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Multifandom, she/her, 20 Jason Grace Truther Leo Valdez My Beloved

[snoopysupe]

⭑.ᐟ 7 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU ── Clark Kent

summary: you have feelings for your neighbour, clark kent. too bad you hate superman after your car became collateral damage in a fight. or: 3½ times clark kent tries to convince you that superman is good (ft lois lane) and 1 time superman finds you to apologise. (wc: 9.0k)

pairing: clark kent / f!reader

content: neighbour!au. fluff/humour/angst. idiots in love. reader despises superman. #supershit mentioned. mean!reader at times. mentions of an ex-boyfriend. descriptions of injuries, blood and tbh clark is giving wet towel throughout all of this. he’s desperate for reader to like his true identity. 18+ suggestive themes at the end! not proofread, i ain’t reading allat.

i. WORD OF MOUTH

The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon. 

Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy. 

His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex. 

There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read. 

Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it. 

Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material. 

“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the mid-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.

You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building. 

(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.) 

Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man. 

It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you. 

You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.  

Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way. 

Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head. 

“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?” 

Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated! 

“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?” 

You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.” 

“No kidding?” 

“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought. 

Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe. 

Because his cheating needed to be international. 

Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it. 

(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.) 

Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony. 

Jackass. 

“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?” 

“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.” 

“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute. 

After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.

Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.

So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons. 

1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you. 

Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.

Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.

He just couldn’t ruin a good thing. 

You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile. 

“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.” 

You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”

“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again. 

You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.” 

“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.

“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly. 

Clark blinks. 

“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”

“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”

You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue. 

There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good! 

Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use. 

“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”

He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.

Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere. 

You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.” 

“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it. 

To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.

However, this was fixable. 

Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?” 

“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.” 

“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.” 

Clark frowns, “Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?” 

“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.

He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman. 

Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him. 

ii. WEEKLY PAPER

The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right? 

A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day! 

For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis. 

The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help. 

Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest. 

That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman. 

(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.) 

So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community. 

He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars. 

The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning. 

How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.) 

When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience. 

He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D. 

Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service? 

It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.

Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course. 

Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman. 

Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that. 

It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution! 

That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for. 

“Morning, Clark.” you chirp as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.” 

(There was a reason for that.) 

Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.” 

“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.

“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.” 

“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.) 

You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding. 

“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?” 

“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.” 

Clark wants to call you dramatic. 

He goes for, “I hear you.” instead. 

“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.” 

How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness when it came to you. 

And your means to be overtly theatrical.

Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft. 

Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more. 

He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.” 

“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.” 

“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly. 

You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.” 

“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.” 

iii. SUPERSHIT 

Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.  

One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent. 

His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent. 

The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog. 

“Whew. Bad day?” 

The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone. 

Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.

“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?” 

When Clark hesitates, you answer for him. 

“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.” 

Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.

You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads. 

Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time. 

Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase. 

He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car. 

(For good reason!) 

The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table. 

The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs. 

It was hard not to look at him. 

The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you. 

That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual. 

Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.” 

You perk, “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?” 

“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state. 

Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.” 

“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.” 

The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age. 

Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend. 

Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation. 

Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love. 

That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right. 

But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.

He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?) 

It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask. 

It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision. 

“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—” 

“Clark.” 

Clark hums, “Hm?” 

“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.” 

“You would?” 

You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.” 

“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile. 

The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement. 

His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on. 

The night should’ve ended there—on a high. 

Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark. 

You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance. 

“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—” 

“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.” 

Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.” 

You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.” 

Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.

(Sunlight status revoked.)  The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun. 

His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red. 

Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly. 

“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—” 

“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”

“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”

Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!” 

“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?” 

OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction. 

You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.” 

Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.” 

He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.

Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION

So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.

After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patience was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.

The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee. 

Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview. 

The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.

Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)  

Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role. 

Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.

“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone. 

You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own. 

“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.” 

“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?” 

“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.) 

“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.” 

Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.” 

You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.” 

“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?” 

“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.” 

“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it. 

It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”

Lois really likes you. She decides. 

“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.” 

“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”

Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open. 

Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman. 

He was saving kids. How could you resent that? 

Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered! 

But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story. 

“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors. 

“Pardon me?” 

You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.” 

“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—” 

“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.” 

“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I have time.” 

You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?” 

“Yes. I suppose I should have.” 

It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.” 

“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.” 

“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.” 

Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth? 

He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.

You know…once he takes elevator back up. 

Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully. 

“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.” 

“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?” 

“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. 

“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt. 

(Hook, line and sinker.) 

“Then yes.” 

+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES

You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time. 

And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.  

It was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust. 

Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom. 

You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.  

When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window. 

Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?” 

It sounded like him. 

Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain? 

The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Good evening ma’am.” 

You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!” 

He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?” 

“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.” 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?” 

“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.” 

Oh. He took your joke seriously. 

Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

You sigh, “Worth a shot.” 

Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.” 

“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.” 

A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site. 

Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions. 

You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood. 

Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort. 

You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head. 

He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose. 

Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether. 

“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful. 

You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.

“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?” 

He hums lowly. 

You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.” 

“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.” 

“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?” 

“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?” 

Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?” 

“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.” 

“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?” 

“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”

“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot. 

“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.” 

“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.) 

Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.” 

Oh, boy. 

“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?” 

“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway. 

You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?” 

Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.” 

“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.” 

“The glasses?” 

“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.” 

Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant. 

“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?” 

“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.” 

Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.” 

“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.” 

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.” 

You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.” 

“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city. 

With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”

“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)

“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone ebbs along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”

“Is that okay?”

“Again, Clark Kent—”

Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate. 

The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips. 

There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.) 

You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.” 

He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.” 

“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.” 

“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.” 

You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom. 

“I hate you.” 

[m4riaa-bonita]

Interim - singledad!Remus Lupin

Masterlist ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

summary: you're Teddy's babysitter who Remus is absolutely not head over heels over... but what happens when his ex-wife and mother of his kid shows up one day after being gone for six years?

pairing: singledad!Remus x babysitter!reader

tags: long afk but worth it i promise, muggle!au, modern!au, single dad remus, age!gap sorta (reader is 24 and remus is 32), reader is lonely and so is remus:(, angst, happy ending & Tonks slander for the plot im so sorry i love her i swear.

The first time you babysat Teddy Lupin he bit you. He bit you hard.

You'd think a six year old would be a tiny bit more mature when trying to express big big feelings but oh well...

The first time you properly met Remus Lupin, he was leaning against the bathroom doorway while you searched his medicine cabinet for a bandage, in need of it for small little bite-sized cuts, courtesy of his son's surprisingly sharp teeth.

"I promise he doesn't have rabies." he says, looking extremely apologetic as he hands you a small box of dinosaur band-aids

You looked down at the cartoon triceratops smiling up at you.

"Sorry, we only have these and I keep them in my room because Teddy likes to put them on everything."

"Well," you said, peeling open the Band-Aid. "At least he has good taste."

"In band-aids?"

"In victims."

For the first time since you'd arrived, Remus laughed and the sound surprised both of you.

Teddy had his father's laugh, you'd come to learn. It escaped them in stages: a huff through his nose, a smile he tried and failed to suppress, and then a laugh proper, warm and low and wonderfully unguarded.

Remus thought you'd quit after Teddy bit you, instead, you taught him all afternoon how to express overwhelming joy through words and hugs. He hired you on the spot.

As it turned out, working for Remus Lupin fit surprisingly well into your schedule. He lived only fifteen minutes from campus and taught there himself, though from the other side of the lectern and thankfully not in classes corresponding your major. Getting from your classes to his house was only a fifteen-minute drive.

After the toddler had scared six nannies already, Remus the atheist thought of going to a church and say thanks to The Man Himself when his son seemed so accepting of you. None of the others had lasted more than a month after some incidents... like the one time where Teddy learned that pretending to cry guaranteed attention and subsequently produced tears on command whenever vegetables appeared on his plate, or when he convinced a nanny he had swallowed a coin.

He had not.

He simply wanted to know what happened when people thought you had.

And there came you.

A woman in her mid-twenties, almost done with college and desperately in need of cash.

Somehow, you possessed the extraordinary ability to turn Teddy Lupin into a less unhinged version of himself simply by speaking to him as though he were a thinking human being. A rather radical approach for any of the other babysitters that had had the misfortune of looking after him.

The first month, Teddy stopped biting people.

The second month, he started waiting by the living room window for your car.

By the third, he knew your class schedule better than you did.

"You're late." He accused, arms tightly around himself to show he was clearly furious.

You checked your watch. "I am four minutes early."

"You were eight minutes earlier yesterday."

"That's not how being late works, bubba."

Teddy narrowed his eyes. You narrowed yours right back. Then he broke into a fit of giggles and forced you to play hide n' seek with him for the third time that week.

One rainy afternoon, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor helping Teddy build a cardboard castle from old delivery boxes his dad had abandoned months ago.

The structure was ugly. Dangerously unstable. And somehow required seventeen rolls of tape his dad would absolutely need at some point of the apocalypse he had bought them for.

"Who lives there?" you asked, taping one of the makeshift windows to the side of the castle. You could've pursued architecture.

"A dragon."

"Only a dragon? A single one?"

"A dragon and me." He nods, like it's obvious, like it's a universal truth.

You nodded solemnly, catching one of the falling pieces from the roof. "Fair enough."

Teddy considered this. He looked at you from head to toe, still wearing the princess hat you made for yourself with cardboard and glittery pink markers. "And you." He decides

Your hands paused. "Oh."

"And Dad, I guess."

"How generous of you." You smile

Teddy shrugged. "The dragon likes you."

Remus noticed it before you did.

The way Teddy reached for you first whenever he was upset. The way he shouted your name the moment he got a good grade. The way he insisted on saving half his desserts for you. The way the house seemed fuller whenever you were in it.

Warmer. Louder. Happier.

Ever since Tonks had left not long after Teddy was born, the house had felt different. Quieter. Not in the literal sense; if anything, Teddy seemed determined to produce enough noise for three people. But there was an emptiness to it all the same. A second mug never taken down from the cabinet. A side of the bed that remained untouched. Conversations that ended before they began because there was nobody to have them with. At first, Remus had noticed it everywhere.

In the silence that greeted him after putting Teddy to sleep.

In the groceries he no longer bought.

In the absence of someone asking how his day had been.

Then life carried on, as it tended to do. Teddy grew. The laundry piled up. Bills had to be paid. Homework from both his son and his students needed checking. Somewhere between surviving and parenting, the loneliness stopped feeling like an intruder and settled into something more permanent. A piece of furniture. An old ache. The sort of thing he only noticed when it wasn't truly there.

Which was perhaps why your arrival caught him so off guard: You filled space without trying to.

Suddenly there was laughter coming from the living room when he got home from work. Someone stealing the good pens from his desk. Someone else reminding Teddy to brush his teeth. Someone sitting at the kitchen counter while he made dinner, telling him about a professor who couldn't work the projector.

The house wasn't less messy or more manageable. If anything, it was louder than ever. But it felt alive again.

One evening, after putting Teddy to bed, you found Remus standing in the kitchen nursing a mug of tea. "He's asleep?" he asks, pulling the little tea bag in and out of the water of his cup, the scent of camomile filling the room.

"Barely." You say with a groan, sitting on the kitchen island with a small thud.

This had become a ritual, of sorts. Talking with Remus about both of your days, or your lives, before he awkwardly slipped the fifty dollar bill across the counter and you slipped out the door to go home.

"He asked for three stories?"

"Four."

Remus winced. "My condolences, love."

You laughed. He smiled.

And then neither of you looked away quite as quickly as you should have. It lasted only a second. Maybe two. He should be grabbing his wallet instead of staring at you like a creep, he thought briefly. But something shifted. Not enough to name. Not enough to acknowledge. Just enough to notice. Just enough to remember.

The first school event you attended happened entirely by accident. Or at least that's what you told yourself.

"Dad can't come to my school thing." Teddy delivered the news with all the gravity of someone announcing a death in the family and the hopefulness of asking for extra candy. You glanced up from his math worksheet spread across the kitchen table. "What do you mean he can't come?"

"He has a meeting at his school." He sighs, resting his chubby cheek in his hand as he scribbles down the page instead of writing actual numbers.

"Oh."

Teddy stared. You stared back. The silence stretched.

"Okay?"

"It's my assembly." Teddy said in the whiniest of tones, spinning around in his chair without taking his eyes off of you, turning his head every time his back faced you

"I know- Bubba, you're going to get dizzy and vomit those dino nuggets, stop."

He stops himself, his little hands clawing at the kitchen island to make himself sit straight again. "You have to come!"

You blinked. "I absolutely do not."

"You do!"

"Teddy."

"You're my emergency contact." He says in an attempt to somehow tie you into a school assembly.

"Your dad is your emergency contact." Busted. Your smirk is proud, like you defeated a debate professor rather than a six year old.

"You're my second emergency contact." He looked unbearably pleased with himself. As though he'd just discovered a legal loophole.

You sighed. "That is not how this works."

"It is if I start crying." He grins.

"You wouldn't."

His eyes immediately began watering.

"Oh, for God's sake- fine, fine, fine!"

The assembly took place on a Thursday morning. You had skipped a lecture to be there. A decision you absolutely weren't regretting as you sat in an uncomfortable folding chair surrounded by parents.

Definitely not. Not even a little.

The gymnasium was packed. Children buzzed with excitement. Teachers ran around looking exhausted. A little girl dressed as a sunflower was already crying and smudging her seed makeup.

It was chaos.

"Teddy Lupin?" a woman sitting beside you asked.

You looked up. "Yeah!"

The woman smiled. "Oh, you're his mother."

The words hit you so unexpectedly that your brain short-circuited.

"No."

"No?" The woman looked awfully confused.

"No." You laughed awkwardly. "I'm not."

"Oh."

You should have corrected her.cYou should have explained. Babysitter. Family friend. Anything.

Instead, your head drifted toward the stage. Toward Teddy. Toward the little paper crown sitting crookedly on his head. Toward the seat beside you. Empty and reserved for Remus.

A faculty emergency had kept him away.

You'd watched him apologize to Teddy all morning.

Watched Teddy pretend not to care.

Watched Remus look heartbroken anyway.

"It's complicated," you decided on.

The woman nodded with a careful smile as if that explained everything.

Maybe it did.

The moment Teddy stepped onto the stage, he found you. Not his teacher. Not his classmates. You.

His entire face lit up. He waved both arms enthusiastically and showed off the crown you had made him days before.

You waved back. A teacher immediately pushed his hands down and he looked bothered but then... The performance began.

Teddy missed half his cues. Forgot two lines. Knocked over a cardboard tree. And somehow still managed to be the most amazing thing you had ever seen. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt and he laughed with you. By the end, you had nearly two hundred photos on your phone.

Half of them blurry. All of them precious.

Remus called before you even reached your car with Teddy in hand, a huge ice cream on his as you walked in the school's parking lot.

"How was it?"

You smiled. "You owe me another fifty dollars."

"What?" You can hear the smile on his voice.

"I sat through forty-five minutes of second graders singing off-key, I'm entitled to financial compensation."

A pause. Then:

"So it was good?"

You could practically hear the hope in his voice. You thought of the photograph you took earlier, now on your main wallpaper.

Teddy, grinning proudly from the stage. Paper crown crooked. Missing front tooth. The happiest, most perfect kid in the world.

"It was perfect."

The silence on the other end lasted a moment longer than it should have. "Thank you." Something in his voice made your chest ache.

"It wasn't a big deal, Remus."

"It was."

You leaned against your car as Teddy got inside. Suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. "What are you doing now?" he asked.

"Dropping Teddy at campus and then home... why?"

Another pause. Then: "Teddy wants to celebrate."

You laughed.

"Celebrate what?"

"This morning he said something about surviving elementary theatre."

"Fair."

"Would you...?" The hesitation surprised you. "Would you like to come to dinner?"

You should have said no.

You had reading to do.

Laundry.

Assignments.

A life outside of the Lupins.

Instead— "Only if Teddy picks the restaurant." Remus groaned.

"Oh no."

"What's wrong?" You frown, thinking for one terrible moment that dinner plans were cancelled.

"He likes that dinosaur-themed place."

"You say that like it's bad." You smile, getting inside the car and buckling Teddy's seatbelt.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Remus said gravely, "she's encouraging him!"

You spent dinner watching the performance's videos, laughing hysterically at Teddy making excuses for stepping on another boy's feet while dancing and how the choreography was super tough.

Much later, neither of you would be able to say exactly when you stopped feeling like Teddy's babysitter.

Only that, somehow, somewhere between dinosaur bandages, cardboard castles and bedtime stories, you had become part of the family. And nobody seemed particularly interested in giving you back.

Summer turned into autumn.

Autumn turned into winter.

And somewhere in between, you stopped knocking.

It had happened after Teddy came down with a stomach bug and Remus got stuck in traffic on the way home from campus. He'd handed you a spare key the next morning with a mumbled, "Just in case." You'd accepted it without much thought.

Months later, it still hung from your keychain.

"Technically," Remus had said once, watching Teddy color at the kitchen table, "you're only supposed to use it for emergencies."

Teddy didn't even look up from his crayons. "She lives here."

You nearly choked on your coffee. "I absolutely do not."

"You have a key."

"That doesn't mean I live here, Bubba. I got my own place-."

"You have pajamas."

"They're for sleepovers when you're too much of a baby to sleep alone when your dad's late!" You laugh

"You have a toothbrush." He doesn't take the bait. He will tolerate being called a baby if it is to prove a point.

"Teddy."

"You have your own mug." You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because annoyingly enough, the little traitor was right.

The mug sat beside the coffee machine every morning; a chipped blue thing with tiny stars painted around the rim. Nobody remembered how it had become yours. One day it simply had.

Much like the cardigan hanging over the back of the couch, the spare phone charger Remus had bought for you that now rested permanently plugged into the kitchen outlet. The blanket Teddy insisted belonged to you during movie nights. Little pieces of yourself scattered throughout the house.

Evidence. Proof.

Signs of a life quietly intertwining with theirs. Not that anyone seemed particularly concerned about it. Especially not Remus.

One evening, after a particularly miserable exam, you let yourself into the house and immediately dropped your backpack onto the floor.

"I'm dropping out."

"Hi, sweetheart."

Remus looked up from where he stood at the stove.

"You didn't even ask what happened." You groan, taking off your shoes and padding inside.

"You say you're dropping out at least twice a month." Remus laughs, handing you tea that was already waiting for you in the blue starry mug.

"I mean it this time."

"You meant it last time."

"And the time before that." Teddy chimes in.

"Exactly."

You narrowed your eyes. He smiled into his tea.

Teddy looked up from the table. "I think she's... bluffing!" You had taught him that word a month ago when he heard you singing a song and asked what 'bluffing' meant.

"Thank you, Theodore." Remus hums

"You're welcome."

And for a brief, stupid moment, standing there in your socks with your backpack abandoned by the door and the smell of dinner filling the kitchen, you forgot this wasn't your home. The realization came later.

Alone in your apartment, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling.

Thinking about the way Teddy had absent-mindedly reached for your hand while telling a story. The way Remus always made enough tea for two. The way neither of them seemed surprised when you showed up anymore.

Looking back, perhaps that should have worried you.

The ease of it all.

The way you slipped into their lives and they slipped into yours.

The way none of it felt temporary anymore.

The doorbell rang on a Thursday afternoon, sunset already bleeding in the sky.

Teddy was halfway through explaining why dinosaurs would perform terribly in modern society when Remus got up to answer it. "Don't move," he told his son.

"I wasn't planning to."

"That's what you said before climbing onto the garage roof."

"I was trying to help the bird... it was one time."

"One time too many." You laughed into your mug.

Remus rolled his eyes affectionately before disappearing into the hallway. The conversation at the table continued for all of ten seconds.

Then it stopped.

Not because of anything you could hear. Because of what you couldn't.

No footsteps.

No greeting.

No door closing.

Just silence.

A strange, heavy sort of silence.

The kind that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You exchanged a glance with Teddy. He frowned.

Then, from the hallway—

"Dora" Remus said in a broken sigh.

"Hello, Remus."

A woman's voice. Soft and familiar. A tiny bit broken around the edges.

The mug slipped slightly in your hands. Something crashed to a halt in the other room. For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Teddy's chair scraped loudly against the floor. His eyes had gone impossibly wide as he ran to the hall.

"Dad?" The word hung in the air. A heartbeat later, another one followed. Small. Disbelieving. Hopeful.

"Mom?".

Remus' ex wife.

Teddy's mom.

It was hard to put an older face to the name. Remus had told you the whole story in one of your late-night kitchen conversations after a particularly harsh day at faculty, all broken and tired. A storm raged outside, and he basically forced you to stay there and use the couch. You'd found him sitting alone in the kitchen after midnight, grading papers with the thousand-yard stare of a man questioning every decision that had led him to academia.

"Bad essays?" you asked as you poured yourself some water.

"Worse."

You set your glass down beside him. "How bad?"

Remus looked up, grabbed the paper he was grading and read: "'The Industrial Revolution was important because industry was invented.'"

You winced. "That's rough."

"I nearly resigned." The laugh that followed faded quickly. He put down the pen and took off his glasses, running a hand through his sandy hair as he took a deep breath. Silence settled between you. Comfortable.

The kind that only existed after months of knowing someone.

Then, without really meaning to, your eyes drifted toward the photograph on the fridge. The same photograph you'd seen dozens of times.

A younger Remus. A baby Teddy. A woman with big eyes and pink hair.

"Was she funny?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

Remus followed your gaze. For a moment, he didn't answer.

Then... "Very."

You nodded then waited.

Eventually, he sighed. "You're curious."

"A little." you admit, the greenish water in your cup suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. God why did you have to be so nosy, the topic was clearly sensitive for the man and-

"Fair." He says before looking up "Her name's Nymphadora."

You immediately grimaced. "That's fucking criminal."

"It is." He laughs

"What kind of parent names a child Nymphadora?" I sigh

"The kind who hated her almost as much as she did."

That earned a genuine laugh. Then his expression softened. Not with longing. With memory. "She was loud."

You smiled. "Teddy had to get it from someone."

"Impossible not to notice when she entered a room." His fingers tapped absent-mindedly against the mug in front of him as he stared into the garden. "She loved Teddy."

You hesitated. Past tense. Loved.

Not loves.

Loved. The distinction settled heavily in your chest. "What happened?"

For a second, you thought he'd dodge the question like the many times Sirius made a joke about it during family dinners. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. Looking older suddenly. More tired.

"We had Teddy."

You waited. "And?"

"And she left." Just like that. No dramatic explanation. No elaborate story. Three words.

You frowned. "Just... left?"

"Pretty much." He scoffed but there was no anger in his voice. Which somehow made it worse.

"One day she told me she couldn't do it anymore." His eyes remained fixed on the table. "Couldn't do what?" You ask.

"Any of it... the house payment, the marriage, the responsibility."

You swallowed a small lump in your throat, scared to ask until you did "Teddy?"

A pause. Then: "Especially Teddy."

The words hit harder than they should have because they weren't cruel. Just honest. The honesty made them hurt.

"How old was he?"

"Six months."

You stared. Remus stared back into his tea.

"Some people aren't built for parenthood." You didn't know what to say. You were a dumb twenty something year old that could barely keep herself alive with campus meals and an awful sleep schedule. You couldn't judge the woman...

"So that's it?"

He laughed. A short, bitter thing. "No." The answer came immediately, almost still resentful. "No, that's not it."

For the first time that evening, genuine anger flashed across his face. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared. But it was there for the briefest second. "I spent years furious." The admission surprised you. Remus was a gentle man, in every sense of the word. He never yelled at Teddy even when he was in one of his moods, never cursed unless it was in good spirits and never once did you see him express anything but love and maybe, sometimes sadness. "I thought I'd done something wrong."

His jaw tightened. "I thought if I'd been a better husband she would've stayed."

The kitchen felt very quiet.

Then: "Eventually I realized it wasn't about me." A pause. "Or even about Teddy." Another. "She just didn't want this life." He says looking around at the house, his eyes fixated on Teddy's drawings hanging in the frigge.

You looked down at your tea.

Thought about the sleeping child upstairs. At the house built around you both. And for the first time, you understood why Remus looked so exhausted sometimes.

Because he'd spent years being both parents. Years picking up every piece she left behind.

"Do you hate her?" You mumble softly.

Remus was silent for a long time. Then he shook his head. "No." The answer sounded tired.

Not forgiving. Not yet. Just tired.

"I hate what happened." His eyes drifted toward the stairs. Toward Teddy's room. "I hate what it did to him."

A pause. "If she walked through that door tomorrow, I'd probably slam it in her face." You laughed softly.

"I'm serious."

"I know."

Another pause. Then: "But if Teddy wanted to see her..."

Remus closed his eyes briefly and you saw the fight leaving him all at once. "I'd figure it out."

And so that's why seeing this woman in the doorway, with Teddy clinging to her legs, surprised you so.

Remus was looking at the floor intently, breathing heavily, hand still in the door as Nymphadora walked inside and sat on the couch as Teddy hugged her. The sight makes your heart squeeze.

You remained rooted to your spot by the kitchen island as she finally acknowledged your presence. "Oh?" The single syllable nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You weren't stupid.

You knew exactly how this looked.

You were already in your pajamas curled up on a kitchen stool. A mug of tea cooling beside your phone as it charged from the wall outlet, your college bag rested carelessly beside the couch. The blanket draped over your lap belonged to the house. The blue, chipped mug in your hand did too. Slowly, painfully, you became aware of every trace of yourself scattered throughout the room.

The cardigan hanging over the back of a chair. The charger plugged into the kitchen wall. The half-finished crossword you'd abandoned on the coffee table.

Evidence.

Evidence everywhere.

The realization hit all at once. This wasn't your home. But God, it looked and felt like it was. Nymphadora's gaze swept across the room. Taking everything in. The tea. The blanket. The bag. You.

Something flickered across her face. Surprise. Confusion. Perhaps even understanding. You couldn't tell.

Suddenly you felt eighteen again. Awkward. Out of place. Caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing and feeling incredibly embarassed about it.

"Teddy's babysitter." The words escaped before anyone could ask. You hated how quickly you'd said them. As though trying to justify your own existence. As though trying to explain why you were here.

Nymphadora blinked. Then smiled, a small one. Polite and distant. "Oh." The same thing she'd said before. Only this time it sounded different. You couldn't explain how, just that it did.

You looked at Teddy.

Then at Remus.

Remus still hadn't moved, and had barely spoken. The silence surrounding him felt strange. Heavy. Like a storm cloud sitting in the middle of the living room.

Nymphadora noticed too. Her smile faded slightly. "Hi, Remus."

Finally, his eyes lifted meeting hers for the first time. The room seemed to hold its breath. "Tonks."

Not Dora.

Not Nymphadora.

Not love.

Not anything affectionate.

Just Tonks.

The distance in a single syllable was almost impressive. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Years stretched silently between them. Then Teddy squeezed himself tighter against his mother's side. And whatever Remus had been about to say disappeared.

Because there it was.

The reason she was standing in his living room.

The reason he hadn't slammed the door.

The reason he probably never would.

Their son.

Of course you sleep in your place that night.

You stood, reached for your keys and your overnight bag. For the cardigan you'd left hanging over the couch weeks ago. For some reason, collecting your things felt different tonight. Like you were cleaning up after yourself. Like you were erasing evidence.

"Drive safe." Remus' voice caught you by surprise. You looked up and he was already holding the front door open.

The autumn air slipped inside. Cold against your skin.

"You too." The corner of his mouth twitched.

"I'm not driving anywhere."

"You never know." For a moment neither of you moved. The silence stretched. Not awkward.

You drove home in your pijamas and in spite of Teddy's pleas for you to stay to "meet his mommy together". The sentence made your blood boil and heart break at the same time. The sweet boy hadn't grown up with her, he didn't know her. He was just meeting her and it was the most heartbreakingly sad thing you had ever seen. How could he know her? And yet he loved her already.

The realization sat heavily in your chest during the drive home, not because Teddy was wrong but because he wasn't. She was his mother. Of course he wanted her. Of course he looked at her like she'd hung the moon. Of course he forgave her before she had even apologized. He was a child.

The next morning, you still went. Of course you did. Teddy had asked if you'd come back. You'd promised.

So you found yourself standing on the Lupins' doorstep shortly after ten in the morning with a bag of groceries balanced on your hip and a spare key in your pocket. The key felt heavier than usual. You knocked anyway out of habit.

The door swung open before you could use it. Teddy practically launched himself at you. "You came!"

You laughed as he nearly knocked you over. "I said I would."

"I know but sometimes adults lie."

"That's a concerning thing to say at eight in the morning."

"It's ten."

"Still concerning."

Teddy grinned then grabbed your hand and dragged you inside. The smile slipped from your face almost immediately. The kitchen smelled like pancakes, fresh ones. The dishes had already been washed. His favorite dinosaur cup had already been filled with juice.

And standing in the middle of it all was Nymphadora Tonks. As though she'd always belonged there. As though she'd never left.

"Oh!" she said brightly.

"Hi." You smiled automatically.

"Hi."

Teddy was already halfway through explaining something about velociraptors. Neither of you listened. For a moment, you simply stood there. Watching Nymphadora tying Teddy's shoelaces. Nymphadora reminding him to finish his breakfast. Nymphadora wiping syrup off his cheek.

Things you had done a hundred times. Things she should have been doing. The realization settled slowly.

Painfully like a bruise.

Nobody had asked you to leave. Nobody had told you that you weren't needed. And yet the space you'd occupied for years suddenly had an owner again.

You stayed for an hour. Maybe two.

Long enough to help Teddy build a blanket fort.

Long enough to laugh at one of his terrible jokes.

Long enough to realize you didn't know what you were supposed to do anymore.

When you finally stood to leave, Teddy frowned. "Where are you going?"

Home.

Nowhere.

Anywhere.

"I've got things to do."

"Like what?"

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out. Because the truth was that college was out for winter break. You didn't have classes. You didn't have assignments. You didn't have work. You had planned on spending most of your vacation here. Movie nights and board games and helping Teddy build increasingly dangerous engineering projects. You hadn't realized how much of your life had quietly rearranged itself around theirs until now.

"Oh."

Teddy seemed unsatisfied by the answer. But Nymphadora smiled. "Let her go be a grown-up."

You laughed politely. Then left.

The drive home felt longer than it should have. The apartment felt smaller. Quieter. You spent three hours wandering aimlessly between rooms.

Started a book. Put it down.

Turned on the television. Turned it off.

Made tea and accidentally made enough for two. Forgot to drink both cups.

By two in the afternoon, you were considering taking a nap simply out of boredom when your phone rang. Remus.

You answered immediately.

"Hey."

A pause.

Then: "Please tell me you're free."

You sat upright. Something in his voice made your stomach drop.

"What happened?"

Another pause, longer this time.

When he finally spoke, he sounded exhausted.

"Teddy and Tonks had a fight."

You blinked. "A fight?" He's six years old how does he manage to-

"A spectacular one."

"What happened?"

Remus sighed heavily. "I think she tried to parent him."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

You winced. That explained everything. Teddy had never loved being told what to do from anyone who wasn't Remus. Or you. That aditional thought bothered you.

"Teddy yelled that she wasn't his mother." The words landed heavily. Painfully. You closed your eyes.

"Oh fuck."

Another silence.

Then: "He locked himself in his room." You were already reaching for your shoes. "And?"

"And apparently I'm raising a tiny dictator because he says he'll only come out if you talk to him." Your heart broke instantly somewhere between the front door and your car keys. Remus let out a tired breath. "He keeps asking for you."

And suddenly, for the first time all day, you knew exactly where you were supposed to be.

The drive to the Lupins' house took twelve minutes and you spent eleven of them trying not to imagine Teddy crying. The twelfth was worse. The house was quiet when you arrived.

Wrongly quiet.

Not the peaceful kind.

The kind that follows shouting.

Remus opened the door before you could knock. He looked exhausted.

"Where is he?"

"Upstairs."

You were already moving.

"Hey—" You paused halfway up the stairs. Remus rubbed a hand over his face.

"He won't talk to me." The admission sounded almost defeated. You softened immediately. "I'll try."

He nodded. The door to Teddy's room was closed. A small dinosaur sticker stared at you from eye level. You knocked once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing.

"Teddy?"

Silence.

Then: "Go away."

You exhaled slowly. "No."

"Please." The word was so small and pleading it nearly broke your heart.

You rested your forehead against the door. "Teddy."

Nothing.

Then, after a moment: "...is it you?". Your throat tightened.

"Yeah, bubba s'me, open the door for me."

The lock clicked immediately. The door opened just enough for you to see one watery hazel eye. Then he launched himself at you.

Hard and nearly knocking the air from your lungs.

You caught him automatically. His face buried itself against your shoulder. And just like that, you knew.

Not because of what he said. Because of how tightly he was holding on. You had known fear like this before: the quiet kind.

The kind that settled in your chest after someone raised their voice. The kind that made you study every expression, every footstep, every slammed door. Trying to determine whether you were safe yet. You recognized it the moment Teddy looked up at you. "Hey."

His eyes were red, his chubby cheeks blotchy. A child trying very hard not to cry anymore. "Hey."

You sat down on the floor beside his bed and he immediately curled into your side. Neither of you spoke.

Sometimes there wasn't much to say.

A few minutes passed before he finally whispered "I was bad."

Your heart sank. "No bubba-" His fingers tightened in your sweatshirt.

"I was."

"Teddy."

"Mom said so."

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Not enough to knock you over. Enough. You chose your next words carefully. "What happened?" Teddy stared at the carpet. For a long time, you thought he wouldn't answer.

Then: "I spilled juice."

You blinked. "That's it?"

He shrugged. Small. Miserable. Ashamed.

"There was already juice on the floor."

"Okay."

"And then I dropped the cup."

You waited.

"And then she yelled." The words came out in a rush, as though saying them quickly would make them hurt less. You felt something twist painfully inside your chest.

Not anger.

Not yet.

Recognition. Children remembered yelling differently. Adults forgot that. Adults remembered the reason. Children remembered the sinking feeling.

"I think..." Teddy swallowed. "I think she hates me."

"Oh, sweetheart, no..." The words escaped immediately, before you could stop them. His eyes filled again. And there it was.

The thing he'd been carrying around all afternoon.

Not anger. Not even sadness. Fear. The awful certainty only children could have. The belief that one mistake could make someone stop loving them. You knew that feeling far too well. You gently brushed a hand through his hair.

"Listen to me." Teddy looked up. "If somebody gets frustrated, that doesn't mean they hate you."

He said nothing. "So what if she yelled?"

You smiled softly. "Then she shouldn't have yelled."

His eyes widened as though he hadn't considered that possibility. As though adults existed in a category where they were automatically right.

"No one gets to yell at you just because they're upset." The words surprised even you. They sounded older than you remembered being. Older than you felt. You swallowed. Then nudged his shoulder gently.

"But." Teddy sniffled. "But sometimes adults mess up just like kids do."

The room fell quiet. Downstairs, a floorboard creaked, someone moving around the kitchen. Probably Remus. Probably Tonks. Probably both.

Teddy leaned into your side. "You really came." The words were barely above a whisper. You closed your eyes briefly. Then pressed a kiss against the top of his head. "Always."

And somewhere downstairs, a chair scraped across the floor. As though someone had just sat down very suddenly.

You saw less and less of the Lupins after that.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary, an adjustment period.

Tonks and Teddy needed time.

Remus and Tonks needed time.

You were being mature about it. Reasonable.

Normal.

Then one week became two, two became three, and suddenly the absence had settled into something real. The strange thing was that nobody had asked you to leave. Not once.

Teddy still asked about you.

Tonks still invited you over.

Remus still texted occasionally: A photograph of a disastrous science project, a reminder to send him the name of a book you'd recommended, a complaint about faculty meetings. Small things. Ordinary things.

Which somehow made them worse, because every message reminded you that life was continuing without you. One evening, your phone buzzed while you were making dinner for one.

remus:): Do you remember how you got Teddy to eat broccoli?

You stared at the message.

Then laughed despite yourself, replying 'Blackmail'.

His reply arrived immediately.

remus:): I knew it.

You smiled, then stared at the screen long after the conversation ended because three months ago, you wouldn't have received that question through a phone. You would've been standing in his kitchen. Stealing vegetables from Teddy's plate. Listening to Remus complain about grading.

The distance hurt in ways you hadn't expected, not because you missed the house.

Because you missed him. Teddy or Remus you didn't know.

And apparently, he missed you too. Teddy or Remus you didn't know.

Then you realized it gradually, in the way his messages lingered or in the way he found increasingly ridiculous reasons to contact you... in the way conversations that should've lasted three minutes somehow stretched into forty.

One night he called. You answered without thinking.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Silence. Comfortable. Dangerous. You sat down on your couch.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"You only call when something happened."

A low, familiar laugh.

God. You missed that laugh.

"That's offensive."

"It's true."

Another laugh, then silence again. You waited.

Eventually: "I just wanted to hear your voice."

The room stopped. Not completely. Just enough. Long enough for your heart to stumble over itself. On the other end of the line, Remus went quiet too. As though he'd only realized what he'd said after saying it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you were brave enough. So instead he asked about your classes. And you let him. Because some things were easier to survive when they remained unnamed.

Later that night, long after the call ended, Remus sat alone in the kitchen. The house was asleep. Tonks upstairs. Teddy dreaming. A mug of tea cooling between his hands. For the first time in months, he allowed himself to admit it.

The house felt full again.

It should have been enough.

For a while, he thought it might be but every time something funny happened, he still reached for his phone. Every time Teddy did something ridiculous, he wanted to tell you. Every time he saw an article about your major's studies, he thought of you. And every time he opened the front door after work, a small part of him still expected to find you sitting on the kitchen island.

Waiting. The realization terrified him. Because Tonks had come home. And somehow, impossibly, he still missed you.

At first, Remus thought time would fix it because time fixed most things. Grief dulled. Anger softened. Old wounds scarred over. That was what people said, anyway. So he tried.

God, he tried.

He took Tonks to dinner and sat beside her during movie nights and listened when she talked about the years she'd spent away. About the jobs she'd worked, about the places she'd lived, about the mistakes she'd made.

He listened because she deserved that much. Because Teddy deserved that much. Because families weren't things you abandoned the moment they became difficult. Some evenings, he would look across the dinner table and see exactly what he had wanted for years.

Tonks laughing.

Teddy talking with his mouth full.

Three plates instead of two.

A family.

A complete one.

It should have made him happy.

Instead, there was always something missing. A fourth laugh. A familiar voice from the kitchen. Someone stealing fries from Teddy's plate. Someone sitting cross-legged on the counter while he cooked. The absence followed him everywhere.

One night, Tonks reached across the couch and took his hand. Remus nearly jumped not because he didn't expect affection but because he hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd wanted it. Tonks noticed immediately. Of course she did. She'd always been good at reading people.The smile she gave him afterward broke his heart. Not because it was sad. Because it was understanding.

Weeks passed. Then months. And somehow things became worse. Not better. He found himself dreading evenings. Dreading the moments when the house finally became quiet. Because that was when pretending became hardest.

Tonks would sit beside him... close enough for him to smell her shampoo, close enough that, years ago, he would have reached for her without thinking. Now he found himself staring at the television. Or his tea. Or literally anything else.

Anything but her.

One evening, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. A simple thing. Affectionate. Normal. Remus froze. The reaction lasted less than a second. Long enough. Tonks pulled away first.

The silence afterward felt endless.

"I'm sorry."

The words escaped before he could stop them. Tonks stared at him. Then laughed softly not because it was funny, because the alternative was crying.

"You don't have to apologize." The lie hung between them. Neither of them challenged it.

That night, long after she'd fallen asleep, Remus lay awake staring at the ceiling. The room was dark. The house silent. Beside him, Tonks shifted in her sleep. For a moment, he remembered being twenty-five.

Remembered loving her.

Remembered believing that was enough.

Then his mind drifted somewhere else. To a girl sitting on a kitchen island. To laughter. To dinosaur bandages. To someone who always stole his good pens. Remus closed his eyes. The guilt was immediate.

Crushing.

Because Tonks wasn't doing anything wrong. She was trying. Trying harder than she ever had before. And somehow he still found himself reaching for memories that weren't hers.

Two months later, he woke to an empty bed. At first, he didn't think anything of it. Tonks got up early sometimes. So did Teddy. The house remained silent. Strangely silent.

Remus frowned.

Sat up.

The other side of the mattress was cold. Not recently vacated. Cold. A knot formed immediately in his stomach. He stood. Pulled on a sweater. Walked downstairs. Nobody in the kitchen. Nobody in the living room. Then he saw it.

A folded piece of paper sitting beside the coffee machine.

His name.

Written in familiar handwriting. For one terrible moment, he already knew. His hands shook as he unfolded it.

Remus, I'm sorry.

The words blurred almost instantly. Not because he was crying. Not yet. Because he couldn't stop staring at them.

I'm sorry.

Again.

Always sorry.

Never staying.

He read the rest anyway: About not belonging here anymore. About how hard she'd tried. About how Teddy deserved better than a mother who had to force herself to stay. About how he deserved better too.

By the time he reached the end, his hands were trembling. The kitchen felt very far away. Very quiet. Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

"Teddy?" he called automatically. No answer.

Then: "Dad?"

The note slipped from his fingers.

Teddy appeared in the doorway wearing dinosaur pajamas. Still half asleep. Still smiling.

"Mom said we'd make pancakes today."

Remus forgot how to breathe. The smile disappeared immediately. Children always knew. Some instinct science was yet to figure out. Some horrible little instinct.

"Dad?" Remus swallowed. Hard. "Teddy."

The boy's face changed. Confusion. Then fear. Then understanding.

"No." The word came instantly. Before Remus had said anything. "No."

"Teddy—"

"No."

His voice cracked.

Small.

Desperate.

"No."

Remus crossed the room in two strides and caught him before he could run. Before he could fall apart. Before they both did. Teddy fought him for exactly three seconds with all his might. Then collapsed. The sob that left him sounded too big for a seven year old.

Remus held him tighter.

His own vision blurring. His own chest splitting open. Not because he'd lost Tonks, that grief felt known. Ancient. A wound reopened too many times to surprise him anymore. No.

The unbearable part was watching Teddy lose her again. And knowing he had no idea how to make it hurt less.

James takes Teddy for the afternoon. It isn't a difficult decision.

Harry adores Teddy.

Teddy adores Harry.

And James takes one look at Remus' face before saying, gently "I've got him."

Remus doesn't argue, doesn't have the energy. The house is silent after they leave and silence had never bothered him before but now it feels unbearable; Every room is full of ghosts. Tonks' coffee mug. Tonks' handwriting on the fridge. The blanket she'd used on the couch.

The things left after she left. Again.

By three in the afternoon, Remus is sitting on the kitchen floor not because he fell but because he couldn't make himself stand anymore. The note lies crumpled beside him. His tea has gone cold. The house won't stop being empty. And for the first time all day, he lets himself cry.

Not quietly.

Not dignified.

The ugly kind. The exhausted kind. The kind that comes after years.

Years of trying.

Of hoping.

Of being angry.

Then forgiving.

Then hoping again.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

James. He ignores it. It buzzes again.

And again.

Finally, he answers.

"She's gone." The words come out broken. James goes quiet immediately. "Remus—"

"She's gone."

A laugh escapes him, a horrible one.

"Again."

Silence.

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No."

"Okay."

Another pause. "Who do you want?" The question catches him off guard because the answer arrives instantly, without thinking.

Without hesitation. Without permission.

You.

The realization hits like a punch, James hears the silence and understands immediately. Of course he does. Remus presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. Humiliating. Pathetic. True.

"Oh, mate." And somehow that's worse. James sounds sad, not surprised. Like he'd been waiting for Remus to figure it out.

The call ends ten minutes later. Remus doesn't remember how. The house remains silent, he stares at his phone, at your name for a long time. Then presses call. You answer on the second ring.

"Hello?"

And that nearly does him in. Just your voice. Familiar. Warm. Normal.

"Remus?"

Nothing. His throat closes completely.

"Remus?"

More urgent now, concerned. He then tries to speak. Fails. A horrible sound leaves him instead.

Not quite a sob.

Close enough.

The silence on your end lasts half a second.

"I'm coming over."

No questions. No hesitation. No explanation. Just certainty. The line goes dead and twenty-seven minutes later, you're standing on his front porch.

Remus opens the door before you can knock, one look at him and your heart breaks.

He looks awful.

Eyes red.

Face pale.

Exhaustion carved into every line.

For a second neither of you move.

Then you step forward and Remus folds. Not dramatically. Not romantically.

Just... Falls apart.

Like something inside him finally gave way. You wrap your arms around him automatically the same way you've done with Teddy, the same way you've done with frightened children and grieving friends and exhausted classmates.

And Remus lets you, for the first time, really lets you.

His forehead presses against your shoulder, his hands clutch the back of your sweater and suddenly he's crying again.

You don't say anything. You just hold him. The way he's held everyone else for years.

Eventually the storm passes. Not completely. Enough.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor side by side.

The evening sun creeping through the windows, neither of you looking at each other.

"I tried." His voice is rough. Raw. "I really tried."

"I know." A laugh. Broken around the edges.

"God." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I wanted it to work."

You stare at the floor.

Unable to think of anything that doesn't hurt.

Then: "I know."

Silence settles between you, the way it always has been, comfortable.

The way it probably always will be.

And suddenly Remus is so tired of pretending. So tired of carrying it. So tired of saying everything except the truth.

"I missed you."

The words slip out quietly, honestly.

Your breath catches. Neither of you move. The kitchen feels very small suddenly. Very still. Remus laughs weakly.

"I know."

Another silence.

Then: "I know I shouldn't have."

Your eyes close. Because that's the problem. Because you've missed him too. Every day. Every fucking day.

"I know." His head finally turns, meeting your gaze.

Years of affection sitting quietly between you.

Years of almosts.

Years of choosing not to look too closely.

And suddenly neither of you have the energy for denial anymore.

Not after today.

Not after everything.

"I love you."

Exhausted.

Certain.

Like admitting the sky is blue. Like admitting something everyone already knows. For a moment, you simply stare at him.

Then your eyes fill. Because of course.

Of course.

The stupid, wonderful, impossible man.

"I know."

A laugh escapes him, wet and broken. "That wasn't the response I was hoping for."

You laugh too. The first real laugh all day. Then reach for his hand. Squeeze. And finally say the thing that's been true for a very long time.

"I love you too."

Years later, Teddy would remember two things about the day his mother left.

The first was the note.

The second was that you came the way you always had.

You came with groceries because Remus had forgotten to eat, you came with ice cream because Teddy had stopped talking.

You came because nobody asked you not to.

And because, despite everything, this was still the first place you thought of when someone said home. The months that followed were difficult. Teddy was angry. Then sad. Then angry again.

Remus spent a long time pretending he wasn't heartbroken, not because he'd lost Tonks, that grief had happened years ago. No. What broke him was watching Teddy wait. Watching him glance toward the door whenever the bell rang. Watching him check his phone on birthdays. Watching hope slowly become disappointment.

There were no grand speeches, no magical solutions. Just ordinary days. Homework at the kitchen table. Movie nights. School assemblies. Burnt pancakes. Life.

Life, stubborn and relentless, carrying all three of you forward whether you were ready or not.

One day, almost a year later, Teddy stopped waiting by the window. Neither of you mentioned it. The absence hurt enough, the next year, he forgot to ask if she would call on his birthday. That hurt too.

But less.

Healing often did.

The first time Remus told you he loved you, he was crying on the kitchen floor, the second time happened six months later while you were arguing over whether dinosaurs would survive modern society, the third happened while folding laundry, the fourth happened half asleep.

By the fifth, neither of you were counting anymore.

Love, it turned out, was rarely grand.

Mostly it was repetitive.

Choosing the same person over and over again. On purpose. Years later, you found an old photograph while cleaning.

Remus and Teddy and you. A cardboard castle. The roof half collapsed. Tape everywhere.

You smiled immediately.

Teddy, now significantly taller than either of you liked to admit, glanced over your shoulder. "God."

You laughed. "What?"

"I was so weird." He sighs.

"You built a dragon fortress out of Amazon boxes."

"I know." He cringes.

"You made me wear a cardboard princess hat."

"I know." He groans.

"You bit me."

Teddy looked thoughtful. Then nodded. "Yeah." The lack of remorse after all these years was astonishing. You showed him the photograph anyway. Teddy stared at it for a long moment.

At himself.

At his father.

At you.

The smile that crossed his face was soft. Almost nostalgic.

"You know..."

"What?"

He pointed at the picture, at the three people squeezed together inside that ridiculous cardboard castle. And said, with complete certainty:

"This was always my family."

The room went quiet. Across the kitchen, Remus looked up from his book. You felt your throat tighten. Teddy didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was why he'd said it.

He grinned suddenly. Then ruined the moment completely.

"Also, I still think biting you was a good idea."

You threw a dish towel at his head.

Remus laughed. Teddy laughed harder.

And surrounded by the noise of the life you had built together, you found yourself laughing too.

The first time Teddy Lupin bit you, he left a mark on your hand.

Years later, neither of you had any idea he'd leave one on your life.

author's note: holy fucking shit this is so long im so so sorry i had a dream and had to write it out!!!! hope u enjoyed my lovelies! thanks for reading. ASKS ARE OPEN!!! I write for pretty much any fandom so feel free to ask over there <3

[abbotbabie]

⬩➤ Some Kind Of Paradise ─── Jack Abbot (Part 1 of 2)

Summary ─ Jack Abbot has a very terrible habit of wanting things that he can’t have. One look at you, his best friend’s little sister; and that list gets longer once more.

Pairings ─ Jack Abbot x Female Robinavitch!Reader, Protective Big Brother Robby.

Warnings ─ Age Gap (23+40s), strong language, clumsy reader, needles + blood, concussion, inaccurate medical terminology etc, king of yearning Jack Abbot, slight corruption kink if you squint, ‘kiddo’ used in a romantic way.

Word Count ─ 4.8k

“Take two steps to your left,” Robby instructed.

You fixed him with an exasperated pout. Your stupid, no-good, annoying-as-hell big brother had decided, against all reason, that you needed a full concussion check, even though you’d only lightly smacked your head on the doorframe. It hadn’t even hurt.

Honestly, with your baby-kitten-level pain tolerance, the whole neighborhood would’ve heard about it if you’d actually hurt yourself in any serious way.

Nonetheless, you knew better than to argue with the brute, so you obediently took two steps to your left.

And really, it was just a matter of terrible timing. Your foot caught on the corner of the rug (yes, the same rug you’d been meaning to glue down for weeks, but hadn’t, because life) and you stumbled. Then stumbled some more, momentum pitching you forward, arms windmilling in a frankly useless attempt to save yourself.

It was a fruitless effort, and your forehead cracked straight into the edge of the stone surround framing the open fireplace in your brother’s living room.

“Ah, fuck!” Robby swore, lunging forward. He caught you before you could fully collapse, his hands clamping around your arms as you immediately burst into loud, indignant wailing.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow—” you keened, clutching at him as your vision fizzed and blurred.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Robby muttered, hauling you upright. “You alright? Where does it—hey, look at me.”

Your big brother in every sense of the word, including age (he was nudging into his mid-fifties, while you’d only just turned twenty-three)—held you steady, one hand firm under your elbow, the other tipping your chin up.

You gazed at him.

Most people assumed that Robby was your dad. You let them, because it was less awkward than having to explain that you’d been a Jewish miracle baby, and also because it was objectively hilarious, and you could never pass up a chance to call him old.

“Eyes on me,” he said, sharper now.

You blinked at him. Slowly. Maybe a little unevenly. You were wincing a bit against the bright light. Why did he have the big light on? You hated the big light. Lamp light was so much calmer.

“There you go,” he murmured, though the line between his brows didn’t ease. “How many fingers?”

He held up three. Or maybe four. They blurred a little in front of your face.

You squinted. “…Four?” you offered weakly.

Robby exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a suppressed groan. “Brilliant. Fantastic. Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

You were seeing stars; actual, honest-to-God stars bursting across your vision. And as much as you loved stargazing in the summer, lying on warm grass and pointing out constellations, it was November, and you were very much indoors.

Which meant that was definitely not a good thing.

“…okay,” you said after a moment, your voice small and wavering. You were pretty sure you were still crying. “Robby… my head hurts. A little,” you confessed.

“A little?” Robby echoed, incredulous. “Yeah, I bet it does. Ah, fuck. You’re bleeding,” he said, his grip tightening as he leaned in for a better look. He shook his head. “Right. We’re going to the Pitt. I’ll get Jack to take a look at you; pretty sure you’re going to need stitches.”

Your stomach lurched.

Then lurched again.

And then you threw up, in spectacular fashion, all over the rug. The same rug that had betrayed you. The same rug that, tragically, had never lived long enough to be glued down.

Robby made a noise somewhere between disgust and concern. “Brilliant. That’s just fantastic.”

“Sorry,” you croaked miserably, swaying where you stood. “’M sorry, Robby.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, already steering you toward the door. One hand stayed firm at your back, the other gripping your arm like a lifeline. “Just try and stay upright, yeah? One foot in front of the other.”

“Mm-hm,” you mumbled, though the floor felt suspiciously unreliable beneath you.

You made it exactly one step before your foot clipped the edge of the wall and your balance tipped dangerously sideways. Robby swore under his breath and caught you before you could go down again, hauling you upright with a sharp, steadying tug.

“Right. Nope. Not trusting you with stairs,” he muttered.

The next thing you knew, he was half-carrying you; your weight slung awkwardly against his side as he guided, dragged, and generally manhandled you toward the door.

“Sorry,” you whispered again, snuffling through a fresh wave of tears as your head throbbed.

“I said don’t apologize,” he shot back.

“But I am sorry!” you wailed. “I should’ve glued down the rug weeks ago, and I should’ve been more careful not to hit my head in the first place, and I should’ve made a nicer dinner, because you’re a doctor and you work so hard and I’m just a silly girl with no idea what to do with my life, and I spent all day sewing beads onto my new skirt instead of cleaning like I promised, and—“

“Hey. Hey, stop.” Robby’s voice cut through the spiral, sharp but not unkind. He stopped walking altogether, turning you to face him, hands firm on your shoulders to keep you upright. “None of that. Not one bit of that is relevant right now, do you understand me?”

You hiccuped, still crying, vision swimming.

“Good,” he muttered, as if that was progress. “Eyes on me.”

You tried. It was… difficult to keep them all the way open.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

You blinked at him. “Course I can,” you mumbled thickly. “Not that dumb.”

“Your name,” he repeated, patient but unyielding.

You sighed, then winced immediately at the way your head punished you for it. “I know my name,” you complained.

“Fantastic. Prove it.”

You squinted at him, deeply offended, before mumbling your name under your breath.

“There we go,” he said, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Right, come on. We might be able to miss the three a.m. rush.”

“Hm,” you mumbled, leaning heavily into him as he guided you forward. “Is Jack gonna be mad at me?” you asked, worry slurring slightly at the edges.

Robby snorted. “Jack’s not gonna be mad at you.”

“That’s what you said last time,” you pointed out weakly.

“Last time was your fault,” he said, opening the truck door and carefully guiding you inside. “Skateboarding was a stupid idea.”

“I was pretty good,” you protested.

“Yeah, until you fell, hit your head and broke your wrist in three places,” he replied, buckling you in with firm, efficient hands. “Sit still.”

You let your head fall back against the seat, eyes fluttering as the world kept trying to tilt sideways without asking permission.

“…sorry,” you whispered again, almost on instinct.

Robby paused with one hand on the doorframe.

Then he exhaled through his nose, soft this time. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

He shut the door, and the truck dipped slightly as he climbed in on the other side.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said, starting the drive. “You just need to stay awake.”

Your eyelids drooped. “…trying,” you mumbled.

“Good,” he said. “Keep doing that.”

—

The first time you actually met Jack Abbot was on the night following your twentieth birthday.

You’d gone out to a club with the small group of friends from high school you’d managed to keep, under strict instructions to be home by two a.m. latest. Or would it be the earliest, since it would be morning?

Either way, you hadn’t been paying much attention to the clock until you stumbled out of the club and realised it was already five minutes past your curfew.

Tears were already tracking down your cheeks before you’d even reached the pavement. You slid down the brick wall, sniffing hard, and pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them like they could hold you together.

All you wanted was to snap your fingers and wake up in your bed and forget about this entire night.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Michael is calling.

You stared at the contact name as it flashed on your screen, a fresh wave of guilt tightening in your throat. You’d already managed to turn your birthday into a disaster, and now you’d broken the promise you’d made your big brother.

A hiccup slipped out before you could stop it.

You hesitated, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen as the call kept ringing, the guilt growing heavier with every second.

Then you answered.

“Where—”

“Could you come get me, Robby?” you cut in immediately, voice wobbling. “I haven’t had a very good time.” You sniffled, utterly pathetic and completely beyond caring. You’d apologise properly tomorrow; for the broken curfew, for making him worry, for everything.

Right then, you just wanted your big brother.

On the other end of the line, Robby exhaled. “I’m already on my way,” he said.

You could hear it then, the low rumble of his truck in the background if you listened closely enough. Relief loosened your tension.

“Are you using your phone while driving, Robby?” you asked, head lolling slightly as you tried, and failed, to sound stern.

“Course not,” he scoffed. “Got you on speaker. Jack’s holding the phone.”

“Oh,” you said. “Hi, Jack.”

A laugh crackled through the line, warm, easy, a little rough around the edges, and it made your eyelids feel heavier immediately. You’d heard plenty about Jack Abbot over the years through Robby, but you’d only recently moved to this side of the city to live with your brother while you figured out what you were doing with your life.

You were weirdly excited to actually meet him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said, his voice almost crooning. “Not having a very good birthday?”

You shook your head before remembering he couldn’t see you. “Nuh,” you mumbled instead. “Been shit.”

“Language,” Robby said.

Jack let out another laugh, “Ah, let the girl swear, brother. She’s obviously upset.” He paused. “You want to tell me his name, honey? I’ll fuck him up real good.”

A wet giggle slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Don’t want you to get in trouble,” you said, sniffling hard. Then your face crumpled again. “He’s stupid anyway. I caught him kissing one of the dancers. On my birthday.” Your voice broke on the last word. “He’s so… he’s so—”

“An asshole?” Jack supplied.

You made a strangled sound that was half sob, half agreement.

“Ah, kiddo,” Jack said, the humour fading out of his tone. “Don’t cry.” He said. “Michael,” he added, “tell her to stop crying.”

“She’s a crier,” Robby said in the background. “She’ll cry more if I tell her to stop.”

“S’true,” you agreed immediately. Then your face crumpled again. “I want a hug!” you announced, a bit too loudly.

A couple of people nearby glanced over.

Jack made a soft, amused sound through the phone. “That so?”

“I do,” you insisted, voice wobbling as you hugged your knees tighter. “I want a hug and I want my bed and I want to forget tonight ever happened.”

“We’re nearly there. Just stay where you are, yeah?” Robby instructed sternly. “No wandering off.”

“I won’t,” you said, offended on principle.

Jack’s voice came back in. “You got all your stuff with you, honey? Your purse, your coat?”

You nodded again before remembering the same problem as before. “Yeah,” you mumbled. “Got it all from the coat room before coming out.”

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s real good.”

Then Robby was speaking okay. “Alright kid,” he said. “You’re gonna see my ugly face in about, what, five minutes?”

“Ugh,” you said. “Did you shave again?”

“My face, my business,” he replied dryly.

Jack laughed.

You hugged your knees tighter, swaying slightly where you sat.

“I really want that hug,” you repeated.

“I know,” Robby said. “Three minutes away.”

And he was right. Three minutes later, a set of headlights cut through the end of the street, slowing as they found you slumped against the brick wall. The truck pulled in close, engine ticking as it settled.

The passenger door opened almost immediately.

“Alright,” The man, who you assumed was obviously Jack, called as he stepped out, phone still in hand. “Where are you?”

You lifted a shaky hand.

“Right there,” Robby’s voice came from inside the truck. He didn’t get out, just leaned slightly across the seat, watching through the open door.

Jack shut the distance in a few easy strides and crouched in front of you. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice dropping into something steady and calm. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

You tried to comply immediately, which mostly resulted in you swaying alarmingly and grabbing at his arm for balance.

“Whoa, easy,” Jack murmured, catching you without hesitation. One arm slid around your back, firm and controlled, the other steadying your elbow. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Up close, you registered that he smelt so good.

“Hi,” you said dumbly.

“Hi,” he echoed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Come on. Up you get.”

“I don’t like gravity,” you informed him, as you struggled to stay upright.

“Slow steps,” he said.

With careful coordination, Jack got you on your feet and half-guided, half-carried you toward the truck. You made it exactly two steps before your balance tried to abandon you again, and his grip tightened instinctively.

Inside the truck, Robby watched the whole thing with a tight grip on the steering wheel.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jack called over his shoulder. “I’m helping you out, brother!”

“Ain’t gotta be so fucking touchy,” Robby said.

“Swear jar,” you mumbled.

“Fuck off,” he said.

Jack opened the back passenger door, but before he could help you in, you suddenly stopped, swaying in place.

“Wait,” you said.

“What?” Jack asked cautiously.

You turned your head toward him with intense, teary focus. “I need my hug,” you told him.

Jack blinked once.

Then he sighed and pulled you into a hug. It was solid and warm and smelled faintly like clean laundry and something medicinal, and you immediately melted into it.

“Oh,” you mumbled into his shoulder. “Nice hug. Good hug.”

“Yeah? Good honey,” he said. “Have as many as you want.”

From the truck, Robby made a strangled sound. “Alright,” he called. “Enough! Into the truck. Both of you.”

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, checking your face with a quick, professional scan. “C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get you buckled in.”

And this time, when he guided you into the seat, you went without protest, still a little dazed, still swaying faintly as the world refused to settle properly.

Jack leaned in to buckle your seatbelt, efficient and careful, one hand steady at your shoulder so you didn’t tip sideways.

“You’re very handsome,” you whispered. His brows lifted. “Don’t,” you hiccuped, eyes wide and earnest. “Don’t tell Robby I said that. He’ll be so mad.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, warmth breaking through his calm expression. “Our little secret,” he whispered.

—

Jack Abbot has worn many titles over the course of his life.

He’s been a son, a brother; older and younger depending on who needed him the most at the time.

A recruit, standing in lines where individuality is heavily frowned upon, where you learn quickly that obedience isn’t an option.

He was a student. He studied tirelessly. He became a combat surgeon, one of the best in his battalion. He earned a Purple Heart and lost his leg in the process.

He came home a veteran. Got a prosthetic leg and relearned how to walk all over again, one painful step at a time.

He kept practising medicine. Before long, he itched for something more; so he became a SWAT medic alongside his attending duties.

It’s a hard balance. Maybe that’s why he likes it. If life isn’t a challenge, then it doesn’t feel real enough to him.

Sometimes, when the night shift runs long, Jack catches his reflection in a monitor or a stainless-steel tray and thinks about all the people he has been.

Son. Brother. Friend. Recruit. Surgeon. Veteran. SWAT medic.

And then, inevitably, he thinks about you.

You, twenty-three, all bright edges and soft optimism. The way you talk too much when you’re nervous and compliment him when you’re drunk. The way you apologise when you shouldn’t; again and again.

Thinking about you makes him wish he could be something more.

Something he's not allowed to be.

He wants and wants and wants.

He thinks about your soft hair and breathy giggles, and the way your pink sweaters always seem just a little too big, slipping off one shoulder like they don’t quite know how to sit on you.

Your endless collection of lip gloss. The faint trace of vanilla that follows you around. The way you smile; open, easy, completely unguarded.

He wants you.

Not in the careless way he’s wanted things before; it’s not a temporary obsession.

He wants to keep you. To belong somewhere with you. To come home and find you there, in his space, in his house.

He wants to be yours in whatever way you would allow it.

It’s sick and twisted and entirely forbidden. You’re near enough thirty years younger than him and he wants you in a carnal way that would make your brother seethe.

Jesus. He needs to pull himself together.

The ambulance bay doors slam open.

Jack’s head snaps up.

“Hey!” Robby shouts.

Jack is already moving before his brain fully catches up, his boots hitting the floor in sharp, decisive strides.

You’re limp against Robby’s chest, head tipped at the wrong angle, blood streaked down your temple, your face pale in a way that makes him feel physically sick.

“Head injury,” Robby says, his voice tight. “She tripped, hit the fireplace. Vomited twice, once at home and once in the truck. She’s—”

“Jack?” You cut your brother off with a weary voice, your eyes fluttering open to stare wide-eyed at the doctor. Those beautiful eyes immediately fill with tears, and he doesn’t think before stepping forward into Robby’s space.

“Trauma bay two. Now,” Jack says, already reaching for you as the team converges.

His hands are steady when they take your weight.

Your fingers weakly curl around Jack’s sleeve.

“I’m right here,” he says, voice low but steady, like nothing about this is affecting him at all. “Pupils?” he snaps, louder now, eyes flicking up as someone shines a penlight.

“Reactive, but sluggish.”

“BP dropping slightly.”

“Line’s in.”

“Good. Run fluids. I’ll keep her talking.” Jack leans in again despite himself, close enough that his voice doesn’t have to carry over the noise. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Sorry about the needles, honey. I know you don’t like ’em, but we can’t have you throwing up again, can we? You’ll only make it worse.”

“Hurts,” you repeat, sniffling, your voice small and frayed.

“I know,” he says. “I bet it does.”

You turn your head, slow and heavy, until your gaze lands on your brother. Your bottom lip trembles, eyes wide and glassy in a way that has always worked on him.

Robby’s expression tightens, something protective and sharp flashing behind his eyes, but he steps in anyway. His hand comes up to your hair, brushing it back from your face with careful fingers, despite the blood. “Hey kid,” he mutters. “You’re doing a great job.”

“Can you tell me where you are?” Jack asks, smoothly shifting back into assessment, even as your fingers remain curled into his sleeve like an anchor.

You hesitate. “Pitt?” you surmise.

“Correct,” he smiles down at you.

You try to mirror the smile, but your eyes flicker again, drifting.

“No, hey—“ Jack’s hand comes up, brushing your cheek, grounding, insistent. “Eyes, sweetheart. Come on, what did I say? You gotta stay awake.”

Behind him, Robby shifts.

And this time, the movement isn’t subtle.

Jack feels it before he sees it; the shift in the air. Robby’s gaze drops. Not to your face, not to the monitors, but to your hand.

Your hand, that is still curled tightly into Jack’s sleeve.

“CT’s ready,” Shen calls.

“Start moving,” Jack orders, gruff and impatient.

The gurney jolts into motion.

Robby falls into step alongside it, matching Jack stride for stride as they push through the swinging doors.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of wheels rattling over tile and your quiet mumbling; you’re singing, Jack thinks.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Robby mutters.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “Not the time,” he says evenly, eyes fixed ahead, one hand steady on the gurney rail while the other keeps you anchored in place. His jaw tightens, but his hands remain steady. “She needs a CT,” Jack continues, clinical, detached. “We can have whatever conversation you think we need to have after.”

“Oh, we’re going to have it,” Robby says. “Don’t worry about that.”

They round the corner.

The CT suite doors come into view.

Your fingers twitch weakly against Jack’s sleeve, still holding on.

Jack exhales slowly through his nose and prepares himself for a black eye and a broken nose.

—

You wake up slowly, and your bed feels all wrong. It’s too firm and flat and plain uncomfortable. And it doesn’t smell right; not like your pillow spray or laundry scent beads at all.

Robby calls your collection a pillow mountain. You like soft things, always have, and you’d taken full advantage of the fact that he let you hoard blankets and cushions to your hearts content.

You groan, shifting, already reaching instinctively toward where your phone should be on your nightstand—

A hand closes gently around your arm, stopping you.

“Easy,” Robby says.

Oh.

You blink, vision lagging a second behind reality, and take in the ceiling tiles.

You turn your head, slow and careful this time, and there he is; your brother, sitting close, watching you, one hand still wrapped gently around your arm.

Your arm. Which has a needle in it.

You gag immediately, recoiling on instinct.

“Hey—hey, don’t—” Robby leans in fast, voice low and steady as his other hand grabs a fold of the hospital sheet and pulls it up, covering the IV site before you can get a proper look. “Don’t look. Take a deep breath.”

You squeeze your eyes shut anyway. “You let them jab me,” you mumble miserably.

“I’m sorry," he says flatly, thumb brushing absently over your wrist.

You peek one eye open. “Is it still there?” you ask stupidly.

“Yes.” He says.

You make a distressed noise.

“Just don’t look at it. If you don’t look at it, it isn’t really there.”

“I don’t like that idea,” you frown at him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “It’s the one we’re going with.”

You shift slightly, wincing as your head protests immediately, a dull, throbbing ache settling right behind your eyes. “Oh,” you breathe, voice small. “Ouch.”

Robby’s grip tightens just a fraction. “Yeah,” he says. “You gave us a bit of a scare.”

You frown, trying to piece things together through the fog. “I hit the fireplace,” you mumble.

“Yep.”

“I tripped on the rug,” you recall.

Stupid damn rug.

“You did.” Robby confirmed.

“…I threw up,” you remember, horrified.

“Twice,” he confirms.

You drag your free hand over your face. “I’m sorry.” You mumble.

“You’re concussed,” he informs you. “And you had to get a few stitches, but other than that, you’re okay.”

You lower your hand and squint at him. “Did Jack fix me?” you ask.

Your brother suddenly looks murderous, and you blink at him, concerned, but his expression smooths out. “Yeah,” he says evenly. “Jack took care of you.”

You relax a little at that, tension easing from your shoulders as much as it can. “Oh,” you murmur. “Okay. Good.”

—

“I could kill you right now, with my bare hands. God, I’m so fucking pissed at you,” Robby said.

Jack stood a few paces away on the roof, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie, shoulders set. “I wouldn’t stop you,” he replied. “Jesus. You think I feel good about it?” He laughed, self deprecating.

“You’re almost fifty, Jack,” Robby went on, pacing now, agitation bleeding back into every movement. “Fifty. You’ve lived a whole damn life already.”

“I know,” Jack said quietly.

“Do you?” Robby shot back. He pointed at him, frustrated, disbelieving. “She’s twenty-three years old. She’s still figuring herself out, what she wants, who she is, how the world works. And you—” he huffed out a sharp breath, shaking his head, “—fuck. You’re supposed to know better. Shit. And you’re my best friend,” Robby said. “Or you’re supposed to be. You’re the guy I trust to have my back. The guy I trust around my family.”

Jack’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I didn’t think I had to worry about you,” Robby said, quieter now, but no less intense. “Out of everyone, everyone, I never thought I’d have to look at you and wonder what the hell you’re thinking.”

“I’m not—” Jack started, then stopped himself. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar.

Robby laughed, short and humourless. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Wind dragged across the rooftop.

Robby stared at him. The anger didn’t disappear, but it seemed to shift. First anger, then calculation, then something almost like reluctant understanding. And then he dragged a hand down his face with a rough exhale. “Jesus,” he muttered. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this…”

Jack stood completely still.

“But I’m glad it’s you,” Robby said finally, the words gruff and reluctant. “At least I know you won’t—” he cut himself off, jaw tightening, then forced it out anyway, “—you won’t hurt her.”

“Never,” Jack said.

“She’ll be all in,” Robby said, after a long awkward stretch of silence. “That’s how she is. She doesn’t do things halfway.”

“I know,” Jack replied. He didn’t want to do anything halfway with you.

“And if she ends up hurt—” Robby’s voice dropped, dangerous again, “—I don’t care what you’ve done for me. I don’t care how long we’ve known each other.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Jack said. It felt like a vow.

With a sharp exhale, Robby looked away, out over the dark city instead of at Jack.

—

“Hi,” you whisper as Jack steps into your room.

The early morning light is just starting to creep in through the blinds, soft and pale, washing the harshness out of the hospital room. Somewhere out in the corridor, voices murmur. You’re pretty sure that it’s just the beginning of handover, the shift from night to day.

Your brother has disappeared on a mission to find coffee and your discharge paperwork—likely in that order.

Jack closes the door gently behind him, careful not to let it click too loudly, and keeps the lights low. “Hey, kiddo,” he murmurs back. “How’re you feeling?” he asks.

You shift slightly against the pillows. They feel wrong, still wrong, nothing like your pillow mountain, and wince. “Bad,” you mumble. “But better.”

A faint huff of amusement escapes him. He reaches out, almost without thinking, and adjusts the edge of your blanket where it’s slipped, the motion careful, absent-minded. “No more throwing yourself at fireplaces,” he says sternly.

“I didn’t,” you protest weakly. “It was… I just—”

“Tripped on the rug,” he supplies.

You let out a small, defeated sigh. “Stupid rug.”

“Robby’s due to start his shift soon,” Jack says after a moment. “I can take you home, but I doubt he’ll want you to be alone today.” He pauses, watching your face carefully. “You wanna go to your parents’ place? I don’t mind taking you.”

You blink at him. “Oh,” you say quietly. “Um… well…” Your gaze drops to the hospital sheet, fingers picking at the edge of it like it’s suddenly very interesting. “Well, the thing is,” you start, voice thinning a little, “I’m not really talking to my mom at the moment.”

He frowns at you.

“Robby doesn’t know, obviously, but we argued and she called me names and I just—” your throat tightens, and you swallow it down hard, “—I don’t want to go there.”

“Not your parents’ house, then,” he says gently.

You shake your head immediately. Too fast.

“No. No thank you,” you add, then force a breath that doesn’t quite steady you. “I’ll be fine on my own.” You glance up at him, and you hate it a little; how easily your face gives you away. How obvious it is that you’re not fine. That you’re tired, in pain, scared, and suddenly very aware of how much you do not want to be alone today.

Jack exhales through his nose, like he’s made a decision. “Robby’s right about one thing,” he says. Your eyes flick up. “You need someone with you today,” he continues. “Make sure you eat and drink and don’t get any secondary symptoms. You can come with me,” he says.

“…oh,” you manage. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure, baby.”

You feel your eyes water at the softness of the pet name, and he brushes his thumb under it to catch the tear.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

He sticks his thumb into his mouth to clean off your tear, and your eyes track the movement in awe.

“Gonna take you home,” he says, and you stare at him. “We’ll talk after you eat, okay? Got lots to talk about.” He says.

Your stomach suddenly feels warm. “I—we do?” You breathe.

He leans in and touches the tip of his nose to yours. It only lasts for a split second, but you feel your eyes widen and your breath hitch. “Yeah, sweet girl. A whole lot.”

[pellucid-constellations]

Staying Overtime

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Psych Resident!Reader

Summary: You and Jack had been dancing around each other for months, playing a game that neither of you would label. But then you took that leap, pushed the boundaries, and Jack had to confront just how much he cared about you. He just wished it hadn't been like this.

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: Injury, blood, workplace violence in a psych setting, angst!, yearning tho and hurt/comfort hehe <3

a/n: My first fic for the pitt!! Branching out to new fandoms can be scary so hiii :) idk what I'm doing but I hope you enjoy! More to come probably :) Maybe a part two but also idk love you

~~

It wasn’t unusual for you to stay overtime, even in the absence of work. You enjoyed the view out the window of the sun setting over Pittsburgh, the way the sidewalks filled and then depleted as everyone made their way home, and you stayed put. There was a gentle hum in your office that could only be heard at this time, a placeholder for the constant conversations and voices and requests that typically filled the space. It was tranquil, a time to ground when your day was filled with emotional weight. 

And, perhaps you also enjoyed the tiny bleep of your pager sounding off just around 7 pm. Your coworkers hated that sound. It meant you had to head down to the ED to take a history on a patient you had just met and make decisions under duress. It meant probably being screamed at, glared at, maybe even hissed at, on a few occasions, but such was the job description. You all knew what you were getting into when you took this psych residency, ED consults and all. 

To be fair, you didn’t really enjoy the pager yourself, especially when you had a mountain of notes to complete and not enough time in the day. But when it went off around 7, around shift change downstairs, the sound elicited something strange within you. Something exciting. 

You fixed your hair in a passing window as you made your way to the elevators, praying that the silent halls meant every office was empty. The last thing you needed was your coworkers becoming more suspicious; they had begun to question your eagerness to take afternoon psych consults and asked one too many times about your obsessive use of lip gloss. 

The ride down to the pitt had you bouncing on your toes, the uncomfortable shoes the hospital required you to wear making your heels throb. Damn the Joint Commission and its penchant for business casual. But, at the same time, the pretty blouse you had chosen this morning was perfect for your not-so-impromptu consult. 

Pros and cons, then. 

The ED was buzzing with handover reports, hallway beds, and nurses zipping across rooms, as it always was. You took in a deep breath and entered the madness, not yet seeing the target of your visit, but comfortable enough to linger by the nurse’s hub. You were down there often. People knew your face. 

That fact was evident in the subtle brow raise Princess sent you when you leaned against the counter, her face in a humorous grimace as she typed away on a charting computer. “I wasn’t aware we had a psych case.” 

“Hi, Princess,” you drawled out, tapping your fingers on a near-empty tissue box. “Nice to see you, too.” 

She threw you a look. “I see you almost every day. You don’t get pleasantries anymore.” 

“What do I get then?” you teased. 

She pretended to think, tapping quickly to lock her computer and whisking a discharge summary from the printer. You looked at her expectantly, but a smirk had taken over her face, and she spun on her heel after a glance over your shoulder. 

“I swear you’re getting faster.” 

You felt the breath punch from your lungs at the sound of Jack Abbot’s voice, quickly reigning in your smile as you turned and leaned your back against the nurse’s station. He was there in all his glory, arms stretching long beneath his scrubs and crossed over his chest, hair just a touch out of place. His mouth was already quirked into a half-smile, but when you met his eye, you were almost sure it grew just a little bit wider. 

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile. Not yet. “Well, I have to be fast. I was supposed to go home an hour ago, but I keep getting paged right when I’m finally about to leave. It’s the strangest thing.” 

“That right?” he posed, his eyes drifting down your body and back up. It really was a pretty blouse. 

“You should know,” you accused. “You’re the one who always seems to have a psych consult as soon as you walk in the door. Have you even finished your handoff from Robby?” 

“I don’t think they pay you to ask all these questions, sweetheart.” 

“I get paid to ask questions all day. That’s, like, the whole job.” 

Jack huffed out a laugh, shaking his head in place of a response. He stepped forward until you could smell the soap lingering on his skin and reached over your shoulder, his nose edging just a little bit closer to your temple. You tried to ignore it, but he was chipping away at making you smile. Proximity was always an easy one. He was going for the low blows, then. 

“Dropped this,” he said as he pulled back, waving your badge between you. “Still haven’t fixed the reel?” 

You stared at the shining plastic between his fingers, over-correcting and grasping his full hand in yours as you took it back. “I don’t want to fix it. The entire thing is broken, and I don’t want to get a new one. I like this one.” 

Jack tugged it loose from your grip and examined the badge holder. He let the rhinestones shimmer against the hospital lighting and hadn’t dropped his smile as he threw you a disbelieving look. “Mental health is your jam?” 

You snatched it back. “Yes! It’s cute. I’ve had it since med school.” 

“There’s a little jam jar on it. And glitter.” 

“Exactly. It completes all of my outfits.” 

Jack was shaking his head again, still close enough for you to feel the heat of his body. He did that often—got close enough to leave you flustered and flirted relentlessly until he decided it was enough. You never wanted it to be enough, but you were still at work. Technically. 

“Are you going to tell me what you called me down here for, or was the page just to make fun of me?” you asked, chin turned up to look at the attending. 

“Never making fun of you,” Jack rumbled from deep in his chest. He took a step back, watching the way your gaze finally lowered with the distance. “Got an early 20s male with new onset psychosis. Family history of bipolar disorder. Mom’s on meds for it. He’s been pretty disoriented and doesn’t trust any of the doctors.” 

You eyed him skeptically. “Your shift doesn’t start for another 30 minutes, Dr. Abbot. How do you already know all of that?” 

“He asks about the psych cases first,” a voice spoke up from behind you. You glanced over your shoulder to find Robby setting up a home on the charting computer, glasses low on his nose. He gave you a fleeting smile. “Real interested in psych cases, that guy.” 

You let your head fall back in a laugh, missing the way Jack tracked the sound. “What a coincidence, then, that I keep having to stay late.” You patted Jack’s chest on the way to the observation room. “I think I win this one, Dr. Abbot.” 

He craned his neck to the side and quickly trailed after you. Sometimes, your meetings in the ED were shorter, more fleeting. He would page you down, and you would catch a glimpse of him just long enough for him to report to you, stare at every inch of your face, and then get whisked away by a resident or a patient or a trauma. The consults were never urgent enough for you to really be needed—you had an on-call attending for a reason—but you figured the 10 seconds he took to stare at you and smile meant something, so you didn’t mind the extra work. 

Other times, like today, you had more leeway to enjoy each other. To play the game. Sometimes he won, and sometimes you won. It boiled down to a game of flirting and never quite saying the words out loud, but he liked it that way, and you weren’t going to push. You were just going to win. 

“Win?” Jack parroted. “What are you winning?” 

“Oh, you know,” you hummed, logging into the computer outside the observation room and skimming the patient’s chart. “The knowledge that I’ve bested you today.” 

Jack crossed his arms again. You were sure there were several things he needed to be doing at the start of his shift that did not involve talking to you, but there he was, anyway. “You haven’t bested me.” 

“Haven’t I?” 

“No,” he scoffed. “You were blushy and giggly over there. I saw it.” 

You raised your brows over the computer. “So you admit that’s your goal? That this psych case could have waited?” 

A smirk accompanied Jack’s next scoff. He looked at you for another long moment, the same way he did when he didn’t have the time, when he was busy and overworked and still called you down in the hopes you hadn’t left yet. You looked back at the chart. Jack spoke. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing, sweetheart.” 

Another flash of your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Means I’m old. Got a lot that comes with me. You don’t want all of that.” 

“I think I’m quite aware of the things I want—” 

“I’m serious.” 

His low tone had you locking the computer, finally taking him in the way he did to you. His brows were low over his eyes, and while he was still staring at you intently, something had shifted. Your arms fell to your sides. 

“Jack—”

“I don’t—” he began, hands on his hips as he stared up at the ceiling for a beat. “—I don’t think this is like that for me anymore, the winning and losing. But I don’t think that’s fair to you either, really. Maybe—I don’t know, maybe I’m not making sense.” 

Months of build-up had led to this. Months of dancing around each other. Both your departments knew something was going on, but neither of you had had it in you to label it. To speak it out loud. The current conversation was the closest you’d gotten. 

Stepping around the rolling table, you stared back up at Jack, resolute. “After this consult, I’m going to walk to my car. Outside of the hospital. I think you should ask me on a date.” 

“What—” 

“Don’t ask me in here. We’re always in here. Do you know which car is mine?” 

Jack furrowed his brows. “Yeah.” 

“Right,” you nodded. “So, I’ll wait there then.” 

A long pause. Jack didn’t look away. Not until you were walking into the observation room and leaving him alone in the hall. 

~~

You were distracted. You shouldn’t be, but you were. You asked all the questions, assessed what needed to be assessed, and reassured the patient several times that you were not part of the group out to get him. Working with psychosis took a lot of patience, a lot of carefully placed words when interventions were new. You knew this, and still, you were distracted. 

You were not supposed to be distracted. 

Things with Jack were never difficult. He called you, he flirted, he watched you until you sent a wave over your shoulder and went home for the night. You liked the way he made you feel. You liked how he looked at you. 

Today, he made things… difficult. Or maybe you made them difficult by framing this as a game. It had never been a game to you, but the undertones of playfulness acted as a shield, and both of you had decided to throw the shields to the ground. 

I’m old. Got a lot that comes with me.

You knew he was older. You knew he had hang-ups. God, you were working in the mental health field; did he forget that? You tapped your fingers against the keyboard and considered that you had just made a fool of yourself. Asking him to ask you on a date—who does that? Idiots. Idiots do that. 

With your years of training and several more years of spouting knowledge, you recognised the spiral immediately. You were spiralling. You were not in the setting to have a spiral. You shook your head at yourself and cataloged every CBT skill in the book to set your thoughts straight. 

This was fine. 

What was the worst thing that could happen, and then how much would that actually suck? How could you recoup? 

“Mr. Nelson, I’m going to step out now, okay? Remember, there are going to be a few nurses in and out of this room just to check on your physical health, but in the morning, I’m going to come by and move you to another room upstairs,” you calmly explained, tucking your hands behind your back. 

Mr. Nelson’s eyes were blown wide as he nodded back. “Who’s upstairs?” 

“A few people like me who can help. I know this is all very stressful and confusing, but this is the right place for you. You are safe here, and you’ll be safe there.”

“Safe from them?” 

You nodded softly. “A safe place for us to help you.” 

Mr. Nelson nodded back, jerkily, and you offered him a gentle smile before heading out. The walls outside the observation room were much brighter, busier, and distracting. You let out a long breath and steeled your shoulders back, still determined despite every thought making you second-guess. 

If he didn’t show up—if he didn’t ask—that would be okay. You worked upstairs, anyway. He would probably stop paging you so much, and the distance would be good. It would set boundaries, and even though you didn’t want those boundaries, they would make sense. 

You were good at this. Reframe, set boundaries, redirect. Box breaths, progressive-muscle relaxation, mindfulness. Right. You were good at this. 

Your fingers curled into your palms as you paused outside of the room, unwilling to face the entirety of the pitt just yet. He could catch you before you walked out, convince you that this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you’d never know if you didn’t try. 

Tension began to seep from your shoulders as you replayed that last thought. You wouldn’t know unless you tried. You wouldn’t know anything past Jack’s lingering touches, or his playful quips, or the way his smile looked, but only under hospital lighting. You liked the way things were now, but there were so many other possibilities, so much more that could be waiting just past the window of tolerance. 

That window would be passed as soon as you got to your car and waited. 

Only, you weren’t moving towards your car anymore. You had told your body to move, to take a step, but suddenly, pain erupted along your scalp, striking and hot, and you were yanked back instead of moving forward. Tears spring to your eyes instantly, blurring your view of the man who shoved you against the wall. 

“You are a liar,” he seethed, face close to yours. “You’re with them. It says it on here.” 

Your badge was shoved into your face then, the sparkles flashing against the light and making you blink. It was how he got out of the observation room. It must have fallen off in the doorway. 

“Mr. Nelson,” you choked out, your arms in an abrasive hold, your mind going into overdrive because you were pretty sure you were trained for this. You could remember a training on non-violent crisis intervention. “Let me speak to you about this. Please, just take your hands off of me, and we can talk.” 

Your head was throbbing, the feeling becoming duller as his fingers created divots in your biceps instead. No one was looking yet. Too many people were in patient rooms receiving reports for shift change. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he spat out. “You didn’t mean what you said. You don’t want to help me. You want to get inside, like they do.” 

Low and slow. Don’t be combative. Don’t try to explain yourself. “I know you’re very upset about feeling watched, and I don’t want to make that worse, Mr. Nelson. From what you’ve told me, it sounds—” 

“No!” he screamed. You could hear shoes squeaking against the sanitized floor then. But it was too late. He was already upset, and you were alone. “You don’t know anything!” 

“Hey!” It was Robby who called out first, a rushed sort of sound that startled your patient. Mr. Nelson’s eyes flashed, and he slammed your head against the wall once, and then twice, before he was ripped away from you. The room was buzzing, and something tasted bitter in the back of your mouth. 

“Don’t—don’t hurt him,” you stumbled out, fingers coming up to rest against your temple. The air felt heavy. “A-ativan. Push Ativan and soft restraints.” 

You weren’t sure if your orders were actually coming out of your mouth in clear sentences or if they jumbled together to match the state of your brain. Adrenaline mixed with sharp, intruding pain, and you heard a commotion that you couldn’t quite focus on. Your eyes were still blurred with tears, and your head felt both light and too heavy at the same time. That probably wasn’t good. You had the fleeting thought that you should go to your car before you left Jack waiting too long. 

“What the hell?” a familiar voice echoed. Jack’s voice. Jack was here. “Hey. Hey, what happened?” 

Your face was taken into sturdy hands, and you blinked to orient yourself to the new feeling. Jack had touched your face before—moved a stray hair away, tapped your chin, brushed an eyelash from your cheek that wasn’t actually there. But he was holding you, then, scanning your face with a precision he didn’t usually harbor when he looked at you. 

“Jack?” you mumbled out. 

“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me. What—what happened? You alright?” 

“Patient was confused. Scared. He didn’t mean to. He needs restraints, or he might—maybe hurt himself.” 

Jack’s face screwed up into displeasure, and he tilted your head back slightly to take you in. “You. Are you alright? Patient’s got a team of doctors in there right now, but you don’t. You were the one attacked.” 

“‘Wasn’t attacked,” you slurred back. “He was—” 

“Scared. Got that part. Think you can walk to a bed for me? Let me check you out?”

You tried to shake your head, but Jack had you firm in his grip. “‘M just shaken up. I’m alright.” 

“You’re slurring your words. I’d like to be sure, okay? Can you do that for me?”  

The sigh you let out was half-hearted and tired and still a bit wobbly from the adrenaline, but you couldn’t say no to Jack. Not when he was looking at you with so much concern and holding you the way he was. When you finally gave him some semblance of a nod, Jack pulled his hands away to guide you by your elbow. He stopped halfway. You both stopped, staring down at the shining red coating on his fingers. 

“Is that mine?” you shakily asked. It seemed like a lot of blood. The dripping sensation on your neck made you think it was a lot. 

Something flashed across Jack’s face, but he quickly stashed that reaction away and replaced it with calm. With measured responses. He was a doctor, and you were bleeding. You were sure that was normal for him. A common occurrence. 

“It is, but, hey—” he moved again at the sound you let out, hands on your waist as your knees began to shake. “—I’m gonna fix it, alright? Easy fix. Just need to take a look and—someone get me a chair! I need a stat CT!” 

 “I think I’m going to throw up.” The words tumbled from your lips before you had even thought them. “I’m—Jack, I’m going to throw up.” 

You clutched at his arms as you felt the overwhelming wave of nausea push past the pain and confusion. There was a bag shoved in front of you, several hands entering your line of sight and alerting you to the fact that it actually hadn’t just been Jack assessing you. Someone pressed you into a seat, and you felt deft fingers bringing your hair back as the nausea won out. 

“That’s okay. Breathe through your nose,” Jack hushed, his thumb rubbing against your temple. “I’ll fix it.” 

You groaned when the lurch of your stomach finally subsided, grimacing as someone—you thought maybe Jesse—whisked the bag away and replaced it with a new one. You scrunched your eyes open to the abrasive lights of the ED and found Jack still kneeling before you, his expression pinched, assessing. His jaw twitched in small bursts. 

“I’m sorry,” you groaned out, feeling equal parts mortified and disoriented. “That was gross.” 

“Hey,” Jack hushed again, tilting his head up to show his seriousness. “No apologizing. We’re gonna move you now. Probably gonna get dizzy.” 

He gave you one last squeeze of your shoulder that caused you to hiss in pain, eliciting another flinch from the attending’s face. He shook his head slightly and rose with a grunt, but he didn’t pause. His leg was probably bothering him after the position he held, but he didn’t pause. 

You did get dizzy when you moved, and you got more confused when light was shone into your eyes, and then you got overly sleepy when something was pushed into an IV, and Jack was urging someone, again, about CT. The buzz around the room had started to quiet after his last press, and you blinked against the spinning in your head. Your legs hung off the side of the bed, unwilling to lie down and look ridiculous even with several nurses encouraging you to do so, and Jack was soon between them, kneeling again. 

“Can you tell me where you are?” he quietly asked. 

You felt yourself smile weakly despite the situation. “That’s the third time you’ve asked me that.” 

Jack placed a hand on your knee. “Just answer.” 

“Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.” 

“And the year?” 

“Jack—” 

“Just one more time. You're next up for CT.” 

You sighed and relayed the year, and then your full name, and then the president. Jack’s fingers were creating unintentional patterns against your knee, and you wanted to find a way to make him look a little less serious. To make him get off his knee, because even though he tried to hide it, you could tell it hurt. 

“So, is my brain going to explode?” 

That gave you a smile. But his brows were still furrowed, and he didn’t get up. “Probably not. As long as your CT comes back clean, we’re not looking at anything life-threatening. You’ll have a pretty nasty concussion, though. Head wounds bleed a lot. It looked scarier than it was. We’ll stitch it up.” 

“So I’m fine,” you concluded, blinking quickly as the room swayed. 

Jack was up on his feet before you could settle. He met your eyes, serious again, and steadied you by your shoulder. “Nasty concussion. Not fine.” 

“But not life-threatening.” 

“I don’t know if I can separate the two. Not with you.” 

The admission gave you pause. You glanced down at your hands on the bed and clutched the starched blanket until your knuckles changed colors. You could hear Jack’s breathing, and it grounded you amidst the painkillers and the airy feeling in your head. 

“Can I look at your arms?” Jack asked, low enough to blend in with the hum of the central heating. 

“What?” 

“You flinched when I grabbed you earlier. Can I look at them?” 

“I think they’re just bruised.” 

“C’mon,” Jack whispered, playfulness seeping back into his tone. “Give an old guy a break. You scared the shit out of me.” His fingers flexed on your shoulders. You saw red still staining the crevices. “Let me just make sure.” 

You relented. You always relented when it came to Jack. With permission, he brushed your shaky hands to the side and began to unbutton your blouse, careful in his movements, slow and purposeful and trying not to scare you. But he never scared you. You weren’t scared. 

“I really liked that top,” you sighed, staring longingly at it as Jack placed the stained satin to the side. 

“It was pretty,” Jack hummed. He leaned down and narrowed his eyes at the already-formed bruises on your arms. His eyes skimmed over the blood that had seeped to the chest of your undershirt and pressed his lips together. 

“I knew you worked today. Maybe I chose to wear it because I knew that.” 

“Maybe if I hadn’t been working, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” 

That made you scoff out a laugh, pressure shooting through your head. You winced and went to tap your fingers to your forehead, but Jack’s hands were already there. He was always there. 

“Take it easy, okay? Especially before we can get a good look inside.” 

“Well, maybe if you didn’t say such ridiculous things, I wouldn’t have to risk my brain and laugh.” 

“Wasn’t ridiculous,” Jack murmured, lifting your eyelid again to look at your pupils. He’d done that several times. Nothing had changed. 

“It was. You had nothing to do with what happened. It’s an occupational hazard.” 

“You were supposed to be home already. You stayed.” 

“Jack, enough,” you finalized, pushing his hand away. He compensated by resting against the bed, his hands on either side of your thighs, his weight over you. “I wanted to stay. I’m a big girl who can make her own decisions, and just like I chose this specialty, I chose to stay. So enough with this crap about me not knowing what I’m doing and you not being right. I’m glad I stayed. I’m glad you were here.” 

The air became static, and Jack hung his head between you. You weren’t sure if it was the pain medication lowering your inhibition or the seemingly near-death experience that made you so brazen, but you figured the crack had already been there. It had always been there. There was no going back after today, and you were good at this. You were good at boundaries and reframing and— 

“You scared the shit out of me.” 

Your shoulders fell. “Jack, I know. But—” 

“No. You scared me. Badly. You were out for a couple of minutes. Do you remember that?” When you didn’t respond, he looked up. “Went limp before we got you into a chair. And I know concussions. I’ve treated hundreds. But your blood was on my hands and you were unconscious and I kept thinking about how much of a damn idiot I’ve been.” 

You tilted your head to take him in, and he looked down at the bruises on your arms. 

“Robby’s been on my ass about asking you out. I kept telling him it wasn’t the right time. That it wouldn’t be right for you. And then you show up today and call me out, and I panicked. I was in the breakroom drinking a damn lavender tea to calm down because it’s supposed to be a coping skill or whatever it is my therapist was trying to push.” 

“Lavender can be very soothing—” 

“Not done,” Jack chastised, standing fully. He took your face back into his hands. Your lashes fluttered, but not from the pain or the dizziness or the meds. “This shouldn’t have happened because I should’ve gotten over myself a long time ago and asked you. Shouldn’t have taken this for me to get my act together.” 

“This wasn’t your fault, Jack,” you reminded him. 

He nodded, but you could tell he wasn’t taking the message to heart. “I know.” Another upturn at the side of his mouth. A sweep of his thumb along your cheek. He looked at you, and it felt like it always did. “But I’ll fix it.” 

[geminiwritten]

you have no idea ; jack abbot

summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.

notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.

word count: 18889

Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.

Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.

He had never really had anything to be jealous of.

Until now.

Now there are far too many things.

Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.

Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.

Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.

So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mum would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windscreen.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

© 2026 geminiwritten

[girllblogging777]

𝜗𝜚 𝑰𝑻'𝑺 𝑵𝑶𝑾 𝑶𝑹 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹

summary : spencer wants to put an end to the teasing and attempts to set him up during a night out. so, he blurts out his bigest secret - involving a mysterious woman, the promise of forever, and a tiny vegas chapel word count : 1.5k pairings : spencer reid x secret wife! reader (highschool sweethearts, hidden relationship) notes : based on this request, hope u like it !!

“come on, pretty boy” morgan laughs out in reaction to spencer’s hundredth glare he’s thrown at his colleague since the beginning of the evening. “live a little. the bar is full of girls and you’re staying here with tolstoy ?”

he points to the book on his lap, that spencer thought he’d made a good job at concealing.

“it’s pushkin,” reid mumbles under his breath in correction.

the abrupt beat drop cuts off their conversation and he finally releases a breath, right before a quite drunk and giggly emily decides to add in.

“yeah, and he’s pushing !”

and really, he was.

actually, everyone tonight seemed to be doing nothing but pushing spencer to the edge, making him lose all of his very minimal leftover patience after this week’s case. going out with the team was supposed to lighten up their mood, and let them bond over drinks and a fun time.

but it was all he hated. loud music, sticky hands and the heavy smell of sweat in a room full of people he couldn’t care less about. simply being here felt like the biggest chore for him, when all he wanted was to be home.

home, where you were.

his thoughts wandered to you, a predictable path he’d learned not to resist anymore. in the quiet of your shared apartment, far away from the bar and its buzzing energy, you were probably curled up on the couch right now, waiting for him to come back.

fingers clenching reflexively against his emotional support copy of the captain’s daughter - the second hand one, he wouldn’t dare take the special edition he’d gotten from you to a bar, of all places - he closed his eyes.

breathe in, and out.

five things he can see - the table with its empty glasses, reflecting the light of the dusty disco ball. a half full ashtray, the girls’ purses he was supposed to keep an eye on, where were the girls ? his own messenger bag, his cardigan thrown over the chair.

“hey, reid !” jj shouts over the music, coming back with another round of drinks, the glasses are full this time. for now.

“cute girl over there at the bar keep staring at you !” she says in attempt to lighten things up.

don’t look up, it’s no bother. she’s not her anyway.

four things he can smell - alcohol, strong and biter. sweat, cigarette smoke, hand sanitizer.

when he does turn to look around, all of the team is back in time for refreshments. sitting back down around their little table, cramped in the booth and its leather seats, he tries to drown out the thoughts.

“you know,” emily slurs right into his ear “they’re right… you deserve to allow yourself to have a good time, genius.”

and her intentions are nice, although masked by a fair share of alcohol. all of his friends only want the best for him, after all… if only they knew.

penelope chimes in, giddy at the fact that her favourite topic on earth - spencer’s love life, or lack thereof - found its way to the table.

“hey, be nice to him !” she warns, pointing an accusatory finger towards emily. “we know reid can pull, that’s a given. the only reason he doesn’t is because he refuses to waste his time on people who don't deserve him... like the absolute diva he is.”

three things he can hear - morgan chuckling. because obviously, the last part was directed to him. another stupid techno song coming on. and glasses clinking.

“cheers to that, kiddos !” rossi winks.

spencer takes ahold of his drink, trying to keep himself busy with the glass instead of spilling any lemonade - or secrets he'd later regret.

the cold beverage soothes his throat, helping him stay focused on something other than the heavy gazes currently piercing right through him. a few feet away at the bar, those girls weren't exactly subtle about staring at him. such a neat looking guy, with silky chocolate curls and an almost shy slender figure, stood out from the friday night crowd.

breathe in, and out.

it's all too much, he can't handle it anymore. his hands reach for the wallet in his back pocket, he'll just pay and leave. mutter something about a migraine, and finally head far away from here.

"you know," morgan adds, unaware his palm on spencer's shoulder does nothing but fuel his inner panic and send him into further turmoil. "one of these days, we might just have to forcefullly introduce you to someone. 'bet the girls over there would love to be that someone."

"enough !"

he doesn't hear himself speak. ears ringing from the atrocious music he can't bear anymore, he feels as if he was floating outside of his body.

nothing could've prevented him from what he said next.

"i already have a someone, okay ?" sharp, the tone he uses is unlike him, and surprises all of them. "and i don't need you to tell me what to do, or who to be with. i'm not a kid, i'm married !"

if a disco ball had a soul, pretty sure the one above his head would look down at him and sigh, reflecting nothing but the cutting fragments of the frustration he emanates.

the truth needs to be faced.

but the truth, no matter how beautiful and real, didn't exactly need to come out tonight, when alcohol and teasing had taken over all of his friends. he saw it in the way penelope stilled, jj's jaw dropped, and emily's stoicism turned into wide eyes and raised brows.

only hotch stayed his usual calm, collected self. he'd seen the marital status on spencer's file ages ago, and never bothered to mention it again. after all, a good profiler didn't need to see a ring - they all should've read into spencer's mysterious phone calls in empty conference rooms, and meticulously packed lunches covered in pink sticky notes.

however, no one seemed to care that much. enough, at least, to figure out he was married.

"...since. when." questions penelope, whose heavy bracelets jingle when she covers her mouth with her hands.

spencer's answer comes dry, fumbling with the wallet he'd just taken out. meticulously, he pulls out a small picture he'd carefully kept tucked away for, well, ages.

"since... ever ?" he attempts, head tilting shyly. "the wedding in vegas took place two thousand and sixty seven days ago. but technically, we've been together since before i joined the bau. i was seventeen," he corrects factually.

seventeen when the stars aligned, the universe granting him what would become his anchor in the sea, his shelter during the storm. at the mention of a wedding, memories of a rainy summer night led by impulsive decisions rushes back. he'd never been one to act precipitately, but the decision you two had made that night, he'd never regretted.

none of them can believe what he’s saying, looking at him as if he’d just taken a bomb out of his messenger bag and displayed it right there, on the sticky wooden table.

“MARRIED ? IN VEGAS ?”

then, it's kind of all a blur. he vaguely remembers showing the tiny black and white photograph to them, ears turning slightly pink. a plethora of questions hit him, to which he answers obligedly. as hard as it is to admit, spencer likes to be able to talk about you without any barriers, for once.

"do you guys live together ?"

"how come we've never met her ?"

"does she know you don't talk about it at work ?"

"is she a cat or a dog person ?"

all of a sudden, it seems as if they all want to know the most uninteresting and mundane aspects of his life, each question more surprising than the last - the latter coming from a very thrilled penelope, buzzing with some sort of girl power energy and from a lot of cocktails.

two things he can smell - curiosity, strong and pulsating through them. an imminent desire to crawl back to your safe arms.

then, the floodgates open, and he lets it all out. he mentions the first day of highschool, how lost and lonely he felt. his mother's trips to the hospital, your hand in his everytime. a shy kiss on the mouth after graduating, the one of many not so shy ones. summer vacations to his birth state. a guy dressed as elvis. i do's and cheap rings a size too small.

when spencer's heart feels lighter and the adrenaline subsides, he promises everyone he'll introduce you to them. then, he wastes no time calling a cab for his drunken friends whose inebriety he feels deeply grateful for - he knows he'll ned to face the remarks later, but it gives him some time - and rushes home.

stairs, fifteen steps. his key in the lock.

the door opens to you, half asleep and smiling brightly. you're wearing one of his shirts that’s a little too big for you, slightly showing your shoulder. the sound of his familiar footsteps made your earls perk up.

"they know," he blurts out, arms wrapping desperately around your waist. "i told them everything, i couldn't hold it anymore"

giggling, you don't ask. simply lean into him and laugh, because you figured it out the minute you saw his distraught expression.

one thing he can taste - your soft lips against his.

a/n : don’t forget to reblog and comment if you enjoyed reading !! love u mwah mwah

@tateshifts @gf2bellamy @xervoxs @kaz-03 @cynbx @sleepysleepnomore @emerkinsella89 @sweetheartspence @g4rvez-r3id @peanutalergy @keirareidss @eternlmoonshine @khaleesibeach @xbluereid @spencilweidblog @corollaim @mostofmeghan @siriuslyval03 @midn1ght-ra1n @rose-of-the-grave @copper-rose-strings @irisinlovee @thecrimsonfog @glossiercheek

[justsomerandomfanfic]

In The Garden, Where Flowers Grow - Samwise Gamgee X Female Reader

Title: In The Garden, Where The Flowers Grow

Samwise Gamgee X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Frodo, Reader's parents (Mentioned), Rosie Cotton (Mentioned), and other Hobbits (Mentioned)

WC: 3,357

Warnings: Love at first sight, italics, slightly insecure Reader, shy Reader, matchmaker Frodo, courting, how Hobbit's court specifically, mini angst, and fluff

You were in a bit of a predicament. You had fallen for your best friend’s gardener. Samwise Gamgee. He was your best friend’s, Frodo Baggins’, gardener. Sam would go over to prune, pluck, and overall beautify Frodo’s garden almost every day. He was incredibly good at his job too. He always left the gardens he tended to appear as if they were from story books. Pretty, organized, and beautiful. You were almost envious of his magnificent green thumb. 

But, as said, you had fallen for him. And you knew exactly when and where it had all happened too. 

You could remember it clearly. You had been visiting Frodo when you bumped into Sam. Now, usually when you visited Frodo, Sam had long finished his tending of the garden, so when you came by to visit, you had no clue that Sam had actually stayed over for Afternoon Tea - as a thank you from Frodo himself. 

Being such close friends with Frodo, and the Baggins’ in general, you didn’t knock on his round door or wait for anyone to let you in. With a bright smile, and a soft hum in the air, you just waltzed on in - running right into Sam who was just about to leave. 

With a ‘ow’ from both you and Sam, you finally looked up, rubbing your forehead with the palm of your hand. And, the moment your eyes met his dark-honeyed ones, you fell; your hand rubbing your forehead slowing into a stop until it fell to your side. And, you had been falling ever since.

When you closed your eyes, you could still see his cute freckles, and the embarrassment that rushed, coating his cheeks, nose, and the tip of his ears pink. His eyes were wide, and a small worried frown on his face as he immediately apologized. 

“Oh, I am awfully sorry, Miss Y/N.” He spoke, all the while, you were wondering if he could see how taken you were with him. How your eyes shimmered, staring at every part of his face you could, taking him in. You wondered if he had noticed the way your breathing shallowed, how your heart raced, or even how your hands shook at your sides.

And, goodness, he knew your name.

Only when your eyes met Frodo’s over Sam’s shoulder briefly - seeing his confusion, and the light smirk on his lips - did you finally speak. “O- Oh, this is nothing you need to apologize for.” You finally spoke, trying to keep your stuttering at a minimum. “I was the one who didn’t knock.” You gave him a sheepish smile, in which he returned. 

Giving you a couple of nods of the head, his strawberry-blonde curls bouncing, Sam glanced over at Frodo, giving him a grin, “Thank you for the tea, Mister Frodo.”

“Thank you for joining me, Sam.” He spoke simply as the gardener turned back to look at you.

“It was lovely to have finally met you, Miss Y/N.” He spoke, and you nodded, feeling a flush erupt on your cheeks and neck.

“The pleasure is all mine, Sam.” And with that, he bid you both goodbye, leaving down the dirt and pebbled path. You stared at the open door, before you finally let a deep - but equally dreamy - sigh, pushing the round door shut. Turning, you pressed your back against the door, finally meeting the amused gaze of your best friend; who smirked, and crossed his arms. “Oh, Frodo,” You began with another sigh, clasping your hands together at your chest, your heart ever-racing, “You never did tell me how he had such beautiful curls.” You gushed, making Frodo shake his head with a soft chuckle. 

From that day forward, you had spoken to Sam a great many handful of times, along with admiring him from afar. You could not get over him. You constantly wondered how it was possible that you had never met Sam until that fateful afternoon during Afternoon Tea. You had visited Frodo more times than you could count, but every time it always seemed that Sam was done with his pruning and plucking long before you would arrive. It boggled your mind.

But, that didn’t matter now. Now, all you had to worry about was your ever-growing feelings for the Hobbit. In love, head over heels, smitten, bewitched, and infatuated; that was what you were. Never had you ever met someone so sweet, so caring, and so positively adorable as Samwise Gamgee. He had your very heart and soul, and you needed him to know. 

Yet, the one thing that was holding you back from confessing was yourself. You were nervous, scared even. You didn’t know if he’d like you - admire you - in return - maybe he would love someone more like Rosie Cotton? You weren’t as- well, you were more reserved, let’s say. You never were one for parties and festivities. You liked the quiet nights in, where you could cuddle up near the fire with a self-made crocheted blanket and a good book. 

But this feeling, this love you had for Sam, it was burning, devouring you whole from the inside out, and you knew that you had to say something before you absolutely exploded. The problem you had - aside from your nerves - was that you had no idea how to even go about confessing to him in the first place. Yes, a walk would be the first course of action, but just thinking about asking Sam to join you for a walk made your heart stutter.

And that was where Frodo came into the picture. Not only was he your best friend, but also a self-proclaimed matchmaker. You trusted him, with your life in fact, you knew that no matter what, Frodo would always have your back, and never steer you wrong. 

Frodo, on the other hand, was doing his best to help as much as he could. There was one night, during a party for an old Took’s birthday, that Frodo subtly asked Sam a few questions…

~~~

There was live music, Hobbits dancing, and laughter ringing throughout the air. It was another successful, enjoyable, joyful, and entertaining night. Frodo and Sam were sitting together at a picnic table, pints of ale in hand. Frodo tapped his toes against the grass to the tune of the song, and despite him seeming as if he was watching the other Hobbits dance, he was actually forming a plan within his very own mind. 

“Great party, isn’t it, Sam?” Frodo began, Sam’s eyes leaving the festivities to look at his friend and employer, and nod. 

“It is indeed true, Mister Frodo.” Sam spoke, lifting his pint to his lips and taking a sip, “Not a frown in sight.”

Frodo nodded right back, taking a sip of his ale before he cleared his throat, “Well, I am glad that you finally got to meet my friend Y/N a couple of days back,” He spoke over the music, Sam’s almost relaxed behavior shifting into a slightly more nervous one as Frodo continued to speak, “You know how long she has been my friend, I was really hoping to have the both of you meet at some point.”

“Me, Mister Frodo?” He asked, almost sounding surprised.

“Of course you, Sam.” Frodo answered, as if the question was ridiculous, “I consider you my friend as well. It was only right to have wished for my two good friends to meet.”

“Of course,” Sam mimicked, taking another sip as he shifted slightly in his seat. “Well, I am glad to have met someone so important to you.”

Frodo nodded, tilting his head to the side slightly, “What do you think of her? Y/N, I mean. I know you have spoken to her a good handful of times after your first… Bumpy encounter.” He teased lighty, and Sam froze very briefly, clearing his throat as he glanced around him; thinking, nervous. 

“Though our few encounters have been brief, I must say that she has always been very kind to me.” Sam answered, feeling a warmth in his cheeks.

“Would you want to spend more time with her?” Frodo then asked, “You know, since your moments together are so terribly brief and fleeting.”

Sam pursed his lips, his eyebrows furrowing, “Why do I feel like somethin’ is amiss, Mister Frodo?” Sam narrowed his eyes slightly, “Why are you askin’ me so many… Odd questions?”

“Spfft,” Frodo waved a dismissive hand in the air, “It is nothing! I just would like to make sure my two friends get along. I would hate for any arguments to arise.” Now, Frodo didn’t actually believe that either of you would ever argue with the other. Both you and Sam were kind and compassionate Hobbits, always quick to help those in need and never ones to seek conflict. 

“Argue? With Miss Y/N?” Sam asked, chuckling softly with a shake of his head, “I can’t say that I can imagine that happenin’.” Sam finished, a small smile on his lips, his overall expression soft. Frodo just smiled, taking a sip of his ale. Sam then shifted in his seat again, his eyes drifting from his ale, to the top of the table, and then to around him: his eyebrows furrowed. “Mister Frodo?”

“Yes, Sam?” He answered, a small knowing smile appearing as Sam took in a breath.

“I am beginnin’ to like her somethin’ mighty fierce.” He confessed, his cheeks turning pink, and it wasn't only from the ale, “But I have my doubts that she wouldn’t like ol’ me, a simple gardener. A simple gardener fallin’ for the most beautiful Hobbit in all The Shire.” He sighed out as Frodo shook his head slightly at his words.

“Oh, I wouldn't cut yourself short, Sam.” Frodo raised his pint to his lips, smirking, “Who knows, she might surprise you.”

~~~

“Oh, Frodo,” You sighed out, taking the warm mug of your favorite cider into your hands, “I appreciate all of your advice and help, but I am worried that this is all for naught.”

With a mug in his own hands, Frodo took a seat in the chair across from yours, “Please do not lose hope, Y/N.” He spoke, trying to be reassuring, “Perhaps asking him to help with your garden was not the best recommendation. Since your garden is perfect.”

You nodded slowly, glancing at your rug, “Yes, it was quite awkward, asking him to tend my garden. The expression on his cute, adorable face - one of pure confusion, a slight pout, as he asked me why I asked him for help when my garden could rival his - made my cheeks burn.” You shook your head, “He even told me how pretty my flowers were.”

Frodo hummed, amused by your words, “You are quite taken with him.”

You worried on your bottom lip, staring down at the golden-brown liquid of your cider, “Since the moment my eyes met his, Frodo.” You said softly, a small gentle smile slipped onto your face, “Sam is wonderful… It might sound quite silly, but he reminds me of a perfect Spring morning, fluttering butterflies and- and glittering rainbows…” Your almost love-sick smile slipped as your mind began to race. “But, I am terribly worried, Frodo.” You muttered, Frodo’s smile dropping at your disheartened tone.

He placed down his mug on the small table beside his chair, “What worries you so, my friend?”

You bit your lip once more, casting your gaze to the fire in the hearth, “W-what if he doesn’t see me the way I see him?” Frodo nodded along as you spoke, your rambling growing faster as you continued, but he sat and listened for you. “What if he sees only my kindness, and not the interest within?”

“Y/N,” Frodo finally spoke, his tone calm, compared to your flustered rambling, “You do not need to worry.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes full of understanding.

You felt your heartbeat slow just a little at his reassuring words, but the doubt lingered. “But what if… What if I ask him to join me for a walk and he turns me down? I do not think I can take the heartbreak. I would have to move, far, far away-”

Frodo smiled warmly, shaking his head. “Y/N. If he wasn’t interested, he would find a way to be kind but truthful. And from what I’ve seen… Well, I’m fairly certain Sam looks at you the same way you look at him.”

You blinked, surprised, hopeful. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Frodo said, “I believe that it is time for me to head home.” He stood, as did you. The both of you headed to your front door, but before he turned to leave, he gave you some final words, “Everything will work out alright. Sam will be at my hole gardening tomorrow. You can come by then, and I’ll see to it that he takes a well-deserved break.”

You nodded, giving him a small smile, before you shut the door. Letting out a deep sigh, you rubbed your cheek as you thought. Casting your gaze around the room, you made your way to the kitchen. It probably wasn’t the best idea to go and stress-bake, but you really wanted some cookies. 

~~~

With your heart and your woven basket in hand, you made your way to Frodo’s home. You tried to pay attention to the sound of your footsteps against the dirt and cobbled path, but the rough beating of your heart, pounding against your chest and ears, was very distracting. You had never done this before, trying to court someone; asking them to join you for a walk. It was nerve-wracking. But you had heard your mother and father speak often about their courtship, how they met, and what your father did to show his interest in your mother. 

Their story gave you some hope.

All you had to do was ask him. Plain and simple. Just ask if he would like to join you for a walk. If he rejects you, then you would keep your head held high, and maybe cry when you get home. It was a whole nother story if he agreed to the walk. What would you say, and talk about? Your skin itched at the thoughts racing throughout your mind. 

Finally, you had reached the gate. And there, kneeling on the ground, hands digging in the dirt, making room for a new sprout, was Sam. You felt your breath hitch at the sight of him, working so hard, under the beating sun. He raised his hand, rubbing the back of his forearm against his forehead, ridding the sweat, before going back to tending the garden. 

“Miss Y/N?” You heard his voice, it breaking you out of whatever daze you were in and immediately making your cheeks flush and your heart burst into a million butterflies; they began to swarm. Sam looked at you, also happy to see you; there was that sweet smile on his face. Oh goodness, he had caught you staring. How long have you been staring?

Your hands tightened on the gate, the skin of your knuckles turning white as you gave him a sheepish smile, “Hello, Sam.” You finally greeted him, and for another moment, you were caught - trapped in the warmth of his gaze, unable to tear yourself away.

"Hello, Miss Y/N," Standing from where he had been kneeling, he more formally greeted you at the gate. “How are you this lovely morn?” He asked, and you shuffled a foot against the ground, glancing away briefly before meeting his honeyed gaze again.

“I- I am well, thank you for asking. I was just… Out for a bit of fresh air. How are you?” You asked, “Seems like Frodo’s garden is coming along wonderfully.”

Sam nodded, his smile brightening as he glanced over at his almost-finished work, nodding, and then back to you, “Yes, it is comin’ alon’ alright,” He said, glancing back at you with a humble grin. “Mister Frodo’s always been particular about his flowers, but I reckon he’ll be pleased.”

You swallowed hard, a noticeable tingle running down your spine as you watched him talk, his lips curving into that familiar, shy smile that always seemed to reach his warm, brown eyes. His soft curls bounced gently as he nodded, and the sun cast a golden hue over his freckled cheeks, making him glow with a simple, wholesome charm.

His hands, covered in dirt from the ground, rested awkwardly at his sides as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. It all made your heart skip in ways you could barely understand and comprehend.

You couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze flicked toward you occasionally, as if he was a bit shy about holding your gaze too long. But when his eyes did meet yours, it was like the world around you both faded, leaving only the two of you in that moment. Samwise Gamgee was so much more than you ever expected - kind, honest, and so utterly humble that it made your heart ache just to be near him.

But now, standing here, your nerves tangled like roots in the soil beneath you. You couldn't breathe for a moment. Were you ever breathing? You had to ask him. You had to. It was either now or never. 

“Sam,” You began, your voice softer now, a touch of uncertainty creeping in, “I was wondering…” Your fingers tightened on the edge of the gate again as you tried to gather the courage to continue; unable to meet his curious gaze. “Would you… I mean, if you are not too busy or anything… Would you like to join me on my walk?”

Sam’s eyes widened slightly, and he blinked, clearly surprised by the question. “A- A walk?” He echoed, his cheeks flushing a bit pink. “With you?”

You nodded quickly, your heart racing. “Y- Yes. I thought it might be nice…  You know, to get to know each other more?” Hesitantly, you finally raised your eyes to meet his, before you peeled your hands from the gate and opened your basket. You held your breath as you revealed a small bouquet of flowers, bundled together with an orange ribbon. “I also picked these for you. Grown from my own garden. I know that they are not as grand as yours or Frodo’s,” You added quickly, your voice trembling slightly, “But, I thought you might like them.”

Sam’s eyes widened with surprise, and for a moment, he was speechless. His freckled cheeks turned rosy pink, and his heart began to race as he stared at the flowers in your hands, before looking back up at you.

“Miss Y/N…” Sam began, “Thank you. I must say it once more, but your flowers are beautiful.” He went to reach out for them, but stopped, glancing down at his dirt-covered hands. Embarrassed, he quickly wiped what dirt he could from off of them, brushing them on his apron. He then gently reached out and took the bouquet, his fingers just brushing against yours, sending a spark through his skin. He examined the flowers as if they were something precious, his smile growing wider, more bashful. “Well now,” He mumbled, “If you don’t mind my company. I’d be happy to join you, Miss Y/N.”

You felt the tension in your shoulders ease, your heart soaring at his words. “Oh, I don’t mind at all, Sam,” You replied, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “I would like it very much.”

With a hand, Sam quickly untied his apron, before opening the gate and joining you by your side, tossing his apron to rest it over the top of the gate as he shut it. Giving you that grin that could turn you right into mush, Sam offered you his arm for you to take, the butterflies in your stomach began to flutter wildly at the action.

And, from the window, Frodo grinned as he watched the two of you walk down the dirt path, heading towards the nearby meadows, arm-in-arm.

---

Main Masterlist | The Hobbit/Lord Of The Rings Masterlist

[vampcubus]

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐋𝐘

:ఌ¨ ♱ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : sfw, pippin took x human!fem!reader, platonic!boromir x reader, reader injury, fluff, unedited word vomit i excorcised from my body to feel something.

:ఌ¨ ♱ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 : 2.1k+

The Fellowship has been traveling without rest for the better part of two days to stay ahead of the pursuing Uruk-hai. The sun’s just beginning to kiss the horizon when you finally settle down to make camp. Pippin and Merry would jump for joy if they weren’t so exhausted; the duo slumping against the trunk of a tall tree with relieved sighs. Pots and pans clink together, the familiar sound of the beginnings of supper making your stomach growl in anticipation.

Pippin’s eyes stray to you, as they often do, curious and longing. You’re the sole woman in their party of nine, a shield-maiden from Gondor, and the self-proclaimed bodyguard of Boromir. You were a woman of few words, choosing to observe and listen rather than make conversation.

Even so, you stuck your neck out time and time again for the four hobbits, and not without consequence. Your left leg is bound in thick cloth for putting yourself between Pippin and a warg.

You seldom complained, but he has seen you limping ever since. He can tell you are as relieved as they are to stop for the night, busying yourself with getting a fire going on damp logs. It’s slow-going thanks to the rains, not even the hottest sparks take hold.

Pippin musters the courage to approach you, stumbling over on overtired legs, Merry already half-asleep. 

“Any luck?” He asks softly as not to startle you, and you sigh, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. You swallow it down, reminding yourself that the halfling did not deserve your ire.

“Ground’s too wet. We’ll need kindling if we’ve any hope of a warm fire tonight.”

“Kindling. Right.” Not waiting for you to respond, the uppity hobbit scurries off into the underbrush. You blink in surprise after him, the smallest of smiles— more of a twitch, really— adorning your face.

Pippin reappears, covered in dirt and leaves. His arms are full of sticks, twigs, and other debris he’s collected, but his face is triumphant. He dumps them all near the small stack of firewood. 

“I can’t promise we’ll have a proper raging fire with these,” he says, “But it’ll be good enough to keep warm, I should think.” 

You express your gratitude by plucking a few twigs and dried leaves from his curly hair, his cheeks pinkening, and his smile getting all wobbly at the gesture. His green eyes flutter shut, and he finds himself wishing your touch would linger just a moment more.

You make quick work of the kindling, and finally the sparks take, and a flame starts crackling on the neatly-arranged logs.

Pippin takes a seat as close to the newly built fire as he can get without singeing off his eyebrows, his small hands outstretched to warm them. The rest of your company is pulled into your orbit, seeking warmth and conversing amongst one another— Bickering in Legolas and Gimli’s case, though it’s a familiar sound that puts you at ease.

You sit down on the cool grass beside your hobbit companion, wincing as the movement aggravates your bad leg. It’s more annoying than it is painful. The warg seemed more focused on throwing you out of the way than doing damage. You sigh and lie flat on your back, blades of grass poking and tickling at your exposed arms.

By now you're used to sleeping out in the wild in the presence of nine men–eight now, you remind yourself forlornly–though it took time. You trusted every member with your life, even if you preferred an impersonal approach with many of them. The lot seemed resigned to let you, all but Boromir and Pippin. 

Speaking of the brown-haired heir, you can hear the clinking of his armor indicating his approach. “The leg is fine. I just need rest,” you acknowledged in a clipped tone before he could even part his lips to fill the silence with his concern.

“You're certain? Rohan is not far, you could reside there while you heal,” Boromir replies, his tall shadow looming over you.

“My place is here at your side.” There is a pregnant pause, where both of you just stare, waiting for the other to give. The idle chatter of your companions has been reduced to whispers, and you feel their eyes on you. After a beat, Boromir sighs and kneels.

"Very well. At least allow me to wrap it properly.” He doesn't wait for you to agree, rolling up your pant leg. You try not to wince as he peels the tattered cloth from your calf, blood and pus sticking to it as it pulls away from the bite. Pippin, who you'd forgotten was perched at your side, gasps.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching Boromir produce a spindle of gauze. “A gift from Lady Galadriel. It appears she was wise in doing so.”

You try your best to remain still and stoic as he dabs the wound with a damp cloth, a salve Legolas had pressed into your palm earlier that morning, and wraps it gently in the clean bandages. Though you know you should thank him, your pride keeps the sentiment behind your gritted teeth.

When Boromir (finally) makes for his bedroll, you let out the shaky breath you'd been holding. Pippin, who had been unusually quiet through the entire exchange, lies down beside you.

“I'm sorry,” he says gently, guilt seeping into his expression. Confused, your brows knit, racking your brain for what he'd be apologizing for.

“For what?”

“Your leg. If I'd just done as I was told, you wouldn't have gotten hurt.” Ah, so that's what this was about. Your eyes soften despite yourself, taking in his kicked-puppy demeanor and the way he twists blades of grass in his clammy hands.

“You were afraid. I don't blame you for freezing up.” That doesn't seem to put him at ease, however. You chew your lip. “It was my choice to get between you and that beast, and I'd do it again.”

“I wish I could be brave like you. I feel like all I've done is make trouble for everyone.”

“Well, you're here, aren't you? That takes courage, and you'll have opportunities to prove yourself yet.”

“I don't think we've ever really talked before,” he says after a while of pensively staring at the ground. “Not properly anyway.”

His comment draws your gaze to him, but your expression is unreadable. You sit up to stoke the fire. “No, I suppose not. I'm sure you've realized by now I'm not much of a conversationalist.”

“Oh, I've noticed,” Pippin chuckles, and you’re pleased by the lighthearted shift in subject. “I’ve also noticed the way you glare at me all the time,” he adds teasingly.

“I do not glare. That’s just my face,” you huffed defensively, face suddenly warm, and not from the fire. “I keep an eye on you and Merry because you’re small and reckless.”

Pippin laughs heartily, and that only makes you feel more flustered, lips pursing into a pout as you lie back down onto the patch of grass you’ve claimed. He glances over at you as his giggles subside, taking in your relaxed figure, wondering if he’s ever even seen you at ease since this journey first began. It’s nice, seeing you like this, he thinks.

For so long, you’d seemed coiled tight, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. A handy temperament for a warrior, he’s sure, but he also notices how little you sleep. Living with a perpetual chip on your shoulder was no way to live at all. Pippin also takes note of how the fire’s light illuminates and dances across your side profile, inspiring a familiar flutter in his belly.

He scoots minutely closer, hoping you won’t notice, while simultaneously wishing that perhaps you would. Just to see him for more than a ‘small and reckless’ hobbit you have to babysit.

Perceptive as ever, you crack an eye open as his shoulder subtly brushes against your own. Your eyes fall shut again, though you can faintly make out the flickering flame behind your eyelids. His heart swells, and he bites down a grin. To Pippin, it’s a small victory: having you willingly this close, and without protest. He foolishly wondered what it would be like – what would happen if he reached out and held your hand. He’s certain you’d pull away. Despite that, Pippin’s fingers twitch. He wants to try.

Slowly, Pippin’s hand drifts across the cool grass, seeking your own. The hobbit tries his very best to act nonchalant, taking a deep, even breath, but it comes out shaky. You could very well smack his hand away and shout in his face.

Still, he perseveres through the nervousness and doubt, until at last, the very tips of your fingertips brush. Your digits twitch away out of instinct, but then tentatively return, experimentally lacing with his own. Pippin’s heart was hammering wildly in his chest, his blood thrumming with excitement. He can feel the calloused pads of your fingertips, roughened from years of handling a sword. For a moment, he dared to wonder how you’d react if he brought your hand to his lips.

He’s giddy, elated. He’s holding your hand! Such a thing seemed surreal, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all an elaborate dream his travel-addled brain had conjured to quell his yearning. He rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you. Your eyes fluttered back open at the suddenness, head tilting in his direction.

You look confused, and all the more attractive for it. 

“This,” he starts softly, lifting your joined hands. “Is it real?” The fire casts golden shadows across his face, accentuating the curves and angles of his cheeks and nose. You swallow as you slog through the unexpected feelings his proximity incites. 

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

He lets out a quiet huff, chin tipped to his chest self-consciously as his thumb strokes over your scarred knuckles. “I just can’t believe you’re holding my hand.” His smile is lopsided and a touch bashful. Still, he pushes past the urge to cower beneath your scrutiny and leans in to press his forehead to your shoulder.

Up close, he’s keenly aware of the differences between you. How smooth and soft your unmarred skin is, how you smell of dirt, sweat, and smoke. How you’re bigger than he is. Pippin swallows hard, forcing himself to meet your gaze. How easy it would be to bridge the gap and press his lips to yours.

Your eyes searched his, for what, you cannot say, but you melt anyway. Pippin lets out a surprised exhale as your hand slides across the ground to meet his cheek. He’d never imagined you’d ever touch him so tenderly, least of all like this. He shudders and turns his head to press his lips to the center of your palm, his breath stirring your skin, warm and a little quick.

Whatever inhibitions you’d had before are washed away, and Pippin feels his heart skip a beat as your hand migrates to the back of his neck and pulls him against you. He lets out a squeak, but doesn’t protest. When he speaks, it’s muffled from the way he’s tucked his head beneath your chin.

“Is this real?” He asks again, voice cracking. “You… you holding me like this. It feels like a dream. A particularly wonderful dream that I hope I don’t wake up from.”

You’re not sure what to make of this exchange, nor the unfamiliar warmth in your chest, only that it feels good. A smile tugs at your lips, and Pippin is transfixed by them. You’re momentarily distracted by how perfectly his body fits against yours, and how right it feels to have him in your arms.

“I think so. I mean, I like you,” you reply, though you feel like it falls short compared to his confession. It was a confession, right? It sure sounded like one. Not like the affirmations of closeness you’d receive from Boromir. 

You bury your face in his auburn hair, eyes fluttering shut. Pippin releases a soft sigh of relief and contentment, feeling impossibly safe cradled against you like this. His heavy eyelids fall shut, and he melts against you like wax. Even though he knows you’ll have to continue the journey to Mordor come morning, there’s nowhere Pippin would rather be.

His fingers find the edge of your tunic, slipping underneath. His warm hand against your stomach feels like a brand against your frigid skin, leaving a burning imprint of his touch. Though it is an unfamiliar feeling, you let him keep it there as you drift off to sleep. He can feel the moment you nod off and hear the steady thump of your heartbeat beneath his pointed ear, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest.

Pippin nestles further into the curve of your side, hoping this wouldn’t be a one-time occurrence.

[drinkingdrunk]

I Take Thee...

You and Benedict meet up in your garden the night before your wedding. You exchange silly little vows before the big day.

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader. Prompt: Promises for @fluffuary

Masterlist

You laughed as Benedict pulled you behind a tree, pressing a kiss to your lips.

"Are you not meant to be out celebrating with your brothers in White's?"

"Ah yes! My last night of freedom before being leg-shackled!" He grinned, kissing the side of your face before whispering in your ear, "have I ever told you how much I am looking forward to being shackled?"

You could hear the grin in his voice as you rolled your eyes in mock-exasperation.

"Only every day since you proposed. But once more could not hurt." You spoke teasingly.

"I, Benedict Bridgerton, am supremely happy to take you as my lawful wedded ball and chain."

You lightly swatted him which he annoyingly (and handsomely) laughed off.

"And I promise-" he spoke between kisses "- to always-" another kiss, gradually moving down your neck "-make you the most satisfied wife in London."

You gently pushed him away as you felt the warmth creeping through your body, he quickly took your hands in his to pull you back in.

"Is that all you think about?"

He pretended to think on it.

"Hm... no, occasionally I think about my art."

You let out a reluctant huff of amusement.

"Ah, but then that leads me to thinking on my muse, and what a beautiful muse she is too."

You felt your cheeks grow hotter as he slowly lifted your chin up, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

"Well? Are you not going to make any vows?" He prompted amusedly.

You tilted your head and thought for a moment.

"I, (Y/N) (L/N), am absolutely ecstatic to take you as my utterly devoted husband." You poked his nose playfully.

"Well naturally, how could I be anything else?" His eyes were full of such love it could make your heart burst.

"And I promise to always be your charming muse, and to make you the most satisfied husband in Britain." You spoke, one upping him slightly.

He grinned devilishly.

"Well I like the sound of that, especially as I promise to make you feel like the most adored woman in Europe."

"Well I promise to make you feel like the most cherished man in the world, so much so that you forget this ball and chain nonsense."

"Already forgotten my beloved, now I cannot keep you too long, you need your rest before the most important day of our lives tommorow." He suddenly bowed, and left a gentlemanly kiss on your hand.

You rolled your eyes with a smile on your face as you waved him goodbye and raced back into your home.

Tonight will have been the last of your sneaking around in the gardens at night, and tommorow will be the first day of your new life.

Neither of you could be happier.

[frost-queen]

Enchanted to meet you (Reader x Benedict Bridgerton)

Requested by: Anon Forever tag: @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr,  @sweetheartlizzie07,  @floatlosers,  @vviolynn,  @evilcr0ne, @melsunshine, @ilocuras24

Summary: After the death of your father, Lady Cowper has kept you around as a maid after their marriage. Stripping you of your birthright. Finally able to escape your wretched life for one night, you did not intend to meet the charming Mr. Bridgerton. Leaving him searching for his mystery girl.

A small bell rang delicately. The sounds ever so softly, one needed to be in the room to hear it. The sound made you straighten your posture. Placing your polishing work down. Taking a strong breath for the posture you needed to maintain. Turning around, you made way to them. “Yes, Madam.” You spoke with a curtsy.

“My daughter requires more tea.” Lady Cowper spoke with sharp eyes. “Yes, Madam.” You responded, moving to the teapot by the small table. You poured Cressida some tea. Handing her the cup.

You were about to return to your polishing when you heard the thud of a platter hitting the carpet. Turning around, your eyes stared at the dropped plate and cake that had crumbled into pieces. “Oops.” Lady Cowper said with an insincere smile. 

“No worries, Madam.” You said, approaching to kneel down. “Responds as quickly as a dog.” Lady Cowper said, looking over at her daughter. Laughing manically at her own sneer. Biting your lip hard, you collected the crumbs onto the plate.

“Only a dog is more enjoyable than her.” Cressida added, looking over at her mother. Curling up a smile as her mother laughed even more wickedly. Slowly you rose, curtsying for your departure. Making your way over to the kitchen.

Distraught by their laughter. Setting the plate on the table in a haste, it barely touched the surface. Tipping over the edge as it came clattering down on the stone floor. Startling you with a loud sob. Lowering your head, grabbing for the table while crying. 

Sniffling loud, you dabbed your cheeks dry with the back of your hand. Kneeling down to carefully collect the broken plate pieces. Sniffling more, you put them away. A soft knock on the door, made you dab your tears more away. Wiping your hands down on your apron, perfecting a smile like nothing had happened.

“Oh, Gus.” You spoke, relieved it was only Gusten, one of the working-men. He softened his gaze with worry at you. Not needing to be a cleric to see you are in distress. “Miss Y/n…” He said approaching you with a comforting hand. “I am not a miss, Gus.” Correcting him. “I am a maid. Not a noble girl… not anymore.” 

Thinking back about your late father, made you swallow hard. Gus looked back at you with pity. It made it even harder for you seeing it reflect in his eyes. “I don’t want your pity, Gus.” Wiping your hands nervously on your apron. Turning around to set yourself at some tasks to occupy yourself.

“It’s not right, Ma’am.” Gus pleaded, coming at your side. “You should be up there with them. Attending the season. Finding a husband… a better life.” Gus placed his hand on yours, giving it a soft squeeze. You inhaled softly. “That is a fairytale.” Removing your hand from underneath his. Turning away from him, you went to the sink, filling it with water. “Y/n…please…” Gus begged coming at your side once more. 

“Gus!” You called out in frustration. Batting your gaze up to the heavens. “I should be grateful, she is providing me a roof over my head.” Mindlessly you began to wash some cups. “She could’ve put me on the street, but she didn’t. She allowed me to stay. I should be thankful.” The words tasting bitter in your mouth.

It felt wrong hearing you say it out loud, but that had become your reality. Despite her cruelty, she had kept you around, even when she didn’t need to. Gus picked up a cloth, helping you do the dishes. “They’ll be out any moment now. You could sneak in…” Gus suggested. “Gus.” You groaned out. “This could be your only chance of being out. Of leaving these cold four walls and be out in society.” He went on. 

You laughed childishly back at him. “It is a masquerade ball, Y/n.” Planting the idea in your head. Sighing loud, you hated to agree that the offer seemed tempting. Perhaps this was your only chance of getting a glimpse of what was out there. “How would I even get there? I do not even have a dress. What if Lady Cowper recognizes me?”

Panic started to rise as the dangers of going out made you warningly take a step back again. Gus sighed loud, putting a hand to his hip. “You are a liar, Y/n Y/l/n. I know for a fact that you have been working on a dress for several weeks now.” Gus moved a spoon up and down at you. 

You gasped loud, moving your hands to your mouth. “How…how do you know that?” Lowering your voice so the walls couldn’t hear along. Gus smirked proudly. “A gentleman has his ways.” He spoke, holding both his braces, giving them a proud tug. “I even so evidently took it down for you.” He continued. Shocked, you slapped him playfully against his arm with his cloth.

Gus hurried over to the cupboards, moving some things aside. Taking out a box, placing it down on the wooden table. Carefully he took the dress up, holding it up to you. “Fitted for a princess.” He commented with a smile. He searched more in the box, holding a mask up with the dress. “I even made you a mask.” 

Smiling with tears in your eyes, you rushed up to him. Moving the dress aside to hug him. Gus patted you gently on your back. “I am very acquainted with a needle.” He chuckled out as you squeezed him even tighter. Taking a step back, you smiled giddy back at him.

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Perhaps still needing some approval. “Yes!” Gus called out with a sigh like any tiresome brother would upon their daddling sister. The choice locked in your mind, there was no room for going back.

“When I am gone, everything needs to be in order. Lady Cowper's bed needs to be made. Cressida’s jewels need polishing. You cannot forget Lady Cowper’s night tea.” Listing your chores up, Gus sighed loud. “I know what to do.” Shoving the dress in your hands. 

Smiling back at him, Gus felt like the closest thing you had to a family. Sort of like an older brother you never had. Squealing exceedingly, you left to go change. Returning a moment later with the dress on. Gus needed to do a double-take to be certain it was you. Taken back by your beauty.

You walked over to him, showing your back to him. “Do you mind helping me?” You asked nervously. Gus shook his head, lacing your dress tight. Excited, you turned back at him. He offered you the mask with a nod. Accepting it, you placed the mask on. Hiding your identity. Allowing you to be anyone else. Even when it was just for a night. 

Gus helped you sneak out after the Cowpers had left. Helping you in the carriage. “Now my girl, take in every moment and have fun.” Gus was holding your hand, giving it a soft pat. Nodding, you watched as he closed the carriage door on you. He took a step back. “I’ll be here when you return.” Bowing.

Waving at your departure as the carriage got in motion. Suddenly the carriage lost its charm. Alone, the fears settled in. Charting unfamiliar waters. If only Gus could’ve chaperoned you. You might not feel so frightened. Dabbing some upcoming tears away, you knew you should be enjoying this night rather than cry over it. That is what Gus would’ve wanted. 

Nervously your hands brushed over your skirt. Hoping it would calm you. You gulped softly when the carriage came to a stop. The coachman coming at the door. “There is a large group entering now, Ma’am. You could enter with them.” Saying reassuringly. Nodding, you waited for him to open the door.

Thanking him before hastening over to the group. Keeping a close foot so it appeared you entered with them. Whispering to yourself all would be alright and that you wouldn’t be discovered. Whispering stopped as you gawked at the dazzling ballroom. The chandelier that lighted like diamonds in the sky caught your eye the first. 

Hearing a throat clear, made you look down. Staring confused at a man holding a tray. “Your dance card, Miss.” He offered. “Yes…I am a Miss…that is me…a Miss.” Answering nervously. Ending with a nervous chuckle, seemingly making him smile as well.

Awkwardly you took a dancing card, nearly crushing it in your grip once your hand was lowered. The working-man took his leave. Exhaling deep, you were once again left alone. Wanting to move forwards, you stopped in your tracks. Seeing Lady Cowper and Cressida amongst the crowd. Even with their masks on, you could easily recognize them. 

Turning jumpingly around, you hastened to the other side. Finding refuge in a moving crowd. Following along their stream of movement. Escaping from the flock once you found a presentable place not too open. Nervously you stared at all the masked quests. Not recognizing anyone. Fidgeting with your fingers.

Feeling rather out of place. Fearing this might have been a wrong choice. That you shouldn’t have agreed to such a reckless thing. Already half deciding to take your leave again, a person bumped against you. Shaking you up a bit. Quickly apologizing, your gaze caught something shimmering in a glass of lemonade. Gazing at it for a moment till you slowly tilted your head upwards to the side.

Catching the dazzling chandelier once more. Shining like a thousand diamonds in the sky. Gasping softly by its beauty. The light reflecting in your eyes. Moving your hands behind your back, swaying your posture slightly to the side. Caught in a dream.

Benedict groaned loud, pushing a way through eager debutants wanting his attention. Avoiding them left and right. If this was not a requirement, he might not even be here. Rather spending his night with a good drink and lonesome company. He managed to keep smiling politely with declines at them. Forcing a way through the crowd to escape the flock of lions. 

Quickly turning his head, he nearly bumped against a passing gentleman dressed in a peacock mask. Leaning back, he avoided impact. Exhaling deep at a successful avoiding of an awkward bumping. Once the man had cleared his view, Benedict’s eyes fell upon a woman standing further away.

Unlike any other, her gaze was drawn elsewhere. Curiously, he followed her gaze, breathing out a soft laugh, astonished by the ladies' admiration of the chandelier. His smile dropped when he saw a gentleman approach. Seeing how the lady turned herself around to engage with the gentleman. Furrowing his brows as he noticed the subtle hiding of her dance card. 

Benedict’s attention caught a passing tray of dance cards, snatching one of them. Approaching with firm steps. “I have lost my dancing card.” He heard her say upon nearing. “There you are.” Benedict called out with a cheeky smile, coming at the man’s side. “I found your dance card. As you promised, I am owed the first dance.” Dangling the dance card in the air.

Shocked, you barely could utter a word. Feeling in your hiding place, fearing you might have dropped it accidentally. For where this gentleman could have picked it up. Benedict hummed loud, still waiting for an answer. You nervously looked upon the other gentleman. “Indeed.” Settling for a shy smile. The new gentleman offered you his hand. 

Shuddering out a breath, you allowed your hand to slide in his. His fingers clasped over yours. Smiling tauntingly at the other gentleman whilst taking his leave with you to the dance floor. “I did not require your saving, my lord.” You shout-whispered to him.

“Have I misread the situation? For you did not seem eager to dance with him.” Ending his sentence with a snort. He led you to the dance floor as you quickly pulled your hand away. The last thing you wanted was to be out in the open for all to see. For Lady Cowper to see. 

“I…I did not come here to dance.” You told him. The gentleman furrowed his brows. “At a ball? Did you only come here to admire the chandeliers, pity that would be.” Speaking teasingly with half a smile. Smiling sheepishly back, rubbing your fingers over each other. Staring frightened at the forming pairs in the centre of the room.

The gentleman offering you his hand. “I…I…I can’t dance.” You blurted out, lifting your skirt a bit up. Making a run for it. “Wait!” Benedict called out. Groaning in frustration as he pursued you. Noticing him following you, you hoped to shake him off. “Stop following me!” Saying over your shoulder. “Please…wait just a moment.” He begged not giving up. 

Forcing your way through the crowd. You made an escape for the outsides. Quickening up your pace in the hopes to get rid of him there. Reaching a pavilion out of breath. Grabbing for the railing to catch your breath. Upon hearing footsteps, you turned with a frightened gasp. “There you are.” He spoke.

You moved lost around, unsure which direction to take for an escape. “I have to say it was bold of you to think you could out-smart me at my own home.” Adding a chuckle. His response made you stiffen. “This…this is your home? You…you are a Bridgerton!” Exclaiming in shock at the identity of the man. “Benedict Bridgerton.” With a slight point of your entangled fingers to him. 

“The lady has discovered my identity, May I know yours.” He required to know. “No!” Came out before you could properly think of an answer. “No?” Benedict responded with half a smile. Still trying to uphold the amusement of it up, despite it hurting a bit that you refused so harshly.

“I…I…I mean… is it not the entire point of this masquerade to be in hiding?” Saying in a more gentle tone. “Perhaps…” He responded. Making you step back when he approached. “Were you sincere about not knowing to dance?” He wondered.

Nervously, you smiled sheepishly. Glad most of your mask could hide your flushed cheeks of shame. “Or is that a charade to your character of tonight?” He so easily filled you with an answer. 

“Yes!” You exclaimed. “That it is, you have caught me.” Adding a bit of humour to your words. “Then my character is a dance teacher.” Benedict filled in, making you gulp softly. Offering you his hand. With shaking knees you stared at it.

Meeting up with his charming smile that invited you to accept his hand. Slowly you raised your hand up, sliding it in his. His fingers clasped around yours once more, taking a closer step to you. You remained still, watching him in silence.

Benedict chuckled, taking another step to you so that he was close enough. Delicately he took your other hand, placing it on his shoulder. “Now we dance.” He spoke, looking down at your eyes. Focusing on the colour of your eyes and the tiny specks of different shades he could find. 

You carefully moved the tip of your foot forwards, feeling his shoe underneath you. Seeing him shake his head, you withdrew your foot from him. “Follow my feet.” He whispered. Glancing down at his feet. You copied the movement of his foot with yours. Moving back as his foot came approaching yours. Then you stepped to the left.

“That’s it. Now repeat it.” Benedict said. Copying the movement a few more times, you started to feel confident in it. Feeling him lift your head up by your chin. Wanting you to look at him. Gaze locking with yours. Studying the way his eyes stared back at you. “You are unlike any other debutant.” He spoke softly. “Is that so?” You responded. 

Benedict let go of you with one hand, moving his hand upwards. Giving your waist a small tug to twirl underneath. Slowly you stepped in a circle underneath his arm. “You are here not to dance and not to find a suitor.” He continued. “I never said that.” You answered, stepping away from his dancing. Benedict furrowed his brows.

“I…I…if I am being honest I would like that, but I can’t. Not everyone gets to live in fantasies.” Looking away, you held your hands together, rubbing it nervously. “You could make it real.” He responded, taking a step closer to you. Captured by your beauty within as without. Laughing softly, you found him a liar. “Not everyone can do that.” 

Hearing a sudden bell made you gasp startled. “What is that? What is the meaning of that?” Eager to know as you did not understand. Benedict chuckled softly. “That is the sound of midnight. The time for masks to fall off.” Slowly making his way over to you. “Even yours.” Whispering as his hands moved up to your mask. Feeling his fingers at the side, made you panic.

Pushing him back. Benedict looked defeated back at you. “I…I have to go!” Ushering out. Picking up your skirt, you started to make your way away. Only to pause. Returning to him. Placing a hand against his cheek. “You have been most perfect.” Whispering as you withdrew your hand. Ready to take your leave again as you impulsively kissed him as a last goodbye. 

Benedict’s eyes widened at your kiss before slowly closing them. Moving his hands to your cheeks. As quick as it came, it went. Leaving him wanting more as the mysterious girl took a run for it. Jogging up to the edge of the pavilion, looking down as a single glove caught his hand. With a huff, he picked it up. Looking back up, gaze searching for you.

Seeing you flee from within the house. Clenching his hand around the glove, he hurried inside. Hastening, shoving people aside that were in his way. Desperate to find the owner of the glove. Everyone unmasked yet one remained. Racing to the front of the house, he caught his breath. Standing alone in the night for there was no sight of his mystery girl.

Inside the carriage, you touched your lips. Stunned that you dared yourself to kiss a gentleman so easily. Perhaps it was the thrill or the sense your only night was coming to an end. You perhaps wanted something in life, you could never have. To live in a fairytale even for a moment. Arriving at the Cowper house, you hurried inside. Knowing you would have little time before they came back home.

Gus was already waiting for you. Helping you unbutton your dress before you hurried out of sight. Getting back into your normal attire. Holding the one glove in your hand, you stared at it for a moment. Remembering the fond memories you had made. Hiding it along with the mask. Returning just in time upstairs to greet the Cowpers. 

Benedict barely caught any sleep. Mind filled with the mysterious girl. Drawing her over and over again. Not wanting to forget her. Countless times he tried to capture the colours of your eyes so he could hold onto the memory. Sketch your lips over and over again with a masked face. For those were the features that were visible to him.

Not knowing the hour, he must have fallen asleep for he awoke in the morning in a strange position. The glove clutched in his hands like a stuffed doll. With a hung-over feeling, he forced himself up. Tugging the glove away in his pocket. Tormented with the idea of needing to find her. At first Benedict tried to search for himself. Going for walks more often than ever. 

Chatting with countless ladies as he observed their lips and eyes. Searching for those he would hope to recognize. The walks became more forced as he started to fall in despair. Not sure if he would ever find her. Wallowing in self-pity, taking refuge in Anthony’s study.

Staring at the glove. He jumped out of his skin when the door opened. Making him hide the glove away in the drawer. “Mama.” He spoke in a high pitched voice. Clearing his throat, he tried to settle for as neutral as he could.

“I am busy.” He finished, taking a paper to look at. Pretending to be so. “I can see that.” Violet answered, taking a seat. “Whose glove were you just hiding? Benedict, do not tell me you have been improper towards this lady!” Her motherly panic rose. “No!” He exclaimed. 

“I simply found it at the ball and wish to return it.” He sighed out defeated. Violet’s eyes twinkled with curiosity. “You met someone at the ball.” Unable to hide her excitement. “Yes, but I cannot seem to find her.” Tossing the glove upon the desk.

Violet took the glove, examining it. The glove had buttons as she opened them. Staring at a family crest sawn into the glove. “Well it might have been more helpful if you came to your mother first.” She spoke, holding the glove up to show him the crest. “It’s the Cowper’s.” She revealed to him.

Benedict let out a disgusted sound. “Cressida? No way was that Cressida I met at the ball. I would’ve known.” He responded. Disgusted by the possibility he could’ve felt a connection with…Cressida. The thought alone made him shudder. 

“Perhaps there are other Crowper’s at the household? A distant relative, a friend?” Violet filled in. Hoping it wouldn’t be Cressida either. Benedict looked at her with a new set of fighting lust. Pondering long over it, the next morning he called upon the Cowper’s home.

Forcing a smile at Cressida and her mother. “Now that is a surprise, Mr. Bridgerton.” Lady Cowper spoke. “Finally a good sense, seeing how wonderful my daughter is.” Gesturing at Cressida. Cressida smiling her best at him. Benedict sat down, clearing his throat.

“May…may I ask as to what you were dressed at the masquerade?” Barging right in with the right question. “Why…why do you wish to know?” Lady Cowper answered. “A goddess." Cressida answered happily. 

Benedict’s smile faltered a bit, trying to uphold it amongst the awkwardness. Slightly relieved his mystery girl was not Cressida. “Are…are there perhaps any other ladies in your house? A relative perhaps?” He dared to ask. Lady Cowper laughed loudly.

A sudden presence at your side, made you jump slightly. Gus shushed you as you stood peeking at the door through the small gap. Your gaze went back to Mr. Bridgerton. “There is only my daughter.” Lady Cowper answered.

Benedict smiled defeatedly back at her, taking a sip from his tea. “He’s looking for you.” Gus whispered at you. “He is not.” You responded. “I doubt he came here for your step-sister. Y/n this man is here for you.” Gus made clear, gesturing at you. 

Sighing soft, you reached for the handle. “I can’t.” Lowering your hand. “Y/n, you must. Open this door please and reveal yourself to him.” Gus begged. “Lady Cowper.” You stated that it was a dangerous thing to open that door.

“The hell with her. Once he sees it is you. She can do you no harm. Y/n, this is your happiness. This is your fairytale.” Gus kept pleading, hoping you would do so. Reaching for the handle once more, you almost felt like doing it. Gaze lowering as your hopes shattered.

“He is not looking for me… he is searching for a fantasy. One I cannot give him.” Taking a step back. “I have duties to attend to.” Taking your leave. Gus sighed defeated, his gaze falling on Mr. Bridgerton before taking his leave as well. 

Benedict’s gaze went to the open crack of the doors. Furrowing his brows. Yet quickly dismissing the feeling there might have been someone. Benedict finished his tea and politely excused himself. Perhaps his mother was mistaken. There was none other than Cressida at the house-hold. She couldn’t have been it. His mystery girl might have been an entire lie. 

Devastated, he wandered to a drinking house to drown his sorrows. You had rushed downstairs, moving your hands over your mouth to deafen out your screams. Tears streaming over your face for how close you had been to your fairytale.

For a moment, even if it was just brief, you actually believed you could live in paradise. To escape this torment of a home. A home you could no longer call yours. Not after your father had passed away, leaving you in the care of Lady Cowper. A woman who never accepted your presence since her first arrival. 

The season progressed as Benedict lost hope. Having many balls and soiree’s crossed off. Never a sight of his mystery girl. Falling in old habits of drinking and despair. Finding himself laughable he thought he’d be marriage material.

Thinking he could actually find happiness with one, yet once again needing to face his hard reality of it being not. The imposter out of all his brothers. The most sorrow-full and esteemed rake for he seemed to never be anything more than that.

Already wanting to have given up on gatherings, his mother forced him to go anyway. A gathering at the Cowper household. Festivities for all of the ton and their families. Since they hadn’t been granted yet with hosting a ball, useless gatherings like these it were. 

Lady Cowper stood sternly before you. “I do not want your face around here, Cinder girl.” Pointing firmly with her finger at you. “Can you imagine the scandal if I have one of my maids outside with the festivities.” Her laugh makes you feel even smaller.

“Yes, step-mother.” You addressed, quickly covering up your mistake. “Madam.” Yet the smack with the back of her hand had come in faster. “You will address me properly.” Her words cold as ice.

“Yes Madam.” You repeated with a curtsy. Her gaze fell outside upon hearing children’s laughter. “And do something about these children!” Shouting in frustration. Curtsying again, you kept your gaze low upon her departure. 

You hurried outside, gathering up the young children to come and play inside. Knowing Lady Cowper did not wish little children running around mindlessly to bring havoc to her perfect gathering. With five children now in your care, you hummed thoughtfully at them. All five of them staring back at you.

“How about a game?” You suggested. They exclaimed in happiness. “Tag! Tag!” Some of them started to chant. “Alright, who shall be it?” Asking with your hands on your hips. “You Miss!” One of the boys said with a giggle. “Blindfolded!” Another boy called out. “Oh, al…alright…” Responding a bit nervously. 

You accepted the blindfold, tying it up. Blinded, you moved your hands beside you. Feeling a bit naked without your sight. Taking careful steps around the room. Swaying your hands around in the hopes of being able to tag a child. You could hear giggling and movement from all around. Curling up a smile, you had to admit the game was exciting and a change of chores. 

Benedict noticed Cressida and her mother make their way over. Perhaps thinking they still have a chance with him since he came to their house. Benedict tried to hide behind his sister Eloise. She laughed, stepping aside to reveal him. “Traitor.” Benedict hissed at her. Straightening his posture, he cleared his throat nervously.

“Is that my mama calling? Yes mama?” He called out, upon their arrival. Quickly taking his leave. Feeling like outside wasn’t safe anymore, he rushed inside. Exhaling deep at the close call that was. He was nearly stuck with Cressida for hours. Hearing sudden children’s laughter, made him pause.

Going to find the source of the laughter. Instantly smiling himself upon the feeling. Nearing the sounds as they became louder. Peeking around a door, seeing the children move around. A woman blindfolded amidst the room. Her hands forward, approaching slowly. 

Benedict’s smile dropped. Staring at the blindfolded woman making her way to him. Unaware of her surroundings. His gaze fixated on her lips. Expression settling with recognition. He entered the room, walking up to her. Stopping as the woman smiled. “Am I getting warmer?” You spoke, feeling around.

Fingers coming in contact with a person. Settling your hands down on someone's chest, feeling something was wrong. It couldn’t be a child you were touching for their height would not reach yours yet. Slightly panicking, you moved your hands to the knot on the back of your head. “It is you…” The voice spoke, making you pause your untying. 

Gasping soft in recognition of the voice. Undoing yourself of the blindfold. Blinking a few times for your eyes to settle on the light. Staring surprised back at Mr. Benedict Bridgerton. “You’re her.” He expressed. Denying his presence, you shook your head.

“You are mistaken, I do not know you.” Taking a step back. Benedict searched his pocket, pulling out the glove. Your missing glove. “This is yours!” Shaking the glove in front of you. It made you gasp loud that he had it. That he had kept it this entire time.

Benedict took a step closer to you, watching your eyes. “It is you…I am not mistaken…” Holding on to his truth. “But why…why are you here? Why have you not come to any more balls? I have been searching every part of mayfair for you.” Desperation slipping through his words. 

You were unsure what to answer as the children around you, called out in awe. “Y/n!” A new voice made you straighten your posture. Cressida entered the room with a firm pace. Surprised upon seeing Benedict. Benedict glared at her.

“You lied to me that there was no one else in your household.” He called out to her, clasping tight to the glove. Cressida’s eye fell upon it, then looking up at you. “She is but a maid. A nobody.” She spoke with a sneer.

Benedict turned back at you as you took a step back. Unable to witness the hurt in his eyes. That his fairytale girl was nothing but a maid. “She is not of any significance.” Cressida added knowing just where to hurt you. “I am sorry.” You spoke, curtsying before him. 

Brushing past him, wanting to leave the room. “That is not true!” Coming to a stop, you gasped at Gus in the door opening. “Y/n Y/l/n is not a maid.” Gus called out. Benedict’s eyes widened upon hearing your last name. Recognizing it.

“Y/n and Cressida are step-sisters. She is as much a noble lady as Cressida.” Gusten went on, glad to finally rage out. “You shut up!” Cressida shouted at him. “I will not!” Gus yelled back. “After the death of the late Lord Y/l/n, the Cowper’s doomed Y/n to be nothing but a maid. Stripping her of her birthright.” 

“She has no right!” Cressida pointed firmly at you with her fury. Screaming loud, she wanted to launch at you. Benedict stepped in front of you, blocking you from her rage. “Keep your hands…off her.” He said with composed fury.

“I will take Y/n with me and you will not stand in my way!” He looked over his shoulder at you. Wrapping a protective arm around you. “You will pay forever for your cruelty. I want you to apologize to her!” Demanding her to be on her knees.

“Apologize to her? Never.” Clenching her jaw tightly. “Apologize!” Benedict shouted. You tugged him on his suit. “It’s alright.” Stepping away from him. Coming to stand before your step-sister. “I forgive you.” You spoke with such kindness it enraged her. 

Benedict took your hand, guiding you outside upon the clapping of the children. Gus followed a pace behind you. Proud you had finally found the happiness you deserved. Near the front door, he paused you. Cupping your cheeks.

Staring into your eyes, smiling that it was confirmed to him it was truly you. “Please…don’t have someone waiting on you. I’d want to know every bit of you.” He spoke. Curling up a smile, you nodded in agreement.

“Where do I even begin…” Answering a bit nervously. “At the beginning.” He whispered back. Leaning down to kiss your lips. Lips he had yearned for ever since his first touch with them.

--------------------------------------------

Read more on my masterlists.

[ifyouweremine]

Lover of Mine | Benedict Bridgerton

PAIRING: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Benedict is so in love with you that the thought of sharing is preposterous. At his side is where you belong, tucked beneath the warmth of his arm, a piece of him separated only to find your way back together.

WARNINGS: None

W/C: 2.0k

"We could be at home."

You rolled your eyes from where you sat beside Benedict in the carriage transporting the two of you to another ball. His head was tilted back against the seat, eyes closed, shoulders slumped. He'd been complaining since before you even made it out of the door, ceasing his grumbling only long enough to compliment you on your gown and kiss your cheek before resuming.

"Ben," you said softly, resting a hand on his thigh. "We have to attend these things. Your mother would have our heads if we didn't."

Benedict tilted his head, opened one eye and looked at you. "I would rather have you in bed. Preferably without clothes."

"You had me in bed not two hours ago and we're lucky we're not later than we already are," you said, flashes of those moments playing before your eyes. Rolling in sheets, laughter and love warming the bed, feeding your souls as you lost yourself in his embrace. You shook the thoughts away. "Besides, it's polite to show our faces."

"Believe me, there's nothing polite about what I want to do to you," he said. "You look ravishing in that dress, darling."

"Stop it," you said, giggling despite yourself. Violet had tasked you with ensuring the pair of you arrived on time and you intended to fulfil her wishes to the best of your ability. "You're making it impossible not to turn around and go home."

Benedict moved along the seat to wrap an arm around your shoulders. "Maybe that's my intention."

He kissed you, taking his time to memorise the feel of your lips as though every time was the first. He knew you would fold, putty in his hands the moment his lips brushed yours. A masterpiece he could never have created, born from the heavens, its purest artwork. You were a woman he never saw coming but was planning to keep now he had you. So when he kissed you like a man starved of breath and you were his oxygen, the way your body melted against his was the most perfect reward.

Fortunately, you'd dealt with him for long enough to know every move in his arsenal, so let the kiss last for a little longer than usual before pulling away reluctantly.

"That won't work," you chided, hand coming up to his chest as he tried to lean in to steal another kiss. "We're almost there. We're not turning around."

"My mother has influenced you far too much for my liking," Benedict said with a sigh, falling back against the seat once more. "I suppose we can go for an hour."

"Two," you said.

"An argument could be made for two."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, kiss me again and we'll see about two."

Rolling your eyes, you kissed him again and he pulled away with a dopey smile on his face. "Happy now?"

"Happy enough considering we have to go to this ball full of eligible men that will all be staring at my beautiful wife," he replied.

"They won't be looking at me," you said. "There'll be plenty of other pretty ladies there."

"None so pretty as you," he replied. "And no, they won't be looking at you if they know what's good for them."

"So possessive, Ben," you teased.

"Hard not to be when you look like this," he replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck. "It's a shame for all those other men that you're the most beautiful woman in every room. Wonderful for me, though."

You rolled your eyes. "Such a charmer, as always."

"It does bother me terribly that the old men all stare at you," he grumbled. "It's like the ring on your finger means nothing."

You giggled. "You're so dramatic. Besides, you'll be there to swoop in and save the day if any of them get too close for comfort."

"Ha," Benedict said dryly, kissing your cheek. "Presumptuous of you to assume I'll be leaving your side for a single moment tonight. You're the only thing that makes these events bearable, besides the alcohol, of course."

Shaking your head in amusement, you pressed a lingering kiss to your husband's lips. "My hero."

"My wonderful wife," he mumbled against your lips.

By the time you made it to the ball, it was a wonder your cheeks weren't flushed and you weren't utterly breathless. Stealing kisses with Benedict wasn't anything new, much to his siblings' chagrin, but he seemed to be on another level that evening. Wandering hands, lips ghosting over the hollow of your throat, dancing along your jaw, touching everywhere but your lips until you eventually grasped the back of his neck and met him in a searing kiss that left you both breathless.

Once, he had been your childhood friend. Knocking about with the Bridgertons as you had, you'd garnered quite the reputation among the Ton. Everybody assumed you would marry one of them and being so close in age to Colin the rumour mill leaned towards him being the man you would end up with, but none held your affections the way Benedict had. You would have married him in a heartbeat had he displayed any sort of interest in you beyond the parameters of friendship, but he didn't. Not until the day he almost lost you to another man and realised what he would be giving up if he let you get away.

He'd gone to your father, confessed his love for you and begged for your hand in marriage. Your father had laughed, informing him that his blessing had belonged to Benedict since before he ever had to ask. Your father was just grateful he'd finally realised his own feelings, having watched from afar as you both fell in love without truly understanding it for what it was.

The two of you married not long after. You courted for the appropriate time, receiving the scandal of an interrupted union between you and your former suitor by showing the Ton that neither of you cared. Benedict walked with you, called on you, delivered books he thought you might enjoy and dined with your family before finally sealing the union. He had asked you to marry him quietly, in the drawing room where he'd once broken one of his mother's fancy plates trying to impress you, and it felt as though your lives had come full circle.

Benedict made your days brighter and even the countless balls were a little more tolerable now you weren't the one under the spotlight with the attention of the Ton and you had him beside you.

Walking into the venue now, you pressed close to Benedict's side and kept your arm through his. He glanced down at you, smile playing on his lips as he bowed closer to kiss the top of your head. You were most content at his side and there was nowhere he would rather have you be. He liked to think you were the other half of his soul, a piece of him separated by the universe for him to find.

"Two hours," he whispered. "Then I'm taking you home and we're going to resume our previous activities."

You bit your lip to try and hide your smile. "Alright, but you have to dance with me."

Benedict nodded. "Anything for the love of my life."

An hour later, you found yourself with Francesca at one of the refreshment tables, seeking something to drink. Benedict, despite his promise not to leave your side, had been forced to do so. The natural necessity to use the bathroom cared little for people's promises, so with an apology and a kiss to your temple, he'd vanished into the crowd.

"I'm surprised Benedict hasn't made his escape yet," Francesca said.

"Believe me, I think he's plotting the best way to get out without being seen by your mother," you replied. "He promised me two hours, though."

"I'm amazed."

"Yes, me too."

Somebody bumped into you from behind and you stumbled slightly. A hand caught your arm to steady you and Francesca scowled at the man standing before you. Recognising the obvious discomfort on your face, she said, "I'm going to find Anthony," and with a look that said she promised to return, she was off.

"My apologies, My Lady," the man said to you, finally earning your attention as Francesca vanished. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you hurt?"

Gently disengaging yourself from the man's grip, you stepped a little further away. "I'm stronger than I look. Have you come looking for food?"

"In part," he replied. "But mostly I came this way because of the beautiful woman standing by the table."

You almost choked on the champagne you were drinking. "Bold words."

"Maybe I've been emboldened by your beauty," he said. "I'm Lord Devlin."

"Y/N Bridgerton," you replied curtly.

He took your hand, missing the wedding ring or just ignorant to it as he said, "It's a pleasure. I've heard all about your family. You and your siblings have quite the reputation for love matches."

"Actually, My Lord-"

"I'm here to find myself a wife," he continued. "And I do believe I've just laid eyes on the most beautiful woman in the room. Would you care to-"

"There you are, darling!" Benedict's exclamation broke through the crowd right as he appeared. There was a smile on his face, but you could tell it was forced as he laid eyes on Lord Devlin. He slipped into place at your side, arm around your waist to draw you closer.

"Ben," you said in relief. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to."

"I'm sorry, I got distracted by Anthony and then Francesca showed up and told me you were over here," he replied, finally tearing his gaze from you. "Who's this?"

"Lord Devlin," he greeted.

"Benedict Bridgerton," came the clipped response.

"Another Bridgerton," Lord Devlin said with a chuckle. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I was just about to ask your sister to dance with me."

"My sister?" Benedict asked, glancing around as though expecting to spot one of his siblings.

"I didn't have a chance to clear up the confusion," you explained, hoping your eyes conveyed your discomfort to Benedict.

"Oh," he said slowly, before he flashed Lord Devlin a grin. "This is my wife, My Lord. Not my sister."

"She didn't say."

"I didn't get the chance-"

"You should keep a better eye on your lady, Lord Bridgerton," Lord Devlin said. "Leaving her unaccompanied might give men the wrong idea."

"I don't think so," Benedict said, reaching for your left hand and pretending to observe your ring. His thumb brushed over the diamond, his hand a welcome warmth to your skin. "Ah, yes, see, there's the ring I put there. Very obvious that she's a married woman." You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Lord Devlin, my wife and I are going to take our leave."

Without so much as another word, Benedict steered you away from Lord Devlin and towards the doors. Letting out a nervous giggle, you relaxed into Benedict's hold and said, "Can we actually go home now?"

"You're silly if you think I'm staying here a moment longer," Benedict replied. "I'm taking you far, far away from here. To bed. Where only my eyes will be on you."

The two of you descended the steps down to the driveway and as you reached the bottom, Benedict crouched and looped his arm around your knees. Lifting you up with ease, you squealed and wrapped your arms around his neck.

"Ben, this isn't proper."

"I don't care," he said, tightening his hold on you. "If I want to carry my wife, I shall."

He stayed true to his word. Calling the carriage, he took you home, hardly able to keep his hands off you until you both reached the sanctity of your bedroom, wherein your clothes were discarded on the floor in a trail on the way to the bed. He laid you down carefully, taking his time with you as he so often did, and he didn't let you go even after you drifted to sleep. By the time the morning light was streaming softly through the separation in the curtains, he had forgotten everything else besides you, because at the end of the day you were all that mattered.

[benedictscanvas]

spying, sinking, swooning - benedict bridgerton x reader

pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader

word count: 1.9k

a/n: Have I watched the new season of Bridgerton? No. Am I back on my Benedict bullshit again regardless? Obviously. No warnings here, just obnoxious fluff with reader, Benedict and some Bridgerton siblings <3

---

Benedict was hiding behind a plant. Again.

He really needed to find a better way to spend his time, at least that was what Anthony had  told him last time he’d found him in such an embarrassing position. That had been at the Danbury’s ball at the very start of the season and it was you he was hiding from then as well.

You hadn’t even been introduced, those months ago. He had escaped his mother for a moment by slipping out onto the balcony and there you were, head tilted so far backwards he wondered if he’d be in time to catch you if you fell over. But you did not. Instead, you were simply watching the stars, and it was such a beautiful view to Benedict that he couldn’t think of anything worse than disturbing you.

He’d hidden behind a plant for nearly 20 minutes, watching as your eyes flit from constellation to constellation and eventually, always back to the bright crescent moon in the East. Despite desperately wanting to, he hadn’t spoken to you that night. Instead, he slipped back into the ball before you could notice he was there and left you to your stargazing. He resolved to talk to you should you ever show any interest in actually being at one of the balls, rather than disturbing you during a time of such peace.

Sure enough, he’d found his moment at the following ball and it had been a steady courtship ever since. Benedict had been completely swept off his feet by you, naturally, despite the raucous laughing from his brothers when he had accidentally described it that way to them. But he found his heart beating with renewed vigour as he watched you from behind a plant again, this time in his own house.

“Arms a little higher, Gregory, that’s it! You’re a natural,” you beamed at the younger boy as he adjusted his frame. You were conducting informal dancing lessons in the drawing room with Gregory and Hyacinth, with Francesca providing the music on the pianoforte. You had just finished parading around the room with Hyacinth, who was more interested in twirling around with abandon than following any of the steps you’d showed her. Gregory was paying a little more attention.

“See, Hyacinth! I can dance!”

“You can step around the drawing room with Y/N, congratulations brother,” Hyacinth sneered, “It does not mean you will hold the same composure when you take to the floor with a lady.”

You dropped your frame with Gregory then and looked at Hyacinth, a scandalised look on your face.

“Are you suggesting I am not a lady, Miss Bridgerton?” you gasped, a hand at your chest for emphasis. Benedict furrowed his brow as he tried to discern whether you had actually been offended and whether he would need to emerge from behind the fern to come to your defence.

“I am suggesting the very same,” Hyacinth insisted, reaching out to tug on the skirts of your dress, “As if a lady would enter the Bridgerton house in last season’s style.”

Just as he was debating whether to refer to you as his wife-to-be, Hyacinth’s new sister or simply as the love of his life as he scolded Hyacinth to high heaven, the two of you burst into a fit of giggles, one that even Francesca at the piano joined in with as her playing ceased. You wrapped Hyacinth up in your arms and squeezed her tightly, to her renewed laughter.

“You are a beast! I cannot wait to be your sister,” you cried, still laughing, as you pulled Gregory into your impromptu hug and glanced behind you to Francesca, “All of you. You must promise me that no matter how old you get, you shall always tease me just so.”

“I don’t imagine growing up shall change my character all that much,” Hyacinth grinned, “I adore your dress, you know. I was just playing a character.”

Benedict felt his knees going a little wobbly, and grasped at the plant’s stem to steady himself.

“Oh, I know dear. You need never worry about jesting with me,” you assured the younger girl, “Though if you do so near your brother, I believe he may have a few words to say about it.”

“Ever the gallant protector,” Hyacinth rolled her eyes. Benedict only felt a little offended.

“I feel as though you are already our sister, Y/N,” Gregory piped up, “But if we are going to dance further then-”

“Look! A rainbow! Quick, we must see if we can locate it’s end, come Gregory!” Hyacinth had all but dragged Gregory out of the large glass doors that lead outside before the poor boy could finish his sentence. Benedict gazed on with nothing but aching fondness as you watched them go with a small smile, and turned towards his quietest sister.

“You wish to play a little longer? I would love to listen, if you don’t mind the company.”

Once again Benedict was struck by disbelief. Not only were you a natural with the most boisterous members of his family, but your tone had completely shifted now that it was just you and Francesca. He could see colour paint his sister’s cheeks.

“Actually, I promised mother I would take tea with her this afternoon, just the two of us. Another time, though?”

“Of course,” you acquiesced quickly, “Perhaps I had better be going anyway, if Benedict is as busy painting as Eloise suggested when I arrived. It was lovely to see you though, Francesca.”

“And you,” Francesca smiled, then stopped you before you could leave, which allowed Benedict time to slink further into the shadows before you spotted him, “I hope you know you’re welcome here anytime. Not just when you call upon Benedict.”

Benedict watched your entire face light up as you nodded your assent and then made your way towards him in the foyer. He took a few careful steps backwards, hoping to make it look as if he had just descended the stairs, but instead, the back of his foot met something unexpected and he clattered to the floor. When he turned, there was a furry beige blur trotting out of the room. Newton was a rotten traitor.

“Benedict?” you said, rushing to his side to help him up as he fought a blush, “Heavens, are you well?”

“Quite well!” he exclaimed, with far too much vigour. The commotion had drawn Francesca towards the door but once she saw the predicament, she covered her giggle with a gloved hand and retreated back into the drawing room, “I was still thinking about my painting as I walked downstairs, I reckon.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, more concerned than suspicious.

“You are nowhere near the stairs, Benedict. Maybe you shouldn’t get up right away, I can call for the doctor-”

“No need, really!” Benedict pushed himself to standing, your hands hovering uselessly on his arms. He remembered himself a moment later, taking your hand gently in his to kiss the back of it, “It is a delight to see you, Y/N. Would you like to promenade this afternoon, perhaps?”

You weren’t paying attention to him, he noticed, which was incredibly rare. Before he could become affronted, he watched as the hand on his arm plucked a fern leaf from the crook of his elbow. You tilted your head as you examined it, then glanced towards the fern by the door. Benedict began to see the light of understanding dawning on your expression and whether it was tripping over Newton or the dazzling shade of Bridgerton blue you were sporting, he began to panic.

“Alright yes, I have not been upstairs for sometime. I could not help observing you with my family. It was not my intention! But I heard your laughter as you danced with Hyacinth, then Gregory, then as you jested with them,” he hung his head as his voice grew softer, “Forgive me, my love. I should simply have announced my presence. Sometimes I freeze in the feeling of awe of you.”

You let out a long, loud breath as he finished speaking and he chanced a look up to see whether exasperation painted your face. Instead, he found you flustered.

“Must you speak in such poetry every time we meet, Mr Bridgerton?” you eventually asked, reaching up to pluck another fern leaf, this time from his hair and you held it up in front of him, “You spy on me and manage to make it romantic, how is that so?”

“Spying is a harsh term!” he insisted, though he was warmed inside and out by your lack of angry reaction, “Admiring, I prefer. I have never seen you with my siblings when I am not there.”

“Yes, because you are not there,” you grinned, “Supposedly. Am I to understand I need to glance over my shoulder to check for your presence in every room I frequent?”

“No more hiding behind plants,” Benedict vowed, surprised to find he wholeheartedly meant it, “I should much rather be by your side anyhow. Soon enough, there shall be no getting rid of me wherever you go.”

He watched your eyes flick downwards to his lips and held his breath as he wondered if you’d be so bold, in the foyer of his family home, but you simply grasped both of his hands in yours.

“What a beautiful threat,” you sighed dreamily, then sobered a little as you returned to yourself, “I do hope you do not find me too familiar with your family, particularly as we are not yet even married. I delight in their company almost as much as I do yours.”

Benedict really, really wanted to kiss you now. He had before, of course, and there was hardly anything he had done in his life that compared. But as the wedding grew closer, the two of you had become careful. There was no need to be caught in a compromising position by one of your mothers when there were mere weeks to wait. 

“As long as you delight in my own company the very most,” Benedict hummed, wrapping an arm around your waist and managing to refrain from pulling you into him, “I am overjoyed that you are becoming a true Bridgerton. As are my siblings. I was watching because it was…”

He searched for the words and you waited patiently.

“It was the perfect scene of all that I love in the world. That’s all.”

You pressed your lips together and he saw a bead of emotion collecting in the corner of your eye. He was gentle as he wiped it away and felt the sting of his own potential tears at the sight. If there were ever a moment he did not feel like weeping at the thought of a life with you, he could not imagine it.

He heard movement behind him and before he could turn to see who intruded on his perfect moment, you were stepping out of his arms. You had collected yourself and he could once again see a twinkle of mischief in your smirk.

“If it isn’t my most favourite Bridgerton!” you exclaimed, rushing over to greet his mother with the excitement she deserved. Violet glanced at her son and laughed as she met your embrace. Benedict faked a scowl at the two of you, even as he felt himself fall deeper in love with you than he had previously thought possible.

---

if you read this far, you are the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires :)) if you have any ideas for bridgerton fluff my ask box is all ears and so am i

[redeemingvillains]

the black lake - mattheo riddle

summary: mattheo is hogwarts' triwizard tournament champion, and he's proven that he can crush the competition. but when the stakes are raised, and you're involved, nothing will get in his way.

word count: 2.3k

a/n: this was was so fun to think about! lots of references to goblet of fire! lots of swearing, matty is not a happy camper in this one. enjoy ♡

Obviously this boy would put his name in the Goblet of Fire (all of the boys did) and there would be a lot of feelings about him being chosen as the Hogwarts champion, lots of accusations about him rigging the selection (he probably did). But he'd definitely crush the competition, especially when he had the right motivation...

ˋ°•*⁀➷

It's the morning of the second task, the day crisp and frosty, creating puffs of air as Mattheo huffed in exertion, marching down to the Black Lake surrounded by his friends. Suffice to say, he was pissed. It was fucking frigid outside and he hadn't seen you all morning, the combination enough to set him dangerously on edge.

You'd told him you'd come spend the night with him, and if nothing else you always ate breakfast together, so when you didn't show up last night and you were nowhere to be found this morning he was furious that you'd blown him off. Now he was spending his entire walk from the castle to the lake ruminating over it, piling on every perceived slight over the last few days, including the way he saw you talking to a group of guys from Durmstrang in the Great Hall yesterday, causing him to involuntarily curl his hands into fists at his side.

His friends walked beside him, surrounding him in a sort of semicircle, but moving in complete silence; they knew better than to try to say anything to him when he was in a mood like this. Before long, Pansy came running to meet them, nearly out of breath as she said, exasperated, "I couldn't fucking find her. She's not anywhere in our dormitory, in the library, I don't know where she's gone." Concern and frustration laced her voice as she looked at the group and then up at Mattheo.

This wasn't like you.

You had been Mattheo's #1 supporter throughout the whole tournament, helping him prepare, cheering him on, jumping into his arms the moment he'd defeated his dragon, and generally always glued to his side. In fact, you were always glued to all of their sides, the group of you being nearly inseparable, so having you missing made all of the boys feel shifty and on edge as they looked at one another.

Fear bloomed in Mattheo's chest. And the feeling of fear when it came to you did not sit well with him. He didn't want to feel afraid, to feel vulnerable when it came to you, so he opted to shove the feeling down, keeping instead with anger which was much easier and more natural to him.

"I don't have time for this" he muttered, quickening his pace as they all scrambled to keep up with him.

The biting wind whipped through his dark curls and stung his cheeks as he stood on the platform above the lake, staring into the middle-distance of the dark and choppy waves. Students and staff alike were cheering and shouting their encouragement for their champions, but he was completely zoned out, his mind bouncing back and forth between your lingering absence and the task ahead of him. He only perked up when Dumbledore's loud voice rang out over the crowd.

"Welcome to the second task!" it radiated.

"Last night something was stolen from each of our champions, a treasure of sorts—"

Mattheo's heart plummeted so fast into his stomach that he subconsciously grasped at his chest. A treasure? There wasn't a thing he owned that he valued enough to call a treasure, not a single thing in his life that held that much weight... except you. You were undeniably his treasure. He looked back into the murky water of the Black Lake... it couldn't be... he thought ... surely they wouldn't... as Dumbledore's voice continued.

"—These four treasures, one for each champion, now lie on the bottom of the Black Lake—" Mattheo's stomach lurched with what little breakfast he'd been able to eat as his eyes shot to Pansy's in the crowd in enough time to see her clasp her hand to her mouth as she pieced the situation together.

"—In order to win, each champion need only find their treasure and return to the surface. Simple enough. Except for this. They will have but one hour to do so and one hour only. After that, they'll be on their own. No magic will save them."

Mattheo's feet were moving before Dumbledore said another word, sprinting towards the water because fuck this stupid tournament, and fuck the geezer for thinking he could take you away from him, that he could put you in danger.

"You may begin at the sound of the cannon."

BOOM!

Mattheo heard the blast as his body hit the water, diving headfirst into the waves without bothering to cast a spell, without a care to what he'd find within the foreboding depths.

The cold shocked his system, but his heart was hammering for plenty of other reasons as he pulled his body through the fierce current, his strong arms and legs working against the waves.

For a minute he was surrounded in dark nothingness. He could feel rather than see that he wasn't alone in the water, occasionally sensing something moving on either side of him, but he didn't have time, you didn't have time for him to care. His lungs started to burn and he pressed his wand to his neck, casting a spell frantically so as not to waste another second.

After swimming at an impossible pace for so long he wondered if there even was a bottom to the lake, he heard an ethereal sound, like singing and changed course to swim towards it, which brought him to a large clearing where he could see merpeople swimming around. The few nearest him whipped their heads toward him, surprised at his presence as they turned to face him fully. He dared them, dared any fucking one of them to come near him, welcomed it actually, a chance to take out his rage, but they steered clear, perhaps sensing it would be a losing battle despite the tritons they carried and their razor-sharp teeth.

He swam on, his muscles straining, aching with the exertion of pulling his weight through the thick water at such an unwavering and desperate pace, but the feeling faded, drained from him, as four distinct figures came into view, four bodies, tethered and floating in the water, their hair moving eerily around their faces, their bodies stiff and still, like corpses.

He identified you immediately and he swam harder and harder until he was close enough to touch you. He brushed a hand against your cheek; your skin held a blueish tint and your face was expressionless, void of the smile that you always had for him, that reached your eyes, that lit up your face, the absence of it was enough to make his eyes sting in a way that had nothing to do with the brackish water.

He grasped your stiff form, the resistance of your body against his continuing to mess with his mind as he sent a spell to sever the rope that secured you and tried not to think about how rigid you felt in his arms.

His ability to breath underwater didn't matter for shit, because he was certain he didn't breath the entire way back, climbing harder and harder as he carried your weight with him, desperate to reach the surface, desperate to save you, thinking the entire time how fucking foolish he'd been to spend even one second mad at you today.

Finally, he could see the light of the surface, the grey clouds in the sky reflecting in the waves, and after a final series of strong kicks he broke through the current.

Immediately, he felt you come alive again in his arms, spluttering and coughing as you grasped for him.

"M-Matty!?" you said hysterically, the cold and fear in your voice setting his heart in a vice as your eyes fluttered open and you looked around in confusion at your surroundings. "What happened?! Where—?!"

"—It's okay, you're okay, you're safe" he said, pulling you against him, keeping you both afloat even as you rocked in the waves and he gasped deeply for air.

"C'mere, c'mon" he said, swimming with you in his embrace towards the platform, anxious to get you out of the freezing water.

The crowd had erupted into cheers when you'd breached the surface, and they were announcing that Mattheo was the champion by a long shot, not having been in the water for more than 20 minutes, the other champions still completely unaccounted for. But hearing talk of the competition and seeing everyone's ignorance about the whole situation as they clapped and smiled was pushing him to his limit as he hoisted you up to Pansy who greeted you with a thick towel.

Mattheo pulled himself out of the water, barely taking time to wrap a towel around his shoulders before grabbing three more and pulling them around you. You laughed under the heavy bundle, even as your shivering continued uncontrollably. "I-I'm okay, I-I'm okay" you said, trying to reassure him, even as you noticed that he wouldn't meet your eyes.

"Buncha fucking idiots" you heard him muttering as he rubbed your arms before he stooped down and swept you off your feet bridal style, one hand around your waist, the other holding on to your legs. The crowd cheered again, erupting in a sigh of "awws" at the gesture until he began barreling towards them.

"Matty?" you asked, concerned, "Where are we—?"

"—Anywhere but here" he growled as people began pushing each other to get out of his way.

"Mr. Riddle!" McGonagall chided, chasing after you both as you watched her from over his shoulder, urging him to stop as a couple of other professors followed in pursuit.

He veered towards the raised platform where the headmasters were seated, coming to a brief stop in front of Dumbledore who had stood to his feet.

"You are out of your fucking mind!" Mattheo spat at him.

Several people around you gasped, even Igor Karkaroff had the wherewithal to look surprised, impressed even, before Mattheo walked away, marching right off the platform and back towards the school as the entire crowd watched you go.

You could tell Mattheo was tired, beyond tired, physically, emotionally; you could feel his arms shaking against your weight.

"Matty, I can walk, it's okay" you said quietly, but he wouldn't let you go, wouldn't set you down, wouldn't even respond to you or meet your eyes. So you resigned yourself to resting your head on his shoulder, nuzzling against his neck which seemed to relax him a bit.

He carried you all the way to his room, making his way to the bathroom where he finally set you down and immediately began running you a hot bath. Wordlessly, he found a towel and a set of his clothes for you to wear, placing them at the edge of the tub before leaving without a word, closing the door gently behind him.

You looked anxiously at the closed door, aware that something was very very wrong, but also acknowledging that he might need a minute, and that you still couldn't feel the tips of your fingers or toes, so you resigned yourself to the hot water.

It felt heavenly, as did washing the muck of the lake off your skin and out of your hair. You reveled in the smell of his soap, like cedar and evergreen, but you were too anxious to sit there any longer than necessary, quickly pulling on his sweatpants and sweatshirt that engulfed your frame as you toweled your hair dry and pushed the door open.

Mattheo was seated at the edge of his bed, still dripping wet, his body shaking noticeably as he stared at the ground. He glanced up when he heard you, visibly relaxing a bit as he took in your warm, rosy cheeks and your soft smile, his mind flashing for only a moment to your unsmiling rigid form floating in the water, trying to reconcile that version of you with the one in front of him.

You approached him slowly, moving to stand between his legs as you took his face in your warm hands, tilting it to look at you. He had a strained, puzzled expression on his face as his eyes drank you in before his hands came to rest on your waist.

"Babe—" you started.

"—I love you" he said.

Your heart somersaulted over the words you'd never heard him say before as you let out a small breath, your hand moving to cover your mouth in shock as your eyes widened.

"I'm-I'm a fucking wreck for you" he continued, laughing humorlessly as he shook his head. "Today... really fucked me up. I thought I'd lost you, I thought..." he paused, getting quiet "...The way you looked down there, alone, miles under the water, surrounded by all sorts of shit" he shook his head harder like he could unlive the memory of it all.

"I should have told you sooner, because I've known for awhile, for a long fucking time, but I've been too scared to say it, too scared that you don't remotely feel the same way, but that doesn't matter anymore, nothing fucking matters other than you hearing me say it, today, every day, I love you, YN." His eyes met yours finally, wide and sincere. "With everything I've got, I love you."

"I love you too!—" you whispered, and the words were barely out of your mouth before he pressed his cold lips to yours, pulling you into him so tightly you let out an involuntary squeak as your arms moved to wrap around his neck and he fell backwards onto his bed, continuing to mumble against your lips "Iloveyou, loveyou, I loveyou", smushing your kisses with his affectionate words until you were laughing with joy, the sound finally reassuring him that you were his, and that you were okay.

♡

@kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii, @darlingshecried, @girlblogging777, @foivetimesacharm, @clar2aa, @broadwaybaby123, @slytherinscreamqueen

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

walk him like a dog (s.o.b.)

Pairing: Sirius Orion Black x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Sirius Black has always been a dog—but the thing about dogs? They're loyal to only one person: Their owner

A/N: um this whole fic is just me calling sirius a dog so be prepared for that

credits to @cursed-carmine for the divider

The locker room buzzed with low voices and nervous energy. Players paced, adjusted gloves, tightened goggles, cracked knuckles. The scent of polish, sweat, and adrenaline filled the air. Green and silver glinted off every surface, and somewhere above, the distant roar of the crowd was beginning to rise.

You stood in front of your team, arms crossed over your chest, chin held high, calm as ever.

And when you spoke, the room snapped to attention.

"Alright. Listen up."

Voices cut off immediately. All eyes turned to you.

“You hit hard. You fly clean. No stunts unless I call them. You’ve worked your asses off for weeks—rain, snow, bruises, broken brooms—and today, it pays off.”

You paced slowly, gaze locking with your Beaters, your Chasers, your Keeper. One by one. Like loading a weapon.

“We’re going to show them—without a single inch of doubt—who’s taking the Quidditch Cup home this year.”

You let that hang, the tension curling in your teammates’ shoulders like springs wound tight.

Then your voice dropped, sharp and cutting:

"We're going to send those bleeding badgers crying back to their mummies."

That broke the tension. Laughter and jeers rippled through the room, players bumping shoulders, fists meeting palms with dull thuds of anticipation.

You smirked.

Held out your hand.

“Let’s turn those badgers black and blue.”

One by one, gloves slammed down over yours.

“Slytherin!”

You were carried into the infirmary without protest by Mulciber, allowing him to gently lower you onto the bed. Without saying much else, you interlaced your fingers neatly over your lap, settling in as you waited for Madam Pomfrey to arrive.

She seemed preoccupied with the other beds, where four more occupants were already receiving care.

“Nasty fall, (L/N)?” Potter’s voice broke through the quiet, a teasing edge to it, “Would hate for you to miss out on Quidditch for the rest of the season.”

You smirked, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Potter? But sadly, no—just caught a nasty Bludger to the side when I grabbed the Snitch. So, I guess you Lions have no choice but to lose to us eventually.”

Your eyes flicked past him to the bed beside where Remus Lupin lay, looking far worse off than the rest of the Marauders—pale and sweaty, with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. Without realizing, your lips pouted, curiosity flickering as you wondered what had gone wrong to land all four of them in the hospital wing.

Before you could study his wounds more closely, your line of sight was blocked by another presence.

Black.

Compared to the others, he looked almost unharmed, hands on his hips as he stared down at you with a cocky smirk.

“You haven’t given me an ounce of your attention, princess,” He said, voice dripping with amusement, “Only bantering with my best mate and mooning at Moony. Should I be offended?”

“Wasn’t aware I owed you my attention, Black.”

His grin widened. Typical.

It wasn’t the first time your sharp tongue had reeled him in like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sirius Black didn’t know how to leave well enough alone—and you had no intention of making it easy for him.

Merlin, he lived for it.

Before he could come up with something clever in return, Madam Pomfrey appeared at your side with a soft cluck of her tongue and a no-nonsense look in her eyes.

“Caught a Bludger, did you?” She muttered, her tone clipped as she summoned a vial and some bandages from a nearby shelf, “You lot play like it’s war.”

“I think anyone can admire the dedication to the game, Madam Pomfrey.” You replied mildly.

“Not when it might break your ribs, Miss (L/N).” She snapped.

Then, more gently, “Lift your shirt. Let’s see the damage.”

You didn’t hesitate—casually unbuttoning the lower half of your Quidditch jersey and lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the mottled bruise blooming along your side. It was ugly—deep and dark with angry purple edges, already beginning to swell.

His eyes darted instinctively toward the injury, then immediately away—head turning sharply to the side, jaw tight. His entire body went rigid, as if even the suggestion of your bare skin had turned his brain to static.

You smirked, voice syrup-sweet, “What’s the matter, Black? Shy?”

“I’m many things,” He muttered, ears tinged faintly red, “but I am trying to be respectful. For once.”

Your eyes flicked to him just once. He was still looking away—but his jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and you could feel the heat of his focus even if it wasn’t on your bare skin anymore.

When Pomfrey finally stepped back, she wiped her hands briskly on her apron and nodded, “You’ll bruise badly, but the swelling will ease by morning. Try not to exacerbate it for the time being."

"Understood. Thank you." You replied, voice even.

You slid off the edge of the bed with fluid grace, smoothing your jersey back into place with a flick of your fingers.

You nodded once toward her retreating form in quiet thanks, then turned to go.

You were hardly surprised when Sirius followed you out.

After weeks of this little push and pull—this dangerous game you’d both been playing—you weren’t even remotely surprised that he’d finally snapped the leash you’d had so delicately wrapped around his neck.

So now, here you were. Back pressed to the cold, rough stone of a quiet Hogwarts corridor, Sirius’s arms caging you in like he was the predator in this scenario.

But the truth was clear.

You were the one in control.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. You just blinked at him—slow, deliberate, almost lazy. And though your expression was frustratingly unreadable, there was something ghosting over your lips that drove him mad. A smirk that wasn’t a smirk. A glimmer of smugness that you refused to make obvious. It was maddening. Intoxicating.

Had it been anyone else he’d backed into a wall like this, they’d have giggled, blushed, reached up to tangle their fingers in his hair with wide eyes and parted lips.

But not you.

Your hands were tucked neatly behind your back like you were entertaining a child’s tantrum, waiting for him to exhaust himself. Always poised. Always untouchable. Always in control.

And God, it was driving him insane.

What he wouldn’t give to be caught in the eye of your storm—while the world bent and broke around you, you’d remain untouched, divine. He wanted to be yours. Completely. Worshipfully. Pathetically.

“What do you say we stop pussyfooting around and go on a date, (L/N)?” He asked, his voice low and rough with the effort it took to sound casual.

At that, you smiled—finally, a real smile, sly and slow like honey sliding down a knife.

“Sorry, Black,” You said, tone sweet as poison, “I don’t think I’d be interested.”

His brow twitched. “That’s not what you’ve been signalling these past few weeks.” He muttered, leaning in—just enough to try and catch your lips with his. Only to feel your finger press firmly to his mouth, stopping him dead.

He stared at you, lips brushing your fingertip, pupils blown. His breath caught, chest rising sharply. His eyes dropped to your mouth again and he clenched his jaw tight enough to ache—because if he didn’t, he might actually whine. Might beg.

“Why not?” He asked, voice hoarse and low, barely more than a whisper now.

You tilted your head, your smile that of a cat watching a bird flutter too close to the ground.

“I’m a very jealous woman, Sirius,” You said, voice light, playful—deadly, “And I have a reputation to uphold. Can’t have you embarrassing me with all your… side chicks.”

He swallowed hard. The words hit like a slap and a caress. His brain fogged. The rush of blood thundered in his ears, and the air between you crackled.

You pouted suddenly, lips pursed in a way that made his knees threaten to buckle. And then—casually, cruelly—you reached up and gave his cheek a light pat.

“Sorry, puppy.”

And with that, you slipped out from under his arm like water through fingers, walking away without looking back.

Sirius stood frozen, throat dry, staring as your hips swayed down the corridor.

Utterly wrecked.

Something changed after that night in the corridor.

Well—he did.

Not immediately, of course. First, he sulked. Dramatically. Unproductively. For a good day and a half.

He spent most of it brooding in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fireplace like it had personally betrayed him, ignoring three different girls who tried to sidle up beside him and ask what was wrong. (The fourth didn’t bother asking—just sat herself on his lap. That earned her a single-word dismissal and a truly withering look.)

But after that?

He changed.

The flirting stopped. The lingering touches in alcoves, the smug little smirks in the corridors, the midnight broom closet rendezvous—all gone. He stopped accepting folded notes spritzed with cheap perfume and sealed with lipstick kisses. Stopped tossing winks like knuts. Stopped acting like every hallway was a catwalk and every girl in Hogwarts his audience.

The last girl he even entertained—a sweet, overeager Hufflepuff fifth-year who tried to earn his attention by helping him with Transfiguration homework—had burst into tears when someone joked that she must have “turned him gay.”

He just wasn’t interested anymore.

Because for once in his life, Sirius Black didn’t want meaningless sex.

He wanted you.

And the castle knew it.

Even though you hadn’t spared him so much as a glance since that night in the corridor. Even though you walked past him in the Great Hall like he was furniture.

Everyone still knew.

Which meant, of course, all eyes had turned to you.

Wondering when you’d notice.

Wondering when you’d give in.

Or whether, as Sirius feared most of all…

You never would.

You loved partying.

Loved the bass so loud it rattled your ribs, the way lights flickered like spells mid-duel, the sway of bodies pressed close on the dance floor. You loved shaking ass with your friends, loved the wild screams and clinks of raised glasses. Loved the moments where you stepped back, drink in hand, watching it all unfold—cataloguing the gossip in real time. Who was kissing who. Who shouldn't be. Who’d be crying in the bathroom by midnight.

But there was a distinct difference when the party was thrown in your honor.

The moment you stepped into the Slytherin common room, the room erupted. Cheers ricocheted off the walls, your little black dress catching the green and silver lights just right, and your open jersey—your surname stitched in bold—billowed like a cape.

You’d never been prouder of that name.

Not until Remus’s voice boomed over the speakers earlier that day, full of awe:

“(L/N) has made the miraculous catch of the Snitch—Slytherin wins!”

The memory played over and over in your head as your teammates lifted you onto their shoulders, parading you through the room like the queen you were. You laughed, kissed the golden Snitch in your hand, and smudged your lipstick across it with zero shame.

The party moved on around you, wild and electric, and you eventually found yourself perched on a velvet ottoman, nursing a drink and watching the chaos unfold with your usual sharpened gaze—until the Marauders appeared.

“Good game, (L/N),” James grinned, raising his cup, “That was some mighty flying. Looking forward to beating you in the finals.”

You scoffed, but smiled, “Thanks, Potter. Though I can’t see you being this cordial when Slytherin mops the floor with you.”

Then your gaze slid to Sirius, who hadn’t spoken yet.

“I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve come over tonight, Black,” You purred, circling your finger around the rim of your glass lazily.

He grinned, wolfish and easy, “Didn’t want to be just another forgettable face in a crowd of nobodies.”

You chuckled, “Sure you didn’t just forget about me? Busy fending off your admirers, I’m sure.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to that gravelly register that drove you mad, “Sweetheart, everyone here knows there’s only one person I have eyes for.”

You were about to volley something back—something sharp and slick and just flirtatious enough to make him twitch—when the atmosphere cracked with a loud crash and an even louder voice.

“IT WAS A FLOP!”

Across the room, Ravenclaw’s captain, Muccullen—clearly drunk and still stinging from his loss today—was making an embarrassing scene.

“I would’ve caught that damn Snitch if the snakes didn’t play dirty!” He barked, sloshing firewhisky onto the carpet.

You barely blinked. Just raised a brow, unimpressed, letting his tantrum unfold like a child kicking their legs in a supermarket.

“(L/N) thinks she’s all that,” He continued, voice rising, “but that stupid bitch just got lucky!”

Now that made your brow twitch.

You weren’t planning to dignify it with a response. But then Sirius was suddenly in front of you, jaw tight, a quiet fury radiating off him like a pulse.

“Watch your mouth.”

Muccullen blinked slowly, swaying. “If it isn’t her mangy mutt,” He slurred, sneering, “You’re just as pathetic, Black. Chasing after her like a dog when she doesn’t even want you. Face it—the only reason she gets anywhere in life or on that bloody broom is ’cause that slag keeps guys like you wrapped around her finger.”

That much was true. Sirius was so tightly wrapped around your finger you could flick it and he’d bark.

Which is why Muccullen shouldn’t have been surprised when Sirius grabbed him by the collar.

You stepped forward then, calm and unbothered, resting a single hand on Sirius’s arm.

“Down, boy.”

His grip loosened—just barely. But it was enough.

You turned your gaze on Muccullen, voice cool and dangerous.

“You really know how to ruin a party, don’t you, Muccullen?” You said smoothly, “I won today because I was faster. Simple as that. You don’t want to get pummeled by Bludgers while chasing the Snitch? That’s a conversation to have with your Beaters. Go sober up. Losing on the Quidditch pitch is one thing. This? This is just pathetic.”

Sirius shoved him back as he let go, and Muccullen stumbled off with the grace of a wounded troll.

You exhaled, turning to Sirius.

And yeah… he looked hot.

Leather jacket clinging to broad shoulders. Hair a bit mussed. Breathing heavy like he wanted someone to give him an excuse to finish the fight. All for you.

He looked good defending your honor. Too good.

You sipped your drink with finality, “Well. On that note, I’m gonna turn in for the night.”

Sirius visibly deflated, like a puppy who’d been told no to a treat.

“Yeah, my roommates are gonna be partying all night,” You added, giving a theatrical sigh, “Figured I might enjoy the empty dorm for once.”

You nodded to Remus and James—who were both looking equally exhausted and wildly entertained—and started walking toward the staircase.

But you didn’t make it far before glancing over your shoulder.

Sure enough, Sirius was already staring.

You smirked. Winked. And then you lifted your hand, curled a single finger.

Come.

His face lit up. Like Christmas and fireworks and every wish he’d never said out loud just came true.

Behind him, James cackled. Remus shook his head, amused.

“Go on, lover boy!” James shouted, slapping him on the back.

And Sirius? He sprinted.

By the time he caught up, you were outside your dorm, and his arms were already curling around your waist as you let out a soft giggle.

He buried his face in your neck, breath hot, lips brushing your skin.

“You better take me out on a date tomorrow.” You murmured.

He smiled against your throat, “Anywhere. Anytime. Just say the word.”

Bonus:

If anyone had ever been afraid of the Marauders—afraid of Sirius Black, the uncollared dog of Gryffindor House, heir to the House of Black, all sharp teeth and dangerous smirks—all they had to do was witness how he behaved with his girlfriend.

The only girl who’d ever managed to train him.

It was almost comical, the way Sirius’s entire face lit up the second he spotted you in the Gryffindor common room. His smirk melted into a wide, boyish grin, wild grey eyes softening like morning light breaking through fog.

“Baby!” He practically shouted, immediately abandoning James mid-sentence and sprinting across the room like a man possessed.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before your armchair, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your lap like it was the safest place in the world.

You giggled—an uncharacteristic sound, at least to everyone else. But for Sirius, it was as familiar as his own heartbeat. You ran your fingers through his thick dark hair, nails scratching gently along his scalp, and Sirius all but purred, sighing into the space between your thighs like the tension had been holding him hostage all day.

“What are you doing here?” He mumbled, voice muffled against your legs.

“Class ended early,” You replied smoothly, a smile tugging at your lips, “and I wanted to see my favourite boy.”

Sirius groaned dramatically, turning his head to press soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your wrist, right against your fluttering pulse. Like he was grounding himself with the feel of your blood beneath his lips.

Across from you, James flopped onto the couch with a snort, “Merlin, (L/N), you’ve got him trained better than a show dog.”

You didn’t even look up from Sirius as you smiled, sharp and slow.

“Oh, she knows.” Remus added from his spot by the fireplace, flipping a page in his book with a smirk.

Sirius hummed, clinging tighter to your waist like he couldn’t stand to be even a millimeter away.

You leaned back in the armchair, letting him sprawl across your lap like a pampered prince, fingers carding through his hair as if you had all the time in the world.

“You’re clingy today.” You murmured, not unkindly.

“Missed you.” Sirius said simply, lifting his head just enough to look at you—like you hung the bloody moon.

You raised an eyebrow, tapping your nails against his jaw, “Did something happen?”

He pulled one of your hands to his mouth again, pressing a kiss to each knuckle like it was sacred ritual, “Nah. Just tired of pretending not to be obsessed with you.”

“Well, you’re doing a shit job of hiding it.” James snarked.

“I know.” He replied, unapologetic.

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[ellecdc]

The Bolter

Sirius Black x fem!reader who meet again [5.5k words]

prompt: poly!wolfstar or just Sirius x reader in which they were friends with benefits but it was obvious they loved each other even though they acted like they weren’t. Then, reader finds out shes pregnant and before telling them, they do something stupid. so reader runs away for a few months. When she comes back (only bc she had to for some reason) shes like 6-7 months pregnant

CW: secret pregnancy, angst, FWB to strangers to lovers, second chance fic, post war trauma, both Sirius and reader are meeesssssssssssyyyyy in this! I don't approve of what they've done but I understand it

“So…she’s coming back?” Sirius asked cautiously, focusing more on the condensation pooling on the coaster underneath his pint than the concerned gazes of his two best friends. 

“Well, I don’t know if she’s coming back, but she’ll be here for Harry’s birthday.” James mollified, sharing a nervous look with Remus.

“Right.” Sirius murmured around a swallow; throat tight and dry though neither the pint nor the pitcher of water in front of him looked as though they’d be able to help him with the matter. 

“Are you going to be alright?” Remus queried, and Sirius offered him the most arrogant scoff he could muster; he missed by a long shot.

“Of course I’m going to be alright.” He huffed. “Why? Can’t two friends see each other after five and a half months of silence?” 

“Sirius-” James started, but Sirius carried on. 

“She’s the only one who’s been silent, you know?” Though he knew that they did indeed both know. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried reaching out.” 

“Pads.” Remus offered consolingly, looking frustratingly like he was going to reach a hand out to Sirius as if he were some over tired toddler on the brink of a meltdown.

“Stop, no I- I’m fine, honest.” He insisted as he took a steadying breath. “I- you… talked to her, then?”

James and Remus shared another look before James allowed the segue. 

“Mostly by owl, but she has spoken on the phone with Lily a few times.” 

Sirius nodded as he considered this; considered the number of owls Sirius had sent that had gone unanswered - perhaps even unopened if the silence meant anything at all.

“She’s…okay?” 

Remus let out a sigh as he shot Sirius a tight smile that looked more like a grimace. “She’s…vague.”

“She doesn’t share a whole lot.” James agreed. “Says she’s fine, things are good. Mostly asks about…all of us, Harry.” 

“She’s still staying with that great aunt,” Remus added, “helping her with the property.” 

“She seeing anyone?” There was no point in pretending that wasn’t the most pressing matter in Sirius’ mind; of course it was. And as angry and bitter as the idea made Sirius, it would have been his own fault, his own doing. He had no one to blame but himself. 

And he’d have to live the rest of his life knowing he was the one who let you slip away - pushed you away - right into the arms of someone else. 

“Not that she’s mentioned.” Remus responded honestly; he couldn’t say for sure that you weren’t, but if you were, you clearly hadn’t said anything about it. 

“Right.” Sirius offered shortly. 

“Pads, I…we would understand if it's too hard for you to see her. If you can’t come-”

“Don’t be daft.” Sirius scoffed deploringly. “I’m not going to miss my godson’s birthday. If anyone should be missing it, it should be her; I’ve been here for the past four and a half months, she’s the one who fucked off for good.”

“Sirius-”

“I don’t understand why you had to invite her!” Sirius shouted then, startling even himself when he realised how breathless he sounded all of a sudden. 

James smiled at him sadly; Sirius wished he’d stop doing that. “We wanted all of Harry’s uncles and his aunt to be there, Sirius…it’s important, yeah? We…we almost didn’t get this chance.”

Sirius could feel a wicked migraine coming on; between talking about you, the close calls and the fact that the group of you were all alive following the war by nothing but chance, and the fact that the person Sirius was most angry with was himself, he downed the rest of his pint and flagged the server in favour of having to look at the pitiful gazes being shot at him by Remus and James.

Sirius couldn’t tell if he was eager for Harry’s second birthday or dreading it. But like it or not, Sirius was going to be seeing you again. 

It had felt like a good idea at the time.

It felt beyond foolish now, but it had felt like a good idea at the time. 

*ೃ༄.ೃ࿐

“Sirius, we just won. We just won, why do you have to leave now?” You practically begged as you followed Sirius through his flat. 

“Because if I don’t get out now, I’m going to be stuck here for eternity.” He all but spat at you as he shoved articles of clothing into his duffle rather haphazardly. You felt like grabbing the bag from him and folding them properly if the act wouldn’t leave you feeling like you were aiding and abetting his abandoning you.

“But what about James? And Remus? What about Harry? You fought this war for them, and they for you - we just got them back!”

“And they’ll be here when I’m ready to come home!” Sirius shouted; turning to look at you with wild, red rimmed eyes. 

“What about me?” You asked quietly, hating how small you sounded.

“What about you?” He asked; face falling painfully neutral. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought he was occluding. 

“I…I don’t know.” You started awkwardly, shrugging one shoulder. “I thought…maybe we’d have a chance now. To try?.”

“Y/N.” Sirius sighed as he rubbed harshly at his eyes; entire being oozed exhaustion at having to have this conversation with you. “Have I not been entirely clear about what this was between us?” 

“Right.” You agreed quickly, biting roughly on your lip and looking anywhere but at him as he let his hand fall away from his face. 

“It’s…it’s not you, doll-” but even your humourless scoff didn’t derail him “I’m not the kind to settle down and be content I- I wouldn’t be enough for you.”

“I’m not asking you for any more than what we have, Sirius-”

“Yes you are.”

“-I just want you to stay.”

“That’s too much for me.” He stated; his voice never raised though he may as well have screamed it at you. “I cannot sit here and play house, I cannot be that guy for you.”

“Cannot or will not?” You asked quietly, regretting the question the second it came out of your mouth and he looked at you with nothing but pity in his eyes. 

“Y/N…”

“I’m sorry I asked.” You let out with a chuckle as you harshly wiped tears from under your eyes. 

“It’s…it’s not forever, yeah? I just…I can’t see myself being happy here…not right now, at least; not for a while.” 

“Where will you go?” Your voice grated painfully as it came out, but you tried to keep an air of nonchalance about you. You wouldn’t look at him, but you could see his shoulders shrug helplessly. 

“I don’t know…everywhere. Anywhere.”

Anywhere was better than stuck here with you, apparently. 

“I hope it’s nice, wherever it is.” You offered, and you found that you meant it. As much as it hurt to say, you really, really meant it. Sirius had been fighting and running his entire life, and he finally won. If he wanted to celebrate his victory by taking off to be that rich, vague uncle who popped by with lavish gifts every so often, who were you to deny him? 

You loved him.

You were in love with him.

You loved him enough to let him go. 

*ೃ༄.ೃ࿐

He had sent James a postcard a few weeks later. Turns out he started in the South of France; his family had a home there that had been left untouched by the war, and Sirius was going to start by figuring out what to do with the property. 

And you? Well, you found out you were pregnant. 

You suppose it was a small mercy that Sirius wasn’t here to know; you’re sure it would have hurt more hearing him tell you he was leaving if there were two of you he couldn’t find it in him to love. You would have hated it even more if he felt trapped into staying with you just for this.

But all this meant was that you couldn’t stay, either. 

You supposed that was alright, though; the life you wanted to build here was with Sirius. You loved your friends, but you had a little one to think about now, too. 

You made up a story about a great aunt needing help tending to her property and wishing to be closer to your relatives now that you could be, now that it was safe. No one questioned it, likely because Remus had done the same following the war; moving back home to help his dad and ailing mother tend the property in whatever ways he could. 

You found yourself a little cottage, you wrote to the boys and had the occasional phone call with Lily, and you grew.

It had felt like a good idea at the time. 

But now you were almost six months pregnant and returning home for the first time since you moved to celebrate your nephew’s birthday with all of your closest friends, the love of your life whose child you were carrying, and none of them knew. 

You wondered if you should even go, but the thought of missing out on sweet Harry’s second birthday that the lot of you almost never got the chance to see made your throat constrict with tears you refused to shed since the war. 

You wondered if you should tell everyone before you arrived, but the thought of them all discussing you and your pregnancy without you being there left you feeling small and ashamed. 

You wondered if you should tell Sirius, but you looked over at the stack of unopened letters he had sent to you in the past four months - the first thin, perhaps a postcard, the second and third were thicker, the fourth was by far the thickest (like he had drafted an autobiography that he wanted you to proofread for him), the fifth was similar to the second, whilst the sixth (the last) couldn’t be more than one page - and wondered how the hell you’d even start that conversation after all this time.

Hey, remember me? Yeah, the bird who caught feelings during our friends with benefits situation that we both agreed would remain platonic amidst a battle for survival and then begged you to stay with no success? Well, whilst you’ve been off probably shagging every beautiful woman across the British Isles, I’ve been pregnant. Right, with your child. How was France, by the way? 

You swallowed around your gag reflex and groaned at your image in the mirror. You put on a pair of gingham pants with the baggiest band-tee you could find, planned on sucking in the best you could if anyone (when everyone) insisted on a hug and hoped to every deity that they all just assumed you’d been eating really well since the end of the war. 

You smoothed the fabric over your bump one last time before you left - looking at the proof that, if nothing else, you were protecting more than just yourself, and you let that be enough - before you grabbed Harry’s birthday present and called for Potter Manor, throwing a fistfull of floo powder into your fireplace and travelling by way of the flames. 

You could hear Harry squealing in delight in one of the adjacent rooms as you stepped into the floo reception room at Potter Manor; a smile taking over your face uninhibitedly at the sounds of the people you loved more than life itself, happy and celebrating.

How could you have gone so long without this? 

“Y/N!” Lily shrieked as she made for you, and you sucked in before returning her hug. “Merlin, you're glowing! Where’s your aunt's place again?” 

“Erm. Killarney.” You offered; not entirely untrue - you did have an aunt in Killarney. 

“Well,” she let out with a breath, eyes turning a touch glassy as they darted across your face, “it seems that Irish air’s been for you.” 

You smiled back at your friend before pulling her back in for another hug. “I’ve missed you, Lils.”

“Don’t let it go so long next time, yeah? We can come to you, too; I’m teaching James how to be a muggle, and Harry’s only had the odd burst of accidental magic yet. We could play the part in front of your aunt.” 

“I’d love that, Lily.” You responded earnestly. 

“Y/N!” James hollered then before you were being bodily tackled by the former quidditch chaser, a brief flash of anxiety at his hold around your stomach abating only when he relinquished his hold on you. “Where in the sodding hell have you been!?”

“Killarney.” Lily answered for you. 

“I love Killarney!” 

“Have you ever been to Killarney, Prongs?” Remus asked then, appearing in the door as he leaned against the archway. 

“No! But I love it there! I just know it!” 

“Hey Moony.” You greeted, quickly accepting his open arms and breathing him in.

“We’ve missed you.” He murmured into your hair, and you couldn’t help the traitorous hitch in your heart that he might’ve meant-

“Uncle Pafoo!” Harry squealed, suddenly standing right underneath you. 

“That’s right, Haz!” The voice that haunts your dreams called out. “Auntie is here!”

“Hullo, Harry!” You cheered as you picked him up, sucking in before settling on your hip. “Happy birthday, little dude.” 

“Am two!” He announced as he held up four fingers. 

“You are two! Way to go!” You laughed. “Is everyone here?” You asked the room, shooting Sirius a tight smile so you couldn’t be accused of hostility when your heart stuttered for an entirely different reason. 

He looked tired - a bone deep tired that no amount of sleep could rectify - and the bags under his eyes seemed to be chronic. But he was still so beautiful; his hair had grown slightly longer since the last time you’d seen it, the last time you’d run your fingers through it, the last time you’d brought sheers to it, and he donned more than a few new tattoos if the few you could see were enough to go by. 

You had to look away.

“Reg’s going to be by after work; his part-time student called in sick so he needed to be there to close the shop himself. Thankfully, they’re only open in the morning on Sunday’s.” Remus explained kindly.

“Good, it’ll be nice to see him.” You offered, and the room fell slightly awkward.

“Uncle Pafoo, aeroplane?” Harry asked then, and whatever exhaustion seemed to be plaguing Sirius vanished as he beamed at his godson. 

“Absolutely, little man!” He agreed, holding his arms out and taking Harry’s weight from you.

“Do you want something to drink, Y/N? Wine? Beer, Cider? Juice? Water?” James rapid fire, causing Lily to groan. 

“We just got her back, Potter. Do try to control yourself.” 

“Water would be great, Jamie. Thank you.” You laughed, following the group into the open concept kitchen-to-living room. 

Save the fact that you and Sirius seemed to be doing acrobatics to avoid each other, you were almost stunned at how easy and natural being back here felt. Regulus returned and the two of you shared friendly jibes, Lily caught you up on all of the drama at the Ministry, James strong armed you into agreeing to join them for their next pub quiz night, and Remus said that your old professors all wished you well. 

You loved your cottage - the home you’d built for yourself and your little one - but you found yourself feeling homesick for here, and you hadn’t even left yet.

You were leaning on your elbows against the kitchen island, watching Sirius and Regulus pretend to be knights in shining armour as they fought off a fire breathing dragon (Harry) to save the princess (James) when Remus appeared beside you and mirrored your stance. 

“It’s not the same without you, you know?” He murmured then. 

“But they seem to be alright.” You responded simply, and Remus allowed the two of you to fall into silence for a few beats.

“How far along are you?” 

You stood up straight and turned to stare at him in horror, only to see him smiling kindly at you. 

“How do you-”

“Lycanthropy - I could smell it on you.” He said with an embarrassed wrinkle of his nose. “I knew Lily was pregnant before she did.”

You shushed him and looked over your shoulder to ensure no one else could hear you.

“Come.” He said with a sigh, gently taking you by the elbow and ushering you out of the sliding doors to the back yard and closing it behind the two of you. 

“Remus-”

“Is it his?” He cut you off; his face held no judgement though perhaps just a touch of concern. For you or his best friend/virtual brother-in-law, you weren’t sure.

“Yes.” You whispered, not bothering to clarify who he was talking about; you both knew. 

Remus simply nodded as he looked you over. “Is that why you left?”

“He left first.” You hissed petulantly.

“He left you, but you left all of us.” Remus countered somewhat sternly. “Besides, I didn’t ask about him; is this why you left?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

“Because, Remus!” You shouted, tears flooding your vision as you turned to look at him. “Because he didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want me. I wasn’t going to force him to come back just because… just because.” 

“Don’t you think he should have been able to make that choice for himself?” Remus asked gently.

“He chose! He did choose! He told me he couldn’t play house, he told me he couldn’t be this person for me. I loved him enough to accept that. I loved him enough to let him go.”

“Loved?” Remus asked with a tilt of his head. “Past tense?” 

“Remus.” You groaned. “Please.”

“He came back for you, you know.” Remus pointed out. “He left you, you left us, but he came back for you.” 

“Stop it.”

“It’s true, Y/N.”

“And so what if it is?” You nearly sobbed. “So what if he did, Remus? What can I do? I can’t go back in time and change my mind, I can’t go back and fix this. He made choices, I made choices, and here we are.” 

Remus heaved a sigh and looked at you sadly. “I don't think either of you realise that your choices don’t have to remain permanent; there can be an expiration date on them.” 

You were catching your breath from your mini temper tantrum when you heard the glass door slide open, both you and Remus turning to see Sirius standing there almost shy - far shier than you’d ever seen him before.  

“Just talk to him? Okay? You..don’t have to tell him now, just…talk to him.” Remus whispered before heading towards the door, clapping Sirius on the back before disappearing back into the house. 

“Hey.” Sirius offered cautiously after a few beats of silence, coming to stand beside you as the two of you looked over the railing of the patio to the rest of the manor grounds. 

“Hey.” You returned dumbly, clearing your throat before continuing. “You…you look good, Sirius.”

Sirius scoffed, and you could feel your shoulder rising before you saw him smirk at you - if not somewhat sadly - cutting you a playful glare from the corner of his eye. “Did you take up lying there in Ireland?” 

You let out a breathy half-laugh. “I’m not lying.” 

“Then you need glasses. I look like shite.”

“You look tired.” You amended. 

“I’m exhausted.” He agreed, and the two of you lapsed into silence. 

“You look good, though.” He continued. “Healthy.”

You hummed in agreement. “Funny what not having to run on rations and broken hours of sleep on military cots does for a person.”

“Why haven’t I heard from you, Y/N?” He blurted then, turning his entire body to face you. 

“Sirius, I-”

“Everyone else has. You’ve spoken to Lily on the phone. James and Remus have gotten letters. Even Reg got a postcard for his birthday.” 

“I’m sorry.” Was all you could manage to say.

“I wrote to you.” He continued. “Letters, a lot. Did you get them?”

You nodded your head yes shamefully.

“Did you read them?”

You felt your heart splinter at how hopeful and heartbroken he sounded over it. You felt like scum of the earth when you shook your head no, and he let out a sigh.

“I guess that makes me feel a little bit better, then.” He said as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. 

You found yourself taking a step away from him when you asked “why does that make you feel better?”

He let out a humourless laugh that forced smoke from his lips. “At least now I know that my begging for a second chance, begging you to come home, professing my love for you isn’t what kept you away.”

“Sirius-”

“I messed up, Y/N.” He declared earnestly. “I…I was fucking scared, terrified. I’d spent so much of my life living with one foot on the threshold of hell that after the war, I didn’t know how to live amongst the undead.”

He took a moment to catch his breath as if he’d run all the way here just to tell you something. “And I ran. I bolted, I…”

“You left.” You finished for him. 

“I left.” He agreed. “I… I didn’t know, Y/N.”

“Didn’t know what?” You asked as you choked back tears.

“Didn’t know what I had, or what I wanted. Or that I had everything that I wanted.”

“And you do, now? You know what you want?” You asked, and a look of determination painted his features as he met your gaze head on.

“For my entire life, I had never known what family meant, so I wasn’t even aware that I’d created my own with all of you until I’d risked it all. I was so sure I didn’t want to be like my parents that I never realised I may actually…want to be a parent someday. I was so sure I didn’t want to be my father that I never realised I actually did want to be a partner someday. I was so certain I’d never know what true love felt like that I didn’t even realise I had it right here all along with you.” 

“Sirius-”

“I messed up. I left. But what I don’t understand is why you did. Or why you stayed away.” He took a step towards you with his cigarette long forgotten in one of his hands, the ash threatening to burn his fingers before you plucked it and stubbed it out on the stone railing. He barely flinched. “Why’d you go?”

“I didn’t want to sit around and wait for you, Sirius. I- it hurt, I was hurt. And then-”

“I’m sorry.” He offered quickly, but you shook your head.

“I’m not telling you this for you to be sorry, I just-”

“I came back for you.”

“But it wasn’t just about me anymore, Sirius!” You shouted then, and you watched his brows furrow before his face fell in horror. 

“You’re seeing someone.” He asked, though he phrased it as more of a statement; like he’d been expecting it.

“I’m not seeing anyone, Sirius.” You sighed.

“Then why’d you leave? Why’d you stay away?”

“Because I’m pregnant.” You blurted, and Sirius fell silent. “I’m almost six months pregnant.”

“Six-” He started, eyes falling to your stomach still hidden behind the baggy article of clothing before you smoothed the fabric over your ever rounding bump. “Six months. Six…”

You let him do the maths in the head as he stared hard at your stomach like he was sitting in divination and it was a crystal ball that might just give him the answers if only he stared at it long enough.

“It’s mine?” He finally concluded.

“Yes.” You whispered.

“It’s mine. You’re pregnant, it’s mine.” He murmured, before his eyes met yours again. “You’re pregnant with my child?”

“Right.” You agreed, and he crumpled to a heap on the floor. 

“Sirius Orion Black,” Sirius heard Remus hiss, clearly hovering somewhere over him, “I swear to Godric if you do not wake up and eat some of this godsdamned vanilla cake you bought, your brother is going to skin you alive.” 

“It’s true.” James agreed from somewhere on Sirius’ other side. “He actually ran to the store when he found out you bought vanilla because he knew Remus wouldn’t eat any of it. Remus is going to get his chocolate cake, and you’re going to get egged.” 

“Shut up.” Sirius hissed as he scrunched his eyes closed. “Fuck.”

“How do you feel, mate?” James asked rather jovially as he clapped him roughy on the shoulder.

“Like hell.”

“Why’s that?” Remus joined in.

“Because I was in the middle of a dream and you sods woke me up going on about cake.” He muttered as he opened his eyes, realising then that he’d been propped up on a number of cushions in one of Lily and James’ spare rooms.

“S’he awake?” Lily whispered, and Sirius craned his neck to see you and Lily poke your heads into the room.

“Oh my gods.” Sirius breathed as he sat up, likely far too fast for someone who fell unconscious mere moments ago. “Oh my gods, you’re actually here?” 

“Did you hit your head, mate?” James asked as he prodded at Sirius’ head, causing Sirius to swat his arms away as he shifted towards the edge of the bed.

“You’re here.” He whispered as you slowly made your way into the room.

“I’m here.” You offered cautiously, eyes darting around at your oldest friends like there might be some secret threat lurking in the room.

“You’re pregnant…” He tried then, punching the air right out of Lily and James who both spun to stare at you in shock.

You smoothed the fabric of your shirt over your midsection again to expose a very obvious (now that everyone could actually see it) baby bump. 

“Oh my gods!” Lily and James chorused, causing Remus to snort.

“You knew, didn’t you!?” Lily accused Remus who held his hands up in surrender. 

“Only when she walked in, and not a second sooner.” 

“With my child.” Sirius continued, and you nodded at him. 

“Y/N.” Lily winced. “You-”

“You sodding scared me!” You shrilled then, grabbing one of the throw pillows James had dumped onto the ground to make room for Sirius and swinging it at him.

“I scared you!?” Sirius shrieked right back, much to the delight of Harry who started banging on the throw pillow that had landed beside him. 

“I thought I killed you!”

“Oh, well I’m terribly sorry that finding out the woman I’ve been in love with for years and pining hopelessly over for months - who was missing for all intents and purposes, may I remind you - is pregnant with my child happened to be a little shocking.” Sirius sneered sarcastically. 

“Well I only went ‘missing’ because the man I’ve been hopelessly in love with for years and pining hopelessly over for months took off an-” The abrupt end of your statement nearly gave the room whiplash as you cut yourself off mid sentence and stared at Sirius like you’d never seen him before. 

“What…what just happened?” James whispered carefully.

“Years?” You whispered then, and Sirius hated every version of himself that deigned to let you go without knowing just how loved you were.

“Probably when we were still just cosmic dust.” Sirius smiled sadly. “I’m sorry I didn’t always realise, I’m sorry I didn’t make sure that you knew.”

“I take it to guess there isn’t an aunt in Killarney?” Lily offered then, smiling kindly at you when you turned your attention towards her.

“No, I- I think there actually is an aunt in Killarney, I just don’t live with her.”

“Where do you live?” Sirius asked eagerly, wondering if you could hear it in his voice or even see on his face just how desperate he was to know everything about you.

“Near Tintagel.” You offered abashedly as Remus slapped his hand on his thigh.

“You minx!” He scolded you. “You lived basically across the channel from me this whole time!”

“I hope it’s nice, wherever it is” You offered him then, smiling through your tears as Sirius swallowed around his bile threatening its way up his oesophagus.

“I hope it’s nice.” Sirius blurted suddenly, and Sirius thanked the heavens for Remus John Lupin who seemed to understand that the conversation delved beyond the need of an audience, scooping Harry up and closing the door behind Lily, James, and himself to give you two some privacy. 

“It’s nice.” You offered wetly. “It’s quiet.”

Sirius hummed in acknowledgement. “In Tintagel, near Merlin’s cave?”

You laughed, which saw Sirius smiling. “I’m not right in Tintagel, just outside. My neighbours are mostly sheep.” 

“Does it have a picket fence?”

“To keep the sheep out of my garden.” You nodded with a smile.

“Flowers; lots of them.” Sirius deduced, you nodded again though Sirius watched your smile falter.

“You’d probably hate it.”

“Are you there?” He asked quickly.

“Well, usually, yes.” You offered, and Sirius shrugged easily.

“Sounds as though it might be my favourite place in the world, then.” 

The next breath that left you shuddered on its way out, and Sirius finally stood and met you in the middle of the room; close enough to touch but not daring to. He hadn’t earned that right yet. 

“Take me with you?” He all but begged then, and your face crumpled in misery.

“Sirius, I don’t want you to follow me because you have to, I-”

“I don’t have to though, I know I don’t; I know you’d never make me.” He assured you then, lifting a hand but pausing to wait for you to nod at him before he placed it on your upper arm. “The letters, Y/N, I- I’ve been looking for you for months.”

A sob tore through you as you lowered your head, and Sirius allowed himself to catch it in his free hand. 

“I don’t want you to feel bad; I’m not telling you so that you feel bad, love.” The endearment falling off his tongue so easily now that he had you in his arms. “But I need you to know that I want you - any of you, all of you - and have for a very long time.” 

“It’s just…you said-” and Sirius knew exactly what he said; he had played that conversation over and over and over in his mind until he found himself sick over it more than once. But we waited for you to tell him anyhow; he’d always wait for you. “You couldn’t settle down and be content, you couldn’t play house; you weren’t that kind of guy.” 

“I know, doll. I know.” He whispered. “I…I didn’t think I was capable of it. I didn’t think I deserved everything I wanted and I knew that you deserved better. That you deserve better.”

“But?”

“But I’d be happy to spend the rest of my life trying to prove you otherwise; trying to give you everything you deserve.”

“Sirius…” You sighed, and Sirius could see your walls cracking. “I…I’m-”

“Take me home? Please?” He begged then, words interrupted by a sob of his own. “To Tintagel, to Killarney, to bloody fucking Azkaban or the bottom of the sodding ocean, I don’t care where it is just as long as it’s with you, please. Please.”

Your hands landed on Sirius’ chest and he was sure you could feel his hummingbird heart beating under your fingertips. He only hoped you knew how it beat for you. 

“Please bring me home?”

James didn’t know if he could consider this a success or not. 

His motivation was not singular; it was a ‘hit two fairies with one gobstone’ sort of scenario, so to speak. Was his son turning two? Indeed he was! Was James throwing a party for said son’s birthday? You’re damned right he was. But was it also a really good excuse to force two of his idiot best friends into the same room again? Absolutely.

Except James seems to have gotten slightly more than he bargained for; Sirius falling unconscious in his childhood backyard, you sobbing into Lily’s shoulder out in the hallway as he and Remus tried to bring him back from the dead, Remus sneering at a slice of birthday cake like it personally offended him and Regulus threatening to defend his boyfriend’s honour, and - apparently - a new niece or nephew coming in the next three-ish months. 

But when he looked over to see you and Sirius emerging from the spare room - both of your faces tear stained and puffy from the grief and torment you no doubt put yourselves through - hands intertwined between your bodies and your hand resting protectively over your growing bump, and a spark in Sirius’ eyes James had thought he lost in the war but now realised he only lost when he lost you…

…yeah, James figured he could probably consider this a success.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[yasministration]

smash - draco malfoy

summary: draco malfoy? smash. except you say those words a little too loud. wc: 0.9k+

Immersed in the magazine in front of you, you only caught bits and pieces of the conversation Harry, Hermione and Ron were having around you, the great hall otherwise mostly empty. It wasn’t everyday the three of you had free periods together, but when you did, the conversations were always entertaining.

Especially when Harry started complaining.

You halted your focus on the magazine at the sound of Harry’s sassy and oddly loud voice. It was as though he wanted himself to be heard. Hermione scoffed from in front of the boy and you pulled the corner of your page up slowly, pretending to still be immersed in your reading.

“At this point, Malfoy is just following in his fa-” “Malfoy?” You asked, humming apprehensively, “Smash.”

From the slytherin table, sat right behind you, Draco’s head snapped backwards, his mouth parting in surprise before he forced his features into a confident smirk. Theo, Pansy, Mattheo and Blaise held matching looks at the bombshell you dropped so shamelessly.

A silence overtook your three friends at your comment, jaws slack and faces frozen in shock. “What!?” Harry spluttered. You flicked over to the next page, shrugging your shoulders as you scoffed carelessly. “Yeah, you can complain about him all you want, but that is one attractive man.”

“If you felt so strongly about the matter, you should’ve spoken sooner.”

Your head shot up and you slammed your magazine shut at the familiar voice, your eyes widening in panic. Ron, who sat facing you, grimaced at you softly. Clearing your throat, you spun around on the bench, kicking your legs over its side. Leaning your elbows back on the table cooly, you replied “Why would I have spoken sooner if you weren’t around to hear it?”

Draco grinned and you cocked your head to the side, holding eye contact, challenging him to keep your gaze. It was silent as you stared at each other, apart from Theo’s loud exhale and Mattheo’s chuckle before he turned his attention back to his cup of tea. Finally, Draco gulped thickly, eyes momentarily flickering to look back at his friends.

Humming apprehensively, you stood up, tucking your magazine under your arm and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Makes sense you’re not a gryffindor,” You started, eyes trained on Draco as he stiffened up. You leaned closer to him, bringing your voice down to a whisper. “Find me when you’re brave enough to do something about it, Malfoy.”

And with a toss of your hair over your shoulder, you strutted out of the great hall, grinning as you heard a clatter of things behind you. Draco rushed to catch up to you, tripping over his feet as he followed you all the way from the great hall to the girls’ bathroom you dragged him into, pushing him against the wall and pressing your lips to his.

Draco groaned, immediately flipping your positions around so he had you cornered between his body and the stone wall, and he separated himself from you momentarily to ask you “What was that you said earlier?” before moving his kisses down your neck and instantly sucking on your skin to leave bruising hickeys that Harry will most definitely question.

“What? Find me when you’re-”

“No, before that.”

“Um, smash?” Draco chuckled against your skin, trailing his kisses back up your neck and towards your lips. “Would you let me take you on a date before that?” You felt your cheeks go hot at the embarrassing whimper that escaped your lips at his question, but nodded your head nonetheless.

Draco pushed himself off you with a satisfied smile, smoothing his uniform down as he stated “Good. Now, I believe you have a lesson.” You gasped deep in your throat at the realisation that he was correct, hearing the halls outside fill with chatter as students were released from their classrooms.

“Sunday. Hogsmeade.” He told you, pushing the door to the bathroom open and walking past the group of girls who were coming into the room, giving him judgemental looks as he passed them. But then they turned to you, and they were immediately gasping at the revelation of you and Draco being together. You giggled nervously, slipping out of the bathroom when they turned to look at each other, the gossip already beginning to spread.

Meanwhile, in the great hall:

Harry’s jaw dropped lower than he believed possible as he watched Draco stumble to reach you. He shook his head “We cannot let that happen.” Hermione scoffed, “Oh yes we can, and we will. I want all the details when they’re done.”

At the sounds of disgust both Harry and Ron expelled from their mouths, Hermione sighed disappointedly. “Right. I forgot you’re not girls.”

“Hey, Granger!” Hermione turned to the voice that had called out her name and she stared back nervously at Pansy Parkinson, who had a surprisingly welcoming smile on her face. “You can come discuss it with us, if you’d like. I’m a girl, and you’d think they are too based on how much they love the drama.” Hermione laughed whole-heartedly as Pansy nodded her head towards the boys around her with a joking roll of her eyes.

“Will that work if we’re getting different sides of the same story?” Hermione questioned, crossing her arms over his chest in mock rivalry. Pansy hummed, standing up and gathering her belongings. “I get his side of the story, you get hers, then we exchange?” Hermione grinned.

“Perfect. But I think she’ll want to join.”

Pansy winked. “Even better, I want all the filthy details.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @boromoony, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies

[yasministration]

Concussions and interruptions - Harry Potter

summary: You aren't expecting to meet Harry's parents for the first time while you share an intimate moment in the hospital wing after he sustains another quidditch injury. obviously jily is alive and well.. slytherin!reader wc: 1.1k

You looked up at Harry lovingly, pulling your legs up on the bed as you rested your head on his shoulder, reaching up to brush long strands of hair out of his face. Harry scrunched his face up, smiling with his eyes closed as your fingers grazed his skin, before opening them again and returning your gaze. The hospital wing was oddly quiet, especially after such an intense Quidditch game. The day had been long enough, having to endure classes while the entire school hyped itself up for the big match, and Harry inevitably ended up making his day longer thanks to the addition of his new concussion. 

You’d waited until Harry’s teammates and friends had all left the hospital wing before taking your place next to him, hand resting atop his. He smelled clean, having showered and changed into a clean t-shirt and sweatpants “It’s a phenomenon how you’re so often the only person injured after a game.” Harry chuckled, squeezing your hand softly “Yeah well your house mates really have it out for me.” You cocked your head to the side, biting your lip. Well, you couldn’t argue with that. “Hey, if you’d been a Slytherin, that wouldn’t be the case.” Harry scoffed at your words, but you continued speaking nonetheless, a grin forming on your face, clueless to the wooden doors of the hospital wing creaking open and the two figures approaching you. “Besides, you look way better in green than red.” Harry raised his eyebrows challengingly, the movement in unison with his father’s just behind you. “Yeah well you look better in red than green.” 

You shook your head in disagreement, straightening up on the bed. Harry’s eyes were so focused on you that he hadn’t realised his parents coming to a stop behind you, waiting for their son to notice their obstructed presence. Harry stared at you with adoration, watching closely as you mercilessly tugged at your green tie until it became loose enough to fit around your head. You took Harry’s glasses of with care, putting them in the breast pocket of your shirt while carefully pulling your tie around your boyfriend’s neck. “I’m being serious, look.” Tightening the tie around Harry’s neck, you leaned across him to grab the mirror on his side table, unblocking the two adults behind you from his view. Harry squinted, struggling from the lack of visual aid, but the bright red hair of his mum and strong figure of his dad spoiled the surprise. 

“Here.” You huffed, handing the boy the mirror, but only then did you realise his distracted gaze. Turning around on the bed, your jaw dropped, immediately recognising both your boyfriend’s parents, neither of which you’d ever met before. Lily and James stood with locked arms and matching smiles on their faces, looks of fondness on their faces. You felt heat shoot up your neck at the recognition that they’d witnessed your intimate moment, and ducked your head away, distracting yourself by returning Harry’s glasses. Standing up suddenly, you freed space for Harry's parents on the bed. Lily ducked, pressing a kiss to Harry's forehead before sitting next to him, while James stood, watching you closely until he averted his watch to his son, stating "Got a call someone got a concussion." James grinned at Harry, who returned the smile, running a hand through his hair.

Glancing at your feet, you debated on leaving the hospital wing to allow the family some time alone. Your thoughts, however, were interrupted by a hand clasping around your shoulder. Looking up suddenly, you were taking aback by Harry's father, and more so how similar he looked to your boyfriend. "You're right kid, he does look better in green. Now you wanna tell me which of your friends knocked my kid off his broom?" You opened your mouth, turning to Harry in search for an answer, but only finding the kind yet intimidating eyes of his mother, turned back to James. "It was Malfoy." You said quietly, eyes wide in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I can leave you guys alone." You muttered again, gesturing towards the tall doors.

"Nonsense!" Lily stood from the bed, approaching you while throwing her husband a scolding look. "James you're scaring her!" She whispered, though you're sure it was loud enough for even Harry to hear. "Honestly you're both scaring me." You spoke truthfully, and James barked out a laugh, pointing accusingly at his wife. "No sweetheart," Lily started, placing her hands on your shoulders and guiding you back to Harry's bed. "That's ridiculous, we've heard so many great things about you." Your mouth fell agape as you took your place next to your boyfriend once more, eyes going wide. Your strict pureblooded parents didn't even know about your relationship with Harry. You thought the same went with him. "Oh."

Harry placed his hand over yours, squeezing it tightly. His parents shot each other a confused and somewhat worrisome look. "Y/n's parents wouldn't approve of someone who isn't a slytherin or a pureblood, so they don't know." Lily and James both nodded in understanding, but now they were worried for you. It wasn't as bad as Sirius's parents had been, was it? An awkward silence fell amongst you, and you felt the need to fill it, mumbling "Let me take my tie back." Harry shut his eyes, letting you unfasten your tie from his neck and tying it around yours, occupying yourself with the quick movements which you deliberately slowed down to ponder over the situation.

"I'll give you guys some time alone." You spoke again, leaning down to pick up your bag from its spot on the floor and placing it on your lap. You glanced at Harry, smiling at him, before his hand was wrapping around your tie and pulling you closer to him. You gasped when his lips briefly met yours, feeling the heat creep up to your face, and abruptly stood, strictly avoiding eye contact with either of his parents. "It was nice to meet you!" You squeaked, trotting over to the doors in a rush, clutching the bag on your shoulder tightly.

Harry grinned, eyes glued to the spot where you disappeared between the two doors, before he was brought out of his chance by his mother. "Harry Potter, you are evil." She half-scolded, a smile on her face nonetheless. James took your spot next to Harry on the hospital bed, a wide grin on his face as he said "The girl was already nervous enough to meet us, now I don't think she'll ever be able to face us ever again."

"Yeah she will," Replied Harry, pushing his glasses higher up his nose "Give her a year or two."