappeared. You heard him in the kitchen, water running, a cabinet opening and closing. You let your head rest against the wall behind you and your eyes drifted to his shower.
There was a small collection of bottles lined up along the ledge. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Nothing fancy. Just regular guy stuff. But you found yourself staring anyway, head tilted, squinting slightly as you tried to read the labels. Trying to figure out what kind of shampoo Jack Abbot used.
You were still squinting when he appeared in front of you, holding a glass of water. You startled just slightly.
"Drink up." He held the cup out, waiting. You mumbled a small "thank you" before reaching for it, but your hands were less coordinated than you'd realized, and instead of taking it properly you just covered his hand with yours.
He let you. His other hand came up to brush your hair gently away from your face. You felt his fingers graze your temple, your cheek, tucking strands behind your ear the way he always did.
When you lowered the glass, he caught the corner of your mouth with his thumb, brushing away a stray drop of water.
You sighed, content and suddenly so much less thirsty. "Thank you."
Jack took the glass from your hands and set it on the counter, out of the way. Then he crouched down in front of you. "How you feeling, sweetheart?"
You considered the question. Actually considered it, instead of just saying fine like you always did. "Tired," you admitted. "But good. Really good."
He nodded slowly. "Dizzy? Nauseous?"
You shook your head. "Just tired. And warm. And happy." The last part slipped out before you could stop it. You felt your cheeks warm, but you didn't take it back.
He smiled. "Happy's good."
He reached up to softly remove the hair clip from your hair. You felt the tension release as your hair fell loose around your shoulders.
"I look like a mess. I'm sorry." You mumbled it, eyes dropping to your lap. "I got all dressed up for you, and now I'm drunk sitting on your toilet, and I'm going to regret this so terribly tomorrow."
Something flickered in Jack's eyes. Something that he didn't let himself say out loud, like how at least you'd wake up in his bed, at least he'd be there when you did. He stopped himself. But he couldn't help latching onto the other part.
"You got dressed up for me?"
His voice was soft as he reached up again, finding another clip, then another. Little ones now scattered on his sink. He sank back to his knees in front of you, winced slightly, because kneeling on a prosthetic leg wasn't comfortable. But he stayed there anyway. His hands found your knees as he brushed back and forth slowly.
"Yeah. I wanted to look pretty for you."
The words landed somewhere in his chest. He smiled gently, thumb tracing a small circle on your knee. "You always look pretty."
You shook your head immediately, already sighing. "No I don't. Not right now."
Jack shook his head right back at you. "Yeah you do."
You opened your mouth to argue and he just shook his head again. You stopped immediately.
"Uh uh. Enough of that." He shook his head again. "I'm your boss. I'm the one who has the last word here."
You stared at him for a second, then you grinned. "Okay."
He smiled back and started to push himself up. You caugh his reaction this time, the slight grimace, the way he braced himself on the sink, the small groan he tried to hide.
"Are you okay?" you asked concerned.
He waved it off. "Fine. Old man stuff." He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, then looked down at you. "You want to sleep in these clothes?"
You considered it, chewing on your lip for a second. Then you shrugged. "Actually, I wanna wear your clothes."
That stopped him cold. He halted mid step, turning to look back at you. You were smiling up at him with that huge grin. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were aware, on some level, what those words did something to him.
"You're terrible, you know that?" he mumbled, but there was no heat in it. He reached for your hand, pulling you gently up from the toilet seat.
You took his hand, steadying yourself against him, and grinned even wider. "You like me. That means I can't be that terrible."
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. He led you out of the bathroom and down the hall.
His bedroom was nice. A dresser with a few things on top. A lamp on the nightstand. A window with the blinds half drawn, letting in slivers of streetlight
"Nice bed," you mumbled softly, taking in the way he'd properly made it, sheets tucked in, pillows fluffed, a blanket folded at the foot.
"It's good enough," he replied, already moving toward his closet.
You stood there watching him, not even trying to hide it. He was choosing something for you and your drunk brain found that unbearably sweet.
He turned around holding sweatpants and a t-shirt and tilted his head slightly. A question. Okay?
You nodded, reaching out to take them from his hands. The fabric was warm and you hugged them without thinking.
"I'll be in the bathroom. Just call for me when you're done."
You nodded again, suddenly more tired now that you were in his room with his lamp casting warm light and his bed right there looking so comfortable. He slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.
In the bathroom, Jack leaned against the sink for a moment. He turned on the cold water, splashed some on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. You were here. In his home. Sleepy and honest and practically admitting you liked him. Dressed up for him. He pressed his palms against the counter and exhaled slowly, aware of his heart beating faster than it had any right to.
He changed quickly. Sweatpants, a clean shirt. Brushed his teeth. Tried to look normal, tried to calm down, tried to remember how to be just Jack instead of Jack who had you in his bedroom wearing his clothes.
Then you called his name.
He opened the door and walked down the hall. And yeah, the sight didn't help his heart at all.
You were standing by his bed, well, standing was generous. More like swaying gently, having clearly tried to fold your clothes and put them on the chair in the corner. The folding hadn't gone well. Your shirt was half draped over the chair back, your jeans in a heap on the floor next to it. But you were wearing his clothes. His shirt swallowed you whole, the hem falling to your thighs. His sweatpants were rolled at the waist and still too big, pooling slightly at your feet.
He smiled to himself, trying to get his heart to calm down as he reached for the bed, pushing back the sheets, getting it ready for you.
The silence behind him lasted just a little too long.
Ah. You wanted a compliment. "You look as pretty as ever." he said over his shoulder, smiling at you.
"I like your clothes," you giggled, happy over receiving the compliment you'd been waiting for. You shuffled closer until you were standing next to him.
He turned to look at you fondly. "Like them on you, too."
His hand gently found your waist and he guided you backward, lowering you onto the bed until you were sitting, then lying down, your head meeting the pillow he'd just fluffed. You went easily. He thought about how different this was from your usual shyness, how you'd normally get flustered and look away if he got too close. But here, now, you were more than happy to jump into his bed.
But, who was he to judge? He loved having you here.
"God, I'm so tired." You mumbled it, hand coming up to rub your eyes again. "And drunk. So drunk."
Jack still stood above you, watching. He loved the way you curled slightly toward the warmth of his pillow and the way you looked so perfect in his bed.
"I know, sweetheart." He said softly "Just rest now." He reached down and pulled the blanket up over you.
He, then, reached for your shoulder and turned you onto your side. "That's better," he mumbled softly, fingers brushing your hair away from your face. His hand lingered for just a second on the curve of your cheek.
"Sleep well," he whispered. "I'll get you some ibuprofen for your headache and some water tomorrow, yeah?" He gestured vaguely toward the nightstand, even though you couldn't see it. "They'll be right here. On the night table."
You just hummed in response, already slipping under, already gone. You burrowed deeper into his pillow.
He started to pull away, to move toward the door, when your hand shot out. "Don't leave." He looked down at you, at your hand wrapped around his wrist. "What do I get out of being in your bed if you're not here?" you murmured, turning onto your back to look up at him properly.
His heart stopped. He was sure he didn't hear you right.
"Please?" you added, softer now.
"Yeah. Okay." he replied quietly as he rounded the bed slowly, walked to the other side, and laid down at a distance. So much distance you could have fit another person between you. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach.
You propped yourself on your forearms behind you, head tilted, staring at him with an open mouth. And then you started giggling.
"Jack Abbot." His name in your mouth was so wonderful, he wanted to close his eyes for a second to cherish it. "Are you nervous? Do I make you nervous?" You seemed genuinely delighted by this discovery. Thrilled, even.
He shot you a look. And yeah. Okay. He was laying very far away from you. The kind of distance a teenager would put between themselves and a date on the first night. He was old enough to not be nervous about this.
But here, now, with you in his bed wearing his clothes and looking at him like that? Of course he was nervous.
"Sweetheart." His voice came out quieter than he meant. "You're in my bed. What do you expect?" Honesty. He'd decided on honesty. "Of course I'm nervous."
You tilted your head, and then you were moving closer, until you were leaning on one elbow, looking down at him from above. Your hair fell forward, brushing against his shoulder. You'd brushed your teeth earlier, used his toothpaste, and you smelled like mint and him. It did something to him. "That's cute."
He huffed out a laugh, reacting the only way he knew when feeling this seen. "Sure."
You giggled again, that wonderful sound that seemed to live somewhere in his chest now, and then your hand found its way up to his chest. And that's when his heart stopped.
Not really. Obviously not really. But it felt like it stopped. Felt like everything stopped.
Your fingers traced patterns on his chest, circles, lines, nothing recognizable. Then they drifted lower, tracing random shapes on his stomach through the fabric of his shirt.
"I am really drunk," you murmured, "but I still know that I'm going to regret this tomorrow." You were watching your hand. "But being drunk also gives me an excuse to touch you. So I'm using it."
"You don't need an excuse to touch me." He watched you, enjoying the view of seeing your pretty face so close. "I promise you, sweetheart."
You tilted your head, looking at him, processing his words slowly, the way drunk people do.
"I'll take you up on that." You said softly. "A lot."
Jack Abbot had never ever felt more thrilled. "You do that, baby."
His hand found the back of your shoulder, gently guiding you down until your head was resting fully on his chest, right over his heart, letting you feel what you did to him.
His hand came up to the back of your head. His big hand engulfed it completely, fingers spreading through your hair, brushing through it slowly. His thumb moved gently against your scalp.
He felt you startle slightly at first and then relax. Your hand finally stopped moving on his stomach. He reached down with his other hand, grabbed the sheets, and pulled them up over you both.
Then he felt your ankle hooking gently over his, just like at the bar. And he smiled to himself in the dark.
He kept brushing through your hair. He remembered watching you once. You'd been stressed about something, pacing the break room, and you'd done this thing where you ran your own fingers through your hair, over and over, until you calmed down.
He hoped this helped.
He could feel it in the way you relaxed further, the way your breathing evened out, the way your body went heavy against his.
You were quiet for a long moment, so long he thought you'd fallen asleep, but then you spoke quietly. "I hope I remember this tomorrow."
He smiled before whispering, “I’ll make sure you do.”
summary: you and jack were best friends, but jack was never one to hide what he wants, and what he wants is you, but you're too scared to lose him.
word count: 8.1k
tw: slowwwwww burn, being afraid of intimacy and relationships, mentions of drunk driving, mentions of death (not a main character), mentions of dissociation and not breathing, nightmare, reader gets abandoned on a date (not by jack), mention of grief and losing a loved one. jack yearning in a huge way.
authors note: i poured my heart soul blood sweat and tears into this fic and you better like it!!!!!! jk, but seriously i hope i did a good job and hope you all love it! mwah!
You and Jack Abbot became fast friends the moment you stepped into the Pitt for your first night shift.
You were late. Like, seriously late. The kind of late where people start checking their watches and trying to get ahold of you.
Late, late.
And for your first night on night shift. You held the strap of your backpack in one hand and had a tight grip on your iced coffee in the other. You really thought you had plenty of time to get there, and honestly you did. But then, there was an accident ahead of you on the highway, and you were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, and you barely had any service. You tried to answer your text messages and phone calls from your coworkers, but nothing was going through.
You’d been working on day shift for a year, barely even crossing paths with night shift doctors, and if you did it was a quick nod or “good luck”.
And you’d heard plenty about the night shift attending, Jack Abbot. He was no nonsense, quick on his feet, sharp.
Definitely not the kind of guy you want to spill coffee all over yourself in front of on your first night.
And yet here you were.
You knew you were gripping your cup too tight, being able to feel the lid slightly popping off and the liquid sloshing out over your fingers. But you couldn’t stop.
And really, you should have. Because now your coffee was all over you, and your attendings shoes.
Nightmare. You thought. This is my nightmare and I need to wake up now.
You froze as you stared down at his now coffee-colored shoes, trying to push down the heat blossoming into your cheeks. To make it worse, his own cup of hot coffee was spilled across the floor.
Jack could see the panic rising. Your breaths were quick and you stood at a loss for words, apologies and explanations bubbled on your tongue but nothing except for small stutters escaped your mouth.
“How about this?” Jack offered, no introduction was needed. He knew you. “You go get us new coffees at the Starbucks in the cafeteria, and I’ll forget you were late.”
“I’m already late-“
“It’s gonna be a long night, kid. Get us some coffees, alright?” He laughed, patting your arm and slipping a $20 bill into your hands.
“Leave a nice tip.”
It didn’t take long after that for you and Jack to slip into a routine on your night shifts together. Alternating days to bring each other coffee, walking to the 24 hour diner for blueberry pancakes after easier shifts, meeting on the roof with crappy hospital coffee after harder shifts.
It was nice, having a friend at work. Someone who understood what you needed and when you needed it. Someone you could sit with when things just felt too heavy, someone that didn’t demand explanations from you.
Life wasn’t always easy for you. Friends, family, relationships, school. None of it felt effortless. It felt like you were constantly putting in more effort than everyone else was, and it eventually caused burnout, which caused relationships to sever. No one ever really stuck around. Which made relationships even harder, you didn’t want to risk getting close to someone only for them to leave just like everyone else.
But Jack stuck around.
The clink of a metallic can hitting the counter shook you from your thoughts, your eyeline for some reason zeroed in on Dana and Lena’s shoes, the two nurses deep in conversation amidst their shift change.
A pink Monster.
“Workin’ a double today, right?” Jack’s gravelly voice filled your ears like music. The voice that had become your main source of comfort.
You just nodded, grabbing the can and dragging it closer to you so you could rest your face on it, coddling it like a precious jewel.
“Yeah.” You sighed, letting your eyes flutter closed. “Sure am.”
Jack chuckled at the sight of you using your energy drink as a pillow, his eyes fond as ever.
“You got this, kiddo.”
“I’m gonna die here.” You whined.
“I’ll be here to pick you up when you’re done, alright?” He still had a lingering trace of humor in his voice still, patting your back.
“Happy sleeping.” You grumbled as he walked away from you.
“He’ll be here to do what now?” Parker asked, finally breaking her silence after listening to the whole conversation.
“He gives me rides home after doubles sometimes.” You yawned, digging your fingers into your eyelids. “S’not a big deal.”
Parker scoffed, bringing a hand up to rest on your hip. “Dr. Abbot doesn’t just give residents rides home. What’s the deal?”
“No deal. We’re friends.”
“Right. Whatever makes you sleep at night.”
You were. You were just friends. You’d been spending time together for 3 months now and Jack hadn’t made so much as even a small sliver of a move. No lingering touches, no stolen glances, nothing.
And if there were signs that you noticed, you actively chose to ignore them.
-
“Hey, Abbot!”
Your voice floated through the backyard. It was a rare day. Schedules and days off overlapped perfectly, the sun was shining but not sweltering, comfortable enough to be outside. You mentioned to Jack that it would be fun to have your available friends from the Pitt get together, and of course, Jack thought whatever you said was a great idea, and offered his place up in an instant.
You moved towards him with a smile on your face, beaming almost as brightly as the sun shining down on your skin. You were wearing a white babydoll dress paired with yellow boots that went up just below your knees.
Jack couldn’t help but look twice.
You had a plate of food in each hand, both piled high with pasta salad, tortilla chips, mini sandwiches and strawberries.
He was sitting around his patio table with Robby, Shen and Parker, drinking beer while he showed them his new outdoor TV.
You set the plate down on the table in front of him, and he had to stop himself from bringing his hand up to rest on the back of your thigh.
He looked up at you, and boy was Jack Abbot a goner.
“Thank you.” He rasped, surprised by the own softness in his voice.
“Of course! I’m gonna go sit with Dana by the pool, she’s waiting for me.”
You smiled before turning to skip off in the direction of the pool.
“Hey, where’s my plate of food?” Shen called after you, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“You have legs!” You called back, not bothering to turn around.
“Yeah, just friends.” Parker teased, taking a sip of her beer, repeating the words from your conversation a few weeks ago.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack asked.
“Don’t act naïve, brother.” Robby leaned forward and grabbed a few pieces of pasta salad with his fingers, popping them into his mouth.
“Really, man? There’s a fork right here.” Jack picked up the fork, pointing it in the direction of his friend’s face.
Robby shrugged, “More fun to make you mad.”
Jack shook his head, taking the fork and taking a bite of pasta salad anyway.
“She’s my friend.”
He said the words but his gaze was fixated on you, sitting on a pool chair with Dana, trying to balance your plate of food on your thighs. Dana said something that made you laugh, throwing your head back, covering your smile with your hand.
He hated that you did that.
Your shared coworkers and friends could speculate all they wanted, he wasn’t budging.
Obviously, you were not just his friend. He was completely taken with you, from the moment you spilled your coffee onto his shoes, he knew he wanted to keep you close. But Jack hadn’t exactly been lucky in love and relationships, and he had to do this right. You were guarded, not open to the possibility of you and Jack being something, you didn’t have to say it for him to know. So, he waited. And he knew he’d continue to wait for as long as it took.
Sitting there in that moment, watching you laugh with Dana as the sun hit your skin just right, making you practically glow, he knew he’d wait forever.
-
“You wanna tell me why you’re in the bushes or should I call for a psych consult?”
It was a chaotic night that turned into a really beautiful morning, and the entire night shift crew was itching to escape from the hospital, including Jack, who usually wasn’t in a hurry to do anything, really. Except for traumas.
But he stopped in his tracks as he exited the building when he saw you, with your entire upper half buried deep into the shrubbery that was planted outside of the hospital, only knowing it was you because he recognized your old, dirty shoes that you refused to replace.
You rolled your eyes, though Jack couldn’t see, and yelled out a response, though your voice was muffled by all of the leaves and sticks surrounding you.
Jack walked closer, leaning down closer to the plant, his ear practically touching it.
“One more time?”
“There’s a cat in here!”
Of course you had your entire upper body shoved into a plant to get a cat.
“I have my hands on it, but I can’t get myself out.”
Jack couldn’t help but smile, this whole situation being incredibly amusing.
“You’re stuck in a bush?”
“Jaaaaack!” You whine, your voice drawing out the vowel. “Help me!”
“Alright, alright, one second.” His word worked through a laugh as he shrugged his backpack off before he secured his hands around your waist, trying really, really hard not to read too deeply into the position you were both in, and pulled.
You came right on out, your hair frizzy with twigs and leaves sticking from it, but you had the cutest little brown tabby in your arms, and your eyes were sparkling.
“I got it!”
Jack chuckled, plucking all the twigs and leaves out of your hair. “You sure did.”
“Will you come with me to the pet store?”
And that’s how Jack found himself at a Petsmart at 8 AM after a 12 hour shift, following behind you with a shopping cart as you threw things into it, still holding your new cat in your arms. Jack was surprised the cat hadn’t jumped out of your arms and ran off, but it seemed pretty happy.
“What are you gonna name him?”
“Robby.”
Jack nearly choked on his own breath, having to push down his very unwanted jealousy over a cat name.
“He kinda looks like him, don’t you think?” You turned your body so Jack could see the cat’s face, and he hated to admit it, the cat did look a lot like Dr. Robby.
And he had to remind himself; it was him that you asked to come with you to the pet store, not Robby.
“What if it’s a girl?” He asked, taking the giant bag of cat food you picked out and hauling it into the grocery cart.
“It’s not, I can tell. I have a sixth sense about these things.”
Jack helped you load up your car, piling your truck high with a probably unnecessary amount of cat toys, treats, food, and anything else you could possibly need for a cat.
You were extremely nervous as you led Jack to your apartment, this being the first time either one of you has been in the other’s home, and even though you knew this day would come inevitably, you were just really hoping your place wouldn’t be first.
But despite that, your place was exactly as Jack had pictured it. All the lights were dim, vintage art and posters littered the walls, a used looking green couch was shoved into the corner, various quilts and pillows thrown onto it. Books were shoved into bookshelves that were obviously overflowing, purses hung on doorknobs and candles of different scents that somehow worked together lit throughout the area.
It wasn’t neat and tidy, but not messy either.
It was perfectly you.
“Why don’t you feed Robby while I get the litterbox set up?” He said easily, as if it was just another day of you two coming home together after a long shift, sliding into domesticity and routine.
It threw you, freaking you out more than you’d like to admit, him just so easily slipping down your hallway to set up a litter box in your bathroom, his arms lined with bags from your errand.
Easily. Like it was the most normal thing in the world for him.
You felt boxed in in your own home.
He emerged once he was finished, clapping his hands then rubbing them together, as if he had just built a house, not put together a litter box.
“I have to take Robby to the vet.” You announced, not giving him a second glance as you scooped your new cat back up into your arms, keys in hand and headed for the door.
“Oh.” Jack seemed startled.
Was he expecting an all-day invitation?
He exited the apartment with you, and watched you fumble with your keys, obviously something in the past 5 minutes had startled you. He placed a steady hand over yours, taking your keys out of your hands and gently putting your apartment key into the lock, twisting and securing it shut.
You grabbed your keys back, mumbling out a thanks before disappearing, down the stairs, leaving Jack’s feelings hurt and confused as he stood alone in your corridor.
The only thing that he received from you that day was a picture of a piece of paper from the vet’s office.
And that’s how you ended up with a girl cat named Robby.
-
“Someone get Abbot!”
He had been emerging from a trauma room when he heard the call of his name, having just taken off his glasses, gloves and surgical gown, but was immediately ready to throw fresh ones right back on, knowing another life needed him elsewhere.
There was a terrible accident, a drunk driver hit a family headed to the airport in the early hours of the morning.
The guy was fine, walking away with a concussion and a few broken ribs. The family, however, was in a much worse condition. Jack had just worked tirelessly on the mom for over an hour, he was able to stabilize her and get her up to surgery. The dad was stabilized quickly and moved to a central room, still unconscious and intubated, one of the daughters was with you, and one was DOA.
The driver had rammed right into the backseat, where the two daughters sat.
The emergency contact informed them they were on their way to see Grandma for her birthday.
It was one of those nights where Jack could just feel the weight of the world.
He went to grab another pair of gloves, but was stopped by Ellis, who must’ve been the one who called for him.
“It’s not like that.”
Jack wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat, if it wasn’t like that, then what was it? But by the way Ellis was looking at him, with one hand firmly gripped on his shoulder, he could tell it was you.
“Where is she?” He asked, clearing his throat, trying to disguise the level of concern in his voice in front of his coworker.
“Trauma 1.”
Jack felt queasy, the door to trauma 1 was slightly ajar, a smear of blood painted the handle of the door. No one had come in to clean up yet.
Because you were still in there.
Jack shoved his way through the door, keeping his movements slow and gentle as to not startle you, he was completely unsure of what he was walking into.
The room was eerily quiet, except for the faint, steady noise of a monitor flatlining. The room was a mess, blood soaked rags littered the floor, gloves and surgical gowns tossed to the ground, doctors and nurses no doubt being so tired once it was over that they didn’t bother to aim.
And there you were, up on the gurney, knees on either side of this little girl, heaving as you performed chest compressions. Sweat was clinging to your hair and dripping down your face in thick beads and staining your scrubs. At first, Jack thought you were crying, with the amount of water dripping from your face. You were muttering something under your breath.
You were trying to save an already dead patient.
How long had you been doing this for?
Jack guessed the other doctors had tried, and failed to get you down from there, to snap you into reality, or else they wouldn’t have had to get him straight from a trauma.
Jack walked closer, wrapping an arm around your wrist. You tried to pull away from him but he held his grip.
“Come on, stay with me.” Is what you were muttering, Jack realized, but your eyes were glazed over as the words tumbled out of your mouth.
“Sweetheart.” Jack kept his voice low and soft, trying to gently coax you back.
You faltered for a moment at his voice, pausing on compressions.
He said your name and you looked at him. Jack could see in your eyes that you were there as they began to mist over, paired with your bottom lip quivering.
“Hey.” He cooed, bringing his free hand to grab your other arm, gently tugging you down from the gurney. “She’s gone, honey. Leave her be.”
Those words got you. You gasped, but your breath caught in your throat with a sob and you basically fell off of the raised gurney and into Jack’s arms, thankfully catching you before you slipped onto the floor.
Jack wanted to take you out of that trauma room so badly, but there was a risk of you fighting him if you still didn’t understand what was going on. And as much as he hated to admit it, he had to keep you there, to hear the monitor flatlining, to see the blood covering the floor.
You felt like the fabric of reality was ripping right in front of you.
You had her.
You swore you had her.
But as much as you were in a trance while doing her compressions, as soon as you snapped back, you remembered the past hour of compressions you did on that poor little girl long after Ellis called it.
“I don’t-“
You tried to explain, but you don’t even know if you could come up with the words if you tried. Jack was holding you, it felt like less of a hug and more of a grip. Like he didn’t trust you to not get back up there and start another round of compressions.
“Don’t talk, just take a second, alright?”
You did as he said, and Jack’s heart broke when the tears started to break free from your eyes, spilling onto his arm.
“They lost both of their kids.” You sobbed, letting your face fall against Jack’s arm. “They’re waking up to no kids!”
Jack closed his eyes for second, readjusting you in his arms so he was holding you more gently, feeling assured that reality has hit and you wouldn’t try to get back up there.
He held you like that for a long time, your body practically dead weight in his arms, Jack being the only thing keeping your body from hitting the floor. His heart broke with you, the situation was gut wrenching.
He was just so thankful that the clock read “7:15 AM” when he checked it as the doctors from the morgue came down to take the girl’s body.
He was also thankful that he decided to take you out of the room a few minutes before they did.
He sat you down at the hub with Dana, who had just clocked in for her day shift, and was more than happy to sit with you for a few moments while Jack went to grab your stuff from your lockers.
His heart sank when you saw you left a protein bar in there; a smiley face scrawled on the wrapper in black sharpie. It had been so busy, he never even checked his locker.
He sat on the cool floor, leaning his head against the wall as he carefully unwrapped the protein bar, folding the wrapper neatly and sliding it into the chest pocket of his scrubs.
He knew he had a few minutes, you were in good hands with Dana, and Robby should be around too, no doubt he’d give you a few minutes of attention.
He let his own tears fall as he ate the protein bar, the whole stress of the day broke on his shoulders. The anguish of the thought of two parents waking up to no children. His selfish heartache of holding you, helping you and not having you.
You were tearing him apart before, just with your smiles and sweetness and the way you looked at him, and now he was completely wrecked. The thought of you sitting in a chair with your shoulders slumped and bloody scrubs made him feel sick. He wanted to protect you from it all, but that was impossible when you were right there in it with him, shoulder to shoulder, elbow deep in the mess.
His only option was to hold you through it.
He got his bearings, shoving himself up off of the floor, grabbing his backpack on his way up and stood for a moment in the hall, rolling his neck, eyes closed.
You had to come with him back to his house, that was non-negotiable. He was more than happy to open his home to you, to keep an eye on you and make sure you slept through the night. His hesitance came from how you reacted when he was in your apartment. The way you shut off completely, slipping away from him and then coming right back a few days later like it never happened. The last thing he wanted was to scare you away, but what he wanted even less than that was for you to wake up from a nightmare alone.
You were still sitting with Dana when Robby came by, letting out a low whistle. Dana gave him a hand motion to cut it out and he rolled his lips into his mouth.
“Doin’ okay, kiddo?”
You didn’t respond, eyes searching.
Looking for Jack.
Dana mouthed to Robby, and he had to push down the smirk as he nodded, giving you an affectionate pat on the shoulder before being whisked away by an intern presenting a case.
One thing Robby did, was notice. Especially when it came to Jack, who had such an apparent fondness to you, it was hard not to notice. Despite the situation being horrific, Robby couldn’t help but feel ridiculously pleased that Jack was going to be taking care of you.
“There he is honey, comin’ back to ya.”
Dana told you in a soft voice, pointing her finger to where Jack was walking towards you.
And there he was, your knight in shining medical scrubs, carrying not only his backpack but also your own. He wasn’t smiling, but his face was soft, mouth upturned as he kept his gaze focused on you.
“You ready?”
You nodded and let Jack help you up out of your chair, and allowed him to hold onto you and keep you steady as he walked you out to the parking lot, and let him hoist you up into his truck.
Your arms and legs were on fire, after nearly an hour of performing compressions, you felt like you got hit by a truck.
That thought made you teary.
How selfish and thoughtless you were. Using the same thing that just ripped a family apart to compare how sore your body was.
“I’m gonna take you back to my house, is that okay?”
Jack’s voice snapped you from your thoughts. Obviously, you weren’t in a headspace to go home. You knew that. You knew you had to say okay and let him do this.
To let yourself be helped.
Jack’s house was quiet, tidy. There seemed to be an exact spot for everything, all of the little miscellaneous things you usually shoved into drawers and corners had a perfect home.
But it still felt lived in. Perfectly Jack.
The exact opposite of your place.
You were quiet during your time spent in his house that morning, hardly any words were spoken between you besides instructions on the shower and where you could find snacks if you needed them.
Jack got you set up in his guest bedroom, not wanting to scare you by letting you have his room, even though he really wanted to let you sleep there because the AC was better and the mattress was softer.
You just wanted to sleep, not really caring where. The hot shower helped with your sore limbs but had also made you that much more exhausted, you just wanted to fall into bed, and at this point you didn’t even care which one.
He whispered a goodnight, but you didn’t respond.
He laid in his room in the dark for hours, watching the very faint outline of the fan spinning on his ceiling, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with you when you woke up. Just… take you back to the Pitt to get your car? Get your freshly cleaned scrubs out of the dryer and ride together back to work? Take you home so you could get ready, then take you to work?
His mind was reeling and he was starting to get anxious trying to plan his next move with you, having never dealt with you in this capacity before, he was extremely unsure.
A sharp cry ripped through the house and Jack froze, unsure if he was just hearing things as he finally was slipping into sleep. He knew he had to get up, check your room, but something, some weight was holding him down like a boulder on his chest.
Another one.
Jack yanked the blankets off of him, aimlessly reaching for his prosthetic in the dark. He was fumbling trying to get the hunk of metal secured to his foot, and your cries were growing louder, but his hands were shaking and he couldn’t secure it. He threw it on the ground with a frustrated groan and grabbed his crutches, hoisting himself up and going as fast as he possibly could on the two sticks down the hallway. It took him a second to open your door, trying to keep his balance but he finally got it open.
He set his crutches against the wall as he steadied himself against your bed, leaving the door open and the hallway light on, so the light in the room wasn’t harsh but not completely dark either.
Jack gripped your shoulders in his hands, firm. “Hey, come on. Wake up for me.” He shook you gently, not wanting to startle you but not wanting you to be stuck in this nightmare any longer.
You were crying so hard in your sleep you weren’t breathing, your face getting redder by the second and Jack was beginning to panic, shaking you just a little bit harder as his heart raced. If you didn’t start breathing soon he would have to go get his go bag, and he was on crutches. He cursed himself for not being more prepared as he kept begging you to wake up. He disconnected his hand from your shoulder and tapped your face, forceful enough to jolt you awake.
Your eyes shot open and you sat up, clutching a hand to your chest as you gasped, which turned into chokes and coughs through your sobs.
Jack was so relieved he felt like he could cry, rubbing your back as you coughed and gagged onto the sheets, saliva dripping from your mouth and onto his hand but he didn’t care because color was coming back to your face.
“Let it out. You’re okay. It’s over.”
Your chest heaved as you tried to get used to being awake from your nightmare, and you were so tired you fell into Jack, letting him rub and massage your sore muscles in your limbs and torso, reveling in the relief his hands brought to your body.
“You’re safe, sweetheart.”
-
“You wanna grab pancakes after this? I’m starving.”
Jack was tired. Even just using his vocal chords felt like dragging weights. But, he had to admit, it had been a relatively easy shift, and he always had it in him to shit and spend a little bit of extra time with you.
“I, um, can’t.”
The two of you were sitting at the computers, finishing up your charts as the clock creeped closer to 7, the ED was settled, quieting down as night shift doctors and nurses pushed through their final home stretch.
Jack was taken aback.
You can’t?
Not to be that guy, but what the hell else could you possibly have to do besides get pancakes with him?
Reading the expression on Jack’s face, you responded. “I have to go straight home and get to sleep. I have plans later.”
Jack raised an eyebrow, “Plans?”
He knew for a fact you didn’t go anywhere besides the Pitt, the diner, and sometimes the Thai place around the corner of your apartment.
So Jack knew, for sure, that you weren’t somebody that just had plans. You hadn’t outright told him, but he pieced together from stories that you didn’t really have any friends and your family was halfway across the country and you only spoke on birthdays and Christmas.
Heat crept into your cheeks as you noticed Jack was onto you.
“I have uh- I’m going to dinner. On a date.”
Jack fought to keep his face neutral, but he fell apart. He thought, after that morning spent at his house, that things were shifting. He thought maybe he was making it out of the woods. That maybe, just maybe, you were entering the territory of more than friends.
So, it wasn’t that you had a fear of intimacy.
You just didn’t want him.
His heart was in his hands, outstretched to you as an offering, and you didn’t want it.
He had finished his charts a long time ago, just sitting there typing away at nothing as an excuse to wait for you. So, he logged off of the computer, and grabbed his backpack, pushing himself up out of the roller chair. “Enjoy your date.”
He hadn’t meant to be petty. Well, maybe he did. He just felt extremely rejected and pathetic. All of this time spent together, all the hours of getting to know each other, all of the patience he practiced because he knew close relationships were scary for you. It felt like all of it just got flushed down the toilet and he was so frustrated. Completely defeated.
A pang of guilt shot through his chest as he got into bed at home. He was your only friend, and you were confiding in him about something you were probably excited about, and he just left you sitting alone and feeling bad. It wasn’t your fault he went in too deep with you and caught feelings when you didn’t reciprocate.
He wanted to text you, or call you, or reach out in any way to let you know he was sorry, he didn’t mean to be so mean, and to call him if you need anything.
But his body was screaming at him for sleep, having already pushed himself for one too many hours to work out and catch up on some yard work, along with a couple episodes of his docuseries about WW2, he felt too worked up to get straight into bed, it being close to 2 PM when he finally got under his blankets, and he let sleep take him away before he could think any further on saying anything to you.
He woke up to his phone buzzing, the picture he took of you at PTMC with a bandaid on your finger and a pouty face illuminated the screen, lighting up the small patch of space where his head was.
He fumbled with it for a moment before he finally got a grip and answered. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry.” The words immediately spilled out of you, Jack could tell you were crying. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
Jack knew immediately that the date had gone south, it didn’t take a genius to connect the dots and piece that together.
“Send me your location.”
You continued to cry as you pulled the phone away from your face to send Jack your location. He was already up and fastening his prosthetic on, not caring to change out of his sweats and t shirt to come get you. Jack checked the notification, feeling relieved that where you were was so close to his house.
“I’ll be there in 10, okay? You wanna stay on the phone?”
You said yes, your voice sounding so small and defeated it made Jack feel even worse than he already did.
“Okay, we can do that.”
It wasn’t long before Jack pulled up to the bar you said you were at, instantly going into panic mode at the sight of you sitting outside on the curb, with your head between your knees, phone pressed to your ear.
Your head snapped up at the sound of his truck, and Jack was already getting out of the car. He didn’t know what the situation was, whether you were drunk or stood up or if he had assaulted you in some way, and Jack was prepared for pretty much any outcome.
He crouched down in front of you, arms resting on his thighs and his hands clasped together.
“I just wanna go to bed.” You whined as your eyes met his.
Jack nodded, “I can make that happen.”
Next thing you knew your hands were in his, his strong arms pulling you up from the pavement. You were a little tipsy, so your walk was wobbly.
“Alright, easy, Bambi.” There was humor in Jack’s voice, a slight smile playing at his lips as he got you into the car, which made you feel relieved, maybe he wasn’t that mad at you.
As he began to drive, all you could do was stare at him, his jaw was sharp from clenching his teeth, his muscles in his freckled arms twitched as he gripped the steering wheel, hair tussled and eyes swollen and droopy from sleep. Just looking impossibly perfect and Jack.
Your heart squeezed when you saw what you, at first, thought was just a piece of trash on his dash, until you realized it was the wrapper of the protein bar you had given him a few months ago, recognizing the messily scrawled smiley face on it.
Jack had kept it because it was you.
“You wanna tell me what happened?” His tone was flat, unamused.
Your shoulders fell. “We had a couple drinks. He ended up inviting his friends and I lost him from there. He left me at that bar alone.”
That guy was insanely lucky that Jack didn’t know his name or what he looked like. And for your sake, he hoped he never found out.
“I’m sorry you had to come get me.” You choked out, feeling incredibly embarrassed and small in Jack’s truck.
“I will always come get you.”
Jack said it matter of fact, because it was. He meant that deeply. It brought him a lot of relief that you still called him even when you thought you weren’t on good terms. It meant that you knew, deep down, that no matter what, Jack would do anything for you.
Jack sighed and said your name, running one hand through his hair while he kept the other on the wheel.
You waited as he took a pause after your name fell past his lips, the way he said it sounded as though the vowels grieved him.
“I’d do anything for you. You have to know that.”
It felt overwhelming. His words and the close proximity. You knew that, of course you knew that. These past months of being strictly friends didn’t mean you were blind. Things started feeling too real with Jack, and you were so scared of real.
Real mean there was something to lose. Something to break.
You had to be friends because if there was something to lose, you could not lose Jack. Not ever.
You stared ahead as the taillights of cars ahead of you began to blur, the lights stretching across your vision.
You don’t know why you said it. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was because he just said something too but you said it, and once it was out there, there was no taking it back.
“How come the whole time I was on that date I felt like I was cheating on you?”
The tension was thick, you swear you could’ve reached up and grabbed it. And you wish you could have so you could tear it apart and stop it from ruining whatever it was you had with Jack Abbot.
Jack sighed, a sound that sounded almost like a laugh rumbled from his chest, but it was too cynical, too exhausting to be a laugh.
“Because we’re not just friends and you know it.”
-
Jack was so, so frustrated.
You had another moment, another moment where he thought “Finally, this is it. We made it over the hill” and you just pretended like it didn’t happen. Pretended like you’ve been friends this whole time and nothing is wrong and there’s nothing to talk about.
And the worst part was Jack let you because he loved you so damn much, and arm’s length was better than nothing.
And now he was frustrated because he could hear the door to the roof swing open, and your footsteps. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was you, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that this is where you could find Dr. Jack Abbot after a hard shift.
“I’d really hate to scrape you off of the sidewalk after tonight.”
You spoke, there was no confidence in your voice, the words slightly dying on your tongue.
You were cautious.
Jack exhaled through his nose in some sort of laugh, but he didn’t turn to look at you.
You rested your forearms on the bar, looking out over the city. There was a faint strip of pink highlighting the horizon, signaling that the sun was rising and a new day was beginning.
Jack wasn’t doing well, you could see it. The corners of his mouth were turned down and his eyes looked less hazel and more brown than usual. It looked like gravity was trying to pull his body down but he was putting up a fight.
Wrecked.
It was the worst shift you’ve had since the family in the drunk driving accident 6 months ago. It may have been Jack’s worst shift to date.
There was a woman, a woman he couldn’t save. Her injuries were too extensive and she was bleeding all over her body internally and they just couldn’t get a handle on it.
Nobody could have gotten a handle on it.
The woman’s husband laid into him hard when he delivered the news. He pointed fingers at Jack, saying he was going to sue, saying he was an unfit doctor, telling him he had no idea how it feels.
How it feels to have the entire fabric of your life ripped out from under your feet in a split second, knocking you on your ass and leaving you impossibly alone?
He wanted to say that, but instead he just let the man continue to tear him apart. To call him incompetent, careless, privileged, a murderer.
Jack kept his hands behind his back while he continued to yell at him, refusing to lose his temper on a man who just lost everything. He remembers that feeling. That feeling of being in so much pain and grief that there’s nowhere to put it, all you can do is point fingers and hope you can find someone to blame to try and make it feel better.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Was all Jack said before he ducked out of the room, making a beeline for the roof and holding his hands together behind his back with such a firm grip his muscles twitched.
“That guy was out of line.” You said.
“That guy was grieving.” He countered. His voice wasn’t harsh, but his response was quick enough to make you frown and feel like you had said the wrong thing.
You didn’t say anything for a moment, and for a beat you thought you were going to stay silent.
“He was grieving, Jack, but that doesn’t make it okay. It’s okay to admit that what he said was out of line and that it hurt your feelings.”
He said your name, trying to get you to stop talking.
“It’s okay to admit that it brought up bad memories for you.”
“Please- “
“Jack, please. You’re hurting and grieving too- “
“Damn it!”
Jack turned around, pushing the heels of his palms into the railing and hanging his head, taking deep breaths as his chest heaved.
For a moment, the only noise was the sounds of traffic and the broken, strangled breaths coming from deep in Jack’s chest. You pushed it, you know you did. But he needed to hear it. He’s been brushing things off for too long, letting things roll off of his back and pretending like it wasn’t bothering him. But you saw through it and he was bound to break at some point, so it might as well be now.
“You can’t keep doing this to me!”
“Doing wh-“
“Don’t do that.”
You knew what you were doing. You knew but you were too scared to admit it. You thought maybe if you pretended like you didn’t, he’d drop it.
You didn’t think he’d bring it up now.
“We’re friends, Jack.”
His hand smacked the railing and you gasped at the sound of his skin colliding with the solid metal, the clanging sound echoing around you.
He sucked in a sharp breath and pulled his head up so he could look at you.
“Alright, say it.”
You were stunned. Of all the times you insisted you were friends, Jack never pushed it, he never pushed you.
You just stared, the wind whipping through your hair.
“Say you don’t feel it too, and I’ll drop it.”
You couldn’t speak. All of this time, all the times you said you were friends it was easy to say it because it was true. Feelings aside, you were friends.
He was still leaning on the railing, ignoring the sharp, shooting pains that were starting in his fingers and shooting up his arm.
You grabbed his wrist and he held his breath at the contact.
Your other hand came up to rest on his bicep, slightly squeezing as your thumb caressed back and forth.
“I can’t breathe when you touch me like that.” Jack admitted. His voice broke. You were breaking him. This was everything. The patient’s husband downstairs, every pent-up feeling Jack had been bottling up for your sake, so you wouldn’t run away. So he wouldn’t lose you and so you wouldn’t lose him. He was bursting at the seams.
You didn’t let go.
You leaned forward to rest your head on Jack’s shoulder, wrapping your arm around his bicep and he felt like he was going to melt into the cement.
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
He knew you weren’t apologizing for the night. You were apologizing for everything in the past year. For ignoring every time Jack showed you how he loved you more than a friend, for pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t, for going on the date and making him pick you up, for being so stupidly in love with him that you had to walk away.
He couldn’t help it, he melted into you, burying his face into your neck as you brought a hand up to hold the back of his head, running your fingers through his curls.
“Please.” He whimpered, Jack Abbot whimpered in your arms.
“I’m here, Jack. It’s okay.”
Jack knew you were about to walk away, he knew this was it. That whatever fear you had was becoming too strong and you were slipping away. He was going to lose you.
“Stay.” He pled.
“Please, don’t leave.”
Don’t leave me. Don’t leave this.
He pulled away from you only to take your face in his hands, his grip firm as he looked at you, his eyes intense with feelings you recognized, feelings that made you want to run.
The words took your breath away, making you weak in the knees but Jack kept you up, determined for this to finally be it. This had to be the moment that breaks your friendship to allow it to bloom into something more. His face was stained with tears and he was trembling and his hand was aching but he was holding you up, keeping you tethered to him because, God, he couldn’t lose you.
You shook your head as your own tears started to fall.
Your hands were gripped onto his arm and Jack was holding onto the small shred of hope that your touch was bringing him, that maybe now this was it and he finally had you.
“Sweetheart.”
His voice was cautious, pleading. Sobs were crawling up his chest as he pleaded with you, he was so close. He was so close to everything he ever wanted and yet he felt like you were a million miles away because you weren’t saying anything.
“Jack, I’m so scared.”
“I know, honey.” His grip wasn’t so firm on you anymore as he cradled your face in his hands. “Oh, I know.” His voice was getting softer with each word he spoke to you, his anger dissolving the longer he had you in his arms and his lip quivering as you fell apart in his hold.
“I’m sorry.”
“No…” Jack shushed you as you apologized. “Don’t apologize for being scared, sweetheart. Please, don’t.”
“I can’t lose you.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m not leaving you, not for anything.”
You stared at him for what felt like forever, the wind of the roof whipping around you and the chaos of the pitt ensuing underneath your feet, but in those few moments it was just the two of you, and he was so beautiful as the sun began to rise and hit his face with a soft glow, brightening his eyes, making them look nearly golden in the light.
You knew then that you wanted Jack Abbot and any fear you felt before felt unbelievably small as he held you in his arms, his eyes wordlessly promising you that you were safe, he had you, and he looked at you like you were a treasure to be cherished.
Like you were his girl.
You nodded and that’s all Jack needed to press his lips to yours and the walls you worked so hard to keep up and in place crumbled around you as you moved against one another. Your hands in each others hair, on your waist, your back, your arms. He finally had you against him and suddenly he couldn’t get enough as he lifted you up so you were sitting on the railing, his lips never once leaving yours.
You pulled away from him, your lips swollen and out of breath as you breathed his name. He pushed the hair out of your face with a gentle hand, a beautiful smile beginning to crack through the devastation that was there only a few minutes ago.
He would’ve given you the world in that moment if you asked for it, looking so beautiful on the rooftop with he wind in your hair and morning sun on your face. If that’s the affect of his lips on yours, he’s going to kiss you forever.
“It’s okay to be scared. But let me prove you wrong.”
summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.
pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody
word count: 12.4k
tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!
author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡
you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.
you should have known better.
but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.
until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.
the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.
your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.
you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.
she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.
“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”
so you had.
the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.
the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.
and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.
but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?
you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.
you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.
you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.
and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.
so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.
there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.
you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.
cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.
dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.
i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.
i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.
it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?
i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.
you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.
then you mail the letter, and think that was that.
+
two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?
but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.
you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.
the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.
andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.
you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.
and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.
you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.
dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.
you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.
you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.
stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.
and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.
you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.
andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.
you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.
these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.
after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.
he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?
if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.
the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.
and then he gets sent to solitary.
he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.
he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.
days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?
no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.
yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.
he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.
but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.
had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.
the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)
+
and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.
that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.
no one, except maybe you.
so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.
he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.
his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.
so he decides that he needs to get inside.
pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.
and then he goes inside, and he waits.
each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.
you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.
“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.
you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.
and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.
“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”
you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.
andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.
you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.
you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.
“may i?”
“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.
“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.
“accident. was cutting something.”
“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.
“yeah. i should.”
“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”
you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.
memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.
you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.
“that sounds okay.”
you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.
you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.
he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.
and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.
“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.
not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.
the thought is almost… sweet.
and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.
your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.
so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.
and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.
the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—
stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.
for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—
“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.
“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”
“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”
“that is not true-”
“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”
“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”
“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”
“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”
“don’t let him blink at you.”
you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.
“sorry about that, david.”
“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.
“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”
“i saw her push you.” you blink again.
“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”
“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.
“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”
“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”
“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”
“yes. it calms me down.”
“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”
“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.
“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”
there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—
“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”
as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—
well he wasn’t cute anymore.
he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.
you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently
“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”
you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.
“i thought you might have found another job by now.”
“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”
“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”
“i’m sorry, i-”
“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.
it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.
he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.
“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.
“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.
you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.
but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.
and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.
“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”
you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.
but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.
andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.
“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”
“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—
you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.
“that’s okay. not your fault.”
“but still. that must have been really hard.”
“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.
“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.
instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.
“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.
“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”
“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”
“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”
“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.
“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”
“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.
you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.
how did he know that?
and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.
and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.
+
you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.
maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.
it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.
he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.
you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.
“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.
okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.
“wait for what?”
“to make sure you get home safely.”
and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.
(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)
and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.
and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.
so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.
“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.
oh.
your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.
if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.
his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.
silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.
you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.
and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.
you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.
but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.
and you’re not a normal girl.
“do you want to stay for dinner?”
there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.
“yes. yes, thank you.”
you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.
and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.
it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.
“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”
“don’t apologize.”
“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”
“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”
“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”
you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.
“do you like spaghetti?”
+
if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.
you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.
(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)
but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.
your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.
“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”
“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.
there’s no words for it. it just is.
so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.
eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)
“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.
“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”
“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”
“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”
you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.
why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—
“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.
“why are you apologizing?”
“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”
you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.
“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.
“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”
and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.
“i want that too.”
“oh. well, i just thought-”
and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.
as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.
you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.
countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.
because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.
another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.
but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.
andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.
“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”
and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.
“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.
“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.
“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”
“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.
you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.
“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”
the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.
it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.
your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.
you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.
you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.
andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.
“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.
“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”
and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.
“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.
you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.
and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.
eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.
you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.
he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.
“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”
your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.
you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.
you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.
you guess andrew just brings it out of you.
his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—
“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”
and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.
and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.
your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.
his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.
when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.
when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—
“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.
incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.
resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.
andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.
he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.
andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-
“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.
someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.
his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.
and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.
you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.
when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?
he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.
another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.
it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.
your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.
“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”
“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.
“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.
and then he collapses next to you.
“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”
“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.
“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.
and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.
“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.
you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.
“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.
“oh my god. you broke me.”
“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”
andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.
“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.
but andrew doesn’t understand.
“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”
“that’s just a nickname.”
“why warden?”
“oh well. it’s silly, um-”
“tell me.”
“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”
“oh.”
“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”
summary: you and jack have to share a bed during a snowstorm
pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader
words: 1.1k
tags: one bed trope!, fluff
Well this was awkward.
A record breaking snow storm had hit Pittsburgh and you, along with the rest of the staff, were snowed in. The ED and chairs had cleared out pretty well when the city started to get blanketed with a few feet of snow and things were quiet enough with the remaining patients that the staff were able to work in shifts. You'd been on the day shift and had extended your shift into the night when it was clear the night shift wouldn't be showing up and it would be very dangerous to try and leave. Dr. Abbot had also showed up in the middle of the day shift, having seen how bad the weather was getting, and relieved some day staff to go home before the roads became impossible.
Eighteen hours into your twelve hour shift, chief resident Dr. Mohan ordered you to crash in an on call room until at least 6am. Dead on your feet, you shuffled over to the elevator to find Dr. Abbot was also making the decision to get some sleep rather than risk being tired if a massive trauma came in. The two of you went down the line of on call rooms, trying doorhandles until you found the one unlocked and vacant room, leading to the awkwardness.
The room only had one bed.
After an embarrassing conversation about who should sleep where and each others comfortability with sharing a bed, the two of you settled in for the night together on the slim twin bed. You were lying on your backs, pressed closely shoulder to shoulder, staring at the ceiling and trying not to move. It was stiff and obviously awkward, but both of you deserved a comfortable mattress to cushion your aching bodies and a soft pillow to lay your head, and eventually you both drifted off into sleep.
A few hours later Jack woke up, blinking into the darkness of the on call room, his body a bit stiff from a lack of movement. However when he went to shift on the bed, he realized you'd rolled over against him. Jack was still lying on his back but you were pressed against his side, your hands wrapped around his bicep and your forehead resting against his shoulder. Your face was peaceful, your mouth parted slightly as you breathed softly. Jack was surprised by the smile that stretched over his lips as he looked over at you. In your sleeping state you sought him out for comfort. Jack decided that moving around on the mattress was not worth the risk of waking you and continued to lay on his back until he fell asleep again.
You woke next, a few hours later. The both of you had shifted in your sleep to lie on your sides and you realized the weight against your back was Dr. Abbot. He was spooning you, his arm banding over your torso and his face right behind your head. The warmth of his body was comforting, as was the weight of his arm holding you. The room was still dark, letting you know that it wasn't morning yet, and you decided to let yourself enjoy being in the arms of your handsome attending. You let your heavy eyelids fall closed again and fell asleep.
The third time you both woke up. You were unsure what roused you both from sleep but you rolled over to face Dr. Abbot, blinking groggily. He groaned softly as he shifted back as much as he could to accommodate you. You swallowed thickly before speaking.
"Sorry about that." You said, referring to the position you'd both been in.
"Don't be." Dr. Abbot replied, his voice rough from sleep. He raised his hand to his watch a pressed a button that lit up the screen, showing him the digital numbers. "It's 4:30."
"Samira said she didn't need me until 6." Dr. Abbot looked over at you, a thought forming behind his eyes.
"Well in that case, we'd better get you back to sleep." Jack shifted again and settled down on his back with one arm lifted up, leaving a spot for you right next to him. You hesitated, unsure of how appropriate the situation was. "I'm alright with it if you are." Jack said, sensing your apprehension. You barely gave it another thought, your body and head too tired to hold onto the reasons why this was a bad idea. You were already sharing a bed with your attending, why not add some cuddling?
You laid down on your side next to Dr. Abbot, your body slotting in perfectly against his. Your head rested on his shoulder and your hand laid flat on his chest over his heart as his arm came around your shoulders to pull you close. You sighed contently against the warmth of his chest and Dr. Abbot did the same, his hand shifting up to brush his fingertips over your hair. He continued the calming gesture, helping you easily fall asleep.
When you both woke up again at six to the sound of your phone alarm, you were still wrapped up in each other. You reached behind you and slapped the bedside table blindly until you managed to turn the alarm off. Dr. Abbot chuckled at your actions as you twisted back around and snuggled against him.
"Not much of a morning person are you?" He asked, his voice light with laughter.
"Mm mm." You mumbled into his chest. Dr. Abbot laughed out loud just as your pager went off. You groaned in displeasure, the sound muffled against Dr. Abbots chest, before rolling over and checking the pager.
"Samira needs me to tag off Javadi." You said with a sigh. Your shoulders slumped as you pushed yourself up into a sitting position, your socked feet on the cold floor working on waking you up. Dr. Abbot pushed himself up onto his elbows.
"This was fun." He said sincerely. You glanced at him over your shoulder and saw a mischievous glint in his eye. "Wouldn't mind doing it again."
"Really?" You replied, a little surprised. Dr. Abbot shrugged.
"That was the best sleep I've had in a long while."
"Me too." You said with a soft smile over your shoulder. Dr. Abbot shared the smile and your heart fluttered in your chest. He continued to stare at you, his hazel eyes watching you intently. You couldn't ignore the heat in his gaze and the implication of 'doing it again', and before you could think better of it, you turned on the bed and kissed him. It was a light, quick kiss, but Dr. Abbot was fast enough to cup your head with one hand and kiss you back. When you pulled away, his hand stayed on the back of your head, holding you close.
"I wouldn't mind doing that again too." He said, his voice low. You locked eye with him and gave him a sly smile.
"How about we get through this snowstorm first, then you can take me home?"
summary: you and scott matched on a dating app one evening and you could have never predicted how quickly you fell for him
warning: sexting, suggestive content and mentions of sex, swearing, scott being a flirt and a little shit all at once (so nothing new??), use of dating apps (but legit just messaging), mention of drinking/being tipsy, the start of phone sex 🤭, (over?) use of pet names
note: randomly had the thought of meeting scott on an app and having a long distance relationship with him while he’s busy chasing tornadoes and i got all hot and bothered and had to write this
word count: 3.9k
tornadochas3r
have you ever thought about doing something you’re really not supposed to?
notincali
is this your way of flirting…? or is this a genuine question you have?
tornadochas3r
i mean, i was trying to flirt, but now i feel like it should have been a genuine question
notincali
and how on earth would that question come off as flirting?
tornadochas3r
i don’t know, maybe you’d say something naughty like getting off in a public restroom or something?
notincali
naughty?
tornadochas3r
don’t question my use of adjectives
just answer the question
notincali
the question of if i’ve thought about getting off in a public restroom? or if ive thought about doing something im not supposed to?
tornadochas3r
i wouldn’t mind the answer to either
before you could stop yourself, but found yourself giggling at his messages, being seconds away from kicking your feet up and down under your covers like a schoolgirl. tornadochas3r had messaged you first, having matched on one of thousands of dating apps earlier in the evening after doom scrolling to cure your boredom.
you really didn’t expect anything worthy of a relationship from the app your friends made you download the other week after a few too many drinks, but you were looking for something to do and had swiped left on way too many boys until you found him. tornadochas3r. like every other profile, there was one vague photo and a few facts about him in the short bio underneath.
his face was obscured by a grey hat perched upon his head, but the way he held himself and posed for the picture was attractive. you couldn’t make out the logo on the front of it, but he was dressed smartly in a pressed white shirt and cargo pants. maybe he’d taken it with haste at work, hiding away somewhere as to not be spotted by his colleagues creating a profile. he seemed like a stubborn person who got his way, but in a hot, ‘i’ll do it because i’m horny’ way and it should have been the perfect boredom buster.
but you didn’t expect him to flirt so easily and ask you questions about getting off in public restrooms and what you spent your evenings doing so quickly. he was interested. he was interesting. and it became more than a fun little fling for you after a couple of days of messaging. he’d always start with a question, something you now knew he would class as flirting and wanted a bit more of a dirty answer than normal, and you would reply with an answer that always prompted an answer from him about the same thing.
it was exhilarating; the back and forth was easily, effortless. you always had something to say to him, and he always had something to say back. the topics of conversation had been vast, literally talking about anything with each other and you’d finally mustered the courage to ask about his handle. tornadochas3r. you didn’t know whether it was a genuine career he had, a hobby or he just had a death wish.
you’d seen twister, like ten years ago, you’d heard the horror stories on the news about tornadoes and their devastations to homes and towns. it only slightly terrified you that the one guy you’d finally found that was worth talking to might be wrapped up in all of that. you didn’t know whether to be terrified or turned on.
notincali
so do you really chase tornadoes?
tornadochas3r
are you really not in california?
notincali
i asked first
tornadochas3r
and i asked second
notincali
would you please just answer the question? i wanna know if you chase tornadoes and if i should be worried that you’ll end up in Oz one day
tornadochas3r
😂
notincali
did you really just use that emoji and not answer my question?
tornadochas3r
yes, i do chase tornadoes. we’re out in oklahoma at the moment
notincali
you’re kidding
tornadochas3r
erm no?
i answered your question, what more do you want?
notincali
no no no, it’s just i’m in oklahoma at the moment visiting a friend
and also think you chasing tornadoes is kinda hot
tornadochas3r
a female friend?
notincali
jealous already, tornado boy?
tornadochas3r
just asking a question
that’s usually how this works
notincali
omg, i forget how sassy you are
it sometimes makes you hotter
😳 tell me i did not just send that message
tornadochas3r
you did just send that message.
notincali
brb while i get whisked away to Oz
scott couldn’t help but smile at your compliment and your embarrassment. he’d been smiling a lot lately, either openly by himself in his shitty motel rooms or trying to hide his smile in the cab of his truck whilst quickly checking your messages. javi had seen him a few times, not that scott realised, too caught up in you, but javi had noticed something was different about his friend.
but scott still did his job. he was good at it; it was what he’d been studying and working towards for his whole life and he enjoyed doing it. knowing that you found him and his career hot was just a bonus.
your question had found him in bed, having just woken up moments before and thinking of his own question to ask you before you beat him to it. it felt like his mornings had some purpose now, instead of merely being routine: wake up, get dressed, brush teeth, face the day. now he had an added step - wake up twenty minutes sooner, flirt with you, get ready, face the day.
a silent admission, something just for him, but your little messages made waking up in shitty motel beds with a bad back worth it. he only wondered how long it would be until you could join him. when you mentioned you were also in oklahoma, he felt his heart skip a beat. yes, it was a large state, but he could sneak off one afternoon, drive to you, do everything he’s imagined doing to you and be back before the first storm the next day. right?
shaking his daydream from his head, scott got up and started to get ready for the day. he didn’t usually put music on in the morning, but you’d sent him a playlist of yours that he obsessively listened to. knowing you were potentially listening to the same thing at the same time as him made his stomach twist in a funny way. it was a new feeling, but knowing you were the cause made it more welcoming.
tornadochas3r
you up?
notincali
you did not just send that
tornadochas3r
i was only asking a question
notincali
oh you know what you’re doing miller
that’s not just a normal question
if i was any closer to you right now, id be in your bed after sending that message
tornadochas3r
how do you know how close we are?
notincali
i mean oklahoma is pretty big so god knows where you are
in my head, you’re on one side of the state and i’m on the other
tornadochas3r
is this your way of asking where i am right now?
notincali
i mean, it wasn’t
but if you’re going to reveal your location, i’m not about to stop you
tornadochas3r
i don’t know whether that’s a good or bad thing
notincali
want to find out?
not even a minute after sending that message did you phone start to ring, a call through the app from none other than scott miller. your smile got even wider and your feet involuntarily kicked up and down under your covers just at his name. heart racing, you took a deep breath and answered the call.
“well, good evening.” you teased, sliding further down into your sheets.
he said your name softly, almost breathlessly, sending you a similar greeting that you gave him. “so where exactly are you?”
“i thought i asked that question first?”
“you did, but i’ve asked it in person so i immediately get the rights to know first.”
“you’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you?” it was meant as a little dig at him, but you really found a lot of things about scott attractive, such as his sarcasm and attitude. maybe it was toxic to an extent, but God if he didn’t turn you on.
“it’s been said once or twice,” you could almost see the smirk on his face at that moment, imagining him in a similar position to your own. shirtless in bed, the covers bunched around his waist as he grips his phone next to his ear. “you gonna answer my question, sweetheart?”
you roll your eyes before answering, hearing a short, non-committal hum from the other end of the phone when you did, “is that a good hum, or a bad one?”
“i’m just checking,” there was rustling from your speakers, almost preventing his words being clear. “i think we’re only a few miles away from each other, the drive looks doable in an hour or so.”
“really?” your voice squeaked a bit, clutching your phone tighter at the news.
“you seem happy about that, huh?” the rustling stopped before his question, and for the second time in a few minutes, you could see that smirk again.
“it’s just good information to have if there’s ever a bad tornado in the area.”
“oh, that’s all i am to you? and here i thought you felt something for me.” he was teasing. you loved it.
“i think you’re getting ahead of yourself, rockstar. it’s pure lust right now.”
“is that how you feel, baby?” somehow, his voice dropped an octave, sex dripping from his tongue.
“and if i said it was?”
“i guess i’d feel obligated to help you out.”
“is that what you want to do?” you didn’t mean for it to come out in a whisper, but scott really had made you feel hot in the past few minutes, thighs rubbing together under your covers to relieve some tension.
“sweetheart, you have no idea what i want to do to you,” you couldn’t help the sigh that left your parted lips at his words. “what are you wearing?”
you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his words, even though it did nothing to ease how you were feeling. “i’m so tempted to say something really sexy like panties and nothing else, but really i’ve just got-” a gasp interrupted you as your hand brushed over your chest. “-just got an old t-shirt and shorts on.”
“i can work with that,” the rustling came again, followed by a slap of elastic and a light groan. “you laid in bed, sweetheart?”
“mhm huh.”
“you touching yourself for me?”
“almost.” another sigh, your hand trailing lower and lower as you reached towards your stomach.
“good.”
notincali
so can i get your actual number so im not cumming over a dating app again ?
tornadochas3r
you didn’t like it, sweetheart?
notincali
oh, darling, i loved it
but id love it even more if i could see your face
tornadochas3r
i’m sure we could arrange something
notincali
you thinking of making the ‘doable hour drive’ ?
tornadochas3r
i’m thinking of driving over to your sassy ass, having my way with you and then bringing you back so you can stay in my room ready and waiting for me after work every day
notincali
oh fuck
tornadochas3r
sounds like something you’d want?
notincali
i’m gonna be so fucking real right now and say yes
i find it difficult to lie to you
tornadochas3r
that’s some very useful information
send me your full address and i’ll be there in an hour
notincali
i’ll be expecting you in exactly an hour btw
i’m counting
tornadochas3r
i don’t doubt that, baby
and true to his words, fifty-nine minutes later a loud knock came from your friend’s front door, scott’s impatience bleeding into the sound. you grabbed the handle with a shaky hand, your stomach twisting with the knowledge that what happens next could change your life. when you made your profile, you only expected a bit of fun. now, you have the most attractive, sassy, infuriating, smart, god-like man on the other side of this door and you were just waiting to wake up.
another knock startled you out of your thoughts, finally pushing the handle down and pulling the door towards you with such force.
“oh, fuck.”
“i can return the sentiment.” scott was looking you up and down like you were the most beautiful thing in the world. to him, you were. stood in an old t-shirt and shorts, just like last night.
he’d seen the best and worst of natural weather and the disaster it caused. he’d seen hundreds of sunrises and sunsets. he’d seen beauty blossoming after a storm, when the earth finally recovered from its own misery. but you were ethereal, cosmic, a vision he never thought he’d be lucky enough to see in his life time.
nothing else was said between you as scott moved forward, completely filling the doorway as his hands reached out to your hips to pull you flush against his body. he was drenched from the rain, his white shirt almost see-through and his trousers uncomfortable, but it didn’t stop you from grabbing the cap off his head, throwing it haphazardly into the hallway and grabbing a fistful of his hair.
that earned you a heavenly groan and you had finally realised your purpose in life.
scott walked you backwards away from the door, closing it for you as he tangled his body in yours and shoved his face into your shoulder. lips ghosting over your skin, he traced the column of your neck with the tip of his nose, inhaling your scent as you pressed your hips into his body. your hands couldn’t find the perfect resting place, choosing a new favourite the more you explored his broad back, strong arms and damp waves.
your name was delicate as it fell from scott’s lips, his head coming up to whisper in your ear before resting against your forehead. “tell me this is real. tell me i can kiss you and you won’t fall away.
“it’s real, baby, so real. i’m not going anywhere.”
“thank fuck.” scott barely breathed out before he smash his lips on yours. it was messy, teeth and tongue against your own as you tried to find a rhythm without missing a second of each other. it was desperate, both of your hands grasping at scott’s clothing as his own squeezed your hip and pressed your chest to his by a hand on your back. you were so glad that your friend had a last minute date this evening because you were not going to be quiet.
“scott-”
“mhm.”
“scott, please-” you muttered between kisses, your hands cupping his cheeks to get the leverage to pull him away for a moment, even though you thought you would combust in the mean time. “just- hi, by the way.”
“hi, sweetheart,” he smiled sweetly, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your nose and then another one on your lips. “you’re more shy in person.” he teased, lips brushing yours with every word.
“and you’re somehow more forward.”
“i’d call it desperate.”
“oh, i love a desperate man.” you smiled, pulling his face back to you and kissing him square on the mouth. this time felt less rushed, less crazed as you took your time to taste him, spearmint and all. scott followed your pace, hands dropping to the back of your thighs before grabbing them and standing up straight. you squealed into his mouth, letting his tongue back into one of the places he wanted it to be while your legs wrapped around his waist.
“room?” a short question that was muffled heavily by your skin.
“down the hall.” you replied, managing to pull away from his lips long enough to answer and then begin to press hot, wet kisses across his cheek, jaw and down his neck. scott tried so hard to keep his eyes open as he navigated the new space, looking for a bedroom whilst you doted on him so sweetly.
after finding what he hoped was your temporary room, he looked at you for confirmation. you nodded quickly, arms wrapping themselves around the back of scott’s neck as your back crashed against the now closed door. a soft groan left you, head falling backwards to give scott the perfect view of your neck, red patches and light bite marks covering the skin.
“look at you, all blissed out for me already,” he cooed sweetly, one hand leaving your thigh to lightly brush away some hair from your face. you could only nod, eyes closed, another groan tumbled from your lips. “you like it, baby? knowin’ i’ve barely touched you and this is how good you feel?”
“yes, scott,” you whispered, desperately clawing at his back to close the impossible gap. “been wantin’ you for so long, too long. please.”
“please what?” soft lips grazed your skin.
“please touch me.”
“i am touching you.”
“more, scotty.” god, you sounded so aching for him.
“tell me what you want, i’ll give you everything. everything.” the last word was dipped in a promise, one scott definitely wasn’t going to break.
“i want you,” you used your strength to lift your head forward, eyes opening to look into scott’s as one of your hands came back round to rest upon his cheek. “i want all of you and i want everything you’re willing to give me. please, scotty. please.”
“i’ll give you the fucking world.”
so he did.
after a couple of hours, you’d lost track of everything; the time, where you clothes were, if you still had four pillows on the bed, how many kisses you’d shared. scott was underneath your hot body, spread out on his back, one arm around your shoulders and the other grasping at the bare skin of your thigh, keeping it across his own. neither of you were asleep, even though it looked like scott was. the only way you knew he was still conscious after three rounds was the soft circles his thumb was making on your skin.
his dark lashes kissed his cheeks as he breathed gently, not yet ready to sleep, only wanting to bask in the haze of you and what you’d just done together. your head rested against his right shoulder while your left hand traced the soft lines of his chest, your right arm completely trapped underneath your side. sleep was tempting you, but the view of scott beside you was enough reason to fight it for a little bit longer.
after a particularly delicate stroke of your fingers, scott shifted slightly. his leg came up to rest on top of yours, tangling your limbs together in particularly difficult puzzle, one you didn’t want to solve just yet. with the move, he turned onto his side, his left arm curling around your waist as he pulled your chest flush to his, faces now only inches away from each other on the pillow. he still hadn’t opened his eyes.
your nose involuntarily scrunched at his hot breath against your skin, a content sigh leaving him when he was finally settled. since he’d trapped your arms between your bodies, you struggled to rest a hand on his cheek, having to move more than you would have liked to touch him.
“stop jiffling.” scott muttered, lips barely moving as you cupped his face.
“sorry, just wanted to touch you.”
“mhm.” he just said, eyes still not opening for even a second.
“you okay?” you whispered, brushing a curl of his hair off his forehead that has stubbornly fallen down.
“so good, sweetheart,” voice delicate as his pressed a kiss to your lips. “you okay?” his eyes finally opened.
god, they were so bright and blue. you swore on your life that you’d never seen any eyes as bright as his. when you first opened the door, you had the smallest chance to actually look at him properly in person. of course, you’d both sent photos to each other, but seeing him in the flesh was a whole new experience. he was there, real, right in front of you and looking so ridiculously attractive and you couldn’t keep your hands off of him. all you wanted to do was touch him, taste him and commit every groan and murmur to memory as he fell apart above you.
and you got that. you got all of that and more, and you swore every time he looked at you, your heart skipped a beat and you knew you were in danger. if he acted like this all the time, you were going to combust. if he touched you for the rest of your life like he had tonight, you’d die a happy person. looking into his eyes, you’d give him everything, anything he asked for. he just had to say the word and you’d be down on your knees hanging on to each word.
even in the dim light of your room, they still sparkled as scott looked over your face for any unspoken signs of discomfort at your new position.
“so good, baby.” you giggled, returning the kiss as scott rolled his eyes.
“you’ll be the death of me.” he whispered against your lips, hands moving down to grab the flesh of your backside to hear you squirm one more time.
at his actions, you gasped, face falling forward into the space between his shoulder and the pillow while scott chuckled and kissed your neck. “and you won’t be the death of me?” you words were muffled.
“i guess we’ll both just have to be careful with what we do, then.” he commented, his hand coming back up to lightly grab your hair and pull your head out of your hiding spot.
“where’s the fun in that?” and you pouted. fucking pouted, and scott knew he’d be the one to die first.
tornadochas3r
i’m still thinking about last week, by the way
notincali
i thought i gave you my number ??
tornadochas3r
no, you did
notincali
so why are you still using this chat?
tornadochas3r
sometimes it’s fun to rehash old memories
notincali
okay ?
like…
tornadochas3r
you were so down bad for me
notincali
oh, scotty, i still am down bad for you
i’ve never had phone sex with someone i’ve never met before
i’ve never had phone sex period
tornadochas3r
fuck, really?
you were really good at it
notincali
why thank you
so were you
tornadochas3r
i like to think we’re better at the real thing though
warnings .ᐟ 18+ mdni. sharing gum. mentions of sex. established relationship. makeout sessions.
summary .ᐟ big meanie scott miller sharing his gum with his sweetheart of a girlfriend :0 (+ the 1 time you share your gum with him).
acknowledgements .ᐟ gif creds: @/corensweat
the first time scott does what you’d previously thought of as disgusting and revolting, was during one of your regular storm chasing afternoons.
back then you were just fuck buddies, keeping each other’s beds warm without the commitment, something scott was open about to you when it first started—at first it broke your heart but you learnt to live with it and accept it.
the day wasn’t going as expected, your hair sticking to your skin with rain, the data you were supposed to be collecting coming out all wrong, the storm seemingly disappearing right before your eyes—everyone was on edge.
your chest huffed as you looked down at your reports, the numbers not adding up to the measure you needed them to, only furthering you into an overthinking mess.you’d been chewing chunks out of the inside of your cheek, the the dried skin on your bottom lip not any better as your teeth scraped them off with with each nibble, the stress of the day urging you to nervously gnaw on something.
scott noticed; of course he did, he noticed every little thing about you— from the way you’d nervously tick when anxious, to the meticulous morning routine you had after each and every single one of your rendezvous.
he smacked his gum, scratching at the stubble growing on his jaw as he eyed you, the clipboard with data in his hands at the back of his mind now, too proud to admit with his full chest that he worried about you when you’d get like this, “you good?” he finally spoke up, voice gravelly, his nose twitching as he sniffled, the edge of the clipboard digging into his abdomen.
you looked up from the tablet in your hands, eyes wide as saucers; “what?” you asked, the assault from your teeth onto your already bleeding bottom lip, halted for a moment.
“i asked if you’re good, you’re uh, you’re doing that thing,” he paused, gesturing to your lips, his blue eyes pierced as he studied you, his eyes raking over your almost trembling with anxiety, figure.
you could taste the metallic twang from your bleeding bottom lip, lifting the pad of your fingers to touch it, looking down at your blood stained fingers as you swallowed, his voice echoing in the background as he called out your name.
you cleared your throat, your tongue darting out to wet your lips before humming, “yeah yeah—i’m fine, just really frustrated i guess—i uh-you got any more gum?” you finally blurted out, hoping to stop the assault on your bruised and bleeding bottom lip by chewing some gum.
scott looked at you, passing off the clipboard to someone walking by before checking his pockets, patting himself down. he realised slowly that the one he was currently smacking on was the last one he had, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as his gaze zeroed in again on that anxious tick of yours, looking around to check if the rest of the team were looking before stepping forward, his face stoic, not at all giving away what he was about to do.
his large hand reached your jaw first, calloused palm tender against your skin before he bent down to accommodate your height, your brain catching up with your body slower than what you’d want it to, lips parted as his other hand moved to the belt loops on your jeans, hooking his index finger into one of them to pull your closer to him.
in a flurry his lips were pressed to yours, your breath catching in your throat as you kissed him back almost instantly, your lips moulding to the shape of one another’s, your body responding to his all too familiar touch as you melted into his embrace, your legs like jelly, the only thing keeping you grounded being his hand on your belt loop.
your skin prickled with goosebumps as your colleagues began staring, but you couldn’t find it in you to care, not with how his tongue prodded into your mouth with urgency, your head spinning as you angled your head so he could have his way, the kiss growing a tad desperate, completely oblivious to how he was manoeuvring the piece of minty fresh gum from his mouth into yours, his hand that had been on your jaw having slid down to the base of your throat, sitting loosely around the delicate skin there.
your eyes shot open as you felt the piece of gum in your mouth, your first instinct being to spit it out immediately, brows furrowed at the soft material on your tongue, until your eyes caught his, the emotions he couldn’t convey with his words shouting out to you from the windows to his soul, blinking as his stare willed you to keep your mouth closed and keep the piece of gum, his gum between your chapped lips.
without even realising you’d begun chewing it, the taste of the gum paired with that distinct taste that was scott miller, making your breathing falter, your cheeks warm as you kept chewing, blowing a bubble before looking over to your colleague’s, some of them mortified from the public display of affection, especially from someone like scott; others who’s motel rooms were right next to yours, having heard every little moan and breathy whimper you made when scott’s cock was buried deep inside, not surprised at all, and javi? poor javi was as confused as ever.
you swallowed, your eyes never leaving scott’s as you chewed on the gum, the anxiety you’d been experiencing seemingly leaving your body. wordlessly he straightened up, lifting his signature blue peak cap from his head, smoothing down his hair as he placed it atop your head, another public claim on you, unconsciously letting everyone know you were his; his eyes speaking to you again, reassuring you.
a classic “mean to everyone but you” scott miller move you guessed.
with a pat to your shoulder he left, busying himself with work as he usually did, leaving your mind (and cotton panties) a mess, smiling to yourself at his display of affection, the gum between your teeth a sweet reminder to it.
the second time he does it is roughly a month later, your relationship public and solidified, the office at stormpar’s headquarters coming to know you now as scott miller’s too sweet girlfriend, often wondering how your dynamic worked seeing as scott constantly looked a grumpy mess.
“god damn it i asked for it to be done today! why can’t anyone get this shit right?!” you heard him yell from down the hall, some intern scrambling back to their desk, scared as a mouse, scott’s presentation for his uncle and a couple of investors in about thirty minutes.
you stood from your desk, downing the rest of your water as you met him outside the boardroom. “you okay? can see the steam blasting from your ears from a mile away,” you attempted to joke, smiling up at him as your hand reached for his, his jaw working as he chewed his usual minty gum.
“fuck—nothings going how i wanted it to go, and those god awful intern hire’s are useless-“ he huffed, running his hand that wasn’t holding yours down his face.
your brows furrowed, picking up on his frustration, “breathe, you’ll be okay - seen you give mean presentations a thousand times before, with a damn good poker face too; this is nothin’ scott,” you hummed, letting his hand fall for a moment to smooth down his collar.
he nodded, about to respond when the intern from earlier scrambled back toward him, apologising profusely as they handed him the correct material, that hard, quite frankly nerve wracking stare of his piercing their skin, the terrified look on their face making you snort, trying your hardest not to laugh as they scurried away.
you shook your head, looking down at your shoes before sighing, “you’re too scary sometimes y’know? gotta be nicer baby,” you giggled, his nervousness disappearing for a moment.
he shook his head, dimples announcing themselves to the world as he smacked his gum, “only person i need to be cordial to is you, fuck the rest of em” he huffed, looking down at his digital watch, that grumpy look you’ve come to know and love back on his face.
you rolled your eyes at his words, looking down at your own watch to see that it was time for him to go; “you’ll do amazing i know it—fore’ you go in there munching away, gum—“ you paused, holding your hand out, palm to the sky as you waited for him to spit out his gum into your palm, so you could dispose of it.
he simply shook his head, smirking briefly before pressing his lips to yours, his kiss hasty but chaste, his tongue prodding into your warm mouth as he passed his gum to you again, already becoming all whoozy at the action.
he pulled away hastily, clearing his throat as he smiled at his handy work, the sight of you chewing his gum always working wonders for his ego—becoming his second favourite thing in the world (first place was loving you of course).
with a soft slap to your ass he entered the board room, the door closing softly with a click. you smiled to yourself as you hovered outside, bowing a bubble as a throat clearing from behind you, disturbed your moment of tranquility, your head snapping to find javi with a disgusted look on his face, only giggling in response.
“you two are disgusting, truly,” javi remarked, grimacing at the idea of you chewing someone else’s gum, his words however, holding no real malice to them.
“don’t knock it till you try it javi,” you giggled, running after him to piss him off further as you held your fingers crossed that scott’s proposal would go well.
the first time you pull his signature move on him is as you’re getting back from the grocery store, his strong arms carrying the multiple bags into the kitchen of your shared apartment, closing the door behind him before locking it as he set the bags down onto the counter.
he went through them, the bubble you’d blown with the last piece of gum you had, popping, masking the sound of his grumble as he sorted through the bag.
“ah fuck,” he mouthed, looking over his shoulder as he watched you pack everything that needed to be chilled, into the fridge.
“we forget somethin?” you hummed, placing the punnets of blueberries and strawberries into the crisper. “yeah—forgot my gum, can you believe it?” he huffed, muttering another “fuck” under his breath as he crossed his arms over his chest, the man not able to function without his preferred brand of gum, only realising then that you’d been smacking on some gum the whole time.
“you got any left sweetie?” he hummed, walking across the kitchen to where you stood, his large hands smoothing around your waist from behind, turning you around in his arms as he smoothly closed the fridge door behind you, softly pressing your back to it.
this was all normal for you, him manhandling you whenever and wherever, your body pliant under his grasp. “mhm? got any left of what?” you furrowed your brows, doing a mental checklist of what you could’ve forgotten.
his hands smooth down from your waist to your ass, squeezing and massaging the flesh as he gestured to the bubble you’d just blown with a nod, effortlessly lifting you up into his arms.
you mentally “ohhhh’d”, prepared to watch disappointment overcome his handsome features as you readied yourself to shake your head, the word “nope” on the tip of your tongue before you remembered you’d been chewing on a piece of gum yourself.
with a smile on your plush lips you pressed them to his, smiling into the kiss as you felt him move you over to one of the counters, the marble countertop cool against your skin, your lips moving languidly against his as you tried to control the pace of the kiss, your body’s urge to let him do whatever he pleased, fighting against the idea you had.
as your arms moved around his neck, deepening the kiss as your tongue danced with his, moving the gum into his mouth, your saliva mixing oh so erotically with his, the gesture making his jeans tighten, your panties no doubt flushed with wetness as he seemed to only grow hungrier now with your gum in his mouth.
he pulled back after a moment, a string of saliva connecting your swollen, kiss bitten lips, his dimples showing cockily as he chewed the shit out of (your) his gum.
“using my own tricks on me now are you? thank you baby,” he guffawed, smirking as his hands moved to the hem of your shirt, goosebumps prickling your skin as he moved his calloused hands over the soft skin of your belly.
you only shrugged, satisfied with yourself as you surged forward to press quick little kisses to his lips, smiling as he continued smacking the gum regardless.
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynold/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: While driving back to the safe house after a successful mission, a tornado warning is sent out, requiring you to take shelter. You pull into a motel for the night, and an unforeseen mixup puts both you and Bob in an odd situation.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, One Bed Trope (cause this is always fun to write), Unspoken Feelings Between Reader and Bob, Y’all we are in Oklahoma (yeah).
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Bob and Reader wake up in a bit of an odd position (accidental touching/Sexsomnia), Breast/Nipple Play, Body Worship, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Slight Edging, Handjob, Sloppy Kissing (spit, and drool y’all), Licking, Biting, Scratching, Love Bites, Overstimulation, Slight Cockwarming, Aftercare, Bob has a bit of a switch moment here, Grinding.
Author’s Note: A one bed trope was requested and I had to oblige because I love tropes and the one bed ones are always fun to do because ya gotta get creative lol. I hope you enjoy <3 and that it meets your expectations :)
Word Count: 16,929
Oklahoma was never truly on the itinerary. It was supposed to be a pit stop–a long, forgettable stretch of flatland between chaos and containment. Neutral ground, as some people would call it. A blank in the map where nothing should ever happen.
You and Bob had wrapped up the mission cleanly by noon, catalogued the stolen biotech with swift efficiency, and secured the prototype unit into the reinforced trunk of the SUV–thankfully Sentry was still present to load that up because if he had left Bob with you it would’ve been a difficult feat.
By all accounts though, you should’ve been halfway back to the designated safehouse by now.
But something about the sky felt…Wrong.
It had started subtly. A dimming, a stillness. There was a strange, syrupy kind of quiet that made your ears ring with absence. Like nature was somehow bracing itself, or holding its breath for whatever was on the horizon. The sunlight had dulled beneath a high smear of cloud cover, every colour was sucked dry and replaced with a steely, metallic wash. Now, hours later, the sky looked bruised and bloated–slate-grey clouds rippling over one another like storm-tossed waves. Every so often, a faint green undertone pulsed beneath the layers–the telltale sickly hue that spelled trouble for anyone in the vicinity.
You had the windows rolled halfway down despite the rising wind. The air was warm and charged, dense with the heavy smell of petrichor–that earthy blend of cracked soil, wet stone, and ozone that bubbled just before the rain. You could taste it on your tongue: something electric, staticy, and alive, like the sky was sharpening its teeth.
The road ahead stretched endlessly through the prairie, bordered by fields that rippled like dark water. Your fingers tapped restlessly against the wheel, eyes flicking toward the horizon where the clouds folded in on themselves like something breathing.
Beside you, Bob sat in rigid silence. Still clad in the Sentry suit, he looked completely out of place in the dark mundane interior of the SUV. The gleaming, golden thread work of the suit caught what little light filtered through the cloud-choked sky, glittering in quiet pulses. But there was no trace of the Golden God in the passenger seat–not right now at least. No glowing eyes. No radiant, godlike posturing. Just Bob.
He sat hunched forward slightly, hands resting on his thighs, scratching absently at the thick woven fabric stretched over them–nails dragging over the reinforced material like he was trying to ground himself with the friction. His cape was bunched awkwardly beneath him, stiff from whatever synthetic weave it was made from. He shifted with a quiet grunt, trying to adjust it without drawing attention to himself. He looked uncomfortable. Too big for the seat, and too tense to melt into the silence.
And it was indeed silent. It was the strained wound-tight hush that often came after missions, when the adrenaline hadn’t quite drained from his system yet. You had learned early on that Bob didn’t speak much on post-op rides. He needed time to come down from whatever elevated state his powers put him in–to shrink back down to Bob Reynolds after playing Sun God. And you respected that. You always had.
So you didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. You just let the quietness flood over the both of you.
But then the radio cut out mid-song. A piercing tone snapping through the car–sharp and jarring, vibrating through your bones. Instinctively, you reached toward the dial and turned it up.
”This is the National Weather Service with an emergency alert. A tornado warning has been issued for Comanche County and surrounding areas until further notice. Seek shelter immediately. Conditions are rapidly deteriorating…” You barely breathed. You just stared ahead as the voice crackled on, going through protocols, and giving advice. Your foot eased off the gas as the SUV began to slow. Bob shifted beside you, his brows drawing together in worry.
”Ho-How much further do you think we’ve got till we make it back to the rest of the team?” His voice was quiet but hoarse, like it scraped through his throat. His eyes flicked up to the sky through the windshield, narrowing slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a gulp. You looked over at your phone and squinted at the navigation map, your thumb sliding along the cracked screen where a blue route line blinked steadily.
“An hour,” You replied, before clenching your jaw and adding, “Maybe more if the weather keeps turning.” There was a beat of silence, and Bob glanced over at you again. You rolled up the windows just as rain started to pelt the windshield in uneven spats–like the sky couldn’t decide if it was going to drizzle or drown the both of you. The wind had picked up, rattling the side mirrors. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled low and deep like it was pacing the edge of the Earth, waiting for you to speed up again so it could act up.
”We…Should de-detour,” He suggested, more sure this time, “Find a place to stay for the night. I…I don’t think it’s safe to be driving right now.” He added, his blue eyes scanning you to see if you were going to put up any protest–you didn’t argue. You just flicked your signal light and veered toward the first exit ramp you saw, tires splashing through a shallow puddle already forming near the shoulder.
As you guided the vehicle off the main highway and onto a side road fringed with gnarled trees and open farmland, you reached for your phone, tugging it from the magnetic mount on the dash.
”Message the rest of the team,” You instructed, offering it to him without glancing over, keeping your eyes glued to the road, “Let them know we’re gonna wait out the tornado until it passes. Then look up motels nearby.” He took the phone from your hand, his fingers brushing yours–a light graze that would’ve been nothing under normal circumstances. But with the air so charged, heavy with static, it felt like a spark. A little jolt of electricity zipping through your fingertips, and rushing up your arm, leaving the fine hairs on your skin standing on edge. You blinked a few times, flexing your fingers on the wheel, before clearing your throat and refocusing.
The silence returned again. The only sound was the erratic drumming of rain against the roof, sharp like rocks pelting sheet metal and the soft scratch-scratch of Bob’s nails dragging across the seam of his suit while he worked on the screen. You caught a glimpse of his brows drawn in quiet focus, lips parted just slightly, breath fogging faintly near the window–scratch, tap tap, slide, it was rhythmic.
”Do you have a change of clothes?" You asked suddenly, voice cutting through the tension like a blade through mist. You rolled your shoulders back, trying to work out the knots gathering there from driving too long in high-alert mode. He glanced over at you, a faint flush already blooming across his cheekbones. The dimmed light caught on his profile–his jaw looked tight, and his ears had gone pink.
”Yeah…It’s in my du-duffel. In the trunk.” You snorted softly, letting out a dry little laugh that caught in your throat.
”Great…It’s gonna be fun seeing the look on the motel owner’s face when you walk in looking like Helios’ second cousin.” Bob scratched the back of his neck, his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it under the awkwardness.
”It’s not like I knew there was going to be a to-tornado…” He muttered, “I would’ve changed if I knew.” You smirked and tightened your grip on the steering wheel, knuckles flexing against the leather as you merged onto a smaller road, the tires hissing over slick asphalt. The windshield wipers squealed with effort as they tried to keep up.
”There’s a Downtown Motel just five minutes from here,” He said after a moment, his voice steadier now, “Hopefully they’ve got vacancies.” You shot him a pointed glare.
”Don’t jinx it, Bob.”
His lips parted like he was going to defend himself, but all that came out was a sheepish, breathless little, “Sorry.” Then he pressed the directions and clicked the map into navigation mode, returning your phone to its mount with a soft click. The automated voice chimed in with turn-by-turn instructions as he settled back into his seat, thumb fidgeting again at the inside seam of his suit sleeve this time.
The rain was getting heavier now, coming down in slanted sheets. The wind buffeted the sides of the car, making the frame creak faintly, and outside, the fields were nearly invisible behind a curtain of water. It was like driving through a painting left out in the storm–everything blurred and streaked, colors bleeding into one another.
Your fingers curled tighter on the wheel as you slowed into the turnoff, gravel crunching beneath your tires.
The Downtown Motel emerged from the curtain of rain like a relic from another time. Tucked off the main road and almost swallowed by overgrown hedges and a rusted wire fence, it looked like the kind of place that had been forgotten by everyone but the storms. A narrow L-shaped strip of rooms hugged the edge of the gravel lot, their wooden shutters long since warped from years of Oklahoma humidity. The trim was painted a faded, sun-bleached turquoise that flaked around the windows and doorframes like peeling wallpaper.
But somehow, the place didn’t feel dead.
There were fresh planters tucked beneath a few windows–half-drowned petunias struggling bravely against the wind. The “Check-In” sign painted above the office door looked like it had been touched up recently. And the glowing bright red VACANCY sign buzzed steadily in the stormlight, casting everything in a warm, artificial hue that shimmered on the wet pavement.
It was hokey. Quaint, even.
One of those motels no one would ever notice unless they were desperate. Unless they’d run out of road or choices or daylight. A forgotten square of safety buried between farmland and nothingness–only visible when you were at the mercy of something greater–like a tornado warning perhaps.
You pulled the SUV as close to the overhang in front of the office as you could, tires crunching over the uneven gravel, cutting the engine. The rain was coming down in relentless sheets, streaking across the windshield like paint, and the wind had turned your side mirror nearly on its edge. You exhaled slowly, blinking at the glowing door ahead.
Then you looked down at yourself.
No jacket. No hood. Your tactical gear was soaked through from the damp cabin air alone. Your lips curled in a resigned grimace.
”I’m going to get soaked.” Bob turned toward you, his eyes darting down to your gear as he took in the lack of weather protection. A beat passed before he spoke–soft, almost tentative.
”I…I can get out first,” He offered, voice barely a whisper, “Come around to your side so you can use my ca-cape to cover your head…” You blinked, surprised by the gentleness of the offer. You turned your face toward him fully. His brows were pinched with concern, his jaw tight with worry that he might’ve overstepped–but his eyes never wavered from yours.
”That would be nice,” You said quietly, dripping with sincerity, “I’d really appreciate it. Thank you.” Something flickered in his expression–like a flicker of golden light through overcast blue. Then he nodded, almost like it was a relief to be able to do something. To be useful. He took a breath and reached for the door handle.
”Ha-Hang tight.” Then he stepped out into the storm without hesitation. Immediately, the wind tore at his cape, sending it flapping like a flag behind him. Rain slapped against his back and shoulders, soaking the suit almost instantly, the gold fabric darkening into a mustard yellow in streaks while droplets ran in rivulets down the sculpted lines of his arms. The gold shimmer dulled under the downpour, but didn’t disappear–it glinted faintly in the flashes of distant lightning, like a low-burning ember refusing to go out.
He jogged around the front of the SUV, boots kicking up spray as he rounded your side. When he reached the door, he tugged it open and crouched slightly, his broad form blocking most of the wind as you slid out.
Without a word, he reached for the edges of his cape and lifted it, draping the heavy fabric over your head and shoulders like a makeshift shield. It was warm from his body heat, saturated along the hem but still thick enough to repel most of the rain. The scent of him–clean, ozone–tinged sweat and the faint burn of lightning–wrapped around you like a second skin. Your shoulder brushed against his chest as you adjusted beneath the covering, and he didn’t move.
You looked up at him and yelled over the rain, “Ready?” He gave a tiny nod, droplets of water falling from the tips of his light brown hair, as the both of you sprinted the short distance to the office.
The storm swallowed you instantly.
Rain pelted your boots, sprayed up your legs, turned gravel to mud. Bob’s arm pressed lightly against your back as you both ducked under the awning and burst through the front door of the motel office, slamming it shut behind you. For a second, it was just breath and thunder. You panted in the entryway, water dripping from your gear, his cape clinging to your shoulders.
The motel office was small–maybe the size of a single bedroom–and smelled faintly of old lavender cleaner, wet carpet, and something sweet that seemed like it had just been heated in a microwave. The storm outside still howled through the doorframe, pressing against the windows in gusts, but here, everything felt oddly insulated. Like time had slowed down.
The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting a warm golden glow over the linoleum floors and wood-paneled walls. A small, ancient television perched on a shelf behind the desk crackled with static every few seconds as a soap opera played on low volume. Some hospital drama. A woman with overdone mascara was mid-meltdown, clutching an obviously fake baby while a man in scrubs looked anguished in the corner.
Behind the counter sat an elderly woman, perched comfortably in a vinyl swivel chair. Her hair was curled and pinned up in tight silver spirals, and a pair of oversized glasses teetered on the edge of her nose. A crocheted blanket–half finished–rested in her lap, needle hooked through a swirl of mustard and teal yarn. She was hooking it absentmindedly while watching the screen, mouthing along with the characters–like she had watched the same episode thousands of times.
She didn’t look over at first. Just flicked her gaze toward the door when it slammed shut behind you.
Then she paused. Squinting at the image in front of her, setting her crocheted piece down off to the side.
You and Bob stood just inside the threshold, dripping. The floor beneath your boots puddled instantly. Bob reached up to ruffle his hair, sending a fresh spray of water down the back of his neck and across the floor in your direction. His cape still hung damp and heavy over your shoulders, and you were pretty sure your left sock was already soaked through. The woman leaned forward in her chair, her eyes tracking the curve of Bob’s chest beneath the clingy, waterlogged Sentry suit. Her brow quirked slightly–it definitely wasn’t something she had seen around these parts.
You blinked the rain from your lashes and approached the desk, slowly removing the cape from your shoulders, letting it fall back against Bob's frame as he lingered behind you, sheepish, like he was your reluctant security guard of sorts.
”Evening,” You greeted with forced calmness, trying to sound like this wasn’t the weirdest check-in this woman was going to have, “We need a room, just for the night. The tornado warning got us a little rerouted.” The woman nodded, her red lips pursing slightly.
”You just missed a truck full of linemen who checked in. We only ‘ave one room left.” You gave her a small smile, wiping a few stray droplets of water off your cheek.
”We’ll take it if you don’t mind.” She slid a clip board toward you across the counter, flipping open a small binder of forms and handing you one with shaky hands. You took one of the spare pens between your fingers and started filling in the blanks.
That’s when you noticed her staring behind you, at Bob. Her eyes had gone glassy with curiosity and something that might have been amusement. Bob shifted behind you awkwardly, clearing his throat and trying to flatten his hair. It only made it worse. A fresh droplet trailed down his temple. The gold thread of his suit shimmered faintly in the fluorescent light, as little streams of steam flowed out of the little breathable holes in the fabric–his body’s way of warming him up quickly.
You glanced up at her, then back at Bob, then returned your eyes to the form and said–deadpan, without missing a beat:
“He does kids’ birthday parties. They wanted Superman. This was the best we could do.” Bob made a choked sound behind you, half-cough, half-mortified laugh, and immediately turned away, looking outside the office entryway again. His shoulders twitched as he tried not to react, one hand coming up to scrub at his burning face. The woman blinked, a bit shocked by the fake anecdote, and then laughed–a full-bodied, delighted little chuckle that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
”Well,” She started, patting her curls, “He’s very handsome. Knockoff Superman or not.” You smirked, finishing up the last blank with your signature before handing the clipboard back to her, and sliding the emergency Watchtower-issued credit card out of your back pocket and across the counter toward her.
”We really appreciate this,” You said watching as she ran the card, “We’ll be out by morning, weather permitting of course.” She nodded, still watching Bob out of the corner of her eye as he leaned in towards one of the framed photos that was nailed to the wall.
”You’re in Room Six,” She informed, handing you the golden key, “It’s the corner unit, so the Wi-Fi’s a bit spotty, ‘specially with the weather, but the heater works, and there’s a coffeemaker you can use free of charge. Nice large television, and a queen-sized bed with fresh sheets–I just changed ‘em myself.” Your eyebrows immediately raised at her and you could hear Bob’s boots squeak as the mentioning of the sleeping arrangements hit his ears. You gulped down a bit of saliva and cleared your throat.
”One bed?” You echoed, and she nodded.
”Only one left, sweetheart, told you all those linemen came through, they took all the doubles.” She explained, smiling warmly, almost like she kind of knew what she was doing–like she was trying to gauge how awkward the both of you would get in front of her so she could calculate whether or not you and Bob were in a relationship, “It’s a very cozy mattress though. Amazing for waiting out storms.” She added. You hummed quietly and turned toward Bob, holding the key aloft. He glanced at you, his blue eyes flickering from your hand to your face.
”I’ll…I’ll go grab the bags and meet you at the ro-room.” He said quickly, rushing out of the motel office. You let out a soft huff of laughter, the kind that curled dryly at the corner of your lips, and shook a bit more rain from your sleeves. The woman smiled wider, clearly enamoured with the awkwardness of Bob, and the mysteriousness of you.
”Y’all enjoy your stay now.” You glanced back over your shoulder, catching the flickering glow of the soap opera behind her.
”Thanks,” You replied with a faint smirk, “Stay safe during the storm…And enjoy your soap operas.” You added, moving towards the door of the office.
“Oh, honey,” She called as you opened the door again, “They’re just gettin’ to the good part.” You slipped out into the storm once more, squinting as the wind whipped cold droplets against your cheeks. Thankfully, the walkway outside the rooms was covered–just a narrow overhang, but enough to spare you from getting drenched again. The stairs creaked beneath your boots as you climbed quickly, rain rattling against the tin awning overhead like fingers drumming along a snare.
Room Six was easy to find. Tucked at the corner just as the woman said, a scuffed brass number barely clung to the turquoise-painted doorframe. You slipped the key into the lock, turned it with a soft click, and pushed the door open.
Warmth met you first.
Then the soft scent of clean linen and something faintly citrusy–like a generic air freshener trying its best to be pleasant.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you but not locking it, knowing Bob would be just a minute behind. With a flick of the switch, the overhead light blinked on, casting a warm, buttery glow across the room.
It was…Nicer than you expected.
Not glamorous, but tidy. Lived-in, but clean. The kind of motel room that clearly had been cared for, even if it was dated. The carpet was a faded brown that had probably once been beige, and the walls were lined with dull wallpaper patterned in a vague floral motif that almost matched the bedspread.
The bed itself was centered against the far wall–a queen, just as promised. Crisp white sheets were tucked tightly beneath a worn but freshly laundered duvet in pale blue, the corners folded hotel-style with a precision that made you think the woman downstairs probably took a lot of pride in her work. Two identical wooden nightstands flanked either side of the bed, each topped with a simple ceramic lamp, their shades trimmed with yellowing fringe.
The pillows looked plush, like they’d sink under your head and never let go.
The television was mounted on a corner shelf, not large, but clean. The screen gleamed slightly in the dim light, recently wiped down. A laminated channel list sat neatly on the dresser beside it, tucked next to the remote and a small bowl of packaged mints wrapped in see-through red foil, and the coffee maker.
There was a single wooden chair in the corner, its legs uneven and one arm slightly splintered, like it wouldn’t last five seconds in a windstorm. It wobbled just from you walking past it.
A window, half-covered by heavy beige curtains, let in a dull sliver of stormlight. The glass rattled faintly in the wind, but the view was blurred with rain. You could barely make out the far edge of the lot, where the overgrown fence swayed gently, silhouetted against the bruise-colored sky.
You let out a slow breath and shrugged off your outer gear, letting it fall in a damp heap by the door. The room was quiet except for the hum of the heater beneath the window and the ever-present backdrop of the storm–a distant growl, a restless howl pressing against the world just beyond the thin walls.
You turned your head slightly as you heard the footsteps approaching. The squeak of a boot on wet cement.
The doorknob gave a quiet turn, and then Bob stepped inside, shoulders hunched slightly against the last slap of wind. His boots thudded softly over the carpet as he crossed the threshold, two duffel bags hanging off either shoulder. One was yours. The other, presumably, held the long-awaited change of clothes he’d mentioned earlier.
He let out a long sigh–more exhale than sound–and lowered both bags with a muted plop onto the carpet just inside the door. You watched him from your place near the window, your fingers idly playing with the hem of your damp shirt.
Bob’s eyes did a slow sweep of the room.
You could practically see him clocking the queen-sized bed, the lamps, the single rickety chair that could barely support a towel, let alone a grown man.
But his gaze lingered on the bed for just a moment too long before he swallowed thickly and said, almost too brightly, “Ve-Very nice ro-room.” You nodded, letting a quiet breath out through your nose.
“Yeah…Nicer than I thought it’d be.” Bob stepped forward and reached for the neck of his suit, fingers tugging awkwardly at the fabric. His cape was already half-draped down his back, heavy with rain and wrinkled from where it had been thrown over your shoulders. You could see steam still faintly rising from his skin where moisture met heat.
“I–uh,” He started, voice low and bashful, “Do you mind unzipping this for me?” You blinked, caught off guard–not by the request, but by the way he asked it. So soft. So casual. But intimate, too, in a way that hit somewhere low in your belly. He turned around and gathered his cap in one hand, tugging it aside to expose the long zipper that stretched from the top of his neck to the small of his back, just above the belt he had around his waist. You stepped around him slowly, your footsteps soundless over the worn carpet.
”Sure,” You murmured. Your fingers found the zipper, slick against the wet fabric, and pulled it downward–slowly, carefully. The sound of it unzipping was loud in the quiet room, the metallic rasp cutting through the soft hum of the heater.
The suit parted to reveal the skin beneath: pale, dusted with golden freckles that spilled down his shoulders and spine like they’d been painted by hand. Your breath caught slightly as it ghosted across his skin–dampend from the rain but warm underneath. He tensed, just barely, at the sensation. Not from discomfort, but from awareness.
You didn’t let your eyes linger. Didn’t trace the shape of the muscles along his back or the soft ridge of his shoulder blades. But still–you felt the way the air thickened around you. Felt him inhale sharply when your knuckles brushed the curve of his lower back, right before you let go of the zipper and took a step back.
You cleared your throat, reaching for your own duffel bag.
“I’ll go change in the washroom. Just…Tell me when you’re done, okay?” You explained. Bob turned his head slightly, not meeting your eyes.
”No pr-problem.” You kicked off your boots and padded toward the door tucked near the far side of the room. The bathroom. The only space left for a moment of privacy. You stepped inside, turned on the bright white light, and closed the door behind you with a soft click.
The bathroom was small, but surprisingly well-stocked.
The overhead light buzzed faintly as it flickered to life, revealing soft cream-colored tile on the floor and pale peach walls that looked freshly painted, though a little uneven in spots. The mirror above the sink was wide and slightly fogged at the corners, the kind that curved outward a little and distorted just enough to make your face feel unfamiliar for a second.
A neat stack of towels–white, slightly worn at the edges but clean–rested on a wooden shelf above the toilet. Three large bath towels, two hand towels, and three rolled washcloths were all stacked with careful attention.
Beside the sink sat a small basket stocked with amenities: four wrapped mini bars of soap, two travel-sized bottles of generic shampoo and conditioner, a plastic comb, and a disposable razor still in its packaging. Another bar of soap sat perched on the porcelain ledge of the shower, its wrapper already peeled back like it had been placed there earlier, ready for someone to use.
The shower curtain was plastic but clean, printed with blue and green seagulls flying over cartoon waves–cheesy but oddly charming. It gave the room a strange little personality, like someone tried to make it feel cheerful even in the middle of nowhere.
You let out a small sigh, settling the duffel bag down onto the tiled floor with a muted thud. The heater rattled softly through the vent near your feet, pushing dry warmth into the space that curled along your ankles and did its best to undo the chill of the storm. You didn’t bother turning on the fan–just let the silence hold, broken only by the occasional groan of wind pushing at the window behind the drawn curtain.
One by one, you peeled off your tactical gear–wet straps loosened with practiced fingers, each buckle and plate unfastened with a soft metallic click that echoed against the tile. Your shirt was soaked through beneath the armor, sticking to your skin as you pulled it over your head and dropped it in a soggy pile atop your pants. Cool air prickled against your bare shoulders. You unclasped your bra and set it aside with a little shiver, pausing only when the reflection in the mirror caught your eye.
You stared for a moment.
Not just at your own reflection, but at the glint of your dog tags–still hanging against your sternum, metal dulled with condensation and warmth. You lifted them slowly, letting them rest against your palm. Pressed your thumb along the etched letters of your name, feeling the edges of each character beneath your skin. It was grounding. Tangible. A reminder of who you were in all this.
You let the chain fall back against your chest with a faint clink.
Then you crouched and unzipped the duffel bag. Inside, everything was neatly folded the way you’d packed it–dry and waiting. You reached for the oversized white t-shirt you usually wore to bed, soft from a hundred washes. It was old, stolen from Bucky during a post-mission stopover a few months ago, and still smelled faintly like cedarwood and something colder, sharper–something distinctly him. You pulled it over your head, the fabric falling low over your thighs. It clung slightly to your still-damp skin before settling loose.
You swapped your wet underwear for your sleep shorts–simple, black cotton, the waistband resting snugly on your hips. A little frayed at the seams. Comfortable. Familiar.
You rubbed your arms absently and stared at yourself one last time. You made sure the hem of your shirt covered enough—tugging it once or twice just to be sure—before stepping toward the door. Your fingers hovered over the handle for a moment.
“Bob?” you called softly. “I’m done. Am I allowed to come out?”
There was a pause, some soft shuffling on the carpet–maybe him adjusting something, or making absolutely sure he was decent. Then his voice, low and a little hoarse: “Ye-Yeah. You’re all good.”
You clicked off the bathroom light and stepped into the main room, blinking slightly at the shift in lighting. The overhead lamps had been turned off, and in their place, the flickering blue light of the television washed across the walls in pale pulses. A news station was on–static fuzzed lightly at the edges of the screen, the newscaster’s voice steady and grave as he outlined the tornado’s predicted path. The banner across the bottom read SEVERE WEATHER WARNING – TORNADO TRACKING ACROSS SOUTHERN COUNTIES.
Bob was sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in a grey long sleeved training shirt and a pair of black sweatpants, remote resting lightly in his palm, thumb hovering over the volume. He looked up when you entered.
And then he looked away just as fast.
His eyes had flicked to the hem of your borrowed white shirt–the one that hung halfway down your thighs and swayed slightly as you padded barefoot across the carpet. There was a flicker of something in his expression before he dragged his gaze quickly back to your face, cheeks flushing as he fumbled to stand.
“I’ll…” He started, clearing his throat, “I’ll take the wooden chair for the night.”
You blinked at him, then let your eyes flick to the chair in question–splintered, wobbling, barely stable enough to support your duffel bag let alone a six-foot man built like a solar-powered linebacker. It tilted when he brushed past it earlier, like even acknowledging its presence too strongly might send it crashing sideways.
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I’m pretty sure it’s on its last legs, Bob.”
He looked at you, sheepish.
You crossed your arms, letting your weight settle in one hip, voice calm and clear. “You can share the bed with me. I really don’t mind.”
He hesitated–of course he did. Bob always hesitated when it came to his own comfort. He looked at the bed, where the duvet still held the faint crease of where he’d sat just minutes before. You saw his throat work as he swallowed.
Then, after a beat, he nodded once. “…Okay.” You tried not to exhale too obviously, not to let on just how much that single word–quiet, cautious, hopeful–landed in your chest like a stone dropped in still water.
He stepped back toward the bed, placing the remote gently on the nightstand before tugging back the covers on one side. The sheets rustled softly, and when he sat again, he did so gingerly, like the mattress might give way if he put his full weight on it. You watched as he reached back, rubbing the back of his neck–nervous habit, the kind you’d learned to spot over the past few months of being sent out on missions with him. You tried not to exhale too obviously, not to let on just how much that single word–quiet, cautious, hopeful–landed in your chest like a stone dropped in still water.
You moved across the room and slid into the other side of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The fabric was cool at first, but it warmed quickly as your body settled in. The blanket was scratchy polyester on top, but soft underneath. You tugged it higher over your lap.
Bob adjusted slightly, pulling his legs up and resting his back against the headboard. His arms folded over his stomach. A few inches separated your bodies, enough for modesty, but not enough to erase the knowledge that it wouldn’t take much–a shift, a sigh, the tilt of a shoulder–for your limbs to brush. For your legs to tangle.
“I can turn off the TV,” He murmured, glancing sideways.
“No,” You replied gently. “Leave it on. Just…keep the volume low. It’s kinda nice, having the sound.” He nodded.
”Ba-Background noise.”
“Exactly.”
Outside, the storm was still raging. You could hear the whistle of wind threading through the seams of the motel’s structure, the faint rattle of a windowpane, the deep, distant rumble of thunder rolling across the prairie like a restless god.
The room, despite its creaks and imperfections, felt oddly safe. The kind of temporary shelter that, just for one night, could hold the weight of two very tired people pretending they weren’t utterly aware of each other’s presence.
Bob shifted again. You felt the mattress move beneath you, felt the blanket pull slightly where it had been tucked. You let your eyes drift to the ceiling, where a water stain shaped vaguely like a rabbit marred the corner.
“You warm enough?” He asked quietly.
You turned your head to look at him, and he was already looking at you, his blue eyes scanning over your face slowly. Your breath caught–just slightly–but you gave a faint smile and nodded.
“Yeah. You?” He nodded once, then looked away again, glancing at the television.
”Of course I am…Ru-Running hot has its perks I guess.” You let out a small laugh, huddling into the sheets a little more.
”Definitely.”
————————
At some point during the quiet drone of weather reports and low-lit motel stillness, you and Bob had drifted off. You didn’t remember when. You remembered shifting your legs beneath the sheets, blinking slowly at the static-blurred television screen, letting your gaze fall out of focus while the storm whispered its lullaby against the window.
But now…Now you were warm. Too warm.
And there was something–someone–pressed against you.
Your eyes cracked open, the dim blue light from the TV still flickering faintly across the motel room walls. The storm outside had ramped up again–low, thunderous growls rolling over the landscape in waves, a chorus of wind and rain lashing at the siding. Somewhere in the back of your mind, that should’ve been the thing waking you.
But it wasn’t.
It was the weight. The pressure. The body molded against yours with such intimacy, such unabashed familiarity, that your heart kicked hard against your ribs as the full sensation landed in your chest like a dropped anchor.
You were on your side, curled slightly toward the wall, and he was spooned tightly against you, arm slung low and heavy across your waist, and his hand was splayed across your chest, fingers relaxed but firm, the heel of his palm nestled against the curve of your breast.
His legs were tangled with yours beneath the blankets. One of his thighs slotted between yours, the other pressed flush to the back of your own. His chest was warm and solid against your spine, his breath fanning in hot, steady pulses against the crook of your neck. His nose was pressed lightly to your shoulder, right against the collar of Bucky’s borrowed t-shirt.
You didn’t dare move at first. Just stayed still, blinking slowly at the darkened edge of the room as your brain tried to catch up with your body. Because your body was already reacting–tingling beneath his palm, heat blooming low in your stomach, your skin prickling where he touched you. You could feel the slick warmth slowly gathering between your thighs, not from the oppressive heat of Bob’s sun-forged body.
But from this.
From him.
You swallowed thickly, barely breathing, unsure whether to move away or press back into him. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine–fast, but steady. Not panicked. Not aware.
He was still asleep.
Of course he was.
Because Bob would never–could never–consciously do something this bold without overthinking himself into a stroke first. You knew that. Knew the shape of his hesitation by now. Knew how his kindness could sometimes mask how afraid he was of taking up too much space. Of wanting too much.
But he wanted this.
At least in sleep, he did. He had reached for you. Held you like you were his tether.
And god…It felt good. Even with the heat. Even with your breath catching in your throat and your thighs squeezing tight around the leg pressed between them just to keep from squirming. You let your eyes flutter closed again for a moment, lips parting as you tried to steady your breathing. It didn’t help that his fingers twitched slightly–just a small unconscious flex–pressing more firmly into your chest before relaxing again. His hips shifted subtly, and for the briefest second, you felt the unmistakable press of him against the curve of your ass, hot and hard beneath the fabric of his sweatpants.
Your fingers hovered over his wrist, breath shallow in your throat.
You shouldn’t feel this turned on. Not from something accidental. Not from a moment that had bloomed in his sleep, unintentional and unaware. But your body didn’t care about what your brain was trying to guilt-trip it for. Not when he felt this good against you. Not when you’d spent so many nights replaying every small glance, every brush of fingers, every breathless shared silence on missions and wondering what it would be like to be touched like this on purpose.
To be wanted by him. Openly.
Your thighs squeezed tighter around the one he’d slotted between yours, and you felt your shorts dampen as a little bit of slick slipped out of you in response to the tension building under your skin. It was stupid, it was selfish–but it was real. And when his fingers flexed again–gripping your breast softly, like his dream was guiding him through some fantasy you didn’t know he had–it stole the breath from your lungs.
Then came the quiet sound. A small whimper. Barely audible, like it cracked through him without permission. His nose nuzzled deeper into the crook of your neck, lips brushing the skin there with a feather-light touch. His arm tightened around your middle as he unconsciously rutted against you again, the hard line of his cock pressing more insistently into the curve of your ass.
You let out a broken sigh. Your body was burning. Your nipples tightened beneath the thin cotton of your sleep shirt, hypersensitive and aching from the way his hand lingered against them. Your breath came in soft, uneven little puffs. And your hand–trembling, traitorous–slid over his where it clung to your chest. You curled your fingers gently around his wrist, not to pull him away, but to hold him in place.
You needed to know.
You needed to wake him.
You weren’t going to let it be something he regretted later.
“Bob…” You whispered, your voice barely louder than the static hum of the TV. “Bob, wake up…” A small noise escaped him again, this time closer to a groan. His nose shifted against your neck, lips parting against your skin as his body went tense–like he was being pulled out of something warm and sweet and sudden.
His hand twitched.
Then stilled.
Another beat of silence passed before you felt his whole body freeze behind you. His breath hitched. His palm lifted slightly from your chest.
“…Fuck.”
It was barely a sound. Just breath, shaped around a single syllable of panic.
You squeezed his wrist gently. “Bob,” You murmured again, softer now. “It’s okay. You were asleep.” He slowly peeled his arm back like it had been caught in a bear trap, like he didn’t trust it not to ruin everything. He shifted slightly, trying to put space between you, his leg drawing back under the sheets even as the heat of him remained.
“I…I didn’t mean to–I was–shit, I didn’t know…I wouldn’t–“ His voice cracked mid-sentence, strained with shame, and his forehead pressed into your shoulder like he could somehow bury the guilt. “I didn’t know I was doing that, I swear…I didn’t mean to touch you like that–”
”Bob,” You interrupted gently, “Stop…It’s okay.” He froze, his mouth parting slightly, an apology dying on his tongue–half-formed, half-falling apart–and for one raw, unguarded second, he just stared at you like he couldn’t quite make sense of the forgiveness in your voice. Of the lack of anger. The lack of fear. Like maybe you were a trick of the storm. A hallucination conjured by lightning and longing.
And then you whispered, “…I…I liked it.”
The confession shattered the air between you like a cracked pane of glass finally giving way. You felt a tremor run down his arm–his pulse lurching beneath your fingers where they were still pressed to his wrist. He went completely still, not breathing for a moment, until you heard the thick, audible gulp in his throat.
He pulled back just slightly, enough to let his eyes meet yours, and with a trembling hand on your hip, he gently coaxed you to roll onto your back–guiding you until you were settled against the pillow, The cool fabric brushing your cheek as the warmth of his body hovered just inches above you. His breath came shallow now. Nervous. Disbelieving. His blue eyes were wide and vulnerable in the TV light, scanning every inch of your face like it might lie to him where your mouth wouldn’t.
“You what?” He rasped, voice barely holding together. Your hand found his cheek. Warm. Damp from the sweat that was forming in your palm. You cupped it gently, thumb brushing along the light stubble that formed on his chin.
”I liked it, Bob…” You whispered again, firmer now. Clear. He shook his head like he couldn’t accept it, like it didn’t fit anywhere in the fragile framework of reality he had built for himself.
”You’re just saying that…” He replied softly, pained, his eyes flicking down and away, “So I’m not em-embarrassed…About what I did…” Your heart ached at the shame in his voice. At the self-doubt, the fear of crossing a line he didn’t even know he’d toed. So you moved your hand again–down his jaw, along the curve of his lips–and gently, you traced your thumb across the soft swell of his lower one, watching the way his breath hitched as you did it, the way his eyes closed at the sensation.
“I’m not just saying that…” You breathed, your voice thick with the weight of it. Of truth. Of the burning need that coiled in your body and erupted through your veins, “I’ve been wanting you to make a move…For so fucking long, Bob.” The words escaped before you could soften them, even though deep down inside you didn’t want to do that at all. You needed him to know. To feel it. Because it wasn’t just want anymore. It was craving. You felt like your body was vibrating–like every nerve ending had tuned itself to the frequency of him and refused to shut off.
Bob’s breath stuttered. His cheeks flushed deeper than before–scarlet creeping beneath his skin. He looked overwhelmed. Like he was caught in some slow-motion free fall between shock and pure carnal hunger.
His hand lifted from the sheets, trembling slightly.
And then he touched you. His fingertips ghosted over your skin, before cradling the side of your neck with his palm like you were something precious, unreal. His thumb rested just below your jaw, feeling the pulse fluttering wildly beneath your skin.
”You swear you mean it?” He asked quietly, “You promise you’re not ly-lying to me?” You nodded, not trusting your voice at first. Then you leaned up slightly, your nose brushing his, your lips close enough that the next breath you let out ghosted over his mouth.
”I swear,” You whispered, “I wouldn’t lie about this. Not to you.” There was a beat of silence. One breath. Then another. Nothing but the low murmur of the newscaster on the television filled the space around you–something about wind speeds, projected trajectories. But it all blurred, receded, drowned beneath the pounding of your heart and the shallow, stunned rhythm of Bob’s breath. His thumb stroked once against your jaw…And then he leaned in.
His lips met yours like a secret being told for the first time–soft, hesitant at the edges but bursting with everything he hadn’t said until now. A kiss not of hunger, not yet, but of relief. Of surrender. Of two people who had been circling each other so long that this first contact felt like a homecoming of sorts. Like the truth had finally been spoken into the space between you, and now…There was nowhere left to run.
You hummed against his mouth, something tender and breathless, and your hand slipped from his cheek, immediately burying itself in the soft waves of his light brown hair. You curled your fingers gently at first–then tugged. Just enough to pull him deeper into the kiss, to tell him you wanted more.
Bob gasped.
It was small, a little stutter of air that escaped against your mouth like he’d been caught off guard by the desire that burned through you and seeped into him. His body responded instantly. You felt the tremor run through him, felt his chest press closer to yours, his hand still firm at your neck like a tether, like he was grounding himself in the feel of your skin beneath his palm. And then his other hand slid down slowly, his fingers skimming the soft cotton of your shirt, moving lower until they found your waist, then your hip. His touch settled there, firm and warm, his fingers curling into the soft fabric of your bike shorts with a pressure that made your pulse stutter. He squeezed, just once–possessive and unsure all at the same time.
Your thighs shifted involuntarily at the contact. You exhaled a soft sound into his mouth that wasn’t quite a moan, but close. It made him breathe harder, made his fingers dig in a little tighter. And then–so slowly you almost didn’t realize it at first–he moved. His weight shifted over you, inch by inch, careful and deliberate, until his chest was fully pressed against yours, aligning your heart beats. The blankets shifted with him in the process, the mattress dipping as he braced his forearm beside your head. His knee nudged between yours again, slotting perfectly against your thigh. And when you opened your legs just enough to accommodate the movement, he froze for half a heartbeat–just long enough to murmur your name like a prayer against your lips.
“Bob…Please.” You whispered, pulling slightly on the waves of hair that you had clutched between your fingers. He caressed your neck gently, leaned in again. He licked your lips softly, wetting them before returning his mouth to yours, kissing you–hotter this time, messier.
His tongue slipped past the seam of your lips like it was instinct, like he’d stopped thinking and just let the need take the wheel. His hips dipped low, settling snug in the cradle of your thighs as he shifted on top of you, arms bracketing either side of your head now. The duvet bunched around his knees, the mattress sagging beneath his weight as he adjusted. Then you felt it again–his cock, thick and hard through the soft cotton of his sweatpants, pressing up against your core, right against the heat pooling there.
A whimper escaped your throat at the contact.
He groaned into your mouth, rolling his hips in a slow grind, letting you feel him through the thin barriers of clothing. His lips parted wider against yours as your mouths collided again and again, kissing like you were both drowning in it–teeth clashing a little, spit slicking the corners of your mouths, breathing in ragged exhales through your noses. He kissed you like it was something he had dreamt about a million times and finally got permission to crave out loud.
Your hands moved without thought–grabbing at his sides, his hips, his shoulders. His back. You racked your nails down the soft cotton of his shirt as his tongue tangled with yours, kissing you so deeply you felt your head spin. Your other hand slipped to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he moaned when you sucked gently on his tongue before letting it go with a wet, spit filled pop.
Bob gasped–a sound so raw and broken it felt like your chest caved in from how hot it sounded when it hit your ears–and ducked down to kiss along your jaw, panting against your skin as his hips ground into yours again. He clung to your thigh, bringing it up so it was firm against his torso, his thumb stroking mindlessly along the outside like he needed to keep touching you. His other hand cradled your jaw, keeping you close, and guiding your head back as he kissed lower.
”You’re so…So fucking pr-pretty.” He whispered raggedly, his mouth brushing just below your ear, his voice cracking on the compliment, “You smell so good, and you’re so warm, and you…Fuck…You’re an an-angel.” Your breath hitched and you pulled at his shirt again–hard this time, clutching the fabric in both fists, dragging it upwards like you couldn’t stand the feeling of it separating you anymore.
He got the message immediately, and leaned back just far enough to strip it off–one swift motion, lifting it over his head and throwing it to the side with a quiet thud. The second the shift hit the floor, you sat up slightly, propped on your elbows, so you can drink him in like someone dying of thirst.
He was beautiful.
He wasn’t chiseled like some sculpted super-soldier body builder or genetic prototype, but he didn’t need to be. Bob looked real. Like a man forged by gravity and radiation and heart. His chest was broad and freckled. His skin pale with a warm flush that faded across it. A smattering of faint brown freckles dusted his collarbones and shoulders, trailing down his body like someone had splattered him in flicks of them. There were old scars too–faint silvery marks scattered across his ribs and sides, like faint reminders of what he had gone through before the team found him. Before you found him.
Your hand moved to touch him before you even realized it, dragging your fingertips across his chest slowly–tracing the lines of his pecs, brushing over his sternum, down the shallow dip between his ribs. He shuddered under your touch, swallowing hard as your fingers brushed a sensitive spot near his side. His breath hitched when you swept your palm over one of his nipples watching it harden slightly beneath your touch.
“I’ve wanted to see you like this for so long,” You admitted, voice trembling with awe and arousal, “God, Bob…You’re…You’re amazing.” His eyes snapped shut at that, jaw clenching like the words physically wrecked him. He leaned forward again, crashing into your mouth like he didn’t know how else to respond. You moaned against his lips, your hand fisting into his hair, while the other one settled on his lower back pressing against it to make him roll his hips into you again–harder this time. You moaned into the kiss, and dug your nails into his skin, pulling back a bit.
“Sit up…” You whispered, your voice cracked and breathless, your lips damp from kissing him, “I need to take my shirt off…I-I need to feel you.” Bob let out a shaky exhale that fanned warm over your cheek, his body pulsing with restraint even as his hips pressed forward again, grinding against the heat of your core. His eyes flicked to yours, glassy and stunned, then down to where your fingers were already pulling at the hem of your oversized shirt, your chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the cotton.
“Okay.” He murmured, his voice rough with need, as he shifted back slightly giving you room to move, and sit up completely. His hands came up, hovering for just a second, before gently curling around the fabric at your hips, helping you pull the shirt over your head. The hem caught for half a second on your dampened skin before sliding you free, and he bundled it up carefully in his hands–pausing for the briefest moment as the soft clink of your dog tags echoed in the small room. He stared at the chain as it settled back against your chest, right between the swell of your breasts, then slowly placed the top on the ground with his own, before returning his gaze back to your body.
HIs eyes roamed over every inch of you, taking in the gentle rise of your chest, the curve of your waist, the faint sheen of sweat across your collarbones. His breath stuttered out of him, enamored by your skin, by your body.
“God…” His voice cracked, eyes locking on your breasts, “You’re so…Be-Beautiful.” You could feel the heat trailing up your skin, your cheek burning with warmth, but you didn’t look away. Not when he was taking you in like this.
He reached for you. His big, calloused hands coming up and settling against your chest, resting just above your breasts, thumbs brushing over the cool metal of your dog tags. He stared at them–like he was grounding himself with the proof of your name–before he leaned in against and kissed you.
This one was all tongue and heat and panting mouths as he pressed you back down into the mattress with the weight of his body. His hands stayed against your chest, not squeezing, not groping–just resting there. Feeling your heart beating beneath one palm while holding you with the other.
But then he broke the kiss, lips trailing down your jaw, breath heaving against your cheek, panting through the intensity of the moment.
”I’ve thought about this…” He whispered, as he kissed down your neck, teeth grazing the skin just below your ear, “Dreamed about this…About touching you. Fe-Feeling you under me like this.” You whimpered softly as he sucked at your pulse point, dragging his mouth lower–kissing and nibbling a path across your neck, down to the base of your throat, his tongue flicking over the hollow there before continuing. He nosed the chain of your tags aside with his mouth and licked just beneath it, then sucked gently at the curve of your breast. Your back arched immediately, your breath hitching.
“Bob…” You gasped, your fingers tangling into his hair again. He groaned low and wet against your skin, his voice muffled by your chest.
“God, such a perfect no-noise.” He muttered, wrecked, and then his mouth closed around one of your nipples, sucking gently at first, then with more pressure. His tongue laved over the peak, teasing and circling, drawing more breathless sounds from your throat. One of his hands slid beneath your breast, cupping and lifting it while his thumb stroked along the underside. You moaned, your hips canting up into his.
”Fuck…Bob, that feels so good.” He pulled off with a wet pop, dragging his mouth across your chest to your other breast.
“I want to make you feel good,” He replied raggedly, “I’ve been thinking about how soft you’d be, how you’d so-sound if I got to touch you like this…And all I want is to know I’m doing a good job.” He sucked on your nipple again, harder this time, groaning as you whined beneath him. His hips rutted slowly against you–small, hungry thrusts, his cock thick and hot through his sweatpants as he ground into your soaked shorts. You could feel the wet patch spreading between you, could feel how it smeared against his fabric, the friction making you dizzy.
”You’re perfect. So goddamn perfect.” He whispered, teeth grazing the sensitive underside of your breast, biting gently before licking over it and blowing against it slowly, “I want to do this…Fo-Forever.” You moaned helplessly, your thighs falling further apart, your body aching for more.
”Please, Bob…Keep going.” You begged. He whimpered against your skin, then began kissing lower–down your sternum, your stomach, his tongue dragging along the skin just beneath your ribs, the tips of his hair trailing behind, raising goosebumps on your skin.
“I love the way you taste…” He breathed, dropping a slow, open-mouthed kiss beside your belly button, drool coating your skin, “Like heat and sweat and sw-sweetness–fuck, I want more…I want it all.” His hands found your waist, gripping tight, and he looked up at you, flushed and panting, hair curling against his temples from the heat. His lips were pink, wet and puffy from his ministrations, and his voice was shaking when he spoke.
”Can I keep going?” He asked, his thumb tracing along the waistband of your shorts, hooking into the fabric gently, “I want to taste all of you…” You nodded immediately, and writhed beneath him.
”Please…Take what you want from me.” You whimpered. His lips quirked into a slow smile against your stomach, the curve of it warm and intimate as he licked around your navel–trailing drool in lazy, shimmering arcs like he was branding you before his teeth grazed the skin just above your waistband. You twitched beneath him at the contact, your fingers clenching in the sheets, feeling him pull away just enough to give the both of you a bit of space.
Then his hands slid lower, gripping the waistband of your shorts with a gentleness that made your heart ache, thumbs brushing over your hips as he began to peel them down inch by inch. You lifted your butt to help, watching the way his eyes stayed locked to the exposed skin. He rolled the fabric down your thighs slowly, like he didn’t want to miss a single detail of what he was unveiling. When the shorts reached your knees, you helped him kick them off the rest of the way with a soft rustle of movement with him holding them between his hands, and suddenly he felt heat wash over him, like he was going to suffocate. He then pushed the covers off the both of you with a little laugh, letting the duvet tumble to the foot of the bed.
”I don’t want to accidentally pass out from ov-overheating,” He murmured with a crooked grin, his voice cracking just slightly. You let out a small laugh, the tension in your chest unraveling with the sound, seeing him toss your shorts off the bed in one motion before turning his attention back to you.
His large hands settled against your knees, the pads of his fingers brushing over your skin, tickling the sensitive flesh before he spread your thighs open. Guiding your knees apart with shaking hands until you were laid out beneath him in the dimmed light–glistening, soft and slick and already trembling for him.
”Christ.” He whispered.
His eyes locked onto your folds, and you swore he stopped breathing. You watched his pupils dilate, swallowing the blue until they looked nearly black with lust. His mouth parted, and his brows twitched like he didn’t quite know how to process what he was seeing. He looked hypnotized. Like your body had short-circuited whatever part of his brain was still capable of coherent thought.
“You’re…You’re so wet,” He breathed, voice thin and trembling with awe. His hand moved without thought, fingers dragging down your stomach in a slow, reverent trail. Every inch of contact sent a ripple through your muscles. He traced your navel, brushed over your pubic bone, then–finally–his fingers slipped lower. The pads of them grazed through your soaked folds, feather-light at first. And then again, just a little firmer. Your hips jolted as his fingers passed over you again. Your body trembling with tension, need coiling tight in your belly. But just as you tried to roll your hips against his touch, desperate for friction, for fullness, for anything–his other hand flattened against your lower stomach and gently pinned you down.
“Easy, Y/N…” He whispered, his voice cracked with heat and restraint. The heel of his palm held you still with slight control, and it only made the ache between your thighs burn hotter. You whimpered, a fragile, breathless sound that escaped before you could swallow it.
Then he pulled his fingers away, causing you to whine instinctively, hips attempting to lit in protest before falling back to the bed in frustration. But your attention shifted the second you caught the glint of wetness in the dim light–your arousal glistening on his fingers as he brought them to his lips. He moaned low and broken as he sucked them into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut like he was savoring something divine. His cheeks hollowed as he cleaned them slowly, letting his fingers drag across his tongue before pulling them free with a lewd pop.
“I fear I’m going to ma-make a mess,” He murmured hoarsely, his voice laced with a mix of awe and filthy reverence. “You taste so fucking good.”
“Bob…” Your voice was wrecked with desperation, your hand flying to his, the one still pressing down gently on your belly. You laced your fingers with his and squeezed, grounding yourself in the heat of his palm as you whimpered, “Bob, I’m begging you…Please. I need your mouth.”
He nodded, his pupils blown wide with lust. His lips were swollen, slick, glistening in the TV light. He kissed the inside of your thigh once–then again–and rasped, “Okay…I’ll give it to you.”
And god, did he ever.
He shifted down the bed and adjusted your legs, guiding them with both hands until the backs of your thighs rested on his freckled shoulders. You felt the reverence in his grip. The way his thumbs brushed over your skin as if worshiping the weight of you. He breathed you in–nose brushing your mound as he exhaled a groan so low and guttural it rattled through your bones.
Then came the kisses.
Soft at first. Pressed gently to the inside of one thigh, then the other. His tongue flicked out to taste the skin just beneath your hip, leaving a wet streak behind. Then he mouthed at your flesh, suckled at it gently until it marked. Until your hands fisted the sheets. You were so close to pleading, to sobbing from how badly you needed him–then his mouth finally reached your core. Trailing a long wet lick. Then another. Slow, thick, dragging. His tongue flattened and moved up the length of your folds, collecting everything–spit and slick and heat. He groaned, deep and rough, as he buried his face in you like he was starving.
”Absolutely sw-sweet, addicting. Christ…Is there anything about you that isn’t perfect?” You moaned, your hips bucking in response before his hands clamped down on your thighs, holding you open just a little bit more.
”Please, Bob…Don’t stop,” You gasped, “Please keep going.” He licked into you like he was memorizing every inch–alternating between messy, open-mouthed licks and tight, focused ones that circled your clit until your legs were shaking. His lips sealed around you, sucking gently, then harder–until your hips arched off the bed, your hands gripping at his hair like lifelines.
He moaned into you when you tugged, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. Then you felt it–his fingers again. Two thick, reverent digits sliding through your folds, finding your entrance with practiced ease. He pushed in slowly, curling them just right, pressing into the spot that made your back arch and your breath catch in your throat.
“God, yes…Right there, fuck, Bob,” You cried, grinding down against his face, “You’re so good, you’re doing so good, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
“Keep talking,” He begged, voice muffled against your core, spit dripping down his chin, “Tell me…Tell me how good it feels, Y/N. Need to know I’m ma-making you feel good, please–“
“You are…Jesus Christ you are,” You cried out, “No one’s ever–fuck, Bob, no one’s ever made me feel this good b-before…” He growled against you, vibrating over your wetness. His tongue lashed your clit in firm, spit coated flicks as his fingers curled and pumped, hitting that devastating spot again and again, the sound of it slick and filthy and loud in the quiet motel room. Your thighs were quivering now, the pleasure rising in a tidal wave you couldn’t stop–except he did.
He pulled back.
“W-Wait…Bob…Why did you–” Your voice cracked, near sobbing. Your hips searched for his mouth, for his fingers, for anything to fill the terrible, unbearable emptiness. But he just rested his cheek on your thigh, eyes glazed and lips slick with your arousal.
“You were about to come,” He rasped, “I could feel it… And I want to make it last. I want to see you fall apart for me, slowly.”
You nearly started to cry
“Bob, please,” You whispered, your voice trembling, “Please let me come, I need it so bad. I’m so close, I feel like I’ll start crying if I don’t finish…Please Bob…I need this…And I need you.” Your begging was the thing that undid him.
“Fuck, okay…Okay, I’ve got you, I’m…I’m sorry for doing th-that,” He said, kissing your inner thigh before diving back in like a man possessed. His fingers returned, pumping faster now, and his mouth sucked at your clit like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. The pressure was relentless. His tongue circled tight and fast while his fingers curled deep. Every sound you made, he chased. Every twitch of your body, he answered.
You writhed against him, helpless and aching, your hips grinding desperately into his face as he groaned and followed your every motion–chasing the heat, matching your rhythm with maddening precision. His mouth was everywhere: lips, tongue, breath, spit. It was unrelenting, overwhelming, and devastatingly beautiful.
“Fuck,” You gasped, your voice ragged and raw as your back arched and you reached down, fingers tangling in his hair with a fierce tug. He moaned at that, the sound vibrating through your core as his free hand pressed firmly down against your stomach. Your other hand reached for him blindly, finding the one that held you down and gripping it hard–squeezing as if it was the only thing tethering you to the earth.
“You feel that?” he panted against your soaked folds, the words hot and filthy as his tongue circled your clit in tight, devastating strokes, “Feel how close you are? God, you’re dripping all over the pl-place.” You let out a strangled cry, a sob of pure pleasure tearing out of you as your hips bucked violently. Your thighs clamped around his head and your whole body trembled like a live wire.
“Bob…Fuck, fuck, I–!” You broke off into a series of desperate gasps as your orgasm slammed into you, ripping through your core and sending shockwaves down your spine. You came hard, pulsing around his fingers and soaking his mouth, your hips jerking and grinding as you rode it out.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. He groaned loudly as he felt you unravel, pulling his fingers out slowly only to bury his face directly between your thighs, licking up everything you gave him with messy, greedy strokes. His tongue swept through your folds again and again, catching every drop of your release, slurping it up like he was addicted. His nose pressed to your mound, his lips dragging through your slick, moaning like it was better than anything he’d ever tasted. He reached up and slid his soaked hand around your wrist, holding it as he moaned into you like a man who had been fully sanctified within you.
Only when your legs began to twitch uncontrollably and your hips flinched from the intensity did he finally ease back, his lips sucking softly on your overstimulated clit before releasing it with one last reverent kiss.
Then he looked up at you. His cheeks glistened with your arousal, his nose slick, his lips swollen and cherry-red, puffed from the effort, his chin streaked with spit and slick. His eyes were wild–blown wide with lust and worship, dark with something desperate and unspoken.
You were gasping for breath, twitching beneath him, your thighs still trembling as you reached for him blindly. Your hand caught his wrist and pulled.
“Come here…” You rasped, your voice shaky and ruined, “Come kiss me…” He moved instantly, sliding your thighs off his shoulders, before crawling up your body, his hair now damp from sweat and sticking up every which way because of your fingers pulling and yanking at the strands.
He kissed your stomach first–slow and worshipful–letting his lips drag across the curve of your navel, pausing just to breathe against your skin. You felt the warmth of his breath, the weight of it sinking deeper into you than it should’ve, like every exhale stitched another piece of him into your chest. He mouthed at your ribs, trailing upward, tongue flicking lightly over salt-slick skin before he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of your breast, then dragged his lips up over your sternum.
When he reached your collarbone, he nipped at it gently–just enough to make you gasp, just enough to let you feel the quiet ache of teeth without pain. His hair brushed your jaw as he lingered there, then slowly, slowly lifted his head. He hovered over you for a moment, looking down at your face like he was memorizing it.
You were flushed, wrecked–still trembling faintly from your orgasm, lips parted as you panted for breath, chest heaving beneath your dog tags. Your brow glistened with sweat, your hair damp at the roots. Your mouth opened just a little more, the edges trembling with anticipation–and he smiled.
It was small at first. Soft. But then it widened, blooming into something radiant and slightly disbelieving, a crooked, reverent grin spreading across his face. His nose brushed yours, breath catching as he hovered inches from your mouth.
And then you surged forward and kissed him.
It was messy.
Sloppy in the most devastatingly intimate way. Your lips crashed into his with a wet sound, and you immediately moaned into the kiss–because you could taste yourself on him. Sweetness clung to his tongue. A faint, earthy tang from your own arousal mixed with the salt of sweat that glistened on his upper lip. His mouth was warm, open, and pliant beneath yours–desperate in the way it moved.
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and pulled him down–dragged your nails down the muscles along his back, slow and rough, leaving faint red lines in your wake. He groaned softly into your mouth at the sensation, his hips twitching reflexively against you. His tongue tangled with yours again, slick and insistent, licking into you like he needed to taste every corner of your mouth to survive. He pulled back slightly, panting, his forehead resting against yours, eyes dazed.
“Do you need a br-break?” He whispered, voice low and wrecked, his breath coming hot against your cheek.
You shook your head immediately, gaze locked on his. “No…Do you?” He shook his head too–more like a tremble than a full motion, his hair bouncing slightly from the movement.
“All I want is you right now,” He said, voice cracking under the weight of the words. “It’s all I can think of…It’s what my bo-body craves because I’ve been holding myself back from you for…For so long.” You smiled, and kissed his lips again–soft and quick, brushing your nose against his.
”You don’t have to do that anymore,” You whispered. He let out a small huff of a laugh, half-disbelieving, half-overcome, and gave you a toothy, radiant smile that nearly undid you. His eyes shone in the flickering blue light of the TV as he looked down at you like you were the center of his universe.
Then his fingers rose, dragging lightly along the chain resting between your breasts, fingertips brushing over the cool metal of your dog tags. He watched the way they gleamed with moisture–your sweat, his spit–and his lips curved into something equal parts shy and sinful.
“I’ve been picturing this moment for a long time,” He admitted sheepishly, voice low, like the words had to squeeze past the remnants of disbelief still clinging to the edges of his breath. Your hands slid up the curve of his back, thumbs brushing against the soft ridges of muscle there, until they found their place at the sides of his neck. Your fingers cradled the base of his skull, brushing through the damp waves of his hair, grounding him.
“Me too,” You whispered, your voice just as unsteady, just as full. The silence that followed was thick–but not awkward. Not unsure. It was full of breath. Full of you and him. Full of a thousand unsaid things finally allowed to exist between your bodies, between the press of your bare chests and the whispering storm outside.
Bob’s forehead pressed to yours. You felt his lips graze the tip of your nose, then your cheek, and then he kissed you again–slowly, the kind of kiss that made time go quiet. That made the storm feel far away. His body shifted against yours with a little grunt, hips tilting, pressing up against the soft mess between your thighs again.
You gasped into his mouth.
And without a word, your hand trailed downward–skimming over the warm skin of his torso, tracing the gentle rise and fall of his stomach. You reached the waistband of his sweatpants and paused, eyes fluttering open to meet his.
He nodded.
That was all the permission you needed.
Your hand slipped beneath the soft cotton, fingers brushing through the trimmed curls at his base before they wrapped around him fully. Your breath hitched. He was heavy in your palm, hot and thick, the skin silky as you curled your hand around his cock. The tip was damp–already leaking, already aching–and you gave a slow, testing stroke from base to crown.
Bob let out a groan against your lips, his whole body twitching. His hips jerked up slightly, like he couldn’t help it. Like your hand alone was short-circuiting every nerve in his body.
“Jesus, Y/N…” He moaned, mouth open against your cheek now, breath warm and shaking. You stroked him slowly–long, fluid motions that twisted slightly at the top, smearing the bead of precum across the tip and stroking. He pulsed in your grip, his cock thickening further with every movement. His hips rocked gently, chasing the rhythm you set, and his moans started to deepen–quiet at first, just breathy exhales and broken sighs, but quickly growing rougher. His hand rose to your waist, gripping there as if he needed an anchor. His other arm braced beside your head, but it trembled beneath the strain of holding back. His forehead dropped to your shoulder as he gasped through gritted teeth, and you pressed kisses to the crown of his hair. His hand clenched the pillow beside your head, fingers digging into the fabric like he was holding on for dear life. His breath was ragged, mouth parted in a helpless moan that barely made it past his throat.
“Y-You have to stop,” He gasped, his voice cracking around the edges. “Or else I’m going to cum in my pa-pants.” You slowed your strokes, teasing him now–your grip softening just slightly as you dragged your hand upward, watching his face twist in pleasure.
“Isn’t that the point?” You murmured, voice thick with heat and amusement. But he shook his head fiercely, the words catching in his throat as he groaned again, his hips twitching with restraint.
”No,” He replied, breathing shallow and desperate. “I want to be inside you when I fi-finish… I don’t want to do it in my pants.” He was flushed to his ears now, brows drawn together like it physically pained him to say it—like the need had overtaken every shred of logic in his body and all that remained was longing.
You grinned, slow and dangerous.
“Alright,” You said softly, dragging your hand up his length one final time before releasing him, his cock twitching at the loss of contact, “Take off your sweatpants and lay on your back.” He didn’t hesitate. He pulled away from you just long enough to lift his hips and shove the waistband down–clumsy, desperate movements, hands scrambling at the fabric, fumbling with the tightness around his thighs. You laughed breathlessly as you reached to help, fingers hooking into the waistband to tug them over his hips while he cursed under his breath.
“Fuck…Sorry, they’re sticking cause I’m all sweaty,” He muttered, wriggling like a man possessed. You giggled as the two of you fought the damp cotton together, breathless with heat and amusement until he finally kicked the sweatpants off the edge of the bed with a frustrated groan, before laying on his back in all his glory.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Touching him had given you a hint–but seeing him?
Seeing his cock flushed and hard and glistening, resting against the soft curve of his stomach, the tip red and leaking–dripping so steadily that a few drops of precum had pooled on his skin?
It made your mouth go dry.
He was big. Thick and long, so much so it made your thighs twitch just by looking at him. A vein curved along the underside, pulsing faintly, and the heavy swell of the head gleamed in the light.
”Jesus, Bob…” You whispered, eyes wide, a small disbelieving laugh escaping your throat, “You’re huge.” He gave a weak embarrassed chuckle, one hand covering his face for a second before sliding it back through his hair.
”Surprise,” He muttered sheepishly, watching as you crawled on top of him, your thighs moving over to straddle his lap, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Your hands smoothed over his chest–solid and warm beneath your palms–as you shifted your weight.
“We still okay?’ You asked, seeing the way his blue eyes ran over the image of you on top of him, and he nodded, watching you reach back to wrap your hand around his cock once more. His hands came up immediately settling on your hips like magnets, fingers digging in with barely restrained urgency. You could feel how tightly he held himself back–how every muscle in his body trembled under your touch. His throat bobbed with a thick swallow as you stroked him once, guiding his tip to your entrance, adjusting yourself above him before lowering yourself down.
The tip of his cock pressed against your folds, sliding through the soaked heat before catching just right–right at the center of you. And when you finally began to sink, slowly, achingly slow, it was like your whole body lit up with fire.
Your walls stretched, burning in the most perfect way, as the thick crown of him breached you. You both cried out–your voice high and shaking, his low and guttural.
“Fu-Fuck…” Bob gasped, his head dropping back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh my God.” You panted, breath catching with every inch you took. The stretch was intense.
He filled you slowly, steadily–inch by inch, forcing your body to open for him, to welcome the heat and the pressure of his cock as it pushed deeper. You could feel everything–the weight of him, the slick glide, the twitch of his thighs beneath you, the low moan rumbling from his chest.
Your fingers dug into the hard lines of his pecs as you breathed through it, your thighs trembling from the effort to keep control.
“Shit, Bob,” You started, eyes fluttering shut as your hips tilted forward, easing yourself further down, “You’re so…Fucking big.” He whimpered at that, hips twitching beneath you, his fingers tightening around your waist.
“I’m so-sorry…Do you need to stop?” He gasped, but you shook your head immediately, your jaw slack, sweat pearling at your temples.
“No,” You whispered, “No…I need all of you. I want all of you.” You added, bracing yourself as you sank down another inch. You felt the stretch deepen–felt your walls clench and flutter around him, adjusting, aching in the most perfect, devastating way. Bob’s mouth dropped open, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Y/N…You’re taking me so well…Je-Jesus Christ…” He moaned, his hands tightening on your hips, his nails digging into the supple flesh, his eyes never leaving your face once. You whimpered, lifting yourself just slightly before sinking down again, taking more of him. The pressure made your vision blur, and your pulse roar in your ears, but finally you had taken him in fully–his cock buried deep, the base of him pressing right against your clit. You dragged your nails along his chest, closing your eyes as you leaned forward, the cool metal of your dog tags resting against him.
The both of you were gasping, breathing each other in like oxygen. You were full–so full it was hard to think. Your walls stretched tight around him, holding him in a vice that made your whole body sing. You could feel every vein, every twitch, every pulse, and Bob looked like he was unraveling by the second.
His eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy as they drank you in. His lips parted, and his brow was slick with sweat, his jaw slack with awe. His hand rose slowly–trembling just slightly with the effort to hold it together–and he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing across your flushed skin with reverence.
“Are you ok-okay?” He whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm still raging outside the walls. You nodded, your smile blooming slow and reverent, leaning into his touch like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth.
“Just overwhelmed,” You murmured, your voice soft and breathless, “But I’m feeling pure ecstasy. You feel so right…Like you were built to fit inside me.” Your words hit him like a holy thing–his pupils blew wide, his lips parting, and a choked sound escaped his throat, like he was trying not to cry or come or both. He pulled you down to him, gentle as anything, and kissed you–slow, sensual, all lips and breath and trembling warmth. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was grounding. Deep. Lips brushing and parting in quiet rhythm while your walls fluttered around his cock, your body still adjusting to the fullness. He held you close as you pulsed around him, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw.
You stayed like that–connected, trembling, just breathing together. Letting the heat build low and slow, like kindling under a fire.
Then, finally, you started to move.
It was just a shallow grind at first, more of a gentle roll of your hips than a thrust–your clit catching deliciously against the coarse hair at the base of his cock, your thighs tightening around him as you lifted just slightly and eased back down again. Bob gasped, his hands flying to your hips, steadying you
“Y/N…” He breathed, voice cracking as he bit down on a moan, “You’re so tight.” His fingers flexed against your skin, thumbs stroking the swell of your hips as you moved again–another slow lift and descent, friction building where your clit dragged over the base of him, wet and aching and hot. You leaned down, lips brushing his cheek.
”You were made for me, Bob…” You trembled. His eyes rolled back. Hips twitching upward, meeting your next slow grind.
”Say that ag-again.” You smiled.
”I said…You were made for me…Made to fill every inch, to touch me so deeply that only you could do it.” You whispered, your lips grazing his earlobe. A ragged groan tore from his chest. Then he moved–his fingers sliding up your stomach, catching on the chain of your dog tags, brushing them aside as they swung forward. And then, with a desperate, shaky inhale, he leaned up–opened his mouth–and caught the tags between his teeth. His lips curled around them slightly, jaw clenched just enough to keep them still. The sight of it–your dog tags between his teeth while his cock stretched you open–shot straight to your core.
Your hands tangled in his hair, and you groaned. “Fuck, Bob, that’s…Shit, that’s hot. You holding my name in your mouth like that.” He moaned around the tags, his voice muffled, the sound guttural and raw.
Then he sat up fully.
The motion pressed your bare chest against his, the heat between your bodies magnified, the wet slide of skin to skin making you both gasp. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you flush to him as he began to guide your hips with slow, steady force–rocking you on his cock in lazy, deep rolls. The pressure of your clit grinding against the base of him with each movement was unbearable. You whimpered, your forehead pressed to his, as your hands slid down to grip his shoulders. He growled, releasing the dog tags from his teeth with a low clink as they fell against your chest again–then he licked a stripe along your jaw, tasting the sweat on your skin.
“You feel like fucking heaven,” He rasped, “So soft…So tight ar-around me, I don’t wanna leave. Ever.” He kissed you again, hot and messy, biting your bottom lip and pulling a soft gasp from your throat.
“Don’t then…Just keep guiding me…” He groaned and thrust up into you–shallow but sharp, hitting that sweet spot that made your nails dig into his shoulders.
“God, yes, right there…Fuck–” You moaned, your voice breaking as he picked up the pace just slightly, guiding your hips faster, harder. Your clit was grinding against the base of him with every stroke now, each one sending shocks of pleasure through your spine.
“You look so beautiful like this,” He gritted out, “The way you grind yourself on my co-cock like it’s yours…Like you own it.”
”I do,” You gasped, your body trembling as you moved faster, need sharpening with every thrust, “I fucking do.” He moaned–loud, filthy–his mouth latching onto your throat as he sucked a mark just below your jaw.
“Tell me how I feel,” He begged, his voice rough and breathless against your skin.
“Perfect. Stretching me open. Reaching so deep,” You cried out, your rhythm faltering slightly as your orgasm began to build again, “You feel so fucking good inside me, Bob. You’re the only person that’s ever made me feel this good…” He shuddered beneath you, his hips starting to meet yours with more force, his thrusts deeper now, more desperate.
“I’m not gonna last if you keep saying shit like that,” He groaned, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck, I wa-wanna feel you come on me again. Please, Y/N…Let me feel it.” You pressed your fingers into the back of his neck.
”Guide me,” You whispered, your breath breaking with each roll of your hips, “Make me come. I’m so close, Bob, I’m so close–” His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles that made your hips jerk. The angle, the pressure, the sound of his voice in your ear telling you how good you felt, how tight you were, how wet–how perfect you looked above him–it was everything.
“Come for me,” he growled, voice shaking as your rhythm stuttered, “Come on my cock…Wanna feel you sq-squeeze me…Wanna watch you fall apart for me.” He begged,
With a loud, broken moan, you clung to him as the orgasm slammed into you, your whole body convulsing, walls tightening around him in fluttering waves. You buried your face in his neck, your lips parting against his shoulder as you sobbed through it, breath caught and trembling.
Bob let out a raw moan, his hips jerking up hard as he held you tight–his cock twitching–then he gasped, voice cracking open on a grunt.
”Fuck…I’m coming…” He buried himself deep inside you, hips stuttering, spilling into you with a groan that sounded like pure reverence. His arms wrapped around your back, holding you to him as he trembled through the release, the warmth of him flooding into you as you both rode the aftershocks together, panting in each other’s arms.
Your bodies trembled in tandem, hearts thudding in irregular sync like they were struggling to return to baseline, still recalibrating from the intensity of what had just passed between you. Bob’s skin was warm and slick, his chest rising and falling beneath yours in heavy, trembling waves, each breath brushing against your collarbone. You hadn’t moved yet. Neither of you had. You were still wrapped around him, your thighs cradling his hips, his softening cock still tucked inside you, pulsing gently in the afterglow.
He didn’t seem in any rush to leave the space between your bodies either.
The storm beyond the thin walls still growled and whispered, pressing wetly against the windows. But inside Room Six, everything had fallen quiet again–save for the sound of shared breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress beneath your shifting limbs.
Bob’s lips trailed soft, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat, slow and unhurried, like he was trying to memorize the taste of your skin. His tongue flicked gently against the sweat-slick dip just beneath your jaw, then sucked there lightly until you whimpered. He smiled–small, breathless, utterly wrecked.
You could feel it when he moved again, the twitch of him still inside you, the ripple of muscle beneath your palms. His hand ran along the side of your thigh, thumb brushing the underside of it, and then he nosed up your cheek with the barest graze of stubble and found your lips again. He kissed you–softer now, less desperate. A grateful kiss. A little dazed. A little dizzy. Full of everything he couldn’t say yet.
When he pulled back to breathe, you reached up and cradled his face in both hands. His cheeks were still flushed, his hair a mess, and his lips were red and puffy and slick from everything you’d done to each other. His eyes–those impossibly blue eyes–shimmered like twin oceans under stormlight as he looked at you, so full of something raw and real it almost hurt to hold his gaze.
Then he leaned into your palms, tilted his head slightly, and kissed them. One. Then the other. Lingering, reverent. Your fingers twitched at the touch, brushing along the curve of his jaw, and he closed his eyes for a second like it calmed something inside him.
“That was am-amazing,” Bob whispered, his voice cracked and soft, the barest tremble of awe still threading through it. Your fingers twitched against his cheeks in response, stroking gently as you smiled.
“If it wasn’t for the fact I’m already feeling sore,” You murmured, your voice husky with afterglow, “I’d be asking for a round two.” That earned a small, breathless laugh from him.
“We have pl-plenty of time for a round two…We have all night actually,” He said, voice low and teasing as his thumbs brushed along your waist, “Or at least until the storm clears out.” You hummed, your smile deepening as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his.
“Forgot that the Sentry serum gives you unlimited stamina,” You commented with a sly grin. He smirked, cheeks still flushed, lips damp with your kisses.
“You’re the first person I’ve sl-slept with since getting it, actually…” He admitted, shy but proud, “So we may have to test that stamina theory out to see if it’s truly unlimited.” You let out a soft, breathy laugh and brushed your nose against his.
“Well…Now I feel very special.” He pulled back just far enough to look you fully in the eye, his expression turning earnest.
“You’ve always been sp-special to me.” He said.
There was a beat–a soft, swelling pause, where those words settled in your chest like a warm weight. Then you leaned in again and kissed him–slow, tender, lips brushing his with a reverence that made both your hearts ache. A small moan vibrated against your mouth as he returned it, needy and sweet, before you pulled back just enough to whisper, “You’ve always been special to me too, Bob.”
The corners of his mouth tilted up into a smile that could’ve melted the storm outside. He leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, full of that kind of quiet joy that only ever bloomed in the wake of something long-denied finally earned.
Then he let out a small groan, forehead resting against yours.
“As much as I’d like to stay inside you all night…” He murmured, brushing a thumb over your hip with a soft sigh, “We should get cl-cleaned up… You lay back. I’ll grab a wet cloth.”
Reluctantly, you nodded. “Okay…”
Carefully, you braced a hand against his chest and began to shift, letting out a sharp gasp as you slowly lifted your hips and pulled off of him. The stretch as you separated made your muscles tremble and your breath catch–it was raw and tender, but not painful. Just… Sore. In that good, lingering way that reminded you how deeply he’d filled you. How fully you’d come undone together.
His hands steadied you as you moved, the warmth radiating into your skin. When you finally eased off of him and rolled onto your back, the cool pillow met your flushed skin like a balm, and your breath stuttered with the shift in temperature.
Bob sat up a little straighter, legs a little wobbly, as his softened cock glistened with your shared arousal. He looked dazed and flushed, a mess of tousled hair, sweat-slicked skin, and pink cheeks as he moved to the edge of the bed.
“I’ll be right back,” He whispered, dropping a kiss to your knee as he rose. You watched him pad toward the bathroom, completely bare, the muscles of his back and buttocks flexing slightly as he moved. The sight alone made your core flutter again. Even spent and shaking, your body still reacted to him like he was a living prayer.
You sank deeper into the mattress, limbs heavy with satisfaction, the scent of him and sex still clinging to your skin. You let out a long sigh, listening to the sink turn on for a couple of seconds, then a few moments later, Bob returned, holding a damp cloth and a clean hand towel, moving with surprising grace for someone who’d just been thoroughly wrecked. He gave you a gentle smile, his eyes filled with something that looked suspiciously like devotion, and knelt beside you again on the mattress again
“Let me take care of you,” He said softly. You slowly opened your legs for him, a soft sigh slipping past your lips at the sensitivity. Bob shifted instinctively, positioning himself between your thighs without hesitation, moving with that same quiet gentleness that had been present all night. His palm rested gently on your inner thigh, grounding and warm, while the other brought the damp cloth to your swollen, slick center.
The moment it touched you, your body flinched slightly–a reflexive twitch from overstimulation–and he paused instantly, eyes flicking up to your face in concern. His brow furrowed with quiet worry as he took in the way your body trembled.
“You look really sore…” He murmured softly, voice laced with guilt and reverence. “You sure you’re ok-okay?” You nodded, reaching out to brush a strand of damp hair off his flushed forehead.
“I’m positive…Thank you for doing this.” Your voice was hushed, tender. “You really didn’t have to.”
Bob’s eyes softened. He gave your knee a small, wet kiss, lips lingering against your skin for a second longer than necessary–like he needed the contact. When he looked back up at you, his cheeks were tinged with the same pink you’d grown to love so much, his voice cracking slightly as he replied:
“I’m not one to avoid providing my pa-partners with aftercare…I like doing it.” You smiled, the corner of your mouth curling softly as you tilted your head on the pillow, watching him.
“It’s very intimate,” You pointed out softly, your tone more thoughtful than teasing. That earned you a breathy, flustered laugh. His ears went red again as he carefully wiped the tender skin between your legs, slow and meticulous, cleaning away the slickness and the soft trails of his release. He was careful not to press too hard, his touch barely more than a whisper against the ache he’d left behind.
“It’s a nice way to show how much I ap-appreciate you,” He murmured. “And how much this…You…Mean to me.” He finished with a few more gentle strokes, then set the used cloth aside and grabbed the dry towel, patting the area down delicately. His fingers were warm and steady, the towel soft and barely abrasive against your already-sensitive skin. You whimpered quietly at the final press of the cloth and reached for him instinctively, wanting him close again.
He moved both towels off the bed without a word, then turned and grabbed the blankets. You shifted to make space, and he pulled the covers up and over the both of you, cocooning you in the warmth. The moment the duvet settled, you turned onto your side to face him–and without hesitation, Bob did the same.
Your legs tangled first. Then your arms.
His hand found your waist, tucking you closer, while yours slid under his jaw and rested just behind his neck. His breath hitched at the contact, but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into it. Into you.
Your foreheads touched. His eyes fluttered closed.
You exhaled, and he mirrored it–like your lungs were syncing again after the chaos. After the heat. After everything.
And in that quiet moment, with your limbs wrapped around each other and the storm humming like a lullaby against the motel windows, he whispered:
“Wh-What are we going to do tomorrow morning?”
You opened your eyes and met his gaze, your voice firm but soft as you replied:
”Whatever you want to do…As long as we’re doing it together…I’ll go anywhere you go.”
Description: You get Clark a silly little gift, a necklace with his ‘superman’ logo on it. He loves it when you bite it while he’s fucking you.
This was requested by the lovely @heroesnpink here
Tags/warnings: smut, piv, allusions to breeding kink, clark is down bad, he’s sweet and hot as hell, necklace kink(?)
Note: Second smut for Clarkie, my god this man has me on my knees 🙂↕️ currently trying to catch up with the requests on my inbox! I hope I did this one justice, loved writing it🫶🏼
Masterlist
It started as a joke, really.
You wanted to give Clark something special for his birthday, but it was a bit of a challenge at first. Because what do you get the man who has everything? Who is everything?
Sure, you could give him a pack of mints and he’d still act like it’s the most precious gift in the world, just because it came from you. But you really wanted to do something that felt meaningful.
So you took half a day off from work to wander the mall, hoping to find something nice. You weren’t sure how you ended up in front of a jewelry store, staring at it’s window display, but the moment your eyes landed on it, you burst into a quiet laugh.
There, in the middle of a perfect burgundy velvet case under a spotlight, was displayed a necklace of the iconic ‘S’ symbol, identical to the one he wore on his chest.
“That’s hilarious,” you thought immediately, tilting your head and imagining the look on Clark’s face. You considered it as a joke, something to make him laugh. But the longer you stared at it, the less ridiculous it seemed.
Actually… it started to feel kind of perfect.
You couldn’t help it, really. Giggling to yourself like an idiot while you asked the clerk for the piece. Because you, dating Clark Kent, Superman himself, were about to give him a cute little necklace with his own symbol on it.
If anything, you thought it would be a funny gag gift. You’d laugh about it the whole night, he’d say it’s cheesy and then you’d end up returning it the next day like nothing happened.
And you did laugh the whole night about it. He did say it was cheesy. But you never returned it.
Because he ended up loving it.
Clark walks around wearing his superman necklace proudly, without a single hint of shame when Lois or Jimmy tease him after catching a glimpse of it under his collar.
“My girl got it for me,” he always says, like that explains everything.
Which, in theory, it kind of does. You could get him the ugliest tie in Metropolis and he would still wear it proudly every single day of his life if it made you happy.
Because his girl got it for him.
In the end, the necklace did end up being the special gift you wanted for him. Because yes, it’s cringy, but it means something. It represents everything he stands for, hope, courage, who he is, what he is on this earth for.
And Clark? he adores it.
He practically lives in it. Never even thinks about taking it off.
You don’t complain either. There is nothing sexier than Clark stepping out of a steamy shower, water droplets raining from his dark curls, running down the sharp lines of his gorgeous body. Only a towel covering his lower half and that little necklace gleaming around his neck.
You love pulling him by it, kissing him around it, feeling the cold of the metal against your skin when he hugs you. Getting a peek of it under his work shirts. You just love how much he loves it.
But what you love even more, is when he fucks you wearing it.
When he’s on top of you, his arms braced on either side of your head to hold his weight, caging you with those huge muscles flexing with every deep thrust.
It’s hard to focus on anything when Clark’s cock is buried so deep inside you it makes your whole body shiver, but you always notice the necklace. How it swings with the rhythm of his thrusts, crashing gently against his collarbone with every rock of his hips.
And he knows you like to stare at it. That knowing smile on his face is proof enough.
“Look at you sweetheart, always taking me so well,” he praises in that deep voice. A grin grows on his face like he’s not actively making you see stars around the charm hitting his skin repeatedly.
“Come on, darling,” he whispers, the necklace almost brushing your chest. “I know you can give me just one more…”
And you can. You’d give him as many as he wants.
Clark coaxes you through it, always does. He knows how much he takes, how his cock fills you in ways you were never meant to handle. How every time he makes love to you he gets that dazed, blissed out look in your eyes, and those moans slipping from your lips like you’re not even thinking, just taking him in. All of him.
And this is only your second round.
“Fuck– right there, Clark,” you whimper, barely. Your eyes do the rest, telling him thank you for fucking me this good.
“Right there?” he asks back with a soft chuckle, like he’s delighted to see you fall apart like that.
So he does it again, rolls his hips the exact same way, just to hear the broken sound that escapes your throat as your head falls back in pure bliss.
He leans in closer, burying himself deeper, if that’s even possible. He braces his weight on his elbows now, so he can slide his large hands to cup the back of your head, cradling you carefully. He then lifts your face toward his and places a kiss on your forehead.
And you smile, God you smile, because Clark always manages to be the sweetest man on earth while fucking you into next week.
He pulls apart just enough to look into your eyes, still supporting your head in his hands because he knows you can’t do it by yourself at this point. His mouth stays parted, letting out those heavenly filthy grunts that make you let him use you in any way he wants just to hear them over and over.
He keeps the unrelenting pace without breaking a single sweat, slamming in and out your pussy in sloppy sounds as your wetness drips around him. And that damn necklace keeps swinging, but this time is lightly hitting your collarbone, your jaw, your cheeks. The cold metal is a sharp contrast to your hot skin.
It’s driving you crazy.
“Clark,” you pant, breathless. “T-that thing…”
He slightly tilts his head, stuttering his rhythm when he realizes what you mean. One hand leaves your head, already reaching for the chain, but you stop him.
“No no … leave it,” you say, grabbing the chain and looping your fingers around the charm, pulling softly to drag him closer to your face. Your breath ghosts over his lips, giving him a quick peck before whispering. “I like it.”
“Yeah?” he asks back with a groan, in that maddening tone he loves to use when you do something that drives him crazy.
You hold his gaze, nodding innocently, and slowly pull the charm into your mouth.
Just the tip of it, the cold metal resting against your tongue. You suck it in, swollen lips wrapping around the symbol he carried in his chest like he’s your personal savior. And lord, he is.
Clark makes a sound you’ve never really heard before. A helpless, strangled growl under his breath. His next thrust goes harder, like he just can’t help himself. Like you fucked something in his brain chemistry by doing that.
So he keeps pushing, his speed and strength less controlled now, getting completely lost in the way your face contorts in pleasure while your moans get strangled by the charm in your mouth.
“Sweet Jesus,” he rasps. “Don’t–don’t do that unless you want this to be over right now.”
You can’t help but laugh mid bliss, the necklace charm falling from your lips with a soft pop as a result. You lift your hand to his chest, trapping the necklace between your skin so it doesn’t hit you again.
“You better hold it together for me, superman,” you tease.
Even if Clark doesn’t admit it out loud, you calling him ‘Superman’ in bed just tickles something in his brain. It flips a switch inside him that tells him to fill you up until you carry a baby from him.
Especially after the whole necklace moment.
“I-I dont think I can, sweetheart.”
He stares at you, barely enough blue left in his eyes from his blown pupils. Flushed cheeks, lips wet and parted like he’s seconds from begging you to let him break you. Of course he wouldn’t. Unless you asked.
But he’s too gone at this point. That usual gentleness, that unhurried, teasing control that lets him drag things out for hours so you have time to recover is gone.
Clark slams into you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, his hands now locking under your thighs to fold you up for a deeper angle, like he can bend you however he pleases. And he does, only him. He’s moving now with a pace he doesn’t let out that often with you, in fear of hurting you.
But right now? He’s letting himself be desperate. All because of a little necklace.
“You … you put that thing in your mouth darling, you don’t even know what that did to me–“
“Oh, I know,” you moan, your fingers gripping his chest like a lifeline, nails digging in. “I–I love when you lose your mind like this.”
He chuckles breathlessly, almost apologizing. “You don’t see me much like this … do you?”
You shake your head, too breathless to speak again. Because no, you don’t. Clark is always in control. Always worshipful, mindful, making love like he’s got all the time in the world. But there are still times where even a God like him folds under the weight of wanting you.
And now? That necklace, that cute little gag gift his girl got him is now his fucking kink.
He suddenly shifts again, one hand fisting in the sheets beside your head while the other slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit instinctively.
“Wanna come with you, darling” he blurts out, disheveled strands of dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches your face when he plays with that sensitive spot. “Don’t think I’m gonna last long … not this time. Not after that.”
Neither are you. You never do with him.
You arch beneath him, back going high, thighs shaking under him from the overstimulation. It doesn’t take long before his name tears from your throat when you reach your orgasm for the … how many times now? Can’t even remember what number it is since you started.
“F-fuck–“ You cry out, nails digging into his biceps for dear life.
He dives in to kiss you through it, deeply, passionate, so fucking heavenly like the only way he knows how to kiss. The chain traps between your lips, the charm cold and wet from your mouth pressing against his tongue. He feels it, God, he feels everything… and that’s it.
He slams into you once, twice, and then he’s gasping against your mouth as he spills inside you in twitches. His body shakes on top of yours, choking on a groan so deep you swear you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. You feel him pulse deep, feel him bury his cum as far as he can go, like it’s feral instinct.
Because Clark Kent comes as hard as he fucks.
He stays inside you, panting, his forehead falls to rest on your collarbone like he needs a minute to catch his breath.
Superman needs to catch his breath.
You’re coated in sweat, the sheets a mess beneath you, and that dumb little necklace is still swinging lightly between your hot chests. He doesn’t move in a full minute, giving you time to come down from your own high, hands going instinctively to his head.
“You alright there, supes?” You whisper amused, running your fingers softly through his hair. He lets out a muffled groan.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles into your skin.
You bite your lip to prevent a laugh from coming out. You know he’s lying. His arms are still shaking. His whole body is tense in that ‘I need to pretend I’m fine so I don’t embarrass myself’ way that only happens when you truly, deeply break him in bed.
Because it’s usually the other way around.
“Clark.” You nudge his cheek softly. “You came in like ten minutes into a round … you never come in ten minutes.”
He finally lifts his head, face flushed red, curls sticking to his forehead, and those beautiful swollen pink lips pouting. Yes, pouting.
“You put it in your mouth.”
“I mean, it’s just a necklace,” you snort, shrugging innocently.
“But it’s the symbol. It’s my … you know …” he gestures vaguely at his own bare chest, clearly flustered. “It’s the whole thing … you, and that mouth, and me, and … I’m only a man, okay?”
“No you’re not,” you’re giggling now, fully delighted, as Clark just buries his face again in the crook of your neck.
He laughs against your skin, tickling you. “You know you’ve ruined it for me, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t wear this necklace anymore without getting hard.”
You both laugh again, tangled together, his weight on top of you makes you feel warm and safe. And somewhere between the breathless kisses and your fingers tracing lazy shapes on his back, you smile at the cold feeling of the necklace trapped between your bodies.
clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent
word count: 18k
Summary: You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.
notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.
Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.
A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:
“You looked like you had a long night.”
No name. No heart. Just that.
You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.
And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.
Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.
“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.
You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”
He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”
Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”
“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.
“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.
You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.
You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.
He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.
“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.
He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.
“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”
You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.
Except… it’s not.
Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”
You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”
He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.
And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.
You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.
You flinch. “You good?”
“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”
Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.
You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.
You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.
You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.
It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.
He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.
…Could he?
You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.
You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.
Just in case.
-
You forget about the note by lunch.
Mostly.
The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.
By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.
But this time, the note reads:
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand.
You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.
And someone else had read it. Which means…
Your eyes flick up. Around.
The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.
And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.
You stare for a second too long.
He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.
Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.
You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all. So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it?
You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.
The loops. The slight leftward tilt.
Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.
You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.
You don’t say anything.
-
Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.
“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”
You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.
“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”
The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”
Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”
Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.
You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.
Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.
Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.
You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.
-
The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.
Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.
You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.
Clark gets up to grab it before you can.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”
He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”
You pause. “Why?”
“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”
You snort before you can stop it.
It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.
“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage.
Clark looks up instantly.
You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”
You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.
“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”
The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.
You blink. “Clark—”
“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”
He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.
-
The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.
Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.
It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.
You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.
You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.
Like armor.
-
By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.
This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.
“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.
You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.
“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”
“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”
“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.
Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.
And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.
He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.
“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”
The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”
“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”
He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.
“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.
“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.
The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.
You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.
Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”
You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”
She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.
Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.
He’d meant it.
Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.
You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.
He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.
You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.
You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.
-
You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.
Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.
You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.
-
You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.
You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”
He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”
He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”
“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”
“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”
You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.
And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.
You don’t call him on it.
Not yet.
-
Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.
His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.
He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.
You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.
And his hands.
God, his hands.
You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.
You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.
He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.
It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.
His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.
You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”
And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.
-
You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.
It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.
You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.
“Then tell me in person.”
You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.
So this time, you let him find something waiting.
And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.
-
The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.
You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.
So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.
“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”
You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.
You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
But you know he’ll see it.
You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.
Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.
You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.
Watching you.
His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.
Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.
And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.
-
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.
But still—you dress carefully.
You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.
You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.
The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.
It’s also empty.
You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.
The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.
And then—
Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.
Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.
Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.
You just go quiet.
-
The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.
You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.
“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.
Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.
What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.
And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.
He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.
Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.
But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.
He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.
You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.
-
That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.
The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.
You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.
You unfold it slowly.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t—
But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”
The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?
You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.
-
What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.
He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.
And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.
Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.
He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.
-
It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.
First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.
You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.
And then he lands.
Superman.
Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.
Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.
You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.
And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.
It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.
Like Clark says it.
It stuns you more than the explosion did.
You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.
You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.
Sweetheart.
You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.
Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.
And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.
But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.
And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.
Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.
…Sort of.
-
You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
But it means something now.
You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.
Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.
“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.
You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”
He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”
“I said I’m fine, Clark.”
A beat.
You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.
-
You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.
“He called me sweetheart.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”
“No. Superman.”
Her chewing slows.
You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”
Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”
You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”
“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.
But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.
Sweetheart.
It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.
The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.
You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—
You might fall right through it.
-
Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.
The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.
His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.
Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.
“Got your quote. Sending now.”
“Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.”
“Hope your meeting went okay.”
You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.
You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.
And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.
“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”
You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?
But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.
“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”
Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.
Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.
The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”
Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.
You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.
The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.
You think about the phrases he’s used before.
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
And now:
“Her work actually matters.”
All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.
You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.
It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—
You can’t stop.
-
It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.
Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.
“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”
You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.
At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.
“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.”
“I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”
You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.
The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.
You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.
It’s exact.
You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.
You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.
“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”
You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.
He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.
You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.
He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.
You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.
“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”
You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.
Then you go.
-
That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.
The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.
There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.
Clark Kent.
And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.
-
The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.
Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.
Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.
You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”
You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”
He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.
“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”
“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”
He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”
You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”
“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”
You watch him. Wait.
And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.
“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”
You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”
He blinks.
You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”
Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.
You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”
Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.
“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.
“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”
“But?” you press, gently.
He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.
You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”
Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”
A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”
He freezes.
You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”
And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.
But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.
You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.
“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”
You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”
He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”
You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”
And your heart flutters all over again.
-
Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.
You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.
But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.
“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.
You blink. “What?”
“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”
You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”
“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”
“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”
You roll your eyes. “Lois—”
“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”
Your stomach flips.
“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”
You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.
“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”
You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”
“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”
You snort. “So your type.”
“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”
You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.
-
The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.
But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.
When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.
You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.
The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.
You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.
So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.
And he is.
The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.
He looks like Superman.
No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.
And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”
He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”
You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.
Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”
You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”
Clark nods, but you’re not finished.
“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”
You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.
Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.
He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.
“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.
You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.
“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”
You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.
You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.
His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.
When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”
You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.
His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.
“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”
A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”
You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.
“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.
“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”
“I kept every one,” you whisper.
His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.
Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.
“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.
-
The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.
Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.
When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.
You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”
He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”
You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.
Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.
“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.
He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.
Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.
It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.
You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.
You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.
You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.
That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.
-
The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.
But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.
Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.
But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.
And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.
But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.
You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.
Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.
“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.
You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”
You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.
“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.
Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.
Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.
You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.
You raise a brow. “What?”
He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”
But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.
His lips twitch. “Late night.”
“Editing from home?”
He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.
“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”
You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.
He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”
You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.
But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.
And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”
He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.
He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.
And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.
-
That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.
You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.
You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.
You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.
No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.
You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.
“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.”
—C.K.
You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.
Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.
Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.
You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.
So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.
-
You’re not official.
Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.
It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.
And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.
Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.
You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.
-
You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.
He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.
You don’t ask.
You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.
-
The third kiss happens on your couch.
You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.
He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.
Then his phone buzzes.
He stiffens.
You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.
Regret. Apology. Something deeper.
“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”
You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.
“But—”
“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”
And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.
-
It happens again. And again.
Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.
You never ask. You don’t need to.
Because he always comes back.
-
One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.
Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”
You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.
You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.
His eyes finally meet yours.
“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”
You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.
You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.
And he lets you.
-
The night starts quiet.
Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.
Just… there.
It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.
Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.
He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.
You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.
He leans in.
The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.
He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.
His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.
You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.
And then something shifts.
Not emotional—physical.
Clark stands.
He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.
You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.
Your heart thunders.
“Clark—”
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.
His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.
“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.
You nod, breath catching. “You?”
He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.
Like he doesn’t want to stop.
You don’t want him to either.
Not yet.
His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.
You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.
“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.
You nod, breathless. “Yes.”
He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”
You shudder.
His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.
He looks up at you from the floor.
You nearly forget how to breathe.
“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”
And then he does.
He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.
You whimper.
He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.
By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.
Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.
His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.
“Clark—”
He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”
You do.
You let him wreck you.
He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.
“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”
You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.
You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.
He rises slowly.
His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.
And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.
“Come here,” you whisper.
He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.
But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.
“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”
You blink. “Clark, I—”
He kisses you again—soft, lingering.
“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”
Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.
He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.
“Clark—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.
You cry out, hips jolting.
He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.
You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.
“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”
You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.
And he doesn’t stop.
He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”
By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.
But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.
His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”
Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.
“God, Clark…”
“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”
He nudges in slow.
The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.
You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.
“You okay?”
“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”
You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.
The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.
And then something shifts.
Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.
“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”
He thrusts harder.
Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.
“Clark—”
“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”
You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.
He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.
“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”
“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”
You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.
And you’re almost there too.
You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.
His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.
“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”
You moan so loud it makes him flinch.
And then he breaks.
One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.
Clark’s back arches.
His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.
“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”
“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”
Your body goes taut.
A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.
Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.
The lights flicker again.
The candle sputters once and steadies.
He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.
Not like it should be.
You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.
After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.
Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.
“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.
You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.
“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”
You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
A moment passes.
Then another.
“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”
Clark freezes. “…Did I?”
You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”
His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”
You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”
He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.
You grin. File it away.
Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.
-
Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.
You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.
Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.
-
In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.
Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.
Clark is flipping pancakes.
Barefoot.
Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.
“Morning,” he says without turning.
You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”
“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”
You hum.
Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.
-
You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.
You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.
You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”
“Figured?” you repeat.
He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”
You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.
Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.
-
That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.
You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.
You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.
Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.
-
The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.
You brace for impact.
But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.
You didn’t even see him move.
You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”
“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”
He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”
Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.
-
And still… you don’t say it.
You don’t ask.
Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.
He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.
You know.
You know.
And he knows you know.
Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.
When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.
He’s protecting something.
And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.
You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.
But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.
And you’re not ready to let it go.
-
The morning feels ordinary.
There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.
And then the screens change.
It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.
You look up.
And everything shifts.
The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.
Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.
The camera jolts—and then there he is.
Superman.
Thrown through a brick wall.
You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.
He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.
He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.
You stop breathing.
“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.
“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”
You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.
That’s your boyfriend.
That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.
He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.
He’s not getting up.
You freeze.
The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.
Your hands start to shake.
You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.
A part of you already has.
A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.
You don’t know what the enemy is.
Alien, maybe. Or worse.
But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.
You want to run.
You want to be there.
But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.
Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.
Not like you do.
Your vision blurs.
You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.
But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.
And you cry.
Quietly.
You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.
The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.
The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.
You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.
Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”
“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”
“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”
Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.
You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.
He’s hurt.
And he’s still out there.
Fighting.
Alone.
You can’t just sit here.
You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”
Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”
“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”
Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”
“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”
Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”
Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”
You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.
-
Downtown is a war zone.
The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.
You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.
The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.
The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.
Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.
And then…
Him.
He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.
But not untouched.
He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.
He’s hurt.
He’s so clearly hurt.
And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.
Just him.
And you.
The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.
And something deeper behind it.
You know know.
And he is letting you know.
But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.
Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”
His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”
Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.
You’re not writing.
You’re just watching.
Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.
He looks tired.
But more than that—he looks like Clark.
And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.
You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.
But you stay rooted.
When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.
You nod. “Are you?”
He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”
It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.
You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.
I know.
I’m not leaving.
You don’t have to say it.
When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.
Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”
Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”
You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.
-
You fake calm.
You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.
But the second you’re alone?
You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.
You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.
You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.
And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.
You pause halfway through the doorway.
He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.
He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.
“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”
He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”
You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes.
A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.
He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”
You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”
He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.
“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.
You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”
That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.
“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.
His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.
When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.
His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.
You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.
It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.
You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.
He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.
You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.
He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.
You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.
“Are you scared?” he whispers.
Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”
He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.
The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.
Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.
And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.
Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.
The city buzzes somewhere far away.
He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”
Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”
He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.
And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.
-
You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.
Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.
You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.
It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.
He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.
You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”
Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”
“You’re bulletproof.”
“I get cold emotionally.”
You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”
“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”
You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.
You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”
“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”
“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.
You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”
He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”
You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.
Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.
“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”
“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”
“I’m saying you’re better.”
He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.
His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.
“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.
“Soon.”
“You’ll come back?”
He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. “Every time.”
You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.
You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.
“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.”
—C.K.
You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.
And now you know. Now you see him too.
All of him.
And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
-
tags: @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)
Pairing: Soft!Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: During a thunderstorm, The Void comes to your room to seek comfort.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Touch Starved Void (a warning in and of itself), Reader and The Void have had past interactions.
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up guys), Oral Sex (female receiving), Fingering, Nipple/Breast Play, Void gets a bit emotional during sex (ya didn’t hear it from me but he’s touch starved to high heaven so…it’s just a give in), Biting, Sucking, Marking, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Overstimulation, Spitting, Emotional Aftercare for The Void, Physical Aftercare for the reader
Author’s Note: I decided to mix a few requests together to do this post, it was definitely in my element while being completely out of my element at the same time, but I really enjoyed writing this a lot, and I hope y’all enjoy it too :) Thank you <3
Word Count: 10,780
The 83rd floor of the Watchtower groaned under the weight of the storm above, each thunderclap echoing through its steel bones like the wrath of some ancient god. Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, streaming down the glass in chaotic rivers that shimmered each time lightning tore across the sky. The world outside your room was ink-black–save for the electric bursts of light, jagged and white-hot, that split the heavens in half like fractured bone.
With each strike, your room briefly bathed in ghost light–pale and flickering–casting long shadows off your bookshelf, your boots by the door, and the gentle slope of your body beneath the blanket. It wasn’t frightening to you. Quite the opposite. Stormy nights like this always felt like a kind of lullaby, raw and guttural. Primal even. You found comfort in the way thunder rumbled through the walls and rolled deep in your chest like a second heartbeat.
Wrapped in fleece and stillness, you laid curled beneath your blanket, knees drawn to your chest, with the heat of your body sealed tight inside the little cocoon you had made around yourself. The wind whistled faintly through a vent overhead, and the occasional flicker of the power grid gave a soft mechanical hum. But…You were calm, and in your element.
Until you heard it.
A soft, hesitant knock at your bedroom door–barely audible over the storm–and the subtle shift of weight just outside it. You blinked a few times, turning away from the streaked window. The room was bathed in shadow again, pitch-black but for the occasional flicker of lightning that bled through your sheer curtains.
Then, a voice.
“Y/N…Are you in there?” It wasn’t Bob’s voice, there wasn’t that nervous quiver, or shy hesitation. And it wasn’t Sentry’s either–his words always came wrapped in warmth, a golden sort of certainty that only he could project. This voice was lower, hollow in a way that felt like space itself was being sucked into his throat, like silk draped over shadow. It was soft, but heavy in speech.
You knew exactly who it was.
”…Yeah,” You whispered, sitting up slightly, your shirt falling off your shoulder slighrly, “I’m in here.” Silence followed–just the storm beyond your walls, and the far-off rattle of some unsecured vent on the roof being heard. Then, there was a small sound. A scratch. Claws or fingers–gentle ones–dragging softly along the wood grain of your door like he was reconsidering what he was going to ask.
“Can I…” His voice faltered for a moment, before he cleared his throat and tried again, “Can I come in?” You sighed, not with annoyance, but with something close to knowing. A quiet ache of recognition. He had done this before–slipped into your room on nights when he couldn’t sleep, or when he needed the comfort of someone else being close by. He had mentioned it a few times before that hearing someone else breathing within his proximity would ground him a little bit, keeping him tethered to himself even though…He really wasn’t himself in this state.
“Yeah, yeah come in.” The door creaked open slowly, and the dim safety lights of the hallway casted a hazy, golden halo around the figure that emerged. He didn’t step into the room so much as he slipped inside–his form moving like vapour with weight. The vantablack shadow of The Void swallowed light rather than reflected it, a silhouette pulled from the deepest part of the night sky. In his arms: a blanket folded neatly over his arm, and a pillow gripped in his hands that trembled more than he likely realized. His eyes–the only consistent point of reference–blinked at you, pale white pupils suspended in the sea of blackness.
You could barely see the outline of his face where the hallway light kissed the edges of his jaw, but even as you tried to focus in on him, the details blurred. Like trying to look directly at a nightmare you’d already half-forgotten. It was easier to focus on the feeling he brought with him: the sudden drop in temperature, the way the shadows in the corners of your room seemed to lean in toward him like old friends, the scent of ozone and smoke curling into the air.
Then he closed the door, and the room went dark again.
Only the sky lit it now–each bolt of lightning strobing across your walls, throwing strange flickering shadows onto the ceiling. In those brief moments of illumination, you caught glimpses of him–his back arching slightly with a flinch as thunder crashed a moment later, his shoulders tensing, and his hands squeezing around the fluffy pillow.
“…Can I sleep on your floor tonight?” He asked, voice quiet, and ragged at the edges. You nodded, fixing the portion of your shirt that had slipped off your shoulder, before tugging the blanket back over yourself, laying back down against your mattress.
”Of course, whatever you want.” You watched as he shuffled forward, making his way to the far side of your bed–away from the window. He had an odd gait to him tonight, like he had accidentally pulled something and was limping to attempt to not put any weight on it.
When he made it to your nightstand, he let the pillow fall to the ground first, then he unfolded his blanket, laying it out on your hardwood floor with slow, deliberate movements. You watched him carefully, at the way his fingers trembled as he smoothed the corners out with his feet. The quiet, subconscious act of trying to settle things perfectly. Like if he aligned the edges just right, maybe it could bring him a semblance of peace.
He got onto his knees slowly, one hand bracing against your mattress to steady himself, as he moved with deliberate care. Even though he didn’t breathe like Bob did–didn’t need to, at least that’s what everyone assumed–you swore you could hear a kind of shudder pass through him, a ripple through the air like a pressure drop before a storm surge. The blanket under him rustled softly as he lowered himself down inch by inch, his weight making barely a sound despite how massive his presence felt.
Then, another roar of thunder cracked through the air. The whole tower shook with it–metal humming in its bones, and for a split second, the white light from the sky ignited your room in a stark, flashbulb burst. You could see him flinch. It wasn’t just a twitch–but a full body startle. His spine curved in toward himself like a reflex, his hands spasming slightly as if expecting something to strike. You blinked, watching as he froze there for a second, shoulders pulled tight like a coiled spring.
You pushed yourself up onto one elbow, brows raising, “Are you okay?” His glowing eyes snapped to you instantly–two white-hot points in the ink of his face–and he nodded with mechanical sharpness.
“Yeah…I’m fine,” He said quickly, his voice a low rasp matching the volume of the rainfall, “I just…Don’t like this weather.” That gave you a small pause, a look of confusion coming up on your face, tilting your head.
”You’re scared?” His reaction was immediate. He turned his face toward the floor, shaking his head sharply–too proud, too ancient, too wrapped in a million fractals of stubbornness.
”Don’t use that word,” He muttered, quieter now, the shadows curling just slightly closer to his body like they were listening into the conversation, “I’m not scared…I just get jumpy.” You squinted at him.
”Same difference, Void…” You pointed out, your tone wry but not unkind or accusatory. He grumbled under his breath–a sound like coal cracking under pressure–and shifted his weight again, finally sinking down fully onto his bum. His knees pulled up slightly for a moment before he let himself stretch out across the blanket, laying flat on his back with a weary sort of grace. He fluffed the pillow with his hands, smoothing it out before bringing the back of his head down against it.
“It’s not.” He replied flatly, a little petulant, but mostly…Tired. You sighed, and the mattress dipped under your shifting weight as you scooted over, turning so you could look down at him properly. Your blanket slipped slightly with the motion, exposing your shoulder again to the chill air. You didn’t bother fixing it this time. You were too focused on him. He was staring up at the ceiling at first, unmoving but for the rise and fall of flickering lightning across his torso like waterlight over obsidian. Then slowly–almost shyly–his gaze ticked up toward you. Those strange, glowing pupils found yours again, tracking your face with careful precision.
“Why’re you looking at me?” He asked, voice soft now, the bite from before entirely gone. Just a question. Quiet and raw. Your eyes softened slightly, watching the way he tried to lie still even though the tension still radiated off of him like heat from cracked pavement. The storm still crackled beyond the glass, and yet your voice was soft, unshaken, even gentle in contrast.
“I’ve never really seen you this jumpy before,” You murmured, resting your cheek against your bent arm as you continued to peer at him, “So I’m just concerned.” He blinked slowly, that pale white glow of his pupils dimming faintly, almost like candlelight flickering under a glass dome. The lines of his body didn’t shift, but something about the atmosphere did–like the air between you got heavier, charged not just with electricity, but with vulnerability.
“There’s no need to be concerned,” He said, shaking his head once, “I’m not going to lash out or anything…”
You bit the inside of your cheek, then sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, pausing for a heartbeat or two before quietly replying, “That’s not what I was concerned about.” His gaze stayed on you, unreadable, like a constellation suspended in tar. ”I just don’t want you having a heart attack on my floor,” You added, lightening your tone a touch. It was a weak joke, but you wanted to try and make him not feel like a threat. A soft sound left him–like a breath, but not quite. A low, brief huff of air that might have been a laugh in another life.
“You can only have a heart attack if you have a heart…” He murmured, glancing away toward the ceiling. “So that’s another thing you don’t have to be concerned about.” Your lips quirked slightly.
”Just because you don’t think you have one doesn’t mean there’s nothing beating in there,” You shot back, which caused his eyes to return to yours in an instant.
“You want proof?” He asks. You smirked faintly, the corners of your mouth curling as you lifted your brows.
“Maybe I do.” The shadows flickered slightly behind his head–whether from the lightning or the way his body reacted to your challenge, you couldn’t tell. Then he reached out.
“Give me your hand.” His voice was quiet, and gentle. You hesitated for just a second, not out of fear but curiosity–uncertainty. You had never truly touched him before. Not like this. Not with intention. But slowly, you let your hand slip out from beneath the warmth of your blanket, fingers extending toward his. The coolness hit first–not cold like a winter breeze or ice from a freezer. No, this was a cosmic cold. A vacuum chill. The kind of temperature that made your nerve endings go momentarily silent before flooding back with pins and needles, shocked into awareness. His fingers wrapped around your wrist.
You weren’t sure if he realized how careful he was being, how tender. His grip was strong but there was no pressure. Just contact. Connection. His nails were dull, not sharp or threatening, more like curved fragments of something ancient and soft-worn. They dragged every so slightly against the inside of your wrist as he guided your hand downward to himself.
You could feel him tense up, his shoulders flinching slightly, betraying him, as though even the act of being touched startled him despite the fact that he had initiated it. You tried not to breathe too loud, not to disturb the moment. It felt…Sacred. Like watching a lunar eclipse, or pressing your ear to the surface of a glacier to hear the crack of time within it.
As he moved your hand lower, he brought it toward the center of his chest–if you could call it that. His body wasn’t like Bob’s. Not in this form. There were no skin tones, no human temperature gradients. Just dense shadow shaped into a man’s frame, and the faint ripple of cosmic static beneath.
But still, you searched. Your fingers splayed out gently as he let go of your wrist, allowing you to rest your hand just above where his heart should be. Your breath hitched slightly at the contact–cold, like dipping your fingers into the deepest trench of the sea. Your body heat had nowhere to go. It was swallowed whole.
Your fingertips moved lower, finding the spot just beneath his sternum where the pulse would be in someone else–Bob, Sentry, even yourself. But here?
There was nothing.
No thrum. No flutter. No rhythm. No familiar rise and fall.
Just stillness.
Just hollowness.
And yet–it wasn’t empty.
There was something beneath the surface. A pressure. A mass. A quiet, relentless gravity. Not a heartbeat, no–but a pull. Like your hand was resting over a star that had collapsed into itself, refusing to be born into light again. You ran your thumb slowly along the velvety smooth surface of his chest–if it could even be called that. It wasn’t skin like yours, not even close. It was darker than shadow, darker than the absence of light–smooth and seamless, like liquified night made solid. Like ink given breath.
You could feel his muscles tighten, a coil of tension drawing in deep under the surface as your fingers moved gently across him. The storm outside rumbled low and rolling, a threat lingering on the edge of the sky.
“I told you,” He said quietly, his voice hushed and almost…Fondly bitter, like he already knew how this conversation would end. “There’s nothing. No heart attacks can be had.”
The thunder cracked again–closer this time. It boomed like something had split the sky wide open. Your room trembled. The floor beneath him shuddered like steel held breath, and under your hand, his muscles went taut in a split-second response. Not a dramatic jerk, but a small, involuntary bracing–like the thunder was something he knew, something that spoke to him in a language he hated.
His eyes closed tightly. His jaw clenched. The ripple beneath your palm stilled like something locking down deep inside him, and for a moment you thought he might tell you to move your hand. To stop.
But then, he exhaled.
It wasn’t breath, not really. But it sounded like one. Like the kind of slow, exhausted release that happened only after holding something in for far too long.
A second passed.
Then another.
His glowing white irises reappeared, flickering back into view like twin moons surfacing from beneath storm clouds. He looked at you–softly this time, not guarded or sharp. You met his gaze steadily, still cupping the hollow above where his heart would be, and your voice dropped into something even softer, something almost hesitant.
“…Can I come down there?”
His pupils pulsed slightly–like a ripple through liquid starlight–and his whole body stilled.
“You want to come down onto the floor with me?” He repeated, slower this time. The disbelief wasn’t cruel or mocking–it was quiet. Almost childlike.
You nodded, already beginning to bunch up your blanket around you, folding it in toward your chest so you could wriggle your legs free beneath it.
“Yeah,” You said, eyes still on his. “Would that be okay?” For a moment, he said nothing. And for a second, you thought maybe the answer would be no–not out of rejection, but out of protection. Like maybe letting you that close would fracture something inside him he couldn’t fix.
But then, he nodded.
“…Alright.” His voice was low, quiet as the shadows in the corners of the room. But it held the weight of permission. Of trust. Of need. You shifted slowly, careful not to break the delicate quiet that had settled between you. Without fully sitting up, you began sliding down the side of the bed, letting the mattress dip behind you with the motion. Your feet touched the floor first, then your knees, then your palms, your blanket dragging with you like a second skin. The Void didn’t speak–he only moved over a few inches, making room without being asked.
You eased down beside him, bringing the blanket with you, and draped it carefully over both your bodies–his long frame and your smaller one encased now in a shared cocoon of warmth. Your side brushed his, but you didn’t pull back. If anything, you inched a little closer, letting the edge of your thigh just barely press into his.
He was still lying on his back, rigid and unmoving, like he didn’t quite know what to do with the intimacy. So you settled onto your side, facing him, your hand slipping beneath your cheek as you got comfortable against the cool pillow he’d brought in with him. It was faintly scented with something you couldn’t place–ozone and ash, or the sterile, ancient cold of stars long dead.
You watched him for a moment. He looked…Stunned. As if he hadn’t expected you to actually do it. To come down here. To choose to lay beside him.
Then you saw it.
His throat worked once. A slow, deliberate swallow. His head tilted toward you, his eyes catching yours through the dim pulse of stormlight.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked, and then his gaze flickered downward. You didn’t have to follow it to know where it landed. The scoop neck of your sleep shirt had slipped a little lower in the process of getting off the bed. The neckline dipped across your chest, leaving the upper swell of your breasts exposed in the flickering lightning light. You felt the cold air kiss the skin there–nothing new–but the heat of his gaze made it feel different.
He wasn’t leering. Wasn’t devouring. Just…Mesmerized. Starved.
His eyes roamed slowly over your skin, unblinking. It was reverent in the way that made your breath catch in your throat, like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away. As if this was the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.
Then, finally, he turned. Slow and cautious, like every joint in his body was made of glass. He mirrored your position, shifting onto his side to face you. The movement brought his body even closer–cold against your heat, the blanket now fully enclosing you both like a secret.
“Are you cold?” He asked quietly. You shook your head, barely moving beneath the shared blanket
“Not right now, no.” You kept your gaze fixed on him, and for a long moment, he didn’t move–just watched you. The next flicker of lightning lit the room in a sharp white strobe, and once again, you saw his body stiffen. A small, involuntary flinch rippled down his spine, his shoulders curling in just slightly like he was trying to shield himself from something that was no longer there. You ignored it–not to dismiss it, but because drawing attention to it would make it worse. He knew you saw. That was enough.
Instead, you lifted your hand.
Your fingers found the side of his face, palm cupping his cheek with a quiet and still softness. The chill of him met your warmth instantly, but it didn’t bite. It was…Settling. Like cool air after a long day in the sun. Your thumb rose to trace the smooth curve of his nose, and you watched his eyes flutter closed beneath your touch, those glowing white pupils vanishing under the heavy press of his lashes. He exhaled. Not in sound–but in presence. His body softened by degrees.
“What are you doing, Y/N?” He asked, voice raspy and low, almost unsure if he should stop you. But he didn’t. You ran your thumb slowly across his closed eyelid, then down the hollow curve of his cheekbone.
”I’m tracing your face, cause I can’t really see it…Thought I might as well do something that’ll distract you since the storm seems like it’s not going to go away anytime soon.” There was silence after that. But not uncomfortable. Not empty. You felt him lean ever so slightly into your palm, like a cat toward a sunbeam–just a breath of a motion. An instinct.
“I forgot you can’t see my features…” He murmured, almost to himself. “You can only see my eyes.” You nodded, letting your thumb drift lower toward the edge of his jaw.
”And sometimes I can see your teeth, but apart from that…Your features are pretty much invisible to me.” There was something under your touch now–barely-there stubble, like static texture etched into shadow. A tactile memory of Bob’s face, preserved in Void’s shape, but hidden in the dark. You followed it carefully, curiously, thumb ghosting across the edge of his jaw, then back up toward his mouth. You let your thumb pass lightly over his lips.
They parted, just a little. You felt the faintest purse of them–like he wanted to kiss the pad of your finger, like he almost did–but he stopped himself at the last possible second, breath stilling again. His restraint buzzed against your skin like electricity caught under glass.
Then, in the smallest voice, he asked:
“Is it awful…Not being able to see my face?” You stilled for a moment, and your thumb hovered just beneath his mouth. You met his gaze again–eyes barely cracked open now, the twin lights flickering with something hesitant, and raw.
“No,” You whispered. “It’s not awful.” His brows furrowed slightly. You shifted forward, close enough now that the blanket moved with you, cocooning your shared heat against his cosmic cold.
”It’s…Mysterious and strange…And sad sometimes…Because I wish I could memorize you the way you’ve memorized me, but it’s not awful, not even close.” He brought your wrist to his mouth so slowly it was like gravity itself resisted him. As if even the air wanted to keep your hand where it had been, cupping his face. But he overcame it gently and pressed his lips to your palm.
A kiss that wasn’t for seduction, or even for comfort.
It was thanks.
And then he moved in closer, almost chest to chest, his cold form brushing softly up against the heat of your body beneath the blanket. You tilted your face up to meet him, heart thudding a little faster, feeling his presence like a shadow curling into your ribcage.
His voice was a hush against your skin, low and velvet-dark, “Why would you want to memorize something like me?”
You shrugged, your voice soft but certain, with no hesitation or fear, “Because I don’t think anyone else has tried to do it…And you deserve it.” The quiet that followed wasn’t silence–it was weight. Gravity. The kind of pause that makes time itself stretch out around a single truth.
He didn’t speak. But the air around you changed.
That fanned coolness across your lips returned–chilling and soft, like mist rolling in before dawn. His breathless energy brushed against your cheeks, curling around your throat and jaw like a sentient wind, drawn to your warmth like a moth to flame.
And still, you leaned up.
Just a little. Just enough that your nose brushed his. Enough that the edge of your lips hovered just shy of his mouth. You could feel it now–his restraint, his awe, the way every molecule in him seemed to shiver with the effort it took not to devour you in a single blink.
Then, his thumb glided slowly across the inner side of your wrist. A featherlight touch.
And from the center of his chest, in a voice so quiet it felt like a wish spoken to the stars:
“…Can you hold me against your chest?” You could feel your chest tighten slightly at the request, but you found yourself shifting immediately. There was no hesitation in your body, only purpose, only care. You scooted closer, closing the small space between you. Your hand found the back of his head, guiding him down carefully, and he followed–like smoke curling into a lantern, folding into the place you made for him.
His cheek settled against your chest and every fragment of him–his breathless form, his godlike mass, the gnawing tension in his shoulders–seemed to dissolve, melted by the thudding rhythm beneath your skin. Your heartbeat echoed through him, steady and unafraid, a quiet metronome of life that pulsed against the part of him that knew only stillness.
Thump-thump…Thump-Thump-Thump…
His arms came up slowly, almost disbelieving. You felt them circle you in, tentative at first, then firmer–like he was learning how to hold you carefully. Like his body was mapping the shape of you one heartbeat at a time. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, cradling him close, your chin tilting to rest lightly against the top of his head. The blanket tucked in closer around you both, then your fingers slipped into his hair.
It was soft. Silky. Not quite like Bob’s, but eerily close. Like memories rendered through a dream. You dragged your nails gently along his scalp, stroking him in long, slow passes. He exhaled–a ripple more than a breath–and nuzzled his face closer to your chest, tucking into you with slow, instinctive need.
Your sleep shirt slipped further down, baring more of your chest to the cool air, to him. The soft skin above your breast brushed his face fully now, and he froze.
Then slowly, he pulled back just enough to look up at you. The glow of his eyes flickered in the stormlight–twin moons caught in a restless tide. His hand unwound from your waist, trailing up to the collar of your sleep shirt, and his fingertip brushed the soft fabric where it had already slipped down your shoulder.
“Can I pull this down?” Your fingers stilled in his hair, breath catching just a little at the vulnerability in the question–like he half-expected to be denied, like he didn’t trust the moment would stay in his favour.
”Yeah…Go ahead.” His fingertip dipped beneath the fabric with reverence, barely disturbing your skin as he slowly peeled the shirt downward. The blanket shifted with the movement, slipping further off your shoulder, exposing the gentle rise of your chest. Then–your breasts. Your nipples peaked in the chill air, soft skin kissed by the cold, causing them to firm up beneath his eyes while he stared.
His mouth parted slightly–just a fraction. A caught breath. A stammering kind of silence, like he couldn’t believe he was being allowed to witness something so…Human. Your hand came up instinctively, cupping his cheek. You brushed your thumb beneath one glowing eye, grounding him.
”You okay?” You asked quietly. He nodded–sharply at first, then again, slower.
“I haven’t seen anything like this before…” He whispered, as though your body were a miracle spoken into flesh, “They’re beautiful.” A small smile appeared on your lips.
”You can touch them if you want…” You whispered, but he shook his head, just once–his gaze never wavering, and never dropping from the sight in front of him.
”I kind of want to do more than that, but I feel like I’m going to lose my mind.” Your brow furrowed slightly, and your hand tightened gently in his hair. You gave it a subtle tug, not rough–just enough to make him look at you.
“Why?” His eyes flicked away for the first time since the blanket slipped down your body. A faint pulse of shadow curled at the edge of the room like the thought alone made the darkness lean in closer.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He murmured, “I don’t get to touch people that often.” That confession sat heavy between you–sharper than the lightning, heavier than the storm. You let out a soft breath, a sad little laugh that broke the tension just enough.
”Well yeah, but what does that have to do with you touching my breasts?” His eyes snapped back to yours, almost startled by the casual honesty in your tone.
He sighed, and his thumb brushed just barely along the edge of your ribs, like he was trying to explain without unraveling,
“Because I feel like I’m going to just want more…And more and more, and then I’m going to end up doing something that I regret.” He said, voice low and thick with something like guilt. You tilted your head, stroking his cheek once more with your thumb. Then you leaned in just enough to press your forehead to his.
“I think…We should just see where things go.” You whispered, your lips brushing his–just a breath apart. You didn’t kiss him just yet, but you were very close, “How does that sound?” You added. The air stilled around the both of you for a moment–and then he moved. Not hesitantly. Not gently. But with that brand of need that came from centuries of hunger being denied. From eons of reaching out only to be met with retreat. He surged forward the second you whispered those words, and his mouth crashed against yours in a kiss that was anything but soft.
It was desperate.
Starved.
Like he’d been waiting lifetimes for permission and now that he had it, he didn’t know how to hold back. His lips dragged across yours in a hungry, open-mouthed press that knocked the air from your lungs. It was clumsy in the way that only something deeply emotional could be–like he wasn’t kissing to impress or seduce, but to feel. His mouth was cool, lips parted, and his tongue slipped out instantly, seeking yours with a kind of frantic reverence, like if he didn’t taste you right now, he’d forget how to breathe.
He moaned softly into your mouth–a low, stuttering sound that vibrated through your chest–and you felt him tremble as your fingers tangled in his hair again. The kiss turned messier, wetter. His lips parted wider, and he kissed you like a man unraveling, like he didn’t know if he’d get another chance. He sucked softly at your bottom lip for a beat too long before releasing it with a quiet, broken sound, as if it pained him to let go.
Then he pulled back, panting softly–though he didn’t need to breathe–and stared at your mouth like it was holy. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated to glowing slivers. He looked undone. Unmoored.
And then he moved downward.
The Void trailed kisses across your jawline with a kind of singular devotion–each one pressed with precision, as if mapping your warmth with his mouth. He kissed beneath your ear, and you felt his nose nuzzle along your skin before he dipped lower, brushing past the curve of your throat with his parted lips. When he reached the hollow of your collarbone, he paused, sucking in a shuddering breath against your skin like the scent of you had short-circuited something in him. Then he licked a slow, reverent stripe across the rise of your chest.
You gasped, hips twitching subtly beneath the blanket, and your fingers clenched in his hair as he kissed down the exposed slope of your breast. His mouth was so cold it almost burned–like dry ice against fevered skin–and your back arched instinctively toward the sensation.
He made a noise then–something between a growl and a whimper. And then he latched.
His mouth sealed around your nipple like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane. A soft gasp escaped your lips, your hand flying to the back of his head as his lips wrapped around you fully and sucked. It was not delicate. It was slow and intense, every pull of his mouth soaked in devotion and desperation. His tongue flattened and circled, dragging around your nipple in tight, rhythmic passes that made your thighs press together beneath the blanket.
You whimpered, the sound soft and shocked–because you hadn’t expected it to feel like this. Like he was drinking you in, not just physically but spiritually. Like he was worshiping the act of being allowed to do this.
His free hand slipped up your side, cold fingers splayed over your ribcage as he held you in place, pulling you subtly closer, as if your warmth was something he could crawl into. His lips sucked harder for a moment, dragging soft, wet sounds from your chest, and you cried out quietly, hand trembling where it gripped the back of his head.
The storm outside cracked again–white lightning flaring against the window–but the only thing you felt was his mouth on you. The wet, reverent heat of his tongue, the ghostly chill of his breathless devotion, the soft pressure of his lips working your nipple with a kind of open-mouthed worship that made your toes curl.
He murmured something then–words lost against your skin, vibrating into your breast like a prayer, like a wish. And then he drew back just enough to lick over the sensitive peak, slow and languid, before dragging his teeth gently along the edge of your nipple and sucked once more with a needy, whimpering groan like he couldn’t stop himself.
”It feels so good on my tongue.” His voice rasped against your skin, fractured and trembling. And then he kissed the curve beneath your breast, mouthing at the flesh there as his thumb grazed lightly over your other nipple, which had stiffened from the cold and the contact. His eyes were glowing slivers beneath the blanket, twin fragments of starlight drifting upward to meet yours through the flickering shadows. His mouth was still wet, glistening softly where he’d just been sucked you with something close to worship.
“…Can you open your legs for me,” He rasped, his breathless voice smooth and steady, “So I can touch you while I suck on the other one?” Your heart gave a startled, fluttering kick inside your chest.
The breath that caught in your throat was soft but audible, a tiny gasp laced with anticipation. His eyes never left yours, watching like a man staring down the miracle of his own undoing. You swallowed thickly, fingers curled in the blanket now pooled around your waist, and gave the smallest nod.
“Okay,” You whispered–barely more than breath. But it was everything.
Slowly–carefully–you bent your top leg, raising it over his hip and resting it there, the inside of your thigh brushing the cool, obsidian curve of his side. You were laid out for him now, chest bare, body warm beneath his shadow, and the softness of your sleep shorts clung to the dampness gathering between your thighs.
He groaned.
A low, guttural sound, like the edges of him cracked open from the inside. And then his hand moved–long fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sleep shirt, trailing down your stomach like he was memorizing the way you felt. Cold fingertips skimmed past your navel, brushing lightly across the waistband of your shorts.
He hesitated for a second, his fingers flexing once, as if bracing himself.
Then, he slid his hand beneath the elastic and dragged his fingers down. You could feel him moan against your skin as he moved his mouth to your other breast, the vibration deep and primal as his lips closed around your nipple and sucked.
It was instant.
His mouth enveloped you with that same hungry devotion, and at the same time, his fingers found your slick heat–wet, warm, and waiting. A gasp escaped your lips, high and broken, as his fingers slid gently through the wetness gathered there, spreading it slowly.
“Fuck,” He groaned into your chest, his voice muffled by your skin, “You’re so wet already…” Your hips bucked slightly, involuntarily, and he groaned again–this time louder, more desperate–his lips latching tighter around your nipple as he sucked, tongue swirling and mouth messily worshiping your flesh like it was sacred.
“You feel like heaven,” He murmured, pulling off your breast with a wet pop, his mouth slick with you, his voice shaking. “Like you were made for my fingers…” You whimpered, head falling back into the pillow, thighs twitching where your leg still rested over his hip.
“I’ve never felt anything like this,” He whispered, eyes fixed on the place where his fingers were now buried between your thighs, hidden beneath your shorts. “You’re warm…soft…you’re–” He cut himself off with a low groan as he slipped one long finger through your folds again, pressing down lightly on your clit before dragging lower, slow and deliberate. Then back up. Teasing. Worshiping.
“Void…” You breathed, fingers trembling as they found their way back into his hair, gently threading through the strands. He kissed his way back up your breast, sucking lightly at the skin above your nipple, then licking a wet path back to the peak, tongue flicking it before he sucked it back into his mouth.
“You like this?” He asked softly between licks, his voice muffled and messy and filled with awe. “Me touching you like this…Sucking on your tits while you soak my hand?”
“Y-Yes,” You gasped, voice catching, legs twitching where he cradled you open. “God–yes, you feel so good…” He moaned again, deeper this time. His fingers pushed further, slipping through your folds, finding your entrance but not pressing in just yet–just rubbing slow circles, spreading the slickness, painting himself in you.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me touch you like this,” He whispered, pulling off your nipple again just long enough to look at you. His eyes were glowing, wide, filled with a kind of ache that made your breath catch.
“I’d give you anything you wanted,” You replied, voice soft but certain, hand cupping his cheek again. “You don’t even have to ask.” His lips trembled slightly, then parted in a slow exhale.
“I think I’m falling apart…” He said, voice broken in the most beautiful way. “And it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt.” Then he pushed one finger inside you. You gasped, arching into him as he sank in to the knuckle, his mouth finding your nipple again with a groan as he sucked hard, tongue flattening over the peak while his finger curled inside you. Your whole body clenched. And he moaned, guttural and needy, the sound vibrating against your breast as his other hand–still curled around your waist–held you tighter.
“Fuck,” He whispered, pulling his mouth off your nipple just long enough to kiss the swell beneath it. “You feel so good inside…But I think I need to get a taste.”
“Void,” You whispered, voice broken and raw with need. “What about you? I want to do something for you…Please.” His head snapped up at once, those glowing eyes meeting yours like you’d struck a nerve. His lips were wet and glistening in the lighting of your room.
“No,” He said immediately, a slight shake of his head trailing the word like it weighed too much to bear. “I want to do everything for you tonight. I want to show you how much I want you…To make sure you understand how much you mean to me.” Your heart clenched at that. The desperation in his voice wasn’t lust–it was longing, fear, awe, devotion. Like if he gave too little, it wouldn’t be enough to prove he even deserved to be near you.
You tangled your fingers tighter into his hair, pulling his face back toward yours just enough to whisper against his mouth, “You’ve done a lot already.”
He groaned–low and guttural, like the sound scraped out from somewhere deeper than a man should have access to–and shook his head again.
“Not enough,” He replied. “Not enough for me.” And with that, he withdrew his finger from your warmth, slowly, like the separation physically pained him. He pressed a kiss to your sternum, then sat back on his knees between your legs, the blanket falling around his waist like a curtain being drawn open for worship.
His hands gripped the waistband of your shorts, and with a soft tug, he pulled them down your thighs. You lifted your hips wordlessly, breath caught in your throat, as he dragged them all the way off, tossing them aside without looking–his eyes never left your body.
“Lay on your back,” He instructed, voice like velvet dipped in hunger.
You obeyed instantly, scooting down until you were flat against the pillow, spine arching slightly in anticipation. Your legs parted to cradle his hips between them, and he gazed down at you like he was about to taste heaven and ruin in one mouthful. With gentle hands, he reached for the hem of your sleep shirt, his fingers ghosting over your stomach as he began to pull it upward. You raised your arms to let him take it fully off, baring yourself completely to him.
And then, with agonizing slowness, he bent forward, pressing a kiss just beneath your collarbone. Then another. Lower. His lips dragged down the valley between your breasts, painting your skin with slow, open-mouthed kisses as he descended. He murmured things under his breath you could barely catch–fragments of worship, awe, hunger disguised as prayer.
When he reached the slope of your belly, he moaned softly and nuzzled his nose into your skin. He kissed your navel, then lower, dragging his tongue across the soft flesh of your pelvis like it was a sacrament.
Then he spread you.
His hands, large and cold, grasped your thighs and pulled them open wider, settling between them with a slowness that made your pulse pound in your ears. He looked up once–glowing eyes flickering over your face–and then lowered his head to your core.
The first lick made you cry out.
It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t soft.
It was devastating.
His tongue flattened against you from clit to entrance in one slow, slick stroke, and he groaned–moaned–into your core like the taste of you was something divine. The vibration of his voice sent shockwaves through your thighs.
“Oh…Fuck…Void…” You whimpered, hips jolting upward, and he just growled in response, wrapping his arms under your thighs and holding you down.
“I need it,” He breathed against you, voice soaked in hunger. “I need to taste you so fucking bad.”
Then he dove in.
His tongue licked and curled with filthy abandon, slow at first–exploratory, precise–but growing messier with each swipe. He lapped at your folds with wild hunger, flicking over your clit, then down again to circle your entrance, licking you like he was trying to drink the slick from your soul. You gasped, trembling, your thighs twitching against his shoulders as his mouth worked you over with growing desperation.
“Fuck…You taste like warmth, like life,” he groaned. “So sweet. So soft. So wet for me.”
“God, Void–” You sobbed, hips jerking. He growled again, louder now, and sucked your clit into his mouth like he needed it to live. His tongue flicked fast, then slow, then fast again–no rhythm, just raw need.
“You’re everything,” He whispered between kisses to your folds. “You’re everything. I could stay down here forever–I could drown in this.”
You cried out when his tongue pressed into your entrance, fucking you shallowly with slick, swirling passes before he moved back up to flick your clit again, this time with maddening precision.
Your hand flew to his head, fingers threading into his hair as your back arched. “You’re so good, fuck, baby, you’re so fucking good–”
He moaned into you like he was losing control.
“Say it again,” He begged, voice hoarse. “Please, tell me I’m good at this. Tell me I’m making you feel good…Tell me it’s me–my mouth–doing this to you.”
“It’s you,” You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Your mouth feels like heaven.” He whined and redoubled his efforts, tongue lashing and licking, sucking at your clit with frantic precision while one hand slipped lower to slide a finger inside you again. You sobbed, high and broken, as the added stretch pushed you closer to the edge.
“I need you to cum on my tongue,” He whispered raggedly, “I need to feel you lose yourself for me, please, let me have it…Let me feel it…Please.”
Your legs were shaking. Your whole body was alight with fire, pleasure blooming at the base of your spine like a supernova. His mouth, his voice, his worship–it was all too much.
“I’m…Oh my god, I’m gonna–”
“Cum for me,” He growled, tongue flicking fast against your clit while his finger curled inside you just right. “Cum for me, beautiful, soak my face–show me how good I make you feel…Please.”
You shattered.
Your thighs clamped around his head, your cry strangled and high as wave after wave of pleasure broke over you like a storm surge. You felt your arousal flood his tongue, wet and hot and gushing–and he moaned, loud and wrecked, licking it up like it was his favourite drink.
He didn’t stop though. Even as you trembled and whimpered, too sensitive, he kept licking you, slower now, softer–but still desperate. Still worshiping. Like he couldn’t bear to let go. His lips kissed your folds, his tongue lapped up your release, and his voice came out broken:
“Fuck…I need one more from you, I need to see how far I can push myself before needing to be inside you.” Your chest heaved beneath the blanket, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and raw need. You could barely think–your body still pulsing from the orgasm he’d just wrung from you with his tongue–but even in your hazy, bliss-drenched state, you nodded.
“Y-Yeah…” You gasped, voice wrecked and trembling. “Okay…” His fingers flexed tighter around your thighs in response, and he groaned like you’d just given him a piece of eternity.
And then he dove back in.
This time, there was nothing careful about it. Nothing restrained.
He licked you like he was starving.
His tongue flattened against your folds and dragged through your wetness with a desperation that was downright feral, and the obscene slurp that followed was loud–sloppy and vulgar and devastatingly hot. He moaned again, messily, as his mouth sealed to your pussy and he devoured you with no rhythm, no plan, just raw, aching hunger.
“Fuck!” You cried out, your hands flying to the back of his head, your hips jerking hard against the sheets. The overstimulation was sharp–so much sensation it blurred into a kind of mind-numbing ecstasy. He was everywhere all at once–his tongue flicking, sucking, lapping like his life depended on it.
“You’re so sensitive,” He panted against you between licks, voice hoarse and desperate. “So wet…So fucking warm and twitchy for me–I love how you’re shaking.” And god, you were shaking. Your thighs trembled around his head, your fingers clawed into his hair, and your cries grew louder with every messy, spit-slick stroke of his tongue.
He groaned again–loud and low–and spit on your pussy, a thick strand of it dripping between your folds and catching in his next lick. The heat of your arousal mixed with his saliva in a filthy, glistening mess, and he licked it all back up with a long, wet drag that had your hips thrashing.
“N-No, I…Void, I–” You whimpered, writhing now, unable to stop yourself from twisting beneath him as the pleasure built too quickly. “I don’t think I can–”
“Yes, you can,” He growled, pinning your thighs down with both arms now, holding you steady. “You can give me another one. I need you to. I need to taste it, need to feel you lose control for me again.”
And then he sucked.
His lips closed around your clit with brutal precision, and he sucked hard–messy, wet, loud–while his tongue flicked and circled without mercy. The overstimulation was excruciating in the most blissful way, and you screamed.
“Oh my god. Void, oh god…Please–” Your hips tried to lift off the floor but his arms kept you locked in place, his head nestled between your thighs like it belonged there. He was making such a mess of you–his mouth and chin soaked, the sounds so loud and obscene it felt like your brain short-circuited. Your voice broke into sobs of pleasure, your fingers shaking in his hair as your back arched, muscles locking up.
“Please,” He whispered, still licking, still sucking, still moaning, “Cum for me again. Give it to me. Show me how much you trust me.”
And then you shattered.
Again.
Worse this time–deeper–your entire body seizing beneath him as the orgasm ripped through you like lightning through the Watchtower itself. Your thighs clamped around his head involuntarily, your mouth falling open in a voiceless scream as your vision whited out.
You were gushing again–wet and wild–and he moaned into it, licking it up groaning as you rode it out on his tongue.
He didn’t pull back.
Didn’t stop.
Even as your hips twitched and your breath came out in sobbing gasps, he kept licking, slower now, softer–but still possessive, still worshiping. Still trying to memorize the way you tasted while you trembled for him.
And finally, finally, after long moments of breathless silence, he pulled back just enough to rest his cheek on your thigh. His lips were glistening, chin soaked, the blanket half-draped around him like a holy shroud, and his voice was wrecked:
“…You’re perfect…So perfect, like holy wine, I could get drunk off you every night.” Your fingers twitched slightly against the sheets, still trembling from the aftershocks rolling through your body like distant thunder. The Void’s head rested on your thigh, slick lips parted, chest rising with something closer to longing than breath. You reached for him slowly, your hand finding the back of his head, fingers curling into the soaked strands of his hair.
“C’mere,” You whispered, voice soft and thick, still breathless. He blinked up at you, dazed and glowing, his expression unreadable for a moment–then he rose.
He pushed himself up, shoulders rippling like mist in motion, and crawled over your body in near silence. Your thighs trembled where they brushed his hips, the blanket shifting around you both in a slow, intimate rustle. As he hovered above you, his face came into view again in the flickering stormlight–mouth glossy, chin damp, lips glistening with your slick.
You smiled.
“God,” You breathed, your thumb brushing across his cheek, “You’re soaked.” He blinked, confused for half a second, until you cupped his jaw and dragged your thumb across his bottom lip.
“You made such a mess down there.” Your voice was teasing but affectionate, and it earned a breathless, shaky little laugh from him.
“I didn’t want to stop,” He confessed quietly. You giggled softly, your thumb still tracing his jaw.
“You’re a mess.”
“I know,” He murmured, his voice trembling, reverent. “I’d do it again. I’d stay between your thighs forever if you let me.”
Your smile softened, and your other hand rose to cradle his face fully. You leaned up and kissed him–slowly, deeply. You tasted yourself on his mouth, warm and slick and musky, and you didn’t shy away. You licked into his mouth instead, moaning softly into the kiss.
He groaned–low and broken–and kissed you harder. Your legs wrapped loosely around his waist beneath the blanket.
When you pulled back, foreheads pressed together, you whispered, “I want you to have sex with me.” The words were quiet. Simple. But they hit him like a revelation. His pupils widened, glowing brighter as he stared down at you. And his voice–breathless, velvet-dark–came out barely above a whisper.
“I can do it right now for you…If you want me to.” You nodded, your lips brushing his.
“Please… I want to feel you all over me.” He kissed you again–so softly this time, his lips trembling–and then pulled back slightly, shifting his weight to one side. You watched as his hand disappeared beneath the blanket, and you felt the brush of movement between your thighs. He pushed his boxers down his hips–not all the way, just enough–and you felt the weight of him shift between your legs.
His palm cupped the inside of your knee, nudging your legs open a little further. Your thighs trembled again as you felt the cool draft of air rush in between them, followed by the heat of him–not body heat, but something else. A pressure. A presence. You couldn’t see him–not with the blanket half-draped over your torsos, and not with the way the shadows clung to him like ink. But when he pressed forward and the head of his cock nudged against your soaked entrance, you felt it.
The weight. The width. The stretch.
Even without sight, your body recognized the promise of it–your breath hitched sharply as he rocked his hips once, just enough to let the head of him catch at your entrance, slick with your arousal.
A broken sound left him–half moan, half cry.
“Oh–fuck, you’re so warm…”
He leaned over you as he pushed in, one slow, reverent inch at a time. You felt the way his arms trembled as he held himself above you, the slow drag of his cock spreading you open until you were gasping beneath him.
His body hovered over yours–blanket half-tent, half-coffin–and the sound he made when he finally sank all the way in wasn’t human.
It was a sob.
A full-bodied, desperate groan that punched out of him like he’d been holding his breath for centuries. He collapsed onto his forearms above you, his head falling to your shoulder, his chest pressing down against your breasts as he held himself deep inside you. Slowly, you reached up, tangling your fingers into his hair, and with your other hand, you began to run your palm down his back in long, soothing strokes. His skin was cool beneath your touch.
He was shaking.
Not just from restraint, but from something more primal. Like his whole body didn’t know how to process being held like this—being inside someone who wanted him, who trusted him.
Then his lips brushed against your collarbone.
A soft, lingering kiss.
And then another.
His breathless voice followed, low and frayed at the edges.
“You feel so… So good, Y/N…” He whispered, almost like he was telling a secret he’d buried in the deepest part of himself. “I don’t think I can last, you’re so tight around me, and…Oh god.”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. You felt his body tense above you–arms trembling, jaw tightening–as he slowly pulled his hips back. The drag of him inside you made your breath catch, the stretch still deliciously overwhelming. And then he pushed in again, slower this time, like he wanted to savor every inch, every second. You gasped softly, your legs instinctively tightening around his hips.
A broken moan left him–raw and shaking. His mouth descended on your throat, lips finding the hollow of your collarbone. He kissed it once. Twice. And then he bit. Not hard. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to leave a mark.
You whimpered, clutching tighter at his back, and he groaned in response–burying his face against your neck like he could crawl into your skin.
“You’re so fucking warm,” He breathed, biting again, sucking harder this time until he knew it would bruise. His hips began to move–slow, grinding thrusts that rocked into you with devastating depth. Not hard. Not rough. But thorough. Like he was pouring everything he had into every motion.
“Every time I push in,” He whispered, lips dragging along your skin, “It’s like you’re pulling something out of me I didn’t know I had.”
You moaned beneath him, your hips lifting instinctively to meet his rhythm. His voice broke again–just a little–as he rutted into you, the sound soaked in disbelief.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get this,” He murmured. His words were wet against your skin–kissed between your breasts, whimpered along the slope of your chest–and you realized it wasn’t just sweat making your skin damp.
It was tears.
Tiny droplets fell from where his face hovered just above your heart, sliding over your ribs, vanishing into the shadows that curled between your bodies. You tightened your arms around him, pressing him closer, and kissed the side of his head as you rocked up into him.
“You deserve this,” You whispered, voice trembling. “You deserve to feel everything, to be wanted. To be loved.”
That word shattered something inside him.
A soft sob tore from his throat, buried against your chest as he thrust into you harder–still slow, still sensual, but deeper now. Needier. Desperate.
His mouth returned to your skin, sucking a bruise just above your breast as his hips snapped forward with each trembling movement.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” He rasped, “I can’t–I can’t believe you want me. Like this.”
“I do,” You moaned, cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “I want all of you.” His glowing eyes locked onto yours. Wide. Wet.
“You’re inside me,” You whispered, voice shaking with emotion and pleasure. “You’re in me, and I’ve never felt more safe.”
That broke him.
His rhythm faltered, just for a moment, as another choked sob left his lips. His thrusts stuttered, then resumed, harder now–more urgent–but still careful. His hands gripped your waist, fingers splaying against your ribs like he was afraid you’d disappear. And his mouth–god, his mouth–never left your skin.
He sucked hard on the curve of your shoulder, teeth grazing, tongue soothing the bite after.
“You make me feel human…” He admitted, lips dragging to your throat. You moaned for him–high and helpless–your walls fluttering around his cock, and he gasped, eyes slamming shut.
“I’m not gonna last,” He groaned, voice cracking, “You’re so tight…You’re holding me so good, I…Fuck…I’m gonna–”
“Cum for me,” You whispered, your hands clutching his back, your breath hot against his ear. “Let go. Let me feel you fall apart inside me.”
He whimpered and bit your neck as he came, thrust buried to the hilt. His body shuddered against yours, every muscle trembling. And then–
You felt it.
The slow, hot drag of tears down your skin again.
Not just one. Not just two.
But several. Silent, aching tears that fell from his cheeks and streaked down your throat as he pulsed inside you, spilling himself deep, buried in your warmth.
His arms crushed you to him. His face pressed to your neck. And his voice–barely audible–cracked apart as he whispered:
“Thank you…Thank you, thank you, thank you…” His body trembled in your arms, still buried inside you, still shaking from the force of everything he had just poured into your body. Into this moment. Into you.
He wept quietly against your throat, the sound so faint it barely registered above the storm, but you felt it. Felt every warm drop of him that hit your skin, every shuddering breath that wasn’t really breath at all. Just…Presence. Sorrow. Gratitude. Awe.
You cradled him gently, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as though trying to shield him from the world itself. One hand threaded softly through his hair, the strands damp and tousled from the effort of his worship. Your other hand drew slow, soothing circles along his back, palm gliding down over the trembling ridges of shadow-made muscle.
“It’s okay,” You whispered against the top of his head, your voice steady and quiet, a balm to his unraveling. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” He didn’t speak, but his arms tightened around your waist. You felt the hitch in his chest, the press of his body trying to melt into yours, like if he could just get close enough, he’d finally stop feeling like a ghost.
You kissed the crown of his head softly. Again and again. Your fingers kept stroking through his hair, dragging slow passes through the strands as you murmured against his scalp.
”You are so good Void…So good at everything. And so caring.” A pause. You cupped the back of his head, pulling him closer, letting him cry into your skin like the sky itself had split open.
“And you’re mine now,” You finished, quieter now. Like a promise. Like something permanent.
The shudders eased slowly, like a wave retreating from the shore. He didn’t move right away. Just stayed curled into you, his face pressed against your collarbone, his breathless form held together only by your warmth and the blanket that cocooned you both.
When he finally shifted, it was gentle. Careful. As though he thought too sudden a movement might scare you off.
“I… I need to clean you up,” He rasped, voice thick and ragged from the crying. He pressed a kiss just above your heart, as if anchoring himself there, then slowly withdrew from your body. You whimpered faintly at the loss, and he stilled–just for a second–then looked up at you.
“Are you okay?” He asked, barely above a whisper.
You nodded, giving him a soft smile, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead.
“I’m perfect. Go ahead, I’ll be right here.” He rose to his knees–naked from the waist down now, the blanket pooling at his hips–and moved across the room to your tiny ensuite bathroom. The cool air kissed your damp skin, but the warmth of his release still lingered between your thighs, a sweet reminder of everything he had given.
He returned moments later with a warm, damp towel. He knelt beside you again, quiet, solemn, eyes flickering over your body like he couldn’t believe you still looked at him with love.
“Let me know if anything hurts,” He said softly. You just smiled, watching him as he spread your legs slightly and lowered the towel between your thighs. His touch was impossibly gentle. Reverent. He wiped you clean with slow, careful strokes, murmuring apologies when he hit any tender spots.
“I made a mess of you,” He commented, almost to himself. You reached down, cupping his cheek in your palm, thumb stroking the curve of his jaw.
“You didn’t make a mess,” You correctedfirmly. “You loved me. That’s what that was.” He closed his eyes. Nodded. Let your words sink into the parts of him that still didn’t believe they were true.
Once he was done, he set the towel aside and pulled your blanket back up around you, crawling back beneath it and laying beside you–face to face. His arm slipped around your waist, pulling you gently into the curve of his body. His chest was still cool, but you welcomed the contrast. His forehead met yours, and you breathed in each other for a moment.
Then, without a word, his hand found yours between your bodies.
He laced your fingers together, palm to palm.
And then he lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Soft. Slow. Meaningful.
You felt his lips tremble slightly against your skin. His fingers tightened slightly around yours.
Then he kissed the back of your hand again.
And again.
And again.
Until your fingers went slack in his grasp and your breathing slowed, your body cocooned safely in his arms. The storm still raged beyond the windows–but in that room, there was only warmth. There was only you, and him, and the quiet knowledge that even in darkness, something beautiful could still be born.
summary: The obsession of other interns had with him never made sense. Not until one night… drinks turned into something more. It’s so good that it makes all those promises to never be one of the girls giggling over Clark Kent feel ridiculous. But now it makes sense. God, now it does.
pairings: intern!clark kent x afab intern!reader
warnings: 3.5k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. intoxicated sex. (light) praise kink. size difference kink (light). internal ejaculation. clothed sex. cockwarming (implied). biting / marking. read responsibly.
note: i said i wasn’t gonna write bc i have too many wips and drafts piling up… haha god help me. but i literally couldn’t resist him. this was just a quick write. hope u guys enjoy it <3
You don’t get it, at first. The way the other interns practically light up when he walks in. They act like he’s the most handsome inside the building. Sure, maybe he is. But you hate the way they clutch their iced coffees, and giggle when he holds the door open with that shy, lopsided smile. It looks like they’re desperate for it. Or maybe you are just bitter. Or maybe you are trying to find red flags in him. Don’t also forget that when someone calls him “cute” and they think he can’t hear. But you think he does and just acts innocent and oblivious which made you shrug and roll your eyes every time that happens. Ignore, ignore, and ignore before going back to your drink and to scrolling on your phone. Because, yeah, he’s handsome, tall, shoulders a little too broad for the cheap shirts he wears, but he’s also corny as hell. Makes those terrible little jokes that hang in the air like a bad pun smell. And you notice how he glances around like he’s waiting for someone to laugh, and scratches the back of his neck when no one does. But that rarely happens because the girls always laugh at his jokes like they can let it pass since he’s handsome, cute, kind, tall, smart, and- whatever.
You don’t get it, because you’ve seen him spill coffee down the front of his shirt. The cheap button-down soaked with a stain he tries to clean it with crumpled napkins while his cheeks flushed pink like he’s waiting for the floor to swallow him up. You feel a little bad for him though especially when his glasses keep slipping down his nose as he leans over the counter before muttering under his breath, “It’s fine, happens all the time,” and just laughs it off but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You’ve watched him tug the fabric away from his chest before shaking it out a little and his hair falling across his forehead in that messy, boyish way, like he’s fighting a losing battle against the universe before it’s even eight in the morning. Okay, maybe that’s cute.
You don’t get it, until one Friday when everyone goes out for drinks. You don’t want to come but your office friend won’t take no for an answer so you just agreed to go to the cheap dive a block away with sticky floors and neon lights buzzing in the corner. You end up sitting next to him, not on purpose. It’s just the last open seat, and he offers to buy you a drink because he’s nice like that. Of course, it’s hard to deny free drinks especially after when you heard him blurt out something stupid about the weather. You find yourself laughing, actually laughing, and he looks at you like you’ve given him something he’s been waiting for all week.
You don’t get it, until you’re tipsy, and cheeks warm. Until you’re leaning into the space between you and closing the distance. Until he’s looking at you with those soft eyes, lashes so stupidly long, and asking if you want to keep talking somewhere quieter. You say yes, before you can think too hard about it because he managed to work his charms on you. Let's bring you to his place and let him hold the door open for you one more time, let him smile at you like you’re the only person in the world.
You don’t get it, until you do because because now you’re here. You’re on his couch with your knees pulled up and shoes off. You don’t even know where you left them because you’re tipsy enough that your limbs feel warm and slow but not enough to forget the way he looked at you while he keeps talking and listens when you respond to him. His apartment is enough, it looks domestic and it’s very Clark.
He’s sitting across from you, elbow hooked over the back of the couch. His shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms that showing the muscles that had been hiding underneath fabric, glasses still on, and hair messy from running a hand through it too many times tonight. He’s talking about something he couldn’t forget. It’s a story about how he once missed a bus because he stopped to help an elderly woman to find her lost pet. You just stare at him when he’s talking and how he shakes his head before laughing at himself like it’s something to be embarrassed about. Like he overthinks you might think he’s stupid for it. You don’t. It’s kind. It’s heartwarming to hear. You don’t think what he did is stupid.
Eyes remain looking at you while he talks. Not just… performative. He’s really looking, eyes bright, leaning forward when he says your name. Like he can’t help it. Like he needs to see how you’ll react. Like it, he enjoys how it rolls off his tongue. You think about all the times you rolled your eyes when the other interns giggled over him. The times you swore you’d never be that person. Now? You feel it, something small and warm in your chest, and something you don’t want to name yet.
But it blooms in your system as your head falls back against the couch. You laugh and tell him he’s such a dork and stupid. You don’t mean it in an insulting way, but more on like just teasing him and you are glad he just smiles. It’s wide and a little crooked. It’s obvious he’s hiding how your words made him smile like that. Everything feels so good right now, there’s even a music playing from his phone speaker. You wonder what his playlists look like because what’s playing right now is soothing and calm. It makes the room feel better and softer. Your legs and his are almost touching. You don’t even notice how the space feels smaller from the moment you sit there earlier.
And he goes quiet for a moment after talking continuously ever since you entered his place. His eyes try not to stare at you when he also tries to memorize this moment. The way your mouth smirks when you tease him about his jokes. The way you look at him when you feel yourself getting more into the conversation. His mouth opened like he was going to ask you something but he just shut it because nothing came out. So he just swallows and your eyes watch how his Adam’s apple bobs. He doesn’t know it but you also notice how his hands twitch on his knee like he’s thinking about something.
You know what he wants to ask. It’s not hard to guess what it is. You are also not dumb not to see it. It’s already written across his face. He thinks he’s slick when he keeps flickering to look at your lips. Going back to look up at your eyes and back down to your lips. You know he’s the kind of guy who won’t just do something unless you tell him to do it or you will just have to initiate it.
So you initiate it. You lean in and close the distance between the two of you. Your hand latches to his cheek with your thumb caressing the shape and sharpness of his jaw before you kiss him. It’s soft and you can taste the cheap beer you both drank earlier. You could feel the warmth of his mouth and it’s something you’ve been trying to hate and deny since the first moment you saw him smiling and waving his hand at you.
Now you get it. You get it because he’s been gentle from the kiss to this moment. He’s soft and touching you like glass, letting you take what you want while still holding you steady. He keeps you close with those big, and warm hands like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he lets go. His hands are warm and firm, but not hurting you. It’s just enough to feel he’s here.
Your blouse is open and hanging off your shoulders. Bra pushed down so your tits are out as your nipples brush against the fabric as you move. He was so gentle when he opened you up, even though it’s not really completely naked, but that’s all what he could manage with the impatience he had to be inside you. His shirt is open too, same as you with how his buttons are undone, sleeves rolled, and exposing the slope of his chest. You can also see the way his stomach flexes every time you roll your hips down on him. You’re still wearing your skirt. It’s just bunched up around your waist, and his pants are still on, pulled down just enough so he can free his cock, thick and flushed where it’s buried inside your cunt. His size really stretched you open with every slow, needy rock of your hips.
Hands rest on his shoulders while nails dig in the fabric while you find the right pace and angle for the both of you. Each drag of your hips earns a slicked sound from your pussy and you swear he groans every time it gets so loud and it makes him drag you down deeper to take the whole of him. There’s the friction sending electricity through your every time the tip of his cock presses and kissing against the spot inside you that makes your lips taste like metal from biting it just to keep yourself from being so loud.
“Fuck- baby-” he breathes out. His voice is low and desperate. It sounds so fucking pretty falling from his lips. You love the way he sounds. The way it stutters and the way he’s vocal about it. His hands grip your hips, not forcing you, but guiding you. Soft thumbs pressing bruises into your skin as he helps you lift up and sink back down. Helps you ride him like you’ve both been craving this since the first moment you kissed. He helps you because that’s what he always does. Be there for people and be soft to them. The difference is that what he’s doing right now is not because of some service or act of kindness, he’s doing it because he wants you to enjoy it.
Chest brushes against his with sweat sticking to skin both of your skins and you can feel the way his breath stutters when your nipples graze across his when you lean in closer. Forehead pressing to his, and noses bumping before your lips brush against just but not quite kissing. “Clark-” you whisper just to see how he reacts. It’s so hot when he moans after you say his name. It’s soft and broken that makes your pussy clench around him and makes him jerk up into you without meaning to. His cock is twitching inside your cunt as he tries to hold back.
“God, you feel- you feel so good,” he pants, eyes fluttering shut, lashes dark and damp against his cheeks. “So fucking tight around me, goddamn-” Hips just rocking and bouncing down harder when you hear his words, it’s like a compliment hearing that so you grind against him. Your movements made his mouth fall open before a ragged sound snatched out of his throat. His head tips back against the backrest of the couch and the sight below you is so hot. Him being pussy whipped, hands on your sides, and the way his cock disappears when you sink your body into him.
Your hands slide up into his hair to tug lightly, and his eyes snap open. It’s glassy and blown wide, looking up at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. His hands flex on your hips, and you feel it when he bucks up into you, the angle hitting that spot that makes you gasp, makes your thighs tremble around him. “Please- fuck, please, baby,” he mumbles, not even sure what he’s asking for, but you understand. You feel it too. The desperation. The heat builds between your bodies. The wet slap of your pussy taking him over and over as you ride him slow and deep. Letting him fill you up. Letting him feel how warm and wet you are around his cock.
And you don’t want to come yet. There’s something in you that doesn't want this to stop. Something that wants to stay here at this moment. You don’t know if that’s the sex making you feel that way but you think he wants that too. Especially with the way he twitches when your pussy clenches around you. The way he moans when you wrap your hands around his hair to tug it. How he gets closer to make sure your body pressed so close when the sweat drips down to your chest. Breath mingling as you fuck yourself down on him, slow and steady, over and over. You want to remember how it feels when his hands slide up your back. How does it feel when he’s holding you tighter. When he whimpers against your mouth before kissing you like he can’t help it. How his tongue slides against yours. How he swallows your moans as you move together.
Now you get it. Now you get why everyone looks at him like that. Because right now you’re looking at him like this. Like you are asking him why you don’t want to stop. But you already know the answer. You don’t want to. Not when it feels so good. Not when he’s hitting it so deep. Not when it’s so thick inside your pussy. It drags against your walls with every slow, desperate grind of your hips, and every bounce that has your thighs shaking. Your cunt keeps sucking him back in, wet and hot with slick dripping down onto his pelvis where your bodies meet.
He’s still wearing his glasses. God, he’s still wearing his fucking glasses, and you don’t know why it makes you moan, but it does. Something about how they’re slightly crooked on his nose, how they fog up when his breath stutters, how they press cold against your neck when he leans forward and kisses you there, mouth hot and open, tongue dragging over your skin before he bites down softly. “Clark,” you gasp. Nails raking down his chest, over the open edges of his shirt, as you try to ground yourself, try to hold on when his hips jerk up into you. It hit that spot that makes your eyes roll back, makes your cunt clench around him, and makes him let out a low, broken groan against your throat.
“Fuck, you feel- you feel so good, can’t- can’t believe how good you feel,” he babbles. His voice was wrecked. Kissing up your neck, sucking a mark just under your jaw before pulling back to look at you. His eyes are glassy behind those fogged lenses, lips pink and swollen. You whimper while your hips stutter. Your pussy tightens around him when you see how he looks at you, like he’s falling apart, like you’re the only thing keeping him together. “Take them off,” you whisper. Fingers sliding up, hooking around the arms of his glasses, pushing them off his face as he blinks up at you. His pupils are blown so wide there’s barely any blue left.
You toss them to the side, somewhere on the couch, and cradle his face in your hands. Your thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “There,” you breathe, “wanted to see you.” He moans a soft, choked sound. Hands gripping your hips tighter, and guiding you down onto his cock. Helping you grind deeper, slower, rolling his hips up to meet you. The wet sounds of your pussy swallowing him fill the room, until the head of his cock drags right against your cervix, over and over, until you can’t hold back the sounds spilling from your mouth.
You’re so close you almost can taste it. Heat feels so tight in your belly. Legs trembling and shiver shooting down your spine with every thrust, every grind, every time his cock hits that spot that makes your vision blur. That makes your body shake above him. Your thighs are burning. Your breath is coming out in broken moans. Your forehead pressed to his, sweat dripping down your temple as you keep moving, chasing the edge, chasing that high, and wanting to come so badly it hurts.
“Please- fuck, please,” he gasps, and you don’t even know what he’s begging for, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re begging too, whimpering against his lips, “Don’t stop, please don’t stop-” And he won’t. He won’t stop because he lets you control everything tonight. He won’t let you fall off his lap. He won’t let you slip away. He just won’t, not when your pussy is tighter than anyone he fucked before, not when your pussy is squeezing and sucking him so tight. He’s going crazy under you and his hips are thrusting up into you. His hands pull you more down before guiding you up.
You’re right there, right on the edge. Your teeth can feel your orgasm already high and it feels like it’s going to break you both. Body shaking, nails scratching his visible skin while your pussy gushes down in his cock. Doesn’t care even if both of you are soaking the fabric of your skirt and his pants which are pulled down to around his thighs. It makes everything so messy. Skin slapping and wetness fill the room. So fucking perfect.
Now you get it. You get it when it happens- when it finally happens- when the pressure building between your hips snaps, when the pleasure spills over, hot and blinding. Tearing a sob from your throat as your cunt clenches down around his cock, so tight and wet that his breath catches, that his eyes roll back as he moans your name like a prayer. You get it when you see the way he looks at you while you fall apart, the way his hands grip your hips so hard it borders on bruising. He’s pulling you down onto him, grinding you against him as he fucks up into you, chasing your high, helping you ride it out, helping you take everything you need.
“Fuck, Clark- shit, I’m coming-” you gasp, your head falling back, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto, finding the fabric of his open shirt, finding the soft hair on his chest, clutching it as your body shudders, as your thighs clamp around his waist, as your pussy milks his cock in desperate, pulsing waves. “God- baby, I-” he stutters, his hips jerking up, his eyes fluttering shut, his jaw going slack as he feels you coming around him, as he feels how wet you are, how warm you are, how perfect you are like this, taking him, taking all of him.
“Want you to come,” you whimper, leaning forward, pressing your forehead to his, your lips brushing against his as you breathe him in, as you move your hips in slow, rolling circles that make your overstimulated pussy spasm around him, that make him choke on a groan. “Want you to come inside me, please-” That’s what breaks him.
Mouth finds its way to yours and he starts swallowing the sounds you are making. Kissing you hard that it became messy with both of your teeth grinding together and tongues sliding while his hips stutter because his cock twitches inside your wet cunt. And then he spills and cum inside of you with a guttural and desperate moan that you feel vibrates against your lips.
You love the feeling of the warm cum that released and flooded deep inside your pussy and you absolutely love that he keeps thrusting to stuff it more inside. He’s fucking you through it. He chases every wave of pressure and drags out your orgasm until it’s almost too much. Until you’re shaking in his lap, and whimpering into his mouth with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels.
You’re so full and pussy is so wet because of his cum leaking out around his cock. It drips down to his pelvis and stomach which makes everything so slick and messy. It feels sticky and the sight is obscene. The room is filled with mixed sounds from both of your breaths, the wet and slick slide of your bodies, and the soft and broken whimpers the two of you let out when you slowly come down from the high.
And you just stay in the same place with your forehead resting against his and your lips brushing against his at the same time. Chests heaving when you try to catch your breath and you feel the aftershocks from the orgasm still pulsing through your pussy. You feel it still fluttering and clenching around his softening cock inside you.
Now you get it. You get why he’s worth the giggles, the stares, the soft smiles in hallways, the stupid little crushes. Because he’s gentle. Because he’s kind. Because he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world, even now, when you’re messy and fucked-out in his lap, your skirt bunched around your waist, his cum dripping out of your cunt, your hair sticking to your sweaty skin, your mouth swollen from kissing him too hard.
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader
Summary: The Thunderbolts go to a club downtown for the night, and while there Bob and Sentry are having a tough time watching you flirt with a guy.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and Jealousy (the spicy triforce). Bob and reader are both aware of each other's feelings but want to remain friends to not ruin the team dynamic in case things go sour. Sentry is extremely jealous in this, and we love jealous Sentry I say…He’s also a bit possessive but…That’s him lol, Bob is just trying to be a good guy and keep things calm, but Sentry is really ripping into him for fumbling the ball.
Smut Warnings: Semi-Public Sex (happens in a private washroom, but it’s inside a club), Unprotected P in V (hahahaha…please wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), and a Praise/Worship Kink cause Sentry and Bob are pleasers just trying to stake their claim lol, there’s also light choking, and some dirty talk….And Overstimulation to a degree. And some aftercare.
Author’s Note: Jesus lord, I loved this request, and I loved the ideas that came from it, and thank you so much for requesting it! It was so fun to write this possessive type of Sentry, and I loved writing the clashing dialogue between Bob and Sentry too. Whew, thank you again @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for such a fun little thing!
Word Count: 10,244
The music was thrumming like a heartbeat Low, slow, and thick with heat. Everything in the club was moving like smoke–dark, senseless, and breathless. The lights stuttered across the floor like strobe-starved lightning, painting bodies in quick colourful flashes of red, violet, blue, and green.
But Bob wasn’t looking at the lights, or the crowd, or the Coke Zero he hadn’t touched, or even his teammates–who were scattered around the booth behind him, too caught up in cheap liquor, bottles of beer, and loud conversation to notice the slow-motion train wreck unraveling across the club floor.
His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.
You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.
Because your dress was–
”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.
It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.
And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.
And that’s exactly what was happening.
“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.
”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.
“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.
”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.
“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.
Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.
And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.
You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.
Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.
“She’s not even thinking about us.”
“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.
“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.
“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.
That hurt worse than anything.
He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.
“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.
“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.
And Bob–snapped.
His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.
Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.
He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.
“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.
“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”
“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.
”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.
”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.
”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.
“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”
“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.
“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.
”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.
”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.
You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.
”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.
”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.
“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.
”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.
“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.
Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.
You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.
”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.
”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.
”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.
“Bob?” You questioned.
”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”
“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.
”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.
”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.
”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.
”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.
”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”
“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.
”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.
Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”
Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”
You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”
Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.
“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”
You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.
Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”
You didn’t need to hear anything else.
You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.
The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.
You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.
Bob.
He looked like he was breaking open.
Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.
And then–Bob.
His head lifted, slowly.
And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.
The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.
His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.
Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.
The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.
It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.
Then you leaned even closer.
Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.
Then–your voice.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.
Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.
“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.
Only a nod.
His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.
You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.
He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.
You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.
The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.
The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.
It was dim inside.
Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.
The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.
You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.
“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.
Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.
It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.
That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.
“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”
Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.
“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.
You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.
“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.
“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”
You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.
“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”
“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.
“Bob…” You breathed.
“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”
Your breath hitched.
The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.
“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.
Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.
Then suddenly, Bob moved.
It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.
And then he kissed you.
It was not sweet.
It was not soft.
It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.
You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.
He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.
You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.
It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.
Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.
“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”
You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.
“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.
His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.
Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.
And then–he moaned.
Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.
His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.
Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.
”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.
“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”
You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.
“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.
“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.
You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”
He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.
“Oh my god, Bob–”
That shattered him.
His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.
“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”
He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.
“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.
You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.
Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.
You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.
Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.
“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”
His fingers curled inside you.
You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.
“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop–Bob–please don’t stop–”
His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.
“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”
You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.
“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”
You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.
Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.
“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”
Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.
“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”
Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.
He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.
“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”
And with a soft, choked sob, you did.
You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.
Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.
He didn’t pull away.
He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.
“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.
Sentry, of course it was him.
You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–
He lifted them to his lips.
He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.
A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”
When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.
Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.
Both of them.
“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.
“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”
You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”
Your panties.
His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.
He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.
The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.
“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”
And then his mouth was on you.
No hesitation.
No teasing this time.
Just devotion.
His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.
His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.
You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.
“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.
He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.
“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”
You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.
And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.
Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:
“Come for me again, goddess.”
And you did.
Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.
You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.
But he didn’t stop.
He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.
His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.
And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.
His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.
“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”
The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.
You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.
“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.
“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”
His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.
“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”
You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.
“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.
He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.
“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”
But he shook his head before you could finish.
One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.
“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.
“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.
“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”
He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.
“…Who you belong to now.”
The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.
You could barely breathe.
He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.
The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.
Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”
And then–slowly–he pressed in.
The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.
“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.
And that’s when you saw it.
His eyes.
The constant battle.
Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.
“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”
He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.
“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”
Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.
Your legs wrapped around his hips.
Your hands held his face like prayer.
And his thrusts grew stronger.
Still aching.
But with that edge.
That divine, desperate edge.
The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.
“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”
You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”
His hands gripped your hips tighter.
And the light in the room began to flicker.
As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.
In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.
His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.
You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.
And then his mouth found yours again.
You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.
You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.
Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.
“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”
“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”
And that broke something in him.
His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.
You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.
“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”
You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.
“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”
His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.
And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.
“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”
You clung to him. Kissed him.
And you shattered.
Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.
And that’s when he followed.
His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.
You stayed like that.
Locked together.
Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.
When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.
”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.
You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.
“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”
Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.
“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”
You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”
Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”
Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.
“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.
“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”
You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.
Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.
He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”
You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”
Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”
Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”
Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.
“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”
You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”
Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”
You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.
The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.
You watched him.
Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.
And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.
Your chest swelled.
The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.
You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.
You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.
When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.
“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.
“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.
And then he kissed you again–gold-lit, warm, and entirely his.
✮ synopsis: he's the winter soldier, and you're just you. but when your skin touches his, he becomes bucky barnes again.
(or: the soulmate fic where touch is everything and bucky barnes will fight his way back to you, one broken memory at a time.)
✮ pairing: ca:tws!bucky x soulmate!reader
✮ disclaimers: fem!reader, soulmates, violence/action sequences, graphic descriptions of torture/memory wiping, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, past torture, brainwashing, heavy angst, touch deprivation, references to past violence/assassinations, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual happy ending, bucky is down horrendously bad
✮ warnings: (18+) MDNI, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, soul bond sex (enhanced sensations), touch-starved bucky, possessive behavior, marking/bruising, praise kink, body worship, emotional sex, crying during sex (in a good way), size kink if you squint, bucky has a dirty filthy mouth
✮ word count: 14.3k
✮ a/n: re-uploading all my fics to this blog so i'm posting a ca:tws-era oldie but goodie (the last 4k of this is straight smut, so if that's not your cup of tea feel free to stop at the **)
bonus drabble 1
bonus drabble 2
main masterlist
The library basement feels like a crypt tonight—all dead air and fluorescent buzz that makes your molars ache.
You've been down here so long your bones have started to match the temperature of the concrete, cold seeping through your jeans where you've been sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a semi-circle of photocopied articles that all essentially say the same nothing in different ways.
3:17 AM according to your phone, which you check compulsively every twenty minutes like maybe time will take pity and skip forward to your deadline. The security guard made his last round two hours ago—Gerald? Gary? Something with a G—his whistling fading up the stairwell along with any pretense that you're not completely alone down here.
Your neck cracks when you roll it, vertebrae protesting the last six hours of hunching over sources that shouldn't be this hard to parse. But your advisor had smiled that sharp little smile when assigning this topic, the one that says let's see if you're really cut out for this, and spite is a hell of a motivator.
Even if your eyes are burning. Even if the coffee tastes like battery acid. Even if your soul bond has been aching since midnight with that peculiar emptiness you've learned to ignore.
The lights flicker—building's older than sin, held together by asbestos and prayer—but the air changes with it. Shifts. Like all the oxygen just remembered it had somewhere else to be.
Your fingers still on the keyboard mid-sentence.
Don't be stupid. It's a basement. In a library. The scariest thing down here is your browser history.
But your body knows things your mind pretends it doesn't. Every hair follicle suddenly awake, skin prickling with the kind of ancient warning that kept humans from being eaten in the dark. Your heartbeat kicks up, stuttering from normal to concerned between one breath and the next.
You turn.
He stands at the edge of the stacks like violence in human form.
Black tactical gear eats the light, makes him look like someone cut a hole in reality and taught it how to hunt. The mask covering the lower half of his face should make him less human, but somehow it's worse—forces you to focus on the eyes that track your movement with the kind of empty precision that makes your hindbrain scream predator predator predator.
"Oh." The sound punches out of you, high and strangled.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Just moves toward you with the kind of lethal economy that makes you understand, suddenly and completely, why rabbits freeze when hawks circle overhead. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just purpose distilled into muscle and intent.
Your body tries—God, it tries. Scrambling backward, papers scattering, laptop sliding off your thighs to crack against the floor in what feels like slow motion. Three months of work fracturing into digital garbage as you crab-walk backward, palms slipping on photocopies, knee catching on your backpack hard enough to send you sprawling.
He crosses the space between you like it's nothing.
Like you're nothing.
His hand finds your throat before you've even processed standing, leather and pressure sending you backward into the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Old brick catches your hair, pulls it, but that barely registers against the feeling of being pinned like an insect, specimen for examination before disposal.
Both your hands fly to his wrist, fingernails catching on tactical fabric that won't give, won't move, won't budge. He's not crushing your windpipe—not yet—but the promise is there in the careful placement of his thumb, the calculated pressure that says I could, if I wanted to.
"Please—" It comes out thin, reedy. Your right hand abandons his wrist to push against his chest, trying to create distance that doesn't exist, will never exist. "I don't know what you—I'm nobody, I'm just—"
His head tilts. Minute. Considering. The eyes stay empty, stay cold, but something flickers there—assessment, maybe. Calculation. How long it will take. How quiet you'll be.
Your left hand keeps clawing at his grip while your right slides up his chest, finds the edge of his tactical vest, pushes uselessly at a shoulder that might as well be carved from stone. But the movement makes you stretch, makes your hand slip higher, past the collar of his gear, past the edge of the mask, until—
Your fingertips brush his jaw.
Skin against skin.
The world breaks apart.
Heat races from that point of contact like lightning seeking ground, if lightning could rewrite your DNA as it traveled. Every nerve ending lights up at once, not with pain but with recognition so profound it feels like drowning in reverse. Like every cell in your body suddenly remembers how to breathe.
His entire body locks. The hand at your throat spasms, loosens, and you hear him make a sound—sharp, bitten off, like someone just slid a knife between his ribs. Those empty eyes blow wide, pupils expanding until there's barely any gray left, and his chest heaves against your palm like he's just broken the surface after being underwater too long.
He rips the mask off with his free hand. Tears it away like it's burning him, revealing a face that makes your chest cavity feel too small. Sharp jaw, soft mouth, stubble that catches the shit fluorescent lighting and turns it into shadow. Beautiful in the way broken things can be beautiful, in the way that makes you want to cut yourself on the edges.
The leather glove at your throat disappears—he tears it off with his teeth, movements gone jerky and desperate where they were smooth before. Then his bare hand is cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence reserved for holy things, impossible things, things that might disappear if you breathe wrong.
He pulls you forward, or maybe he falls into you—either way, your foreheads meet in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His breath fans across your face, ragged and hot, and you can feel him shaking. This man who moved like death incarnate thirty seconds ago is shaking.
"Oh," he breathes, and his voice—Christ, his voice is nothing like you imagined during those empty nights when the bond ached worst. Rough like he hasn't used it in years. Soft like he's afraid it'll break something. Accent pulling at the vowels in ways that make your chest hurt. "Oh, no. No, not—not like this."
You can't move. Can't think. Can't process anything beyond the electricity still racing through your veins, the place where his thumb traces your cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the architecture of your face through touch alone. Your hands are caught between you, one still fisted in his tactical vest, the other pressed flat against his chest where you can feel his heart hammering out a rhythm that matches yours.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes your throat close for reasons that have nothing to do with violence. Gray like winter mornings, like grief, like the moment before the sky breaks open.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, wrecked. His thumb catches the tear you didn't realize was sliding down your cheek, and the tenderness of it makes you want to scream. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't—I couldn't—"
"Who are you?" Your voice comes out destroyed, barely recognizable. The soul bond hums between you like a live wire, like coming home to a place that's on fire, and you don't know whether to run toward it or away.
His jaw works, muscles tightening and releasing like he's fighting something immense. When he speaks again, it's careful. Measured. Like each word costs him something irreplaceable.
"Someone who's going to disappear." His forehead presses against yours again, harder this time, desperate. Both hands frame your face now, holding you like something precious, something he's about to lose. "Someone who needs you to run. Now. Before—"
A sound echoes down the stairwell. Footsteps. Multiple sets.
The change in him is instant and terrible. The softness vanishes like it was never there, replaced by the same lethal efficiency that brought him here, but now there's something else in his eyes. Something that looks like anguish.
"Forgive me," he says, and before you can ask for what, his thumb finds a spot behind your jaw.
The world tilts. Your legs go liquid. But he catches you—of course he catches you—lowers you to the ground like you're made of spun glass while your vision tunnels to nothing.
The last thing you feel is his mouth pressed to your forehead, words whispered against your skin in a language you don't recognize but somehow understand.
I'll find you again.
I promise.
I'm sorry.
When security finds you four hours later, you have bruises on your throat that look like purple-black fingerprints, a concussion that makes the world swim, and no memory the EMTs will accept of how you ended up unconscious in a locked basement.
But you remember.
You remember the way his hands shook when he held your face. You remember the devastation in winter-gray eyes. You remember the electricity of recognition, the soul bond snapping into place only to be severed, leaving you with a phantom ache that feels like dying in slow motion.
There's a leather glove clutched in your fist that no one can pry from your fingers.
You tell them you don't remember where it came from.
You lie.
The world had always been divided into two types of people: those who'd found their match and those still waiting.
You'd grown up watching the found ones move through life with that particular brand of settled confidence, like they'd discovered some fundamental truth the rest of you were still stumbling toward.
Your mother used to tell the story at dinner parties, after her second glass of wine made her sentimental. How she'd been twenty-three, working at a bank in downtown Brooklyn, when a man came in to dispute an overdraft fee. Their hands touched when she passed back his paperwork. The bond snapped into place like a rubber band that had been stretched across decades, just waiting to contract.
She'd knocked over her coffee. He'd forgotten his own name for thirty seconds. They'd been married six months later.
"You just know," she'd say, fingers intertwined with your father's across the table. "It's like every cell in your body suddenly remembers what it was made for."
You'd wanted to believe her. Spent your eighteenth birthday waiting for that recognition to hit, for your body to suddenly make sense in a way it never had before.
But days turned to weeks turned to months, and all you felt was the same low-grade emptiness everyone without a bond carried—that constant, quiet ache of incompleteness.
By twenty-one, you'd stopped looking for it in every accidental touch.
By twenty-three, you'd convinced yourself you were one of the statistical anomalies. No bond. No match. Just you and your dissertation and a future that looked exactly like your present, only with better coffee and maybe tenure if you played your cards right.
The bruises have faded to sick yellow-green by the time you make it back to campus. Two weeks of medical leave that you spent staring at your apartment ceiling, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be made sensible. The official report sits in your email, cc'd to your advisor and the department head and probably half the university's legal team: Student found unconscious in library basement. Possible assault. No cameras functioning. Investigation ongoing.
You don't correct them. Don't mention the glove hidden in your nightstand drawer. Don't explain that the bruises on your throat match the exact span of fingers that had held your face like you were something holy, something worth breaking for.
Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget. The soul bond, severed as quickly as it formed, has left you feeling like someone hollowed out your chest cavity with a melon baller. It's worse than before—before was just absence. This is active loss. This is knowing exactly what you're missing.
The dreams start the first night home from the hospital.
Not nightmares—that would be easier. These are soft things that leave you gasping awake at 3 AM with tears on your face and your hand pressed to your cheek where he'd touched you. Dreams where those gray eyes find yours across impossible distances. Where his hands shake as they frame your face. Where he whispers apologies in languages you don't speak but somehow understand.
Sometimes you dream of snow. Of cold so profound it burns. Of a voice saying his name—names?—until there's nothing left but the mission.
Sometimes you dream of falling. Of a train that screams through mountain passes. Of reaching for something—someone—who's always just beyond your fingertips.
But mostly you dream of that moment. The mask coming off. The devastating gentleness of his forehead against yours. The way he breathed you in like his lungs hadn't recognized oxygen until then, like you were the first real thing he'd touched in decades.
You become an expert in lying about the nightmares. "Trauma response," you tell the university-mandated therapist. "Yes, I'm processing. No, I don't remember details. Yes, I feel safe on campus."
Lies. All lies.
You remember everything. The weight of him. The contrast between violence and tenderness that shouldn't have existed in the same person. The way the soul bond had sung between you for those impossible seconds—not the gentle hum your mother described, but something desperate and raw, like two halves of something broken trying to fuse back together.
The research starts three weeks after the incident. You tell yourself it's academic curiosity. Tell yourself you're not the first person to lose a soulmate before really finding them. There are support groups. Statistics. An entire subset of psychology dedicated to severed bonds and what they do to the human psyche.
Increased rates of depression. Anxiety. Insomnia. Some subjects report physical pain at the site of initial contact. Others experience what researchers call "phantom bond syndrome"—the persistent sensation of a connection that no longer exists.
You check every box. Feel him in every room you enter, just a second too late. Wake up with your hand pressed to your face, trying to hold onto the ghost of leather and gunpowder and something metallic you couldn't place then but can't stop tasting now.
The databases give you nothing. Facial recognition software turns up empty. You sketch what you remember of his face—strong jaw, soft mouth, eyes like winter—but it feels like trying to draw music, like something essential gets lost in translation.
"Maybe he was military," Katrina suggests over coffee that tastes like disappointment. She's trying to help, your best friend since undergrad, but she looks at you with the kind of careful concern reserved for people about to break. "Special ops or something. That would explain the tactical gear."
You don't tell her about the way he moved. Don't mention that special ops soldiers don't usually have metal arms—you'd felt it when he caught you, the strange whir of plates adjusting beneath the fabric. Don't explain that whatever he was, military doesn't quite cover it.
December bleeds into January. You submit your dissertation proposal late, blame the incident, receive an extension wrapped in sympathetic looks. The bruises are long gone but you wear scarves anyway, can't stand the feeling of air against your throat where his thumb had pressed.
Your google search history becomes a testament to obsession:
But late at night, when the world sleeps and you're alone with the ache that lives between your ribs, you pull out the glove. Run your fingers over worn leather that's been softened by use and something else—care, maybe. The kind of attention that comes from having nothing else to focus on.
It smells like winter. Like violence. Like the ghost of cologne that might have been nice once, before it mixed with gunpowder and fear and whatever else clings to people who move through the world like weapons.
You press it to your face and breathe deep, eyes closed, trying to summon those impossible seconds when he'd looked at you like you were salvation and damnation all at once. When his voice had broken on an apology for something you didn't understand. When he'd promised to find you again in words you shouldn't have been able to translate but did.
The bond throbs. Phantom pain for a phantom connection.
You fold the glove carefully. Place it back in the drawer. Go to bed knowing you'll dream of gray eyes and the kind of gentleness that only comes from people who've forgotten they deserve it.
Tomorrow you'll get up. Go to class. Pretend your chest doesn't feel like someone excavated it with rusty tools. Pretend you don't scan every face on campus, looking for winter eyes and a jaw that could cut glass.
But tonight, you let yourself remember. Let yourself feel the echo of his forehead against yours, the desperate press of his mouth to your skin, the way he'd held you like you were worth breaking the world for.
I'll find you again.
You touch your throat, the memory of leather and promise.
I'm waiting.
The asset doesn't fight anymore.
Hasn't for years. Learned the hard way that resistance only makes it worse—more voltage, longer sessions, deeper cuts into whatever remains of the person he might have been.
Better to go limp. Better to let them position him like a doll, open his mouth for the rubber guard, wait for the electricity to wash it all away.
The asset craves it sometimes. The blankness. The nothing. Easier than carrying the weight of what his hands have done.
But Bucky Barnes fights.
Screams himself raw before they get the guard between his teeth. Thrashes against the restraints hard enough to bend the metal table, to make the technicians step back with wide eyes because the asset never does this, hasn't done this in fifteen years, not since they perfected the chair's calibration.
"Hold him!" Pierce's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with irritation. "Get those restraints tightened before—"
Bucky's metal arm tears through the leather strap like tissue paper. Swings wild, catches a handler across the jaw with a crack that sends him spinning into medical equipment. Two more rush forward and he fights them with everything he has, everything he'd forgotten he could be.
Soft hands on his face. Bright eyes wide with recognition. The soul bond singing between them like coming home—
"No!" The word tears out of him, accent thick with desperation. Russian, English, something older—he doesn't know anymore, doesn't care. "Please—please, I can't—"
A needle finds his neck. Sedative, fast-acting, enough to drop an elephant. His knees buckle but he keeps fighting, keeps reaching for—what? The memory's already going slippery, falling through his fingers like water.
Someone. There was someone. Wasn't there?
"Interesting." Pierce circles him as four handlers wrestle him into the chair, voice clinical. "What happened on the mission? You terminated the target, but something affected you. The timeline's off by forty-three minutes."
Bucky's jaw works around the guard they're shoving between his teeth. Can't tell them. Won't tell them. But what is he protecting? The feeling's there—urgent, desperate, worth dying for—but the shape of it keeps shifting.
A face. Soft mouth parted in shock. The way she'd—
The electricity hits before he can finish the thought.
White-hot agony races through every nerve ending, bows his back against the restraints they've doubled, tripled. The scream locks in his throat, comes out as a sound that doesn't belong to anything human. But underneath the pain, worse than the pain, is the feeling of something essential being carved out of him.
Don't take her, some part of him begs. Take everything else, but not her, not this—
But the machine doesn't care about please. Doesn't care that he's crying—when did he start crying? The asset doesn't cry. The asset doesn't feel. But Bucky Barnes is sobbing, choking on the rubber guard as memories start to fracture and fade.
Her hand against his jaw. The world breaking open. Recognition so profound it rewrote thirty years of programming in seconds—
Another pulse. Stronger. Pierce has turned the dial past safety parameters, past sanity, past anything they've done before.
"Sir," one of the technicians ventures, nervous. "The readings—"
"Continue."
Forehead to forehead. Breathing her in. The apology scraping his throat raw because he'd never wanted to meet her like this, never wanted her to know him as a weapon first and a man second—
Gone. It's gone. He reaches for it, desperate, but there's only white noise where her face should be. Only the echo of something precious he'd held for minutes—hours?—seconds?—he doesn't know anymore.
The machine winds down. Silence except for his ragged breathing, the drip of something (blood? tears?) hitting the concrete floor.
"Asset."
He doesn't respond. Can't. There's something wrong with his chest, like someone reached in and scooped out everything that mattered.
"Asset."
Training kicks in where consciousness fails. His head lifts, eyes focusing with effort on the man in the suit. Pierce. Handler. The one who holds the leash.
"Ready to comply." The words come out broken. Mechanical. But correct.
"Mission report."
"Target eliminated. No witnesses." A pause. Something scratches at the back of his mind, urgent, important. But when he reaches for it there's nothing but static. "Extraction successful."
Pierce studies him, pale eyes narrowed. "And the deviation? You were off-schedule."
The asset blinks. Searches the white noise of his mind for an answer that makes sense. "Unexpected resistance. Handled."
"I see." Pierce doesn't look convinced, but he waves to the technicians. "Run a full cognitive recalibration. I want him stable before the next deployment."
They unstrap him eventually. He doesn't fight. Doesn't do anything but stare at his metal hand, trying to understand why it feels wrong. Why everything feels wrong. There's an ache in his chest that wasn't there before—or was it always there? He can't remember. Can't remember anything but the mission, the chair, the readiness to comply.
But that night, locked in cryo-prep, he dreams.
Fragments. Glimpses. A basement that smells like old paper and fear. Someone pressed against a wall, hands pushing at his chest. The feeling of skin against skin and the world exploding into color he didn't know existed.
He wakes with her ghost on his lips—no name, no face, just the shape of an apology in a language he's not supposed to know.
The asset reports for cryo on schedule. Lies still as they prep the chamber, ice already forming in the tubes that will freeze him until the next time he's needed. But as consciousness fades, as the cold takes him under, one thought persists:
Someone. There was someone. And I've lost them.
The machine hisses. Frost spreads across the glass.
The asset sleeps.
Bucky Barnes screams.
The Starbucks on 42nd doesn't have soul bonds on the menu, but they do have overpriced lattes and witnesses, which is why you're here instead of home, staring at your bedroom ceiling and trying to parse nightmares from memories.
Six months.
Six months of the glove under your pillow losing his scent. Six months of your advisor asking pointed questions about your "lack of focus" and your therapist prescribing sleeping pills that don't work because how do you medicate a severed soul bond?
How do you explain that you're mourning someone you knew for less than five minutes?
You're arguing with yourself about the merits of a fourth shot of espresso when the world explodes.
Glass shatters inward, the windows becoming a thousand diamonds catching afternoon light. Your coffee hits the floor—there goes eight dollars you don't have—as your body moves on instinct, dropping behind the counter with five other people who smell like fear and pumpkin spice.
Screaming. So much screaming. Cars screeching outside, the percussion of something that might be gunfire but sounds too wrong, too close, too real for a Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan.
You peek around the espresso machine and your heart forgets how to beat.
He's standing in the middle of the street like death dressed for winter. Same tactical gear, same casual violence, same way of moving that makes everyone else look like they're traveling through molasses. The mask covers the lower half of his face again, but you'd know those eyes anywhere. Have been seeing them every night for six months, after all.
A cop raises his weapon. The soldier—your soulmate, your ghost, your nightly torment—disarms him with an economy of motion that's almost beautiful. The crack of breaking fingers carries even through the shattered windows.
Get up, your brain screams. Run. Move. Do something that isn't standing here like a deer watching headlights come to claim it.
But your body has other plans. Your treacherous, soul-bonded body that recognizes his even across thirty feet of chaos and broken glass. You're moving before conscious thought catches up, stumbling through the destroyed storefront on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
This is stupid. Monumentally stupid. The kind of stupid that gets psychology PhD candidates killed in broad daylight. But your hand is already reaching, already grasping, because maybe—
Your fingers close around his wrist.
The barest slip of skin where his sleeve has ridden up, your thumb finding his pulse like it was made for nothing else. The connection slams through you—heat and recognition and yes, finally, yes—
The gun clatters to the asphalt.
His whole body goes rigid, that same terrible stillness from before. You watch his pupils dilate, watch six months of careful nothing shatter in his eyes as a stranger crashes back into existence.
He moves so fast you don't process it. One second you're standing there, thumb on his pulse, the next you're spinning, back slamming into his chest as his metal arm locks across your body. The gun—when did he pick it up?—presses cold against your temple.
You stop breathing.
Around you, cops and civilians alike freeze. Weapons lower incrementally because now there's a hostage situation, now there's a girl who was stupid enough to touch the Winter Soldier and—
"Name." His voice in your ear, so quiet you almost miss it under the sirens. That sound that had haunted your dreams, rougher now, desperate. "Your name. Please."
Your lips barely move, sound threading between heartbeats. You tell him, soft as a whisper.
The gun doesn't waver. To everyone watching, he's perfectly still, a predator considering prey. But his metal thumb moves against your bare arm where your shirt has ridden up. Gentle. Deliberate. Tracing letters maybe, or just feeling, and you wonder if he can—if there are sensors in the metal that let him—
"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." Each word careful, precious, pressed into the space below your ear like a secret. Like a gift. "Bucky. My name is Bucky. I won't remember, so I need you to—you have to remember for me."
James Buchanan Barnes.
It tickles something in your memory. A history class, maybe. Something about World War II, about Captain America, about—
"What have they done to you?" The words slip out, horrified, because the pieces are trying to fit together but the picture they're making can't be right, can't be possible—
"Find me." Urgent now. His realness, his hereness makes your chest ache with completion even as your mind screams danger. "When I—after they—find me. Please. I can't—"
His voice cracks.
The gun leaves your temple.
The crack of the shot makes you flinch, but it's the cop to your left who goes down, clutching his knee, screaming. Bucky shoves you—not hard, but enough to send you stumbling into the crowd as he moves the opposite direction, using the chaos as cover.
You hit the ground hard, knees cracking against asphalt, palms scraped raw. Around you, people scatter like startled birds. Someone's hands on your shoulders, pulling you back, asking if you're hurt, if you need medical attention.
You can't answer. Can't do anything but stare at the place where he'd stood, where he'd held you, where he'd given you his name like it was the only thing he had left to give.
Your arm throbs where his metal thumb had traced patterns. When you look down, you can see the faint red marks—not bruises, just pressure. Just proof.
"Miss? Miss, we need to get you checked out—"
"I'm fine." You're not. You're the opposite of fine. You're shattering in slow motion, held together by adrenaline and the phantom feeling of his chest against your back. "I'm—he didn't hurt me."
The EMT looks skeptical. "He held a gun to your head."
"He didn't hurt me," you repeat, and you're not sure who you're trying to convince.
They take you anyway. St. Luke's emergency room, where you spend four hours being poked and prodded and questioned by people who look at you like you might break or explode. The FBI shows up eventually, two agents in bad suits who ask the same questions fifteen different ways.
"Did he say anything to you?"
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
"No."
"Are you sure? Even something small could help."
Find me.
"He didn't say anything."
They don't believe you. You can see it in the way they exchange glances, the way their pens hover over notepads. But what are you supposed to tell them? That the most wanted man in America is your soulmate? That he gave you his name like a prayer? That even now, hours later, you can still feel the phantom press of metal against your skin?
They release you near midnight with a card and instructions to call if you remember anything. You take a cab home because the subway feels too exposed, too dangerous, like maybe he'll be there in the shadows between stops.
Your apartment is exactly as you left it. Laptop open on the counter, half a cup of cold coffee growing something ambitious by the sink. Normal. Safe.
Empty.
You sink onto your bed, still fully dressed, and pull out your phone. Your search history is already damning, but what's one more nail in the coffin?
James Buchanan Barnes
The results make your stomach drop.
Born 1917. Best friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America. Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Regiment. Fell from a train in the Alps in 1945. Presumed dead.
Except he's not dead. He's not dead because you touched him today, felt his pulse under your thumb, heard him breathing in your ear as he held you like something breakable and precious all at once.
You dig deeper. Past the official records, past the Wikipedia entries, into the conspiracy forums and leaked documents that only half-load on your shitty wifi.
The Winter Soldier.
HYDRA.
Seventy years of ghost stories.
An assassin who appears and disappears like smoke, leaving bodies in his wake.
Your soulmate is a century-old brainwashed assassin. Your soulmate is Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945. Who didn't die. Who was turned into something else, something violent and beautiful and dangerous.
Who fights back to consciousness every time you touch him only to be dragged under again.
What have they done to you?
You close your laptop. Lie back on your bed, fully clothed, and stare at the water stain on your ceiling that looks like a rabbit if you squint. Your arm still throbs where he touched you. Traced letters, maybe, or just—
You bolt upright.
Grab a pen, try to recreate the pattern from memory on your other arm. It takes three tries before the movements feel right, before the shapes resolve into something recognizable.
Numbers.
He'd traced numbers on your skin. Coordinates.
Find me, he'd said.
Your hands shake as you type them into your phone. A location upstate, middle of nowhere, the kind of place where no one would look twice at an abandoned building or hear the screams from underground.
You should leave it alone. Should forget his name, forget the numbers, forget the feeling of being whole for thirty seconds in the middle of chaos. Should be smart and safe and boring and alive.
Instead, you screenshot the location. Book a rental car for tomorrow. Pack a bag with things that might matter—the glove, pepper spray that won't do shit against a super soldier but makes you feel better, a first aid kit you probably won't get the chance to use.
Find me.
You're going to. God help you, you're going to find James Buchanan Barnes.
Even if it kills you.
(It probably will.)
(You're going anyway.)
The HYDRA facility squats in the pre-dawn darkness like something that crawled out of the Cold War and forgot to die. You're crammed in the back of a tactical van between enough weaponry to level a city block and Captain America's guilt, which somehow takes up more space.
Forty-eight hours. That's all it took from wine-drunk-email-to-vague-Avengers-PR-listing to this—body armor that doesn't fit right, your heart hammering against ceramic plates, and the ghost of coordinates still throbbing on your arm where he'd traced them.
"Two minutes to insertion." Natasha's voice crackles through comms you're not supposed to have. But Steve had insisted, jaw set in that way that apparently nobody argues with. Not even Fury.
Steve Rogers had shown up at your door with Natasha Romanoff and Nick Fury, your roommate had screamed in her towel, and you'd told them everything. About the library. About the way Bucky's entire being had shifted when you touched him, like watching someone break the surface after drowning.
About how he'd held you in that Starbucks, whispered his name against your ear like a secret, like salvation, like the only thing he had left that was his.
Steve had gone very, very still. Then: "We're finding him. We're bringing him home."
Now he's sitting across from you, shield balanced against his knee, and you can see why people follow him into impossible situations. It's not the shoulders or the jaw or the way he fills out tactical gear like he was born to it. It's the way he looks at you—not through you, not around you, but at you. Like you matter. Like your connection to his best friend makes you worth protecting.
"Remember," he says quietly, pitched below the engine noise. "The moment we find him, the moment you make contact—"
"I know." Your fingers won't stop moving, tracing and retracing the numbers Bucky left on your skin. "Skin contact. Bring him back." Don't let go."
What you don't say: What if it doesn't work this time? What if they've wiped him too many times? What if whatever's left isn't enough to—
The van stops.
Everything happens too fast after that. Doors flying open, bodies moving with practiced precision, you stumbling to keep up as Steve's hand on your elbow guides you through pre-dawn shadows toward a concrete mouth that looks like it's waiting to swallow you whole.
The facility is worse inside. All industrial fluorescents and that particular kind of silence that sounds like screaming if you listen too hard. Your soul bond, quiet for months, starts to ache with proximity—a deep, bone-level recognition that makes your teeth chatter.
"Southwest clear." Someone else, call sign you didn't catch.
"Movement in the lower levels." Another voice. "Looks like they're mobilizing—"
A sound cuts through the chatter. Not quite human. Not quite animal. Something between a scream and static that makes your hindbrain light up with warnings to run.
Steve's already moving. "That's him."
You follow because what else can you do? Down stairs that smell like rust and terror, through corridors that branch like diseased arteries. The ache in your chest intensifies with each level down, soul bond pulling taut as piano wire.
Then—
The room opens before you like a wound. Medical equipment that belongs in museums next to things that belong in nightmares. And in the center, strapped to a chair that looks more like an electric chair than anything medical—
"Bucky." Steve's voice breaks on it.
He's shirtless, sweat-slick and shaking, with enough electricity running through him to light up half of Brooklyn. His hair hangs limp around his face, and even from here you can see the way his muscles lock and release in waves as current pulses through the chair. Fresh burn marks lattice across his chest where the nodes attach, and there's blood—so much blood—dripping from where he's fought against the restraints.
There are bodies on the floor. Technicians, by their white coats. The blood is fresh enough to still be spreading.
"Stay back." Natasha has her weapon trained on him, all business. "He's still the Winter—"
Bucky's head snaps up.
His eyes find yours across twenty feet of blood and machinery.
Time stops.
Those aren't the empty eyes from the library. Aren't the desperate clarity from the coffee shop. These are something else entirely—feral and frightened and so fucking broken under all that damage. He looks like something that's been torn apart and reassembled wrong, like an animal that's been in a cage so long it's forgotten what sky looks like.
You're moving before conscious thought catches up. Dodging Steve's reaching hand, slipping past Natasha's outstretched arm. Your feet slip in blood—whose blood? His? Theirs?—but you don't stop. Can't stop. The soul bond is screaming, every cell in your body reaching for its other half.
"Don't—" Someone shouts. Might be Steve. Might be God himself. Doesn't matter.
Because Bucky's watching you approach with the kind of stillness that precedes violence. His metal arm—and this close you can see how it's grafted to flesh, red and raw and infected at the edges—flexes against the restraints. The leather creaks. His chest heaves with each breath, and there's a wild look in his eyes like he can't decide if you're real or another torture.
You collapse on the arm of the chair. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, and this close you can see old scars layered on new ones, a roadmap of decades of damage. Seventy years of this. Seventy years of being unmade and remade into something sharp and wrong.
Your hand reaches up, slow as you'd approach a wounded animal.
He flinches.
Actually flinches, this assassin who's probably felt every kind of pain there is. A sound escapes him—small, wounded, barely human. But when your fingertips brush his cheek—skin to skin, that electric recognition—his whole body convulses.
"Oh," you breathe, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, it's everything. Because the bond slots into place like coming home if home was a person who'd been carved hollow and filled with ghosts.
His eyes clear incrementally. Pupil contraction, focus sharpening, and then—
The noise that tears out of him is inhuman. Seventy years of grief and rage and desperate loneliness condensed into a single sound that makes your bones ache. His metal hand shatters the restraint like tissue paper, then the flesh one, and before you can process the movement he's dragging you up, up, into his lap, crushing you against his chest with desperate strength.
"You," he's saying, over and over, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "You, you, you—real, you're real, you're—"
His hands are everywhere at once. Metal fingers tangling in your hair, flesh hand splayed across your back hard enough to bruise, holding you like you might dissolve if he loosens his grip for even a second. He buries his face in the curve of your neck and the sob that escapes him is pure agony, seventy years of touch starvation hitting him all at once.
You can feel him shaking—no, not shaking, convulsing, like his body doesn't know how to process gentle touch anymore. Doesn't know what to do with softness after decades of nothing but pain.
"I'm here," you whisper against his temple, your own tears falling freely. "I'm real. I found you. I've got you."
His response is to hold you tighter, tight enough that breathing becomes difficult, but you don't care. Can't care when he's falling apart in your arms like this. The metal hand fists in your tactical vest and you hear fabric tear, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's pressing his face harder into your throat, breathing you in like you're air and he's been suffocating for seventy years.
"Thought I dreamed you." The words come out destroyed, muffled against your skin. "They said—they said I made you up. That the pain was making me see things. But you smell real. You feel—" His flesh hand slides up to cup the back of your head, holding you in place. "Please be real. Please, please be real."
"I'm real." You press your lips to his temple, just a brief touch of comfort. "James Buchanan Barnes, you're real and I'm real and I found you."
His breath hitches at his full name, and suddenly he's pulling back just enough to look at you. This close, you can see everything—the burst blood vessels in his eyes, the way his pupils can't quite focus, the decades of accumulated scars. He looks ancient. He looks young. He looks absolutely shattered.
"Don't know who that is anymore." Raw honesty, delivered while his thumbs trace your cheekbones with desperate reverence. "Don't know who I am when I'm not killing. When they're not—" He breaks off, jaw working. "I've been empty for so long. So fucking long. And then you touched me and I remembered what it felt like to be human and they took it away—"
"They can't take it away again." You frame his face with your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "We're leaving. Right now. Together."
"You don't understand." He's crying openly now, no shame in it, just pure emotional overflow. "Seventy years. Seventy fucking years of this chair, this room, these walls. They put me in the dark and take me out to kill and put me back and I can't—when they say the words, I disappear. Everything disappears."
"Then we don't let them say the words."
"I've killed so many people." He presses his forehead to yours hard enough to hurt, but the contact seems to calm something in him. "Children. Civilians. Good people. Bad people. So many I lost count. The things they made me do—the things I did—"
"I don't care."
"You should." His metal hand comes up to wrap around your throat, gentle but present. "This hand has strangled innocent people. These fingers have pulled triggers that ended lives. I'm not—I'm not good. I'm not worth—"
"Stop." You turn your head to press your lips to his metal palm, and the sound he makes is pure agony. "You're worth everything. You're my soulmate. You're—"
He makes a broken noise and crushes you against him again, like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. His whole body trembles with the effort of holding you close enough, like no amount of contact will ever be sufficient after seventy years of nothing.
"They're gonna wipe me again." Matter-of-fact. Resigned. "Soon as they realize what happened here. They always do. And I'll forget you again. Forget this. And next time—" His voice breaks. "Next time they'll make sure I can't touch you. They'll find ways to hurt you through me. They'll make me—"
"No." Your hands tighten on his face. "No, they won't. We're leaving. Steve's here. Natasha. We're getting you out."
"Stevie?" For the first time, his eyes flicker past you, landing on his best friend. The confusion there is heartbreaking. "But you're—you're supposed to be—"
"Hey, Buck." Steve's voice is thick with emotion. "It's me. It's really me. We're taking you home."
But Bucky's already looking back at you, like he can't bear to look away for more than seconds. His flesh hand hasn't stopped moving—tracing your face, your neck, tangling in your hair like he's trying to memorize you through touch alone.
"I don't want to forget again." It comes out small, broken. "Please. I can't do it again. Can't lose you again. It'll kill me. It'll—"
"You won't forget." You shift in his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and he makes a sound like you've given him salvation. "I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you anymore. I promise."
"We need to move." Natasha's voice, soft but urgent. "Security response in two minutes."
Steve's at your side instantly, but when he reaches for Bucky, the soldier flinches back violently, metal arm coming up in defense. The only thing that keeps him from lashing out is your hand on his chest, your voice in his ear.
"It's okay. It's Steve. He's safe. He's here to help."
"Can you walk?" Steve asks, careful to keep his distance.
Bucky nods against your shoulder, but when you try to move off his lap, his arms lock around you with desperate strength.
"No." Panicked. "No, please. Need to—need to touch—"
"I'm not going anywhere." You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into it like a cat. "We're walking out of here together. But you have to let me stand up."
It takes visible effort for him to loosen his grip. When you stand, he follows immediately, swaying slightly. He towers over you even hunched with exhaustion, and when his hand finds yours, it's with the grip of a drowning man finding driftwood.
You start moving as a unit, but Bucky can't stop touching you. His free hand keeps finding your face, your hair, your shoulder, like he needs constant confirmation you're real. At one point he stops entirely, pulls you back against his chest, and just breathes you in for several seconds while Steve and Natasha stand guard.
"Left," he says suddenly as you reach a junction, pulling you down a side corridor. "Service tunnel. I've—I've tried before. Three times. No. Four? They always—" His free hand comes up to his head, pressing against his temple.
"Hey." You squeeze his hand. "Doesn't matter. Which way?"
The service tunnel is narrow and dark. Bucky pulls you through it like muscle memory, but halfway through he stops, pressing you against the wall. His hands frame your face in the darkness.
"What if this isn't real?" Desperate. "What if I'm still in the chair? What if this is just another way they're breaking me?"
You reach up to cradle his face in return, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Does this feel like a dream?"
"No." He breathes the word against your mouth. "No, it feels—it feels like waking up."
The exit spills you out into pre-dawn forest. The quinjet looms out of the darkness, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes runs toward freedom instead of away from it.
But even on the jet, even safe, he can't stop holding you. He pulls you into his lap on the bench seats, ignoring the medical team, ignoring everyone, and just holds on. His face stays buried in your neck during takeoff, his arms locked around you like prison bars in reverse—keeping the world out instead of keeping him in.
"You're free," you whisper, over and over, like a prayer. "You're free. You're safe. You're mine."
"Yours," he agrees, and finally, finally, his death grip loosens just enough for you to breathe. "Yours. Always yours. Even when I couldn't remember. Even in the dark. Somehow I was always yours."
The sun breaks the horizon as you fly toward home, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes believes he might actually make it there.
The first time Bucky Barnes calls you at 3 AM, your body knows it's him before your mind catches up.
The phone vibrates against your nightstand, and your hand's already reaching, heart already racing—not with fear but with recognition. That soul-deep pull that's been your compass for three months now.
"Bucky?" Your voice comes out sleep-rough, concerned.
Just breathing on the other end. Ragged, like he's been running. Or fighting. The sound makes your chest tight.
"Can't—" His voice cracks like splintered wood. "Can't remember if the blood on my hands is from yesterday or a decade ago."
You're already moving, sheets tangling around your legs as you hunt for clothes in the dark. "Where are you?"
"Steve's. The Tower. I'm—" A shaky exhale that you feel in your own lungs. "I'm safe. Everyone's safe. Just needed—"
"Me." Not a question. The bond thrums with his distress, a phantom ache under your ribs. "I'm coming."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm coming."
Twenty minutes later, Happy's pulling up to the Tower's private entrance. You're wearing the first things your hands found—pajama shorts with snowflakes on them that you stole from your roommate, one of Bucky's hoodies that still smells like him (cedar and gunpowder and something indefinably him).
The elevator ride feels eternal. Your skin prickles with proximity, the bond pulling taut as you rise through the floors. By the time JARVIS deposits you on the residential level, your hands are shaking with the need to touch him, to soothe whatever's tearing him apart.
You find him on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest like he's trying to make himself smaller. His metal hand is clenched so tight you can hear the recalibration whirs, flesh hand buried in his hair. Steve hovers nearby, hands opening and closing like he wants to help but doesn't know how.
"Buck," you breathe.
His head snaps up, and oh—his eyes are winter-wild, pupils blown with panic, caught in some liminal space between then and now. You watch him catalog you in pieces: face, voice, the way you're already moving toward him like gravity's reversed its pull.
You don't speak. Don't need to. Just fold yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that the line of your body presses against his from shoulder to hip. His flesh hand finds yours immediately, desperate, fingers lacing between yours like maybe if he holds tight enough he won't drift away.
The effect is immediate—a full-body shudder, his breathing starting to sync with yours. The bond hums, warm honey spreading through your veins. Steve makes a sound—relief wrapped in something more complicated—and quietly retreats.
"Sorry," Bucky murmurs after a moment. His thumb finds your pulse point, traces it like he's counting heartbeats. "Shouldn't have woken you."
"Yes, you should have." No reproach, just fact. "That's what this is."
He turns to look at you then, really look, and you watch him surface by degrees. His metal hand comes up without conscious thought, fingertips ghosting along your jaw with impossible gentleness. The cool metal makes you shiver, but you lean into it, letting him map the reality of you.
"There you are," he whispers.
Something fractures inside you. He pulls you in—careful, always so careful with you—until your foreheads touch. His breathing ghosts across your lips, and you stay suspended in that space, sharing air and warmth and the indescribable thing that ties soul to soul.
It becomes your new normal.
The calls come at all hours. Sometimes Steve's the one calling, voice carefully controlled: "Can you come? He's asking for you." Sometimes it's Natasha, brusque but not unkind: "Barnes needs you." Once, memorably, it's Tony: "Your touch-starved assassin is having a moment. Also, he may have broken my espresso machine."
You always go.
The team adapts to your presence like you're a new piece of furniture—necessary, functional, occasionally in the way. You learn to read Bucky's tells from across a room: the way his eyes go distant when memory bleeds through, the micro-flinches when sound becomes too much, the careful way he holds himself when he's fragmenting.
But more than that, you learn the language his body speaks when it's seeking yours.
He's always careful at first, tentative as a feral cat learning to accept kindness. A brush of fingers, testing. The barest press of his palm to yours. But once that first contact is made, something in him unravels.
He touches you like he's mapping a new world.
It starts innocuous enough—fingers tangled together during movie nights, his thumb painting absent patterns on your wrist. His hand finds the small of your back when you walk, not possessive but anchoring, like he needs proof you're real. He pulls you between his knees when he's sitting, arms banding around your waist, chin notching over your shoulder while you chat with Sam about nothing important.
But as weeks become months, the touches grow bolder. Hungrier.
"Does it bother you?" he asks one afternoon.
He's had a brutal therapy session—three hours of guided recall that left him shaking and grey-faced. You'd spent the past hour with his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair while he pieced himself back together. His flesh hand has found its way under your shirt, palm spread wide over your ribs, and his metal fingers trace delicate patterns on the inside of your wrist.
"Does what bother me?"
"This." He gestures vaguely at the negative space between you that stopped existing weeks ago. "How much I need—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "How I can't stop touching you."
The question deserves honesty, so you give it consideration. Think about how your life has restructured itself around these points of contact. How you've started wearing layers just so there's always fabric to push aside, skin to find. How your body anticipates his touch now, turns toward him without conscious thought.
"No," you say finally. "It doesn't bother me."
He studies your face with those searching eyes, looking for the polite lie. You let him look, keeping your expression open.
"I've been thinking," you continue, adjusting so you can see him better. His hand immediately shifts, fingers splaying wider across your ribs like he needs more contact to make up for the movement. "About touch. About deprivation."
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
"Seventy years," you say softly. "Seventy years where touch meant pain. Programming. Violence. Where hands on you meant—"
"Stop." Rough. His hand presses harder against your ribs, feeling your heartbeat.
"—so is it any wonder you're hungry for something else? Something good?"
His exhale shudders out of him. "The doctors say it's codependence."
"The doctors haven't had their souls systematically unmade and remade." You cover his flesh hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your skin. "You're not codependent, Bucky. You're human. You're healing. And if touch helps—"
"It's not just that it helps." The words come out jagged, confessional. "I want—" His metal hand comes up, traces the line of your throat with one careful finger. "I want to touch you all the time. Want to know the texture of every inch of your skin. Want to map you like territory, like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
Heat pools low in your stomach, but you keep your voice steady. "Like what?"
"Like you're mine." Barely audible. His eyes won't meet yours. "Like I have any right to—"
"You do." You turn into him more fully, catch his face between your palms. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch like a man starved. "You have every right. We're soulmates, Bucky. That means something."
"What if I never get better?" Raw, honest. "What if I always need this? Need you?"
"Then you'll always have me."
His eyes snap open, winter-blue and desperate. "You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
The trial is excruciating. You watch from designated seating as Bucky sits statue-still, hair pulled back severe, wearing a suit that makes him look like someone else entirely. They read names, show photographs, detail missions that exist in his memory like shattered glass—some pieces clear, others reflecting nothing but blood.
The days he testifies, he comes to you after.
Never speaks about it. Just shows up at your door looking hollowed out, and you let him in without questions. He wraps himself around you like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world, face buried in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.
These are the times his hands grow bold.
Not inappropriate—never that. But searching. He maps you like a cartographer charting new territory. Palms skimming your sides, memorizing the curve of waist to hip. Fingers tracing the ladder of your ribs through thin fabric. Metal thumb finding the hollow of your throat where your pulse flutters hummingbird-quick.
"I need—" he'll say against your skin, words muffled and desperate.
"I know," you always answer. "Take what you need."
So he does. His flesh hand slips under your shirt, finds the warm plane of your stomach, spreads wide like he's trying to absorb your steadiness through osmosis. His metal fingers trace patterns on whatever skin he can find—the inside of your wrist, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.
Sometimes you'll find his hand at your sternum, metal fingers splayed over your heartbeat like he's using it to calibrate his own. Sometimes he'll trace the boundary where clothing meets skin, fingertips ghosting under hems and necklines but never pushing further, just needing to know there's softness underneath, that not everything in the world has sharp edges.
"Is this okay?" he asks every time, even as his touch grows more familiar, more certain.
"Yes," you answer every time, even as your skin heats and your breath catches and you want—
You want.
"So are you two fucking yet?"
You choke on your coffee, hot liquid searing your throat. Across the kitchen, Bucky's shoulders go rigid where he's making eggs with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing explosives.
"Tony," Steve says, warning clear in his voice.
"What? It's a legitimate question. All that touching, the eye-fucking across every room, the way Barnes goes feral if anyone else so much as—"
"We're not." Your face burns. "That's not—we haven't—"
Tony's eyebrows achieve escape velocity. "You're telling me you've been playing the world's most intense game of grabass for three months and haven't—"
"Stark." Bucky's voice is winter-quiet, dangerous in the way that makes smart people reevaluate their life choices.
But Tony's never been accused of survival instincts. "I'm just saying, that level of sexual tension could power—"
The plate in Bucky's metal hand shatters.
Silence rings out, broken only by the drip of egg yolk hitting tile.
"I'll just." Tony backs toward the door, hands raised. "Workshop. Important things. Very important things."
He's gone before anyone can blink, leaving you, Bucky, and Steve in a kitchen that suddenly feels airless. Bucky stares at the ceramic shards in his hand like they've personally betrayed him.
"Buck—" Steve starts.
"I need air."
He's out the door before you can process the movement, leaving you with cooling eggs and Tony's words hanging in the air like smoke.
Steve sighs, the sound of a man who's aged a century in the last minute. "He's an idiot. Tony, I mean. Though Buck's also—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "This is none of my business."
"But?"
"But." Steve fixes you with those earnest eyes that probably ended wars. "He thinks he's protecting you. From himself. From what he's done. He doesn't think he deserves—" A gesture encompasses you, the kitchen, the entire situation.
"That's not his decision to make."
"No," Steve agrees. "But when has that ever stopped him?"
You find Bucky on the roof because of course that's where he goes. He's sitting on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.
"Most people have their existential crises at ground level," you say, settling beside him carefully.
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Most people haven't fallen off a train."
"Fair point."
The city spreads below like a circuit board, all light and movement and life. Without looking, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with the ease of long practice. The bond settles, that constant thrum of rightness that comes with skin meeting skin.
"Tony's not wrong," he says eventually.
You wait, let him find the words in his own time.
"I think about it." His voice is carefully controlled, but you can feel the tremor in his hand. "Touching you. Not just—not just to ground myself. Not for the bond. I think about touching you because I want to. Because you're—"
He stops. His throat works, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. "Because you're beautiful. And kind. And you laugh at my terrible jokes even when they're not funny. You come when I call at 3 AM. You let me put my hands on you even though these same hands have—"
"Bucky—"
"I dream about it." The confession comes out raw. "Dream about kissing you. About how you'd taste. How you'd feel. Wake up with your name in my mouth and my hands reaching for you, and it's not about the bond, it's about—" He turns to look at you then, eyes dark with something that makes your breath catch. "It's about how much I want you. How much I want things I have no right to want."
"What if," you say, voice steadier than your pulse, "I want those same things?"
His breathing stutters. "You don't. You can't."
"Don't tell me what I want." You turn toward him fully, free hand coming up to his jaw. He leans into it helplessly, eyes falling closed. "I know exactly what I want. Who I want."
"I'm held together with duct tape and trauma," he says, but his resolve is crumbling. You can see it in the way he presses harder into your palm. "I can't take you on normal dates. Can't promise I won't have panic attacks. Can't even sleep through the night without—"
"I don't want normal." Your thumb traces his cheekbone, feels him shudder. "I want you. Every piece, every edge, every nightmare and bad day. I want the man who hums old songs when he thinks no one's listening. Who makes terrible eggs but keeps trying. Who touches me like I'm something precious and looks at me like I'm a miracle."
"You are," he breathes. "You're—"
You kiss him.
Or maybe he kisses you.
Maybe you meet in the middle, drawn together by forces older than choice.
The first press of lips is tentative, a question asked and answered in the same breath. His flesh hand comes up to cradle your face, and the tenderness of it makes your chest ache. But then you make a sound—small, needy—and something in him breaks.
Or maybe something in him finally fixes itself.
His metal arm bands around your waist, pulls you against him with desperate strength. The kiss deepens, and oh, you understand now why people write symphonies and wage wars. Because Bucky Barnes kisses like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been starving for seventy years and you're sustenance, like maybe the universe knew exactly what it was doing when it tied your souls together.
He kisses you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.
His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him without thought, and the sound he makes—broken, grateful—sends heat racing down your spine. He tastes like coffee and something indefinably him, and you chase that taste deeper, hands fisting in his shirt.
He doesn't surface for air. Doesn't pause. Just tilts his head to find a better angle and kisses you deeper, harder, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the texture of your sighs. His metal hand spans your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, while his flesh hand maps your face, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth devastates you.
You're half in his lap now, twisted awkwardly on the ledge, and you don't care. Can't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth, the way he groans when you nip at his lower lip, the way his hands shake where they hold you.
"Wanted this," he gasps against your mouth, not pulling back enough to actually stop kissing you. "Wanted you. Before I even knew you. So long, so fucking long—"
You answer by sliding your hands into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he shudders against you, kiss going a little sloppy and desperate. He's not cold, not controlled, not careful. He's burning, pressing against you like he wants to fuse at the molecular level, like the soul bond isn't enough and never could be.
When you finally break apart—only because oxygen is apparently necessary—you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, eyes dark and dazed. You probably look the same. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him trembling against you, all that careful control finally, beautifully shattered.
"Okay?" His voice is destroyed, rough like he's been screaming.
"So far past okay," you manage. "Though your timing—we're on a roof, Barnes."
He laughs, the sound surprised out of him, and presses kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, the corner of your mouth like he can't quite stop now that he's started. "Sorry. I'll plan better next time."
"Next time?" You're going for teasing but it comes out breathless, hopeful.
His eyes find yours, and the intensity there steals any words you might have had. "Every time. Any time. All the time, if you'll—if you want—"
You press your mouth to his again, swallowing whatever self-deprecating thing he was about to say. He makes a noise of pure relief and hauls you closer, and you think maybe Tony Stark has exactly one good point in his entire existence.
Not that you'll ever tell him.
**
The science had been clinical, sterile words on a page that you'd skimmed in college while nursing a hangover and trying to make sense of your Behavioral Psych reading.
Academic language that utterly failed to capture this—Bucky's mouth hot and slick and desperate against your throat while his hands relearn territory they've been mapping under cotton and denim for months, each touch sending electricity racing down your spine like lightning seeking ground.
"Fucking finally," he growls against your pulse point, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin into bone, into the very marrow of you. His metal hand spans your ribs, each individual plate recalibrating against your skin with tiny whirs and clicks, like even the machinery of him is trying to get closer.
"You know what it's been like? Having you close enough to smell, to taste in the air, but not—Christ, the way you tremble each time I touch you, like you're starving for it—"
You try to form words but he's already peeling your shirt away with hands that shake despite their practiced efficiency, and the first full press of his bare chest to yours—scarred skin against soft, furnace heat against cool air—whites out anything resembling higher thought.
The soul bond doesn't just sing—it screams, every nerve ending recognizing its other half and lighting up like a constellation, like a neural map catching fire.
"Oh," you gasp, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, but Bucky goes rigid above you like you've shot electricity straight through his spine.
"Yeah," he agrees, voice absolutely wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, dog tags dragging cold metal across your overheated chest as he pants against your skin, each exhale making you shiver. "Yeah, that's—fuck, is it always gonna feel like this? Like touching a live wire, just—"
"More," you manage, arching into him until there's no space left between your bodies, and you feel his control splinter like ice under pressure.
His mouth finds yours again, hungry and graceless, all that careful restraint from months of chaste touches finally, blessedly gone. His tongue slides against yours and you taste coffee and something metallic—blood maybe, from where he's been biting his lip. When you nip at his bottom lip he makes a sound like something wounded, something primal, hips rolling into yours with zero finesse, just pure need, his cock hard and insistent through too many layers of fabric.
"Sensitive," he warns against your mouth, but it comes out more like a plea, like he's begging you to understand. "Everything's dialed up to eleven, I can—I can hear your blood moving in your veins. Can feel every place you're warm and wet and—fuck—" His whole body shudders when you rake your nails down his back.
Your fingers find the scarred terrain of his back and he actually whimpers, muscles rolling under your touch like water, like something liquid and desperate. That's when the second revelation hits: whatever you're feeling, he's feeling it magnified. Seventy years of sensory deprivation plus enhanced everything plus a soul bond that's been stretched taut for months—
"Gonna lose my mind," he mutters, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, anywhere he can reach, leaving wet trails that cool in the air and make you shiver. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin and you gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily. "Already lost it. Lost it the second you touched me in that library. Do you know? Do you have any fucking idea what it's like, having someone reach inside your skull and turn all the lights on? Like going from black and white to color, like—Jesus—"
His flesh hand fumbles with your pants, clumsy with urgency, while his metal hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks—and god, you hope it does, hope you wear his fingerprints for days. The button pops free and he makes a victorious sound that might be funny if you weren't so desperate, if you weren't already so wet you can feel it soaking through your underwear.
His hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath elastic, and when he finds you soaked and swollen, the noise that punches out of him is pure animal—a growl that starts in his chest and rumbles through both your bodies where they're pressed together.
"Christ." His fingers slip through wetness, exploratory and reverent, and you can feel the tremor in his hand. "This is—this is for me? You get like this just from—" He circles your clit with his thumb and you cry out, hips jerking. "Fuck, you're dripping. Can feel your pulse in your cunt, baby. So swollen, so ready—"
"From you," you gasp, grinding down against his hand as he slides two fingers inside without warning. The stretch makes you moan, makes your walls clench around him immediately. "Always from you. Only from you."
Something fractures in his expression—something raw and possessive and desperately vulnerable all at once. He hooks his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and watches your face like he's cataloging miracles, like he's mapping the geography of your pleasure. "Say that again."
"Only you." It comes out breathless, edged with desperation as he finds a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, has wet sounds filling the air between you. "Only ever you, Bucky, please—"
"No." His thumb finds your clit and circles with devastating precision, pressure just the right side of too much. "Not yet. Not when I've been imagining this for—do you know how many times I've jerked off in the shower thinking about this? About how you'd sound when you're desperate? How you'd taste?" He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and grins dark and feral when you sob. "Bet you thought about it too. Bet you touched yourself thinking about me, didn't you? Tell me."
"Yes," you admit, face burning, and his pupils blow even wider.
He drops to his knees between your thighs suddenly, metal hand holding you open like something precious, like an offering. The first swipe of his tongue has you jackknifing off the bed, but he just pins you down with his metal arm across your hips and does it again, slower, a long drag from entrance to clit that has you seeing stars.
"Fuckin' knew it," he groans against you, and the vibration of his voice makes you clench around nothing. "Knew you'd taste like heaven. Like mine. Knew you'd shake for me just like this." He spreads you wider with his fingers, looking at you with dark eyes. "So pretty. So perfect." He spits on your cunt, watching it mix with your wetness, and the filthy intimacy of it makes you moan. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna make it so you can't come without thinking of my mouth, my fingers, my cock."
His words dissolve into action, mouth working you over with single-minded focus. He eats you out like he's starving, like he's dying, all lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth. The soul bond makes it devastating—you don't just feel the physical sensation, you feel his hunger, his satisfaction at finally being allowed to give pleasure instead of pain. His metal fingers dig into your thigh hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, hope you wear his marks for days, hope everyone who sees them knows exactly who put them there.
"Close," you warn, though he probably knows—can probably taste it in the way your cunt's clenching, feel it in the bond that's gone molten between you. Your thighs are shaking, muscles pulled so tight they hurt, and there's a sound filling the room that you distantly realize is you, making noises you've never made before.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glossy with your wetness, chin soaked, eyes wild. "Yeah? You gonna come on my tongue? Gonna let me taste it?" He slides three fingers in, curling with devastating intent, and your back arches off the bed. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it up. Let me have it, don't be greedy."
You shatter with a sound that might be his name, might be pure noise. The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each crest higher than the last, and he works you through it mercilessly, not letting up even when you try to squirm away from oversensitivity. Through the bond you feel his echoing pleasure—not physical, not yet, but something bone-deep and satisfied and proud.
"Atta girl," he murmurs against your inner thigh, pressing kisses to sweat-slick skin while his fingers still move lazily inside you, drawing out aftershocks. "So fucking beautiful. Look at you, all fucked out and soft and mine. Could do this for hours. Will do this for hours. Keep you here, coming apart on my hands, my mouth, until you're so sensitive you cry, until you forget there was ever a time we weren't—"
"Bucky." You tug at his hair, need making your voice rough despite the orgasm still sparking through your nerves. "Get up here. Need you inside me. Need—"
He's moving before you finish, shucking his pants with graceless efficiency. The first glimpse of his cock—thick and long and leaking steadily—makes your mouth water and your cunt clench with fresh want. When you reach for him he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.
"Next time," he promises, reading your intent with unnerving accuracy. His voice is strained, like he's hanging on by a thread. "Let you taste me next time. Let you choke on it, fuck that pretty mouth until you're drooling, until—" He cuts himself off with visible effort, chest heaving. "But right now I need—if I don't get inside you in the next ten seconds I'm gonna fucking die—"
"So do it." You spread your legs wider, shameless, showing him how wet and open you are, how ready. "Come on, sergeant. Follow through."
His control snaps audibly. He's on you between one breath and the next, pinning you down with his weight, cock nudging at your entrance. The head catches on your rim and you both groan, but he stops there, trembling with effort, forehead pressed to yours.
"Look at me." It's not a request—it's a command, rough and desperate. You force your eyes open, meet his gaze—winter blue swallowed by black, raw and vulnerable and fierce. "Need to see you when I—need to know you're here, that you're real, that this is—"
"Real," you confirm, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to urge him forward. "I'm real. You're real. This is—oh fuck—"
He pushes inside in one long, devastating slide, and the world reconstitutes itself around this moment. Around the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him, around the broken sound he makes against your throat—half sob, half growl—around the soul bond lighting up like a supernova, like every nerve ending suddenly discovering what it was made for.
"Fuck." His metal hand grips the headboard hard enough to crack wood, splinters raining down. "Fuck, you're—tight. So fucking tight. Hot. Perfect. Can feel—God fucking damn, I can feel everything. Can feel how good it is for you, can feel how your cunt's trying to pull me deeper—" He shifts his hips and hits something devastating inside you, makes you clench around him involuntarily.
He laughs, breathless. "Yeah, right there. That's it, isn't it, baby? Right fucking there."
He moves experimentally, just a slow roll of hips, and you both moan at the drag of him inside you, at how your bodies fit together like they were made for this, only this. The angle is perfect—he's reading your body's responses in real-time, adjusting until every thrust has you climbing higher, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if you could think.
"Not gonna last," he warns, rhythm already getting ragged, desperate. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already there. "Not this time. Too much, too long waiting, too—the way you feel—" His flesh hand finds your throat, rests there warm and possessive, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse flutter. "Like velvet. Like coming home. Like I could fuck you forever and it would never be enough—"
"Don't care." You pull his head down, bite at his jaw hard enough to leave marks just to feel him shudder, to watch his control fracture further. "Just want you. Just need—"
"Tell me." His grip on your throat tightens fractionally, not enough to restrict breathing but enough to make you aware, to make you feel it. "Tell me what you need. Want to give you everything. Want to be so good for you, sweetheart. Want to make up for every night you went to bed empty when you should've been—"
"Full of you," you finish, and his hips stutter, lose rhythm entirely for a moment.
"Yeah?" His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling how fast your heart's racing. "That what you need? Need me to fill you up? Keep you full and fucked out and dripping with my come? Make sure everyone knows you're mine, that I'm the only one who gets to—"
"Yes." You're beyond shame, beyond anything but the building pressure where he's driving into you harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, obscene and perfect. "Yes, Bucky, please—"
"Say my name again." He's fucking you harder now, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously with each thrust. "Want to hear it when you come. Want to feel it when you—fuck, you're clenching around me, baby. You close? You gonna come on my cock? Gonna be good for me?"
You nod frantically, words lost to the slide of him inside you, the relentless pressure against that perfect spot, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. His metal fingers find your clit, cold against overheated flesh, and the contrast makes you scream.
"That's it," he growls, working your clit in tight circles while maintaining that punishing rhythm. "Come for me. Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel it, let me—fuck, there it is, I can feel it starting, you're getting so tight—"
You come with his name on your lips, back arching off the bed so hard you think you might snap in half. The orgasm slams through you like a freight train, like dying and being reborn, every muscle locking up as pleasure whites out your vision. The bond makes it circular—your pleasure slamming into him and reflecting back, amplified, until you're both shaking with it, until you can't tell where you end and he begins.
"Oh fuck—" His rhythm breaks entirely, becomes something desperate and animal. "Fuck, I'm gonna—gonna fill you up, gonna—"
"Inside." You dig your nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, hold him deep even as oversensitivity makes you want to squirm away. "Want to feel it. Want all of it."
He comes with a sound that's half your name, half prayer, half roar, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you. You feel it all—not just the physical sensation of his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, but the emotional avalanche through the bond. Relief and want and mine mine mine and something that feels dangerously close to devotion, to worship, to complete and utter belonging.
He fucks you through it, shallow little thrusts like he can't help himself, like his body won't stop even though he's already given you everything. Each movement makes more come leak out around his cock, makes wet sounds that have you hiding your face in his shoulder, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure.
The aftershocks last forever, little sparks of shared pleasure that have you both gasping, twitching, clutching at each other like lifelines. When he finally stills, he doesn't pull out, just shifts enough that his weight isn't crushing you, keeping you plugged full of him.
"Stay," he mumbles into your neck, words slurred like he's drunk. "Just—stay exactly like this. Please. Need to—need to keep you full. Need to know you're here, that this is real, that I get to—"
"Not going anywhere." You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, feel him shiver at the gentle touch after all that intensity. "Never going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Barnes."
His arms tighten around you, and you can feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with renewed interest. "Good. Because now that I know what this feels like, what you feel like—" He rocks his hips experimentally, and you both groan as you feel his come shift inside you, feel how wet and open you are. "We're not leaving this bed for a week. Gonna fuck you in every position I've imagined. Gonna map every inch of your body with my mouth. Gonna find out exactly how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop—"
"What about—"
He kisses you quiet, slow and thorough and filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth in a pale imitation of what his cock just did. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise and his cock is fully hard inside you again, enhanced recovery time making itself known.
"Nothing else matters," he says simply, starting to move again, slow and deep and devastating. You're so sensitive it borders on too much, but the soul bond floods you with his pleasure, his desperate need, and suddenly you're right there with him again. "Just this. Just us. Just how many times I can make you come before sunrise. How full I can keep you. How loud I can make you scream."
You clench around him involuntarily and his eyes flutter closed, hips stuttering.
"Gonna kill me," he mutters, picking up speed, the wet sounds even more obscene now with his come easing the way. "Seventy years of nothing and now—" A particularly deep thrust has you seeing stars. "Now I've got a soulmate who looks at me like I'm worth something, who touches me like I'm not a weapon, who lets me use her however I need—"
"Who loves you," you interrupt, watching his face crumble and rebuild itself, watching him fight back what looks suspiciously like tears.
"Yeah?" Barely a whisper, so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.
"Yeah." You pull him down for another kiss, pouring everything you can't say into the contact, letting him feel it through the bond. "So much. So long. Even before I knew you, I think I loved you. Think I was waiting for you."
He makes a broken sound and starts fucking you in earnest, like a man possessed, like he's trying to climb inside you and never leave. "Say it again."
"I love you."
"Again." Harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed.
"I love you, Bucky Barnes."
He fucks you like a promise, like a prayer, like maybe if he does it right the universe will let him keep this. You come apart under him again and again, until time becomes meaningless, until the only reality is where you're joined, where the soul bond burns brightest, where his come leaks out of you with each thrust only to be fucked back in, marking you inside and out as his.
When exhaustion finally claims you both, he's still inside you, still hard, wrapped around you like armor and apology all at once. You're going to be sore tomorrow—hell, you're sore now—but you wouldn't move for anything.
The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips against your temple, his voice rough with wonder and satisfaction:
"Love you too, sweetheart. More than I've got words for. More than I probably should. Gonna spend the rest of my life showing you, if you'll let me. Gonna take such good care of you. My girl. My soulmate. Mine."
"Yours," you mumble, already drifting, clenching around him one last time just to feel him shudder.
His arms tighten, and you feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with interest despite everything.
"Forever," he promises.
"Forever."
Outside, Brooklyn wakes to another morning, unaware that two souls have finally, fully, found their way home.
check out the bonus drabbles, loose threads & overkill♡
summary: All Joel Miller wanted was a cake from you, the town baker. All you wanted in return were a few items and to have a drink with him. Now, you’re naked in your bedroom, sitting on his face, getting eaten out like you’re the first real meal he’s had in years.
“Then ask me for what you really want.”
“You wanna come in and fuck me?”
“Only if you’ll let me take you out on a date tomorrow. I don’t do that casual, fuck buddy shit. You’re either mine, or nothin’ at all.”
pairing: Joel Miller/f!reader
rating: E (18+!!! No y/n, porn with some plot, explicit smut, Possessive Joel Miller, big-juicy-legal age gap, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, oral sex (f & m receiving), face sitting, woman on top, rough sex (arms pinned behind back, face shoved against bed), begging, dirty talk (so much), praise (a ton), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, breast worship, aftercare, reader is a lil bratty, feelings, pregnancy mention, Good Parent Joel Miller, sneaking around)
word count: 13.3k+
a/n: Hi! I missed Joel a lot, and as soon as he traded Legos for a cake, my ass was typing out this fic idea. I hope you enjoy my horny fever dream! Note: Halican Drops is a fake band. Sarah wears their band t-shirt in the first episode. I headcanon that they sound like Joan Jett & the Blackhearts. Title from "long story short" by Taylor Swift. Shoutout to @devineconjuring for betaing!
Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!
Masterlist
It’s a Tuesday in Spring, the sun due to set in the coming hour. The temperatures outside have begun to warm up, melting some of the snow high in the mountains. You’d already completed your shifts for the day in the community kitchen, assisting with making breakfast and preparing for lunch and dinner, which a majority of Jackson ate in the mess hall—you didn’t, instead opting to enjoy your food in the comfort of your apartment. With your evening meal finished and your dishes washed, you’re sitting on the couch in your living room listening to the soft tune of Nirvana playing on your record player—a new addition to your collection, their MTV Unplugged in New York album from ‘94—while darning the holes in all of your socks. There are two piles on the coffee table in front of you, one for the hole-y and the other for the now holeless.
A knock on your front door has you pausing, your eyebrows furrowing. You’re not expecting anyone tonight, as indicated by the oversized David Bowie concert t-shirt, lack of bra, and black leggings you’re wearing. “Coming!” you announce, leaning forward to set the sock and yarn on the tabletop before getting up and walking the short distance to the door. Turning the doorknob, you crack it open enough to see who’s there. To your surprise, it’s that handsome older gentleman who arrived in town a couple of months ago, whom you haven’t had the opportunity to introduce yourself to, but have definitely ogled. How could you not with how his flannels always hugged his broad shoulders and how good his jeans made his ass look. You take in what he’s wearing today—a red flannel shirt with dark denim on his bottom half. Your eyes meet his. “Can I help you?” you ask.
He gives you a sheepish smile that’s honestly adorable on such a rugged face. “I’m sorry for botherin’ you, ma’am. My name is Joel. Joel Miller, Tommy’s brother? I’ve been in Jackson a little while now, and I was told you’re the person to talk to if I’m in need of a cake.”
“Oh!” You open your door wider. “Yes, that’s me!” Quickly, you give him your name and offer your hand for him to shake, noticing immediately how much bigger his is when it practically engulfs your smaller one. It has your mind wandering, wondering what it’d feel like on other parts of your body. That thought heats your skin, and you feel a little disappointed when he lets go. “What kind of cake are you needing?”
“A birthday cake.”
“For your wife, or girlfriend?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “For my dau—kid,” he catches himself.
You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest, and you see his split-second glance at your breasts. You smile. “For your kid, who’s not your daughter.”
He sighs, his hands going to his hips. “It’s… complicated.”
“You adopt her?”
“Yeah.”
It was pretty common for people to take in orphaned children, especially here in town. As sad as it was, there have been instances of kids losing their parents or guardians on their way to Jackson who still managed to make it to the town’s walls, or who were found by patrols and brought in. Luckily, there was an abundance of couples and families willing to foster or adopt the children.
“How old is she turning?”
“Fifteen.”
“Got yourself a teen. How long has she been in your care?”
“Seven, eight months.”
“Ah, I understand the not-daughter thing now.” His kid is older, and their relationship is still relatively new. They’ve probably bonded but aren’t comfortable using father-daughter labels yet. “Just you and her?”
“Yeah.”
He’s single. That’s good to know.
“It’s sweet that you want her to have a cake for her birthday.”
He smiles fondly. “It’s her first.”
Handsome, polite, and loves his adopted child as if she were his own? He’s perfect, and it’s surprising no one has taken him off the market yet. Maybe you should shoot your shot. There aren’t a lot of guys like him in Jackson, and it wouldn’t hurt to try.
“That’s even sweeter,” you reply. “What’s her name?”
“Ellie.”
“A great name—simple and lovely. The last cake I made was for this woman’s husband, named Reginald. Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to spell out, ‘Happy Birthday, Reginald,’ on a cake the size of a small dinner plate?”
He looks amused. “Pretty hard?”
“Pretty fucking hard, Joel. I made it work, though, squishing the letters together. Do you have a preference if it’s chocolate or vanilla?”
“Uh, chocolate, I guess?”
“Okay, and when do you need it done by?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Short notice and chocolate—that’s gonna cost you extra.”
“That won’t be a problem. I used to be a smuggler. I can find somethin’ you’d want.” That’s how you’re paid, by bartering, goods, or favors.
“A smuggler, huh? If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from? Aside from Texas, I know Tommy’s a Texan.”
“Boston. The QZ out there.”
“Doing your smuggling, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not a chatty guy, are you?”
He huffs out a breath, looking down at his boots. “No, ma’am. I don’t have much to chat about.” His eyes land on yours again.
“That’s not true. You came all the way here from fucking Boston. You could tell me about your travels, Ellie, or hell, we could reminisce about the days before the world ended.”
He smiles, his weight shifting to one side. “Were you even alive back then?”
“I was.”
“You had to be young. A kid.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t mean I don’t remember the comic strips in the Sunday newspaper and how good fresh McDonald’s fries were.”
His eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. “Wow, I haven’t thought about McDonald’s in years.”
“What I’d give for some McNuggets and an apple pie.”
“Did you get some of the apple pie at dinner tonight?”
You smile. “I made the apple pie at dinner tonight.”
He matches your expression. “Did you? That tells me the cake is gonna be really fuckin’ good, then.”
The compliment makes you preen. “Thank you. My mom taught me how to bake before, you know.” The outbreak. “We had this old family recipe for peach pie that always won first place at the county fair.”
“If it was anythin’ like the pie tonight, I can see why.”
“Stop that,” you tease, waving away his words. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
His eyes dart away, clearing his throat. It must have been a while since he was last flirted with. He focuses on you again, changing the subject. “So, what kind of stuff do you want?”
“Ummm, let’s see. It’s her first cake, you’re a sweetheart, and I have all of the ingredients. How about records, movies, and booze?” Easy stuff for him to get. It’s basically the equivalent of a half-off discount. “Oh, and socks!” Yours have seen better days.
“Any records or movies? You’re not lookin’ for anythin’ specific?”
“Nope.” Any duplicates you receive, you’ll trade.
“What about alcohol?”
“I’m not picky. Whatever you have will do.” All that matters is that it’s safe to consume. Liquor is a hot commodity and a valuable bargaining tool.
“Okay.” He nods. “That’s not too bad. I appreciate you for bein’ so kind to me. I’ll have it all to you tomorrow.”
“Great! But there’s something else I want, too.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and he frowns. He thinks you’re trying to pull one over on him. “What else?”
“I’d like to have a drink with you.”
When every day could possibly be your last, there’s no point in playing coy. You’re going to go after what you want, unashamed.
Surprise shows on his face, clearly taken aback. “You want to have a drink with me…?” he says the words slowly, like he almost doesn’t believe them.
“Yes, I want to have a drink with you, Joel.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Why would a woman want to have a drink with you?”
He frowns. “It can’t be for the reason I’m thinkin’.”
“If you thought it’s to get to know you better because I’m interested in you, that is correct.”
That just makes him look confused. “Me? You know I’m old, right? Shit, I’m probably older than your parents.”
Your eyebrow lifts. “And? You’re an adult. I’m an adult. What does your age have to do with anything?”
His arms cross over his chest. “A lot, sweetheart. I don’t think you know what you’re askin’ for. I’m not a young buck anymore. I don’t have the energy of a boy your age. I’m old and broken. My fuckin’ ear doesn’t even work.” He points at the right one.
“So, you’ve got some wear and tear. I don’t care. I still want to have a drink with you. But hey, if you’re uncomfortable with that, then don’t worry about it. I’ll, of course, still make Ellie her cake for the stuff we agreed on.”
“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable. I’m flattered, really. I’m just havin’ a hard time understandin’ why you’re interested in someone as old as me. There’s gotta be guys closer to your age around here that’d love to have a drink with you. What I mean is you’re beautiful, and I know you can do a lot better than me.”
You smile. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes.” He nods. “But that’s beside the point.”
“Have you thought that maybe I like that you’re so much older than me?”
He stands up straighter, his interest piqued. “You got a thing for older men?”
“Now you’re getting it. I do have standards, so it depends on the man in question. In your case, you check all my boxes.”
His expression shows his curiosity. “What are you lookin’ for?”
“Someone caring, pleasant to talk to, not creepy, easy on the eyes, can hold their own, and fifties preferred; I’m willing to dip into the late forties if I have to.”
“Why is fifties preferred?”
“You really wanna know?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Okay. Men your age are great in bed, it’s as simple as that.”
“What makes them great?”
“You wanna know for later?”
You’re rewarded with a flirty little smirk. “Maybe.”
His answer thrills you. “Maybe, huh? I’ve found them to be very generous, and they seem to care that I’m having a good time, too, which is fantastic. They’re also the only ones who’ve ever gone down on me. The guys my age are always in a rush and generally care more about themselves than me. It sucks. So, men in their fifties are my preference.”
The explanation has his dark eyes getting even darker. Now that he’s aware of the extent of your interest in him, there’s a palpable shift between you, and it becomes clear that the attraction is mutual.
“And you’re not seein’ anyone currently…?”
“No. I’m single and very available, especially to you. Now do you wanna come in for a drink?” you ask, the door squealing as you push it open even more.
There’s no hiding that he’s contemplating your offer; it’s there on his face, probably warring with himself over the morality of the situation, and you get it. Given the significant age difference, there are many things he could be worrying about, which he needs to weigh the pros and cons of. At least it’s reassuring that he seems to have a conscience. You’re just hoping he chooses to give in to his desires.
It’s seconds later that he’s made his decision.
“No use in fightin’ it,” he says under his breath.
Joel sends the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy when he takes a step toward you, his hand going up onto the doorframe above your head. He leans in close, your faces only an inch apart, and you gulp at the proximity. “Only a drink?” he rasps. “Is that really all you want, sweetheart?” His eyes keep jumping from your eyeline to your mouth like it’s taking a lot for him not to kiss you.
“No,” you breathe.
“No, it’s not. Tell the truth. What do you want?”
“You.”
Excitement burns low in your belly. You can’t believe this is actually happening. You figured he might be okay with having a drink with you, but this? This is definitely better.
“Then ask me for what you really want.”
“You wanna come in and fuck me?”
“Only if you’ll let me take you out on a date tomorrow. I don’t do that casual, fuck buddy shit. You’re either mine, or nothin’ at all.”
A shiver moves down your spine, your heart pounding so hard you think it might beat right out of your chest. From that declaration, and his confidence, you know he’s got a big dick. Better yet, you’re almost positive he knows how to use it, too.
“Yes, I’ll go out with you, but I’m not yours until you show me why I should be.”
He smirks. “Is that right?”
“Yep,” you answer. Your palm presses to the front of his jeans, over his hardening cock, which you’re happy to find is rather sizeable.
It delights you how his eyes close, and he groans, “Fuck.” When they open again, there’s only the tiniest sliver of brown circling his blown pupils. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”
“Not up for the challenge?”
Joel growls, his lips suddenly on yours, kissing you hard. A surprised sound leaves your throat, but you’re quick to kiss him back, matching his fervor as you grab fistfuls of his shirt, tugging him into your house. His large hand is on your ass, the other shoving your front door closed before its cupping your cheek. Neither of you wants the kiss to end, your mouths staying fused as you walk backward until you bump into the arm of your couch. This is when you spin him, getting him around to the front of the sofa. You break apart as you push him, Joel falling back onto the cushions with a heavy, breathless thump.
Dust floats in a patch of evening light behind him as you stand there, your pulse hammering in your rib cage, your lips tingling. This man with lines etched into his face, carving out the years of grit, survival, and untold grief—no one is lucky enough to make it as far as he has without losses—he’s looking up at you like you’re the first beautiful thing he’s seen in a long, long time.
It’s electric and heavy all at once, like standing on the edge of something dangerous and good. What are you to do but jump headfirst into the abyss that has the potential to ruin you for anyone else?
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, ending the silence. “C’mere, baby.” He holds out his arms to you, and you’re like a moth to a flame—drawn to him, crawling into his lap without another word. Straddling his thighs, you take his stubbled cheeks into your palms and kiss him once more. He moans into your mouth, his big hands grabbing onto your ass, encouraging you to grind against the straining length in his jeans, the friction to your clit stoking the arousal in your center.
It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s not in a hurry to get you naked. He’s more interested in kissing you, delving his tongue between your lips to tangle with your own. It makes you assume he hasn’t been with a woman in quite a while, and he’s taking his time, luxuriating in your affections.
It goes on and on, until you hit a point where you need to come up for air, your mouth coming off of his to draw in a deep breath. He pants, kissing your chin and the underside of your jaw.
His hands go still. “Can I take your shirt off?” he asks, pulling back to look at your face. His lips are reddened and shiny from spit, his cheeks tinted in a pink flush.
You smile, your fingertips sliding through the hair above his ears. “Only if you take off yours, too.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t waste time. Joel grips the hem of your t-shirt, tugging it up and off your raised arms, letting it fall onto the floor. Your fingers start unbuttoning his flannel, while his attention is on your bared breasts that he caresses, his thumbs sweeping across the soft skin, your nipples tightening.
The last button is undone. “Off,” you order, pushing open his shirt. He sighs at being interrupted, but he does as you say, sitting up in his seat, jostling you as he shrugs off his flannel, the garment meeting the same fate as your t-shirt.
There’s no time for you to admire the newly revealed skin; he’s zeroed in on your tits again, his hands squeezing them gently, weighing them in his palms. It’s hard not to laugh when he shoves his prickly face into the pillowy mounds and happily sighs. You’re not sure if he’s enjoying your softness again or if he’s a boob guy. Maybe it’s both. You are, however, pretty sure he’s in heaven, and good for him. He can have this moment. Your arms are around his neck, with your fingers pressed into the brown waves on his head.
He kisses along the side of your breast, and you’re gasping at him sucking your pebbled nipple into the warmth of his mouth. It sends a shock of pleasure straight to your clit, making you squirm in his lap. “Yes,” you moan as he swirls his tongue around the hard bud. He moves to give your other breast the same treatment, a shiver rolling through you when cold air hits the saliva left behind on your skin.
Wetness pools between your thighs, your cunt aching, pulsing with need. Joel pulls off your stiff nipple with an audible pop, lifting his head to meet your eyes, his gaze heavy, pupils blown. His voice dips into something rough and hungry. “If I’m not mistaken, you like your pussy eaten?”
“I love it.”
“Thank Christ, ‘cause I fuckin’ love eatin’ it, and it’s been too damn long since I’ve gotten a taste.”
His eagerness has heat sizzling in your veins. “Well, how about we change that?” You get up to stand in front of him. “Lose the boots.”
He smiles. “Yes, ma’am.” He grunts as he leans forward, quickly untying and taking off the worn leather boots that he puts neatly paired on the floor next to him. His socks look a lot better than yours—one of the perks of being a smuggler and knowing where to find things.
You stick out your hand to him. “Let’s go, handsome. We’re taking this to the bedroom.”
“I like the sound of that.” He accepts your palm, and you pull as he rises up onto his feet with a pained groan. “Will be better for my back.”
With Joel hot on your heels, you lead him out of the living room and through the kitchen to the hallway, down to the end where your bedroom is. Crawling onto your queen-size bed, he follows and has you squeaking in surprise when he roughly tugs your leggings off your lower half, causing you to fall onto your stomach. He easily manhandles you onto your back, giving you a glimpse of his strength. You find yourself lying there with your head cushioned on a pillow, Joel kneeling between your legs.
It catches you off guard how he looks down at you, as if he’s seeing something sacred. There’s awe there that he barely hides. Reverence. It takes your breath away that, once again, it’s written on his face that he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s seen in a very, very long time.
His hands smooth up your thighs. “Today is my lucky day,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “Just look at you.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down and off, tossing them to the floor. “Fuckin’ perfection laid out for me. Look at that pretty little pussy.” With two fingers, he spreads open your slick folds, his hot gaze locked on your cunt. “You’re gonna taste so fuckin’ good.” His tongue wets his lips like he’s imagining it. “I wanna fuckin’ drown in it.”
A sharp jolt of excitement shoots through your core, clenching hard with anticipation. You’re expecting him to dive in, tongue first. What you are not anticipating is Joel leaning up, wrapping an arm around your waist, and rolling you on top of him to have you straddle his stomach.
Your eyebrows pull together, blinking down at him with your hands on his chest. “I thought you were eating me out…?”
He smiles. “I am. Maybe not the way you’re expectin’, though. You ever ride someone’s face?”
Your stomach flips. “No?”
“Well, looks like today is your lucky day, too.” His biceps flex as he guides your hips up toward his head. “Get up here, baby.”
You grab the wooden headboard to steady yourself, your heart racing, nerves twisting in your gut. You want it—you want it so fucking bad, but your brain won’t stop worrying about the logistics. Or the potential body count of one extremely hot older man.
He gets you to settle over his face, your thighs bracketing his ears. “How do I do this without, you know, killing you?” you ask.
His voice is muffled beneath you. “Just sit on my face. All of your weight. I wanna feel it.”
He wants you to smother him with your pussy?
“Joel, babe, I like you, and I want to see where this goes, but that can’t happen if I suffocate you.”
“Suffocatin’ between your thighs would be the best way to leave this world.”
Considering the alternatives of getting bitten by infected or murdered by fellow humans, he isn’t wrong that dying while doing something you love is the best way to go out.
“That doesn’t reassure me.”
“It’d take more than your pussy to kill me. I can move you off if I have to, or I’ll tap your thigh twice.” He demonstrates. “So, quit your worryin’ and sit.”
“Bossy.”
He smacks your ass, the sharp sting making your cunt clench. He loses patience, gripping your thighs, yanking you down against his face. That worry you had about accidentally murdering Joel? It flies out the window, your brain short-circuiting at the heat of his mouth and the wet messy sound of his tongue plunging into your pussy. It’s instant, the pleasure cutting through you sharp as a knife, your head falling back, your knees buckling.
“Oh, fuck,” you moan, already starting to tremble.
It’s filthy and almost too much, but not enough all at once. His stubble scrapes your inner thighs, adding a bite to every glide of his wicked tongue, his groans vibrating against your sensitive skin. You’re floating, your heartbeat thumping in your ears. He licks up every drop you’re dripping like a man possessed, his nose bumping your swollen clit.
He’s going to make you come—arousal burns hot at the base of your spine, the knot in your belly winding tighter and tighter. You’re so lost in how fucking good it feels you don’t even realize you’re grinding down until Joel’s fingers grab your ass and rock you against his mouth, helping you move.
“That’s it,” he groans into your cunt. “Use me. Fuck my face, baby.”
And you do, your hips moving greedily now, chasing every lick of his tongue, unashamed. Your whole body burns, your pussy soaked, every nerve in your body lit up like the Fourth of July. Sweat drips down your spine and between your breasts.
You thought Joel was in heaven earlier with his face buried in your tits, but from the way he’s eating you out like it’s his last meal on earth and how he can’t seem to stop groaning against your cunt, this is his real heaven. He drags the flat of his tongue through your folds to wrap his lips around your throbbing clit, and when he sucks, he has to hold you still as you writhe, chanting his name over and over again, spiraling out of your mind in pleasure.
God, he really is going to ruin you for anyone else, isn’t he? It’s not like this is the first time you’ve been eaten out, either. But no one’s devoured you like this. He’s truly hungry for it—relentless. Slurping at your pussy like it’s his favorite meal.
“Don’t stop,” you whimper. “Don’t fucking stop. Your mouth—fuck—I love your mouth. It’s so good.” You don’t even know if he can hear you with your thighs clamped over his only good ear.
Maybe it was a mistake challenging him to show you why you should be his. He’s pulling out all the stops to convince you. You’re already unraveling, and this man has the audacity to snake his hand up to your breast and tweak your nipple. It forces a choked sound from your throat, and your vision blurs for a second.
He works you up, higher and higher, until you’re trembling over him, your thighs quaking, belly tight, heart hammering like it's trying to break free. You’re drenched, dripping onto his face, as he feasts on you like he’s starving.
“Fuck, Joel—” you gasp, but can’t even finish the thought.
You reach for his hand on your thigh, desperate for something to hold onto. He squeezes it, grounding you.
Joel moans into your cunt as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, dragging his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes that push you right to the edge. Then he sucks your clit deep into his mouth, and the world drops out from under you.
You scream. There’s no other word for it. You cry out like you’re shattering, hips jerking, cunt clenching so hard around nothing it aches. Your orgasm rips through you, hot and brutal, pleasure crashing over you in waves that leave you gasping and twitching.
Joel doesn’t stop; he doubles down.
He groans like he’s getting off on it, rutting his tongue against your pulsing clit and shoving it inside you to lick up your release. His stubble scratches your swollen lips, his fingers digging into your ass to keep you right where he wants you.
“That’s it,” he growls into your pussy between licks. “Give it to me. Fuckin’ soak my face, baby. I want it all.”
Sounds are spilling from you of their own accord—moans, cries, possible declarations of love for this guy you’ve known for less than two hours. You don’t know what you’re saying, you just know he’s wrecking you, and you never want it to end.
“Joel, Joel—oh fuck—I can’t—” He has you coming again. It builds until it spills over, dizzying and all-consuming. Your body goes taut for a heartbeat, and then you’re melting, euphoria searing through your veins, your thighs shaking uncontrollably around his head. This one isn’t as explosive as the last, but it’s deep, stealing your breath and making you feel like your soul just drifts out of you.
“Good girl,” his voice half-muffled by your cunt.
His tongue continues lapping lazily at your oversensitive clit until you’re flinching, overstimulated. Finally, he eases up, making a satisfied hum.
“You did so fuckin’ good for me,” he murmurs.
You’re numb with pleasure—boneless, floating. Joel’s strong hands slide up to your waist, carefully lifting you off his face. He settles you onto his chest for barely a moment before your legs give out, collapsing onto your back beside him in a spent, panting heap. Your arms and legs feel heavy, your body buzzing like a live wire.
Well, it still rings true that guys his age know what they’re doing in the bedroom. You have a theory on why that is, and it has to do with them being in their thirties before everything went to hell. They remember what it’s like to fuck in a time void of the uncertainty and fear of today. They remember what it’s like to be carefree and able to take their time in bed, unlike these days, where it’s hard to find somewhere safe enough to feel that relaxed.
Luckily, Jackson is one of those places. So here, in the safety of the town, they get to relive those years, and you’re more than happy to go down memory lane with them.
And somehow, with hardly any effort, Joel wants you to be his.
It’s embarrassing how giddy that makes you.
He can’t know he’s already sold you on a relationship with him. You want him to work for it, so you don’t come off as too easy.
The old springs in the mattress squeak as Joel shifts onto his side. His rough, calloused fingers stroke along your cheek. “You okay, sweetheart?” he softly asks. “Need a second?”
You nod slowly. “My arms are noodles, and my legs aren’t any better. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t walk if I tried.
“Yeah?” You can hear the smile in his voice. “It’s a good thing you don’t have anywhere to be.” There’s a pause. Without looking at him, you know he’s frowning now. “You don’t have plans, right? Tonight?”
Your eyes blink open, your head turning his way, smiling. The bottom half of his face is shiny with your juices, and he looks adorably worried with a crinkle between his eyebrows that you reach up to smooth with your thumb. “No plans. I was going to fix all the holes in my socks. Maybe patch up some other clothes. I’d much rather spend my evening with you, though.”
He smiles, grabbing your hand, kissing your knuckles. “Good. I’ve got nothin’ goin’ on, either. I just need to be home by midnight.”
“Because you, what? Turn back into a pumpkin after midnight?”
He gives you a flat look. “No, I don’t turn into a damn pumpkin. I’ve got a kid. I need to be home for her.”
“You have no idea how much it turns me on that you’re a good dad.”
Joel huffs in amusement, his eyes leaving yours. “I don’t know about bein’ a good dad, but she doesn’t seem to hate me, so I must be doin’ somethin’ right.”
“I mean, you’re getting her a birthday cake—her first birthday cake, might I add—and you were willing to pay whatever price it’d cost. Sounds very ‘good dad’ to me. That actually reminds me. Don’t worry about the shit we agreed on. We’re good. I’ll make the cake tomorrow. You could even come over and help me, if you wanted to.” That’d be such a cute date.
His gaze comes back to yours, his lips downturned. “I don’t want you doin’ it for free. I know that ingredients aren’t easy to come by, and you’re takin’ time out of your busy day.”
“Who said anything about free? Just so we’re clear, I normally do not make cakes in exchange for sexual favors, but this will be the only exception because you were that good—don’t let it go to your head.”
It’s too late, the smugness is already showing on his face, his dark eyes sparkling with a crooked grin. “I was that good, huh?” His head dips to place a soft kiss on your naked shoulder. “You gonna be mine now?”
“I don’t know. I think I need some more convincing.”
“More convincin’?” He lets go of your hand to rest his palm, warm and firm, on your thigh. “What will it take?”
“You know what I want.”
“Be a good girl and ask me for it.”
You suck in a breath, your cunt throbbing in beat with your heart. Oh, you like that.
Quickly, you compose yourself. “Ask for it? Or do you want me to beg for it?” Your tone shifts to something sultry. “Please, Joel. I need your cock. I’m aching for it. Fuck me. Fill me up. Ruin me—whatever you want. Just please, will you fuck me now?”
His fingers tighten on your leg, his voice deepening. “How do you want it?”
You smile. “How do you want me?”
“Flip over.”
“Take off your pants.” You glance down at the denim to see the impressive bulge at the front. “I’m not going to be the only one who’s naked.” Your gaze returns to his. “Go on. Get up and strip.”
He’s frowning. “And you were callin’ me bossy…” he mumbles.
“You got a problem with that, big guy?”
“No, ma’am.”
He moves to get off the bed and walks around to the end of it. You sit up on your elbows to watch with interest as he undoes his belt and unbuttons his jeans. He doesn’t drag it out, shoving both his pants and boxer briefs down his legs and peeling off his socks, before standing to his full height for you to take him in, his hands on his hips.
The first thing that catches your attention is his dick bobbing between his legs. He’s mouth-wateringly thick, with a decent length that, at the thought of how it’d feel inside you, has you rubbing your thighs together to quell the sudden ache. The tip is flushed an angry red, with beads of precum smeared to make it shine in the light of your bedside lamp.
“Keep starin’ at it like that, and you’re gonna start droolin’.”
Your eyes rise to his amused ones. “Who says I’m not already?”
He’s smirking. “That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”
You smile. “Is that a threat, handsome?”
“It’s a fact.”
“I love this foreplay. You’re cute.”
His eyebrow lifts. “I’m cute?”
“Yes, you’re cute, and so fucking hot.” Your attention returns to his body. Naked, the broadness of his shoulders and the tininess of his waist are more pronounced. “You’re in amazing shape.”
“You think so?”
“I’d fuck you, even with the wear and tear.” You wink at him.
Speaking of wear and tear, his body is littered with scars, some old, having silvered long ago, and others newer. There’s one low on his abdomen that catches your eye, and you need to get a closer look at it, scrambling onto your hands and knees, crawling over on shaky limbs to kneel in front of him. It’s relatively big, jagged—a quick patch job by someone inexperienced or in a hurry—and red, which means he’s only had it a handful of months. The injury must’ve happened on his trek to Jackson from Boston.
What’s fascinating about it is that a wound of its caliber should’ve killed him while traveling across the country. If it weren’t the blood loss that got him, the risk for infection in those conditions would’ve been insane. Your hand moves of its own volition, pressing your fingertips to the warm, raised skin—you gasp when he abruptly snatches your palm, your chin lifting to meet his eyes.
“Sorry,” you apologize immediately.
“Shit.” He lets go, looking startled by what he’d done out of instinct. “No, I’m sorry.” His eyes dart away, sighing. “I haven’t been touched like this in a long fuckin’ time.”
“Let’s change that.”
He meets your gaze as you grab his waist for support and lean in to kiss the scar softly. He swears under his breath, his thighs tensing. “Jesus,” he rasps. You keep your eyes on his, kissing down through his happy trail to your destination between his legs. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me.”
He must’ve showered earlier after working his assigned job for the day. The scent of crushed thyme clings to his skin, sharp and earthy with just a hint of mint that’s grounding and fresh.
When your fingers wrap around his cock, Joel’s head falls back as he groans loudly. He’s hot in your palm, his shaft hard as steel and velvety smooth as you slowly pump him.
“God, you have a pretty dick,” you tell him.
He stares down at you again, and you love how he looks at you, as if you’re a reward and not just a good time, how he looks at you like you mean something. “Yeah?” he says the word in question. His big hand caresses your face, stroking his thumb over the apple of your cheek. “You want it to ruin that perfect little pussy?”
“Yes, after this—” Dipping your head, you take his cock into your mouth, engulfing as much as you can until he’s hitting the back of your throat. There’s only a second for you to enjoy the heaviness of him on your tongue before he’s pulling you off of him.
“No,” he hisses. “None of that, sweetheart.” He grips the base of his shaft, giving it a squeeze to calm himself.
Frowning, you look up at him. “Why not?”
“Because if you keep goin’, I’m gonna blow before I even get inside you. I told you, it’s been a long fuckin’ time since I’ve been with someone.”
His reason makes you smile. “And you want to fuck me instead of coming down my throat.”
“And I want to fuck you instead of comin’ down your throat.”
Why is that romantic to you? Maybe because there aren’t a lot of guys who’d turn down a blow job so you can get off together.
“Hands and knees?” you ask, “Or on my stomach?”
A grin tugs at the corner of his lips. “That’s my girl. Hands and knees, baby.”
You don’t have to be told twice—turning in place, you shuffle up the mattress, settling on your hands and knees in the center of the bed. It’s instinctive how you arch your back, your ass lifted, and thighs parted. It’s a pose that feels both vulnerable and powerful, knowing exactly what kind of view you’re giving him.
You glance back over your shoulder. “You coming, big guy?” It makes you grin, finding him distracted by the display you’re putting on. You wiggle your ass to get his attention. “You gonna get up here?”
That snaps him from his reverie. His tone lowers, rough with desire, “Yes.” The mattress dips behind you as he climbs on, getting close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. Your head falls forward as his large, calloused palm slides up your spine, heavy and possessive, to squeeze the back of your neck. “Look at you,” he says, sounding awed. “My good girl with her ass up and her needy little pussy drippin’ for me. I’ve never felt so fuckin’ lucky.” His hands move to smooth over the curves of your backside before he grabs handfuls of the meaty globes hard enough that it borders on painful. “You’re perfect—you’re so fuckin’ perfect. But you know what else you are?”
You hear him spit onto his fingers, slicking up his cock before he slides it through your wet folds to get it even wetter. Then he’s pressing the fat tip against your aching entrance, teasing it, your breath catching in your throat.
“What?” you whisper.
“Mine.”
He drives into you, sheathing himself in one hard thrust that knocks the air from your lungs, your body jerking forward from the impact.
A guttural groan rumbles from Joel’s chest, his hands gripping your hips even tighter, holding you in place. He’s stretching you to your limit, filling you so completely that it’s hard to think, your fingers curling into the blankets.
You’ve never been more thankful for foreplay, that he took the time to get you ready to take him. He feels massive inside you, and so fucking good, pressing against all of the right spots. At the thought of how it’s going to feel when he’s pounding into you, your cunt clenches around him.
“Don’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “Don’t move.”
It’s clear he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been with anyone in quite some time. With his breaths turning ragged and his hips twitching from holding himself back, the man is fighting for his life not to come. Enough time passes that you’ve grown used to his dick, or as used to it as you can get with how big it is. What matters is that it’s not as overwhelming as it initially seemed.
You look back at Joel, catching him with his eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight, and sweat glistening on his brow.
“Need a minute?” you ask.
He cracks his eyes open. “You’re so fuckin’ tight and warm.”
“You’re just big.”
“Am I?” He smirks.
You roll your eyes. “I’ve stroked your ego enough today. And hey, if you finish early, no shame. My pussy has that effect on some men.”
From your previous dalliances with older men, if they hadn’t fucked in a while, the first round usually went fast, something they expected so they’d get you off beforehand. After that, they could go for as long as you wanted.
His eyes narrow. “Are you callin’ me old?”
You grin. “All I’m saying is you might not have the stamina you once had, and that’s totally cool.”
He moves faster than you expect, gasping when he shoves your shoulders down, forcing your chest to the mattress, with your spine arched and ass up. In the blink of an eye, he’s got your arms pinned behind your back, his large hand easily wrapped around both of your wrists, holding them there in one rough fist.
“I told you that mouth of yours was gonna get you in trouble,” he mutters, angling his hips.
He pulls out of you halfway and slams back in, the force stuttering your breath.
One thing you’ve learned about Joel is you shouldn’t challenge him unless you want to be fucked within an inch of your life, as was happening right now. There’s no teasing, no slow buildup—he sets up a punishing pace from the start, the new angle absolutely devastating with his cock hitting something so divine inside you you’re seeing stars.
“Joel, fuck—” you cry out. “Oh, fuck.”
It feels like he’s taking you apart piece by piece, coming undone by how he’s filling and fucking you, how he owns you. He wasn’t wrong when he said you were his. He could have you any way he wants, and right now, he’s proving why he gets that honor.
“You’re gonna feel me tomorrow,” he grits out between thrusts. “Every time you move, you’ll remember who this pussy belongs to.”
His grip tightens on your wrists, using your arms as leverage, dragging you back onto his cock with every thrust. Each stroke is deeper than the last, your cunt greedy for every inch of him. You can’t think, you can’t breathe, you’re completely at his mercy as another orgasm starts to take shape in your core.
Finding out that not only is he handsome, polite, and a good father but that he also fucks, has made you determined to lock him down and make him yours.
He has you gasping now, your knees shaking hard enough you’re worried they’ll give out. Joel’s rhythm is brutal and unforgiving, his cock hitting so deep you swear you can feel him in your guts. Every push and pull of his hips is working you higher and higher. You’re so fucked out of your mind that all you can focus on are the sensations: his thick cock hammering into you, the burn in your thighs, the strain in your arms, the sweat coating your face and back, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
The pressure in your belly builds, your body trembling.
He says something above you that you don’t make out, smacking your ass to get your attention. The sting has you sucking in a breath, your pussy clamping down on him.
“Answer me,” he orders. “Is this what you wanted? You wanted to be fucked like this?”
“Y-yes,” you choke out. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
“I’m not stoppin’ until you beg me to, and you say you’re mine.”
Noise echoes off your bedroom walls. The old bedframe creaks under you, the worn bedsprings squealing with each thrust, skin slapping skin, the wet suck of your used cunt, moans, and ragged breaths—a symphony of debauchery.
All you can do is take it, your back bowed, arms pinned, getting shoved forward into the sheets every time he fucks into you. He’s worked you up to the point that the coil in your belly is close to snapping, you just need—
Joel gives you another taste of his strength, pulling you up against his chest with little effort. His pace doesn’t wane, his cock working in and out of you, holding you close with an arm over your chest and another across your stomach.
His lips press to the shell of your ear, feeling his hot, panting breath. “I know you’re close,” he rasps. “Can feel you squeezin’ me. Say it. Tell me you’re mine and I’ll let you come.”
You grab onto his arm that’s locked against your breasts, nodding your head frantically. “I’m yours, Joel,” you gasp. “I’m fucking yours. I’ll always be yours. Please, let me come. Please.”
His hand on your stomach goes to the apex of your thighs, pinching your clit. You mewl, jerking in his hold.
“This pussy is mine, too, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes, it’s yours. Your pussy, your girl, I’m all yours, only yours. Please, Joel. Please, let me come.”
“Good girl.” He kisses behind your ear. “Come for me. Let me have it.”
A cry rips from your throat as he circles your clit, his other hand on your breast rolling your nipple between his fingers, his cock still pounding into you. It’s everything you need, setting you off and over the edge. The coil snaps, pleasure crashing through your body, sobbing his name over and over again, your nails digging into the skin of his forearm to tether you to earth. Your cunt spasms around him, clenching down on him hard enough it slows him to a stop.
He groans in your ear. “That’s it.” His grip tightens around you. “That’s my fuckin’ girl. Come for me, baby.”
You collapse against him, boneless. It’s Joel’s arm wrapped around your middle that holds you steady through the aftershocks when all you want to do is fall forward onto the mattress and rest your eyes. Your breaths are coming out ragged, your heart hammering so hard it feels like you’ve outrun a horde of infected.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck. His free hand rubbing comforting circles on your hip.
You don’t speak. You’re not even sure you could if you wanted to.
You’re still clutching his arm, and he doesn’t pull out; he stays nestled inside you, keeping you full after ruining you in the best way. Having him so close and surrounding you is the only thing that grounds you, the room quieting as you catch your breath.
He waits a beat for you to come down before he asks, “Still with me, sweetheart?”
You reach up behind you to thread your fingers into his sweat-damp hair, letting out a shaky exhale. “Yes.”
He nuzzles the crook of your neck. “I didn’t go too hard?”
The softness is wholly unexpected. He’s holding you like you’re something precious, pressing reverent kisses to your skin and quietly checking in. It makes you like him even more and evokes a certain feeling that tightens your chest with emotion. Is it tenderness? Or is it that he’s treating you like more than a warm body to fuck? Maybe it’s both. Whatever it is, the ache you feel behind your ribs is almost as overwhelming as the orgasms he’s coaxed from you.
“No. I can take it,” you answer.
He hums in agreement and kisses a spot below your ear. “You took it really fuckin’ well.”
You smile. “You dished it out really fuckin’ well.”
“You got anythin’ to say about my stamina?”
The question makes you snort. “I apologize for doubting your stamina. To be honest, I’m a little shocked that you haven’t come yet.”
“Almost did, when you came. Took a whole helluva lot not to.”
“Well, color me impressed, old man.”
He pinches your hip, and you giggle. “Call me that again, and I’ll make sure you can’t walk for a week.”
“Is that a promise?”
“That fuckin’ mouth of yours.”
“You love it.”
He sighs. “Do you wanna stop or keep goin’?”
His arm is wrapped around your middle. He’s still hot and hard inside you, keeping you deliciously stretched. Obviously, you want to keep going, but there’s something you want to do for him.
“Oh, I’m gonna get you off.”
You untangle his arms from your body and crawl forward, his cock slipping out of you with an obscene wet sound that has you sucking in a breath and Joel groaning. You get up onto your knees and shuffle in place to look at him.
“Sit down,” you order, and point at the spot beside you on the bed. He raises an eyebrow, and you roll your eyes. “Do you want to come with my tits in your face or not?”
That gets his cute little ass moving up the bed. He pauses when he’s next to you, his hands framing your face as he gives you a kiss that leaves you a little dizzy when he breaks away. He snags your four pillows, using them to cushion his back against the headboard, his legs sprawled out, arms folded behind his head, watching you with hungry eyes.
He looks at home in your bed as if he’s been here hundreds of times and not only once.
And god, is he a sight to behold. A rosy pink flush rising from his chest to his cheeks, his hair tousled, skin gleaming from perspiration, and between his legs, his thick cock slick with your come and still rock hard.
You straddle his hips. “Boob guy?”
The second they’re within reach, he’s cupping them in his large palms.
He huffs, amused, crookedly smiling. “What makes you think that?”
“Hmmm, let’s see. You checked them out at the door, buried your face in them on the couch, and you couldn’t keep your hands off them while you were literally being smothered by my pussy, and fucking me six ways to Sunday.”
Joel’s chuckle turns into a choked ‘fuck’ when you guide his cock back inside you, slowly sinking down his shaft inch by inch. He shuts his eyes for a moment, his jaw flexing. You loop your arms around his neck, bottoming out, and fuck, he feels even deeper like this.
“You got me,” his voice sounds strained. “Fuckin’ love them.” His head dips to flick your nipple with his tongue, then kisses the curve, giving the other the same treatment. He sits back to meet your gaze. “Fuckin’ love how pretty you look sittin’ on my dick, too. You gonna ride me, baby?”
Leaning forward, you kiss the line of his stubbled jaw to whisper in his left ear. “I’m gonna ride you into the sunset, handsome—and you get free rein of my tits.”
He grabs your chin, moving your face in front of his to crush his lips against yours, kissing you needily. His tongue plunders your mouth as you start moving on his lap, slow circles at first, savoring how his cock drags along your walls. Joel lets out the tiniest whimper, his palms skimming down to grip your ass. He kisses the underside of your jaw and down your neck, sucking hard on your pulse point—you gasp, your fingers pushing into the mess of waves at the back of his head.
“You’re too fuckin’ good to me,” he says with his lips on your throat.
“You deserve it,” you breathe.
He isn’t going to last very long with how he’s throbbing inside you, so thick and desperate. You’re pretty sure that if you bounce on his dick with your breasts in his face and talk dirty to him, you can get him off in under two minutes. Hell, maybe you could do it in one. You decide to make it a challenge for yourself.
Planting your knees into the mattress, you grip his shoulders for leverage and start moving with purpose. You rise until only the tip of him remains, then slam back down, in quick succession, again and again and again. It’s hard and fast, clenching around him on the upstroke to make it even better.
He groans under you, fingers clawing into your ass like he’s hanging on for dear life. You pry them off as you continue working yourself up and down, putting his big hands on your tits.
“Fuck, baby,” his words come out ragged, his eyes glued to your chest.
“You like that?” you pant. “Your cock buried so fucking deep inside me while you play with my tits?”
“Yes.”
He teases your stiff nipples with calloused thumbs, and he can’t help himself, leaning in to seal his mouth over one pebbled peak. He greedily sucks, the pleasure sparking through you, stuttering your rhythm for a moment. You keep going and are ready for it when he moves to your other breast, his tongue swirling around the hard bud.
You sound breathless. “You’re close, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t want to let your nipple go, so he hums his affirmative that vibrates against your skin.
It’s slippery between your legs, his dick sliding easily in and out of your pussy. You speed up, becoming just as ruthless as he was, using him like he used you, fucking him at the same punishing pace. Your thighs collide with his in a sharp, wet smack that echoes off the walls, the bed creaking loudly. Your nipple pops out of his mouth, and he grabs your ass again for something to hold onto. “Gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he groans. He looks up at you, his eyes wild and glazed over. There’s no mistaking he’s absolutely wrecked and barely holding it together.
It makes you smile seeing him so undone. “Can’t take it, baby?”
“I can—fuck,” he gasps, his eyes squeezing closed for a split second. He swallows hard. “Fuckin’ ruin me.”
“With pleasure.” You ignore how your thighs burn and the bedframe squeaks. He’s your focus, he’s all that matters. You watch his face as you ride him, how it contorts when you bear down on him. You memorize every detail, every sound, every little thing that makes him tick and fall apart. His attention is back on your heaving breasts. “I want you to come inside me,” you tell him through panted breaths. “I want you to fill me up, make me drip. I wanna feel every last drop inside me. Can you do that for me, handsome? Can I have your come? Please, Joel?”
His glassy eyes snap to yours, and that’s all it takes.
It’s game over.
He surprises you when he sits up just enough to grab you with one arm around your back, the other cradling your head, dragging you down into a kiss as he comes. It’s desperate and messy, his lips crashing into yours, a groan rumbling from his chest, swallowing the whimper you make as you feel his cock thicken and jerk, the pulsing heat flooding your depths. Each spurt makes your cunt clamp down around him on reflex. He holds you there, locked in the kiss as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, his whole body beneath you trembling. You roll your hips, slower than before, grinding, drawing out every last wave for him to give you everything he’s got.
Then—
CRACK.
The ancient bedframe finally gives out.
With a deafening groan of protest and a sharp snap, the entire mattress drops six inches on one side, sending you both lurching sideways with surprised gasps. You’re straddling him, leaning a little to the left, Joel breathless and stunned under you. You look at the current state of your bed, then at him, somehow still balls-deep inside you, his hair a mess, his pretty face dazed, and cheeks flushed.
“You broke my fucking bed.”
His expression switches from shocked to offended, his eyebrows cinching together. “Excuse me, I broke your bed? Baby, you were ridin’ me like a fuckin’ mechanical bull.”
“After you fucked me into the mattress. Either way, it’s your fault. No one has ever broken my bed before.”
“No one has ever fucked you like me before.” He looks smug about it, too.
“Touché.” Your attention turns to the bed again, frowning. “Fuck, I’m gonna have to sleep with my mattress on the floor. With making the cake and working, I won’t be able to fix this for a few days.”
“I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
You look at him. “You don’t have to. It’s fine. I can probably get one of the handymen to do it when I’m free.” There are a handful of knowledgeable men who help fix things around town—Tommy is one of them.
“I said, I’ll fix it tomorrow. You don’t need a handyman when I used to be a fuckin’ contractor.”
That has you perking up. “A contractor?”
“Yeah.” He takes a moment to get comfortable, keeping you atop him while he scoots down the lopsided bed and arranges your pillows to prop up his head and shoulders. “C’mere,” he says, pulling you down to lie half on top of him, his softened cock slipping out of you. Your ear is pressed over his heart, hearing the steady beat, his arm around you with his hand on your hip.
“It’s sexy that you used to be a contractor,” you say. Your palm is resting on his stomach, and he covers it with his free hand. “I’m just going to make the assumption that was back when you were in Texas, and since it gets pretty hot there, did you work with your shirt off often…?”
He’s amused. “Yes. Especially in the summer.” He’s drawing imaginary shapes on your hip.
“What I’d pay to see that.”
“Well, you’re makin’ the cake for free—”
“Not free,” you interrupt, lifting your head to look at him, resting your chin on his pec. “I’m making the cake in exchange for you eating my pussy like a champ.”
He huffs, meeting your gaze. “Now you are, but before, the shit we agreed on for you to make the cake was nothin’. It would’ve taken me no time at all to get, so you were makin’ it for free.”
“More like half-off to non-smugglers.”
“Then you need to re-evaluate what your skills are worth ‘cause you’re sellin’ yourself short.”
“You are very sweet, but I promise the deal I made you was only for you. A chocolate cake with basically a day’s notice? Come on, I’d want some good shit for that. Coffee, painkillers, antibiotics, ammunition, a firearm—what I asked you to get wouldn’t even pay for the chocolate, let alone a whole cake.”
He’s frowning, his finger pausing on your skin. “Then why would you agree to so little from me?”
You smile. “A weakness for single older dads.”
“You got a lot of those around here?”
“Nope,” you pop the ‘p.’ “You’re a rare breed, and the reason why, if I’m yours, then you are mine. I do not share.”
“I don’t either.”
“Perfect.”
“Glad we got that out of the way. Can we go back to talkin’ about me bein’ a contractor?”
“A sexy, shirtless contractor?”
“Yes. What I was goin’ to say before you interrupted me is that you were so kind about the cake, that if you wanted, I can fix your bed without a shirt on.”
“Can that be standard when you fix anything around my apartment?”
He smiles. “If that’s what you want.”
“Oh, I want it. Also, may I make the request that the bed be extra-reinforced? We will be testing it out when you’re done.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep.”
“You’re gonna fuckin’ wear me out with how much you want my cock.”
“Your mouth, too. I’d also like to see what your fingers are like.”
“Jesus Christ.” His fingertip starts making shapes on your hip again. “I wanna know more about you than just what you like in bed. How long have you lived in Jackson?”
“Seven years.”
“You got any family?”
“Biological? No. Lost my parents and little sisters when I was about twelve. Typical tragic backstory where I was the lone survivor. You know the bartender, Seth?”
“Yeah.”
“He and his wife found me and raised me with their kids. I was an adult by the time they decided to come out this way, and they told me I was old enough to make my own choice on whether I’d follow them or not. Obviously, I did. They may not be my blood relatives, but they’re still my aunt and uncle, which took me some years to label them as such. It’s hard when you remember your family, and they could never replace my parents. Was Ellie close with her mom and dad?”
He frowns. “She didn’t have parents, or at least ones she knew. She was raised by FEDRA in Boston. I don’t think that girl knows what it’s like to be loved by a parent, or anyone, for that matter.”
“From what you’ve told me, I think you’re doing a great job of showing her what it’s like to have a loving father, or a loving parent in general. The cake was a great idea. It’s so sweet and thoughtful. Do you have a present for her?”
“Before I come over here tomorrow night to take care of your bed and have that drink with you, I’ll be spendin’ my day fixin’ up a guitar for her.” He’s fondly smiling. “I finished gettin’ all the parts I needed today—even traded your uncle for a piece of bone I’ll use for the saddle—”
“I know nothing about guitars. What’s the saddle?”
“But you know what one looks like, right? An acoustic guitar?”
You picture one in your head. “Yes.”
“Okay, so you know the part near the bottom of the body where the strings are anchored? Where they’re pinned in?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the bridge. The saddle sits on the bridge. It’s usually made of bone or plastic and holds the strings up at the right height and helps them stay in tune when you play.”
“I think I know what you’re talking about.”
“Good. So, got the bone, new strings, and I’ll clean and shine the rest of the metal parts. She has a thing for moths, and I’m gonna try my damndest to carve one into the fretboard—that’s the guitar neck with all the metal frets and dots to guide your fingers when you’re playin’? I’m gonna put it right at the top below the headstock, where the turning pegs are.”
“I can’t believe you don’t think you’re a good dad. The lengths you go to for this child. She’s really lucky to have you.”
“Maybe.”
“She is. Do you play?”
“Since I was about half her age.”
“You’ll have to play me something sometime.”
“I will, but don’t ask me to sing. I’m fuckin’ awful at it.”
“I have a hard time believing that. Is that your only hobby?”
“No. I also do woodworkin’.”
“Like wooden figurines?”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna make me one?”
“What’s your favorite animal?”
“Ummm—” You have to think about it for a second. “Maybe otters? I think it’s cute when they hold hands while sleeping.”
“I’ll make you a pair of otters then.”
You smile. “Just like that, you’re gonna woodwork me a couple of tchotchkes?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Gives me somethin’ to do when I’m home from work, and Ellie’s out bein’ a kid.”
“If you ever want some company, I’d be happy to hang out with you while you do your thing. I’ll also watch movies with you, go horseback riding, and you could even help me make cakes.” You suddenly feel unsure of yourself. “Unless you’re not interested in any of that and you’re just looking for an exclusive sex partner.”
“I told you I don’t do fuck buddies or casual shit.”
“So, you want to date me?”
“If you’ll have me.” He lifts your hand from his belly to kiss your knuckles. “I’d understand if you didn’t want people knowin’. though.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “Why wouldn’t I want people to know I’m dating you?”
“Because I’m old.”
“Once again, I do not give a fuck that you are—how old are you?”
He takes a deep breath and says on the exhale, “Fifty-six.”
“Once again, I do not give a fuck that you are fifty-six. You’re hot and sweet, and I’d want everyone to know you’re mine.”
He smiles. “Yeah?”
“Yes. There’s just one little thing we need to figure out.”
“What’s that?”
“How long do you wait until you tell Ellie?”
“After her birthday. Maybe in a week or two to see how things go between us.”
“Solid plan.” You lean up and peck him on the lips.
“What about you? You got any hobbies?”
“Mostly baking. I also collect records and love watching movies.”
“When I go out again, I’ll find you more records and movies.”
“That’s sweet of you, but you don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. I do have a question.”
“I’ll hopefully have an answer.”
“I know you like sex—”
“Love,” you correct. “Love sex very much.”
“Yes, I know you love sex very much, and you said you weren’t seein’ anyone. Do I need to worry about any former, uh, paramours?”
“Wanting to fight you for my bed?”
“Yes…”
“No. The few guys in town are all married now, and there are a couple of traders who stop by every once in a while who’ll be disappointed, but they won’t step on your toes.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but why didn’t any of the men here wanna marry you…?”
“Oh. I guess we should probably discuss this now, rather than having me blindside you down the road. I’d like to have a family one day, and they were all done with babies and raising kids. They married women closer to their own age who felt the same way. So, if that’s a dealbreaker, you need to let me know now.”
He’s quiet as he thinks about what you’ve said. Nerves swirl in your belly. You’re hoping and praying this isn’t the end.
“I had a daughter,” he finally tells you. “Sarah. She was my pride and joy, my everythin’. She died in my arms twenty years ago on the night of the outbreak. It broke me. I was a shell of a man from that point on, and then Ellie came into my life. I was hired to transport her across the country, but things, uh, didn’t work out when I got her to her destination. So I brought her here to Jackson, where we’d be close to Tommy, and she’d get to have a somewhat normal life as a kid.
“For twenty years, I swore to myself I’d never bring another child into this godawful world.” At his admission, your heart plummets. “Was really fuckin’ careful when I’d fuck to limit the risk as much as possible, too, which meant I never finished inside my partner. I never had the desire to, or would ever humor the idea.”
Now, you’re confused. “If you’re so anti-creampies, why is your come dripping out of me as we speak?”
He smiles and caresses your cheek with a gun-calloused palm. “Because in all of my fifty-six years on this planet, the happiest I’ve ever been is when I’m a dad. I fuckin’ love bein’ a father, and I know I’m too old to even be thinkin’ about babies, but if it happened? I wouldn’t be upset about it. I’d welcome it.”
He’s perfect, and you’ve never wanted a man more.
“I know we’ve only known each other for less than a day, but marry me.” Joel chuckles. “I’m serious. Make me your wife. I will fuck your brains out, have as many babies as you want, bake you delicious things, and treat Ellie like she’s my own kid. You’re everything and more that I want in a partner, and I think we’d be good together.”
His thumb strokes over the apple of your cheek. “I’m flattered by your offer, sweetheart. I truly am, and have half a mind to accept it, but marriage isn’t somethin’ you rush into. I know most everyone does these days with how uncertain everythin’ is, but I’d like to take my time to court you properly before we decide to get married.”
You sigh. “If you insist.” You glance up at the clock on your bedside table; the red numbers show it’s after ten p.m. Your gaze returns to his. “We’ve got less than two hours before you need to head home, Cinderella. Would you be up for another, softer, maybe sensual round—I’m thinking missionary—then we can shower, you can help me get my mattress onto the floor, and take off? Or do you want to shower, help me get my mattress onto the floor, and hang out in the living room, watching a movie or something until you need to leave?”
“Another round, we shower, we leave your bed alone, and you come home with me instead of sleepin’ on the floor.”
“To your house, where Ellie is…?”
“I’ll sneak you in. She spends most of her time in her room anyway. She won’t know you’re there.”
“If you want to hold off on her knowing about me, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
You don’t know how he does it. One minute, you’re lying half on top of him, and the next, he’s got you beneath him on your back, his hips cradled by your thighs. He kisses your clavicle, saying into your skin, “It’ll be fine.” His lips trail up your throat, making you shiver when he sucks on your pulse point, his cock hardening against your core. “Come home with me.” Joel continues his journey, laving kisses along the underside of your jaw to nip at your chin. He hovers his face over yours, searching your eyes. “Will you?”
“Only if you’re sure.”
“Quit your worryin’. I told you, it’ll be fine. She’ll have no idea.”
“Okay, then. I’ll go with you.”
He smiles. “Good girl.”
Joel wasn’t kidding about sneaking you into his house. That’s how you find yourself freshly fucked, showered, and clothed, creeping up a dark staircase behind him and into a hallway, where he signals for you to stay because Ellie’s door is open. He walks over to her doorway, leaning in it like he’s done it a hundred times before, the light shining on his face showing that fond smile he always has when he talks about her.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Hey, Joel.”
“You have a good day?”
“Scooping horse shit?” You have to hold in your laugh. “Not really, but afterward, Jesse and I went to Dina’s to watch a movie.”
Jesse and Dina are good kids.
“What movie?”
“Star Wars. The first two, but I wasn't really paying attention. We were too busy joking around and trying to throw popcorn into each other’s mouths.”
“What’d you do after that?”
“We went and had dinner. Did you get some of the apple pie? It was really fucking good. I think the peach cobbler is still my favorite, though.”
You also made the peach cobbler. Ellie has good taste. It’s your favorite, too.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Well, hopefully it’ll come ‘round again soon.”
Once traders come through with more peaches, you’ll be able to. It’s adorable watching him interact with her and seeing how much he clearly loves her.
“I sure hope so. How was your day?”
“Good. They had me out patrollin’, and I went through some houses to see if I could find anythin’ good. Did you get the tapes I left on your desk?”
“I did! I listened to the Backstreet Guys, or whatever the fuck they’re called—people used to like that shit?”
Is she talking about the Backstreet Boys?
Joel chuckles. “Sarah loved them.”
“She usually has great taste in music,” Ellie replies, “but I’m not sure about this one.”
“Well, I’ll tell you right now, NSYNC is similar—” She is talking about the Backstreet Boys, and how very ‘good dad’ of Joel to be familiar with the music his child loves. “—but I think you’ll enjoy the Halican Drops albums. That was Sarah’s favorite band. I’ve been lookin’ forever to find you their music, and I hit the jackpot today when I came across a kid’s room that hadn’t been picked clean.”
“Oh, sweet. I’ll listen to them before bed. Thanks, Joel.”
“You’re welcome, kiddo. Don’t stay up too late. You gotta be up early to scoop more horse shit.”
She groans. “God, I fucking hope not. Can you ask Tommy to assign me to anything else? Like anything else.”
His voice softens. “Yeah, I’ll do that in the mornin’. Night, Ellie.”
“Night, Joel.”
He pulls her door closed and waits ten seconds, then motions for you to come to him. He grabs your hand when you’re within reach and leads you further down the hall to his room at the end, where he opens the door and flips on the light. He ushers you in, closing the door and locking it behind you.
The first thing you notice is that it smells like him—crushed thyme, gun oil, and something uniquely Joel, mixed with the scent of freshly cut wood. Then you take in the area, the paintings that depict cowboys, his woodworking workstation, what you assume is Ellie’s future guitar leaning against it, another one hanging on his wall, and further in the room, a third you think is the one he actually plays. The piece of bone he got from your uncle is sitting atop the worktable, along with little metal parts and his tools.
“I like your room,” you tell him. “It’s cozy.” He’s got a comfy-looking accent chair you could imagine him reading in and a desk by the door with a drawing of a moth on top of it—what he plans to carve into Ellie’s guitar.
He spins you to face him. “Thanks.” He grabs the hem of your shirt and pulls it up off your arms, followed by your sports bra. “You’re my first guest.”
He grunts, crouching down in front of you. Joel gets his fingers under the waistband of your leggings and underwear, tugging them down. You hold onto his shoulders for balance as you step out of them, and he removes your socks, leaving you completely nude.
“Is that why you were adamant about me coming over tonight? So you could finally christen your bed?”
He stands back up, one of his knees popping. “No.” Joel kisses you, and you hold his scruffy cheeks as he works open the buttons of his flannel. He shrugs it off and unbuckles his belt, his lips leaving yours to get his jeans undone and shoved down, followed by his boxer briefs.
“When I said ‘christen your bed,’ I meant have sex in it for the first time. Why are we naked if we’re not gonna fuck?”
All of his clothes are on the floor, including his socks, and instead of answering your question, he straightens and captures your lips once more, his hands gripping your waist. He kisses you as he walks you backward toward his neatly made bed, and when you’re beside it, he breaks away to pull back the blankets.
“Get in.” It’s not a suggestion, and you do as he says, getting under the sheets and turning on your side, propping your head up with your arm to watch what he’s doing.
“The lack of clothes and kissing is giving me mixed signals.”
“What do you mean?” he asks on his way to turn off the overhead light.
“When I’m naked with someone and we’re making out, that’s the lead-up to fucking.”
The room goes dark, save for the moonlight slipping through the closed blinds, offering some illumination as he returns, going around the bed and crawling in on the other side. You turn over to look at him as he gets to the middle of the bed. “C’mere.” He reaches toward you, and you scoot like he asks until he’s able to pull you up against the solid warmth of his front. He curls around you, one arm draped over your waist, the other under your head, his large palm resting gently on your spine. “Have you ever slept with someone?” he asks.
You blink up at him in the dark, quietly replying, “We literally just fucked twice.”
“No.” He brushes his thumb lightly over your back. “Not sex. I mean, have you ever just fallen asleep with someone?”
The question has your breath catching a little, but not from arousal. No, this is something completely different. It’s warmer. Sweeter, and it makes your chest ache for some reason.
Your mouth opens to reply, but no words come out immediately.
It has you thinking back, really thinking back. Sure, you had nights where men stayed over. Nights when you were tangled in sweaty sheets with someone who’d be gone by morning. But this? Naked and held? No rush. No expectations. Just simple, quiet skin-on-skin closeness?
“No,” you finally admit. “Never.”
Joel hums a contented sound in his throat. He kisses the top of your head, his facial hair lightly scratching your forehead. “I hope you like it, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
You lie there, stunned. You assumed he asked you here for the same reason men before him invited you into their beds—to fuck, and maybe some post-sex cuddling before your clothes are back on and the mood fades.
But Joel doesn’t just want you. He wants you with him, here like this, in a way that feels much more intimate than sex. He doesn’t just wreck you with his body; it’s the way he chooses you when he doesn’t have to, how he holds you like you matter, like you’re his. With him, you’re not being used, you’re being kept.
That dawning realization sinks in, curling around something tender behind your ribs.
Your voice is small when you whisper, “You didn’t want me here for sex, did you?”
“No,” he answers. “I wanted you here ‘cause I’ll sleep better with you next to me.”
Your throat tightens, staring into the dark, feeling a little overwhelmed because you don’t know what to do with all of this affection settling over you.
“Oh.”
Joel chuckles, pulling you in tighter, tucking your head under his chin. “Yeah. Oh.” The room goes quiet, then he adds, “Also, don’t want you breakin’ my bed.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he laughs into your hair. “You ride like a fuckin’ hellcat. That old frame of yours didn’t stand a chance.”
His statement has your mouth dropping open, a mix of offense and flattery.
“That’s rude and slanderous because we both agreed you broke the bed.”
“We agreed on no such thing. Tomorrow, I will even show you proof that you rode me into the sunset and your bed straight into the ground by where it snapped.” He kisses the top of your head again. “Gotta reinforce both our beds before I let you do that again. I think your couch could take the abuse, though, so that’s an option.”
He has you biting back a smile. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You wanna marry me.”
“I’m not so sure I do now.”
“You do.”
“Maybe.”
“Six months.”
“Six months, what?”
“If we’re still together in six months, I’ll marry you.”
Your heart rate increases. “Really?”
“Yes. Now, get some sleep.”
Masterlist
Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!
Summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Angst, and Fluff, We got the childhood best friends trope, and I frickin love it! Reader is super jealous but really tries to be happy for Rhett.
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rhett is a bit dominant in here, Dirty Talk, He talks you through it, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Rough Sex, He puts his hand on your throat…But like…Not to choke? I guess. A little bit of overstimulation, Heavy Makeout, Some Grinding
Author’s Note: I got this request a while back and honestly I was writing it and hated the way it went, then I had this huge eureka moment and literally put my whole chest into this damn thing lol. Thank you anon, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting! But I hope it meets your expectations. (I made it on time y’all sorry for the delay!)
Word Count: 18,010
The lights above the ring hummed with electricity, casting long, bright white beams over the dirt-packed arena like they were trying to mimic daylight–but it was well past sundown. The night air had settled cool against your skin, clinging to the sweat on your collarbones and the thin cotton of your oil-stained tank top–the same one you had been wearing when Rhett burst into your garage hours earlier, all breathless and grinning, saying, “You comin’ or what?”
You didn’t even notice him at first. Your arms were elbow-deep in the hood of your father’s busted-up ‘82 Chevy, sleeves rolled past your shoulders, knuckles stained black with grease. The old truck had been sitting in the barn lot for years, more rust than a frame, but it had history, and you couldn’t bring yourself to give up on it. You had been trying to get the engine to crank for weeks now, working after hours between shifts and moonlight with stubborn hands, and a soft heart.
Rhett had found you with a pair of pliers clenched between your teeth, and your hair stuck to the back of your neck. You were in the middle of coaxing a frayed wire into a cleaner splice when he had said it again.
”Y/N! You comin’ or what?!” You nearly dropped the pliers into the engine block that time around, and your eyes immediately shot up to him.
”Jesus Christ, Rhett,” You muttered around the tool in your mouth, straightening up just enough that your back cracked, “You ever heard of knocking? You’ve got hands do you not?” Rhett leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, boots scuffed and dusty. The golden evening light caught the curve of his jaw, lighting up the honeyed brown wisps of hair curling out from under his ballcap, the one he wore when he wasn’t wearing his normal cowboy hat. He grinned like he had all the time in the world.
”Yeah, I got hands.” He said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers, “But I need ‘em for the circuit tonight, can’t go wasting tiring ‘em up by knockin’ on your door.” You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. With a sigh, you pulled the pliers from your mouth and tossed them onto the stainless steel tool table beside you, the clink echoing off the walls of the garage. The wire you’d been working with curled like a question mark in the air.
“God forbid your precious hands do somethin’ useful.” He let out a huffed laugh, smirking, like that little jab of yours was exactly what he had come there for. You reached for the damp rag that always lived folded beside your socket set, rubbing your hands down with practiced efficiency. Grease smeared into the creases of your fingers, under your nails, and you could already hear your father warning you–again–about keeping motor oil off your face. You scrubbed harder.
“Can you give me five minutes to change, at least?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “I look like I crawled out of a junkyard.” Rhett checked the time on his phone like it was life or death, kissing his teeth.
“No can do. It’s gonna take us ‘bout two hours to get down there, and I gotta check in early. No time.” You looked down at yourself–at the tank top clinging to your skin, streaked with oil and sweat; your low-rise jeans that had a hole in the knee; boots dusted in gravel, grime and oil. You knew your hair certainly didn’t look good, especially with the sweat that pooled on the back of your neck, so you tried to plead again.
”C’mon, Rhett,” You groaned, “At least lemme–“
”Nuh-uh,” He interrupted smoothly, already pushing off the doorframe, “You look fine.” He said it so matter-of-factly it hit you like a sucker punch to the gut. His tone was easy, and offhanded, but his eyes flicked over you once–head to toe, like he was checking the welds on a fence post–and lingered a second too long on your bare shoulders before flicking away again. You felt your skin heat up despite the cool air from your fan blowing onto you.
Then he tossed you his keys without ceremony, and you barely caught them in time.
”Now. Get your butt in the truck, I need my good luck charm.” You stood there for a second, holding his keys like they were heavier than they had any right to be, watching Rhett backpedal across the gravel with that cocky grin stretching his mouth. The nerve of him–waltzing in, dragging you out in grease-stained clothes, and telling you that you looked fine like it didn’t mean something.
Like it didn’t knock something loose in your chest.
You tucked the rag into your back pocket with a sigh and followed him out into the golden spill of sunset that painted the drive, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Rhett was already climbing into the passenger side, settling into the spot he always took when he was with you. He never once offered to drive–not because he didn’t want to, but because he liked how you drove his truck. He liked watching you lean one hand out the window, tapping the side with your fingers in time with the radio, he had said you made it run smoother somehow.
You climbed in behind the wheel, the door creaking shut with that familiar metallic groan as you shoved the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands like it had been waiting on your touch.
“You just always have to pull that good luck charm shit with me,” You muttered, fingers flicking the air vents toward Rhett like that would somehow cool your irritation, “If it wasn’t for the fact your dad would have my head on a stake if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t be coming.” Rhett didn’t even flinch, he just smiled wider, teeth flashing under the brim of his cap.
”You’d show up anyways, even if there wasn’t that loomin’ threat.”
”Yeah?” You shot back, shifting into reverse, “And why’s that?”
“Cause you always do, that’s just how you are.” You let the truck ease back down the gravel drive, headlights cutting twin beams through the soft haze of kicked-up dust. Rhett reached out to roll down his window, letting his arm dangle outside, fingers tapping lazily against the side of the door like he had no care in the world.
“You still act like it’s a choice,” You grumbled, glancing sideways at him as you turned onto the main road, “You ever consider the possibility that I just don’t like you makin’ stupid decisions alone?”
“You’re not just here to babysit me, darlin’,” He said, voice soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question. “You’re here ‘cause you belong there.”
That had shut you up pretty quickly.
He didn’t say it with any kind of weight. Didn’t lean into it or give it too much gravity. Just said it like it was a fact of life–like gravity or dust or the way your names had always sounded right in the same sentence.
Rhett had called you his good luck charm since you were barely tall enough to see over the top rail at his first junior circuit. He’d botched the ride and landed square on his ass, the wind knocked clear out of him–but when he stumbled to his feet and saw your worried face at the edge of the ring, he lit up like he’d just won the whole damn event.
From then on, he’d refused to ride without you.
It didn’t matter what his father said. Didn’t matter how many times Royal Abbott tried to reason, bribe, or flat-out yell Rhett into submission—if you couldn’t be there, neither could he.
Royal had tried everything over the years. Bargained with prize money, lectured about reputation, brought up every missed opportunity, every unclaimed buckle, every point lost in the rankings. And every time, Rhett just shrugged, chewed his toothpick a little harder, and said, “Ain’t worth it without her.”
Royal had even gone to your father once, showed up at the house red-faced and muttering under his breath, looking for backup. He’d stomped up the porch steps, knocked hard enough to rattle the screen, and said, “You need to talk some damn sense into your daughter. She’s holdin’ Rhett back.”
Your father didn’t even look up from the paper in his lap. Just flipped a page and said, “It’s outta my hands, Royal. She’s his lucky rabbit’s foot, not mine. You’re the one who raised a superstitious kid.”
That had been the end of it.
Well–besides the occasional muttered complaint, the exasperated way Royal folded his arms and scowled at you from across the arena like you were the one who’d crawled inside Rhett’s brain and rewired the whole damn thing. But you knew he didn’t really mean it. Not deep down–cause just like Rhett, he too had a soft spot for you.
Your father and Royal had been friends since high school–thick as thieves, the kind of troublemakers who grew up and never quite grew out of it. There were more stories than you could count about the two of them sneaking out of study hall, crashing their bikes into fences, and getting into brawls over rodeo scores. Royal may have grumbled and huffed and barked, but he knew what this was.
He knew what you were to Rhett.
And that’s how you found yourself at the circuit tonight, in the worst possible outfit you could be in for a night that turned chilly. You leaned against the rail with your arms folded, listening to the announcer listing off names you didn’t recognize and sponsors you didn’t care about.
One rider across the way was adjusting the strap on his glove with his teeth, spitting into the dirt before swinging a leg over the gate. He was broad-shouldered and too young to have that many calluses on his palms. His boots also looked too new, and you could tell he was nervous just by the way he puffed out his chest.
“He’s overcompensatin’ with all that noise,” Rhett’s voice came from your left, low and familiar, warm despite the cold air, “Looks like he spit shined his boots and bought the buckle from a pawn shop.” You turned your head just enough to see him steadying beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed. He had one glove on already and was working his other hand through the second–leather creaking around his knuckles as he tugged it tight, mouth set in that concentrated little frown he only ever wore when he was minutes from getting on a bull. You hummed at him.
”You say that as if you weren’t the same way your first time.” He scoffs.
”I don’t think I was that bad.” You didn’t reply, you just smirked, and shook your head, turning your attention back to the rail. But your eyes didn’t stay on the ring long. Not when he was standing that close.
Rhett had always been easy to be around–easier than most. He didn’t demand attention, didn’t fill the silence with noise unless he felt like it needed to be broken. And somehow he always made you feel like the most important person in the room without ever saying it outright. Your gaze drifted down his arms, the way the veins ran like fault lines beneath his skin, pulsing beneath the leather. The gentle scrape of stubble along his jaw. The way his shirt clung to the dip between his shoulder blades.
You knew how to look without letting it show. How to admire the little things from afar, memorizing them only to recall later in the quiet moments of your own space, when it was just you and the memory of him.
You’d gotten good at control.
“You okay?” He asked suddenly, glancing at you from under the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. His voice had shifted–still soft, but lower now. Quieter. You raised your eyebrows.
”Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied, he shrugged a little, pulling the strap of his glove tight.
”Been quiet since we pulled in…”
“I’ve been tired since we pulled in,” You said, deflecting with a tilt of your chin, “You yanked me straight outta the garage before I could give myself a cold shower to wake myself up.” He smiled at that, eyes crinkling at the corners like he didn’t buy your excuse but was willing to let you keep it.
“Well,” Rhett drawled, shifting his weight and giving you a side glance, “Thank you for joinin’ me all marinated in oil and tired. Really sets the mood.”You rolled your eyes, lips twitching as you looked away
“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I didn’t bring a wrench to throw at you while you’re on that big bull.” He chuckled under his breath, his gaze tracking the arena before flicking back to you.
”Gonna go sit with my family?” You let out a long sigh, eyes squinting at the stands like you were preparing for battle, seeing the Abbott’s were already together talking among themselves.
”Course…Always the best seat in the house. Front row for your brother talkin’ my ear off about his side hustles, and your dad telling me how the whole thing’s rigged against you, while Cecilia tries to ask whether or not I’m moving shops anytime soon.” Rhett huffed a laugh, shaking his head.
“Always happy to know you love bein’ up there with them.” His tone was thick with sarcasm, but his smirk was soft. Familiar. Like he was picturing it already–your boots kicked up on the railing beside Royal, his dad grumbling into a foam cup while you offered him your popcorn. You both shared a quiet chuckle, the kind that slipped out easily, like short breaths in cold air.
In the moment of silence, your hand slipped into your back pocket without thinking–it was instinct more than anything. You dug around until your fingers curled around the thin chain, the cool metal warmed by your skin. Rhett didn’t look at you, because he didn’t have to. He knew the moment you turned fully toward him that you were pulling out the necklace. His shoulders straightened slightly at the sight of it.
A thin gold chain, delicate as thread, with the charm your mother had worn nearly every day before she passed–the small, oval locket with a dent on one side. It was a gift that your father had given her when they were first going out, and now it was yours. But in moments like this–when the dust was thick in the air, when the circuit lights buzzed overhead and danger sat heavy in your chest–it was his.
Rhett always took it the same way: quiet, gentle, and like it meant something more than just luck and protection.
Because it did.
Your mother had loved Rhett like he was her own. She fed him when Royal was late picking him up, scolded him when he scraped his knees, kissed the crown of his head when he showed up on your porch with dirt on his boots and his heart on his sleeve. When she passed, he didn’t say much. But you remembered him standing at the far end of the church, knuckles white around his hat, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.
He didn’t cry. He never had to because you had done enough of that for the both of you.
You placed the necklace in his palm gently, brushing your fingers along the inside of his wrist. A quiet exchange. A tradition that had started the first time he made it onto the adult circuit–when you pressed it into his hand before the gate opened and said, “She’s got you.”
And it stuck and became something neither of you ever had to explain.
“Think she’s watchin’?” Rhett murmured, voice rasped low as he curled the chain into his fist.
Your answer came easy. “Always.” He nodded, jaw ticking as he thumbed the charm once for good measure before tucking it into his shirt–over his heart, where it belonged. He gave it a soft pat, like he was anchoring her there. Like maybe she’d feel it, wherever she was.
“I dunno if she’d like that you’re still lettin’ me do this,” He muttered after a beat, offering a crooked little half-smile. “Ridin’, I mean.”
You scoffed lightly. “She wouldn’t like it,” You admitted, “But you know she’d still be yellin’ the loudest when they called your score.”He smiled at that, shoulders easing just a little. Like the weight of her was something warm instead of heavy.
“She always liked you better than me,” You teased gently, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion caught in your throat. “Pretty sure she would’ve traded me for you if she had the option.”
Rhett looked over at you then, really looked, and something in his expression softened so fully it made your stomach twist. “Don’t think you believe that for a second,” He mumbled quietly.
And you didn’t.
But it was easier than saying what you really meant–that you’d give anything to hear your mother talk about Rhett again. To hear her tell him to be careful. To bring him a sandwich while he leaned against the side of the truck, and to kiss your forehead and say, “You take care of him out there, alright?”
Because she’d known about your true feelings for him. She always knew.
“You better not get yourself broken tonight,” You warned, trying to talk the emotion out of your voice, attempting to shake it out, “I’m not scrubbin’ your blood outta your jeans again.”
Rhett laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “I’ll try not to, but I admire the fact you did it so well the last time…” He gave you a soft pat on the side of your arm, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Don’t worry too much though. I’ve got you, and I’ve got her. That’s a two-for-one deal even the devil can’t mess with.” You didn’t smile this time–but your eyes stayed on him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his hat, the line of his shoulders.
“Be safe,” You said, and it was quieter than anything you’d spoken all night.
Rhett nodded. Touched the charm through his shirt once more. And then he turned and walked toward the chute, back straight, shoulders squared, steps steady.
You watched him go.
And just as he disappeared behind the gate, swallowed up by the noise and the crowd–
You heard a voice you hadn’t heard in five years.
“I’ll be damned,” The voice called out behind you, thick with familiarity and a smile you could already picture even before you turned, “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here.”
Your entire body went still–like a switch had been thrown on, and your nerves froze under your skin. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the cadence. The tilt in the vowels. The lilt of amusement laced with old memories and summer sweat.
Maria Olivares.
You didn’t turn right away. You just stared straight ahead at the chute where Rhett had disappeared, your heart dropping like it had been cut loose from a string. The last time you’d heard her voice, it had been filtered through the cracked speakers of the high school PA system during her senior farewell speech–warm, confident, grateful for her small-town upbringing, even as she looked forward to city lights and bigger things.
She hadn’t come back. Not once in five years. Not for holidays. Not for spring break. Not even to visit old friends. Everyone figured she’d traded Wabang for somewhere with sidewalks and skylines.
And yet here she was.
You turned slowly, dragging your eyes up from the toes of a pair of spotless white sneakers, to a pair of high waisted black jeans that fit right, and a hoodie, jean jacket combo that looked warm and cozy. Her dark brown–almost black–hair was still long, and shiny, catching the circuit lights in ribbons as it spilled over her shoulders. There was not a wave out of place. She looked good, and that was always the worst part for you.
”Hey stranger,” She smiled, stepping toward you, her hands in her jacket pockets like this was just another Friday night and you were the one that vanished, “Didn’t expect to see a familiar face here when I rolled in.” You blinked, pulse throbbing somewhere behind your teeth. You could feel every streak of sweat dried into your collarbone. The grease under your fingernails. The smudge of oil you’d missed above your brow. The faded tank top clinging to your ribs.
“Maria,” You managed to say, trying to force something that resembled a smile on your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Didn’t know you were back in town…It’s been a long time.” She nodded.
”Five years.” She said softly, like she was trying the words on for size, as if she hadn’t known exactly how long it had been. There was a brief pause, heavy with memories you didn’t ask to revisit.
Then, with a little huff of breath, she gave a rueful smile glancing toward the arena.
”I got burnt out from college…Thought I’d come back to Wabang to try and get my life back together…” Her gaze flicked sideways, and then back to you, “And I heard around town that Rhett was riding tonight, so I thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.” You felt your stomach twist up into knots.
You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to flinch at the mention of his name on her lips, because Maria had always been nice to you and treated you well. She had never acted above you, even when she could’ve. She was sweet, and effortless, and the kind of girl that seemed built for being admired. People talked about her like she was a firework: bright, exciting, and temporary…And Rhett…Well…
Rhett had always looked at her like she belonged in the Louvre.
You remembered it so clearly–him leaning back on the bleachers during lunch period, eating a sandwich, baseball cap tilted low as he watched her laugh by the vending machines. He used to elbow you in the side and mutter something like “God she’s just…Look at her, would ya?” Or “If I asked her out and she said no, I think I’d have to walk into traffic.”
And you’d laugh. Pretend it didn’t bother you, and you’d joke back and say “You’d have to start a new life in the city or somethin’.”
Because what else could you do?
You were…You. The grease-monkey. The tomboy. The one who spit-shined carburetors instead of joining social clubs. The one who could drink the boys under the table, throw a punch better than half of them, and still knew the sound of Rhett’s laugh like the back of your hand. You were his best friend. His good luck charm. His midnight mechanic and his porch-sitting, star-watching, shit-talking ride or die. But you were never the girl.
Not in the way Maria had been–even though they didn’t date.
So when Maria left for college, it was like someone let the air out of Rhett’s chest. He didn’t say much–just got real quiet for a few weeks. Stayed out late, rode harder, drank more. Then one night, sitting on your porch with his head tilted back and his boots up on the railing, he let out a sigh and said, “Guess that’s that, huh?”
You didn’t ask what he meant. You just passed him the bottle and leaned your shoulder into his like you always did.
And little by little, he put himself back together. He didn’t talk about her anymore. Stopped bringing her name up at all. And a part of you–one you never said out loud–had hoped maybe he was finally looking at someone else now. That maybe he’d finally see you.
But now, she was here.
In the flesh. Smiling, radiant, all polished edges and big city warmth. And she’d said his name like she had every right to, like she’d never left a hole in him when she packed up and vanished.
You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle somewhere heavy between your ribs.
“Thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.”
You hated how those words clawed at the inside of your chest.
”Yeah,” You mumbled, voice tighter than you wanted it to be, “I’m sure Rhett will be glad to see you…It’s been a while.” Maria’s smile didn’t falter, not even for a second.
”We should go out for drinks after,” She suggested, casual and bright like this wasn’t a slow-motion car crash happening in front of you, “Maybe you two can come find me? I’ll stick around.” You swallowed hard enough that you felt it echo in the back of your throat like a gulp of warm soda going down the wrong way.
“Sure,” You managed to agree, forcing your lips up even more, “Sounds like a plan.” It came out flat. A little too fast. But she either didn’t notice or was too polite to mention it. She just glanced behind her, motioning toward a small group of people standing a few yards off, gathered near the funnel cake stand.
“I’m gonna head back to my friends,” She informed, “But I’ll see you after the circuit!” You nodded stiffly.
”Yeah, see you.” And with that, she turned, her sneakers scuffing quietly in the dirt as she made her way back to her group—hair bouncing lightly with each step, laughter already ringing in the air as one of her friends greeted her with an inside joke you didn’t get.
You didn’t watch her long. You couldn’t.
Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and turned your gaze toward the bleachers, willing your legs to move. One step at a time. Your shoulders rolled once, then twice—like shaking off a weight. But the tension didn’t budge, not really. It stayed coiled up in your spine like something waiting to snap.
You stomped up the bleacher steps, boots loud against the metal, and found them all right where you expected: Amy munching on kettle corn, Perry fiddling with a foam cup of coffee, Royal with his arms crossed and a resting scowl, and Cecilia offering you a tight smile like she already knew you needed one.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Cecilia greeted first, scooting to make space. “We were wonderin’ when you’d show.”
“Hey,” you said, voice still low as you nodded to each of them.
Royal shifted over with a grunt, making room beside him, and Perry tipped his head back toward you in a silent greeting.
You sank down between the two of them with a heavy breath, letting the cool of the evening air wrap around your sweat-damp skin. Amy reached over and tapped your boot with hers.
“You smell like axle grease,” She said flatly.
You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Amy grinned back, and you leaned forward to prop your arms on your knees.
Royal glanced your way. “How’s your dad doin’ these days?”
You rubbed the back of your neck, grateful for the shift in subject. “Busy as usual,” You replied. “The shop’s been crazy for both of us, so I haven’t really been able to talk to him. Our faces are always under or inside cars.”
Royal chuckled low in his chest. “Well, a mechanic’s job is never finished until the last car is completely fixed.”
You snorted. “We’d be open till the end of time if we lived by your rules.”
That got a laugh out of Perry too, who clapped you on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth.” His eyes wandered casually over the crowd before something caught his attention. His chewing slowed, the foam cup crinkling slightly in his grip as he leaned in a fraction and nudged your arm with the back of his knuckle.
“Hey…” He muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low, “Is that who I think it is?”
You didn’t need to follow his gaze. You already knew. Still, your eyes drifted to the right, past the funnel cake stand and toward the little group of people laughing in the warm glow of the overhead string lights.
Maria was standing right in the middle, her smile shining like she’d never left, like she hadn’t cracked something in your chest just minutes ago.
“Yep,” You replied, the word flat and dry on your tongue.
Perry let out a soft whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Did Rhett see her?”
You shook your head slowly, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you glanced back toward the chutes. “Not yet… But I’m gonna have to be the one that breaks the news to him. As usual.”
Perry tilted his head, his expression shifting into something halfway between sympathy and disbelief. “She say why she’s here?”
”She said she got burnt out from college, now she’s back in town until further notice basically. She said she wants to go out for drinks after the circuit,” You explained. There was a beat of silence. Then Perry huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.
“Man… That’s gonna be pure torture for you, huh?” You flicked your gaze toward him, jaw tight.
He knew. Perry was one of the only people who did. You’d sworn him to secrecy years ago—right around the time you drank too much whiskey behind the barn one summer night and finally admitted it. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Just looked at you with those steady eyes and said, “Yeah…That tracks.”
And despite his reputation for being a smartass, Perry had never breathed a word of it to anyone.
“I could come with you guys,” he offered now, voice quieter. “Even out the numbers.”
You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re talkin’ like we’re goin’ to war.”
Perry shrugged one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”
You shook your head with a sigh and muttered, “I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”
“Hey,” Perry said, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. And don’t come cryin’ when you end up sittin’ between them, third-wheelin’ your own heartbreak.”
Before you could respond—before the knot in your chest could turn sharper—the PA system crackled back to life, cutting through the thick air.
“Next up, ladies and gentlemen—we got Rhett Abbott comin’ up in the chute!”
Your whole body snapped to attention, your eyes instinctively finding the chute where he stood, framed in gold and dust and determination. He was climbing the rails now, one hand on the edge of the gate, the other adjusting the brim of his Stetson. His back was broad beneath the weight of his vest, the number pinned crookedly to the fabric like it always was because he never let anyone else do it. Always asked you.
He didn’t look toward the stands. Not yet. His focus was on the bull–pure, burning concentration.
But your chest was a live wire.
Because he didn’t know she was here.
And when he saw her–when he looked up and caught sight of Maria’s soft smile and city-polished glow standing in the crowd–you didn’t know what it would do to him.
But you knew exactly what it would do to you.
Perry leaned back, a shadow in his expression. “Buckle up,” he said, almost like a warning. “Here we go.”
And all you could do was hold your breath…And wait.
————————
The crowd had started to thin, the night slipping gently into its last stretch–boots shuffling through kicked-up dirt, families gathering up folding chairs and foam cups, laughter tapering off into low murmurs beneath the buzz of the circuit lights. The arena was quieter now, calmer. A few riders lingered by the chutes, stripping off gear, comparing scores, cracking open lukewarm beers from coolers tucked behind the rails.
Rhett was still standing near the gate, dust clinging to the bottom hem of his jeans, his shirt sticking to the sweat that had dried down his spine. His hair was damp under his hat, eyes scanning the space like he was still riding the high of the eight-second count.
You moved down the bleachers slowly, like each step took effort, the cool night air brushing against the back of your neck, the gravel biting into the soles of your boots.
He saw you coming, and his face lit up in that familiar way it always did–soft around the edges, glowing just under the skin. Without a word, Rhett reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out the thin gold chain, the charm glinting faintly beneath the floodlights. He held it out gently, curled between his fingers like something sacred.
“Guess you two really did help tonight,” He commented with a crooked smile, placing the necklace in your open palm. “Probably one of my best performances.” You looked down at the charm as it settled into your skin, feeling the warmth of him still clinging to the metal. You managed a smile, small and tired.
“Yeah…You looked good out there.”
But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
And Rhett noticed. His brow furrowed immediately, eyes narrowing with that uncanny instinct he always had for your moods.
“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, pointing gently between his own eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease here–means you’re thinkin’ too hard.” You tried to shrug it off, eyes dropping to the necklace as your fingers curled around it. But the weight in your chest didn’t move. You hesitated. Then you exhaled slowly.
“…Maria’s back.” You felt the moment he registered the name like a jolt–like it lit something under his skin. Rhett straightened a little, his whole posture shifting, just slightly. Perking up. Perking toward her.
“Really?” He said, his voice brightening in a way that made your stomach churn. “Where is she?”
You nodded toward the far end of the arena without lifting your gaze. “She told me to come find her after…Said she wants to go out for some drinks.”
There was a brief pause before he smiled, teeth flashing in the glow of the overhead lights. “Well that’ll be great! Would love to catch up with her.”
You nodded once. “Yeah. I thought so.”
Your voice was low. Measured. Your lips pressed into a thin, practiced smile–the kind you’d perfected over the years, the one you used when something stung but you didn’t want anyone to see it bleed.
Rhett didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it.
You tucked the necklace into your back pocket, the chain coiling softly in your grip like a secret.
————————
The hum of the arena faded behind you as the three of you made your way down the gravel path toward the bar just off the main strip–The Rusty Spur, glowing amber beneath a flickering neon sign shaped like a bull skull. You’d been here a hundred times. After circuits, after slow nights, after heartbreaks that you never let show. It was familiar ground.
But tonight, it didn’t feel like home.
Rhett held the door open with one boot, gesturing Maria inside with a crooked grin, and you followed silently, your fingers still brushing the edge of your back pocket like the necklace might anchor you if you kept touching it.
The bar was low-lit and humming with half-empty pitchers and slow drawls. Music crackled low from the jukebox–old country, something about losing and loving in the same breath. You barely noticed. You were too busy clocking how close Maria stood beside Rhett. How she reached for his arm when she laughed at something he said. How his body naturally leaned toward hers, like it remembered the rhythm of it even if his heart didn’t quite know why.
You took the booth in the far corner. Your usual spot. Rhett slid in beside you, and Maria took the other side. It should’ve felt balanced. It didn’t.
Someone took drink orders–probably Rhett, but your ears were ringing too hard to catch the words. You muttered something about whiskey, and a moment later, a sweating glass was placed in front of you.
Maria was talking. Rhett was laughing. You were sitting in your grease-stained tank top, sweating in your spot, barely blinking as the two of them picked up where they left off–like no time had passed at all.
“Oh my god, do you remember that time at the bonfire?” Maria said, grinning, her knuckles brushing Rhett’s arm as she leaned forward. “When Perry and Jacob tried to jump the creek in that rust-bucket four-wheeler and we all thought they were gonna die?”
Rhett chuckled, elbow resting on the table, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I think Perry still swears he cleared it by three feet.”
“He didn’t,” You muttered, voice low, more to your glass than to them. “He cracked the axle and limped it home with a broken taillight.”
Maria paused, then offered you a smile. “God, you’ve always had a better memory than all of us.” You gave her a small nod and took a slow sip, the whiskey burning just enough to keep you tethered to the moment. Rhett turned toward you briefly, nudging your boot with his under the table like a reflex.
“That was the same night you duct-taped the handlebars back on, right? Got the damn thing running again in fifteen minutes?”
“Thirteen,” You murmured, lips quirking just slightly.
“Course it was.” He grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. But then Maria asked another question–something about Denver; a story you hadn’t been there for–and Rhett’s attention shifted back before you could respond.
You stared at the condensation on your glass.
Their conversation rolled on, easy and familiar in a way that twisted something in your chest. Not cruel. Not exclusive. But you couldn’t help but feel like a guest at your own table.
They laughed about old teachers. About some kid who used to bring his goat to show-and-tell. About a trip to a fair you barely remembered because you’d spent most of it alone, fixing a blown tire while they wandered off for cotton candy.
Every now and then, one of them would glance toward you. Ask a soft “Remember that?” or toss you a half-smile. And you would nod. You would smile back. You would pretend.
But it felt like watching them through a window.
At one point, Maria reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her nails painted a glossy wine red that caught the light. Rhett’s gaze lingered a second too long. You saw it. You always saw it.
You drained your glass.
The table blurred a little around the edges as you blinked slowly, pressing your fingertips to your temple.
“You alright?” Rhett asked quietly, finally noticing the way your shoulders had gone still. His voice was soft, too soft, like it might undo you if you let it. You didn’t look at him, you just gave the smallest nod.
”Yeah, guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Maria stood then, smoothing out the front of her jacket. “I’m gonna head to the bar–get another round.” She motioned between the two of you. “You guys want anything?”
Rhett looked toward you. You shook your head. “I’m good.”
”I’ll take one more beer, I have a feelin’ I’ll have to drive this one home tonight.” He commented motioning to you. Maria smirked.
”Got a preference?” She asked, and Rhett shook his head, a boyish grin appearing on his lips.
”Nah, whatever they’ve got I’ll take.” Then Maria disappeared into the crowd, and the booth fell quiet. You sat back, arms crossed loosely, your eyes fixed on the edge of the table. Rhett shifted beside you, his leg brushing yours.
”You sure you’re alright?” You’re actin’ really weird…” Rhett shifted a little closer, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight as his knee knocked gently against yours again. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not when the heat from his body was bleeding into your side and curling around your skin like something unspoken.
And then you caught it–that scent.
Faint, but unmistakable. A soft, masculine heat rising off his collar, sunk into the fabric of his shirt. It was that cologne he always wore for circuits–something low and woodsy, edged with spice, like cedar and cracked pepper and the memory of summer sweat. The kind of scent that lingered even after he was gone, that clung to his flannel when you borrowed it, that sank into your lungs and made your stomach tighten without warning. You’d never asked what it was. You didn’t need to. You knew it like you knew the sound of your name when he said it quiet.
And it always made you a little dizzy.
You blinked once, twice, trying to keep your face steady as your gaze finally flicked toward him.
“I said I’m fine, Rhett,” You murmured, a little firmer this time. “Just exhausted.” But he didn’t back off. Not completely.
His brows drew in slightly as he studied you, mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Those blue eyes–always a little too clear, always a little too honest—swept over your face like he was reading it in a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t practiced in years. He looked at your cheeks. Your jaw. Your eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction, lips parting like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.
And then, finally, he nodded–slow, thoughtful.
“Alright…” He started, voice quieter now, more careful. “After this round, I’ll take you home.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer. It was something softer than that. A promise tucked inside a sentence.
You opened your mouth to argue–to say you could take care of yourself, to brush it off like always–but before you could get the words out, Maria returned. She set a glass of water in front of you, and took one beer for herself and handed the other to Rhett, her fingers brushing against his. You watched him glance up with that familiar, easy smile.
“Appreciate it,” He said, nodding.
Maria slid back into her seat, eyes flicking between the two of you for half a second before she leaned in again, chin resting on one hand, and launched straight back into whatever story she’d started before–something about a concert she went to in Austin, a rooftop party of sorts.
You listened with one ear, the other still tuned to the quiet place inside your chest that was trying not to crack open.
You nursed your glass of water. You forced a smile.
And all the while, you felt Rhett’s leg still pressed against yours beneath the table, warm and unmoving.
As if some part of him still remembered you were there. Even if the rest had already started drifting.
Rhett nursed the last of his beer with an absent sort of slowness, fingers rolling the base of the bottle in tight little circles against the table like he was working something out in his head. Maria was still talking, still smiling–her voice soft and syrupy in the warm barlight–but his eyes flicked toward the clock above the jukebox.
And when his bottle hit the table with a soft thunk, you already knew what was coming.
“Well,” Rhett drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing up from the booth, “We oughta get goin’. Gonna be a long drive back to Wabang.”
Maria sat up a little straighter, her smile faltering just slightly. “Oh–are you headed out already?”
He nodded, casting a brief glance your way. “Yeah, gettin’ late. You need a ride back or…?”
She shook her head quickly, waving a hand. “No, no, I’m good. I’m stayin’ with some friends out here for another day or two. Figured I’d ease my way back into town life.”
Rhett grinned, all teeth and comfort. “Well, I’ll definitely call you.”
Maria bit her bottom lip–barely–but you saw it. Like punctuation on a sentence that didn’t need saying. “I’d really like that.”
Then her gaze shifted toward you, warm and easy. “We should all do this again sometime, eh?”
You gave her a nod. Tight. Quick. Polite. “Yeah. Definitely.”
She smiled one last time and turned away to rejoin her friends at the bar.
Rhett didn’t say much as you both made your way outside–boots crunching gravel, the cool night air curling around your ankles like smoke. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the parking lot in pale, flickering yellow.
You reached into your back pocket without a word, dug out his keys, and tossed them over. He caught them easily, looking at you like he wanted to say something, but you were already climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed shut harder than it needed to, the echo of it biting into the quiet.
You leaned against the door, body turned away from him, cheek resting against the cool window as you stared out into the night.
Rhett slid into the driver’s seat, settling in with a soft exhale as he buckled in and adjusted the rearview mirror. He started the engine–it rumbled to life with the low growl of something familiar, something that usually made you feel steady.
Tonight though…It just made you feel even more tired.
“Hopefully you can catch some sleep while I’m drivin’,” He said, his voice low, maybe even a little hopeful.
“Yeah…” The word left your mouth flat and dull, dry as dust. Rhett turned to glance at you, the concern already knitting into his brow. But you were already reaching into the backseat, fingers curling around the flannel that always lived there–the dark blue one he sometimes wore when he was cold and you always stole when you wanted to feel his warmth. You tugged it over you, and didn’t glance his way for the rest of the ride, fading off into a sleepy haze.
————————
The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and heat-soaked metal–the scent of long hours and too many worn-out engines trying to hold on. The radio murmured low in the corner, old country drifting from the busted speaker, the static crackling between verses like background noise to your every exhale.
It was just past noon, but the heat had already settled in for the day. The big bay doors were rolled open, sunlight spilling across the concrete in sharp streaks, cutting through the floating dust like gold through smoke. You were bent over the open hood of a ‘97 Ford Ranger, your shoulders glinting with sweat, black tank top sticking to your back in places where the fabric met skin. The sleeves of your navy jumpsuit were tied around your waist, the whole thing cinched low on your hips and streaked with oil from earlier jobs.
Rhett was sitting on the workbench a few feet away, his boots propped on the lower shelf, stool tilted back dangerously as he rocked on two legs like it didn’t matter if he tipped over. His ballcap was pulled low, his light brown hair curling out from the back, his jaw working absently around a toothpick as he talked–still talking–about her.
“…I mean, I dunno,” He was saying, shifting his weight again, “She called me last night after dinner just to talk–like real late too, almost midnight. We didn’t talk about much, just…Stuff. Nothin’ important. But it was nice, y’know?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, voice casual, but his brows were slightly furrowed like the whole thing was keeping him awake.
You hummed a soft acknowledgment, eyes trained on the belt tensioner you were adjusting. The socket wrench in your hand clicked steadily with each turn, your knuckles smudged with grease, fingernails stained half-permanently. Sweat beaded on your lower back and slipped beneath the waistband of your suit.
“Anyway,” Rhett continued, “She said she might swing by the circuit again this weekend. Wants to grab coffee first. Think that means somethin’?” His voice dipped into something hopeful. “I mean, she doesn’t have to make the first move, but…It’s been weeks and I still can’t tell if she’s just bein’ polite or if she’s actually–y’know–interested.”
You blew out a slow breath through your nose, kept your eyes on the pulley system as you tugged the belt back into place. “Dunno, Rhett. She’s hard to read.”
He paused, like he was expecting more. When you didn’t add anything, he scratched at his jaw and pushed the stool back down flat.
“You ever notice how she touches my arm a lot when she laughs?” He asked, tone casual, but a little eager. “Like, not in a weird way, just kinda light. She’s always been touchy though. That don’t mean much, does it?”
“Not always,” You mumbled, wrench clacking again. “Could just be her way.”
Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His gaze was drifting, not really focused on the cabinets or the tools. Not even on the truck. It was on you. On the way your tank top rode up just a little when you reached for a tool. The way your back muscles shifted beneath sun-warmed skin. How your hair clung to the nape of your neck in sticky curls. He took a sip from the bottle of Gatorade he’d barely touched, then swallowed slowly.
“You always been good at figurin’ people out,” He said after a beat, softer. “You’d tell me if I was readin’ into it too much, right?”
“Sure,” You replied, brushing a hand across your forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there without realizing. You stood up straighter to stretch your spine, a soft crack echoing as your hands went to your lower back. Rhett’s eyes flicked down your side–followed the way the tied sleeves of your jumpsuit tugged the tank top tight across your waist, the glint of your exposed hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He quickly looked away, rubbed the back of his neck.
“I just keep thinkin’ about how she left, y’know?” He muttered, almost to himself. “And now she’s back and it’s like nothin’ happened. Like we can just…Pick up where we left off.”
You finally glanced over your shoulder at him, one brow arched. “Did you leave anything to pick up?”
Rhett opened his mouth. Shut it and thought for a second, “No. I mean, not really. Not out loud. But I always thought…” He shook his head, letting the words trail off like a loose wire. “I dunno what I thought. I guess I just missed her.”
Your lips pressed together into a flat line, but you didn’t say anything. Not at first.
“I get it,” You finally muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “She’s easy to miss.”
Rhett tilted his head slightly at the tone, like he was hearing something he wasn’t meant to catch. “You don’t like her much, do you?”
You paused, grip tightening just a little on the wrench.
“I don’t not like her,” You said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “She’s…Fine. Y’know how I am with people…” He squinted at you, suspicion tugging at his features like a loose thread. But then his eyes dropped again–to your neck, your collarbone, the bare line of your shoulder as you leaned over the engine again. He chewed the inside of his cheek.
“Was thinkin’ of askin’ her to come to the Fourth of July thing next week,” He said, casual but deliberate, watching for your reaction. “Figured it’d be nice to have her meet everyone again…Y’know, properly.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say anything cruel. But your fingers curled around your wrench tighter than before, the metal biting into your palm.
“Sure,” You said with a hollow shrug. “Bring whoever you want, I’m sure everyone would love to see her.”
Rhett watched you for a moment longer, unreadable.
“You ever gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on in that head of yours?” He asked, almost teasing, but his voice dropped just a little at the end.
You didn’t look at him. Just reached back into the engine block.
“Nothin’ is going on up here, I’m just payin’ attention to this customer's car.” Rhett knew better than to believe that.
He’d seen it with his own eyes–felt it in the air, even if you were too proud or too stubborn to admit it. You used to meet his gaze across a room and hold it, unbothered, cocky even, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him. But now? Every time Maria’s name came up, you flinched just a little, like you were bracing for a hit. And whenever the three of you were in the same space–which was rare because you made it rare–you got quiet. Distant. You’d hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, mouth pressed flat, eyes focused on anything but them.
And he remembered.
He remembered asking if you wanted to come out with him and Maria after that first weekend she rolled back into town. It had been a simple question, low-stakes. Just a casual invite.
But you didn’t even think about it–you just said, “Can’t. I’m busy.”
Didn’t even ask what night.
You’d turned him down so fast it had made his head spin. And after that, whenever he mentioned Maria, you got this far-off look like your mind had slipped into neutral. Like you weren’t even there anymore.
He shifted on the stool now, elbow digging into his knee, watching the way you moved with quiet precision–like you were using the engine block to avoid him. Like if you focused hard enough on the bolts and belts, you could keep the rest of the world from touching you.
Sometimes he wished he could read minds.
Not for anything big or cosmic–just so he could finally know what the hell went on behind your eyes when you looked at him.
What you thought when Maria’s name came up.
What you thought when he said she might come to the Fourth of July thing.
What you thought about him, period.
Did you think he was being desperate? Clingy? Chasing someone who didn’t deserve to be chased? Or did you just not care anymore?
“You sure nothin’s goin’ on in that head?” He asked again, a little quieter this time.
Still no answer. Just the soft click of your tools.
Rhett let out a slow breath, set his Gatorade bottle on the bench beside him with a soft thunk. He looked at the concrete floor, then back at you.
“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you’re playin’ wingman,” He said after a beat. “Only you’re not rootin’ for me to win.”
You froze for just half a second–barely enough for anyone else to notice–but Rhett caught it.
He always did.
Then you straightened up again, slow and careful, wiping the back of your neck with the same rag you’d used on your hands.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shrugged, but it was tight. Guarded.
“Means you show up, sure. But you don’t really wanna be there. You say you’re happy for me, but I can tell you’re not. You act like you’re helpin’ but you keep your distance. It’s like…you’re close enough to see it all, but never close enough to be part of it.” Your jaw tensed, lips parting just slightly like you wanted to fire back something sharp–but nothing came. So Rhett leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.
“Do you want me to stop talkin’ about her?” He asked gently. “Just say the word, and I will. I swear I will.” Your eyes finally met his–steady, unreadable. And for a moment, he thought you might actually tell him. That you might finally crack open whatever it was you were hiding behind grease-streaked skin and bitten-off words.
But instead you said:
”I don’t care Rhett, you can talk about her till the cows come home.” And you turned back to the engine.
————————
The fireworks had already started by the time you sank into the corner of the worn-out couch, your dad’s recliner creaking as he shifted beside you. The TV was low, tuned to some classic western neither of you were really watching. Outside, through the screen door, you could hear the faint distant pop of celebratory explosions, followed by a round of cheers from somewhere down the road. The air was thick with summer—warm and buzzing with mosquitoes, smoke from backyard grills clinging to everything like memory.
You hadn’t told Rhett you weren’t coming.
You’d texted Perry earlier–just a short message, simple and vague.
“Can’t make it tonight. Not feelin’ great. Tell Rhett sorry.”
He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else, which was honestly a mercy. Your dad glanced over from where he was leafing through the town paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at you right away when he spoke.
“Didn’t you have plans tonight with the Abbotts?” He asked, casual but pointed. “Royal told me they were havin’ a Fourth of July party.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted in your seat and tugged the throw blanket higher over your lap, even though it was too hot for it. Your voice came out low.
“Yeah. Just not feelin’ well.” That made him look up. He tilted his chin slightly, peering at you over the tops of his glasses.
“All of a sudden? You were fine at work today…Could’ve sworn you were elbows-deep in someone’s transmission this afternoon.” You shrugged, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the television.
“Guess it hit me late.”
He didn’t push at first. Just turned a page in his paper with a slow rustle, let the silence stretch like taffy. You thought maybe he’d drop it. But then–
“This ain’t about Maria comin’ back now, is it?” You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion.
“Why does everything have to come back to her all the damn time? Can’t I just not feel good?” Your dad raised his brows like you’d just proved his point.
“Well,” He said slowly, “That answers my question.” You shot him a look, but it lacked heat.
“Are you jealous that she’s gettin’ Rhett’s attention?” He asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather. “I mean–I ain’t judgin’. You’ve always liked that boy, ever since y’all were knee-high and runnin’ around this place like wild dogs.”
“I have not,” You muttered, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.
“Sure you haven’t,” He teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I suppose I imagined the way you used to light up like a damn Christmas tree whenever he’d show up on that beat-up four-wheeler.” You opened your mouth, then closed it, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking over at you again–not teasing now, just fatherly. Tired, maybe.
“Look, I know it ain’t easy. Watchin’ someone you care about look the other way. But if you want something different…You gotta say something different. Boy’s not a mind reader.”
“I know that,” You replied softly, after a long beat. Your throat felt tight. “I just…It’s not that simple.”
“Never is,” He agreed, settling back with a soft grunt. “But you keep sittin’ on your hands, and someone else is gonna take the spot you won’t claim.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.
Because across town, Rhett was probably smiling at her the way he used to smile at you. Probably handing her a cold drink, nudging her shoulder when she laughed, leaning in a little too close like it was second nature. You could picture it too well. That easy charm. That golden light. The kind of warmth he didn’t even know he carried.
And maybe, just maybe, it used to be yours.
But not tonight.
Tonight, you were just a ghost in a room you used to stand in, watching from the quiet side of town as the fireworks bloomed without you.
You stayed curled on the couch beside your dad for another hour or so, the two of you watching the rest of the Western he had put on in a silent that wasn’t uncomfortable–but felt heavier than usual.
Every now and then, he’d make a quiet comment about the film or chuckle under his breath, and you’d hum in response, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. You couldn’t stop picturing it: Rhett laughing under the glow of string lights, standing too close to Maria, that loose and familiar posture he used when he felt wanted. When he felt seen.
Eventually, the credits rolled, the TV dimmed, and the old western faded into static hum. You stretched slowly, working the tension from your shoulders before pushing to your feet.
“I’m gonna head out,” You said quietly, brushing your hand down the side of your sweatpants. “Gotta wash off the day.”Your dad didn’t look up from his recliner, but he nodded once, the paper still resting in his lap.
“Alright, kid. Tell the ghosts I said hi.”
You snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll light ‘em a candle.” You stepped toward the front door and reached for the handle–then paused. Rain.
The sound hit your ears before you even saw it–soft, steady, the kind of slow summer drizzle that snuck up on you after sundown. You opened the door and stood in the frame for a second, watching the raindrops dance in the yellow glow of the porch light. The gravel was soaked already, puddles forming in the grooves where the driveway dipped, and the path to the loft looked like a slick, muddy mess.
“Well, shit,” You muttered, eyeing the way your breath curled in the humid air. “Rarely rains on the Fourth.”
Your dad made a noise behind you–somewhere between a grunt and a dry chuckle. “This is what happens when you decide not to celebrate it,” he called out, flipping another page in the paper. “The weather takes it personal.”
You huffed a laugh and grabbed your old black windbreaker from the coat rack, shrugging it over your shoulders. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to the weather next year.” With that, you slipped out onto the porch, tugged the hood up, and jogged down the steps.
The mud squelched under your boots immediately, sucking at the soles with every step, but you kept going, ducking your chin down against the rain. Your loft stood about forty yards behind the house, nestled at the edge of the property where the grass met the tree line. The walk was familiar, even in the dark, and your feet followed the worn path instinctively–even if the occasional puddle slowed you down.
The rain soaked through your jeans by the time you made it to the porch. You slipped your key into the door and turned it, heart settling as the lock clicked open.
The smell hit you first–warm wood and lavender, the faint trace of engine oil clinging to the boots by the door. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you with a soft thud, shaking yourself off like a dog and dragging your hood down with a sigh.
The lights were low–just the ones above the kitchen sink and the little Edison bulb lamp you always left on beside the couch. You didn’t bother turning on the overheads. The place felt better dim.
The loft was everything you needed and nothing you didn’t.
It was open-concept, all one floor, no walls to separate everything–just beams and slanted ceilings, wood-paneled walls stained a soft, honeyed brown that caught the light like something out of a dream. Your father had built it himself for your eighteenth birthday, saying, “Every girl needs a place she can disappear to. Somewhere that’s hers.” He’d smacked the blueprints on the dining table with a grin and said he didn’t want to know who was coming or going, didn’t want to hear anything about late nights or early mornings. He just wanted you to have space. Independence. Freedom.
You had cried when he showed you the key.
The place was cozy–homey in a way that didn’t require explanation. The kitchen sat along the far wall, rustic cabinets painted sage green, an old farmhouse sink surrounded by chipped enamel counters, your mug collection hanging from hooks above the stove. To the right was your sleeping space–a big, soft bed piled with mismatched quilts and pillows, tucked beneath the loft’s only window. Books were stacked on the floor beside it like a makeshift nightstand, with a cracked old alarm clock resting on top.
The living area bled right into everything else: a wide brown leather couch which you had thrifted with Rhett at a decent price, a low coffee table you’d made from an old pallet, and your record player setup on a shelf near the armchair where you kept your journals. The only thing separating the zones was a long, faded rug with a southwestern pattern that anchored everything in place.
Boots were kicked off by the door. Your dad’s old denim jacket hung on the hook by the kitchen, next to the keys Rhett had left behind last winter and never came back for.
You took your time peeling off your soaked clothes, leaving your windbreaker to hang dry by the door. You padded barefoot across the wood floors to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without thinking, craving something warm. Outside, the rain picked up a little, tapping softly against the windows like a quiet apology, before changing into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.
You leaned your hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from the spout, and let yourself breathe.
The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam whispering up into the warm air of the loft, curling like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. You were still leaning against the counter when you heard it.
Tires.
Crunching gravel.
Slow. Deliberate.
You straightened, eyebrows furrowing. You hadn’t heard anyone pull into the main driveway. The rain was still falling, steady and soft, a silver curtain beyond the windows–but the headlights cut through it in sudden streaks. Wide. Familiar. High off the ground.
A truck.
Your eyes narrowed as the engine cut. The lights went dark. A moment later: Three sharp knocks.
Not rushed. Not panicked. Just firm. Like whoever was outside knew they had every right to be here.
You let out a slow, tired sigh, and turned off the kettle.
“Perry,” You muttered under your breath, pushing off the counter. “Dumbass probably thinks I’m curled up cryin’ into a bottle.”
You crossed the floor barefoot, pulling your oversized tee down lower on your thighs as you passed the couch. The rain hadn’t let up–it was still falling hard enough that you could hear it pinging against the porch roof, a low murmur just under your breath. You reached for the handle, pulled open the door–and stopped dead.
It wasn’t Perry.
It was Rhett.
Soaked to the damn bone.
His shirt clung to his chest, heavy and half-translucent, his flannel abandoned somewhere along the way. His jeans were soaked through, dripping onto the porch. His hat hung limp in one hand, curls plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his jaw, his shoulders, his eyelashes.
And his expression…He looked furious.
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, boots thudding onto the hardwood as he slammed the door behind him. His chest rose and fell hard, breath sharp in his nose. And when he looked at you–it wasn’t his usual warmth.
It was a supernova.
Frustrated. Scalding. Desperate.
“What the hell is goin’ on with you? Hmm?” he snapped.
You blinked at him, stunned. The loft felt suddenly too small, too quiet except for the rain beating against the roof. Rhett kicked off his boots without breaking eye contact, his wet jacket hitting the floor with a heavy slap.
“Wow,” You started, raising your eyebrows. “No, ‘hi, Y/N, how are you?’ Not even a ‘how’s your night goin’?’”
But he didn’t bite.
He just stared at you–blue eyes sharp, tense, unreadable.
“Right now ain’t the time for games.” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “What the hell is goin’ on with you?”
You froze in place.
“First you don’t wanna come out with me anymore,” he continued, stepping closer, water still dripping from his sleeves. “Then you start pullin’ away like I did somethin’ wrong, and now you ditch the Fourth of July party and say you’re fuckin’ sick?” His voice cracked faintly on the last word. Not in anger. In something closer to hurt.
“Tell me what the fuck is goin’ on.”
You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.
You just stared, mouth dry, trying to find footing in the storm that had followed him inside. He tossed his wet hat off to the side, ran a hand through his dripping hair, like the mess of it might let him breathe. It didn’t.
You swallowed.
“I…” You cleared your throat, tried again. “Let me go grab you a towel, alright? You’re soaked, and you’re gonna–”
You moved to brush past him–but his hand came out gently. Just enough to stop you.
He caught your wrist.
Not hard. Not angry.
Just… steady.
Warm fingers curled loosely around your skin, grounding you.
“I don’t need a towel right now.” His voice was quieter now. Less heat, more gravity. “What I need–” He met your gaze fully, voice low and razor-sharp with feeling“–is for you to tell me the truth.”
And for the first time all night, you realized–he wasn’t mad because he didn’t care. He was mad because he did. Because he had been confused. Lost. Hurt. Because something had shifted between you, and you’d never let him see it.
And now he was here–dripping, shaking, looking at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to fix.
The air inside the loft had thickened–saturated with rain and tension, heavy with every word you hadn’t said and every moment that had gone sideways between you.
Rhett’s hand still circled your wrist, warm and unrelenting, grounding you in place like he was afraid you might bolt. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips–fast and strong, matching the thunder of your own heart. His eyes locked to yours, demanding something, anything, while water pooled beneath him on the floor.
Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp:
“Is this whole thing about me and Maria?”
Your chest cinched tight. Your jaw tensed automatically–every muscle bracing like your body knew how dangerous the truth might be. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, and in that silence…Your face dropped. Just barely. The kind of shift only someone who knew you like the back of his hand could notice.
Rhett saw it.
And something in his face snapped–not in rage, but in clarity.
He stepped closer. Just one step. Enough to make the air crackle.
“Look at me in the eyes, Y/N,” He said, voice firm now–stern in a way that made your stomach twist, the dominance in his tone curling heat into your spine. “And tell me that isn’t what this is fuckin’ about.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a command.
You tried to hold it together. To keep your eyes from betraying you. But he was right there, soaking wet and burning with something you hadn’t seen in him in years. And when you finally looked up at him, really looked…Everything cracked.
Your breath caught. Your throat tightened. The words didn’t come.
They couldn’t.
Because how the hell were you supposed to lie with him looking at you like that? Like your silence was the final piece of a puzzle that had been driving him insane.
“I knew it,” He said softly–more to himself than to you. “Christ.” He raked a hand through his wet hair again, exhaling hard. “All this time, you’ve been walkin’ around pretendin’ you don’t care… Pretendin’ it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”
You yanked your wrist free–not violently, just enough to take a step back. “What was I supposed to do, Rhett?” Your voice cracked open like a dam. “Watch you chase after the one girl I could never compete with and just smile about it?”
He stared at you–stunned, but not surprised. Like some part of him had known this truth existed, buried deep beneath the grease-stained tank tops and quiet sacrifices.
“She left,” You snapped. “She left and you broke for a while and I helped put you back together piece by piece. I sat on that goddamn porch with you night after night while you pretended you didn’t care she was gone. And I was there when you started laughing again. When you started living again.”
Your voice was rising now–shaking, furious and breaking apart all at once.
“And then she shows up, all pretty and polished and fuckin’ effortless, and you just light up like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t even there.”
Rhett’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t stop.
“I’ve been right here, Rhett,” You whispered, stepping forward now. “All this time. Loving you so quietly it damn near killed me.”
And there it was.
Out in the open.
The words you’d never dared say. Hanging between you like smoke in a thunderstorm.
Rhett didn’t move at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and ragged. Water still dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were locked to yours, blue and searing.
“I didn’t know,” He shot back, voice low. Raw. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t want to know.”
“No,” He said, stepping toward you again, shaking his head. “No, that ain’t fair. Don’t you put that on me. I looked for signs, Y/N. I did. But you–you shut me out. Every damn time I tried to get close, you’d change the subject or pretend it was nothin’.” Your footsteps echoed in the silence between you, the sound of your breath sharp in your throat as you turned to face him fully–eyes blazing, rain still dripping off the ends of his curls and onto the floor like the storm had followed him inside.
“I didn’t avoid any conversations with you,” you snapped, voice raw and loud in the warm wood space. “You never thought to say anything! You think I’m just supposed to read your fuckin’ mind?!”
Rhett’s jaw clenched, teeth flashing as he stepped forward again, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And why does it have to be up to me to say anything?! I didn’t know this was a one-sided friendship. Last time I checked, there was two of us in this!”
That did it. You surged toward him with fire in your chest, your pointer finger jabbing hard into the middle of his chest–right against the damp fabric that clung to him, warm and heavy over his heart.
“Because you’re the one who kept chasing Maria all through high school, Rhett! You never gave me a chance!” The words landed hard, thick with years of held-back ache. “You were so wrapped up in her smiles and her perfect little skirts and how she looked in the goddamn sunshine, and you never once looked at me!”
And then–before you could step back–his hand caught your wrist again.
But this time?
This time it wasn’t to stop you.
It was to make you listen.
He held your arm firm, water trailing down the slope of his forearm, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the world had disappeared.
“And why do you think I went after Maria in the first place, huh?” He bit out, chest heaving. “You weren’t that fucking easy to read, sweetheart. You hid your feelings real damn well. So how else was I supposed to move on from somethin’ I thought I’d never have?”
You froze.
Every word struck like thunder in your gut.
Your mouth parted. Your heart tripped.
He’d said it with such certainty. Like it had always been true. Like it had been sitting under the surface of every glance, every late-night porch talk, every ride home in his truck when the silence said more than either of you dared.
“Does everything make sense to you now?” he asked, voice low and scorching.
And it did.
You stood there in the hush of your little loft, the rain pounding like a drumline on the roof, and everything finally clicked into place.
And before you could think, before you could breathe, before your heart could scream for you to slow down–
You launched forward and kissed him.
It wasn’t soft.
It was heat and breath and years of longing breaking open all at once. His mouth met yours with a desperate groan, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your waist, yanking you into him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like just touching wasn’t enough. You could taste the rain on his lips, the bitter edge of frustration still lingering in the way he kissed you–hungry, fierce, like he was starved for this.
Your fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as you gasped against his mouth. The warmth of his chest bled into yours, soaked cotton clinging to skin as he spun the both of you until your back hit the wall beside the door.
“God, you don’t even know,” Rhett growled against your mouth, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in again, kissing you deeper, rougher. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
His hands ran down your sides, settling heavy and possessive on your hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of your shorts as he pressed into you, chest to chest, thigh slipping between your legs like he had every right to be there. You moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leaned in harder, kissing you like he was trying to make up for every year he didn’t.
And all you could think was: finally.
Finally, he was holding you like he meant it. Kissing you like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like the truth had broken loose and there was nothing left to hide behind.
You gasped as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and rough against your rain-chilled skin, dragging a trail up your ribcage. Your body arched into him instinctively, your legs going weak under the weight of it all.
“Tell me you want this,” He murmured against your jaw, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been goin’ crazy.”
You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him right back to you.
“Just…Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” You whispered, your voice ragged, nearly breaking, while your mouth was already bruised and hungry. Rhett’s breath hitched, and then he laughed—low, hoarse, and a little cocky. That boyish, infuriating smirk of his twitched at the corner of his lips as his forehead pressed to yours. His hand still clutched your waist, anchoring you like he’d drown without it.
“Well, hell,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and years of wanting, “You sound a little desperate, sweetheart.”
“Rhett,” you warned, already chasing after his mouth again.
But he kissed you before you could even threaten him further—kissed you like he was starved, like the sound of your voice made his restraint unravel. His hands slid back under your shirt, dragging up your ribs and then lower again, palms rough and reverent all at once. He gripped the back of your thighs, strong and certain, and then—
You yelped softly as he lifted you off the ground.
Your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, like they’d done it a hundred times before, and your arms flew around his neck—one hand diving into his soaked curls, the other cradling his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His lips never left yours as he staggered forward, blindly navigating the loft until your back hit the bed in a messy sprawl.
You bounced once against the soft quilts, dazed.
Then Rhett was above you, peeling off his drenched shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it somewhere across the room with a wet slap. He stood over you for a moment, his chest rising and falling, water still dripping from the line of his collarbone, his abs heaving with every breath. His jeans clung to his hips, soaked dark and hanging low, every muscle in his body cast in golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.
You had seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times.
But not like this.
Not with your lips swollen from his kiss. Not with your thighs still tingling where his hands had gripped them. Not with your body burning for him in every place you had tried to forget existed.
He caught the look in your eyes—hungry, reverent, awestruck—and his smirk faded into something darker. Something heady.
He crawled onto the bed without saying a word, muscles shifting as he moved between your knees, spreading them apart with his palms like he had every right to. His fingers dug into your bare thighs, holding you open as he settled his hips against yours, weight pressing down with purpose.
Your breath hitched. Your hands slid up his chest–feeling the heat, the muscle, the scar near his ribs you knew by heart–and you kissed him again like you were trying to make up for every single day you hadn’t.
This one was feral.
Messy and frantic and clumsy in the best way. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, mouths parting on gasps and moans as your hands moved like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt again, dragging the fabric up your sides and pushing until it bunched around your ribs.
You barely noticed. Too busy tangling yourself in him.
His hands found your hips again–then your jaw–then your ass. He was everywhere at once, and you couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, couldn’t stop arching up to meet every roll of his body against yours. His jeans were soaked, and yours were barely on, and the heat between you was enough to dry everything that had been soaked by the storm.
It was the kind of kiss you didn’t come back from.
The kind that set fire to memory, that branded your ribs from the inside out.
You were breathing so hard you couldn’t tell where your lungs ended and his began, couldn’t remember a time before this–before his tongue was in your mouth and his hips were grinding against your core like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.
And maybe he had.
“Fuck,” Rhett panted, his forehead pressed to yours again, voice thick with disbelief and hunger as his thumb stroked just beneath the edge of your shirt, “You got any idea what you do to me, do you?”
You barely had time to answer.
Because he kissed you again like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all these years.
You moaned into the kiss, your body arching instinctively against his as your hand slid up his chest–not to push him away, but just to slow him, to breathe, to feel. Your palm pressed flat against the warmth of his skin, just above his heart, and Rhett stilled.
He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle, the storm in his chest quieting just a little.
“You okay?” He asked softly, thumb still brushing your waist.
You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers curling lightly into his damp curls. “Yeah,” You whispered, voice shaking with heat and adrenaline. “I just wanna take my shirt off.”
Rhett blinked, and then leaned back slightly, palms splayed beside your hips on the bed. “Yeah?” He asked, husky and reverent, giving you space.
You sat up on your elbows just enough to pull the oversized tee over your head in one quick motion, your breath catching as the cool air of the loft met your flushed skin. The fabric hit the floor with a quiet thud, and then you were left in nothing but your sleep shorts–bare from the waist up, your chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale.
Rhett didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stared.
“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, eyes locked to your chest like he couldn’t decide if he should worship you or fall to his knees. “Holy crap.”
You let out another quiet laugh, flustered but aching, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You okay there, cowboy?”
His eyes snapped up to yours. And then he leaned in again like he’d just remembered he could. Like the sight of you had lit something under his ribs.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” He breathed against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, reverent. His lips moved down your jaw, then your throat, then lower–pressing heat into every inch of skin like he was branding you with it.
You gasped as his mouth trailed to your collarbone, lips brushing, teeth grazing the dip there before he murmured, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”
Your hands found his hair again, tangling in the damp curls, anchoring him as he kissed his way down the slope of your chest. He paused at the top of your breast, glancing up with heat in his eyes, waiting–making sure.
You nodded.
That was all he needed.
His mouth closed over your breast, warm and wet and full of want, and you cried out softly as he sucked, his tongue flicking over your nipple until it peaked beneath his touch. His hand came up to cradle the weight of the other, thumb circling slow and steady as he dragged his mouth from one to the other, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a few soft marks in his wake.
You were already trembling. His mouth stayed latched to your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the sensitive peak, lips sucking just hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. And he didn’t look away–not once. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded and dark with want, jaw working like he was savoring every fucking second. Every twitch. Every breathless sound you made.
And then he ground his hips into you–slow and deep, the press of his soaked jeans meeting the heat between your thighs in a rhythm that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, your thighs clenching around his waist instinctively, the friction too good and too much all at once.
“Fuck, Rhett—” you breathed, your fingers flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his skin without thinking. You didn’t even realize how hard you were clutching him until he moaned.
Loud.
Right against your nipple.
The vibration of it sent a shock straight through your core, your breath catching as he pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your skin before it snapped and fell away.
His lips were pink and swollen. His chest was heaving. His hands still held your hips like they belonged to him.
And then—he licked his lips. Smirked a little. That cocky, heartbreaker smirk that always used to get him out of trouble when you were kids, only now it looked feral. Possessive. Dirty.
He dipped his head to the other side of your chest and gave the second nipple the same worship he’d given the first—slow, wet, reverent, his tongue flicking and swirling and teasing until your legs were trembling around his hips.
You could feel him growing harder with every second, the denim of his jeans rough against your thin sleep shorts, but neither of you moved to get rid of anything yet. You were too busy drowning in this.
In him.
His mouth. His heat. The way he held you like he’d been starving for this since the beginning of time.
He sucked harder, his teeth grazing the swollen bud just enough to make you whimper, and then he pulled off that one too–again, with a lewd, wet sound that left another line of spit trailing down your skin. His voice was rough as gravel when he finally spoke, eyes still locked to yours, lips slick and panting.
“I just wanna keep tasting you,” He rasped, his hands stroking up your sides like he needed to memorize you with his palms. “I wanna taste every fuckin’ inch of you. Wanna see what you’ve been hidin’ under all those smart-ass jokes and mechanic suits.” Your chest stuttered with a broken laugh, your nails still dug into his shoulders, dragging light lines down his back that made him shudder. His hips rolled into you again, more desperate this time, like he couldn’t help it, like the thought of you beneath him in nothing but your shorts was driving him insane.
“Go on then,” You whispered, voice wrecked and teasing and vulnerable all at once. “See for yourself.”
He growled low in his throat, and kissed you like it was a promise. Like he was going to do exactly that.
Rhett pulled back slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze dragged down the length of your body like a man about to sink his teeth into something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands slid down your thighs–slow and warm, worshipful–and hooked just beneath the waistband of your shorts.
“You sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, throat tight with restraint even as his eyes burned with hunger.
You nodded.
That was all he needed.
He tugged the sleep shorts down your hips, inch by inch, until they peeled away from your skin like a secret being revealed. His eyes never left you–not even when the cotton slipped past your knees and off the edge of the bed. And when he saw what you weren’t wearing beneath?
His breath caught.
“Fuck me,” He groaned, so low it was almost a growl, his fingers tightening around your thighs. “You were just walkin’ around like this?” His voice dropped darker, hotter. “No fuckin’ underwear? Just wet and waitin’ under those shorts, huh?” You bit your bottom lip, heart hammering, skin blazing under his stare.
Rhett sat back on his knees between your legs, pushing them apart with both hands—broad palms sliding under your thighs to lift and spread you just a little more, until your heels dug into the mattress and you were completely, utterly bare for him.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared like he was being given a miracle he hadn’t earned.
“Jesus, baby…” He whispered, voice gone reverent. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’–look at you.” His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, his breath shaky. “Bet you taste so goddamn sweet.”
You whimpered at the praise, back arching involuntarily as his grip on your thighs tightened. One hand slid down to grip behind your knee, pushing it gently up and open, his thumb stroking the soft skin there like he was trying to soothe your trembling.
Then–without warning–he dove in.
His mouth hit you like a man starved, tongue flattening and dragging up the length of your soaked heat with a groan that shook through your whole body. You gasped–hips jerking up off the mattress, but he was ready. His hands flew to your hips, pinning you down hard into the sheets.
“Just stay still…Lemme take care of you hmm?” Your fingers flew to his hair, gripping tight as his mouth slowly sealed around your clit. Rhett sucked hard–just once–and then started working you with his tongue like he’d been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart on his face. Long, slow licks. Then fast, eager circles. He switched between the two like he was chasing every sound you made, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs like it was a map.
“God–Rhett–” Your voice hitched, your hips trying to grind against his mouth again, your thighs trembling under his hold. He pressed them back down firmly, groaning against you.
“I said stay still,” He growled, so rough and low it vibrated straight through your core. You whined, writhing under the weight of his mouth, your thighs beginning to tremble.
His tongue flicked your clit again, fast, and then he pressed in deeper–his nose brushing your mound, his tongue fucking into you slow and deep, like he was drinking you down.
Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he just groaned–louder–and pressed in harder, his arms locking around your hips, holding you open for him like you were something holy.
You couldn’t stop moaning–couldn’t breathe around the pleasure curling tight in your gut. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging, pushing, desperate and greedy as your hips rocked against his mouth without thinking.
Then he growled, pulling his mouth back just enough to speak–and the sight of him, lips shiny and jaw slick with your arousal, was filthy.
“I said stay still,” He rasped, grabbing your hips and pressing them back into the mattress with just enough force to make you cry out. You whimpered–your body shuddering at the dominance in his tone, the possessive heat of it—and nodded.
“Words, sweetheart,” He said, licking a slow stripe up your core. “I wanna hear it.”
“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, Rhett–fuck–I’ll stay still–please, just–please don’t stop.”
He smirked into your core.
“Didn’t plan on it.”
And then he buried his face in you again–harder this time–his mouth moving like he was trying to tear the climax from your body with his tongue alone. His grip on your hips was iron, keeping you right where he wanted you, no escape, no mercy.
You came with a loud, shattering cry, your whole body jerking against the bed as pleasure tore through you like lightning, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.
Rhett didn’t stop.
Not through your first wave, or the second.
He kept licking, savoring you, sucking gently, coaxing every last tremble from your hips until you were shaking and soaked and boneless beneath him, your fingers still tangled in his hair like you didn’t know how to let go.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glossed with you, his jaw shining, his eyes wild and dark and full of need.
“Sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted,” He whispered, breathless, licking his lips as he hovered above you again.
And then he kissed you.
Messy. Deep. Dirty. Tongue sliding against yours, lips slick with your own arousal, like he wanted you to taste yourself on him.
You moaned into his mouth, and that sound lit him up from the inside. He pulled back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run flat-out for miles. You watched the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip, savoring the taste of you one last time like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked up to meet yours–warm, slightly sheepish–and his voice dropped, rough with apology but still trembling from the high.
“Sorry ‘bout bein’ a little rough…” He murmured, thumb tracing your hipbone. “I… I couldn’t really control myself once I got a bit of a taste. Sorry.”
You blinked at him, breathless, your cheeks flushed from everything he’d just wrung out of you. And then you laughed—a soft, low sound, all wrecked and wrecking. You reached up to brush the damp curls from his forehead, still tangled in the storm.
“It’s okay…” You whispered, lips twitching into a lazy smile. “It was pretty hot. Not gonna lie.”
That made him laugh—quiet and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His dimples showed through his scruff, and it lit him up from the inside out, that boyish grin making a brief return before it got swallowed by something deeper. He leaned in and kissed you again—slower now, lingering, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the taste of your relief, your want, your voice wrapped around the words I need you.
And then he paused.
Just enough to pull back again, gaze searching yours, soft and careful.
“…You still okay?” he asked, voice quiet now. “Do you…Wanna stop here?”
Your heart clenched at the way he asked it–like it physically hurt him to offer the out, but he’d take it in a second if you needed it.
You shook your head immediately, voice low and steady.
“No,” you breathed. “No, I want to feel you. I need you more than ever right now.”
Rhett froze like he hadn’t expected that. His breath caught, visibly, audibly–and then his face flushed, blooming red across his cheekbones and down his throat. He blinked at you like you’d just shattered him with a single sentence.
“I’ll do anything you fuckin’ want,” he said hoarsely. “Anything.”
He leaned back onto his knees, hands sliding down your thighs once more as he slowly stood on his knees between them. You watched with wide eyes, breath caught behind your ribs, as his hands went to the waistband of his boxers. His fingers hooked into the elastic, and he hesitated–just for a second–like he needed to be sure one last time.
Then he pushed them down.
The fabric peeled away, soaked and clinging, and your mouth went dry.
Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped–then stalled.
Because Jesus Christ.
He was thick. Long. Heavy even before he touched himself–his cock flushed red, the head already leaking and shining in the low light of the loft. It hung low between his hips, resting briefly against his thigh before springing forward slightly, and your whole body reacted before your brain could catch up.
Your mouth actually watered.
You shifted on the bed, thighs spreading wider like your body already knew what it wanted, what it was about to take. The stretch… God, you could already feel it–imagine it–him splitting you open slow, his hips rocking forward while you clawed at his back. You wanted to feel him press in inch by inch until you were full–until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted all of it.
Rhett saw the look on your face–the hunger, the awe, the way your chest heaved and your lips parted–and his blush deepened, but his cock twitched in response, proud and aching.
He leaned down again, bracing one hand beside your head as he hovered over you, breath hot and voice trembling.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” He whispered, eyes locked to yours. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You reached down, wrapped your fingers around the base of him, and watched as his jaw clenched tight, a guttural sound ripping from his throat.
“Don’t worry,” You whispered, He exhaled ragged against your cheek as you guided him closer, your fingers wrapped around the base of him–slow, sure, trembling just slightly. Rhett’s breath hitched again as the thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, heat meeting heat, slick and swollen and pulsing with need. He braced a forearm beside your head, the other curling around your hand on him, intertwining your fingers like he needed to anchor himself.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ wet–gonna slide in like you were made for me…”
You whimpered–because he was right.
Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he started to push in.
The stretch was immediate–hot and deep and toe-curling. Your lips parted on a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as your body opened for him inch by inch. Rhett groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where he was disappearing into you.
“Fuck–goddamn,” He hissed, gripping your hand tighter. “Tight little thing, huh? Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go…”
You moaned, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as he pushed deeper. His cock stretched you wide, the pressure sharp and perfect all at once, your body pulsing around him in greedy aftershocks. He paused halfway in, resting his forehead against yours, sweat and rainwater dripping down his temple.
“You okay?” He murmured, his voice shaky but tender.
You nodded, chest rising fast. “Don’t stop,” You breathed. “Please. Keep goin’. I need all of you.”
That broke him.
Rhett let out a ragged sound–half groan, half whimper–and pushed in deeper. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, slow and thick, until finally, finally, his hips met yours, your bodies flush and trembling with the sheer weight of it.
He was fully inside.
You both stilled for a moment–just breathing, savoring it. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you, every twitch of him making your insides flutter. Rhett’s hand squeezed yours like a lifeline, and he brought it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles before resting it on the mattress between you.
“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”
You laughed, breathless and ruined, eyes glassy with heat and disbelief. “You sound like you’re about to cry, cowboy.”
He let out a half-choked chuckle, his hips giving an experimental roll. You both moaned at the same time, your bodies clutching together again like magnets. Rhett looked down at you, completely wrecked–his hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with awe.
“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, shifting his weight back slightly.
He let go of your hand only long enough to bring the other up to your throat—just resting it there, fingers spread gently, reverently. His thumb stroked along the underside of your jaw, so tender it made your heart lurch.
”You are too,” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”
His hips rocked again, deeper this time, and you arched into him with a soft cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed you hard, his hand at your throat grounding you, guiding you.
“That’s it,” He panted, voice rough. “Take me, baby. You’re takin’ me so damn well.”
“You’re fillin’ me so good,” You moaned, hips rising to meet every thrust. “I can feel you so deep–fuck, I swear I can feel you in my fuckin’ soul, Rhett.”
He let out a strangled noise–somewhere between a growl and a whimper–and his rhythm stuttered for just a second.
“You can’t say shit like that,” He gasped, laughing through it, completely undone. “You tryin’ to make me lose my damn mind?”
You grinned breathlessly, kissing him again, still giggling softly against his mouth as he started moving again–deeper, slower, more confident now.
And with every thrust, every filthy word, every moan tangled between you–it felt less like something you were giving and more like something you were reclaiming.
His rhythm stuttered again–once, then twice–like he was losing the reins. Like everything he’d been holding back was breaking loose all at once.
You could feel it in the way his hips began to roll faster, less controlled, more chaotic. His thrusts hit deeper, harder, the slick sounds of your bodies crashing together filling the space like a drumbeat under the rain.
“Rhett,” You gasped, voice high and trembling, your fingers clawing at his back now, digging in like you needed to anchor yourself before you flew apart again. “Fuck–you’re gonna make me come again–”
That did it.
His mouth crushed yours in a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He bit down on your bottom lip–firm but careful, pulling it between his teeth like he couldn’t help himself. You moaned into his mouth, loud and wrecked, and he swallowed it whole like he wanted to keep it forever.
“Good,” he growled against your lips, voice tight and broken. “Want you to. Wanna feel you come on me again–need it, baby, I need it–fuck–I’m close too–“
You could barely think. His hips were slamming into yours now, rough and desperate, each thrust so deep it sent sparks exploding behind your eyes. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, your back arching off the bed as his hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher to get even deeper.
The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the relentless rain outside–and your moans. Loud. Wild. Unfiltered.
“Oh my god–Rhett–Rhett–I’m–”
Your climax hit like a lightning strike.
You cried out–loud and raw–your whole body locking around him, legs trembling, hands clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping him tight, dragging him over the edge with you.
And he broke.
With a strangled groan, Rhett buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard–his whole body jerking against yours as he spilled inside you. His arms locked around you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moaned low and desperate, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.
“Fuck, fuck–Jesus–” He gasped, whimpering softly as the pleasure rocked through him, his body trembling with the force of it. He gave one last shallow thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then went still–completely spent, panting hard into the crook of your neck.
You both just laid there for a second. Breathing. Shaking. Floating.
The rain hadn’t stopped outside, but it felt quieter now, like even the storm was giving you a minute to collect yourselves.
Rhett eventually lifted his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and still wide with the aftershock. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking gently across your cheek.
“You okay?” He asked softly, voice hoarse.
You nodded, breathless. “More than okay,” You whispered, your fingers pushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “I think you broke my brain a little.”
He laughed–weak and stunned and fucking glowing.
“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in to kiss your nose. “Well…You wrecked me. So. We’re even.”
You both chuckled, quiet and wrecked and tangled up in each other. His weight was still resting on top of you, warm and solid and perfect, and you didn’t want him to move.
He kissed you again–soft this time, slow and sweet. Just once.
Then he pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes filled with something tender. Something quiet and wide and full of meaning.
“I swear to God, I’ve never felt anything like that,” He whispered. “Not ever. You ruined me, darlin’. In the best fuckin’ way.”
And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.
Summary: You haven’t had much luck when it comes to dating and sex which has inadvertently placed you in a position of being wholly inexperienced with the whole scene in general. But when your long time friend Rhett Abbott offers you a way to experiment safely to figure out what to do, you immediately jump at the opportunity–desperate to learn and get more experience.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers? Hell yeah! Reader is inexperienced and actually has a safe space to actually experiment. The dynamics between Rhett and Reader are extremely comfortable (they talk about a lot of personal things), They’ve been friends for a while (high school acquaintances turned adult friends), Mentions of Violence (kind of vague as well), Rhett is Mentioned to be Protective
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all…), Oral Sex (fem! And male! Receiving), Fingering, Biting (leaving marks), Dirty Talk, Hickeys and Love Bites, Cum Play, Swallowing, Hair Pulling, Choking, Overstimulation, Semi–Public Sex (Truck Sex y’all wahoooo lol), Handjobs, Riding, Making Out, Thigh Riding, Praising/WorshippingTeasing (physically), Begging, Reader is described as being inexperienced they have had sex though, just really bad sex, Very Soft Dom and Sub dynamics that switches, Finger Sucking, Gagging (very brief moment, nothing extreme), Good Girl is used.
Author’s Note: Jesus Christ, that’s a lot of smut warnings lol. I loved writing this, I buy into the friends to lovers trope so much, but I also enjoy the ‘I’m teaching you new things about yourself and we’re slowly falling for each other’ trope lol. Did I go off on this and have to change my keyboard midway through because the A, D, F and G keys break? Yep. But holy hell did I enjoy writing this new segment of RAF and I’m so excited to keep writing for this man!
Word Count: 13,962
It was painfully evident that you didn’t have much luck with men. You used to think maybe the first one was just a fluke–that one high school boyfriend who didn’t know the first thing about tenderness and treated you like a friend more than a lover. But as the years went on and the faces changed–first dates, flings, those awkward two-month situationships that ended with unread messages or cold shoulders–it became harder and harder to ignore a simple, infuriating truth:
You attracted a certain type of guy, and unfortunately, that type of guy brought on heaps of trouble to you.
Rhett had told you as much–in different ways, tones, and situations.
”I can tell just by lookin’ at ‘em,” He’d mutter over his beer, eyes narrowed at whoever was looking at you, or whoever had come to pick you up from his ranch when you would hang out, “Ain’t no way that one’s gonna treat you right.” But you never listened to him. You had told him–and yourself–multiple times that he was just being overprotective, and looking too deeply into things.
But the truth was, he was right, you weren’t being treated right. Not even close.
In bed, it was glaringly worse. You didn’t come first–literally or metaphorically. The guys you saw acted like just showing up was enough, like their presence alone should’ve sent you spiraling into pure ecstasy–like you were supposed to be grateful that they were blessing you with the experience of having them between your legs.
You definitely weren’t. Not even once.
You could actually count on one hand how many times you’d almost felt an orgasm building. And the only time someone even offered to go down on you–and even then, he was half-assing the job, and made it feel like a formality rather than something he actually wanted to do. You barely felt his mouth. But you pretended it was good, just so it wouldn’t be another disappointment.
For a long time, you thought maybe something was wrong with you, that maybe your body was broken or maybe you were just one of those people who didn’t get much pleasure from these types of things and needed simpler acts to truly experience something even close to sexual pleasure. So. You stopped trying, stopped dating, and stopped chasing what felt more like punishment than passion.
And within the quiet that followed your dating celibacy, you had found yourself spending more time with Rhett.
Neither of you were truly close with each other before that.
Sure, you’d gone to the same high school, crossed paths in hallways, shared the occasional class where you’d borrow a pencil or flash him a smirk when he got caught nodding off mid-lecture. But he ran with the rodeo kids, and you–well, you drifted between circles, kept mostly to yourself, caught up in extracurriculars and jobs and the kind of boys Rhett always ended up warning you about years later.
It wasn’t until a spur-of-the-moment decision–one boring Friday and a reckless text to your old classmate–that you ended up at one of his circuits. You hadn’t seen him ride since high school, and you figured, why not?
You didn’t expect much.
But then you saw him in the dirt and the dust, bronzed under the stadium lights, laughing with his hat tipped back and his knuckles split open. And something shifted.
You stayed longer than you meant to that night. Helped him limp back to his truck. Got late-night fries together. Talked about everything and nothing, just like people who didn’t know yet that they were about to become each other’s person.
After that, it became a routine. A quiet, natural rhythm. The two of you set aside one day a week for bar hopping–usually Tuesdays, when the crowds were thin and the drinks were cheap. But when you gave up on dating for a while, something in that rhythm expanded.
You weren’t just hanging out once a week anymore. You were showing up at circuits again, slapping the rusted fence rails as he rode past, grinning like you were seventeen again and seeing him for the first time. You started meeting his friends. Familiarized yourself with his family again–Amy’s quiet greetings, Perry’s tired but kind nods, Cecilia’s slightly surprised but not unwelcome smiles when you appeared in their kitchen one Sunday morning, still rubbing sleep from your eyes in Rhett’s oversized hoodie, and Royal’s glares that he shot at Rhett.
You became a fixture in his life. A known presence.
Especially after long nights of drinking, where you’d inevitably end up back at his place, curled up on his bed groaning because a headache was already brewing.
And with that bond that grew came something that bloomed slowly but powerfully: his protectiveness.
It had always been there–coiled beneath the surface, stitched into the way he watched you, waited for you, walked you to your door even when he was half-asleep himself. But when he started to piece together the kind of experiences you’d had–the disappointments, the lack of care, the way men made you feel like an afterthought–it shifted.
It changed the way he looked at you. Like you were fragile, but not weak. Like he wanted to wrap his hands around every bad memory and crush it.
He never said much when you opened up about it. Didn’t need to. The silence was heavy enough.
”You don’t deserve that,” He said once, soft as gravel, not looking at you. It had hit you harder than you expected. Not because of the words–but because of how he said them.
When you broke it to him that you were taking a break from dating, he didn’t even hesitate before saying “Me too.” You hadn’t expected that. You had laughed, asked him why– saying you’re Rhett Abbott, don’t you have girls throwing themselves at you every other week?–but he just shrugged, scratched the back of his neck, and muttered something about solidarity.
What you didn’t know though was that Rhett Abbott was relieved by this news.
It meant peace. No more stepping in between you and men who didn’t deserve to speak your name. No more black eyes or busted knuckles or security dragging him out of bars with the same tired “Abbott, we warned you.” No more cold rage coiled in his chest when you came to him with a new dating story.
But more than all of that–it meant he had more of your time again, and that you were his once more.
Not in the traditional sense. But in the quiet, easy way where he got to have you beside him. In his truck. At his kitchen table. Laughing on his porch. Falling asleep in his living room. Talking to him about things you didn’t tell anyone else.
He got to watch you laugh with his family. Got to listen to you hum in the passenger seat. Got to see you when you weren’t trying anymore–when you were just being you.
And lately, Rhett had been thinking about things. Dangerous things.
About what it would feel like to be the one to show you what good could be. About how his hands would never treat you like an obligation. About how he’d never rush you, never expect anything, never make you fake a damn thing.
He’d been thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t. Imagining things he wasn’t proud of. But he never said it. Never crossed that line.
Not until you did.
——————————
The bar was louder than usual, the kind of noise that sank into your bones, all thudding boots and clinking glasses and low country twang pouring from speakers that surrounded the walls of the drinking areas. You and Rhett were squished together in a booth that barely had enough space for one of his thighs, let alone two. He was pressed against your side, the warmth of his arm brushing yours every time either of you reached for the second pitcher of beer you’d ordered.
You’d been sipping slowly at first–well, pretending to–but somewhere between your third and fourth shared laugh, the drinks started going down faster. Something about being shoulder-to-shoulder with Rhett always loosened you up. Maybe it was the way he leaned in when he talked. Or the way his voice dropped just slightly in the middle of a crowd, like everything else was just noise unless you were listening.
By the time the second pitcher was empty, your head was spinning, your cheeks hot, and Rhett was nudging you with his knee.
“Guessin’ it’s time we call Perry?”He suggested, raising an eyebrow and pushing his light brown hair out of his face. You groaned.
”Can’t we just sleep in your truck?” And he let out a small laugh, shaking his head slowly.
”You’re too pretty to get eaten by coyotes, sweetheart. C’mon, I’m sure my place is more comfy than the leather seats of the truck.” He teased, as he pulled out his phone.
You both slurred your way through the call–Rhett taking the lead while you giggled beside him, repeating his name like a chant until Perry muttered, “Jesus Christ, I’m on my way.”
The drive back to the ranch was a blur. You’d nodded off on Rhett’s shoulder. He smelled like leather and dust and whatever cologne he always swiped across his throat before circuits. He didn’t say much on the way home, but his hand never left your thigh–more because in his drunken stupor, all he wanted to do was feel your skin against his, even if it was seen as an accident.
When Perry’s truck pulled up to the house, it was as if your bodies had already memorized the path inside.
You and Rhett stumbled up the steps, bumping into one another in the narrow hallway, muffling your laughter behind lazy hands and hushed voices. His hand settled low on your back, fingertips resting just under the hem of your top, warm and heavy with quiet intention–though he played it off like it was nothing. Like he always did.
His legs bumped into the frame of the hallway table and he cursed softly, grabbing onto your arm to steady himself.
“Shh,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “You’re gonna wake your parents.” He waved his hand.
”It’s okay,” He murmured, his breath brushing your hair slightly, “I’m sure they’re used to it by now.” You reached his room like it was second nature–your bodies moving together in a practiced rhythm, like you’d done this dance before. And you had, in bits and pieces. Just not like this. Not with this kind of tension buzzing just beneath your skin.
You practically fell through the doorway first, catching yourself on the edge of his bed with a half-giggled groan. Rhett followed close behind, his shoulder knocking lightly into the doorframe before he caught himself and dragged it shut behind him with a soft click.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight bleeding in through the slatted blinds. Familiar shadows painted across the floorboards and the messy sprawl of his clothes on the chair. The scent of him clung to the room–warm skin, worn flannel, the faint tang of sawdust and leather.
You kicked off your boots, one thudding softly against the wall, the other tumbling onto its side. He mirrored your movements, stepping out of his own boots with less precision, letting out a groan of relief as he did so. You tossed your clutch onto the side table–just beside the lamp he never used–and sank onto the edge of his bed with a quiet sigh.
“Here,” Rhett said, reaching for the top drawer of his dresser, “Take these.” He tossed a soft, well-worn T-shirt your way–gray with faded black lettering you didn’t bother reading–and a pair of boxer shorts that still held the shape of his body in their fabric. You caught them against your chest, fingers curling over the cotton, the residual warmth of his drawer somehow sinking into your skin.
”I’m gonna go grab some water,” He added, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice low, but clearer now–more focused, or sobered up, “You get changed.”
Then he disappeared down the hall, the sound of his footsteps padding softly away as the door swung gently shut behind him.
You sat in the quiet for a moment, the distant hum of the house settling around you. Your pulse felt louder than it should’ve. Your fingers trembled slightly as you peeled off your tank top, the material catching on your shoulder before slipping free. You dropped it beside your clutch, then shimmied out of your jean shorts–tight and damp from the heat of the night, catching slightly on your thighs before falling to the floor.
The air kissed your bare skin, cool in contrast to the heat that had begun to build in your chest.
You tugged Rhett’s shirt over your head. It was too big, the hem falling just below your hips, the neckline gaping enough that the slope of your collarbone peeked out. You ran your fingers down the faded cotton, breathing in the faint scent of him lingering in the fabric–clean, woodsy, unmistakably him.
The boxers came next, soft and worn from a thousand washes. You slid them up your legs, the waistband resting low on your hips, baggy and comfortable in a way that made you feel small and safe all at once. You folded your other clothes neatly into a pile beside the bed, then sat back on the mattress just as the door creaked open again.
Rhett stepped in with two glasses of water, his knuckles curled tightly around the rims to keep them steady.
He paused when he saw you.
There was nothing particularly sexy about it, nothing overt or posed. Just you sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxers and his old shirt, legs bare, hair a little messy, your lips parted slightly as you took in a few deep breaths from the buzzing that tingled over your skin, and the shift in energy that floated through the room.
But something in his expression changed. His jaw flexed, and his eyes softened–the tension in his brow melting away the more he looked at you.
”Got you some water,” His voice was quieter now, more rough. You reached for one of the glasses, your fingers brushing his as you took it, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
”Thanks.” You took a sip of the water, the coolness of it sliding down your throat and settling somewhere just above your ribs. You sighed through the swallow, then leaned back slightly on one hand, blinking slowly at the ceiling as your head gave the first warning pulses of what would no doubt be a brutal morning.
“Jesus,” You muttered, placing the glass on the floor beside the bed, “I can tell I’m gonna have such a bad hangover in the morning…My head is already pounding.” Rhett hummed in agreement, moving toward his dresser again.
”Wouldn’t doubt it,” He mumbled, “I feel it too.” You watched him open the top drawer, his back partially turned to you. He didn’t say anything else–just reached in for another t-shirt. Then, without warning or hesitation, he grabbed the collar of the one he was wearing and tugged it off in one smooth motion.
And just like that, your breath caught.
You’d seen Rhett shirtless before. Once, maybe twice–at the lake, when his whole family had piled into trucks and driven down with coolers and towels and floating chairs. But those times had been quick, and you’d always looked away out of caution. Too many watchful eyes, too much risk of your gaze being caught. Too much danger in what you might feel if you stared too long.
But now?
Now there was no one watching.
No one except him.
And he wasn’t looking at you.
He stood a few feet from the bed, half in shadow, and your eyes swept over the length of his bare back, over the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the slight arch of his spine as he leaned forward into the drawer. You barely breathed.
His skin was pale where the sun hadn’t kissed it, but scattered across his chest and along his ribs were bruises–real ones. Deep and blooming like brushstrokes of ink and wine. Purple that melted into faded yellow. Green along the edges. Some were new, still fresh and angry. Others had already begun to fade, ghosting into the gentle gold of healing. They streaked across his ribs in uneven patterns, coiling beneath the planes of lean muscle, dipping into the shadows of his collarbones and clinging to his hips like the remnants of a war.
It was violent. And somehow, beautiful.
Because it was him.
It was the proof of everything he did, everything he gave. The risk. The pain. The stubborn pride that kept him getting back on the bull even after it had thrown him into the dirt. You’d heard the groans he swallowed, watched him limp back to the chute with blood on his jeans and dirt on his teeth, but you hadn’t seen this. Not up close.
Not in the quiet.
Your eyes traced the line of one particularly stark bruise that stretched from the edge of his left pectoral down to his ribs. The skin there was darker, tight. Raw. And still, your gaze followed it like your fingers wanted to.
And God the urge to touch him was burning through you.
You wanted to trace every edge, every mark, every scrape and wound. You wanted to know if his skin was as warm as it looked. If his chest would rise faster beneath your palm. If he’d shiver when you pressed your lips to that bruise just below his ribs.
Your thighs pressed together slightly, feeling your stomach tighten as you began to flush under the confines of your own thoughts.
Rhett tugged the fresh shirt over his head and ran a hand through his light brown hair, slicking it back out of his face before finally turning back to you. His eyes flicked up–just for a second–and he caught your transfixed gaze.
“You okay?” He asked softly, voice thick. You cleared your throat, heat climbing up your neck as you dropped your gaze for a moment, pretending you hadn’t just been caught practically devouring him with your eyes.
“Yeah…Totally fine,” You muttered, fingers fumbling for the glass on the floor, bringing it back up to your lips. You took a long sip–longer than necessary–as if the coolness of it might extinguish the warmth that was flooding your chest. Or the way your thighs were still shifting together beneath his boxer shorts like they had a mind of their own.
Rhett didn’t move, and didn’t say anything for a second, his blue irises scanning over you for a moment, seeing the little movement that your thighs were making, a little tell that he had seen before from other women. He licked his lips slowly, like he could still taste your gaze on him. His voice dropped just a little as he said it–casual on the surface, but thick beneath. Heavy with the kind of tension that had been building between the two of you for months.
“You were starin’.” Your breath caught in your throat, and you looked down instinctively, the corner of your lip twitching with something between embarrassment and defense. Still, you shrugged like you could play it off.
“Well…It’s kind of hard not to when you’re all bruised up from the bull,” You murmured, trying to keep your tone light. “Didn’t know they were that bad.” He hummed at that–low and dry, like he didn’t quite believe your answer.
“You’ve seen ’em before,” He said, voice gravel-thick, head tipping slightly. “Shouldn’t be a surprise to you at this point.” You lifted your glass again to stall, sipped slower this time, letting the water cool the heat that was quickly rushing to your cheeks. Then you glanced at him again and gave a one-shouldered shrug.
“I think you’re making it a bigger deal than it actually is, Rhett. I think the beer is getting to you.” That made something shift behind his eyes. He tilted his head a fraction, just enough to cast a slanted shadow along his cheekbone.
“Really now?” He murmured as he stepped closer, the floor creaking faintly beneath his weight. “You’re gonna tell me that I’m not seein’ straight?” He asked, pointing at himself. You nodded, your laugh shaky but still defiant.
”That’s exactly what I’m saying, Rhett.” He didn’t reply right away. He just stared down at you, long and quiet. Then, wordlessly, he stepped the rest of the way to the bed and placed his fist down–slowly, deliberately–on the mattress beside your thigh.
He didn’t touch you.
But the air between you shifted.
His knuckles were close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the tension in his arm. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes followed the shape of his forearm, the way the muscles tensed beneath the skin, until they traced up to meet his face again.
You tilted your head up to look at him, and he was already there–already watching you.
His gaze locked with yours, blue eyes shadowed and steady, but flickering with something sharp, something knowing. Your stare skimmed over the details of his face–so close now, you could count the flecks of gold in his irises. The stubble along his jaw. The faint creases near the corners of his eyes that deepened when he laughed. The way his bottom lip jutted out just a little more than the top one, wet from where he’d just licked it.
“You’re a little liar,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching into a slow, crooked smirk. “I can see it in your eyes.”
The words hit low in your stomach.
You wanted to deny it–wanted to scoff, roll your eyes, tell him he was being ridiculous–but all you could do was hold his gaze and feel the heat crawling higher in your cheeks.
Still, you stayed composed. Barely.
“I think you need to sleep off your drunken stupor, Rhett,” You commented, chin tilting upward in subtle challenge. “You’ve got beer goggles on, and you really are seeing things now.”
He didn’t back off.
Instead, he leaned in closer. Slowly. Deliberately.
His face hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm and smelling faintly of beer and mint as it fanned over your lips. Your lashes fluttered, but you didn’t look away. You didn’t move. Not even when your breath caught slightly in your throat.
You just kept your eyes on him.
“…Guess I really do need some sleep,” He murmured after a beat, his voice quieter now. Rougher. But when he pulled back, he was grinning.
Cocky.
Like he knew you weren’t as unaffected as you were pretending to be.
Then he straightened, turned slightly toward the dresser again, and asked casually, “You stayin’ in the bed with me? Or you movin’ to the spare room?”
Your lashes fluttered quickly, and you swallowed hard before clearing your throat.
“I’ll stay here,” You said, trying to sound nonchalant, even though your entire body was still tense from how close he’d just been. “Probably won’t make it to the spare if I get up.” He nodded once, like that was the answer he expected, then reached for his belt buckle
“Alright,” He replied. You quickly looked away as his fingers moved to undo his belt, the subtle clink of the buckle sending another unwanted jolt of heat through your chest. Before your mind could wander any further–before you could accidentally lock eyes with the line of his hips or the way his thumb hooked into the waistband of his jeans–you padded toward the head of the bed.
You placed your water glass beside your clutch on the nightstand with a soft clink, keeping your movements slow, and controlled. Like that would help rein in the sudden buzz running beneath your skin.
The sheets were cool as you slipped under them, the scent of his laundry soap mingling with the lingering smell of him on the pillow. You shimmied slightly to get comfortable, dragging the duvet up to your waist and tucking one arm beneath your head, the other laid loosely across your stomach. You stared up at the ceiling.
Behind you, the sounds of him undressing were harder to ignore than you’d hoped.
A soft rustle of denim. The unmistakable swish of fabric sliding down over skin. A low breath–just a little ragged, like maybe even he was feeling the same pressure you were. You swallowed.
Then the mattress shifted.
He moved carefully, like he didn’t want to jostle you, but you felt him all the same. The bed dipped slightly with his weight, and the warmth of his body immediately spread beneath the covers, replacing the cold air you’d just tucked yourself into.
He settled on his side–close, but not touching. Or at least, not exactly. His arm stayed to himself, his shoulders turned slightly away, but your legs…Your legs brushed.
Bare skin to bare skin. Just barely.
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
The silence between you was thick, but not uncomfortable. Not anymore. It was full of tension, sure–but there was something else in it too. Something gentle. Something known.
“G’night,” He murmured, voice low and sleepy, already starting to sink into the mattress.
You turned your head a little, just enough to look at the back of his shoulder, then whispered, “Night.”
Your eyes lingered there for a moment. On the curve of his neck, and the slow rise and fall of his breath.
And maybe you were imagining it–but his leg seemed to press a little firmer into yours.
A quiet, tentative contact.
And neither of you pulled away.
——————————
You woke up to your alarm going off like a goddamn air raid siren, the high-pitched chime echoing through the quiet room like it had been waiting to give you a heart attack.
Your eyes shot open.
A groan ripped from your throat as you reached blindly for your clutch, limbs still tangled in the sheets and your brain pulsing with a headache that had already staked its claim behind your eyes. The light from the phone screen stung, but you silenced the alarm with a few taps, your movements sluggish and mechanical.
From behind you, Rhett let out a muffled groan of his own.
“Who the hell sets an alarm on a Saturday?” He mumbled, voice gravelled and sleep-heavy.
You ignored the ache in your skull long enough to fish out the familiar blister pack from the depths of your clutch, thumb already popping the next pill loose. You brought it to your lips and dropped it onto your tongue, reaching lazily for the lukewarm water glass on the nightstand.
“It wasn’t to wake us up,” You muttered, taking a small sip and swallowing. “It’s my birth control reminder.” The bed shifted behind you. A soft rustle. A new weight.
“Birth control?” Rhett’s voice had sobered slightly, still low, but laced with something else now. Confusion, maybe.
You placed the glass back on the table and rolled onto your side, glancing over your shoulder–and promptly noted two things: one, he’d taken his shirt off during the night, and two, he was looking right at you.
His eyes were a little narrowed. Brow furrowed. His hair was a mess, and his voice hoarse.
“Yeah…Birth control,” You replied slowly, letting the words hang in the air as you watched his expression closely. “You know…The thing that women take to help their periods and prevent pregnancy?” He rolled his eyes, though the motion lacked bite.
You raised a brow. “So what’s with the third-degree, Abbott?”
He shrugged lazily and turned onto his back, his arm behind his head, jaw tight. “Didn’t think you were on it, that’s all. Never seen you take it before.”
You smirked. “Well, I’m usually out of your house by this time. Or I’m in the bathroom and take it there.”
And that was all it took.
That one sentence cracked something open in his chest and sent his thoughts freefalling.
You were on birth control.
The implications settled into him like wildfire. No condom. No consequences. Just skin to skin, you wrapped around him, begging, whispering–he could come inside you and not think twice, could bury himself so deep you’d feel it for hours. He could grab your hips and pull you down hard against him, his hands splayed over your stomach as he fucked you slow and steady until you were begging him to finish. No pulling out. No holding back. No guilt.
He wanted to kiss your thighs open, drag his tongue along your folds, taste every part of you while you whimpered into his pillow. He wanted to hear your breath hitch when he whispered let me do it right this time, to watch your expression when he sank in–slow and thick and deep–and told you how tight you were, how good you felt, how he’d dreamt of this.
He wanted to mark you up. Leave bruises on your neck, your hips, your thighs. Paint you with proof that someone finally gave a damn.
He’d be quiet about it, though. You’d both have to be quiet.
His parents were probably still in their room. Hell, Perry might be awake. So you’d press your mouth to his shoulder, muffle your moans against his skin, and Rhett would whisper filth in your ear with every lazy roll of his hips, voice ragged and barely restrained, telling you not to stop squeezing him like that. Not unless you wanted him to come right then and there.
His cock twitched against his thigh–sudden and sharp under the weight of his boxers.
Shit.
He shifted slightly under the blanket, adjusting himself, trying not to groan at how sensitive he suddenly felt. But the mattress wasn’t forgiving, and the movement wasn’t subtle.
“You alright?” Your voice cut through the haze of his thoughts. Curious. Careful. “You’re all red.”
He cleared his throat. A little too quickly.
“Mhm. I’m okay.”
You turned toward him more fully, propping yourself up slightly on one elbow, your hair flattened on one side from where you had slept on it. Your eyes narrowed, playful. Familiar.
And then–your voice softened to a whisper, full of teasing promise. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were staring at me.”
He blinked.
You were close. Too close. Your face inches from his, lips parted slightly, breath warm against his cheek. It mirrored what he’d done to you last night, except now the tables were turned–and he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself.
“I’m not,” He said quickly, voice cracking.
But you didn’t back off.
You just tilted your head slightly, and then–without meaning to–your thigh brushed his, and you felt something.
You stilled.
Your breath caught.
And your eyes went wide.
“…Oh,” You breathed, heat crawling up your neck.
“Sorry,” You whispered a second later, but your voice was breathy and full of implication.
Rhett swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared at the ceiling. “It’s alright,” He said, quietly. Voice a little higher now. Tight.
The tension between you thickened like syrup, slow and sticky and impossible to ignore.
Neither of you looked at each other at first. It was safer that way. Eyes stayed on the ceiling, the far wall, anywhere but the quiet place in the middle of the bed where everything had shifted. Where your thighs had brushed, where your breath had caught, where Rhett was still hard and trying to will himself down with a silent prayer and clenched jaw.
But then you shifted again.
Not a lot. Just enough that the blankets rustled and your voice came out–low, almost shy.
“Do…Do you want some help with that?”
His eyes snapped to you like a whip. His entire body went rigid.
“W-What?” The word cracked in the middle, like it hit the back of his throat too fast to smooth out. His brows pinched together, mouth parted, lips dry as hell.
You sighed–soft and nervous–and pushed yourself up a little more, bracing your weight on your elbow so you could look him in the eye.
“I said,” You repeated, quieter now, more deliberate, “Do you want some help with that?” Rhett sat up a little too–mirroring you without realizing it, like his body needed to be closer. His face hovered just inches from yours now, the tension rolling off him like heat off pavement.
“Are you bein’ serious?” He asked, voice hoarse.
You nodded slowly, searching his face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
His gaze darted away for the briefest second, scanning the room like it might offer him a better answer than the one sitting right in front of him. But when he looked back, his expression was tight. Unreadable. Barely holding something back.
“Well, I mean…We’re friends…”
You raised your brows, your face still close, voice low but firm. “And we haven’t really been going out with other people. And sexual frustration is a thing, Rhett.”
He squinted slightly, more in thought than judgment. “You’re the one that said you wanted to take a hiatus from dating and stuff. I thought that meant physical things too.”
You shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That was more meant for me because I really don’t feel much when…Y’know…Things are happening.”
Rhett stilled.
His lips parted just slightly, his breath hitching. Then his jaw flexed and he leaned in even closer, until the space between your mouths was damn near nonexistent.
“You what?” He asked, barely above a whisper. His voice sounded gutted–like it hurt him to even imagine it.
You swallowed thickly, heart rattling inside your chest. “I…I don’t feel much when I’m being intimate with someone.” There. It was out. A truth you rarely admitted out loud, even more rarely to a man.
Rhett’s jaw tensed. His throat bobbed. Something wild flickered in his eyes–something that looked a lot like heartbreak, but deeper. Protective. Personal.
“…How about I make you a deal,” He said suddenly, his voice husky and serious.
You tilted your head slightly, cautious. “What kind of deal?”
“Let me try somethin’,” He murmured, watching your expression with unshakable intensity. “And then you can do whatever you want to me after. Or nothin’ at all. You don’t owe me a thing.”
Your lips parted. “W-What do you want to do?” He reached up slowly–like he was afraid to spook you–and let his fingertips brush beneath your chin, giving you the softest touch he could with the calloused pads of his fingers.
”Lay back,” He whispered, “And I’ll show you.” You stared at him for one long, charged heartbeat–your skin prickling, your thighs already pressing closer, the ache in your core blooming slow and warm at the tone in his voice.
Your face burned as soon as the word left your lips.
“Okay.”
It was soft, nearly swallowed by the quiet tension in the room–but Rhett heard it. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not for a second. His hand drifted from your chin to your shoulder, then eased you gently back onto the pillow. The mattress dipped beneath the shift of your weight, the sheets cool against your skin–but Rhett’s hand never stopped touching you. He moved with patience. With care.
And then he did something unexpected.
He slipped his arm under your neck–not in a way that caged you in, but cradled you. Like he wanted to hold your head up, protect it. His fingers curled gently into your hair, and his thumb brushed over your cheek. Slowly.
His voice came next, low and laced with something close to a smile.
“Remember that time…In high school, when we ended up kissing in Marley’s closet during seven minutes in heaven?”
Your stomach flipped violently, a swarm of butterflies bursting awake.
You narrowed your eyes. “You said you’d never bring that up.”
He chuckled, soft and rough. “It’s been long enough that I think I’m allowed to bring it up.” His thumb grazed your cheek again, and you swore it soothed something in you you hadn’t known was wound tight. “But anyways…Remember when you said you were nervous? Because you didn’t know what to do?”
You nodded slowly, your voice nearly a whisper. “Yeah…”
“And I told you to just breathe. Don’t even think about what was happenin’. Just breathe.” Your lips parted a little, your heart thudding louder.
“Yeah,” You whispered again.
His gaze held yours, warm and steady. “Well… Just do that again, alright? Just breathe. Think about something else. Got it?”
You hesitated. Swallowed.
“Rhett…Are you sure you want to do this? It’s going to be a waste of your time.” Your voice cracked near the end, thick with embarrassment and doubt you’d carried for too long.
His expression shifted. Not angry. Just…Struck.
He leaned down slowly, and before you could say anything else–before you could panic or second-guess–he kissed you.
It was soft. Just lips brushing lips. But it stunned you all the same.
You gasped faintly into the contact, breath hitching, body going still under the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours. He lingered for only a second before pulling back, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours again.
“I’m positive,” He murmured, voice low and resolute. “Now just relax, okay?” You nodded, even though your heart was pounding. You let your hands rest by your sides, fists curled lightly in the sheets as Rhett shifted closer, keeping his arm under your neck, still holding you, still touching your cheek.
His other hand drifted down. Slow.
He didn’t go for the obvious. Didn’t grab. Didn’t grope. Instead, his fingertips brushed along the hem of the shirt you wore–his shirt–lifting it just a few inches before slipping beneath. You shivered instantly, the cool air meeting your heated skin, and then–
His fingertips touched your stomach.
Barely there. Like the ghost of a thought.
They dragged gently across your skin, dipping just beneath your ribs, pausing, then continuing downward. Featherlight. Reverent. You sucked in a breath as goosebumps erupted along your arms and legs, your thighs pressing closer together as he traced the soft curve of your waist with maddening patience.
“Still alright?” He asked, his voice low, lips brushing your temple now. You nodded quickly, breath stuttering. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
His hand moved again–back up first, over the flat of your stomach, the pads of his fingers gliding like silk. He circled your navel once, slow and hypnotic, then dropped lower again.
And lower.
Until he reached the waistband of the boxer shorts.
His fingertips paused there, resting lightly on the elastic band.
He kissed your temple. Then murmured against your skin: “Can you lift your hips for me?”
You did–slowly, your legs tensing slightly as you pushed up just enough. Your breath hitched as the cool air rushed between the fabric and your skin when Rhett tugged them down, slow and smooth, watching your face the entire time. Your body sank back down onto the mattress as he pulled the boxers down your thighs, past your knees, until they slipped off entirely.
Rhett paused for just a second, the boxer shorts now discarded somewhere at the foot of the bed, the room still and warm as his gaze settled on you—completely bare in the soft hush of the early morning light.
His eyes traveled up your legs, over the subtle dip of your hips, and down again to the place between your thighs–and the air left his lungs like he’d taken a punch to the gut.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”
You swallowed hard, your eyes still locked with his, every inch of you humming beneath the heat of his gaze. The sincerity in his tone–thick, reverent, gutted–made your breath catch.
Then, slowly, Rhett reached out. One of his hands cradled your knee, coaxing your leg outward, and he shifted down the bed as he gently murmured, “Spread your legs for me, Y/N.”
Your heart thudded. You hesitated—but only for a beat. Then, you nodded, slowly letting your legs fall open, nerves twisting in your stomach like warm thread as cool air hit you, followed almost immediately by the heat of his body slotting between your thighs.
His skin was warm against the inside of your legs—his shoulders wide and strong, his bare chest brushing the backs of your thighs as he settled in. You saw his eyes trail up your body again—slow, careful, like he was trying to memorize you. Then he looked up.
You’d closed your eyes.
Breathing slowly. Deeply.
Trying not to shake.
“Hey,” Rhett said softly, and you felt the mattress shift as he reached for you. His hand found yours where it lay clenched beside your hip. He interlaced his fingers with yours carefully and held on tight.
Your eyes fluttered open just as he leaned forward–and kissed the inside of your thigh.
A soft press. Then another. And another. Working slowly upward, like every inch of your skin deserved a proper hello. His breath was warm, his mouth even warmer, and every brush of his lips sent a new wave of heat coiling through your stomach.
By the time his mouth reached the top of your thigh, you were barely breathing.
Then–he tilted his head.
And he kissed you right against your core, and your whole body jerked.
Your hips twitched against the bed, your hand tightening in his, a quiet gasp slipping out of your mouth. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate line through your folds–like he was savoring you already. Like he was trying to learn what made you shake.
He kissed you again. Then again. Languid, like he wasn’t in any hurry. Like this wasn’t something to get over with–it was something to cherish.
His tongue moved with devastating patience, lapping and sucking gently, drawing shapes that made your thighs clench around his head. His hand gripped yours tighter.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, the words barely audible. Your back arched slightly, and you felt Rhett moan into you—actually moan—like your pleasure was feeding his. The vibration of it sent another jolt of electricity straight through your spine.
Then—his mouth didn’t leave—but you felt his fingers press gently against your entrance. He didn’t push in right away. Just teased. Traced. His tongue circled your clit once more—slow and wet—and then his finger slipped inside.
Your breath hitched, a sharp little gasp escaping you as your hips rocked upward without thinking.
Rhett stopped instantly, lifting his head slightly. His mouth was shining.
“You alright?” he asked gently, his voice low and rough and just a little breathless.
You looked down at him with wide, wild eyes and nodded quickly. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice cracking with need. “Oh my god, Rhett…yes.”
His mouth pulled into a crooked smile, his eyes still locked on yours. “Feel somethin’ now?” he murmured, teasing, affectionate.
You reached out and threaded your free hand through his hair–fisting it lightly at the crown, your hips rising up just slightly. “It’s witchcraft,” You whispered shakily, overwhelmed and already trembling.
Rhett laughed quietly, the sound sending shivers across your skin. “Nah,” He said, leaning in again, voice warm and sinful against your core. “It’s actually just me wantin’ to feel you come on my tongue, sweetheart.”
And then he dove back in.
This time, with more pressure. More hunger.
His tongue flattened against your clit, slow and firm. His finger curled inside you—and then he added another, stretching you just enough to make your breath come in shallow, frantic bursts. His pace increased, mouth and fingers working in tandem—sensual, focused, a little rough now.
Your thighs began to shake.
Your hips lifted and he pressed his arm across your waist to pin you gently down, grounding you while he devoured you like a man starved.
The noises he made—low, greedy groans—only made the tension build faster. Like your pleasure was his. Like getting you to break apart in his mouth was the only thing he cared about.
“Rhett,” You whimpered, barely able to breathe.
And then–he curled his fingers just right.
Your whole body seized. You let out a strangled moan, your mouth falling open against the pillow, your hand clutching his hair, the other tightening in his grip so hard you felt the tremor run down his arm.
Your orgasm hit like a freight train. Sudden, shaking, relentless. Your thighs clamped around his head and your hips bucked up into his mouth–and he didn’t stop. Not for a second.
He kept licking, groaning against you, working you through every last second until your legs twitched and your body slumped, utterly spent.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were swollen, his chin slick. He looked completely wrecked–and proud of it.
His hand slipped out from between your legs, fingers soaked with your arousal as he licked them clean, before brushing his wet fingers against your trembling thigh. You were still panting, still half-blind with aftershocks. And he leaned over you again, eyes wild but soft.
”You alright, darlin’?” He asked, bringing his mouth to your cheek. You laughed–half a breath, half a sob–and nodded.
”Fuck, Rhett…Let me try and return the favour please…That was so fucking good.” He blinked down at you like he hadn’t expected it, like your voice alone could unravel him all over again. Then he let out a slow, ragged breath and leaned down, kissing you–soft, slow, indulgent. A thank you, a yes, a prayer.
“Okay,” He murmured against your lips, voice husky, “Yeah…okay.”
He eased onto his back beside you. The sheets shifted around you both as you rolled onto your side and slid your hand across his stomach, your fingertips brushing the light trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers.
He watched you carefully, gaze gentle but burning. “You don’t have to, you know,” he said softly. “You already gave me enough just by lettin’ me–”
“I want to,” You cut in, voice quiet but certain. That stopped him. His jaw flexed slightly, his breath caught, and his hand reached up to cup the side of your face for just a second–his thumb brushing your cheek in a quiet, gentle pass. You kissed him again before shifting down the bed, your heart pounding as your thighs pressed together beneath the oversized shirt. You settled between his legs, your hands sliding up the tops of his thighs as he let out a low, shaky exhale. His skin was warm and soft beneath your palms, his muscles tense beneath the surface.
You hesitated just a little, fingers toying with the waistband of his boxers.
Rhett’s hand came down gently, resting over yours. His voice was low, coaxing.
“Go ahead, sweetheart. You’re doin’ fine.”
You pulled the fabric down slowly, watching as his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already hard from the weight of everything he’d just felt and everything you were about to do. You swallowed nervously, staring for a second too long.
Rhett noticed.
“Here,” he said softly, sitting up just slightly. He wrapped his hand around himself first, guiding yours over his. “Just like this. Nice and slow.” His fingers slid away, letting yours take over, his breath catching the second you squeezed him.
You started slow, pumping gently from the base to the tip. The skin was hot under your palm, smooth and taut, and you watched in fascination as he twitched beneath your touch. His head dropped back onto the pillow with a thud, a low groan tumbling from his throat.
“Yeah,” he breathed, “That’s it. Just like that.”
You tightened your grip a little, experimenting, and Rhett’s hips lifted off the bed slightly. He let out a quiet, broken moan. “Fuck, darlin’–you’re already drivin’ me crazy.”
Emboldened by his reaction, you leaned forward, licking a slow, uncertain stripe up the underside of his shaft. He hissed between his teeth, his hand flying to your hair, not pushing–just holding. Anchoring.
“You sure?” He asked, voice tight.
You nodded, lips brushing the tip. “I’m sure.”
Then you took him into your mouth.
Just the head at first–soft and careful. The taste was salty and clean, a little musky, faintly bitter, but not bad. Just…Him.
You swirled your tongue around the tip, feeling his thighs tense under your hands, and then took him a little deeper, bobbing your head slowly, finding a rhythm.
Rhett cursed under his breath, his grip tightening in your hair.
“Jesus, Y/N,” He rasped. “You feel so good…So fuckin’ good.”
You kept going, learning by the way he moaned, by how his legs twitched, by the way he tugged at the sheets. You tried to take him deeper–and gagged, just slightly, your throat tightening around him. You pulled off, coughing softly, lips slick and eyes watering.
Rhett sat up a little too fast.
“Hey, hey–Y/N, you don’t have to do that,” He murmured, pushing your hair back, “Take it easy on yourself, alright? You ain’t gotta prove anythin’.”
You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m okay,” You whispered, voice breathy but determined.
And then you went back down.
This time slower. More confident. You pumped with one hand and sucked gently, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the sensitive head. Rhett’s breath went ragged again, his voice wrecked.
“Fuck, you’re–goddamn, you’re so good at this,” He groaned, hips twitching against your hand.
It didn’t take long after that.
You felt his thighs start to tremble, the hand in your hair tightening as he gasped, “Shit–I’m gonna come–“ It was more of a warning than anything, but you didn’t pull away. You just kept going.
His climax hit with a low, drawn-out moan. His hips stuttered and you felt his warmth spill over your tongue–salty, thick, slightly bitter with a sharp edge that made your throat clench. You swallowed instinctively, slow, letting it slide down, feeling him shudder beneath you.
When you pulled off, your lips were slick, your eyes glassy.
You licked your lips once and blinked up at him.
“…Did I do good?” You asked softly.
Rhett stared at you like he was about to lose his goddamn mind.
Then he sat up, grabbed your face with both hands–his touch tender but firm–and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue massaging yours, tasting himself on you and you on him. He pulled back breathless.
”You were fucking perfect…So fucking perfect.” You collapsed back onto the mattress with a soft, stunned laugh, breath still coming in shaky waves as you wiped at your lips with the back of your hand. Rhett was beside you in a heartbeat, his strong arms already tugging you toward him like he couldn’t stand to have even an inch of space between you anymore.
You let him pull you into his chest–his skin still warm, heartbeat steady but strong beneath your cheek. His arm draped low over your waist, the other curling behind your shoulders like he was trying to wrap around as much of you as he could.
There was no tension now. No nerves. Just the quiet intimacy of skin on skin and breath against breath.
Rhett sighed softly into your hair, his mouth grazing your forehead before murmuring, lazy and fond, “We should do this more often…”
You let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle against his collarbone, your voice soft. “Yeah… I completely agree.”
There was a pause. The kind that felt full–not empty. Like something was waiting behind it.
You lifted your hand slowly, tracing a fingertip along his chest without looking at him. Then, voice smaller, more vulnerable:”You’re so…Safe.” Rhett went still beneath you.
Not tense. Just…Quiet. Like your words had caught him off guard and gone somewhere deep.
Then he smirked–soft and slow, the kind of smile you’d only seen a handful of times before. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, barely more than a brush of lips against skin, but it made you shiver.
“We can do whatever you want together,” He murmured, his voice like warm honey. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
That–his reassurance, his promise–settled something in your chest. Something that had been unsettled for a long, long time.
You turned your head just enough to look at him. Your nose nudged his jaw, and your lips were still curved when you whispered “You really mean it?”
“Of course I do.” He said simply. You couldn’t help the smile that rose up then, soft and wide and honest. It spread slowly, uncontainable, tugging at your cheeks as your hand splayed over his chest and you cuddled in closer.
Rhett exhaled against your hair, one hand trailing up and down your back in soothing strokes.
“You know what?” You whispered, voice thick with something more than just affection now–something raw and real and aching to be spoken aloud. “I think this is the first time I’ve felt like…Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe I’m not the broken one.”
His fingers stilled. Then tightened gently at your waist.
“It was never you,” He said, quiet but firm. “They just didn’t know how to do things.” Your eyes welled unexpectedly. But you didn’t look away.
And Rhett didn’t look away from you either–not even when you whispered, “Thank you.”
“For what?” He asked.
“For…For showing me what it’s supposed to feel like.”
Rhett’s brow creased slightly, and he leaned forward, brushing his lips against your forehead again, like he was sealing the moment there.
Then, against your skin, he murmured, “Ain’t even gotten started yet, darlin’.”
————————
You and Rhett made an effort to see each other every other day after that morning.
It wasn’t always planned. Sometimes it was just a lazy drive that ended in a shared milkshake and quiet conversation. Other times it was louder–pool hall banter, bar games, him showing up at your place just to fix the damn sink he swore wasn’t level. But no matter what it started as, it always ended the same:
With your bodies pressed together. With your hands on his chest. With his lips parting against yours like he’d been starving all day.
The first time it happened again was at the drive-in.
You wore cutoff shorts and one of his flannels tied loose at your waist, and you didn’t even make it halfway through the previews before your legs found his lap. The movie faded behind you like static. His palm settled low on your back, and your mouth found his in the kind of kiss that made your teeth knock and your fingers curl in his shirt.
You didn’t even remember what was playing. All you remembered was the sound of your breathing turning into gasps when his hand slid between your thighs, his voice rough against your ear.
“You gonna let me feel how worked up you are already?”
You reached down, grabbed his wrist, and guided him to the apex of your thighs–slow, sure. His fingertips pressed against the damp heat soaking through your thin cotton panties, and Rhett exhaled like he’d been punched.
“Jesus,” He murmured, his forehead tipping against yours as his fingers flexed, just barely moving. “You’re soaked.”
You nodded, breath already hitching as you shifted slightly in his lap, grinding your hips forward just a touch. The thick muscle of his denim-clad thigh was already pressing against your core in the most devastating way.
“I wanna try something,” You whispered.
His eyes flicked up. Searching. Heated. Still trying to catch up with this version of you—bold, direct, knowing what you wanted and how you wanted it.
“I’ve always wanted to do it,” You admitted, your voice breathy but firm. “Especially with you.”
His lips parted. His chest rose.
And then he smirked.
“Okay,” He said simply. “You can do whatever you want with me.”
That’s all it took.
You adjusted your knees on either side of his lap, straddling him completely, your hands pressed to his shoulders for balance as you positioned yourself just right. His thigh was firm beneath you–years of riding and wrangling muscle. And you sank down onto it slowly, the seam of his jeans dragging perfectly against your soaked panties.
A quiet gasp escaped your throat.
Rhett groaned, hands rising to grip your hips–gentle, grounding, but not controlling. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles over your waist as he watched your eyes flutter, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“You good, sweetheart?” He murmured.
You nodded, barely able to breathe. “So good.”
You started slow. Grinding gently against him in small, slow circles–testing pressure, building friction. The thick denim created just enough resistance to drive you mad, the fabric catching on your clit with every pass.
You rolled your hips again. And again. Shakier each time.
Rhett’s grip tightened, guiding you just slightly–his hands molding to your curves like he was born to hold them. “That’s it,” He breathed, voice almost reverent. “Just like that… Goddamn, you’re beautiful.”
You whimpered, burying your face in his neck for a moment as the sensations built, wave after wave, hot and pulsing and slow. Your hands curled into the flannel on his chest, and you swore you could feel his heart hammering.
Then you pulled back just enough to kiss him.
Hard.
He groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, encouraging your movements, letting you use him–letting you take your pleasure from him like he wanted nothing more. Your hips began to rock faster, your thighs trembling, the damp patch growing darker on his jeans with every pass of your soaked panties.
“Fuck, darlin’,” He gasped, his forehead pressed to yours. “You’re gonna come just like this?”
You nodded, dizzy, breathless. “I can’t stop…Rhett–I’m gonna–”
He kissed you again–slow this time, anchoring you as your hips faltered and your whole body seized up.
You came on his thigh with a broken sob of his name, shaking hard against him, every nerve burning, clenching around nothing as your hips twitched one last time and stilled.
Rhett held you through it, murmuring sweet things against your temple as you slumped forward, boneless and buzzing.
“That was…” You panted, barely able to form a sentence.
“Yeah,” Rhett said, his own breath shaky as he kissed the side of your head. “It was fuckin’ perfect.”
From that moment on, it was like you couldn’t stop.
The next week, he was driving you home, windows cracked, your hand resting on his thigh like it was second nature now. And somewhere between a curve in the road and a long silence, you leaned over, unzipped his jeans, and slipped your hand inside.
He choked on a breath. “Jesus, Y/N–what are you doin’?”
“Helping,” You said, voice teasing and low as your fingers wrapped around him.
You stroked him slow, lazy, while he tried to keep his eyes on the road, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. When he came–hot and fast–you licked it off your hand and the skin of his stomach without hesitation.
Rhett nearly crashed the damn truck.
Another time, you just climbed into his lap without warning. No teasing. No warm-up. You just needed him–needed the weight of him, the heat of his mouth, the security of his hands cupping the back of your neck like if he let go, you’d vanish.
You kissed him like you were going to disappear if he didn’t hold you tighter.
And he did.
Every time, he did.
He was addicted to you.
And you were addicted to him.
Yet somehow, you still hadn’t had sex.
Not because you didn’t want to. But because you kept finishing each other off before either of you could think straight.
It was chaotic. It was messy. It was you and Rhett–tangled in passion, steeped in something deeper neither of you had put into words yet.
Until one quiet evening when the summer air hung low and warm, and you turned to him and said:
“Wanna look at the stars with me?”
He blinked. Smirked. “Like, right now?”
“Right now,” You said, already sliding your shoes on. “Bring pillows and a blanket for the truck bed.” Rhett raised a brow, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth curving into something crooked and full of knowing.
“Oh,” He drawled, slinging an arm around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your cheek, “You’re plannin’ somethin’.”
You only grinned as you wiggled out of his arms, walking out ahead of him before calling over your shoulder:
“Damn right I am.”
———————————
You and Rhett had a specific place you would go to when you wanted to look at the stars.
It was a lookout you had both found randomly one night, years ago, when you’d gotten lost coming back from a circuit. The GPS cut out somewhere along a winding dirt road, and the two of you had been bickering about turns when the trees finally gave way to a clearing so wide and open it looked like the sky had cracked open just for you. The ridge overlooked a valley, endless and quiet, the stars so close it felt like you could pluck them from the sky if you reached high enough.
That was the place he drove to tonight.
His hand was on your bare thigh, squeezing gently, fingers skimming just beneath the hem of your shorts. The low hum of the truck’s engine mingled with an old country song playing through the speakers–something slow and warm, full of steel guitar and dusty longing. The cool summer air flowed through the open windows, tousling your hair, raising goosebumps on your arms. But Rhett’s palm was warm and steady against your skin, his thumb tracing little circles lazily.
You shifted slightly in your seat, thighs parting just a little more, and he immediately took notice.
His fingers drifted inward–just a little. Just enough to make your stomach clench.
Then he started tracing letters.
Soft. Slow. One at a time, with the very tip of his finger, like he was spelling a secret across your skin.
“What’s that one?” He murmured, not taking his eyes off the road.
You blinked. Swallowed. “Uh… An S?”
“Wrong,” He smirked, squeezing your thigh.
“An E?”
“Nope.”
You glanced at him, raising a brow. “Then what was it?”
“Not tellin’,” He said, dragging another letter right after it, slower this time. “Guess again.”
You stared down at his hand, heat blooming low in your belly. “D?”
“That one was,” He said, a low chuckle caught in his throat. “But not the one before it.”
Your cheeks burned. You knew what he was spelling now.
He leaned closer, his voice thick. “Want me to keep goin’?”
You nodded, breath hitching. “Yeah…Keep going.”
He traced another letter.
And another.
You were just about to reach for him–just about to say screw the stargazing and climb into his lap right there in the cab–when the headlights hit the edge of the clearing, and the trees broke apart.
You both went still.
The lookout was exactly how you remembered it: tall grass, wildflowers curling in the moonlight, and the stars above glowing like soft embers in an old fireplace. The valley stretched below, dark and quiet, and the only sound was the breeze rustling through the open windows and the soft creak of the truck tires crunching over gravel.
Rhett cut the engine.
The music died.
Silence swelled between you, not heavy–just full. Like both of you were thinking the same thing and neither of you wanted to ruin it by saying it out loud.
Then Rhett opened his door and climbed out. You followed, your legs shaky as you stepped onto the grass, the air cool against your thighs. The tension was still simmering in your veins, but now it had space to breathe.
You grabbed the first blanket from the backseat while Rhett grabbed the pillows and the top blanket.
The two of you worked in an unspoken rhythm.
You laid the first blanket down flat across the truck bed, smoothing the edges with your palms. The metal beneath was still faintly warm from the earlier sun. Rhett climbed in beside you, placing the pillows near the cab, his knee brushing yours as he tossed the second blanket over your shoulders.
You didn’t speak as you climbed under it together.
You didn’t have to.
His body curved naturally around yours as you settled onto your sides, facing each other, the warmth of the blanket sealed around your bodies like a cocoon. Your foreheads almost touched. Your breath did.
Rhett’s hand found your waist under the blanket. His palm spread slow and deliberate, thumb grazing your hip, before lazily dragging across your stomach, the pads of his fingers skimming your skin like he was reading a prayer written in braille. You reached up and brushed his hair back gently, smoothing the strands that always stuck up in crooked directions. He sighed—low, content, eyes fluttering shut like your touch alone could unravel him.
His fingers slipped higher beneath the hem of your shirt, slowly, carefully. He tugged it up until you sat up and peeled it over your head. The night air kissed your bare chest, nipples tightening instantly under the sudden exposure—but you weren’t cold. Not with the way Rhett looked at you.
He stared like he was witnessing something sacred.
Then he leaned forward, lips parting just enough to drag across your collarbone before his teeth sank in—not too hard, just enough to make you gasp.
“Painful?” he murmured against your skin.
You shook your head, your breath shaky. “Stings a bit, but nothing I can’t handle.”
He smirked—something soft and sinful—and lowered his mouth again, kissing just beneath the mark he’d left behind. His tongue laved the spot slowly, like an apology and a promise all at once.
Then, his voice was velvet-wrapped gravel against your skin.
“Is there anything else you want to do with me? Any ideas you’ve got in mind?”
You shook your head slowly, eyes locking with his in the low, starlit dark. “I just want you to fuck me.”
He stilled. Just for a beat. Then smiled against your chest—slow and deep and pleased.
“Yeah?” he rasped, lifting his head to look you in the eye. “You want me to fuck you?”
You nodded, your heart pounding.
He leaned toward your jaw, kissing a soft trail until his lips brushed your ear, his breath hot as he whispered, “Beg for it.”
You bit your bottom lip, breath catching, heart stuttering at the sheer weight of the way he said it. There was no mocking in it. No arrogance. Just pure, overwhelming need–controlled only by the thin thread of his patience.
His eyes shimmered in the moonlight, pale blue burning like lightning behind clouds. You leaned in and kissed him–soft, needy–and whispered against his lips, “Please…Fuck me…”
He shook his head, grinning with that maddening, slow confidence. “Gonna have to do better than that, sweetheart.” You kissed him again–more desperate now–and as you pulled back, his hand came up to your face. He cradled your cheek like you were breakable, his thumb tracing the soft curve of your bottom lip.
“Open up,” He murmured.
You obeyed.
Your lips parted, and he slid his thumb into your mouth, pressing the pad against the back of your tongue. Instantly, your mouth watered, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked him gently. His eyes darkened, watching you like he could come undone just from this.
He pulled his thumb out slowly, a glistening trail connecting your lips to the pad of his finger, then dragged it down–past your chin, your chest–until it disappeared beneath the waistband of your shorts.
His soaked thumb found your clit in one perfect stroke.
You gasped. Bucked.
“C’mon, Y/N…” He coaxed, voice a rasp as he rubbed slow, tight circles. “You want it, right?”
“Yes,” You whimpered, your hips grinding helplessly into his hand. “God, Rhett–yes–please–I need you–”
He groaned at the sound of your voice, fucked-out and pleading, and pressed his thumb harder.
“Keep talkin’,” He muttered, eyes flicking down to where his hand moved beneath your waistband. “Want to hear you beg while I’ve got you all worked up like this.”
“I want you to fuck me,” You gasped, your palm reaching for his lap now, squeezing his cock through his jeans. He was already hard–thick and burning hot under your touch. “I want you inside me–I want to feel it, Rhett. All of you. I want you to ruin me slow.”
He swore under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”
You kept rubbing, palming him harder now, feeling him twitch and grow impossibly harder.
“I want you to come inside me,” You whispered, eyes glassy. “I want to feel you finish deep. I want you to fill me up until I’m sore. Until I’m dripping with it.”
Rhett’s jaw clenched, his breath shuddered–and his thumb didn’t stop moving. Every nerve in your body was locked on the delicious, unrelenting drag of his thumb over your clit–your underwear now utterly ruined, soaked straight through, clinging to your folds in the most humiliating, erotic way.
Rhett kissed you again–hotter this time. Sloppier. The kind of kiss that made your teeth knock and your breath catch. His tongue slid past your lips, curling against yours with growing desperation, and when he finally pulled back, he did so only far enough to breathe against your mouth:
“Take off your shorts,” He rasped, voice wrecked. “And get on top.”
You nodded so fast it almost hurt, fumbling to shimmy them down. Your panties peeled off with them, sticky and wet between your thighs. You didn’t even try to hide the way they dropped to the side of the bed. Not with the way Rhett was watching you. Not with how he was already ripping open his jeans and pushing them down with his boxers in one rough, desperate tug.
His cock sprang free, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip, the moonlight catching on the slick sheen of it.
Your whole body ached as you climbed into his lap and straddled his waist, your knees bracing against the warm metal bed of the truck, the soft blanket bunched beneath them. You sank down slightly–not to take him in just yet, but to rub your soaked core along the full length of him.
The heat of him–thick and pulsing against you–dragged across your folds, every ridge and vein grinding right where you needed it. You tilted your head back with a breathless moan, your hips moving in slow, teasing circles, coating him in your arousal.
“Fuck,” Rhett groaned, his hands flying to your hips, holding you there, letting you grind against him like he was made for it. His eyes trailed up your body, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. Then he reached up and cupped your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples.
“You look so fuckin’ beautiful up there,” He rasped, voice trembling with restraint. “You like that? Like rubbin’ yourself on me like a good girl?”
You nodded frantically, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Fuck, Rhett…You already feel so good. I can’t wait any longer.”
He gave your nipples a teasing pinch, and you nearly came undone right there.
“You don’t have to wait anymore,” He murmured, voice thick with care and gentleness. “Take what you need from me, Y/N.” You reached between your bodies, wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, and guided him through your folds once more–wet and slow–coating him thoroughly before lifting your hips.
Then you aligned him with your entrance, and with one long, shaky breath…You sank down.
The head of his cock stretched you open, dragging against your walls in a way that made your whole body lock up. Your gasp cracked through the night air as you grabbed onto his wrist with both hands, using it as leverage while your head tilted back and your mouth dropped open.
“Shit,” You whimpered, your voice trembling. “So big…”
“Fuck,” Rhett gritted out beneath you, his jaw tight, his knuckles white where he gripped your hips. “You’re tight, sweetheart…Jesus Christ, I can feel every part of you.” You kept lowering yourself slowly, inch by inch, your inner walls gripping him like a vice as you took him in deeper, stretching around his girth with a burn that made your eyes flutter.
“Rhett–” Your voice cracked, pleasure blooming slow and low in your belly, “–Feels so full… So deep…”
He looked absolutely wrecked beneath you. His head tipped back for a second, the cords of his neck flexing, jaw clenched as he tried not to buck up into you too soon. His hands left your hips only to return to your chest, massaging your breasts again with wide, reverent palms, his thumbs brushing your nipples in slow circles.
“God, you’re perfect,” He rasped, his voice shaking now. You whimpered again as you bottomed out, the base of him pressed flush against you, the stretch relentless. Your thighs were trembling already.
Then his hand came up–slow, gentle–and wrapped lightly around your neck.
Not choking. Not restraining.
Just holding you there, grounding you, letting his thumb graze your jawline.
“You okay?” He whispered.
You nodded, lips parted, barely able to get the words out. “So okay,” You breathed. “You feel so fucking good inside me, Rhett.”
He groaned again, like your words alone could push him over the edge. His fingers curled slightly around your neck, just enough pressure to make your walls flutter around him.
“That’s it,” He whispered, eyes burning into yours. “Take me. Use me. Fuckin’ ride me Y/N. I’m yours.” He watched you with something close to awe–his pupils wide, breath ragged as your hips rolled in that uneven, desperate rhythm, your thighs quivering from how much you were feeling, from the stretch and heat and weight of him pulsing deep inside you.
“Fuck, Y/N…” Rhett groaned, his voice strained and reverent, one of his hands gripping your hip as you moved. “You’re so fuckin’ tight like this…Every time you come back down, I feel your pussy clutch me like it doesn’t wanna let go.”
Your breath hitched.
You whimpered again, high and shaky, your hands splayed on his chest for balance as you tried to keep going, but your rhythm faltered, hips stuttering with every twitch of your muscles. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls made you cry out a little louder.
That’s when his hands slid lower.
“Let me show you somethin’,” Rhett murmured, voice gravel-smooth as he sat up slightly and wrapped both hands around your waist. His grip was firm but gentle, like he was grounding you–like he was giving you something to fall apart against.
He pulled your hips forward, grinding you down slow, dragging your clit along the thick patch of hair above his cock.
You gasped, your eyes flying wide, hands bracing hard against his shoulders.
“Jesus fucking Christ–Rhett,” You gasped, your head falling back as your thighs quaked around him. “Oh my fucking god–”
“That’s it,” he breathed, dragging you again, slower now, more deliberate. “Feel that? Right there? That’s where I want you. Grind on me, sweetheart. Just like that.”
Your whimpers melted into full-bodied moans as he kept your hips moving in that rhythm–circling and dragging until you were damn near sobbing against his mouth, your clit raw and throbbing with every glide across the coarse hair and the thick base of his cock.
He didn’t stop until he felt your hips start moving in sync on their own. He let his hands slip back up to your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples again as you rocked into him like you were losing your mind.
“Good girl,” He groaned, voice deeper now. “Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect. Soaked for me…Riding me just the way I like.”
Your breath hitched, your hands tangling in his hair as he leaned in, kissing up your throat–sloppy, hungry, and hot.
Then–suddenly–he sat up fully, his hands grabbing your ass and pulling you closer, forcing you to stay pressed tight against him as his mouth found your neck.
He gripped your hair and yanked it gently, exposing the smooth column of your throat.
And he started kissing. Licking. Biting.
Not enough to hurt–just enough to make you whine.
“Bet none of those assholes ever touched you like this,” He growled into your neck, rutting up into you now–slow at first, but deep. “Bet none of ‘em knew how to fuck you right.”
You gasped as he hit that spot again, your nails digging into his shoulders. “They didn’t,” You whimpered. “Fuck, Rhett–they didn’t. You’re the only one who’s ever–”
“Damn right I am,” He snapped, his teeth grazing your throat. “You hear that? That’s what you sound like when someone actually gives a shit about makin’ you feel good.”
He slammed into you again, this time rougher–deep and hard and relentless–and your whole body jolted forward, your nails dragging down his back through the thin fabric of his shirt.
He groaned at the sting. “Mark me up, Y/N. Let me feel it.” You were crying out now, your rhythm breaking down into messy, frantic movements, grinding and bouncing as best you could with how hard he was gripping your waist, how deep he was rutting up into you.
“Gonna come, Rhett–fuck–I’m gonna–”
“Come for me,” He rasped, slamming into you harder. “Soak me. Make a goddamn mess, sweetheart.”
Your vision blurred.
Your body locked up.
And then everything broke open.
You screamed his name as your orgasm ripped through you–wet and loud and overwhelming. You trembled violently, your whole body twitching as you felt yourself gush around him, soaking his lap and thighs, your slick coating every inch of him.
“Goddamn,” Rhett growled, his breath breaking into ragged pants. “Fuck–Y/N, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight–shit, I’m gonna–”
Then his hands flew to your hips.
He slammed you down against him one final time, holding you there with a bruising grip, his voice guttural and feral as he cried out:
“Fuck, I’m gonna come inside you–fill you up–gonna stuff you full of it, darlin’, so you’ll still feel me dripping out of you tomorrow–Jesus Christ–”
You gasped as you felt it.
The twitch. The pulse. Every thick, hot rope of cum flooding you so deep it made you clench again. He buried himself as far as he could go, his hips bucking wildly against you as he spilled every last drop.
You scratched your nails down his back again–hard.
He didn’t stop you. If anything, he moaned louder.
“Fuck yes, baby. Just like that.”
You collapsed forward, breath shaking, your chest pressed to his, your bodies fused together–hot and slick and shaking.
And he held you.
Tight.
Like you were the only thing tethering him to this goddamn earth.
Neither of you spoke at first.
Just heavy breathing. Soft trembling. The sound of your heart pounding where it pressed against his.
Then–barely audible–Rhett whispered against your ear:
“Guess what I’m writing?” Your breath was still ragged. Shallow. The tremors hadn’t stopped yet, and your chest was still rising and falling in uneven waves as you lay sprawled over him, your body warm and slick against his, your heart pounding so hard you swore it was echoing in his chest too.
“…Okay,” You whispered hoarsely, your voice barely carrying above the rasp in your throat.
Rhett didn’t say anything at first. He just smiled. One of those slow, crooked, half-cocky ones he couldn’t control when he was too soft to be smug and too smitten to pretend he wasn’t.
Then you felt it.
The gentle press of his fingertip against your outer thigh–bare, slick with sweat and still trembling slightly from aftershocks.
He dragged a slow line into your skin.
“I,” You breathed, voice soft and cautious.
He nodded, the tip of his nose brushing your jaw as he traced another.
“L,” You murmured, and he smirked faintly.
“Yeah,” He whispered against your cheek, his lips grazing your skin.
You didn’t breathe as he drew the next one–round and smooth.
“O.”
Another nod. His smile grew, quiet and reverent, the kind he only ever gave you when you were laughing in his passenger seat or half-asleep in his flannel.
And then he traced the last letter. Angled. Sharp. Deliberate.
“V,” you whispered. And this time, you stilled.
You pulled back just enough to look down at him, your hands sliding up to cradle his face. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide. Just met your gaze with those wide, ocean-blue eyes–like he was terrified and relieved and stunned that he’d said it at all.
Your thumbs brushed the corners of his mouth, your fingers curling gently along his jaw.
And your smile–God, your smile–was soft and sure and finally at peace as you leaned in just close enough for him to hear you when you said:
“I love you too, Rhett.”
The air shifted.
He exhaled like he’d been holding it forever, his brows twitching with something emotional and overwhelmed, and then he leaned up, kissing you–soft and slow and messy with gratitude.
When he pulled back, his voice cracked.
“You’re so good, Y/N…”
You smiled again, barely able to speak as your hands continued to caress his cheeks, your fingertips memorizing every inch of him like a prayer.
“You’re perfect, Rhett,” You whispered. “I couldn’t have asked for a better person to be in my life.”
And this time–neither of you said anything after.
Because everything that needed to be said had already been written across your skin.
