Summary: Jack is at SWAT again and you worry. When the hospital calls you on his behalf, your world shatters.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
Wordcount: 2.2k
Masterlist
The weather is really nice. There are no clouds in the sky, well, a few are there but they’re tiny. The sun is blasting down on earth and it probably would feel so hot and suffocating in the heat if it wouldn’t be for the slight breeze that brings somewhat of a comfort. And the cool iced tea on your side table, next to your hanging chair. You’d probably would look like a chicken nugget by now if not for that. You’re fingers aren’t bothered by the hot temperature, they are flying through the yarn that your using to crochet your little granny scares. So far you have almost twenty finished ones lying next to you. Together with the almost thirty in the living room you should probably only need about ten more or so for the full sized blanket you intend to make. Your hook is almost flying, creating hoops and stitches. Over the last few days you became so good at it that you manage to finish one square in roughly twenty minutes by now. Jack was so impressed when he saw you crocheting last night, he couldn’t stop staring at your hands, trying to understand what you’re even doing with the hook. You tried teaching him but he gave up after a few minutes trying, instead going back to the movie playing on the TV.
Now your hanging chair is softly swinging back and forth as you crochet, listening to the birds and the neighbors kids next door playing in their pool. Now and then you can hear a dog bark down the street. The relatively silent afternoon is pretty relaxing, the only thing really missing, to fully relax, is Jack. Of course he’s at SWAT again. A quick help for a friend of a friend as he had put is yesterday evening before leaving for his shift. It’s not like you particularly like him being shot at but you know he does somewhat enjoy it. He still has to suffer form your coddling and protectiveness and endless reminders to be careful but that is seemingly a sacrifice hes willing to take and you’re not intending to change that until he finally stops doing SWAT altogether. He should be back in a few minutes, though. Hopefully in one piece.
To shove the worry aside and minimize it as much as possible you start a new row on the square, focusing solely on counting the stitches. You start the same section for a third time by now because you had missed a few stitches here and there and now really want to get it right this time. Taking everything apart is exhausting and frustrating. Though the constant nagging worry at the back of your mind doesn’t make the task at hand any easier. You notice that you’re much slower today than you were last night.
It’s maybe twenty minutes later that you hear your phone ringing in the living room. Although you try to get free form your square, yarn and out of the chair you’re too late in the house. The phone stopped ringing already. Sighing in annoyance you think about going back outside, leaving the phone were it is to not distract you, but before you even start turning around the phone rings again. This time s you’re fast enough but your heart stops beating for a second. PTMC blinks your way.
Swallowing thickly you presses the green button, taking the call. “H-hello?”
“Hello, this is PTMC. Are you Y/N Y/L/N?”
“Yes, that’s me.” Slowly you sink onto the couch, fingers of your free hand worrying on the hem of the shirt that you stole from Jack’s closet this morning. “I’m calling on behalf of Dr. Abbot. I was told to let you know that- Sorry, one second-” You can hear the muffling of voices in the background but otherwise you don’t really take anything in that’s being said. Your mind is already running a mile a minute. Someone’s supposed to call in for Jack? Did something happen? Is he hurt or… or worse? Before your worry can get out of hand the other person on the phone is back. “I’m sorry, I have to leave but yeah. I just wanna let you know that Dr. Abbot is here at PTMC. Have a good day.” Just like that the line goes dead. “W-what the hell?!” You slowly let the phone sink, staring at the screen that already turns black again. A bit of anger mixes with your confusion and worry. Jack’s at the hospital and the person on the phone wasn’t even bothered to tell you Whats going on, how bad it is, if you needs to come in… Anything!
Without really thinking you get up from the couch, pacing behind it while dialing Jack’s number. The call is immediately redirected to his voicemail. No surprise, really. Jack always shuts it off at SWAT. Such a small detail can make a big difference and usually he doesn’t even take the phone on the mission but lets it lie in at HQ. Next you try Robby’s number, knowing if someone knows what’s going on it must be him but as it rings and rings your worry intensifies again. Robby’s probably working a trauma, if not even on Jack himself. Of course he wont pick up.
Your legs start going weak, your heart fluttering with anxiety. Suddenly you feel really sick. “Oh my god…” Muttering you try Robby’s phone two more times before giving up. The worry and anxiety wins over the need to reach someone to tell you anything. “Fuck it.”
You shove the phone into one of your shorts pockets and practically run out of the living room. You barely remember to grab your purse and keys before you’re already flying down the stairs of the front porch and to your bicycle. Of course, of all the days, Jack had decided to take the car today instead of walking!
The ride is a blur of time. You don’t really remember much about the ride at all but soon the hospital comes in sight. You take the first free space to park and lock your bike, not caring how far you still have to walk. You run the whole way to the ED and burst through the doors of the waiting room. There are a few people glancing at your way but mostly everyone is busy with themselves. Ignoring the people around, though you do notice that it’s packed and hot in the waiting area, you push past a few people to stop at the clerks desk, ignoring the protest of an elderly man in her own worry. “Lupe! Jack! Jacks here, I need-”
“It’s okay dear, go on in.” Lupe smiles at you and opens the side door for you to come in before she focuses back on the elderly man. For a second you’re confused why Lupe smiled. Surely if Jack is badly hurt, or worse, she wouldn’t smile… So, does that mean he is he alright? Not as bad off? Or does she only try not to worry you any more than you already are. The confusion starts to make your head hurt as well. The nausea is still there and it feels a little bit like you could collapse at any moment if you would allows your body to break down.
You walk into the ED fully but don’t come that far before someone calls your name. Turning to the right you sees Perlah stepping up to you, the nurses face a mask of slight confusion but she is smiling at you. “What are you doing here?”
“Jack.” It’s all you can choke out. Now that you’re actually here, you can feel your heart beat faster again. The panic gets stronger each second you don’t see Jack around, really setting in now. All around you are people, most sitting around on chairs, wheelchairs or beds. Not all of them look so much worse than it could be but you can also hear the occasional groaning and a few screams. Somewhere a bit far off is someone crying loudly and desperate. The thought that that could be you in just a few minutes closes your throat up, building a lumps that’s difficult to swallow past. “Oh, yeah he’s here. So someone did call you.” Perlah smiles, guiding you to the hub with a gentle hand on her back. “But why did you com-”
“If that’s not my favorite cousin.” Robby’s sitting at a computer but the second he sees you, he stands up to pull you into a hug. It’s warm and comfortable but you don’t really relax into his hold as you usually do. Instead your body is tense. “I’m your only cousin.”
“See. Favorite. What are you doing here?”
“Sweetheart? Are you okay?” Your heart stops beating altogether for a second. That voice… It’s his voice and it sounds so ordinary and normal as ever. No pain apparent, no strain, no hidden flinch, no clenched teeth. Maybe a bit of worry swings in it. Slowly you turn around and, yeah, there he is. Still in his combat clothes, his hair a bit disheveled and sweaty. But other than that he looks okay. No Injuries to be seen, no blood. Nothing.
Your breath still catches in your throat. Slowly, almost not believing that he’s really here in front of you, you walk up to him. You let your hands roam over his arms and his face. “Y-you’re okay?” Your voice is a disbelieving whisper, a bit of a stutter mixed in. “Yeah.” Jack frowns, his own hands coming up to rest at her hips. “Whats wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Sick?”
“No. I-I… You’re not hurt or anything?” Your eyebrows draw together as you look at his face for any sign that somethings wrong. “No, I’m okay. I chatted with Robby and now I was on my way back to HQ to get the car and come home.” He was chatting with Robby? You’re worried out of your mind, been on edge and trying to stay calm the whole day and he’s chatting with Robby? Without really thinking it you punch Jack hard on his arm. “You asshole!”
“Ow! What the- What was that for?” Jack rubs his arm and you feel a bit of satisfaction on actually having managed to get a reaction out of him. “Whats that was for?” Incredulous, you stem your hand to your hips. “I’m sitting at home, worrying the whole day only to get a call that you’re at the hospital. No other explanation, no information what’s going on, no request to come in. And you’re sitting here having a nice little coffee klatsch with Robby!” The snort from your right side is enough that you turn to Robby, who has sat down again. Out of the corner of your eyes you can see nurses and residents glancing at you, maybe reveling in the drama playing out in front of them. Not one to spare Robby you clap the back of his head, hard. “Ow.”
“You’re not any better! You could’ve texted and answered my fucking calls as well!” Fury rages through you, though, you do know you won’t be angry for long. Jack must have had a reason to come here and he probably didn’t intend to scare you. But still, you were so on edge the whole day, probably risked your life on the way to the hospital, only for him to be here chatting with your stupid cousin. “Sweetheart. I’m sorry.” Jack steps back up to you, one hand carefully loosening one from your hips to take in his own. You allow it for now, seeing the guilt on his face. “I asked Dana to let someone call you to to make sure you knew I would be a bit later than intended. One of the SWAT guys had a stroke in the middle of the mission and I went with him.”
“You know, it’s been hell here up until ten minutes ago. I would have called you. Promise.” Your gaze wanders to Robby. He doesn’t really look sorry. He knows you won’t stay angry for long. “Hm.” It’s all you’re saying. You take your hand back, only to cross your arms and stare at the two attending. Robby runs a hand through his hair, rubbing his neck before he turns to the surrounding people. “Don’t you have patients?” People scatter and run, some flinch, others laugh. “Sweetheart, I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you. How about I take you out to dinner tonight? That place that you like so much?” You purse your lips, thinking it over but then shakes her head. “No.” You see him falter for a second, the small smile that had been on his lips slowly vanishing. You don’t wont to make him suffer as you did, so you continue. “You won’t take me out. Instead, you’re going to cook tonight. This chicken thing you did a few months back.”
“Deal.” Jack’s smile returns, almost could be described as a grin, seemingly relived. “We do have to go grocery shopping though.”
“You mean you.” Jack stares for a second before he nods slowly. “Right. I need to go shopping beforehand.” You nod satisfied before your eyes wander to Robby, who hold’s his hands up in defeat. “I know, I’m paying for your next fabric and yarn shopping.”
“Good.” You nod once more, also satisfied and already planning on buying way more than you would need for a few dresses, shorts and whatnot. “Fine.” With that you turn around and walk in the direction of the ambulance bay to leave. “Sweetheart, where are you going?”
“Home, I have no desire on staying any longer, now that I know you’re not actively dying.” She can see Jack wince for a second and behind him she can see Dana slap another nurse on the back of his head. Maybe he was the one to call her? “Oh, and Jack?”
“Yes?” He raises an eyebrow, hands buried in his pant pockets. “You have an hour, so I would hurry or you’re sleeping on the couch.” Robby snorts behind Jack, Dana chuckles but Jack just stares. “Come on. That’s unfair! I Need half an hour to even get the car. Hey! Sweetheart, wait a second!” You don’t. You step further out of the hospital with a smirk while Jack scrambles to follow you.
pairing: Holland March (The Nice Guys) x fem!reader x Tangerine (Bullet Train)
word count: 5.6k
summary: You unexpectedly meet a very handsome stranger and his brother during what is otherwise an ordinary work day at The Nice Guys’ office. You want to be polite to this time-traveling guest, but your boyfriend Holland has other (filthy) plans in mind.
tags: smut, humor, time travel, 1970s setting, canon-typical violence (threatening others with guns), established Holland x reader relationship, bisexual!Holland, bi-curious!Tangerine, mentions of period-typical homophobia, mentions of Holland’s first wife, one healymarch mention, use of y/n, threesome, grinding, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, blowjobs, eiffel tower position, doggystyle, protected p in v sex, cumshot, cum eating, inspired by That makeout scene from Challengers, takes place before Bullet Train :’)
now playing: Super Freak - Rick James
a/n: this can be read as a standalone oneshot, but I wrote it as a loose continuation of my previous Holland x fem!reader fic He’s Not My Baby, I’m His with the same reader!
main masterlist / cross-posted on ao3
this work contains smut. minors DNI
———
Tonight was supposed to be a simple and clean job. The two assassins Tangerine and his brother Lemon were hired by an infamous drug kingpin in London to locate all of his competitor’s supplies and quietly take out any rival gang members who happened to be there, so that the inventory would be theirs.
According to the intel given to them, the drugs were stashed inside a warehouse in Hackney. When the clock struck 11pm, the two assassins drove over to the location, armed with silenced pistols and backup weapons in the trunk. They parked at an inconspicuous spot that wasn’t too close to the building and sneaked their way to a back entrance door. Tangerine quietly turned the door handle, pistol in his right hand, and entered the building—Lemon was trailing right behind him.
To their surprise, they didn’t find themselves in a drug lord’s warehouse; what they saw in front of them was a small office space with beige walls and a white tiled floor. Lemon thought that he was in a reverse TARDIS-kind of situation—it was smaller on the inside.
The two men furrowed their eyebrows in pure confusion, but they still had to keep their guard up. They saw that the door to one room was open, and there was definitely a person inside. It was you, making your boyfriend Holland a cup of coffee inside the office’s break room. Tangerine silently turned to his brother and placed a finger onto his own lips. Lemon nodded in understanding.
When you stepped out of the break room, you suddenly saw two men pointing their guns right in front of you. You gasped and involuntarily let go of the steaming mug of coffee in your hand, the porcelain shattering into bits and the brown liquid seeping onto the white tiled floor. You could only stare at them with a shocked look of horror. They were finely dressed in their suits and ties, so you didn’t think of them as average house thieves. Were they hitmen sent to kill your boyfriend? Did Holland somehow screw them over or owe them a huge amount of money?
Tangerine reholstered his gun while placing his left hand up as a symbol of surrender.
“Miss, we are not here to hurt you. My brother and I just wanna know where we are.” Tangerine turned his head to sneer at his brother. “Lemon, put the damn gun down!”
“Alright, alright! I am,” the older man affirmed, placing his own gun back into his holster.
You instinctively called out for your boyfriend. “Holland, I need you here!” you tried your best to shout in a loud but steady voice.
Holland rushed over from his office room to where you were standing. He could hear the shakiness in your voice; you usually never called out for him like that.
When he saw the two mysterious guys staring right at you, he automatically got out his own gun and disengaged the safety, pointing his weapon at them.
“You two have five seconds to tell me who you are before I blow your fuckin’ brains out!” He threatened them.
As if on cue, Healy also walked over with his gun and stood next to Holland after he had heard all the commotion from his own office.
“That’s right, gentlemen. Better ‘fess up before your bodies hit the floor,” Healy added.
“Alright, alright! Calm your tits—no disrespect, love.” Tangerine turned to quickly address you. “We were just passing through, and now we’re clearly not in the right place.”
“And where the hell did you come from? You guys sound like you’re a long way from home,” Holland sneered.
“The fuck do you mean, mate? You lot are the foreigners here in London.” Tangerine replied.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of drugs you two snorted today, but you’re standing inside The Nice Guys Detective Agency on Hollywood Boulevard in Los Angeles, California. I suggest that you tell us the truth before we fly you home in wooden coffins,” Healy interjected.
“We are, erm, private contractors who are working on a job for an important client. We were supposed to infiltrate a large warehouse in Hackney, but the back door led us here,” Lemon confessed.
You raised your eyebrows with a frown, still confused on why they insisted that they were still in England.
“What are your names?” you asked the two strangers.
“My name is Tangerine and he is my brother and business partner Lemon.”
“Like the fuckin’ fruit?” Holland mocked him.
“I—for all intents and purposes, yes.” Tangerine decided that it was better to bite his tongue instead of insulting the two men who were pointing their loaded guns right at his face.
Huh. I’ve heard worse pseudonyms... Jesus, is this guy a porn star or something? Holland silently took in the extravagant sight of the Brit’s brunet curls, defined biceps, and full moustache. He has excellent taste, though, the American noted in reference to his expensive three-piece navy suit, a stack of gold rings on his fingers, and a leather watch on his wrist. Holland also liked the way his charming Cockney dialect filled his ears; he always had a thing for British accents.
“Okay, guys, can we please put the guns down? They clearly don’t want to hurt us and I really don’t want any blood to be shed today, thank you very much,” you pleaded to the two PIs.
Like clockwork, they reholstered their pistols at the same time. March and Healy were the faces and muscles of this agency, but you were the brains behind the whole operation. Ever since you started working here as their secretary, you had proved yourself to be the key to their success. Now, you were promoted to their unofficial partner and you received a third of all their earnings.
Ever since you first met Holland during your job interview with him, he fell head-over-heels for you, and you him. Despite the fights you two had at the beginning of your relationship, he ultimately changed his ways for the better and was now happily living with you and Holly at the March house in Pasadena.
Holland breathed out a deep sigh. “Fine, I guess we’ll introduce ourselves too. I’m Private Investigator Holland March, he’s my partner PI Jackson Healy, and she’s our amazing secretary [Y/N] [Y/L/N].” He directed his hand to the two of you.
“A pleasure.” Tangerine nodded, and Lemon mirrored his brother.
Lemon took out his cell phone from his jacket’s pocket. “Damn, I’ve got zero bars in here. Do you guys have the wifi password?”
“What’s wifi? And is that a mini TV in your hands?” Healy asked.
“Wha— you don’t have wifi here? How do you even get any work done?!”
“I don’t know how you folks do business across the pond, but we run a very reputable agency ‘round here,” Healy gritted through his teeth.
“Right, so… can we use your landline then? I’ll need to call my handler and tell him that we somehow ended up in ‘LA’, as you claim,” Tangerine asked the three of you.
“Yep, there’s a phone at the front desk.” You walked the two strangers over to the red landline phone on your desk.
“Jesus, what is this, the 70s?” Tangerine joked when he glanced at the vintage device.
“Last time I checked,” Holland snarked.
“Wait… what’s today’s date?” Tangerine felt a pit form in his stomach.
“Today’s Thursday, December 13th,” you replied.
“And year?”
“1979…?”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” Tangerine exclaimed in frustration.
Holland grabbed the freshly printed LA Times newspaper that had arrived at the mailbox just this morning and pointed to the top of the page. “The date is right here, bud. Are you guys still jet lagged or something?”
“Holy shit… I think we went through a time travel portal,” Lemon exclaimed.
“Wha— is this a fucking prank?! Can the camera crew reveal themselves already? I’m going outside.” Tangerine stormed to the front door. When he stepped outside, he saw that he was clearly not in London anymore. The sky was still a bright blue, the temperature was too warm to be in England, the horizon was dotted with tall palm trees, and he saw a 1970s style Chevy Impala drive by him.
The Brit walked back to the office with a defeated face. “You’re right, brother. We really did travel back in time.”
Your eyes widened in fascination. You always believed that time travel was the stuff of science fiction, something reserved for your weekly Doctor Who episodes on TV.
“What year are you guys from?” you asked.
“2022,” Lemon responded.
“Wow… oh my god… that’s so far away!”
“Yeah. A lot of shit has happened over those years.” Lemon didn’t have the heart to tell you about all the terrible things that had occurred around the world since your year.
“So, how are you two gonna get back to your era?” Healy probed them.
“I really don’t know, mate. All I know is that we’re gonna get an earful from our handler if we don’t complete this mission within twenty-four hours.” Tangerine pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Tell ya what: how about we stop by my place and we can sit down and figure somethin’ out? We’ll just close early for the day,” Holland offered.
“Yeah, sure. I definitely need to sit down,” Tangerine groaned.
After locking up the office for the day, Healy offered to drive the two assassins to Holland’s house while you rode shotgun in your boyfriend's car, as usual.
The two cars parked right in front of the March residence with a bright red door.
Tangerine whistled when he saw the swanky mid-century home. “Nice place you got there, March.”
“Thanks. We’re staying here while my old house is being rebuilt,” Holland replied, not wanting to elaborate any further.
“Pssst. Leave your weapons inside the top drawer,” your boyfriend told the brothers when they entered the front door. The two men compliantly got out their guns from their holsters and placed them inside the wood drawer.
Holland called out for his daughter. “Holly, hon? Are you here?”
“Yeah, dad! I’m in the living room!” Holly had just come back from school.
The five of you walked over to where Holly was sitting on the brown leather couch.
Lemon saw the vintage TV in the room and began to silently panic. He always liked to rewatch his favorite Thomas & Friends episodes after a stressful job, but how was he going to do that now, especially since the show didn’t air in the UK until 1984?
Healy addressed the man with frosted blond highlights. “Hey bud, you still look really shaken up. Do you wanna head over to the bar with Holly and I? I’ll let these three figure something out by themselves.”
“Yeah… that’s a really good plan.” Lemon couldn’t stand to look at the outdated piece of metal anymore.
Healy then turned to talk to the young girl. “Hi Holly, your dad and [Y/N] have to talk with our client Tangerine in private. How about I take you and our new friend Lemon here to the bar? I’ll buy you guys a Yoo-hoo.”
“The hell’s Yoo-hoo?” Lemon asked.
“Just the most delicious drink you can find in a bottle.”
You and Holland said your goodbyes to them while Tangerine stayed behind. “We’ll be done by dinner time!” you reassured Holly.
———
Tangerine sat in a chair and you and Holland sat on the couch across from him. The Brit couldn’t help but notice how close you stayed next to him and how you were holding his hand.
“Are you two fucking?” Tangerine blurted out the first thing he thought of.
“First of all, don’t talk to my girl like that, and second, yes, we are dating.” Holland raised his voice.
“My apologies. I have an impulsive temper; and cheers, you two are a beautiful couple,” Tangerine admitted.
Within the thirty or so minutes that he got to know you and Holland, he was already strongly attracted to you both. He admired your natural, ethereal beauty and the soft curves of your gorgeous body, plus your boyfriend’s handsomely scruffy looks and his impeccable sense of fashion—pretty similar to his own.
For Tangerine, his work never allowed him to have the freedom to fully express himself. Sure, he had some occasional flings and witnessed some wild sex parties during some of his jobs, but he never had time to find someone that he truly liked. He knew he was different when he and Lemon went to a strip club to investigate the kidnapping of one of their dancers; he got bricked up when he saw an incredibly handsome male stripper grinding on the pole. He told Lemon that he had to do a line of coke in the restroom to clear his head, but he was actually furiously jerking himself inside a stall. Whatever the fuck happened to being a professional? He scolded himself afterwards.
You saw that Holland was feeling antsy as he sat next to you. He was bouncing his right leg and he let go of your hand to rub his clothed thigh back and forth.
“Holland, baby, what are you thinking about, hmm? Tell us,” you gently probed him.
Holland was no stranger to the concept of “free love”. His late wife Rosie was his high school sweetheart, and they experimented with polyamory during the early years of their marriage. They had their fun, but they stopped when their baby girl Holly got older. They had confessed to each other that they were both bisexual and promised to take each other’s secret to the grave, as it was still a time of extreme prejudice and discrimination. After Rosie’s death, Holland had hooked up once with his best friend Jackson Healy after a drunken night out to celebrate a successful case closing, but they both decided that it felt more right to remain friends and business partners. When Holland started dating you, he revealed to you one night with teary eyes that he loved both men and women. You tightly embraced him and promised him that it didn’t make a difference to you; you loved every side of him and vowed to protect him for as long as you lived.
He had previously discussed the idea of a threesome with you, but it never moved beyond the initial conversation—until now. This was his chance for his fantasy to finally become a reality.
“Honey, do you remember that discussion we had the other week about, uh, adding a third?” Holland murmured to you.
“Mmhm,” you hummed with a smile.
“Do you want… him to be our third?”
Tangerine silently listened to your discussion with widened eyes and raised eyebrows. He was extremely flattered to hear that both you and Holland were attracted to him, and the feeling was definitely mutual.
“Why don’t we ask him?” you proposed.
You turned to face the curly-haired brunet. You weren’t one to mince your words, so you said it outright.
“Tangerine, would you like to have a threesome with us? We find you to be really sexy and would love to have some fun with you today.” You gave him a flirty smile.
The Brit exhaled a deep breath. He couldn’t believe that his worst day of the month just turned into the best.
“My god, wow! I am truly honored by your invitation, love. I’m definitely down, but shouldn’t we establish some rules beforehand?”
“Yeah, we’ve already discussed this before, so I’ll just tell you now,” Holland responded.
“Before you ask, yes, I give you permission to fuck my girlfriend—not that she needs permission—and you should. She’s got the best fucking pussy in the entire world!”
“Holland!” you scolded him for his crudeness.
“What? I’m only saying it ‘cause it’s true.”
Tangerine sweetly called out your name. “You are a dream come true, darling. What about your little boyfriend over here?”
“Yeah, I’ve had my fair share of guys before. Although, I don’t wanna do the rimjob stuff today; it’s been a while, you know,” Holland admitted.
“Right on, handsome. I’ve never actually been with a guy before, so this’ll be a new experience for me,” Tangerine replied.
“Oh, shit! We’ve gotta welcome you to the club then! C’mon, let’s go to the bedroom,” Holland addressed you both.
———
When you led Tangerine to the bedroom you shared with Holland, you three wasted no time in undressing yourselves. Tangerine went to put his expensive rings and watch on your nightstand before joining you again. You unbuttoned the Brit’s vest and crisp button up shirt, Holland unzipped your trousers and slid it down your thighs, and Tangerine undid Holland’s necktie with expert precision.
When all of your clothes went into a haphazard pile on the floor, you aimlessly rubbed your hands all over Tangerine’s firm abs, enjoying the delicious feeling of his defined muscles. You were curious about the symbol on the gold pendant necklace around his neck, but you probably weren’t going to get an answer from a man who couldn’t even tell you his real name.
Holland had stopped wearing his own wedding ring necklace after you moved in. It now permanently sat inside a picture frame on the bedroom’s bookshelf, enclosed right next to a photo of him and Rosie at their wedding.
You sat down on the edge of the King-sized bed, with Holland on your left and Tangerine on your right. The man on your left licked his lips, while the one on your right ran his hand through his now-disheveled hair.
“C’mon, don’t be shy, guys. Take what you want,” you teased them both.
With your permission, they both dove into either side of your neck. Tangerine sucked on the base of your neck, while Holland tasted the skin beneath your jaw, where he knew you were the most sensitive. You grinned at the two men’s moustaches tickling your skin, and you placed both hands around the back of their necks.
“Wait wait wait, don’t make me wear a scarf all day tomorrow.”
The two men opened their eyes and stopped kissing your neck. You leaned back and slowly pushed the two men together by their necks.
Holland was the one to initiate the kiss. He tilted his head, caressed both sides of his guest’s face with his large hands, and went right for his lips. Tangerine moaned at this new sensation and they tasted each other with a searing intensity. Holland bit the other man’s lower lip and Tangerine groaned in both pain and pleasure. You let go and watched the both of them learn each other’s bodies with a wicked grin on your face.
After a while, Holland pulled away from his lover, a string of saliva still connecting their mouths, to give you attention again. He wrapped his arms around your chest and gave you a deep, loving kiss. You straddled his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling his cock harden around your unclothed cunt. Your boyfriend moaned into your mouth when you grinded your dripping folds against him.
Tangerine was staring at you both with his now-painfully hard cock. He was in awe of how madly in love you two were. He selfishly wished that he could just ignore the contract he had promised to fulfill and stay in your bed for the rest of the week.
You pulled away from Holland’s lips, gave him a chaste peck on his cheek, and moved to where Tangerine was sitting on the bed.
“Can I kiss you, handsome?” You looked up into his beady, blue eyes.
“Of course you can, sweetheart.” He smirked at both your siren-like sexiness and your sticky sweet adorableness.
You wrapped your arms around the Brit’s neck and kissed him slowly and tenderly, almost as if it was your first date with him. Tangerine initially felt hesitant to enjoy another man’s girlfriend, but he quickly melted into your soft touch and savored the heavenly sensation of your lips against his.
“Can I eat you out, sweetness? I just wanna taste all of you,” The man asked against your lips.
“Go ahead.” You grinned.
“This is gonna be fun!” Holland interjected. You rolled your eyes at him.
You lay down on the soft bed while Tangerine went onto his stomach. He spread your legs open and went down to breathe in the intoxicating, musky scent of your slick. He placed both your legs onto his shoulders and began to suck on your inner lips. He tasted your salty skin before pushing his wet tongue inside you. You cried at the sudden fullness and his cock twitched in anticipation. He expertly moved his tongue in different patterns inside your walls, licking up all of your essence.
“Try sucking on her clit. That’s what really gets her goin’,” Holland blurted while lazily stroking his own cock.
“Mate, this isn’t a bloody baseball game,” Tangerine snarked. He gave you an apologetic kiss to your inner thigh before tasting you again.
As annoyed as he was with the other man, Tangerine did try to suck on your clit with his slick-drenched lips.
“Mmpfh, just like that, Tange. Don’t stop,” you cooed.
Feeling motivated by your compliment, he sucked even harder and flicked the tip of his tongue against your throbbing clit. You wrapped your thighs around his face, wanting to feel him as deep as possible inside you. He lavished your bud over and over again until the pressure inside you burst.
“Oh my god!” you cried intensely, and the man at your cunt happily lapped up all of your cum with his tongue.
“Fucking delicious, sweetheart, but we ain’t done yet. Still need to open ya up,” Tangerine crooned and went up to caress your face with his large hand.
He descended back to your cunt and slowly placed two of his thick fingers into your entrance. You screamed in ecstasy and lifted your hips off of the bed, trying to grind yourself against his digits. He deeply thrusted in and out of your sopping cunt, and you covered your mouth with your palm to not alert any of your neighbors.
He curled his fingers when he found your G spot and rubbed your pulsing clit with his thumb. Unlike your Holland, Tangerine wasn’t as tender with you. He didn’t have many opportunities to enjoy another person’s intimacy, but the assassin still paid close attention to his actions so that he wouldn’t hurt you.
You came once again with a muffled cry into your hand when Tangerine rubbed your clit in just the right way, and you clenched hard around his digits.
“Christ, you’re so fucking tight around me, love. I don’t know how my cock is gonna survive this.” He chuckled and placed a kiss on your temple.
He slid his hand out of your spent cunt and licked his fingers clean. It was the most divine flavor he had tasted in a very long time.
As you lay there to catch your breath, the Brit turned to the American. Tangerine looked at Holland’s blushing red cock and his mouth salivated.
“You wanna get your cock sucked by a guy for the first time?” Holland shamelessly teased him.
“Only if it was anyone but you…” Tangerine bemoaned sarcastically.
It was now Holland’s turn to lie down on his stomach. He leaned his head down and grabbed Tangerine’s still-hard cock with his right hand, giving it languid strokes. With a wet lick of his lips, he took in the other man’s length deep into his eager throat.
“Ooof, yeah, there we go, love. Just like tha’.” He grabbed Holland’s wavy blond hair and guided him further down his cock. Your boyfriend whimpered against his length in reaction, and your cunt started to leak again after hearing him. You squeezed your thighs together; you were so turned on by Holland sharing his love with the mysterious, time-traveling stranger.
Holland bobbed his mouth up and down his cock, tasting his sweat and salty precum. He grinded his own cock against the bedsheets at the same time.
“Oy, that’s enough, playboy. As much as I'd love to cum in your mouth, I gotta attend to your girl.” Tangerine pulled on the blond man’s strands again.
Holland pulled his mouth off of the brunet’s cock and wiped the drool off of his lips with a big smile.
“You got any condoms ‘round here? I usually don’t fuck in the middle of a mission.”
Holland ran a little too quickly to open the nightstand drawer and took out a gold foil packet to give it to Tangerine. He ripped it open, slid the condom over his still-hard length, and threw the packaging into the trash can next to the nightstand.
“Baby, why don’t you get on all fours and we’ll get on either side of you?” Holland softly addressed you.
“Mmm, that sounds really good.” You grinned and bit your lower lip.
You moved to the middle of the bed and did exactly what your lover asked, giving Tangerine a full view of the curves of your ass.
The Brit gave you a teasing slap to your right cheek and watched the soft flesh jiggle. He slid his cock up and down your dripping cunt before fully entering you.
You loudly moaned at the addictive fullness inside you. Tangerine was girthier than your Holland and had a slight upwards curve.
“That’sss it, darling. Take me all in,” he encouraged you. “You’re bloody right, March. She does have the best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had.”
“I never lie about my girl,” Holland responded with a chuckle.
He moved to kneel in front of you, his thick erection right in your face. You held onto the base with your hand and began to suck on his sensitive tip, running your tongue over the opening.
Holland let out a throaty growl. “Always so perfect for me, angel.” He ran his hand through your hair, silently encouraging you to continue sucking him.
At the same time, Tangerine thrusted into you at an intense pace, causing you to shove Holland’s cock deeper into your throat and whimper against him.
Another wicked idea came to Holland’s mind. He reached over to caress Tangerine's face once more and made out with him as he was fucking your face.
You could hear the wet, smacking sounds of their lips from above you. God, did you wish that you had another pair of eyes at the back of your head.
Tangerine pulled away from the heated kiss to reach around your hip and give calculated rubs to your aching clit. You squeezed again and again around his length. You came once again as he still fucked into your tired cunt. When Holland felt you groan against his own cock, he was so close to bursting inside your warm throat.
“Ahh, fuck! I’m gonna cum soon, baby. Can I cum inside your throat?”
You looked up at him with adoring eyes and nodded your head. When his dazzling blue eyes met yours, he came right into your throat. You eagerly swallowed all of his cum and pulled your mouth out of his dick to lick up the dripping excess from his tip.
Tangerine’s head felt dizzy with euphoria when he watched the incredibly hot sight in front of him. He pulled out of you and removed the condom from his length, quickly throwing it into the trash can. He roughly stroked himself until hot ropes of cum spilled onto the small of your back. He groaned at the erotic, almost artistic sight of his ribbons of white cum against your sweaty, glistening skin.
“Bloody fuckin’ hell, that’s a beautiful sight right there,” Tangerine moaned. “You gonna clean her up, loverboy?”
Holland let out a dry chuckle, tilted his head, and raised an amused eyebrow. He lay down on his stomach and darted out his tongue to press onto your body.
“Ahh, fuck!” You started to moan softly and your tired cunt began to clench around thin air when you felt Holland lick hot, wet stripes across your skin, swiping his tongue up to taste all of Tangerine’s essence. You pressed your face into the sheets, your lips ghosting the fabric.
“There’s a good boy,” the assassin crooned.
“Shut the fuck up before I kick you out of this house,” Holland snarked back. He then placed a chaste kiss onto your lower back, almost as an apology for being rude to your treasured guest who just made you cum three times in an hour.
“Come here, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” Holland’s hands gently grabbed you by your waist, pulling you up to rest on top of him. You laid your head over his heart and rested your hand on his chest.
He directed his gaze towards the curly haired man. “Why don’t you join us, Orange?”
“You’re really lucky that I find you and your girl to be incredibly hot,” Tangerine snarked before joining the cuddle pile.
You couldn’t help but chuckle against Holland’s chest. “Play nice with our guest, Holls.”
Tangerine lay beside you, snaked an arm around your hips, and pressed his chin against your shoulder blade. He softly moaned when he breathed in the sweet, heady combination of your shampoo, perfume, and sweat. You three held onto each other and rode out the dopamine drop together. You were in your own little paradise—free of judgment, free of rules, free of guilt.
———
After blissfully lying there for a while, you invited them both to join you in the shower. It was almost hilarious how the two men tried to squeeze into the bathtub with you in the middle. Holland excitedly rubbed soap bubbles onto your breasts while Tangerine kneeled to carefully wash your sensitive pussy and your heavenly soft thighs.
Afterwards, you three helped each other to dry off and redress in the day’s clothes. You went back to the living room and lazily watched TV with both men sitting on either side of you.
After thirty minutes, you heard the door unlock. Healy, Lemon, and Holly were back from their hangout at the bar. Even though Holly was technically not allowed to be at the establishment, the bar owner knew Healy and March by name and always kept a case of Yoo-hoo for her.
“‘Sup, guys? How was the bar?” Holland turned his head.
“It was splendid! We had a lotta fu— I mean frickin’ hilarious conversations.” Lemon was a cold assassin, but he still wanted to respect the young girl standing next to him.
“What are your thoughts on our two new friends, mate?” Tangerine asked his brother.
“Well, Healy here is a Henry: hardworking, strong, and no-nonsense, and Miss Holly is an Emily: smart, caring, and fearless.” Lemon enthusiastically explained.
Healy looked at the couch and raised a curious eyebrow but said nothing. He saw that you three still had wet hair and Holland’s tie was slightly crooked. Oh, to be young and in love again…
“So… did you guys come up with a plan on how these two are gonna go home?” Healy asked you three.
Tangerine coughed into his fist. “Right, yeah… we discussed a lot of possibilities, and basically, we believe that the only way we can return home is to go through that back entrance door again.” Both you and Holland nodded and silently thanked him for covering all three of your asses.
“I see. Well, better get to it then,”
“How about [Y/N] and I take these two back to our office and you stay with Holly? I don’t want you guys to get sucked into the whole time travel portal thing too.” Holland nervously replied.
“Good idea, March. We’ll be eagerly waiting to hear from you.” Healy nodded.
Lemon and Tangerine said their goodbyes to Healy and Holly, got their weapons back, and the four of you walked to Holland’s car and drove back to the office. When you all faced the back door again, you held onto Holland’s arm while you watched the two brothers approach the portal.
“Thank you two for everything, really. I had a really great time today.” Tangerine gave you a quick, cheeky wink and you nodded with a big smile on your face.
“Take care, you two, and have a Merry Christmas!” You waved at them.
“You too, love. Until we meet again!” Tangerine felt a tinge of sadness in his chest, but he’d never forget the kindness that you and Holland showed him today.
When the brothers walked through the door, they were greeted with the dark London midnight sky again.
“Shhh! Nah, bruv. We’ve still got a mission to do, remember?” Tangerine aggressively whispered back.
“Oh, right. Should we check to see if the portal’s still open?” Lemon whispered back.
Tangerine turned around to face the door once more. As much as he wanted to go back to your year, he still had a lot of work to do. He slowly opened the door to see that your office had been replaced with the real, dingy warehouse. He got out his gun and nodded to Lemon. It was time to finish the job.
10 fallen bodies later, the assassins finally cleared out the warehouse. When Tangerine called his handler to tell him about the successful completion, he learned that his next mission was going to be on a bullet train headed from Tokyo to Kyoto. My life is just full of surprises, isn’t it? the man wondered.
Going on a shopping spree for Luke. Treat him like a princess and get him whatever his eyes laid on for more than a second. He deserves good things, and someone taking care of him 😌
Completely went off the rails with this :D
Treat You Right
Luke Glanton x gn!reader, ~2k words
You slipped in the front door and set the bags down before making your way to the bedroom to quietly look inside; Luke was still asleep. Perfect. You unpacked the groceries and got to work.
Luke wandered into the kitchen an hour later. “Something smells good,” he slurred. He blearily scrubbed a hand over his face; he wasn’t much of a morning person. You dried your hands and came over, and he pulled you into an embrace with casual ease. He was still warm from the bed.
“Happy birthday, baby,” you said with your face buried in his shoulder. He was quiet for a moment and you knew he was taking stock of the state of the kitchen.
“You’re ridiculous,” he chuckled.
“It’s not a birthday without cake,” you provided. You went back to cleaning. The cake tins were still in the oven, the decadent smell of chocolate sponge permeating your apartment.
“You trying to make me fat?” Luke needled, leaning his decorated forearms on the counter.
You snorted. “Now who’s being ridiculous?” You dumped the last of the batter-covered utensils into the sink and started wiping up four, which of course had gotten everywhere. Luke moved to help you. “Don’t even think about it,” you scolded, giving him a warning look. “I’ll take care of this. Go shower, I’m taking you to breakfast.”
“What if I get lonely?”
“I think you’ll survive without me for ten minutes,” you said dryly. “Now, get.”
Luke cracked a smile and moved off to comply. “Bossy.”
“Only when I need to be,” you tossed back. You resumed reclaiming the kitchen from the mess you’d made.
***
“You gotta stop doin’ that,” Luke groused as you threw a sweatshirt he’d glanced at into the cart.
“My bonus isn’t going to spend itself,” you supplied. You steered the cart further into the clothing section, having a mind to get him more socks. Luke’s riding had him wearing through the pairs he owned and you wanted to find some that would stand up to heavy use.
“Could at least get yourself something too,” he muttered, trailing alongside you. Everything in the cart was for him: shampoo and conditioner that would lengthen the life of his dye, leather conditioner for his gear, several shirts and pairs of pants he’d made the mistake of looking at for too long before he figured out you were using his casual interest against him. You’d also snuck in a few bags of his favorite candy he’d find out about later; as much as he tried to deny it, Luke did have a bit of a sweet tooth.
You found what you wanted and started browsing. “You can get me back for my birthday, does that sound fair?”
Luke leaned against one of the racks, silently yielding. A little girl and her mother passed by, and the girl stopped and stared at Luke, huge eyes raking over his tattoos. Luke gave her a small smile and the girl ran off to catch up with her mother. You smiled at the not-uncommon interaction; kids were endlessly fascinated by his ink. You tossed a few pairs of socks into the cart and decided to spare him any further inflictions of kindness for the day.
***
That afternoon, you held onto Luke as you sped down the thoroughfare, his bike singing beneath you. The day was clear and bracing, the Halloween decorations strung up around town lending it a whimsical touch and reminding you of the deepening of the season. Fall had long been your favorite time of year for the gradual return to colder weather and subsequent permission to once again wear your comfiest clothing and curl up under a blanket. Luke’s birthday was October 31, but you preferred to view it as Halloween happened to fall on Luke’s birthday. Kids who grew up in the foster system had a hard enough time feeling valued without the one day a year that’s supposed to be theirs getting hijacked by a major holiday.
Stores disappeared and houses got fewer and farther apart as you neared city limits. Foliage gradually replaced man-made structures until the street beneath you became a road flanked by the mighty pine barrens that had guarded this part of the world for longer than could be remembered. You rode deeper into their embrace and smiled as you caught the rich scent of balsam. Luke was warm and you huddled against his back to escape the chilly wind.
Luke pulled onto an unpaved access road and took it down about half a mile, riding relatively slowly. Riding two up on asphalt was fine, but staying seated on rough ground was difficult for you. He rolled to a halt and held the bike as you dismounted, its powerful engine quieting as he hit the kill switch. You removed the helmet you’d been wearing and tucked it under your arm. Together, you strode into the forest, Luke walking his bike at your side. You’d been out here many times. No one else ever came around and you had come to view this stretch of woods as belonging to the three of you; perhaps not belonging in the traditional sense of the word, but sanctioned for your use by the watchful evergreens who oversaw the comings and goings of those who entered their domain.
You reached your usual spot marked by the fallen log that would keep you company while Luke outran his demons.
“Think you can survive without me for ten minutes?” Luke challenged, attention on his riding gloves as he pulled them tighter.
You smirked as you offered his helmet. “Only ten?” You knew him better than that.
His maniac grin was the last you saw of his face before the helmet came down, and he barely let the bike wake up before he was laying into the throttle so hard the machine screamed at him while peeling out.
You listened to the joyful bark of his thumper as it tore over the earth and kicked up dirt in its exuberance. The sound faded somewhat as Luke got farther away. You weren’t worried about him getting lost; among other things, Luke had been gifted with a phenomenal sense of direction. You unzipped your pants so you could get started on his next present.
By the time he got back, you were naked from the waist down and sitting on the log on top of your shed clothing with your fingers buried between your legs. He ripped his helmet off and actually threw it to the ground, and you shivered as he closed in and didn’t stop working yourself open.
Luke stank of gasoline and sweat, his hair tousled from the helmet. You met the hunger in his eyes with a defiant tilt of your chin. The heavy strokes of his breathing consumed the air. He tugged off his gloves and reached for the back of his neck so he could untie his bandana. When it was free he pressed it to your lips in a question. You opened your mouth wide. It was saturated with him and you whimpered. Luke tied it off behind your head, trying to be gentle, but the fabric cut a little at the corners of your mouth and you loved it.
He took the time to coat two of his fingers with the lube you were using before pushing them inside. His other arm wrapped around you and you widened your legs to invite him deeper. You sighed into his ear.
“Couldn’t wait?” he huffed from where his head was pressed against your shoulder. He hooked his fingers and your whine was muffled by the gag. You clutched at him. You were certain he was trying to make you come first, which you knew he liked doing and may have been your motivation for instigating this in the first place. Whatever he wanted, anything at all.
“I’ve got you,” he promised, and was as good as his word.
***
You laid in bed, listening with one ear to the road noise filtering through the closed window and with the other taking in the steady thump of Luke’s heart from where your head rested on his chest. Despite the cold night, there were no layers of clothing between you and you relied on the warmth of your bodies beneath the thick bedspread to keep you comfortable. Luke blew a plume of smoke into the air and offered you a drag of his cigarette, which you sat up to accept. You shivered and held the blankets close. The streetlights cast harsh shadows on the opposite wall, and Luke traced his fingers across your lower back.
You handed back the cigarette and exhaled. “I love you,” you said. Luke pulled himself up and draped himself over your back, his strong arms wrapping around your middle. You knew the words were hard for him; it didn’t bother you like it used to when he couldn’t say them. So you were surprised when you heard a quiet “I love you” and a kiss was pressed to your shoulder. Your hand went to his forearm and squeezed. You closed your eyes and indulged for a few moments in the soft tide of his lungs expanding and emptying against your back.
“I have one more thing for you,” you said.
“Really?” he murmured, mouthing at your neck and being terribly distracting.
“Mm-hm. Look in your drawer.”
You immediately missed his warmth. You shuffled back a bit as he pulled a small box from his bedside table, and you watched him try to figure out what it could be by tilting it. Something heavy clattered inside. Luke’s brow furrowed. He removed the top of the box, then dropped both halves of it onto the bed as if they’d singed him. He crossed the room and stood with his back to you; his shoulders were shaking.
“Oh honey, c’mere,” you pleaded, and were answered by a wet hitch of his breath. You went to him and held him, resting your forehead on his back. Luke’s stomach spasmed under your fingers as he cried without sound. You kissed his trembling expanse of muscle and ink and stayed. After some time, he turned and gathered you in a fierce embrace that you returned with equal ardor.
“I love you,” Luke said for the second time, which nothing could have prepared you for.
“I know,” you breathed, running your hands up and down his back. “I love you too.”
You both came back to the bed and Luke gingerly removed your gift from the box. It was a butterfly knife, slightly larger than the one he already owned. Its burnished steel glistened as he turned it over in his hands. “Thought you might like one that was a little bigger,” you said, suddenly feeling the need to justify your decision making. Luke gave the knife a few experimental flips and you shivered despite yourself.
He smiled. “It’s great.” He admired its workmanship.
“Should I leave you two alone?” you teased.
“You expect me not to want to look at it?” Luke bantered back. “That’s entrapment.” He flipped the knife closed and laid it on the bedside table. “There. Happy?”
You laughed. “Don’t get defensive. I know when I’m not wanted.” You tried to slide off the bed, but Luke hauled you into his lap so you were chest-to-chest.
“I don’t think you do,” he murmured, and began kissing your neck.
You sighed in mock exasperation. “Again? You’re running me ragged.”
“C’mon, it’s my birthday,” he cajoled, knowing by how eagerly you were pressing against him that you were ready for more.
“Not as of ten minutes ago- ah!” Your admonishment fell flat as he sucked a nipple into his mouth.
Luke didn’t miss a beat. “Pity fuck, then?”
You pushed him onto his back so he could see you roll your eyes. “Not a chance.” You took his hand in yours and slid his index finger into your mouth, licking and sucking. Neither of you looked away. By the time you made your way across his whole hand, Luke’s breathing had become much heavier.
He pushed his hips up into you, a wordless plea. “You gonna make it worth my while?” you purred. You placed his hand on your hip and he squeezed it gently. He nodded. “Good. Hands and knees, then.”
Tag List: @ken-dom, @pixiebuggz, @cosmicyeehaw, @avocado-writing, @eridianhearts, @s4turnsb3st, @qoemchu, @therylandgracehugger
note : the past returns unexpectedly one hot summer evening
A/N: because this song gives me the mood...
[Ryan Gosling masterlist] [main masterlist]
“You haven’t changed that much.”
You turned over your shoulder and immediately recognized the owner of that voice. How could you not? Luke Glanton. Your heart stopped for a moment, and your fingers tightened around the keys in your hand. It was already evening. You had finished work and stepped out into the stuffy air, dreaming only of a shower and some food. You hadn’t planned on seeing a ghost from the past.
“You think so?” you asked a little defiantly, trying to hide your surprise. You adjusted the bag on your shoulder, but didn’t move from your spot.
Luke smiled. The same smile that had stolen your heart two or three years ago, only to leave it behind in the empty parking lot of the local supermarket. He was more built now. Muscular arms stuck out from beneath a faded T-shirt that had definitely seen better days. His sun-kissed skin was decorated with a few new tattoos, and his hair had clearly come into contact with some seriously cheap bleach. His eyes, however, were the same blue eyes you knew so well. The same ones that sometimes appeared in your dreams at night.
A trail of smoke casually escaped between his lips. “You’re prettier.” He noticed you roll your eyes. “What? I’m lying?”
“I think you have a problem with your memory, and you’ve also run out of original lines. Do girls really fall for that?” You crossed your arms over your chest.
“You did.”
Yes, he was right. You lowered your gaze. A couple of cars passed between you, followed by a group of loud teenagers. Finally, Luke pushed himself away from his motorcycle, against which he had been leaning, and tossed his cigarette butt aside.
“You changed job?” he asked.
You nodded.
“I was at Morris’s, but they said you haven’t worked there in a long time. Here now?” He pointed toward the building.
“Yeah. For a while now.”
“Good. You were always smart.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “So… How’s life treating you?”
“You’re really asking me that?” You shook your head in disbelief. You sighed. “I heard the carnival was coming to town. I just didn’t expect you to come with it.”
Luke spread his hands. “And here I am. I missed you...”
“Jesus…” you groaned, rubbing your temple, but you couldn’t hide your smile. “You had almost three years to reach out if you really missed me, you know. Come on, Luke.”
The smile on his lips faded a little, but giving up so easily was never Luke Glanton’s style. He walked toward you slowly. The laces of his boots dragged along the asphalt behind him. You thought that sooner or later he was going to lose a tooth if he didn’t start tying them. He rarely did.
“You seeing anyone?”
A strange shiver ran through your body. As if this man radiated some kind of energy your body could sense but didn’t know how to react to. You dug your nails into your arms, trying to calm yourself down.
“Why do you care? What for?”
He shrugged. “You’re my girl, right?”
You chuckled. “You wanted me. You got me.”
“I wanted more.”
“Then you shouldn’t have left.”
He lowered his gaze. You knew why he had left, even though you had tried so hard not to understand it. If the two of you wanted to build a life together, you needed more than hot feelings and plans. Money. Back then, you worked as a waitress and barely made anything. Luke, as a motorcycle stuntman, wasn’t exactly making a fortune either. And although you loved him, although you believed that what existed between you made sense, he saw things differently. And he was probably right. You were young, in love… It was only after he left, after you cried through enough nights, that you started changing your life. Without him.
Luke scraped his boot against the ground, then looked at you.
“You coming by tonight? I’ve got a show, but afterward we could talk.”
You shrugged slightly. “I don’t know. Maybe I have other plans?”
That smile again. It was going to be your curse for the rest of your life.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I’ll be washing my hair.”
Now you smiled too. Your answer was so irrational that neither of you could stop yourselves from laughing. Your laughter echoed through the quiet neighborhood. Luke hesitantly reached out his hand. His long fingers brushed your arm, and it felt like a tiny electric shock. Your heart sped up.
“Come, please…” he murmured quietly. “I missed you, sweetheart…”
You already knew you had lost.
You didn’t know why you had agreed, but you showed up where he expected you to. You were lost to the world. Whenever Luke appeared on the horizon, your brain seemed to automatically focus on him, even though you knew perfectly well it was nothing good.
The place was packed with people. Children ran between the stalls. Music played in the background. The smell of popcorn hung in the air.
You spotted him only after a while. He was looking for you, standing not far from where the other stuntmen kept their motorcycles. The ever-present cigarette between his lips trembled slightly as he talked to one of his friends. When he noticed you and your eyes met, the expression on his face changed immediately.
He didn’t even get a chance to make a gesture before someone called your name from somewhere behind you. Some young man, someone he vaguely recognized from around town, was already walking toward you. You started talking. You laughed, and he visibly grew more confident. It didn’t last long. It was completely innocent, but Luke still felt irritation building inside him.
You had come there for him. He knew that perfectly well. And yet that guy… Luke put out his cigarette and headed your way. You noticed him from the corner of your eye.
“Hi. Can I steal you?”
Before you could answer, he gently took your arm and led you toward his motorcycle.
“You said you weren’t seeing anyone,” he muttered.
The amusement on your face was obvious.
“Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You stopped, and Luke glanced toward the man you had left behind. He was slowly disappearing into the crowd.
“Maybe I like nice guys?”
Blue eyes immediately settled on your face. “I’m nice.”
“Oh, please!” You laughed. “You, Luke, are trouble.”
“And yet you came anyway,” he pointed out with irritating accuracy. “Maybe you like complicated things.”
“Maybe I like you.”
You failed to stop those words from escaping, and the moment they left your lips, Luke’s face softened. You had confirmed what he already knew. You lowered your gaze. To ease the tension a little, you glanced at the motorcycle beside which you were standing. You knew it very well. Luke had taken you for rides on it many times.
“Want to go for a ride?” he asked, as if he could read your mind.
You shrugged. “I’m sure plenty of your fans are waiting in line for you to take them.”
“I’m asking you.”
His eyes lingered on your lips for a moment before lazily moving back to your eyes. Dangerous. Very dangerous.
“So?”
You nodded.
The sky was scattered with stars as you rode down the empty road. Just you and Luke. Like before. You could feel the warmth of his body as you wrapped your arms around his waist. There wasn’t a single thought in your head, as if the wind messing up your hair had taken all your thoughts with it.
You didn’t protest when he turned onto a side road and then into the empty parking lot beneath the supermarket. The exact same one where everything had once ended. The engine died, and you slid off the motorcycle.
“I wasn’t lying when I said I missed you.” His voice broke the silence. “Every day. Every night.”
You stood with your back to him. He guessed that you were afraid to look at him because then you would have to face what you were feeling. He understood. So he stepped closer.
“I fucked it up. I know,” he continued. “But I wanted to give you what you deserved. The life you deserved.”
“So you decided for me.” Your voice was slightly trembling, but clear. “You hurt me. More than anyone ever has.”
He took a breath. The air smelled of the nearby forest, and he could also catch the faint scent of your perfume.
“I am a trouble. You’re right.” He sighed. “But I care about you. I always have.”
You turned around. Something heavy dropped into his stomach when he saw your wet eyes. You weren’t crying. Not yet.
“You shouldn’t have decided for me.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t even give us a chance.”
“I know.”
“I thought I was just a toy to you… A summer fling, one of dozens you have while traveling between states.”
His jaw tightened. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled something out. He handed it to you, and you realized it was a folded photograph. A picture of the two of you. Luke had his arm around you, kissing your temple. You were laughing as if there would never be a tomorrow, because only that moment mattered.
That summer appeared before your eyes again. Warm and humid. Evening meetings and morning kisses over cups of coffee. The way he used to pick you up after work. The sound of his motorcycle engine. His hands wandering over your body. Tender kisses. Hot nights. The plans you had made together. A house. A future. A swing in the garden. Everything you could have.
“You were with me everywhere. Always.” His voice was quiet. “I didn’t come here just to mess with your head. I fucked it up. I know that. If you don’t want me, I’ll pack up with the guys in a week and you’ll never see me again. But if there’s hope…”
You looked at him.
“If there’s hope, I don’t want to spend another second wondering whether I should have kissed you. Because that’s all I’ve been wanting to do. Unless you won’t let me.”
Tears rolled down your cheeks. Emotions you weren’t even sure you could name filled every part of you, and your heart was pounding so hard that Luke had to hear it. Still, you took an uncertain step toward him.
“That’s not a no,” Luke said quietly.
“I missed you…” you whispered. “Every day.”
“I know, sweetheart…”
He cupped your face in his hands. He wiped away your tears with his thumbs, and a moment later, he kissed you. At first, slowly, as if he wanted to give you a chance to pull away. But when you kissed him back, he didn’t hesitate. His lips stole your breath. You pressed yourself against his solid body, afraid your legs would give out beneath you.
Luke Glanton was trouble. Trouble that had found you again. Had you done the right thing by letting him back in? You didn’t know. Time would tell…
summary: you, diamond of the season, finally get to meet benedict bridgerton.
notes: fluff, reposting from an old acct
You finally allowed yourself a sigh of relief upon stepping out onto the street. You removed the one annoying pin in your hair which had been digging into your skull for the past two hours. Surely your hair will hold up without it.
Dropping it on the floor, you looked around. The plan was… temporary relief. After one walk around the castle, twenty minutes to yourself, you should be ready to once again go inside and make your rounds with the various suitors scrambling for your hand. At least… that would have been the plan had you not spotted Benedict Bridgerton some way down the road.
You’ve always sort of had an eye for that man.
And given your attraction to him, it may have seemed obvious that you should go up to talk to him immediately… Well others would think it obvious to avoid that very same idea. You were conflicted, mind jumping between the two possible courses of action but your feet had already begun to walk in his direction, obviously having made a decision for themselves.
There was, of course, still the option of walking straight past him without uttering a single word. And as you neared him, it was becoming a more prominent thought in your mind. Surely he would take no offense to it — You do not know each other at all — you simply know he is the most handsome and effortlessly charming man you had ever seen. That does not mean you have to talk to him. But you want to.
Oh this is all so ridiculous. Simply speak to the man. There is no one around to watch the exchange.
“Hello,” You greeted with a smile, stopping in front of him.
Well you certainly hope this exchange is worth your while. It took great effort to convince yourself it was the correct thing to do. Now, you have greeted him but not only that, you stopped in front of him, you cannot likely exit the conversation gracefully. As naturally as you could manage, you settled your forearms on top of the decorated rail in front of both of you.
It enclosed a lake in front of you, only a short block away from the lively event you were supposed to be attending. Benedict chose a good spot to rest… He has a good eye for beauty, that one.
“Oh. Hello,” He greeted, looking to his other side in case you had been addressing someone else.
You chuckled, “Yes, you, Benedict.”
“You know my name,” He remarked, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
“You are a Bridgerton, my lord. Do you suppose there is anyone in the ton that does not know your name?” You inched forward, awkwardly but you hoped it was at least endearing. “Do you know my name, my lord?”
His smirk widened at your hints of shrewdness. “You are the Diamond, my lady. Do you suppose there is anyone in the ton that has not read your name in the last several copies of Whistledown?”
“Touche.” Chuckling, you shook your head at that, “She always has something to say about the diamond doesn’t she? And without knowing anything about us.”
Benedict watched you, curious. You were… without a doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever seen — it was no surprise to anyone when you were named Diamond. You may have been an awkward little one as a child but you bloomed into the highest image of beauty, you learned all it took to hold yourself in a gorgeous manner — graceful and confident (which only boosted your image). Imperfections and all, they did not matter because you exuded everything a woman should be in her heart.
A lot of your mask which you had built up for appearances had been dashed at the moment. While in the ballroom, you had the brightest, most unassuming of smiles, maybe with a hint of coyness and playfulness within your eyes. Now you were still smiling but it was more dominated by that coyness — so coy and playful it bordered on cynical. You looked around at the castle and the gardens, eyebrows set in firmly as if in thought.
“What are you doing out here?” Benedict asked, pulling you out of your head for a moment, “Shouldn’t the Queen or Lady Danbury be on your tail at all moments considering you are the Diamond?”
You smiled at the view ahead of you and then turned to Benedict once more. “I slipped away, courtesy of a mess created by a couple of stumbling drunk libertines. Everyone was distracted enough so I took advantage of the moment,” And a soft, beautiful chuckle left your throat with that.
Benedict shook his head, laughing softly along with you.
“I was waiting for an exit point. It was perfect.”
Tilting his head to the side, Benedict asked, “Do you not enjoy these events?” It was clear you had interested him in some way.
“Sometimes,” You answered honestly, “Sometimes I need the frivolity of everything, the lightheartedness and the… detachment. But tonight, I need to feel like myself for a few moments.” You attempted to expand further, shaking your head and shutting your eyes tight to think on it, “You know, when– when we attend these balls, sometimes it feels as if you are stepping out of your… body… for a few hours… Sometimes I like that.” You nodded, looking up at him, “Tonight, though,” Sighing, your eyes wandered back to the scene in front of you, “Lately, actually… the frivolity is not fun. It is… stressful. When you know people are watching. I never realized just how much people looked until I was named diamond.”
Benedict frowned thoughtfully, considering your words. “I do not think I have ever enjoyed any ball or opera or event for that very reason. My sister, Eloise, and I frequently leave in the midst of all the confusion.”
“Is she not here today?”
“She left with Penelope Featherington before I could get to her. And I thought I was her favorite,” Benedict pouted playfully.
You smirked, “Well I will gladly take her place as your company if you would allow me.” You looked at him, trying to appear confident but you knew you had a bit of an awkward air to you. You are good at pretending in front of the ton… pretending confidence. But it is so very different when it is Benedict, who you have admired from afar for so long. It feels like a dream, stumbling upon him alone.
Benedict smiled and offered up his arm silently.
You hooked your arm in his, beaming at him, “Yes! Oh, I am so happy. I did not want to go back in there.”
“Should we… perhaps go back to the castle for my carriage if we are to travel any further? It is not far,” Benedict gestured down the road to the tall gates of the castle. You sighed, feeling a sinking in your chest at the mere thought of returning to the premise.
There was a great hesitation filling the air as you looked around your environment. The open air was so much better than those white, golden walls, which were beginning to look more and more stuffy each moment you spent in it.
In contrast, the castle, the nature, the beautiful night sky. Oh you loved the sky that night. You felt as if you could see all the stars in the entire cosmos. The town on the other side of you appeared a little dead but you felt a budding excitement at the lack of people. There are so many possibilities when there are no people sitting in the windows, watching, and scrutinizing…
“Can we walk around?” You asked, feigning timidness.
Benedict smiled at your excited eyes and nodded, “As you wish, my lady,” and he already began to lead you further up the street, away from the castle.
“I must say, this is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done,” You said to him, feeling a little embarrassed by your naivete but the excitement compelled you to speak. “Can you imagine if anyone caught wind of this? Two strangers alone in the night? Much less the Diamond and the most distinguished bachelor of the ton.”
Benedict laughed almost sarcastically, “Most distinguished?”
A feeling started to bud in your heart and you feared if you spoke, you would reveal too much. Nevertheless, you spoke, “Well not in name, perhaps, not compared to dukes and princes. But, a Bridgerton? Who does not want to marry a Bridgerton? And the number of available Bridgerton men is dropping. Quickly.”
“Well there is still Colin.”
“Colin? Is he not to marry Penelope Featherington?”
“Pen?” Benedict laughed, “Perhaps when the dolt realizes his feelings for her.”
You gasped, turning to him with wide eyes and a mischievous smile, “You mean to tell me he does not know his own feelings for her?”
Benedict shook his head, a small laugh escaping him because of the extremity of your reaction.
“And you have not tried to make it clear to him?”
“What could I do in this situation?”
“Meddle! Benedict! It is one of your few obligations and duties as a brother, to meddle in your siblings’ lives! Especially their love. It is a blessing to find a true love match in the ton. Most have passionate, extramarital love affairs which would never be accepted by public eye. I do not know your brother but he must jump on this opportunity — if he loves her.”
Benedict shook his head again, fondly watching you on his arm. You leaned your head against his shoulder as you entered the town, the tall walls of the apartments, and town-houses, and small corner shops enclosing you. “You do not know Col, that much is clear by your words. He is stubborn and will only ever listen to himself. It is a common trait among Bridgertons however. Which is why it is so difficult to marry one off despite the apparently high demand.”
“Oh you all just have high standards. Which is good. I assure you. I think my mother feared my entering a loveless and hasty marriage. We had a lengthy discussion on the matter when I almost engaged with Sir… what was it? I think it was that male-spinster, Berbrooke, I do not remember his first name.”
“Nigel?”
“Yes!” You exclaimed and chuckled. Benedict looked absolutely horrified. “Oh, my mother had a similar reaction. She asked me why I wanted to marry such a man devoid of principle. I responded that I do not look for love in marriage.”
Benedict gaped at you and you peeked up at him through your lashes, face still set on his shoulder.
“What?” You chuckled.
“There is too much to say, my lady, I do not know where to begin. Firstly, the matters of Nigel, who your mother is correct in labeling as a man devoid of principle for I have not known a man less worthy of the affections of any lady.”
“Strong words,” you chuckled.
“With good reason behind it.”
You nodded slowly, deciding not to pry, “My mother said the same… She said that she has an instinct when it comes to men. She said she rather likes you, actually, which I found humorous because she also said she had never talked to you. Oh she also told me to stay away from Anthony. I could not for the life of me find out why. I had been considering him as a match last season before my debut But… well. I guess my debut came far too late.”
“I am curious, what exactly is it that you look for in a match?”
You thought on the best way to phrase it and with a self satisfied smirk, you responded, knowing it would elicit a reaction out of the notorious romantic, “Financial stability.”
Benedict’s eyebrows furrowed intensely, “That cannot be true.”
“Why not?”
“You… first you speak words of a romantic, then you speak words of a fully pragmatic, passionless… do you desire love?”
“Everyone desires love.”
“Well then… What, my lady, could you mean from all this?”
You sighed and bowed your head, detaching from his shoulder. One arm remained hooked in his elbow but your other hand came down to grasp his hand, “Well… My plan was to search for love outside of my marriage like I hear most do. If my husband is to have affairs, why musn't I? I hear Henry Granville throws wonderful parties and I have always wanted to attend one.”
“Oh dear those are not the kinds of places in which you find love.”
“Passion, then. At the very least… romance. Does romance not lead to love sometimes?”
“Well—”
“And is passion not a form of love?” You asked but then you chuckled nervously, realizing you were interrupting him far too many times, “Have you ever attended?”
Benedict laughed, shaking his head at you. You were adorable.
“You have, haven’t you? You must tell me what it was like, Benedict. You must.”
Benedict sighed again, looking down at you, then he sighed again, a smile spreading across his face. He could not deny your wondrous, curious spirit. It was simply not possible.
“They are mere indulgences of the flesh. You hardly get to know someone deeply. It is not impossible, of course. But generally, I think you enter expecting fun… detached fun, Which is the opposite of love. Of course it can feel like it at times but… hardly lasts.”
You pressed your lips in a flat line and humphed, “Well it doesn’t matter much anyway. I do not think I am too attached to that path for my future. Like I said, after Berbrooke, my mother and I had a discussion and she convinced me to… lift my standards for living. She has been working hard to find me a love match now that I expressed a desire for it.”
“Wha—” Benedict chuckled at your audacity, “Then what is the sense in all this deception?”
“Not deception… I simply… appreciate your input on the matter,” You responded simply, “I wanted to know if you would say anything different from my mother. She explained it more… as an issue of me needing to respect myself more… your horror comes from a sweet place. Thank you for believing in the idea that I deserve love.” You inhaled and sighed, freely, “I do find it quite liberating to speak of such things. I used to not speak of my desires and plans but it is so very liberating. I appreciate your openness and acceptance of my questions, Benedict.”
Benedict laughed once more and then pressed his lps together, smiling down at you. You obliviously looked around the town.
You were becoming… harder and harder to describe in his mind. There was an obvious kind of logic which governed your decisions yet your goals and values could only be described as irrational and passionate. The fact that you liked to think out loud was really quite endearing to him. And it was exceedingly entertaining to watch you shift from angle to angle so quickly.
“Are you a passionate man, Benedict? I feel like I take that kind of… energy from our interaction.”
“I would say it is one of my most proud qualities.”
“That is what I thought. It is common knowledge that you are the artist in the family. Or so I’ve heard.”
Benedict chuckled looking down.
“Oh, you do not have to appear sheepish.”
“It is not sheepishness, my lady. I simply find your observations amusing.”
You snorted, “Thank you, now expand on this. What makes you so passionate, my lord? And the rest of my barrage of questions, which will be quick to follow.”
“I do not fully understand what you mean by that, my lady?”
“Well what inspires you?”
Benedict took a deep breath, looking up and into the end of the street ahead of you. “Well, quite a lot of things, dear. That is a difficult question. It is everything a person feels. Love is the most obvious… and melancholy,” Benedict sighed, “I would not say I am inspired by any particular thing… or subject, or emotion. I feel compelled to create simply because I feel.”
You considered his words, a heat climbing up your cheeks. You let your free hand drop to your clasped hands and set it over the back of his, cupping it. You were trying not to say anything stupid or do anything stupid. Because frankly, those words would make any lady swoon and you did not want to swoon so hard you lose any wit. “That is a good answer. I do believe you are my favorite person I have ever interviewed, Mister Bridgerton.”
“Oh really?” Benedict shook his head softly with a chuckle and his thumb reached out to sort of clasp your hand to his. It was a soft movement but it would not go unnoticed by you. Not ever. Your heart was set aflame by it. This is the sort of feeling your mother told you you should feel.
“Do you know what would be fun?” you asked, still sort of refusing to meet his eye. You could feel his gaze on you, however.
“What? More fun than talking to you?”
You nudged him, “Tag!” and then completely detached yourself from him, holding your hands up by your head. You giggled, watching him process your action.
Benedict scoffed. You loved the fondness hidden in it. You craved more of that attitude.
“Oh, dear. I have seven siblings. You do not want to start a game with me. You do not have a single clue as to what you are getting into.”
You smiled, mischievous and Benedict took a single step toward you. You began sprinting down the street as well as you could in your heels (not well).
Some way down the road, You stopped and bent down to take off your shoes. You grunted when Benedict stumbled and ran right into you and cackled, helping him stabilize. Then he gave you a cheeky smirk, tapping your shoulder and running off ahead.
“Hey!” you shouted, “That’s cheating! I haven’t the right shoes for this!”
“Then you shouldn’t have started the game, love.”
Humphing to yourself, You forced off your other shoe and began running after him, ignoring the way your heart leapt at the nickname.
You only started the game because it was such a beautiful night to be running through London. The streets were so peaceful and asking for a bit of a ruckus to fill its emptiness. You finally caught up to Benedict after a short while. You imagine it is hard for him to run in such a ridiculous looking waistcoat.
Ridiculous because he was a gentleman and here he was running around like a child in his fancy-gentleman attire. You suppose you do not look any less ridiculous, hiking up your dress and chasing after him with your two shoes clacking together in your hand.
After you caught him, you tossed your heavy shoes at him to throw him off and proceeded to make a fast sprint to the end of the street. Benedict laughed, catching them and letting out a scandalized gasp. “Hey!” And he muttered something unintelligible.
He came after you much faster than you anticipated but you made full use of the small head start you gained, disappearing around the corner and into a convenient alleyway, not too far down the corner. Before he could turn the street, you jumped into the alley, out of his sight.
Benedict sighed and you heard a tsk as his footsteps slowed. You could hear the deliberation and thought in his footsteps… curious… wondering where you went. Then they stalked toward your direction. You hid deeper in the shadows, heart pounding. This was all very exciting and silly and childish.
You like that. You like that you’re frustrating him because you were beating him at this silly game. You like that he doesn’t think it to ridiculous — that he doesn’t take himself too seriously that he cannot enjoy the simple aspects of life anymore. He is a beautiful soul… A lovely companion — Open and caring.
As his footsteps grew more hesitant and near, you felt this inexplicable urge — Maybe it was because of your current situation, being in a public street. It was a street that would usually be lively and full of music during the day. That made this interaction feel so public. But there was no one there, creating a private, enclosed world for the two of you to wreak havoc upon.
This little alley gave some kind of refuge in your mind… a darkened, private home away from any reminders of the public. It was your little corner. You wanted to grab him and pull him in with you. Into this peaceful alley. So you followed that urge.
You caught sight of him from behind the shadows and just as he was about to stroll right past your hiding spot, you started toward him.
He started to call out the beginnings of your name but he couldn’t get the whole word out before you grabbed him by his sleeve and pulled him into the darkened street.
Boldly, you pushed him into the wall, gently cradling the back of his head to ensure you didn’t harm a single hair on him with your sudden movement. Your body pressed up to him and you pressed your lips to his. All reservations lost, you kissed him, hungry but careful to enjoy each movement of his lips against you. Shamelessly indulgent of every desire you had since you first approached him this night, yet sober and savoring each and every moment.
Benedict melted into you, one of his hands instantly grabbing your right hip and pulling you closer and the other, gently cradling your cheek. His lips moved against yours expertly and though you were the initiator and the main instigator of the kiss, you followed his more experienced and informed guidance.
He leaned his lower back against the wall, pulling you closer and closer until you were nearly floating off the ground, on the very tips of your toes.
Then in a sudden moment of increased vigor, he moved forward, arms coming around to your back, and pulling you into him tighter. You moaned into his mouth, lips accepting his affections freely. This is everything a man should make a woman feel.
You were left breathless when he finally pulled away and he was similar. Benedict rested his forehead against yours, eyes still resting closed, smiling through his efforts to catch his breath.
You giggled too, adoring the way he remained connected to you in the most sweet, sensual manner, closing his eyes, pressing his forehead to you… God it was like your minds were molding together, like your souls were still in the air, kissing and holding each other in the most ardent embrace. You adored the way the corners of his eyes crinkled with joy, and his smile. Fuck. This is Everything. Everything… This is what you are meant to search for in a marriage. It is something you will never find in that ball, interviewing, dancing, constantly worrying about customs. Not attraction, but image — how your relationship with the man you’re dancing with may affect your image, whether you are dancing exactly how a lady should, talking exactly as a lady should…
That sort of environment will never allow for these kinds of feelings to take hold.
Your hand gripped his hair tightly and he pulled you closer, somehow. You didn’t think it was possible.
He let out a shaky breath, your noses pressing together. You brushed your lips together again and Benedict made the final move to seal the kiss passionately, ever passionate. That is what he is, after all, a man who knows how to feel intensely. He is sensitive.
You value that so much.
You stepped back, nearly losing your balance with how much feeling was in his kiss and you both chuckled, hearing the clacking of your shoes on the ground when you kicked them. Neither of you had realized he had dropped them previously.
Smiling, you opened your eyes again and patted his cheek softly. “I believe you got me.” You said, cheekily referencing the game you two were just playing, “But I have one thing to say in retaliation and that is ‘tag,’” and you attempted to free yourself from his grasp.
He laughed, tightening his hold on you and he kissed your neck as you struggled and squirmed. “I do not think so, dear. You cannot evade me so easily.”
A frustrated huff left you and you rolled your eyes, fondly. Benedict flipped the two of you over so you were the one leaning on the wall. And he ducked down to capture your lips again.
“You are lovely,” he finally stated.
You think that compliment is just lovely. He does not say you are pretty or pleasant company or alluring, he says you are lovely. That is simply… lovely. You love that word. You think it perfectly conveys him. You have never known such a beautiful word.
“You are lovely,” You retaliated, pathetically, and you smiled into your next kiss, pulling him into you. He bent down, chuckling deeply. “You are the definition of that word. It is you. Benedict ‘my lovely’ Bridgerton.”
He pulled away and crinkled his nose at you playfully before diving in for another soft kiss.
“I am happy it was you outside the palace today,” You hummed, fingers coming to trace over his warm cheeks.
“As am I,” Ben hummed and his lips were back on yours in a second. You could not find a reason to complain about that fact, however. You know nothing better in the world than his kiss and you will let him kiss you as much as he wants tonight.
.✦ c.w. afab!reader. kinda mean!reader. smut (MDNI!). masturbation (m). fingering. p in v. holland calls reader bitch once. pain kink (slapping & biting). drunk sex. it might feel a tittle rushed i'm sorry
.✦ summary. march finds out something new about himself when you walk into his life.
.✦ word count. 4.7k
.✦ author’s note. this goes out to that anon who was nice enough to share their oc with me! i hope i did her justice. writing this i kinda realized i need to work on my enemies to lovers LOL i hope its not complete shit
see, the problem wasn’t that you were spending 24/7 cooped up in a little office downtown. the problem was the people there. yeah yeah, uncle j was nice enough to offer you a job, and yeah sure, at first, you thought it would’ve been fun. now you can’t really picture leaving even if you wanted to, cause honestly, how would these guys survive?
“‘m sorry, sweetheart—” first of all, why. march knows your name. he knows you don’t like nicknames. you’ve grown awfully tired of telling him not to call you that, so all you do is sigh every time a ‘sweetheart’ or a ‘doll’ comes out of his stupid, stupid mouth. and what’s even more infuriating is the fact that you don’t like him at all. you wonder how your uncle even found him in the first place. you picture march accidentally breaking into his house and healy keeping him like an alley cat. he’s incompetent, stupid, or, very stupid, actually.
very stupid as in accidentally leaving sensitive case information in his desk. which, obviously, you had to deal with. because quite honestly, not only were you your uncle’s assistant, but also kind of like a miracle worker. the one who picks up after both men, the one who accidentally lets out a groan when they’re discussing how to solve a case, muttering under your breath how obvious it was. the one who is sat out front like a goddamn receptionist, as if you didn’t do like 70% of their jobs for them.
“have you seen the larsen’s file?” march asks you, making you come back from your inner ranting. you sigh. standing up without a word, and walking to his office, where you last saw it. he follows behind. “i swear it’s not here. i looked everywhere—“ he interrupts himself when you pull it out from the last drawer in his cabinet. he never looks there.
you shove it into his chest and walk back to your own desk. “oh, here you have it, march!” he imitates your voice poorly. making fun of the way you almost never talk to him. this makes you roll your eyes, although he doesn’t see you.
you busy yourself with organizing the files they don’t seem to be working on right now. when you hear someone approach you. “hey, you can take off. we don’t have any open cases right now and you seem tired.” healy tells you. “my car’s in the shop, j. and the bus won’t come by for another hour. i’m okay right here.” you tell him without looking at him, still organizing the files on your desk. “march will drive you” he states. “i’d sooner rather wait one whole hour under the sun at the bus stop, thanks. and why can’t you take me? you’re my uncle.” you tell him, finally looking at him. “don’t be fuckin’ rude. he lives right by you. and you know your apartment is out of my way. take it or leave it, i don’t care, we’re both leaving anyways.” he tells you. going into his office to collect his things. yeah, he has little patience of your little aversion towards march. sometimes you wonder if they’re secretly lovers, what, with the way he defends him and all.
“so?” you hear march’s voice. and there he is, standing right in front of you. you arch your eyebrow. “am i takin’ you home or what? healy said—“ “healy asked me and i said no, thank you very much. i’ll just wait for the next bus.” you interrupt. he scoffs. “don’t be a fucking baby. c’mon, grab your things.” he tells you, heading for the door.
on one hand, having to ride with him would be hell on earth. but your uncle’s right, you are pretty tired and the bus would be burning hot and it would take you at least one more hour to get home. you hum. silently grabbing your things. you try your hardest to ignore the smug grin march wears.
after you lock up, because of course, somehow, you’re tasked with also doing that, he opens the copilot’s door for you. “thanks” you mutter. he makes a stupid, stupid face and goes “wow! i didn’t know you were capable of showing gratitude, sweetheart.” he retorts. making you roll your eyes, once again.
you try really hard not to start conversation during the drive. but of course he has something to say. “are you doing anything later?” he asks, lighting a cigarette. you hate to admit it but he looks awfully hot driving with one hand on the wheel and smoking out the window with the other one.
why he wants to know your comings and goings is above you. “why?” you simply ask. “jesus christ, can’t i just be nice? i don’t want to know, i could care less.” he’s aggravating. “you couldn’t care less, dumbass. if you could care less it means you care.” he sighs loudly. deciding to shut up for the rest of the ride. after he parks in front of your apartment, you get out without a word and thank him under your breath half-heartedly, not really wanting to hear him go on about how surprised he is you can say that word.
to think he’d leave you be is wishing for too much. “you’re welcome! i’ll pick you up before work too. unless your car is ready?” you furrow your eyebrows momentarily. the car wouldn’t be ready for at least three days. and sometimes he does have the ability to shut up. “8 sharp, march.” you simply tell him. turning on your heal and heading for your door.
“ungrateful little shit.” he says to himself. three whole days of this. he can manage, he thinks.
he can’t help but wonder when this whole ‘hating each other’ thing would end. but honestly, he didn’t mind. not to be self-deprecating but he was used to people calling him stupid. hell, even his own daughter did. but whenever he heard you groan or saw you roll your eyes, he really couldn’t help his imagination running wild.
wondering if you made those same looks and those same sounds in bed. you were healy’s niece for godsakes. but that didn’t matter when he found himself stroking his dick while showering, thinking about how mean you are to him. thinking about how you say ‘jesus christ, march.’ in a low, disappointed, tone. thinking about having you on top of him, riding him for all he’s worth, telling him exactly what to do. and when he pictures you slapping him when he doesn’t do what you ask of him, he comes, with a high-pitched groan, covering his mouth with his left hand, to keep from fucking screaming.
that’s new. he thinks. up until now, he didn’t see himself getting off to a mean, ungrateful, and fucking hot bitch.
and of course, march isn’t there at 8. you don’t know what you expected. but because of this dumb fuck, now you’ll be forced to walk a few miles to the nearest bus stop. as you begin walking, already sweating two minutes in, you hear someone honk behind you. you know it’s him. even his car is obnoxious for crying out loud. “you couldn’t wait two fuckin’ minutes?” he asks, slowing down right besides you. you shot him a look. “get in. you’re already sweating, jesus christ.” he tells you, turning the AC to the max. “fuck you.” you snarl. getting into his car. you’re not sure if you heard him right, but you think he mutters ‘gladly’, although the AC on full blast made it impossible to tell.
now, to say you hated march is exaggerating. although evidence shows otherwise. you didn’t hate him. you were just…aggravated by his presence. ever since you began working there, his childish and unprofessional attitude made you form a bad impression on him, only worsening with time. but you couldn’t really deny how funny it was to push his buttons. he’d get all red in the face and you could tell he wanted to scream at you, restraining himself only because he knew healy would take your side on any and all arguments.
you notice he’s weirdly quiet today. by now, you were sure he’d tell you how he burnt his breakfast or how badly he slept. and not that you really mind the silence, but it was not a comfortable one. you turn to look at him. making note of how quickly he diverted his gaze when you made eye contact. opting to light up what would be the fourth cigarette of the day. at 8 a.m., mind you.
what you didn’t know was that he was completely embarrassed by his little…fun time yesterday. he couldn’t really look at you and not remember the mental image he concocted yesterday. and the fact that every time he thought of that his pants tightened a bit, which he didn’t want you noticing.
against all odds, you speak to him. “somethin’ on your mind?” you ask him, looking out the window. he clears his throat. grateful of how you’re not holding eye contact anymore because he was sure the tent in his pants was beginning to grow against his will. “yeah, uh, just this case we’re working on. it’s very hard— the case, it’s very hard.” he takes a drag of his cig. you hum. didn’t your uncle say you didn’t have any open cases? “healy told you you weren’t working on anything at the moment.” you think out loud.
shit. he didn’t know you knew. “well, it’s not an open— open case, per se. it’s like, this case that was really hard to figure out.” he quickly says. trying to come up with whatever gets him out of this situation. out of all days you could’ve chosen to talk to him, you had to pick today. he eyes you, sees the way you’re thinking about the stupid thing he just said. “okay, then.” you say.
so, he’s lying. obviously. you wonder if it’s got anything to do with healy. maybe he was working on a case by himself. boy, would that be a mistake. you know he used to work alone before, although you weren’t sure if his stories you heard him tell healy were true. he’d paint himself this sherlock holmes type, although the time you’ve known him, he’s done nothing but drink himself to sleep.
the day goes by rather quickly. you busy yourself all day with color-coding the files. once again wondering what march is hiding, given that there are absolutely no open cases. just like healy said.
not that you expect march to tell you he’s driving you home again, but you kind of do.
he’s drinking. surprise, surprise. and although he insists he can drive you, you aren’t willing to risk your life over a middle-aged man drunk driving. “fuck off, you shouldn’t leave, either.” you tell him. “it’s like you don’t even know me, doll. i’ve been doing this since my prime. and i only had one glass of scotch, big deal.” he shrugs. “oh, only one glass of 40% alcohol? that makes me feel so much better. you’re not driving. i’m leaving.” you tell him. quickly grabbing your things and heading for the door. but you stop yourself. “if i leave you’re still going to drive?” you turn to him with an exhasperated sigh.
he shrugs again. “yeah, probably.” unbelievable. he has a whole ass daughter, doesn’t he care? “do you have a death wish, march?” his face contorts in what can only be a smile. you’re confused. “awh, are you worried about me, sweetheart?” his head tilts to the side. full-on grinning. you roll your eyes again. “yeah, keep doing that, see what happens.” he mutters. what the fuck?
“is that a threat or are you hitting on me?” you ask. standing in your place, astounded by his audacity. “i’m not going to answer that.” he says, heading back to his office. you’re actually too dumbfounded to move. “i’m leaving.” you say, more to yourself than him. fuck it if he dies behind the wheel. that’s his business.
but you don’t move. you slowly realize it’s way past the last bus. shit. it’s either walk all the way home, or wait until march sobers up. you were less inclined to walk forty minutes than to stay behind with march, much to your dismay.
you sit down at your desk again. soon after, march shows. “i thought you were leavin’, you are worried, huh?” he says, sipping on another glass of scotch.
truth be told, march did not care a single bit about driving home. holly has been spending all her time locked in her room. and he doesn’t like the reminder that he’s by himself once he gets home. and it’s probably the two glasses of scotch talking, but he can’t seem to care about hiding his intentions from you. and the fact that you stayed behind, only encourages him.
“there aren’t any buses anymore, genius. maybe i’ll take a cab, i don’t know.” you tell him. he places his drink on your desk. “i think you’re worried. i think you don’t want me to die.” he grins.
“and that makes it special? march, you have a daughter. i can’t believe you don’t care.” you tell him. “she’s used to her old man getting home drunk, and she probably hasn’t noticed i’m not there yet, i’m not in a rush. i could take you home, though.” you shake your head. “you’re unbelievable.” you mutter. “why do you hate me so much?” he blurts out. you furrow your eyebrows. a moment passes.
“s just that, i don’t know, you’re very mean to me.” he all but pouts. chugging down the last of his drink. “don’t get me wrong, i like it, but i didn’t know i liked it, til’ you showed up, that is.” he continues. at this point you’re too amused by his babbling to interrupt. “you’re here every day, with your cool clothes and your cool jewelry— where do you get that, anyways?— and you’re nice to healy but you’re mean to me, i get he’s your uncle but i don’t think i’m too bad myself, am i?” he swallows. “say something.” he says.
you laugh to yourself. he doesn’t even sound drunk. this is just his normal self talking. “have a drink with me.” you try to say no, but he’s running to his office to get the bottle and another glass. he comes back, serving himself another drink and serving you one, too. “cheers.” he clinks your glass, which is still at your desk, and chugs all of it.
you hesitate, but he looks awfully vulnerable and you’re afraid he’s going to insist, and also the scotch does look good. you grab it and take a small sip, without looking at him because you’re sure the grin is back on his face. he eyes you up and down while you drink. feeling surprised by how fuzzy you feel, only half a drink in.
“are you just going to watch me drink?” you ask him. “beats drinking alone.” he says. “‘m sorry to have sprung all of that on you.” he clears his throat. “i’m just a bit confused as to why you seem to have a problem with me.” he lowers his gaze. “march, i don’t have a problem with you. and didn’t you just say you liked that i was mean to you?” you try, not really letting him off the hook so easily for what he admitted.
“yeah, i do.” he mutters. “kinda turns me on, your whole goth demeanor.” he can’t seem to shut the hell up. and it’s not like he can attribute it to the drinks. he’s not even tickled by the alcohol. you laugh. and he can’t seem to tear his eyes from you. “are you laughing at me?” he asks, laughing now, too. “yes!” you tell him, making him scoff like he’s offended.
you chug the rest of the drink and pour yourself a second. hell, if you’re not leaving might as well get drunk.
“are you, really?” you turn to ask him, he’s still hovering over your desk, daring to get closer, he sits on it. honestly, he was a little bit afraid of you until he heard you laugh. now the whole mean thing just seems like a ruse to him. “am i really what?” he turns to see you. “turned on? that whole me being mean thing?” now it’s your turn to eye him up and down. and you can’t really blame the alcohol for the warm sensation forming in lower stomach. he smells of alcohol and smoke, he’s such a guy.
“well, obviously. whatever little show you’re doing, it’s working.” you’re confused. “show? no. you’re just an incompetent detective. i can’t deal with incompetence.” you tell him. “hard as it is to believe, i can be competent. when i really, really want.” he says.
“oh yeah? and when do you really, really want to? so far i’ve never seen you work.” he shakes his head with a smile. “like when i can figure out you’re turned on right now. your cheeks are all red and you keep squeezin’ your thighs.” he catches you by surprise. you hadn’t even realized you were doing that. you try to come up with something to say, but words don’t come to mind. “yeah, case closed.” he retorts. serving himself yet another drink.
“where’d you come up with that, march? can’t i just enjoy conversation?” you try to say, although it comes out a bit more shaky than you want. “with me? no dice, doll. you don’t speak to me unless it’s to insult me. i don’t mind.” he shrugs.
holland can’t really tell where his confidence is coming from. maybe it’s knowing you’re both a bit drunk and alone. maybe the scale simply tipped over and he can’t really hold it in anymore. or, you know, maybe he’s just as turned on as you are.
you sip the last bit of your drink, a small droplet sitting on your lips. he tentatively runs his thumb along your lower lip. and when you don’t object, he smiles to himself.
honestly, you could’ve pictured this night going any way, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the way his hand slides from your lip to your arm, yanking it to make you stand up. and when you do, he wastes no time attaching his lips to yours. you suppress the small gasp of surprise coming out of you. not wanting to give him the satisfaction. you’re quick to kiss him back. placing a hand on his thigh, squeezing slightly when he slips his tongue in your mouth.
he moans. and what a pretty moan he has. your head becomes flooded with wanting to hear more of that. he puts his hand that was previously on your arm on top of yours, moving it towards his crotch. you hum into his mouth when you feel just how hard he already is.
to say this is surprising is an understatement. never in a million years would you have thought you’d be rubbing holland march’s dick through his clothes on your desk. it’s a nice surprise, honestly. it’s not like you can overlook how attractive he always looks in his tight pants and his overgrown mustache.
“you’re so fucking hot.” he thinks out loud. briefly stopping your full-on make out to attach his lips to your neck. you involuntarily let out a whimper, feeling him smile against your neck. “don’t be so smug.” you tell him. he stops what he’s doing to look at you. “you’re letting me do this and i can’t be smug?” he asks. placing a hand on your neck. suppressing the grin that fights to form in his face when you briefly close your eyes at the feeling. he lightly squeezes and you press harder on his dick. yeah, he can be smug, he thinks.
“sit down on the desk, sweetheart.” he tells you while standing up. without really thinking about it, you obey. sloppily taking your pants off. fuck it if he thinks that’s too forward. he sets between your legs. his hand returns to your neck, lightly squeezing, while his other hand grabs ahold of your thigh. you subconsciously make space for him, opening your legs, in response, he puts his middle and ring finger on your underwear. looking at you intently, as if asking for permission.
you take a play off his book and grab that hand to place it on your clit, making small circles with it. “kiss me.” you tell him. he obeys immediately. it’s like a back and forth of dominance.
he puts your underwear to the side, running his fingers down your core. he wants you to ask for it. beg, even. that’s just not happening. he doesn’t have the upper hand. you could just get up and leave. but damn it if it doesn’t feel too fucking good.
“what’re you waiting for, march?” you break the kiss to ask him. in turn, he slides his middle finger in you. you try not to squeeze him in to no avail, and he bites his lip, turning towards the obscene scene in front of him. “if you can’t take a single finger how are you gonna take my dick, sweetheart?” it’s quite weird to you to hear him dirty talk. but the need to shut him up, to erase that stupid grin on his face is only making you wetter.
“bet i’ve taken bigger than you.” you try to provoke him, only to have him laugh in response when he slides another finger in and you gasp.
you don’t think you could do anything but moan and gasp when he gets you right on edge, only to entirely stop his movements. fingers still deep inside you. “why’d you stop me?” he asks you, you notice how black his eyes look right now. any and all color gone. only to be replaced by pure lust.
“take— take your clothes off.” you tell him, one hand tugging at his shirt. he stops all movement and wipes his hand on his pants. he unties his tie and unbuttons his shirt, not bothering to take it completely off.
he begins to unbuckle his belt, but you stop him. he turns to you with a panicked look, only to realize you want to do that part. you take his belt off and slide his pants down to his thighs, unable to tear your eyes off the prominent tent in his boxers. oh, he’s big. you weren’t expecting that when you said you’ve taken bigger. that’s why he laughed.
in turn, you also take your clothes off, feeling very smug when you feel his eyes linger on your chest. he’s quick to kiss down your neck, until he’s sucking on one of your nipples. you arch your back towards him, and he places one hand on your waist, slowly laying you down until he’s practically on top of you.
he takes his hand off your waist momentarily to free himself. feeling relief once his hard dick is out. without warning, he’s sliding those two same fingers in your pussy, moving them back and forth and gathering your slick and rubbing your clit once more. you tear him from your nipple and kiss him again, this time licking into his mouth.
you’re on the brink again, equal parts not wanting him to stop and wanting him to just finally put his dick on you. your hips involuntarily lift from the desk when you feel your orgasm reach, moaning into his mouth, only making him smile in return. “yeah?” he asks, oh he thinks he’s so funny. you want to nod, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
you reach down and grab his dick, aligning it with your entrance. a silent plea, so to speak. “you want me to fuck you?” he pants. you don’t react. not uttering a single word or nodding. but he sees the goosebumps cursing through your arms and legs. he is a detective, after all. “say it.” he whispers. you won’t budge, no matter how much you’re squirming. “please?” he pecks your lips. “hm, sweetheart? can you say it?” another peck.
you shake your head. “c’mon, darlin’ i know you want to. you want me to fuck you, right?” it’s more of a plead than a rethorical question. you groan. this is taking far too long and you’re too far gone to keep your pride. “yes, holland. fuck me.” you quickly tell him, almost coming from the whimper that comes out of him. his first name on your lips intoxicating him.
“yeah, doll— i’ll fuck you. you want me to, right?” what is it with this man and his questions? he slides in, finally. moaning loudly and dropping his head to your shoulder from the feeling. “oh my fucking god, you’re so— jesus you’re so tight, hmm fuck.” he blabs. your hands slide to his hair. petting it as a silent thank you, for finally having him where you wanted to the most.
he’s big. the stretch burned momentarily. he stays in place. only moving once he knows he won’t cum right then and there. he starts with small thrusts, not daring to pull out. “christ, you feel good, hm?” he pants. in turn you tug on his hair to kiss him again, otherwise you’re sure he’s just going to keep talking.
one of your hands travels down to your clit, rubbing circles on it to enhance the feeling, only to be slapped away by him, replacing your hand with his.
you moan into his mouth, and he can’t help but to be just a little disappointed you weren’t as mean as you were all the time. he still thought about his little fantasy of yesterday, where you slap him. he stops kissing you, only to whisper into your mouth. “can you— can you slap me?” he asks. had he not been balls deep inside you, you would’ve laughed. but since he was making you feel so good, you obliged.
a quick, almost painless slap. he didn’t even feel it. “c’mon, didn’t you hate me like, yesterday?” he pants. still keeping his thrusts short, but deep. you hit him again, and it made your hand hurt. you’re afraid it might’ve been too much until you hear him groan and pull all the way back only to thrust back with more force than he had before.
"you like a little pain, march? didn't peg you for a masochist." you try to tell him without your voice shaking, made impossible by his deep thrusts. "i think you put a fuckin' spell on me, doll.” he pants. his hand returns to your neck, squeezing a bit more than he had before. relishing in the way your eyes roll back and you squeeze his dick. his rythmic thrusts become sloppy, signaling how close he is. but he doesn't want to come just yet. he wants to savour the feeling, in case you don't let him do this again.
he turns to kiss you once more, feeling smug again of the way you can barely kiss him back. he takes the opportunity to bite your lower lip, hard. tugging it and licking it afterwards as an apology.
"you like that huh?" you nod. letting go of any restraint you still had left. seeing how he reacted when you slapped him, you tentatively bite his shoulder. and really bite. "fuck- oh christ." he arches his back towards you. he ruts against you. you feel him so deep, it's all you can think about.
your face scrunches up, feeling your second orgasm incoming. you moan loudly, and in turn he whimpers again. “not so tough now, huh? fucked the mean out you, didn’t i?” he asks. and when you come, so does he. unable to keep his mouth shut about how good you feel. “i’m gonna— fuck, oh my god— sweetheart, you’re—“ he moans.
catching your breath, you feel him going limp inside of you. his whole body on top of you, catching his breath, too. only bothering to move once your breathing has regulated.
he tucks himself into his pants and buttons his shirt again. giving you your clothes back and sitting besides you. as you’re dressing up, you can feel the stickiness of his cum between your legs. oh well, that’s a problem for future you. he gives you a shy smile. almost as if he didn’t just fuck the shit out of you.
“am i allowed to be smug now?” he asks, and in turn you roll your eyes. “don’t get so used to this, march.” you tell him, noticing how his whole face drops. oh, you didn’t mean not get used to…you know, fucking. “although i do have some notes for next time.” you’re quick to say.
his whole face brightens again. “oh yeah?” he laughs. “i’ll have to hear all about it. c’mon, let me take you home. i’ve definetely sobered up now.” you sigh, only giving him a little nod and gathering your things.
he hopes to god healy never finds out. he doesn’t think he can take another beating from him. that’s a problem for another time, he thinks.
panties in holland march's mouth question? because he is so loud and whimpery otherwise? (or colt? because he is loud in the opposite direction??) (for driver it would mostly be decorative ig because he is so stoic and quiet) (sorry this started off as an ask and is now just genuinely me pontificating on the different reasons for panties in rygos character mouths) (hope you are having a beautiful day)
chai. let’s play a game I like to call
🩷✨Why you’re shoving your panties into that man’s mouth ✨ 🩷
Holland March: to shut him up
You’re working a case and have to hide because the person you’re investigating has walked back into their house (the house the two of you have very much just broke-and-entered into). Annoyingly, you’re now both jammed into a very compromising position in a wardrobe. Holland’s cock is grinding against you with every breath and he’s beginning to whimper (because he is, of course, pathetic) and you’re going to be heard if you don’t do something now. So you just about manage to wriggle out of your panties - which he watches you achieve with wide eyes and bated breath - and you reach up to shove them in his mouth. You think he might choke on them as he gasps but he gets the picture pretty quickly; gently moaning into the lace and revelling in the taste of you. You let him keep humping you as you listen to the target on the other side of the wardrobe. You’re not a monster, after all.
Colt Seavers: to help him brace
Colt’s come back with a pretty horrid gash on his bicep from one of his stunts. You’ve become adept at patching him up now, his own personal ER, but you think this one is gonna need stitches and he’s refusing to go to the hospital for it. “You can do it, right? It’s so much hassle with the insurance otherwise…” so you sit with your little wound kit and sterilise the cut, but he hisses so loudly that you know this is gonna be a struggle. Ah! you have an idea. He watches you take off your jeans and undies, then hold the latter up to his lips. “Bite down, baby.” His pupils blow out until you can barely see the blue of his eyes. You stuff them onto his willing tongue, stoppering his mouth; he moans at where he can feel the warmth of them, the slight heat your cunt left behind, and he’s breathing very heavily as you sew him up… but not because he’s hurting. Oh no he’s too distracted for that, now…
Lars Lindstrom: to get him ready for the real thing
Lars really wants to eat you out. He really, really does. But he’s still getting over his touch sensitivity and you’re both worried that going from 1-100 will be overwhelming for him when it comes to oral. So you have a compromise, and it’s this: you hook your fingers into your panties and wait for him to stick out his eager tongue, then carefully rub where your musk is the strongest along his tastebuds. Fucking his mouth with your fingers with an added barrier of intimate fabric. Poor Lars gives a full-body shudder as he takes it in, the raw illicit nature of the act, and sits there enjoying the taste of your panties until they’re soaking wet and any hint of you is all gone, licked away because he’s so eager… (yes he comes from it, how couldn’t he?)
Sierra Six: as a memento
The two of you gather your things the morning after a steamy, secret night together; something two government agents definitely shouldn’t be doing. He catches your arm and drags you into his embrace as you’re getting dressed, causing you to laugh as he kisses a trail down your neck. “Court, we gotta get going. You know that, baby.” He slips his thumb under the elastic of the undies you just put on, letting it snap on your skin - still tingling from being thoroughly adored by him yesterday - and you can hear his smirk with his question. “Can I keep these? To remind me of you until next time?” Ahh, you can’t say no, so you take them back off… but when he goes to grab them from your hand, you stop him. “Open up, Six.” He does, ever obedient, and when you stuff them inside he moans so deeply that you can feel the rumble of it where your fingers are splayed over his chest.
The Driver: as a reward
He’s had a long day at work, and an even longer night helping a bunch of guys getting away from the bank they held up. When he walks back into the apartment it’s past three in the morning but you’re still up, waiting, in a t-shirt and those little panties he loves. You open your arms and he walks into them, exhausted, letting his head dip into the sweet-smelling place where your neck meets your shoulder. “You’ve worked hard today. Want a reward?” His answer is given quietly, as you knew it would be, as his hand cups your mound. “These,” he whispers, dragging his gloves against the fabric. So you take them off, slowly, never breaking eye contact, and when you go to pass them over he instead brings your hand to his mouth. As you push them where he wants them most, you revel in the tiny moan he lets out, something only you get to enjoy…
Ken: because he asked
“Can I know what your panties taste like?” You splutter on your coffee at the ease of his question. He’s acting like he just asked you what the weather would be like. “Uh, why?” “Because I saw some people do it in my not-so-secret-any-more sexy videos and wanted to try it myself. I thought you’d want me to ask rather than just grab them from the washing bin.” After a moment of consideration you decide that yeah, he’s done the right thing and you reward him with a tender kiss. You don’t fetch some from the hamper though. Instead you just strip them off right there, in the kitchen, and when his jaw drops in amazement you use the opportunity to shove them between his lips. He takes in a deep, juddering breath through his nose as you see his tongue work where your pussy just sat, and they keep him totally silent for the next half hour…
Ryland Grace: you didn’t, he just took them
Ryland has been lonely since arriving on Erid, and damn, he’s done his best to be normal around the first crew that’s been sent up from Earth to join him… but you’re so enchanting. He fucks his fist to the thought of you every night, dreaming of how soft your skin would be, how welcoming your mouth to his tongue… oh, it drives him crazy. Eventually his imagination isn’t enough. He needs more. So he goes to the collective laundry area and swipes a pair - ones he recognises as yours when he accidentally caught you leaving the shower the other day - and that night he comes harder than he has in months. The tang of your cunt on his palate as he licks you up, the richness of your smell where you were sweating… it’s all far too much. He keeps the panties for weeks. Eventually you confront him, but you aren’t angry. You just offer him a new pair. “Figured the old ones weren’t getting the job done any more, Ry.” He nearly comes in his jumpsuit.
tags: @kenstimetoshine @nerd-do-well @kiffycreative @bookerdefay @pixiebuggz @regalfirebird @go-bonkers-go-foolish @inthegalaxxy@sexyleftist @julepod @cosmicyeehaw @s4turnsb3st @qardasngan@valentine-blue @wereallbrokenangels@h4rumichan@irlr0gue (lmk if you wanna be added or removed!)
warnings: established relationship ; jealousy ; protective Holland March ; humor ; fluff ; Holly March being the smartest person in the room
Holland March [ The Nice Guys] x Reader
For over a week, Holly had been driving her father absolutely crazy. The amusement park that had just opened outside the city was the place all her friends had been talking about, while her father considered it completely ridiculous. "You want me to voluntarily pay to suffer? Sit in traffic? Stand in crowds surrounded by screaming kids? Have you seen those prices? It's insane."
Despite all of that, on Saturday morning, right after breakfast, the three of you headed there anyway. The entire drive, Holland complained. About the weather (too hot), the traffic, the crowds, the children, the prices, and the fact that he was far too old for places like this. It wasn't until your hand rested gently on his thigh that he let out a dramatic sigh. "We'll be there in a minute."
For someone who complained every thirty seconds, he never actually said no to Holly. Holland paid for the bumper cars, cotton candy, and even spent twenty dollars on six chances at the shooting gallery so Holly could win an enormous teddy bear with a suspiciously judgmental expression. "It has your face," Holly told him. "It absolutely does not." "It looks exhausted." "I am exhausted." She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her lemonade.
With every passing minute, the temperature climbed higher, but Holly looked as if she had endless energy. Holland's shirt had long since stuck to his back, and every ride she dragged him onto felt, in his opinion, like another step toward an untimely death. Then Holly pointed at the biggest roller coaster in the park, towering over everything else. People were already screaming before they even reached the first drop.
"Absolutely not." Holland shook his head immediately. "Come on, Dad!" Holly grabbed his hand. "No." "Please?" "No." "You promised." You shot him a knowing look, unable to hide your smile. "I promised we'd come here. I never promised I'd let myself get killed." She folded her arms. "You said we'd do what I wanted." He looked at you for support, but found none. You simply raised both hands innocently. "I'm staying here." "Traitor."
You watched them disappear into the queue. Holland glanced back over his shoulder, wearing the expression of a man marching toward his execution. Finding an empty bench beneath a tree, you sat down with your cup of lemonade, enjoying something you hadn't experienced all day. Silence. A few minutes later, someone approached. "Mind if I sit?" You looked up, a man around your age gestured toward the empty end of the bench. "Go ahead."
He thanked you before sitting down. For a while neither of you spoke. Then he glanced toward the roller coaster. "Not your thing either?" You laughed softly. "My boyfriend got talked into it." "Ouch." "He'll survive." The conversation drifted naturally after that. You talked about the weather, the ridiculously long lines, and how outrageously expensive everything was. Perfectly harmless.
Halfway through the roller coaster, Holland finally forced himself to open his eyes. The ride slowed to a stop. People applauded. Holly climbed out looking absolutely thrilled. "That was awesome!" "I saw God," Holland muttered, struggling to convince his legs to function again. "You screamed." "I absolutely did not." She rolled her eyes. Then Holland looked across the park, his expression changed instantly. "Who's that?" Holly followed his gaze.
You were still sitting on the bench, chatting with some guy, smiling as the conversation carried on. Holland stopped walking, his jaw tightened. Holly looked at him suspiciously. "Dad." "Who's that guy?" he muttered. "I don't know." "Why is he talking to her? Why is she laughing?" Holly stared at him. "Seriously?" He had already started walking.
You noticed Holland first, mostly because he wasn't walking - he was marching. Still pale from the roller coaster, his hair was a complete disaster, and one hand clutched the enormous stuffed bear. He stopped beside the bench. "Hey." You blinked. "Hey?" His smile looked painfully forced. "So... how's it going over here?" The man looked confused. "Fine?" "Great."
Holland didn't move, didn't even blink. He just stood there, looking like a man only barely keeping himself under control. The stranger glanced between the two of you. "Friend of yours?" "My boyfriend," you answered, absently turning your cup of cold lemonade in your hands. Holland immediately rested a hand on your shoulder. "That's right. We've actually been together for quite a while." "I know," you replied slowly. "Good. Just making sure everyone remembers."
The stranger finally stood. "Well... I should probably go find my brother." "Good idea," Holland replied a little too quickly. The man offered you a polite smile before disappearing into the crowd. The second he was gone, you turned toward Holland. "Really?" "What?" he asked, feigning complete innocence. "You scared him off." "I didn't scare him." Holly dropped onto the bench beside you and looked at her father. "You absolutely scared him. You looked like you were about to challenge him to a duel." "I was being friendly." Holly burst into laughter.
Holland frowned. "He was flirting." "He was talking." "He laughed." "People laugh during conversations." "He made you laugh." You crossed your arms. "So that's the crime?" He opened his mouth, then closed it and opened it again. "Maybe." Holly let out an exaggerated groan. "Oh my God. You're jealous." Holland didn't answer. As if acknowledging it was beneath his dignity.
Later that evening, the three of you walked back toward the car beneath a California sunset. Holly happily listed her favorite rides while the oversized teddy bear somehow ended up tucked under Holland's arm once again. Without saying a word, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. After several quiet steps, he cleared his throat.
"He wasn't funnier than me." You looked at him. "I talked to him for maybe ten minutes. So... no." "You hesitated." "I didn't." "You definitely did." You leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I came here with you... and I'm going home with you." He tried very hard not to smile. "Yeah... but I still didn't like him." Several feet ahead, Holly groaned loudly. "I can still hear you two, you know." Holland shrugged. "Good." Holly rolled her eyes.
Maybe her father made impulsive, poorly thought-out decisions more often than he should. But there was one thing she was absolutely certain of, he loved you. You made him smile, you made him try, you made him a little more put together than he'd ever managed to be on his own. And if he occasionally acted like an idiot anyway… Well, she could live with that.
thinking of a universe where reader tells luke she’s pregnant and he gets his shit together.
he turns down robins suggestion to rob a bank and stops working at the shop, leaving that absurd idea and robin behind. he secures a job in one of the many factories in schenectady and stays, working physically demanding shifts and overtime to save up until the baby comes.
he needs to prove himself to you. he wants to prove himself to you. he can be the man that you need, the stable one who keeps a roof over your heads and dinner on the table. he can be the man who eases your mind, gives you nothing to worry about. he can even be the man who takes the three of you, his little family, on summer vacations. if that’s what you need him to be, he can be that for you. he can be that for himself. his child will not be doomed to the same fate he was, he won’t allow it.
he’s so excited when the baby finally comes, a sweet little baby girl who has him wrapped around her finger from the moment he lays his teary blue eyes on her. he saved up enough to be able to take off the first couple of weeks after the baby’s born, wanting to help you navigate through your new life of parenthood. he reads all the new parent books, builds all the furniture. he learns how to change her, how many ounces of formula she needs and what times she wakes up during the night. he’s going to do this right, he has to. when it’s time for him to return to work, it absolutely kills him to leave his girls, but he does it for the two of you.
it’s a few years down the line when he realizes that this is it, this is what he has worked so hard for.
he comes home, to a real house—not just an old camper that has seen better days. his little girl, now a toddler and growing into her own personality, meets him at the door, all ready to be scooped up into his arms and kissed silly. he sees you, beaming and waiting for your kiss as well, which he is more than happy to give. dinner is made and on the table, all ready for the three of you to sit down as a family and eat. he stands in his own home, surrounded by the two people he loves most in this world, and knows that he would never, ever want to return to the life he was previously living.
this is heaven on earth for luke glanton and he will not do anything to jeopardize it.
Luke Glanton x Reader ~~ Luke's finally out of jail ~~ 3.5K Words
I'm your man, we're hand in hand; To hell and back
And I'll love you like nobody else can
Warnings: More tooth-rotting fluff and slice of life to begin with (Luke deserves it), SMUT Minors DNI!!, small dry humping, Oral (fem receiving), Luke is desperate (it's been 6 months), use of 'pretty' and 'pretty girl'
A/N: Official part 2 to He's My Man, unofficial part 3 to Too Sweet. I've come to really love writing for Luke, but I think it's obvious that I wrote this while being exhausted >u< But without further ado, Your Honor, may I humbly present, munch Luke <3
Six months.
Six gruelling months filled with only seeing Luke through a clear pane, of hearing his voice crackle through a telephone situated right beside it, of dealing with a squirming baby as you try to hold said phone up to her ear so that she can hear her daddy’s voice every time you visited.
Her gaze would always flick up towards the pane, towards his figure, every time she heard his voice say ‘hey princess’ in that soft tone she had become accustomed to.
Six months, though, was a lot for a baby, especially in the early years.
Things happen so quickly for babies.
Lily grew faster than you were able to take pictures, mementos in a book that you kept stored in your bedroom for Luke whenever he finally got out.
First, it was crawling, then it was standing on little chubby legs while using the coffee table as support, and now she was walking with your assistance, gripping onto your finger with her little fist like her life depended on it.
You hated that Luke couldn’t be there to witness such advances in his daughter’s development.
But the little book that always rested on his side of the bed might give him a better picture of what he had missed during his time behind bars.
It gave you time to think, too.
About everything.
Your friends had become cautious about Luke when they had heard what he had done to that man.
‘Such brute violence.’
‘Can he even be trusted around Lily?’
‘Are you sure you’re safe?’
Those words had been thrown at you left and right from your friends, even your family, when you finally told them about what had happened and why Luke wasn’t around for the moment.
You hated it.
Hated that they no longer trusted him, which in turn made it feel like they didn’t trust you.
You knew Luke had done it for a good reason; the man was advancing on you, preying on the way you had frozen up in fear, on the fact that you were alone with Lily. Luke was just protecting you. Why couldn’t anybody else see that?
But no matter.
The six months were finally up, and Luke was free to leave the prison, to be home.
You stood beside your car outside the prison where Luke had been held, Lily resting against your hip as she held her sippy cup filled with diluted juice tightly in her small fists, your eyes scanning the front entrance for that familiar head of blond hair.
A buzzer fills your ears before two figures exit through one of the doors, one you distinctly remember being the guard that oversaw you and Luke’s visit, but the other…
He held his head high, no shame in the fact that he had just spent the past six months sitting in a cold cell. And when he catches sight of you, that familiar smirk slowly begins to tug at his lips.
Your heart begins to race as he walks closer towards you, a pitter-patter with each step he takes.
He barely changed: his hair slightly longer, his arms slightly more muscular, but his eyes.
They always stayed the same.
Lily lays her head on your shoulder, a move she always did when you were talking to people she deemed a stranger. A shy quality that almost didn’t exude from her being Luke’s child.
You watch as Luke’s eyes soften the more he takes you and Lily in, and he doesn’t stop the second he’s standing in front of you before wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tightly against his chest.
“My girls.”
His chest rumbles with his words against your head as you lean into him with a shaky inhale of his air. He even still smelled the same, albeit a little less than you liked.
“Luke.”
Your voice trembles in greeting, the familiar ache in your throat, and the sheen that covers your eyes, something you had promised yourself that you wouldn’t do. His hand comes up from your hip to rest against the back of your head, drawing you even closer before his lips are gently pressed to the top of it.
Just like you had done, he takes in your scent, something he still remembers even after being away for months upon months. It calmed him just the same, too.
Lily begins to squirm from the closeness of it all, and Luke reluctantly pulls away, just enough to be able to look down at the small girl in your arms.
“Hey, Princess.”
His words are a gentle murmur, his hands leaving your form to gently place under her armpits and carefully take her into his arms. He wasn’t used to holding her when she was this size, accustomed to the little infant that barely fit against his chest. But he was quick to learn.
It seemed something had shifted in Lily once she heard his voice, her blue eyes brightening, and her willingness to be taken from your arms a testament to how children’s brains worked.
Lily’s smile widens as she finally takes in the man in front of her.
“Dada!”
One of her hands loosens its grip from the handle of her sippy cup, instead wanting to grip onto the shirt that Luke was wearing.
Luke’s eyes, which had quickly widened, flicked over to look at you in shock at the word that had left her lips.
“Did she-?”
“Oh, yes. And it’s one of her favorite words.”
That seems to break something within Luke that he didn’t even know could shatter at such simple words.
You bring up a hand to your lips, smiling behind your fingers as you watch Luke look back down to the girl in his arms, who was happily babbling about whatever her mind had conjured up. His eyes slowly have a glassy sheen to them as one of his hands comes up to the back of Lily’s head, pulling her close to place a gentle kiss against her forehead.
His lips linger, savoring the moment of finally having her in his arms again, and you can see the slight tremble in them when he pulls away slightly to look down at her once again as she continues her babbling.
He clears his throat with a soft sniff before shifting his grip on Lily, freeing up one of his arms, which he promptly wraps around your waist to pull you back against him.
He was finally home.
—
Luke glances around the place once he finally steps foot past the doorframe. Everything looked almost exactly as he remembered it in his dreams, but there were more toys scattered about the place. Ones he didn’t quite remember from before.
While he stands in the entrance of the home, you carry Lily towards the living room and set her down onto the playmat where all of her favorite toys reside.
Her gaze is only captured for a few moments before her attention drifts back to the new figure in the house, the one that you move to stand beside with a soft smile.
“How’s it feel to be home?”
Your question is soft, genuine, and Luke struggles to keep the eyes that he had just gotten the tears rid of dry at such a sentiment. Home. This was home.
Not the building, not the rooms.
But you and Lily.
“Feels amazing, Pretty.”
His hand reaches out, seeking, wrapping around your hips to gently rest against the small of your back to pull you towards him once again. After so long without feeling your body pressed against his own, he would definitely make up for lost time.
“Dada.”
Lily babbles from her spot on the carpet, the two adults’ gazes drifting towards her. Luke’s hands slowly slip from around your waist, stalling only to gently press the skin there in a silent promise before he begins to take a step towards the little girl.
“Yeah, princess, Daddy’s here.”
Your hand suddenly wraps around his arm, keeping him from taking another step forward, and when he looks back at you with confusion swimming in his eyes, you answer with a soft smile and nod your head towards Lily.
“Wait.”
When Luke’s eyes move back towards where Lily was sitting, his heart stutters to find her now settled beside the coffee table in the middle of the living room, away from the playmat. How did she-
“She can crawl?” He whispers in shock.
“Watch.” You hum around a chuckle.
Lily’s little fingers grip onto the edge of the coffee table before pulling herself up with a soft grunt, her chubby legs shaking slightly before she adjusts her stance to get a better footing. Luke’s breath hitches when her baby blues, so reminiscent of his own, stare up at him before she takes a step forward.
And another.
And another.
Finally, her hands loosen from the coffee table once she reaches the end, instead lifting towards Luke as she gets closer and closer.
Luke instantly drops into a squat, holding his hands out as a bright grin breaks out onto his face, a laugh bursting from his chest at the sight before him.
“That’s it, Lily. Come on, Princess.”
Lily’s steps are slow, calculated, as if she knew that one wrong misstep would send her tumbling down. Her blonde brows were furrowed in concentration as she kept her eyes locked on Luke as she got closer to him.
Only once she’s in his reach does Luke scoop Lily up, holding her close to his heart as he stands with a triumphant laugh escaping him, Lily giving her own squealed laughter as she grips onto his shirt.
—
Night had come, pajamas had been changed into, Lily’s nightly routine had finished, leaving her sleeping soundly in your arms.
While Luke sat on the couch, his eyes focused on whatever television show had come on, you took it as the opportunity to carefully take Lily to the bedroom. Not before he placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head. The sound of the TV becomes distant as you walk your way to the bedroom, making sure not to wake the sleeping girl as you lay her down in her crib.
You turn as you straighten up, your attention quickly taken by the small memento book that was still resting against Luke’s pillow.
Your hands wrap around it before you silently make your way out of the bedroom, carefully shutting the door behind you to make sure that Lily won’t be disturbed.
As you make your way back to the living room, you find that the television has been turned off, no longer hearing it drone in the hallway. Luke was sitting right where you had left him, but his head was resting against the back of the couch, an unlit cigarette perched between his lips, a compromise for the bad habit he was still trying his hardest to break.
“Luke.”
Your voice came out as a gentle mumble, causing him to hum as his eyes slowly peeled open to stare at your form in the entrance of the living room. His lips curl into a smile around the cigarette, bringing up a hand to gesture you over.
“Come’ere, Pretty.”
Your legs follow his gentle command, gripping tight onto the memento book as you carefully situate yourself sideways on his lap, his hands instantly finding solace on his hips to both keep you steady and to relax the drone of his mind.
“What’s that?”
Adjusting yourself on his lap, you hold out the book, your greatest treasure on display to him, with a soft smile on your lips.
“It’s for you.”
His hands gently take the book, opening it before his breath hitches as he realizes what he holds in his hands. Slowly, reverently, he begins to carefully flip through the album, looking at the different pictures of Lily scattered about. From her being the size that he had remembered before prison, to the size of her now.
Everything he had missed was detailed in this one book, so carefully made by your hands, so that he could experience the things that Lily had gone through.
It would never beat seeing them in person, but it was a close second in his eyes.
Your name tumbles past his lips in a soft murmur, not ‘pretty’, but your name. Whispered so softly, like a prayer to his very answers.
His eyes slowly move from a picture of Lily sitting in her Christmas dress to your form perched on his lap. Slowly, he places the book onto the coffee table in front of him, reaching up to remove the unlit cigarette from his lips before leaning forward to finally place his lips on your own.
His kiss was soft, slow, unlike his other kisses that you experienced before he went to prison. Lips melding with yours as if they were the missing piece to the puzzle of his life.
The one hand still on your hips slowly travels the expanse of your side, fingers barely grazing the swell of your breast before they trail up to the back of your neck, tangling into the hair that was there as a means to keep you close.
“It’s perfect, Pretty. I love it.”
He mumbled against your lips, not even taking the time to pull away and speak, as if it pained him to even think of such a thing.
You hum gently in response, hands coming up to rest against his shoulders to anchor yourself as you carefully move one of your legs to where you now straddle his lap, breath hitching when you feel the bulge in his jeans already pressing up against you.
It had been six months without him, without his kisses, without his touch. Without him.
Luke’s patience for anything to do with your touch was already thin, fraying when you give an experimental roll of your hips, the friction causing both of you to groan into the kiss.
His fingers tighten slightly in your hair at the nape of your neck, a teasing tug, before they trail down your spine, mapping each bump as he makes his way back to gripping onto your hips. His other hand, the one still gripping the cigarette, joins on the opposite side.
With his grip, he slowly begins to control the movement of your hips. The kiss breaks with a wet pop as Luke leans his head back against the couch with a breath escaping him, his eyes roving over every inch of you as your fingers dig into his shoulders.
Huffs escape him with each grind, breathy whines escape you with each roll, both of you stimulated just enough but never enough.
Luke couldn’t take any more, knowing he wouldn’t last long after months without you.
Moving his hands to cradle your body, you find your mind swimming as you’re suddenly lying back against the couch, the springs digging into your spine as Luke hovers over you.
Your eyes meet for a few brief seconds, both of your pupils blown wide, color almost nonexistent.
After one last deep roll of his hips against your own, a testing move more than anything, Luke suddenly pulls back slightly. Your needy whine is cut short as Luke’s hands go to the bottom of your sleep shirt, pushing it up enough just for your breasts to spill out.
“So pretty, baby. My pretty girl.”
His words were soft as he leaned down, planting gentle kisses against your sternum between your breasts, breath gentle against your skin as he took his time kissing the skin there, occasionally tilting his head to kiss against the side of your boobs.
Hands slowly moving down your side, he gently nips at the underside of your right boob, soothing the slight ache with a lick of his tongue.
As he does the same to the other side, his hands slowly begin to pull down your sleep shorts and panties, huffing a breath on your skin as he feels you give a slight tremble.
“I’m gonna taste you, pretty. Okay?”
His tone was gentle, almost condescending, as he looked up at you through his lashes, smirking against the skin of your breast.
“Luke-”
“Shh, pretty girl.”
He interrupts your soft whine with a gentle shush, his lips beginning to slowly trail down your stomach. His hands move to grip the back of your thighs, gently pulling them over his shoulder once his kisses get to the top of your mound.
“Just lay back and look real pretty for me, okay?”
Your eyes stare into his own as you give a slow nod in response to his words, a tremble of breath escaping you when he finally moves his lips down right where you want him.
His lips pause in their movements, resting against your soft and already dripping wet folds, eyes fluttering as he takes in the scent of you with a stuttering breath, fingers tightening around your thighs just a hair. He was trying his hardest to control himself now that he had you spread before him, months upon months of dreaming of this moment.
And it all snapped when his tongue poked out to lick a stripe up your folds.
The taste of you instantly coats his tongue, a flavor he only remembered in his dreams, and with a hum of finality, he pushes his tongue up to find your clit. His hips instantly roll down against the couch, chasing stimulation with a deep groan against you.
Your back arches against the couch, one hand instantly coming up to bite onto your knuckles to keep yourself quiet, the other tangling into his blond hair in a gentle grip to steady yourself.
Jolts roll through you with every gentle lick of his tongue, his eyes fluttering close as he groans against you, as if you were his last meal and he was intent on savoring it.
A muffled whine escapes you when his lips close around your clit and gives a gentle suck, your fingers tightening their grip, which only causes him to give another groan.
His mouth was practically worshiping you, tongue lapping up your juices before giving a suck to your clit. Marks were sure to be had from where his fingers dig into your thighs, gentle squeezes of the flesh before pulling you impossibly closer.
With each suck relieved by a gentle lick, his hips grind deep against the couch, his own jolts of pleasure thrumming up his spine.
Your head falls back against the couch with a gentle thump, eyes rolling back alongside his own.
“Luke… Luke, I’m-”
The words are muffled by your hand, wrapped around gentle moans as he just continues his reverent motions. His tongue pushes inside you slowly, the tip of his nose brushing your clit with every slight movement, before he barely pulls away, only to replace his tongue with two fingers slowly pushing inside.
His lips return to your clit as he curls his fingers into the spot he had practically memorized, rewarded with a muffled moan and your back arching once again. With each suck, he feels you clench around his fingers.
The room was warm with each movement, beads of sweat slowly coating both of your skin.
You barely have the chance to warn him before stars burst in your vision, thighs clenching around his head as your cry is quickly covered by your palm.
He doesn’t stop, guiding you through it with gentle coaxes of his fingers and lips, tasting your release on his tongue. His hips give one final deep grind against the couch before he, too, sees stars in his eyes, filling his boxers as his deep groan is muffled against you.
The two of you lie still, panting heavily, breathing in each other. Luke’s hand slowly loosens around your thigh as he carefully removes his fingers, placing one last fleeting kiss to your pulsing clit as you jolt with a small whine.
“Sorry, pretty.”
He hums against you before slowly pulling away. His eyes stare down at you with a soft smile on his lips, hands gently massaging your thighs as he carefully brings them from off his shoulders, slowly moving to lie on top of you with gentle kisses against your neck to bring you back to him.
“Come on, pretty girl. Come back to me.”
It only takes a minute or two before your eyes slowly go back to focusing on the ceiling above you.
“There she is.”
You blink slightly at his gentle hum, limbs feeling like sludge as you glance over at him before leaning your head against him. With as much strength as you can muster, you slowly bring your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close before tilting your head, lips brushing against his temple in a semblance of a kiss that you can only muster for now.
“Love you, Luke.” You mumble softly against his skin, exhaustion settling quickly in your bones. He responds with one last gentle kiss to your shoulder, lips smiling against your skin.
Luke Glanton X Reader ~~ He might become a criminal, but he's still your man ~~ 2.6k Words
He's my man; I've been damned
No, nobody has to understand; Me and my man
Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, slice of life in the beginning, inappropriate/unwanted advances/touching (not by Luke), violence (by Luke, he goes a little crazy), I have no idea how court works (I did some research)
A/N: Can be in the same universe as Too Sweet, but you don't need to read it to understand anything. Might even make a part 2 if this is enjoyed enough <3 He would be such a good father, your honor
The sun barely peeks through the blinds, bathing the room in a warm glow, as Luke is awoken by a small sound.
He almost brushes it off at first, deeming it to be something that he had conjured up in his dreams. But as he goes to curl back around the figure of you sleeping beside him, the sound begins again.
The gentle sound of a coo, like hearing a dove somewhere in the room.
His head cautiously lifts, not wanting to wake you this early in the morning, and his gaze slowly moves over towards the crib in the corner of the room that he had finished the night before. His hands were still sore from the constant movement of tightening the screws.
The sound, so soft and sweet, graces his ears once again, and he barely sees the shape of a little fist reaching over the crib liner.
Lily was awake, it seemed.
Moving just as carefully as before, he removes his arm from under the pillow your head was on, making sure not to jostle it too much. Once he’s sure you haven’t awoken from that, his eyes on your closed ones and keeping an ear out for any change in your breathing, he unwraps himself from around you.
The floor is a cold shock when he plants his feet on it, a drastic change from the warmth that had grown under the covers between the two of you, that causes the slightest of shivers to roll up his spine. Grabbing his shirt from beside the bed, he shrugs it on before his gaze returns to the little fist still waving in the air.
He keeps his steps light as he makes his way over towards the crib, peeking inside to find a pair of wide blue eyes staring back up at him.
A smile graces his lips as her little legs begin to kick out excitedly at the sight of him, her own small lips curling into a bright smile around the fist she was currently gnawing on, and she gives a gurgled coo.
Luke doesn’t waste any more time; he couldn’t resist her even if he tried. His arms, now experienced in holding a baby, carefully lift her to hold her against his chest as he shifts his body to accommodate her. One hand rests under her bum, the other gently cradling the back of her head, which plops against his shoulder, her nose rubbing against the cloth of his shirt.
A move he had grown familiar with from the girl in his arms.
“Morning, princess.”
His voice is a soft rumble as he makes his way out of the bedroom, leaving the door cracked for you as his feet carry him towards the kitchen. In response, Lily just makes a gurgling sound, her hands gripping onto the fabric of his shirt as her eyes look around the kitchen, finding interest in her new surroundings.
Adjusting his arm around Lily, he frees up his other hand to click on the coffee machine, something he had prepared the night before. A routine he had picked up ever since he started staying with you more and more.
Luke always found himself waking up before you did, so he took it upon himself to make sure that the coffee pot would be full by the time you joined him in the land of the wake.
The machine gurgles to life, hissing out before a warm dribble of coffee slowly pours into the pot, and with it, the smell of coffee begins to fill the room.
With his morning duty done, Luke walks over towards the kitchen window, placing his hand back against Lily’s head, who had begun to gnaw on a fistful of his shirt. She was in that phase of chewing anything within reach.
Luke somehow didn’t find himself minding it.
His eyes stare out, watching the sun slowly begin to rise over the horizon, casting everything in a golden glow as it does so. Thumb gently running over Lily’s head of hair, more so a comforting motion for himself than for her, he leans his chin against the top of her head.
Luke never would’ve thought that he would end up here. A father. With the woman that he found himself falling for more and more every day. Able to live a life that he had only assumed he would have in his dreams.
But he knew he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
Arms slowly wrap around his waist from behind, warmth settling against his back as he feels your head rest between his shoulder blades. And with your touch, your closeness, the feeling of you behind him and the weight of his baby against his chest, something settles deep within Luke. An assurance.
An assurance that he was right where he wanted to be.
—
The commotion of the supermarket surrounds you as you carefully walk down the aisle, making sure not to knock into others or get in their way.
Your hands grip onto the handle of the shopping cart as you slow it to a stop right in front of the bread section, your eyes glancing over the different kinds, looking for the one you and Luke both liked.
Lily sat in the cart seat, content to play with the little toy you always kept in your purse for times like this. Her eyes dart this way and that, everything interesting to her young mind as she gnaws on the toy she kept in a tight grip.
Behind you, like an intimidating guard dog, Luke stands with his arms crossed against his chest, his eyes glancing down at everyone who passes by. He took everyone and everything to be a threat to his girls, even down to the sweet old ladies, standing between them and you every single time.
It was something you had just grown used to, knowing that nothing you said would ever change his mind.
“Luke, can you go grab the coffee? I forgot it while we were down that aisle.” You hum out, carefully placing the bread into the basket.
When you look up to meet his gaze, you find his jaw working, as if he wants nothing more than to deny your sweet request, not wanting to be apart from you in the crowded market. But the look in your eyes, placating and soft, something tugs deep in his chest, and he finds it hard to refuse.
“Fine.” He bites out, no real heat behind it. Reaching up, he places his hand on the back of your head, pulling you in to plant a quick kiss against your temple, “Don’t go too far, pretty.”
His words were mumbled against your skin, and you smiled in response, nodding to his request as you watched him lean down to do the same to Lily. Her button nose scrunches up at the feeling of his lips against her temple, gurgling around the toy as her attention is momentarily taken by her father.
Luke’s lips twitch into the smallest of smiles, a quick crack in his exterior before he turns and heads towards the aisle where the coffee cans would be.
Your eyes follow after him, watching as he effortlessly weaves through the crowd before he disappears around the corner. He never had difficulty getting through a crowd; people instantly parted for him just by the look of him, the sharp look in his eyes.
Going back to shopping, you move onto the next aisle, this one a lot emptier than the others, looking over the different brands of peanut butter before going and reaching towards your favorite brand resting on a higher shelf.
A sudden hand winds itself around your waist, another one reaching up to grab the jar you had been reaching for. Luke had been quick. Your smile remains on your lip, glancing down at the hand on your waist.
But your heart skips a beat, and your blood quickly runs cold at the realization that hits you like a ton of bricks.
No tattoos were staining the skin.
The familiar trail of ink was nowhere to be seen.
This wasn’t Luke.
Your gaze instantly snaps up towards the man behind you, your smile quickly falling as you see an unfamiliar face smirking down at you. Disgust flows through you in waves, your face showing your discomfort as you move to get away from the man, standing protectively in front of Lily, who was none the wiser to the predicament.
“What’s with the look, Doll? I was just helpin’ ya’.”
The man leers down at you, his gaze settling like sludge over your skin, an unpleasant shiver rolling up your spine.
“I’m good.”
You turn and grip the handle of the shopping cart, wanting to put as much distance between you and this man as possible, especially with Lily, whose gaze is currently locked on you as she chews on the toy.
You needed to protect Lily.
A hand suddenly grips onto the handle beside your own, effectively stopping you from walking any further, your shoulders tensing as the situation only begins to escalate.
“You know, when somebody helps you, you should thank them.”
You don’t respond, your hands tightening around the handle almost achingly, glancing around the aisle as if hoping that somebody would step in. But all you were given were sidelong glances and looks of pity.
As if that would do you much good.
Your chin is suddenly gripped, fingers digging into the skin of your cheeks as your widened eyes are forced to look at the man, frustration clearly growing at your ignorance.
“I’m talkin’ to you.” He sneers, glaring down at you.
One of your hands reaches up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist to try and pull him away, but it only causes his grip on your face to tighten. His nails begin to sharply dig into your skin, and in the back of your mind, you think of the marks that you’ll see later on in the mirror.
“Hey-”
You barely have time to register Luke’s voice behind you before a fist suddenly collides with the side of the man’s face. His head snaps to the side with a satisfying sound, his hand effectively unwrapping from around your face to instead cradle his quickly bruising cheek.
“What the fuck, man-”
Another blow is swiftly delivered, this time to his temple, causing the man to stumble. Your body, frozen in the height of the action, can do nothing but watch as Luke advances towards the man. One of his fists was clenched, the other gripping tightly onto the coffee can that he had been sent to grab, tossing it into the basket as he passed by it.
His eyes held malice. More than you had ever seen from the blonde man before. This stranger had touched what was his, and it was clear that he was hellbent on making sure that he regretted it.
“Luke.”
Your voice came out weak, shaky, one of your hands still gripping onto the handle of the shopping cart as Lily began to stir at the sounds of violence. A crowd began to form, and you had a feeling the police would be quick to follow.
You needed to leave.
While the man was hunched over, cradling his bruising face, Luke took it as his moment. His fist comes from below, connecting with the man’s face with a sickening crunch of his nose. The sound jolts you, your stomach going queasy at the blood that quickly gushes onto the tiled floor of the supermarket.
“Luke.”
You try calling out again, but it's like he can’t hear you. The crowd grows, people crying out for help, workers notifying the cops of what was happening. But all you can do is stand frozen.
Lily begins crying now from all of the noise, her cry shrill and sharp, and you quickly pluck her from the cart, holding her protectively close to your chest as your eyes remain locked on the scene before you.
The man’s unfocused gaze finally glances up at Luke, his nose crooked and gushing blood. He holds his hands up in surrender.
“I-I’m sorry, man. Didn’t know she was-”
His sentence is interrupted, giving out a gurgled sound as Luke grips onto the man’s shirt, tossing him to the ground as if it were nothing, as if the man weighed nothing.
Luke towers over him, shoulders hunched, breath heavy. His clenched fists tighten as he takes a deep breath, and you can see it. You can see the debate rolling around in his mind, the desire to continue beating this man to a pulp for even daring to touch you.
“Luke.”
It finally seems to snap him out of it, his gaze flicking over towards you and taking you in.
The way you held Lily close, the bruises that were beginning to form on your cheeks from where the man’s fingers indented into your skin, the pleading look in your eyes. He moves.
But not towards the man.
Towards you.
His arms instantly wrap around you once he gets close enough to you. One of his hands rests against the back of your head, pulling you and Lily against him as if even the feeling of you was enough to calm the storm that had brewed.
Lily was still crying, but the sound of it had calmed down slightly at the feeling of her father’s added warmth against her.
Your own body was beginning to untense at just the feeling of Luke holding you, of keeping you close to him. The sound of the crowd slowly disappears as you try to focus mostly on the sound of his heartbeat, the rhythmic beating against your ear. Until-
“Get down on the ground!”
—
You were dressed in your nicest clothes as you sat in the courtroom, Lily sitting on your lap and wearing one of the nicer dresses that you had gotten for her. Her eyes were focused on messing with the bow that she had effectively torn off the second you had put it on her head, suckling silently on her pacifier.
Your gaze, though, was stuck in front of you, staring at the back of that familiar blond head as he stood beside his attorney.
The judge spoke in words you couldn’t quite follow, explaining the legal terms of why the court was meeting today. You catch a few words, but they don’t quite stick, mostly nervous over what the outcome would be for Luke. Your hands gently mess with the fabric of Lily’s dress.
“Mr. Glanton, the court understands your justification that you were defending another person. Your methods, however, were excessive at the moment and led to serious damage to Mr. Henderson.”
“So, on the charge of causing serious bodily injury to Mr. Henderson, the court finds you guilty. You will be fined $10,000 and be required to serve 6 months of prison time.”
The judge bangs the gavel in finality.
Your gaze snaps up towards Luke, and officers begin to hone in on him. Quickly standing, you watch as Luke turns to face you, giving you a slight quirk of his lips, and you know he has no regrets for what he has done.
“Love you, pretty.” He hums out, leaning forward to plant a gentle kiss upon your frozen lips, his gaze flicking down to Lily, leaning over the railing to plant a quick kiss against the top of her head. “Love you, princess.”
“I’ll be back to my girls soon.”
Your brain, still trying to catch up on the fact that Luke would be serving prison time, doesn’t react quickly enough to say it back before he’s dragged out of the courtroom by the officers. But he knew when he looked over his shoulder for one last glance of you and his daughter before he disappeared behind the door frame.
luke has never fucked a virgin before. not really.
word count: 5.8k
warnings: explicit sexual content, implied age gap, lost of virginity, cunnilingus, size kink, size difference, protected sex (implied unprotected too).
Luke’s job is pretty straightforward. And he’s been doing it for as long as he can remember.
When being a stunt rider for the carnival wasn’t cutting it anymore, he had to find something else to keep himself afloat. For Luke, jobs that required basic thug shit came easy considering the skill set he had. He found out pretty quickly that cracking skulls and busting knees were what he was good at.
But that barely scratches the surface of what he actually does for work. It pays well mostly because he offers his clients a wide variety of assistance. And to put it briefly, Luke provides services with his body, and he gets paid handsomely for it.
Though it generally depends on the work he’s been hired to do. Most of the time it’s the usual bodyguard shit, something he’s more familiar with, but Luke thinks it’s just glorified babysitting. He feels that he should be above looking out for a grown-ass man or woman, but then again, it pays well. And when Luke’s being told to do protection services for a rich man’s wife and she later asks if she could suck his cock for an extra tip is the only fun thing about it.
Which is another thing entirely.
Luke isn’t the one to boast, but he knows he’s hot shit. Because if he’s not, the wives of his clients wouldn’t be throwing themselves at him. And he wasn’t called “Handsome Luke” during his carnival days for nothing.
It started when he was hired to be a bouncer at a club for a week or two. When a dancer tried getting in his pants during his break, Luke decided to give it a little twist.
“Are you paying for it?”
“What?” The woman, who introduced herself as Britney, raised a brow. “Why the hell would I be paying for it?”
“Well, you dance on dudes for money. You’re basically asking me to fuck you during my unpaid break, when I should be resting instead,” Luke reasoned with a smirk on his face. “I figured you’d understand, considering it’s the same principle. Business is business.”
But Luke knew Britney was one of the highest paid dancers in the club. She got the ass and the tits for it. So she really didn’t mind throwing a couple bucks on Luke’s request and rode his dick until she was satisfied.
And while Luke never thought about making the whole sex thing his only source of income, he did get a lot more customers there than his gangster jobs. Usually from old and desperate married women who couldn’t get the treatment they want from their husbands because their dicks no longer work. But Luke always makes sure to mention that there’s an additional fee if they want him to act like he’s their husband too.
But if there are old married women wanting his services, there are also the old men who want to fulfill their little fantasies with their wives. The cuckold ones who want to have their small dick shamed while Luke’s got his own cock deep inside their wife. Luke stopped questioning people’s fantasies a long time ago. And if the guy wants Luke to stick his schwanz inside him too, then that’s another fee they need to be informed about.
This is also a great time to mention that he never fucks raw.
He can’t have little Lukes running around town when he literally fucked almost half the population of it.
Luke could only thank Britney for being his first ever client after she advertised his huge dick around town when they fucked. He doesn’t mind pimping himself out as long as it keeps him from going back to that trailer he used to live in. He doesn’t mind dealing with all sorts of clients if they’re going to fucking pay for it.
What he’s not used to is someone boldly doubting and questioning his skillset in his face.
“Excuse me?” Luke can’t help but ask, barely masking the surprise written across his face. “What did you just say to me?”
The dive bar near his shabby apartment is where he spends his time when he’s bored. Luke watches soccer occasionally, pretending to be interested, but at least it takes his mind off things. They also serve cheap drinks and awesome nachos, and he hooked up with the owner a few times for a round of free alcohol.
So Luke pretty much knows what to expect from this place.
Which is why he’s caught off guard when a young woman approached him and asked if his dick was really huge as they say.
Said young woman certainly didn’t mind repeating the question.
“Is your dick really huge?” You ask again, with that same genuine expression on your face. Luke knows it’s genuine because he’s been asked that question a lot of times, but this is the first time ever that someone looks genuinely… curious. “I really want to know because I don’t want to waste a few bucks. I mean, I’ve been told you give great services but I want like, reassurance first before I actually give you my money.”
Oh.
It’s an inquiry.
“But wait. You’re Luke Glanton, right? Sorry, I should’ve asked first. That was probably very rude.”
“And very weird. You usually don’t go around asking men if their dick is huge. Some of them wouldn’t react as kindly as I did,” Luke grins as he shrugs. “They might take offense.”
“... But you’re Luke Glanton?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
Luke takes his time inspecting you, from head to toe. He thinks you’re not his usual client, so maybe his market is finally expanding? About time. Not that he’s getting sick of fucking older women and occasionally men – but it’s good to have younger ones on the side too.
Actually, you don’t look like his type at all. Luke notes that you’re cute and you look like jailbait, and your sweet perfume isn’t really his type but it works.
Personally, Luke prefers the long legged, confident women. The ones with the dangerous red lipstick and a smirk he’d wipe off their faces with his dick. The women in corporate who didn’t mind throwing money if it meant Luke would get to praise them for being a good girl.
But this works.
“I’m asking for your…” you trail off, and Luke raises a brow. “... services? I thought that was already pretty obvious. You should really improve your customer service.”
“I offer a lot of services, you have to be very specific.”
“But I did ask for your dick.”
Luke cracks a grin. You’re funny. He wishes you would talk less, though.
“Alright, you got me. Are you looking for anything specifically? Aside from my dick, of course.”
“Can I have the full package?” you ask bluntly, and really, Luke respects it in a way. “I can afford it. I sorta… saved up for it. Because my friend recommended you and said you could really help me have a good experience.”
“Your friend,” Luke repeats. “Do I happen to know this friend of yours?” Because he might have fucked them already as far as he’s concerned. But again, you’re on the young side. And Luke mainly fucks older people. So your friend must be fucking geriatric.
“Not really. But her mom was your client once.”
Well, that’s fucking bizarre.
But not the weirdest Luke has ever heard. So he shrugs it off like nothing and goes back to take another sip of his beer.
“Do you want to know her name?”
“Not really.”
“Okay,” you say in a quiet tone. “So… Can I get the full package then? And can I also know what it includes now?”
Luke raises a brow again. “Now?”
“Yes, what do we usually do? I don’t think you’re doing a good job selling yourself. Shouldn’t the customers know what they’re paying for first? And you don’t really sound very enthusiastic. Maybe this is a bad idea after all —”
“Whoa.” Luke is quick to grab your wrist when you’re about to slide off the stool and walk away. “Where the fuck are you going?”
You scrunch your nose as you try to pull your arm away. “I’m leaving. Like I said, you don’t look excited. If I’m boring you now, I’ll probably bore you later during sex.”
He breathes loudly through his nose. Young girls. Always so insecure. But luckily Luke knows just how to butter you up. After all, he’s not about to let money walk away from him. That’s not the type of person he is.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I was distracted. You have my full attention now. Full package, was it? You wanted to know what’s included?”
“Yes,” you deadpan.
“Well, why don’t I show you instead? That’s what you’ll be paying for, right?” Luke grins, squeezing his fingers slightly around your wrist. He then pulls your stool closer to him until the two of you are almost touching. “I don’t usually tell my clients what I’m going to do to them in bed. I like to surprise them.”
Luke sees you frowning. It’s cute. The way your nose scrunches up, almost like a cat.
“I don’t really like surprises.”
“But this is a good surprise, though. Don’t you think?”
When it takes more than a few seconds for you to respond, Luke wraps an arm around your waist instead. It makes you gasp a little, but you don’t pull away. Just gives him a weird, cautious look that he sort of respects a little bit. Usually women (and men occasionally) would be throwing themselves to him. But you’re being cautious. It’s a good thing.
“What’s your name?” he finally asks, and he smiles when you say it politely. “Pretty name. But I’d rather call you baby. Or sweetheart. Or my good girl –”
Luke snaps his head to the side when the bartender named Mark knocks on the counter.
“Not here, dude. We’ve got customers around.”
He finds that mildly offending considering Luke is the one that brings the customer around in the first place. But he doesn’t say anything, because he’s got a cute girl hanging on his arm.
Instead, Luke turns his attention back to you who looks flustered by the sudden acknowledgement.
“Seems like they want us out. Do you want to get out of here, baby? Don’t worry, I’ll pay for the motel. Only because you’re cute.”
*
The man who works at the front desk knows Luke, and he knows why he’s here.
He just tosses him the key for the room without looking up from the k-drama he’s watching, and he knows Luke will pay the next day – he always does.
Luke has your hand in his as he drags you to the second floor and the last room of the hall.
“Have you been here before?” you ask meekly as you look around the area.
“I’m here every other week, sweetheart,” Luke says as he pushes the door open. “It’s cheap and it gets the job done.”
He gets out of the way so you can enter first, and he watches as you cautiously look around the room. Luke has suspicions that you’re a rich kid. Maybe with strict parents, because you mentioned something about saving up for this kind of nonsense. But honestly, he’s not quite sure. Luke is certain this is the first time he’s fucking someone your age, though.
Speaking of.
“Hey, I probably should’ve asked you this earlier. But how old are you?”
You turn to look at him with surprised eyes. “Oh, I’m 20. Just turned 20 last month.”
“Oh, great,” Luke sighs in relief. Definitely the youngest one he will ever fuck. But he guess there’s a first time for everything, right? “You ever done this before?”
“Seeking out a prostitute?”
“Well, that too,” he points out. “But like, sex in general?”
It takes a tad bit longer for you to answer. Longer than necessary. And Luke raises a brow in suspicion.
“You had sex before, right?” he asks again.
Again, silence. In fact, you’re even avoiding his eyes like a guilty dog.
“Please, don’t tell me you’re a virgin.”
“Does that matter?” you pout. “You’re good at this, you know what to do. That’s why I’m paying you.”
Jesus Christ.
Luke has personally never handled a virgin before. And honestly, he really should’ve expected something like this already. Considering how bashful you’re being. But then again, there are virgins out there who act freakier than him. That’s why Luke’s never been the one to judge a book by their cover.
“I’ve never fucked a virgin before, that’s all.”
You squint at him. “I don’t believe that. You’ve lost your virginity yourself too, haven’t you?”
“Well, I lost it to someone who wasn’t a virgin. So technically I wasn’t fucking a virgin.”
“Do you want to get paid or not?”
Mouthy.
And if Luke isn’t a literal slave for money, he probably would’ve said no to your bratty ass. He rarely comes across one. But when he does, it comes with a challenge that leaves his dick satisfied. So he guesses it’s all good.
In two wide strides, Luke is crossing the room and towering over you. He finds it quite cute that you have to crank your neck up just to fully look at him, and he brings his hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. Such a simple action and you’re already trembling like a leaf.
“Is there anything I can’t do to you before we start?”
“None. Do whatever you want with me.”
Luke can’t help but grin. “Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart.”
You don’t answer then. And that’s good. Because quite frankly, he’s getting tired from how mouthy you’re being. The only sounds he wants to hear from women’s mouths are the ones when he’s stuffing them full of his cock, brain rendered blank and drooling mindlessly on the pillow.
Luke finally leans down to capture your lips to his, and he pulls you close to his body as he wraps his hands around your waist. Turns out, you’re not as stubborn now as you were an hour ago in the bar when you’re getting kissed like this. You’re quick to submit yourself and melt into his arms as Luke deepens the kiss.
He brings his hand on your neck, then he slides it up until he’s gripping your hair roughly, keeping your head in place as he licks open your lips. You immediately get the memo and open your mouth, and Luke immediately shoves his tongue inside.
Luke can hear the kiss when he tilts his head. It’s wet and messy, and there’s already drool spilling over the two of you. It’s clear that you have no idea what you’re doing, mindlessly letting your tongue clash with his while your hands desperately grip his shirt.
And when he pulls away, there’s a string of saliva connecting your lips to his. Luke leans closer to lick it away while you scrunch your nose in disgust.
“Don’t tell me that’s your first kiss too.”
“My first kiss was better than that,” you say with a hint of smirk on your face.
“I’m sure it was,” Luke hums. He then takes a hold of the end of your shirt and quickly pulls it off you. He whistles at the sight of your bra, holding a sizable flesh of tits right on his face. Beautiful. Breathtaking. He’s certain he’ll never get tired of the sight of boobs ever. Luke is quick to squeeze it through the fabric and watches as you squirm and whimper in front of him. “I want to fuck your tits. But maybe we can do it later.”
“Fuck my – how will that work?” you ask in genuine curiosity.
“I’ll slot my cock between those beautiful tits of yours and I’ll paint your face with my cum,” Luke deadpans, then he pushes you on the bed that you bounce slightly on the mattress. He slides his fingers on the edge of your pants, and he pulls it off in one swift movement, leaving you in just your underwear now that’s not going to last long – because Luke is pulling that away too.
And almost immediately, he smells the scent of sweet, untouched pussy in the air. And his cock has never been so hard before. When Luke spreads your legs open, his mouth dries up upon seeing your bare cunt in front of him.
“What?” you ask, voice a little shaky from embarrassment. “Is it ugly? I waxed before I went to you.”
“Why would you do that?” Luke tilts his head. “I love me some thick bush.”
“So it’s ugly?”
“No, I love all sorts of pussies, don’t worry,” he reassures her as he gently caresses your thighs. “Your cunt is fucking beautiful. Just been awhile since I last saw a bald one.”
Surprisingly, that cracks you up. And Luke finally hears a giggle falling from your lips. It’s cute.
“Take off your bra, too. I wanna see the girls.”
You obediently reach behind you and unclasp your bra. Luke watches with a grin on his face as your tits finally flow free. He brings his hands to cup both of them and uses his thumb to play with your perky nipples.
“T-They’re sensitive,” you whimper loudly. “Do you wanna… suck on them? I heard it feels good. Wanna try it out.”
Well, he wouldn’t have to be told twice.
Luke leans down and wraps his lips around your right nipple, and he sucks roughly. He sucks until your back is arching under him, lips licking around your areola before diving back in to suck and nip gently at your nipple. Then Luke turns to the other one and does the same, until his spit is dribbling down to your belly and you’re itching away from the assault of his mouth.
When he pulls away to see your reaction, he sees that already fucked out expression on your face that he’s familiar with. But this early on? Fucking hot.
“How’s that, baby? You love getting your pretty tits played with?”
You only nod with your bottom lip in between your teeth. Not good enough.
Luke brings his hand down to smack your left tit, and you squeal like a pig.
“Words, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”
“Yes! Yes, Luke, I-I love getting my t-tits played with,” you sniffle, and he smiles. Good.
“That’s better.” He gives your nipple a pinch and laughs cruelly when you yelp in surprise.
Luke pulls away to start unbuckling his belt. His eyes never leave yours as he yanks it out and throws it on the floor. But before he gets rid of his pants, he gets rid of his shirt first, baring himself in front of you and shivering slightly when the cold air hits his chest. Luke also doesn’t stop you when you sit up, a hand reaching to touch his chest and stomach, your surprisingly short nails digging into his skin.
“You like what you see?” he asks teasingly.
“You’re… really hot,” you say quietly, hand going further down until your fingers are just nestled on the thatch of hair around his belly button and disappearing down into his pants. “And hairy.”
“You should see the big guy.”
You give him a weird look and he pushes your hand away. Luke then shoves his own hand inside his pants, and he fishes out his hardening cock to show it to you. He’s still not fully hard yet, just barely getting there, but he can already feel himself heavy in his palm and leaking slightly on the tip. Luke holds it on the base as he points it directly at you – something he noticed that women loved from his years of doing it. And when he pans his eyes to look at you, as expected, you might as well be drooling like the rest.
“Is that – wow, that’s… really thick…” you trail off, eyes never leaving his dick. “You’re not fully hard yet, right? Is it going to get bigger?”
“Yeah,” Luke grins. “You like it? This is what you’re going to be paying for, isn’t it? The first words you uttered to me were about my giant cock.”
“I just never expected it to be that big.”
“This isn’t even the biggest it’s going to get,” he deadpans. “You’re going to have to wait for that. So for the meantime…”
Luke grabs your legs and pushes them up in the air, baring you outright naked in front of him. And he doesn’t miss the way your face twists in a sudden surprise, but Luke doesn’t wait to admire it.
He immediately dips his head down and latches his mouth upon your cunt, and he sucks. He keeps a tight hold on your thighs, his nails digging into your skin as he hears the loudest whimper he’s ever heard a woman makes.
Virgins, Luke thinks. Probably the first time having her cunt touched too, much less eaten. But nonetheless, Luke delivers what he always does. What he knows he’s good at.
He alternates between sucking and licking on your clit, just at the right pace. Not too fast, not too slow. Luke can feel your slick already dripping down his chin, and he finally fucks his tongue inside your tight little cunthole and buries his nose down mound.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the smell of pussy.
“Fuck — Luke, that feels — oh, god… oh god, that feels so good —”
Luke hums loudly, making sure you feel the vibration on your pussy. He lets your fingers pull at his hair, and that only motivates him to fuck you with his tongue faster.
He drools all over your hungry hole. He can feel your warm walls clenching around his tongue. And he curls it to get all the slick from the source itself. Luke can feel himself getting harder as the seconds go by, and he can’t help but grind his cock slightly on the mattress.
“G-God, that — that kinda t-tickles — oh fuck — yes, yes —”
Luke pulls away to look at your face. It’s twisted in pure arousal and excitement, and your hands are pushing him back down to your hungry cunt that’s winking at him and clenching around nothing for more. He pulls back slightly to spit directly on your clit, and lets it dribble down your ridiculously tight opening and down your asshole.
“Luke, come on,” you whine loudly, trying to push his head down again, but Luke doesn’t relent. “Please continue. I want — your tongue again. Please?”
“You want it where?”
You pout and Luke smirks. How adorable.
“Tell me where. Go on,” he says. “Tell me you want my tongue again in your tight little pussy. Go on. Say it.”
“I’m not saying that —”
“Then you’re not getting it.”
When Luke goes to pull away, he laughs when you make sure to keep a rough hold onto his hair. You’re pulling it like a child, and he presses his cheek against your inner thigh with his hand caresses your hips.
“It’s embarrassing,” you say quietly, clearly ashamed. But that’s never been something Luke acknowledges when he’s fucking someone on the bed. If you’re not being shameful and not putting your heart into it, what’s the point? You were already moaning like you didn’t give a shit about the people possibly being next door.
“It’s hot,” Luke notes, giving you a cocky grin that he knows always works for other women. He’s not surprised when you bite your lip and look away, finally saying the words he’s been dying to hear.
“Please… put your tongue in my p-pussy…”
Luke’s cock has never throbbed so hard in his life before. Maybe it’s because you’re cute. Maybe it’s because you’re a virgin and this is the first sexual experience you’ve had in your life. Maybe it’s because he loves the way your cunt looks stretched around his fat fingers, and the way you moan with no shame and throw your pretty head back.
“Not quite my tongue yet but fuck me…” Luke whispers. “You’ve got the tightest little cunny I’ve ever come across.”
He pulls out his wet fingers and replaces them with his mouth. Finally. And Luke spends the next two minutes coaxing out your first orgasm of the night by smearing his lips and nose all over your sopping wet clit, acting as if he’s making out with it while keeping his eyes locked on your face
Luke uses his fingers to finally fuck you over the edge. Your legs wrap around his head and push him down to suck harder onto your clit. And when he curls his fingers in, he feels you squeezing around and squealing like a fucking pig.
Luke begins humping the mattress, his cock rubbing raw on the blanket bundled up beneath him. And he can feel his dick leaking like a fucking faucet. When he pulls away to sit up, he takes a moment to admire you out of breath.
“Your poor cunny looks prettier when she’s all puffy like this,” Luke smirks as he reaches down to deliver a smack right on your quivering pussy. You jolt and instinctively close your legs, but Luke smacks your thigh too. “Keep them open. We’re just getting to the good part.”
He sees you looking down to glance at his cock, and he cracks a grin when you grimace.
“That thing won’t fit.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Use something else.”
“I thought you wanted the full package?” Luke raises a brow, and he grabs your ankle when you try to crawl away. “Don’t go anywhere. I promise you that when I fuck you full of this dick, you won’t go looking around for something else.”
You can only whimper. Most girls do. And guys, don’t forget. Some of them would always act so brave and confident, but cry like a baby for a bottle when Luke’s screwing them down into the mattress. It’s hot, though. Luke can’t complain.
“Are we going to do it now? You don’t want me to…” you lick your lips. “You know… suck your uh —”
“My dick?”
“Yeah.”
“Next time,” Luke grins. Before he fully gets rid of his pants, he fishes for the spare condom in his wallet. They probably should’ve stopped somewhere first before they got here, but alas, he’s not about to run to some gas station when his cock is hard enough to knock down bricks on the wall.
When he sees you looking curiously at the package, he hands it over with a knowing smile on his face.
“You wanna put it on?”
“... Magnum XL…” you read the packaging quietly. And as if a surge of pride, Luke’s own dick twitches against his stomach.
“I know it’s big, stop wasting any more time. Put it on.”
You obey without another word. Maybe it’s because you’re scared. Luke imagines that’s probably the case. You’re a virgin, after all. And not to mention the fact that Luke has also never fucked a virgin before.
He’s just… going to be less aggressive, that’s all.
Luke holds himself at the base while you put on the rubber plastic over his girth. You give him a quick stroke to test it out, and he watches as you slowly lean your head closer to press a chaste kiss on the head of his cock.
“How fucking cute,” Luke chuckles, petting your hair. “You gotta kiss it better first because you know how I’d fucking struggle stretching that cunt of yours, hm?”
You scrunch your nose. “You need to learn how to be less vulgar.”
“I’m a male escort. It’s what I do.”
Luke doesn’t wait for whatever it is that you have to say next. He flips you over on your hands and knees, and he positions himself behind you, taking aim of his dick to rub your clit with the fat, mushroom head of it.
“It’s not — I’m scared, Luke. I don’t think it’s going to —”
“Shhh,” he says, reaching over to insert his fingers in your mouth. “Just relax. Let me do all the work. Relax your pussy when I head in. It’s going to hurt, but just relax.”
Luke really doesn’t want to comfort a crying virgin. But he doesn’t want to be an asshole. And what if you rate him with 2 stars after this and tell the experience to everybody. That’ll only ruin his great image.
So Luke slowly eases his cock in. Once the thick head finally slides its way in, everything else will go in smoothly.
“That’s right…” Luke coos when you keen and fist the sheets. “Biiig stretch.”
Your mouth is muffled, but he knows what you’re saying.
It’s big.
It’s a tight fucking fit.
“I know, I know,” he says through gritted teeth. Because fucking hell. His dick feels like it’s being choked to death. When he knows half of him is finally inside your snug little cunt, he prepares you for the worst part by pressing a soft kiss on your nape. That’s when he drives deep and shoves his whole dick inside you.
He throbs harder when you scream around his fingers, and he’s fucking lucky you didn’t bite them off. You just try to buckle your hips away, but Luke keeps you close to him, not letting you go anywhere far.
Luke keeps his cock buried deep inside you, and he takes a moment to regain his senses. He eventually pulls his fingers away and hears you letting out a pathetic sob as your face falls on the mattress.
Ah fuck.
How did you figure out this is his favorite position, really?
“It hurts, Luke —” you sniffle.
“Only at first,” he reassures while he keeps a hold of your hips. “Relax your muscles. You’re clenching, that’s why it hurts.”
“It hurts!” you argue loudly, but that soon crs. acks when Luke moves slightly and you scream. “Ah — slow down!”
Luke is reminded once again why he doesn’t fuck virgins.
He simply doesn’t have the patience for this.
But he’s nice today. He’s not an asshat. So he goes slow.
He drives his cock real nice and slow, only hearing your wordless little whimpers and moans. When you try to muffle it with the sheets, Luke pulls at your hair to hear you better.
“Don’t be shy to make a sound,” Luke reminds you. “I want the whole building to know who’s breaking in your pussy like this.”
“Stop — being so vulgar —” you choke out, and Luke can only laugh at you. “M-My pussy — it doesn’t — ah, slow down — it hurts! It’s big! Slow down!”
“I am slow,” Luke says with a small grin on his face. He rolls his hips forward slowly, enjoying the sloppy sounds that your cunthole is making as he slides in and out, the slowest he’s ever fucked someone in his life. “What were you saying? Your pussy what? It hurts? Does it?”
“Ah — it’s sensitive!” you whine.
“Poor baby,” he says, fake pouting. “But your poor little dripping pussy is so wet. Surely you won’t be able to blame me if I just —”
Luke doesn’t give you any more time to adjust.
He finally fucks deep, relishing the wet sound of his meaty cock sloshing in your cunt, and he begins jackhammering the shit out of you into the mattress.
“Luke —” you squeal out his name. But that squeal quickly turns into a scream. And when Luke grinds his hips against your ass, feeling his fat balls slamming against your sopping clit, you try to run your ass away but fail. “Ah — ah, ah, please — oh fuck — shit — it’s so big —”
“Yeah? You love it?” Luke grins through his sweat. “Tell me you fucking love it.”
“I — oh, Luke… Oh, fuck — oh, shit — fuck —” you moan pathetically, clenching around his dick as you try and buckle your hips away. “It feels so huge — I love it — I love it, Luke! I love being…. Ah… filled like this! Your cock! I love your cock —”
“Damn fucking right you do.”
Luke leans down to turn your head around slightly to press a wet kiss on your lips.
“More, more, more, please — please, Luke —”
“I knew you’d come around,” Luke grins. And then, he fucks you harder.
Luke fucks you until you’re clenching the sheets with your fist. He hammers his hairy cock down, until you’re pushing back against him by yourself, poor little clit dripping with pure satisfaction from being fucked full of him.
“Yeah, that’s right… work that pussy on my cock… show me how good you feel — oh fuck… yeah. She’s so fucking wet,” Luke croons. “Your kitty must be so fucking happy that I’m the first one to break her in, huh? God, you’re such a slut for it. Your first fat cock and you already know your fucking way around.”
“Y-Yeah… it feels so good, Luke… feels so good i-inside me…” you drool. Luke swears if he can see your face now, your eyes are rolling at the back of your head. It’s just one of the downsides of fucking doggy-style. But he doesn’t have to see it to know it. “My… pussy is so — happy. I’m gonna — I feel weird, Luke… my pussy feels like — oh… oh fuck… oh shit….”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Luke groans. And honestly, he can’t take it anymore. The moment he feels your hot walls squeezing him dry, he pulls himself out and rips the condom off and throws it on the ground. You fall on the mattress on your front, twitching and convulsing from your orgasm.
Luke takes himself in hand at the thick root of his dick, and he starts fucking his fist with a sweaty plap-plap-plap, his hand becoming a blur from the speed of it. And finally, he moves quick to flip you over on your back to aim his cock directly at you and shoot his load right onto your perfect fucking face.
Luke groans loudly, feeling his balls pulling at the sensation as he slows down from fisting his hairy cock. White ribbons of semen are shooting out of his slit and onto your brow and lashes, and it’s a good thing you have your eyes closed, otherwise that would’ve been a big problem.
And when you finally do open your eyes, you lick your lips at the sight of him.
Slut.
“Fuck…” is really the only thing Luke can say. He’s never come that fast before. That’s a new record. But then again, it mostly has to do with the fact that it was an untouched, virgin pussy.
Not anymore, it seems.
Luke moves to reach down and see the condition of your cunt. And he wants to salivate upon seeing it all puffy and sore and slightly gaping because of him. Not to mention the light streak of blood smeared all over your cunt lips and clit.
When he glances up to meet your eyes, he sees that you’re dipping your fingers onto his load and licking them clean.
“You’re a real fucking freak for a virgin,” Luke comments, and he smirks when he sees a glint in your eyes. “You wanna go again?”
You only raise a brow.
“... Is there an additional fee if I want it raw?”
a/n: this is just an excuse for me to write about luke's absolutely humongous cock. and also he's a bit mean here. also he's huge, did i mention that? also he's got a dirty mouth. also he's huge did i tell you that—
We need a part two for the daughter fic like where we actually have a cutesy mother daughter date URGEHHHH I LOVE HOLLY☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️
Also love u and ur writing !! stay healthy always
anon you are so right. where is the found family holland fics. i havent found them. cracks knuckles lets do this. and thank you for the kind words, im so glad you're enjoying my blog ! for newcomers, reading part one is not necessary, but it is here !
retail therapy 101
the sitch ⋆˚꩜｡ the only person holland trusts with his daughter is you, the neighbor that has silently stepped into the role of a mother figure for holly over the past few months. so, when you hear that holly's struggling with her appearance, you commence a mother-daughter date to up her confidence; holland finds out he can fall even more for you.
dynamic ? holland march x fem!reader
word count : 2.4K / genre : fluff
includes: no beta we die like men, the pain of being a teenage girl, holland is whipped and such a dad, fluff!!!, mention of holland's late wife
notes: im giving holly the world because she deserves it and also i drool at the idea of holland just doing dad things he makes me absolutely feral
"don't spend too much money, alright? if there's anything expensive that you really want, just hold off on it and tell me when you're home, 'kay? we can make something happen for your birthday." holland march's gaze flicked between you and his daughter, who was practically bouncing off the walls.
ever since you promised to take her shopping, she was in better moods than before. once you secured a date, she hadn't stopped talking to holland about what she was going to get. you told him before that this was your treat, but he wouldn't forgive himself if you had to lay off on restaurants and chinese takeout for a month because his daughter thought she could go crazy with "adult money."
"it's fine, holland," you replied, stepping to the side of him. "she's not gonna kill me. it's clothes and manicures. when's the last time she got to have a little fun with shopping?"
you watched as holland glanced to his daughter and digested the truth you handed to him. "you got a point: any girl deserves a trip to the mall every two months or so." he brushed some hair away from holly's face; she happily let him do so. "i expect a haul when you come back. and you'll have to report all the best sales you get. no reason to spend full price on anything nowadays."
"march," you warned him, to which his daughter smiled and rolled her eyes while he took a step back. you then looked to holly. "sweetie, could you start the car for me? i'll be there in a second."
you rummaged through your pockets and tossed her your keys. with both hands, she caught them and ran off, leaving you and holland alone. it seemed that whenever you and him were alone, something positively tempting and unknown hung in the air—it made you smile shyly each time. when you pulled your eyes from the driveway, you were met with holland's eyes already on you, focused intensely on something you couldn't really pinpoint.
"thank you for doing this." the obvious thing to say. you shrugged, and he continued. "i feel bad. i know all the girls her age have moms to help them out, give them advice." when he said the word "moms," he swallowed a little harsher than before. "what do i give her?" he muttered.
your shy smile turned a little softer now. "you give her home cooked meals, you pay for her monthly subscription to national geographic, not to mention you've been studying up a bit yourself and can actually talk to her about all the space stuff she's been learning." as you spoke, he stepped a little closer, maybe on accident or impulse, you couldn't really tell. but you found yourself moving closer too, noticing the top notes of his cologne that clung onto his suit: sandalwood maybe. "if they sent you to NASA tomorrow, i think you'd manage."
"i don't remember anything past 7th grade math." this made you laugh. recently, it's been very easy for him to make you laugh, though. it was embarrassing, really, but the positive was seeing how he always lit up, how his chest swelled and puffed out a little more after the fact. "you'll be back by dinner?"
"of course. don't want to keep her out too late."
"great! i, um..." he scratched the back of his head, casting his gaze over to the driveway where holly was waiting. "i also wouldn't mind if you stayed, ate with us." this wasn't the first time he asked, certainly wouldn't be the last, but he was still as coy about it as ever. you tilted your head.
"why do you always ask me like that?"
he froze behind his aviators. "like what?" he squeaked.
"like i'm gonna say no."
he pursed his lips, charmingly awkward for someone that dressed so suave, then nodded. "see you then." and he leaned in and hugged you goodbye. using hugs as greetings and farewells could feel too platonic and buddy-buddy at times for all the unspoken words between the two of you, but it was always comforting knowing that you'll be welcomed and sent off with an embrace from him. besides, you weren't really complaining. under all that silk and cotton, he was toned, and his clothes only hid so much when he held you like this.
pulling back, you could've sworn he looked you up and down, but the moment was gone before you could find out, and soon you were heading out the door, waving to holland as you drove off with holly in the passenger.
the first couple hours at the mall, she lost herself in the racks of clothes and endless trips back and forth between the changing rooms. it was more than heartwarming to see. she held up blouse after blouse and jeans with it, silently asking for your thoughts with a nervous quirk of her brow. you clapped for her; she did spins for you. as the trip progressed, she grew more talkative and opinionated, telling you what was trending and what celebrities were her fashion icons. cher was up there, along with stevie nicks. she liked neatness and color.
she turned to you for help today and you weren't going to let her down. no, you were going to use everything you learned growing up and pass down your knowledge to her: color schemes, what to do with texture, needed basics, everything. holland would strongly disapprove of how much money you were dropping, but when you looked down at holly and saw how much she loved her reflection, how could you not buy her a whole new wardrobe? as you took her around, you never caught the awe on holly's face as you guided her through this world of style. the only sign you got was when she got comfortable enough to grab your hand to drag you to another section. still, you appreciated it.
a common thing with holly, though, is that she always had a plan brewing. and two hours deep into your exploration of the mall, she cornered you at a manicure as your nails dried and you had no escape. you were relaxed, getting pampered, zoning off as the technician took care of your hands. in half an hour, you'd bring holly home and have an average dinner with the march family. that was until:
"so what's going on with you and my dad?"
you tried to fix your face, feeling it contort into complete shock, but the slip up was too noticeable and both of you knew it. you pushed it, asking, "what are you talking about?"
holly gave you a deadpan stare which had you shrink up a bit. "you're really going to pretend like there's nothing happening between you and him?"
"he's my neighbor. we're neighbors." and you shrugged. "we live in a tight knit community."
"uh huh. so you're having dinners and movie nights and long, awkward staring contests with everyone in the cul-de-sac."
you scoffed at her deflection, but the embarrassment of her seeing all of this unfold silently, and her admitting to seeing it, pulled you back from further denying it. so, you just sighed and looked to her. "yeah, okay, i think he's nice. and funny, even when he's not trying to be. especially when he's not trying, actually."
holly watched you carefully, but not with malintent. if anything, seeing you soften up, talking about her dad, made her feel equally warm. "so?"
"what do you mean, so?"
"well, it's not like i don't like you. and it's definitely not like he doesn't like you." holly turned back to her nails getting painted, her first manicure. as monumental of an occasion, there were other things running around her head. "if you really do like him... i just want you to know that i'm okay with that."
you sat with that answer for a bit, watching holly's nails alongside her. she was poised and quietly confident about it. part of you wished you could tackle this issue with holland as confidently as her. you were learning as much as she was today. "you can still see the difficult conversations that'll need to happen, though. even if he liked me."
"he does like you. he practically starts floating in the air when you're around." then her expression shifted to something a little less lighthearted. "my dad could be scared just because that's the way he is. he's cocky until he's not, then he folds like a wet paper towel. with that, i don't know what to do. but i've been thinking, like... that he might be scared because of me. like i'll be conflicted 'cause some people would misinterpret this as you replacing my mom."
it was her turn to sigh. "but that's just not true. you're two different people and stuff. my mom's not less important because we need to keep living without her. that's just how it is. and as long as we still, i don't know, remember her, think about her?" when she looked back to you, her bottom lip was tucked in thought and some level of uncertainty. the energy of her preaching deflated into something smaller. childlike. "then that's okay, right?"
you saw it clearly: the hope that she was doing the right thing, that she wasn't disrespecting her mom. it was surreal that you were at the center of it and causing it. but right now, it wasn't about you. it was about her. you softened your voice to match hers. "i think you have your heart in the right place. your mom wouldn't be upset at you, not by a long shot."
holly nodded, seeming smaller than usual now, more hesitant to take up space. "i just... like, i think you're cool. and you're fun. you're always easier to talk about my books with and what happens at school. i don't know." her feet swung underneath the table. you smiled.
you wanted to live up to holly's expectations, more than anything. and it was a big task to handle. but who else was going to do it? a better question was did holly want anyone else to do it? now you knew the answer. "so what do i do about your dad's wet-paper-towel tendencies?"
"i don't know. maybe you just need to get really obvious about it, so he doesn't doubt himself."
"i'm kind of a subtle person by nature, you know."
"well, he's not, and he has trouble reading people who are. just amp it up once or twice, hopefully he figures it out." on cue, both of your technicians finished and you two pulled your hands away, revealing the fresh sets. holly flipped her hands back and forth, a newfound sparkle in her eye. and like always, she looked to you for your reaction.
you nodded. "we gotta get you on the sonny & cher show."
the backseat of the car was stuffed with bags to the point where you didn't have to worry about anything toppling—there wasn't any room for it to happen. holly jammed out to the radio as you kept your eyes on the road, and in the back of your mind you wondered how in the hell would you "amp it up once or twice." how far was too far? should you really be doing this? even hugs were currently awkward.
you pulled into holland's driveway where he was already waiting at the front door for you. holly burst out of the car with the brightest smile he'd ever seen and held up as many bags as she could. "dad, it was crazy! we got a whole bunch of new stuff, look!"
if it was still sunny enough for his aviators, he would've snatched them off his face. when you exited, he looked to you for explanation. "i thought you said you wouldn't let her take advantage of you."
"she didn't," you assured, walking over, carrying the rest of the bags; holland rushed over to get as many off of you as possible, which you giggled at. soon, your hands were empty and he was half hidden by bags. "we found good deals and we didn't pay full price for most of these things, if that assuages your worries at all."
"partially." he looked over his shoulder to holly, about to talk to her some more, but she was already running inside, so he resigned and began walking in with you. "you guys have fun?" and underneath that was another question: did the retail therapy make his daughter feel better about herself?
"loads of fun. i think she was just intimidated by all her classmates who seemed to know what to buy and where to shop. you'll be seeing a mini stevie nicks around the house soon." this made holland laugh, which you joined in on; holly's words echoed in your mind. amp it up. what was there to amp up?
the two of you stopped at the doorway, stumbling yet again into another random silence. holland glanced around the house's interior while you stared at your shoes. why couldn't holland ever make a move for once? why did you have to fall so hard for pathetic men? what were you going to do—!
"how was the manicure?"
you let out a small hum of confusion until your brain caught up; he didn't need to repeat himself. "oh! yeah, it was great." you held up your nails and flashed the new polish at him. "of course, these were full price. this is why i don't usually get my nails done."
"well, they look great."
"they do, don't they? shame."
"well, if you ever want your nails done, you can just ask me."
you froze and slowly looked up from your hands. surprisingly, he wasn't pulling back or stammering after hearing himself. he looked certain, almost blasé. he added, "i don't mind. you shouldn't be paying for nails yourself anyway."
you searched his gaze for anything saying he was messing with you but came up empty handed. so, you simply asked, "really?" and he nodded. now the silence went from awkward to open. what you did next was more your body thinking than your brain. you reached up and took ahold of his tie, on which you gently tugged, pulling him just a bit closer. his eyes widened. coincidentally, your nail polish was the same color. it made your heart flutter. "i'll try to keep matching you, then."
he looked down, only for you to end the moment there and walk into the house, leaving holland to return to his wet-paper-towel nature, crumpling onto himself on the front stoop.
warnings/notes: Jack's a vampire in a world where supernatural creatures are a known part of society. The story of his amputation and turning is not pleasant. Small sex scene that's more sweet than smutty. Jack carries the reader at one point, but he's a vampire so... Angst with a happy ending.
wc: 8.9k
If there was one thing Jack Abbot had learned in his one hundred and thirty-two years of existence, it was that memories fade. Things he thought he’d never forget were now viewed through a haze of fog when he tried to recall them. Though there remained moments that would stay crystal clear throughout his long life. His mother’s tears when he was conscripted and shipped off to fight in a war he wanted nothing to do with. His father’s hug when he returned changed and broken. The first sunrise he witnessed over the Alps. His last sunset in Paris.
And then there was the day he met you. You stumbled through the doors into the emergency department just after 02:00 on a Thursday morning. Blood seeped through the bar towel you had pressed against your palm. The moment you crossed the threshold, the scent slammed into him, rich and intoxicating. His head snapped up, gaze finding you.
“I’ll take this one,” he told the nurse leading you back, ignoring the look he was getting. Lacerations were strictly resident and med student territory. Jack didn’t care. There was no universe where he would allow anyone else to treat you.
The cut had been deep, a clean slice across your palm where a broken glass had caught you while you were closing up your bar. Nothing out of the ordinary for the ED. Jack found himself moving with deliberate slowness, savoring every second in your presence. The scent of your blood wrapped around him, sinking into the very fiber of his being. He wanted to drown in it.
“You know it’s not the first time I’ve been here for a few stitches, but it is the first time it’s warranted the attention of an attending instead of a med student,” you said. You ran your gaze over him as if looking for answers. “So why the special attention, doc?”
Jack looked up then, hazel eyes meeting yours. He could lie to you. Tell you that he just wanted something easy to clear his head. That all the students were busy with other cases. But he couldn’t bring himself to be anything but honest with you. “You really want the answer to that question?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
He hesitated then tied off the thread as he finished your stitches. He leaned back and took a breath. “You’re my mate. So yes, you’re special. Very special.”
Your laugh was unexpected, a short, surprised sound. “Does that line actually work?”
“Not a line,” Jack said with a shake of his head. “Just the simple truth. It doesn’t matter if you believe it or not, it’s still the truth.”
Your eyes ran over him as he wrapped your hand. He scribbled his number on your discharge papers before handing them over. “I would like to get to know you, but I’m not going to pressure you. Take your time and call if you want to learn what being a vampire’s mate actually means. Or don’t. Choice is yours.”
It killed him to utter those words and walk out of the room when all he wanted to do was fall at your feet and beg for a chance to worship you. To cherish you. To make you his.
You didn’t call. But three nights later, you appeared at the ED with coffee for the both of you. He parked you in the lounge, joining you a few minutes later after making sure he wouldn’t be disturbed unless absolutely necessary.
“I looked up vampire mates,” you said as he settled in the seat across from you. “They are incredibly rare, so either you’re delusional or I just happened to win some kind of supernatural lottery. I’m still deciding which.”
Jack took a sip of his coffee. “Take your time. I’ve got plenty of it. To be clear, mates aren’t as rare as they seem. Finding them, however, is another matter entirely.”
You were quiet for a long moment before nodding once. “Alright, Dr. Abbot, I’ll give you the chance to show me what it means to be your mate.”
What followed was the most relentless, determined courtship in modern vampire history, at least according to the night shift staff who watched it unfold with undisguised interest. Lena knew your name, favorite color and how you took your coffee by the third week. Bridget helped him decide what flowers to send. And their out of work gatherings had moved to your bar where you gave a discount to anyone from the Pitt.
Jack appeared at the bar every day, spending an hour or two drinking coffee you made only for him as he sat at the bar or in your office getting to know you. He sent flowers and bought you pretty trinkets, but the bulk of his courtship was practical. He’d replaced your glass chiller when it couldn’t be fixed, hired a contractor to fix your roof when it leaked, replaced the front window when it broke in a bar fight. Every time you protested, told him you’d been getting along just fine before he came along. That you didn’t need his charity.
Every time he assured you that he knew you were capable, but that you didn’t have to do it alone any more. That he would take care of everything if you just let him. That it would be his honor to do so. Your resistance crumbled by degrees. Coffee in the breakroom became breakfast after his shift. Then came dinner on his night off. Until he found himself in your presence whenever he wasn’t at work.
Three years later Jack still marveled at how thoroughly your lives had intertwined. All of your things now sat beside his, your toothbrush in the bathroom, your mugs in the kitchen cabinets. Your scent was embedded in his sheets, his clothes, his skin. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“You’re staring again,” you said as you sat on the porch together enjoying the quiet of the early morning hours.
He made a sound of agreement and took your hand in his, fingers tracing the marks he’d left on your wrist mere hours ago. A sign that you were claimed. That you were his.
You opened your eyes, lips curving into that teasing smile that he loved. “Admiring your personal blood bag, Doctor?”
“Free-use blood bag,” he corrected with mock seriousness. “The free-use part is critical to the job description.”
Your head tipped back as you laughed. It used to bother him when you talked like this, but he’d grown to accept it as part of your twisted sense of humor. And you loved it when he joined in, so he did. He’d do anything to make you happy.
You lifted your wrist. “Breakfast?”
He hesitated, always conscious of taking too much. Asking too much. “I fed last night.”
“So? It’s not like you ever take much. A sip won’t hurt and it will keep you from being grumpy.”
“I don’t get grumpy,” he said in the tone of a man who absolutely got grumpy. He brought your wrist to his lips, inhaling deeply before allowing his fangs to extend. The first taste of you was always like coming home. Unlike the synthetic or donor blood that sustained most vampires, your blood satisfied something deeper than hunger. A few swallows from you could sustain him for days, when he’d need three times as much from anyone else.
He licked the punctures closed, watching with satisfaction as they immediately scarred over. They wouldn’t completely heal for days and by then, he would have bitten you again. “You’re extraordinary,” he whispered against your skin. He wondered, not for the first time, how he could survive for over a century and not truly live until you walked into his emergency room with a bleeding hand and a smart mouth that wouldn’t quit.
You’d spent the day doing inventory at your bar. You hated it but still forced yourself to do it at least once every six months. It had taken longer than you’d anticipated and you’d missed seeing Jack before his shift. Usually your schedules aligned perfectly, the advantage of owning your own business and having employees you trusted. You worked when he worked, with the occasional extra hours.
You decided to drop by the ED before heading home to see Jack and give him a chance to feed. He was always in a better mood when he fed before going to work. You slid through the waiting room, waving at the man at the intake desk who buzzed you through. Lena’s gaze found you as soon as you were in sight. Her face brightened as she waved you over while typing something on her computer.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. We were starting to think you were avoiding us,” she said.
You laughed as you leaned against the counter. “Never. Just busy. We were down a bartender until this week. Hopefully things will get back to normal.”
“As much as I love you, I would guess you are here to see Jack.”
“Yeah. Inventory day. Didn’t get the chance to see him today.”
“No wonder he’s grumpy,” Lena said with a smile. “Last I saw him, he was down the east hall with Samira. Said he needed to talk to her about something. If you can’t find him, come back and I’ll page him.”
“Thanks, Lena. I’ll track him down.” You pushed away from the counter with a wave.
You headed toward the east corridor and slowed your pace when you heard Jack’s voice. It carried that distinct tone he got when he was discussing something he considered significant. You didn’t want to interrupt what sounded like an important conversation so you stopped just around the corner to wait until he finished.
“It’s disrespectful, Samira.”
“I don’t see—” Samira began, voice quieter than Jack’s.
“I know you don’t. That’s why I’m telling you.” Jack cut her off, something he did often when he believed he was right. Which was nearly always. “Look. I haven’t met this new boyfriend of yours or whatever he is, but I am telling you that if he respected you, he wouldn’t be leaving visible fang marks where everyone could see them. He’s marking you as his food, not his partner.”
You sucked in a breath at his words, stomach churning, suddenly wishing you’d made your presence known so you wouldn’t have heard those words.
Jack’s voice dropped lower as he continued. “If he respected you, if he saw you as anything beyond a meal, he wouldn’t leave you marked up like that. It kills me to see you so disrespected.”
Your hands moved to your wrists, fingers tracing over the visible fang marks that adorned both wrists. Marks that you’d worn proudly for three years.
“But you leave marks on—”
“What I do with my mate is my business,” his tone was sharp, final.
Your lungs seemed to have forgotten how to function properly as your world tilted on its axis. You were suddenly questioning everything you thought you knew about your relationship. You stared at the marks on your wrists, knowing there were matching sets on your inner thighs. And the permanent mating mark on your neck, darker and more prominent than the others. Jack had given it to you six months into your relationship during a night so intense your skin still heated at the thought of it. He’d explained it as a vampire’s ultimate commitment. The equivalent of a supernatural wedding band.
But according to what he’d just told Samira, these visible marks were symbols of disrespect. Of being viewed as nothing more than food. Free-use blood bag. The words filtered through your head unbidden and you shook them off. You were the one that started that joke, one Jack had hated in the beginning. Or was he just afraid you’d seen the truth? That you’d leave if you realized how he viewed you?
Your throat tightened and you swallowed hard. You needed to leave. Now. Before they finished their conversation and Jack found you standing there like a wounded animal. You backed away slowly, briefly wondering how Jack hadn’t already sensed your presence but thanking every deity you could think of that he hadn’t.
Turning, you walked quickly through the halls, your mind racing. How many times had Jack bitten you in places everyone could see? How often had he traced those marks with obvious pride afterward? All those moments you’d interpreted as affection, suddenly seemed suspect.
What I do with my mate is my business.
Why? Because he didn’t want to explain his hypocrisy? Because he couldn’t?
Lena looked up as you approached the hub, her expression shifting immediately from welcoming to concern. “Hey, you okay?”
“Fine,” you managed. “I just remembered something I need to take care of.”
“Did you find Jack? Did you want me to page him?” she offered.
“No!” The word came out sharper than you’d intended. You took a breath to calm yourself. “I mean, no thanks. I’ll catch up with him later.”
Her brows drew together. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Just busy. I’ll see you later.” You beelined for the exit, gulping in the crisp night air as you stepped outside. You fumbled with your keys as you walked toward your car. The marks on your skin seemed to burn now, a brand of ownership rather than the loving connection you’d always believed them to be.
The bar was fairly quiet when you returned, typical for a Tuesday evening. Your bartender Michelle frowned when she spotted you, knowing you hadn’t intended to return after you’d left. You waved her off and headed back to your office. There was always filing to be done, and if nothing else, you could work on the next few weeks’ schedules.
Your office wasn’t large. Just big enough for you to not become claustrophobic when you worked at your desk. You sank into your worn leather chair, fingers absently running over the marks on your wrists once more. Jack’s words echoed in your head on endless repeat. He’s marking you as his food, not his partner. Your chest tightened again, that uncomfortable pressure returning.
For three years you’d worn his marks with pride. You’d believed they represented commitment, love. One overheard conversation had crumbled that certainty. An hour into your mindless paperwork, your phone buzzed with a text from Jack.
Lena said you stopped by. Why didn’t you wait to see me? Everything okay?
Your fingers hovered over the screen briefly before you set the phone aside without responding. The walls suddenly seemed to close in on you as you realized you couldn’t go home. Not tonight. Not until you’d sorted through the tangle of emotions you were currently ensnared in.
You pulled up a grocery delivery app on your phone, placing a quick order of a few things along with some basic hygiene products. You selected the bar’s address for delivery, instructing them to leave the order at the bar. An hour later, Michelle knocked on the door and handed over the bags.
“Everything okay?” she asked, eyes scanning your face with obvious concern.
“Yeah. Just decided to stay upstairs tonight. Thanks.”
She nodded. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I’m good, but thanks.”
Once she’d left, you shut down your computer and grabbed the bags. You headed down the hall where a narrow staircase led to the apartment above. The apartment you’d lived in for five years before you met Jack.
You unlocked the door and swung it open to reveal the small studio apartment. The space was sparse now, most of your belongings having migrated to Jack’s. But you had a bed and appliances in the kitchen and that’s really all you needed. Setting the groceries on the counter, you checked your phone again.
Three missed calls and another text. Are you okay? Call me.
You swiped the notifications away. Perhaps it was petty of you not to answer but you needed space. A moment to breathe. And it wasn’t as if you could hide from the man even if you wanted to. As his mate, he could find you anywhere at any time. You’d previously found the thought comforting. Knowing if you were ever in trouble, he’d be able to find you. Tonight, it felt more like an invasion.
You figured you had until roughly 8:00 in the morning before he showed up, provided he got off shift on time. The night passed in fragments of half-sleep and intrusive thoughts. You’d given up on rest entirely by the time the sun rose. Instead, you focused on making a quick breakfast of bacon and eggs with the groceries you’d had delivered the night before.
Exactly ten minutes after eight, there was a knock at the door. You paused briefly as you flipped the bacon. Right on time. You didn’t answer, you didn’t need to.
As predicted, you heard a key in the lock a minute later. The door opened slowly and Jack’s presence filled the small space instantly. “Hey,” he greeted, his voice soft and concerned.
You kept your back to him as you plated the food. “There’s OJ in the fridge if you want some.” Your voice was steadier than you’d expected.
He didn’t move toward the refrigerator. Instead, he stood watching you, cataloging every detail of your appearance. You felt his gaze like a physical touch, searching for clues to explain your sudden distance.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asked, moving to sit at the table across from you.
You took your seat, eyes focused on your plate as you began to eat. After several minutes passed in silence, you sat your fork down and leaned back in your chair. You finally lifted your head to meet Jack’s gaze for the first time since he entered the apartment. His reaction was immediate. The skin around his eyes tightened as he leaned forward. He could easily read the evidence of your tears as clearly as if they were still streaming down your cheeks.
Alarm flashed across his features. “Hey. What happened? Is everything alright?”
The genuine concern in his voice only made everything more difficult somehow. It would be easier if he was cold or dismissive. Instead, he looked at you with the same warmth he always had.
“It’s fine,” you said, the words sounding hollow. “I just needed to confront the fact I had been wrong about some things, and I needed to decide if I was okay with that.”
Jack didn’t respond beyond leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table as he waited for you to continue. To explain.
“When I found out I was your mate, I kind of let myself assume that was something special. That it meant more than me being your perfect blood bag. I realize you never said that, not directly. I just assumed.”
His brow furrowed, his confusion evident. You pressed on before he could interrupt.
“I just…” Fresh tears threatened and you sucked in a deep breath as you bit them back. You would not let this man see you cry, damn it. “I thought this connection meant as much to you as it did to me, is all. But that’s on me, not you. I just need a few days to adjust, okay?”
When Jack finally spoke, his voice sounded broken. “Why would you ever think you don’t mean everything to me? If I did something to make you think that, to make you feel that way, I am so incredibly sorry.”
“Why would I believe that when you don’t respect me?” The question emerged sharper than you’d intended.
“Don’t respect—” Jack looked genuinely stunned. “Honey, where is this coming from?”
You sighed, suddenly exhausted. Your eyes fell on your wrists and you tugged down your sleeves to cover the marks, self-conscious about them in a way you’d never been before. “I heard your conversation with Samira. You were so adamant that her boyfriend didn’t give a shit about her because he left her marked up, so what am I supposed to think? You go out of your way to make sure to leave visible bites on me every day.”
Jack stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he laughed, a short sound that sucked the air from your lungs.
“Is that what this is about?” His dismissive tone sent a fresh wave of hurt crashing through you.
“I think you should go.” Your voice was quiet but firm.
The smile vanished from his face instantly. “No, no, baby. Listen to me for a minute.” He moved around the table, kneeling in front of you. His hand reached for your shoulder and you flinched, a small involuntary movement. Pain flashed across his features.
Slowly, with deliberate care, his hand settled on your shoulder. His thumb traced the outline of the mating mark on your neck. The familiar touch had some of the tension leaving your body.
“This mark changes everything. It means you’re mine,” he said in a low voice.
He grabbed one of your hands and pushed up the sleeve. His thumb ran over the fang marks on your wrist, his touch tender. “It means that when I leave these that I’m showing everyone that you are a good mate. That you take care of me and I take care of you. That I am actively in your life. It’s another layer of protection for you.”
You studied his face looking for any sign of deception. “So, because I’m your mate, it’s a good thing you mark me up, but for Samira, it’s not?”
Jack nodded. “Exactly.”
“That’s stupid.”
He laughed again, this time a genuine sound of amusement. He pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “I know it is, baby. When an unmated vampire leaves visible marks, they’re claiming someone as food. Sure, it will probably keep another vamp from biting her, but it’s disrespectful. Especially if he didn’t tell her why he was doing it. And that fact that she has so many…” He shook his head. “It makes her an object, not a person.”
“But I’m not?” the question came out broken and you hated it.
He shook his head emphatically. “Never. If you want me to quit leaving visible marks, I will.”
You watched him as he reached for your hand again. He traced circles on your palm with his thumb. “With mates, the marks are part of a mutual claim. They’re meant to be seen because they represent our bond. It’s like wearing a wedding ring versus having someone stamp ‘taken’ across your forehead without your consent.”
“You realize how arbitrary that distinction sounds, right?”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “What matters is what these marks mean to us. To me, they’re a sign of our bond, of how we sustain each other. But if they make you uncomfortable now, I’ll stop. Immediately.”
The sincerity in his voice was impossible to doubt. “I don’t want you to stop,” you admitted. “I just want to understand.”
Relief washed over his features. “They mean you’re my heart. My life. Not my food source, though your blood is exceptional. They mean we belong to each other in every way.”
You debated letting the conversation end there. Letting everything go back to the way it had been. But while one issue had been clarified, it had opened the door to a deeper question. One you’d avoided for too long.
“Why won’t you talk to me about turning?”
The change in his demeanor was instantaneous. His expression shuttered as he stood, moving back to his side of the table. “We don’t need to discuss that right now.”
You sighed and got up to start clearing the table, the half-eaten breakfast no longer appealing. “I can’t imagine why I didn’t have a problem believing I was being disrespected.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that anytime I bring up turning, you shut down.” You placed the dishes in the sink with more force than necessary. “I want forever with you, Jack. But I think forever means different things to us. For me, it’s for the rest of your life. For you, it’s for the rest of mine.”
You turned your back to him as you rinsed the dishes. You shrugged one shoulder. “I would give anything for an eternity with you. And you, well, I think you’re just biding time.”
Jack remained silent and you could feel his gaze on your back. The apartment suddenly felt too small and you needed room to breathe.
“I’d appreciate it if you left now,” you said finally as you turned to face him again. “I need sleep and so do you.”
For a moment, he looked like he might argue. His eyes studied you, taking in every detail of your face as if memorizing it. The defeat in his posture was something you’d never seen before. His shoulders slumped as he moved toward the door without another word. At the threshold, he paused, hand on the knob, but he didn’t turn back. After a long moment, he stepped through, closing the door quietly behind him.
Jack’s world collapsed around him as he descended the stairs from your apartment. Each step felt like moving through concrete as he suddenly felt every year of his long existence. Nothing he had faced to this point could prepare him for the sorrow in your eyes when you accused him of merely ‘biding time’ until your inevitable human death.
He slid into his truck and sat motionless until he pressed his forehead to the steering wheel. The gesture of defeat was so foreign to his nature it would have shocked anyone who knew him. Dr. Jack Abbot who had survived more than a century of humanity’s worst moments was coming apart at the seams.
“Fuck,” he whispered into the empty vehicle, the single syllable containing a universe of regret.
He sat there for an hour before he could muster the strength to drive away from your apartment. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d failed you. Or the fear of the terrifying possibility of a future without you in it.
By noon, he’d placed the first order with the florist. A simple arrangement of red roses with an apology scrawled on the small card followed by his name. In the hours following their delivery, he paced the floor, phone clutched in hand.
No response came.
The second day he sent a large bouquet of your favorite flowers. The sentiment on the card was longer this time. In all my long life I have never been more afraid of anything than I am of losing you. I am thinking of you every moment. He checked his phone constantly as if he might have somehow missed your reply.
Still nothing.
The third day he switched florists to one that specialized in wildflower arrangements. He sent texts throughout the day, careful to keep them undemanding.
I miss you.
I love you.
You don’t have to respond. I just need you to know how important you are to me.
On his fourth night without you, Lena frowned at him as he stepped up to the hub. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks. Always nice to get compliments from colleagues.” He grabbed a chart to scroll through so he wouldn’t have to meet her gaze. She had always been too perceptive when he had something he was trying to hide.
“Seriously, Jack. What is going on? Did something happen with your mate?”
His shoulders slumped slightly. “We had a…disagreement.”
Her brows arched. “Must have been some fight to have you looking like this.”
He sighed. “It wasn’t a fight. It was worse.” He walked away before she could press further.
When he got home from that shift, he sat at the kitchen for two hours composing a dinner invitation. Finally, he settled for I’d like to make you dinner tomorrow night. At home. 8 pm. There are things to say. Please come.
Your simple okay came three hours later.
Jack spent the next day cleaning the house from top to bottom, paying attention to areas that often got overlooked. He even changed the sheets on the bed, though he didn’t dare hope the night would end there. Then, he drove to two different markets to get the ingredients he needed for dinner.
He had cooked for you hundreds of times over your years together. Usually simple meals thrown together after shifts, or more elaborate fare on your days off. Tonight was different. Tonight had to be perfect. He made your favorite meal and picked up your favorite dessert from the bakery you loved.
As he chopped and prepped, he rehearsed what he would tell you. The words tangled in his mind, decades of trauma and fear twisting into complicated knots. How could he make you understand the horror of his turning while he’d spent over a hundred years trying not to think about it?
By 7:30 the room had transformed. He’d set the table with the good dishes and lit candles throughout the space. The wine was breathing next to two crystal glasses.
By 7:45, he’d changed his shirt three times before settling on the one you’d given him last Christmas claiming it brought out the green in his eyes. He checked his phone and paced the living room as he waited for you to arrive.
You rang the doorbell at precisely 8:00 and Jack froze. This was your home. You had a key. There was no reason for you to ring the bell unless you no longer considered this your home. The thought made him sick.
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before he opened the door. His gaze ran over you, finding you beautiful as always. You wore simple clothes, jeans and one of your favorite tops and he thought you were stunning. Your eyes met his and he saw little of the warmth he’d grown accustomed to seeing in you. His heart cracked in his chest.
“Hi.” The single syllable was inadequate but he suddenly found himself lost for words.
“Hi,” you replied as you stepped inside. Your scent washed over him and he closed his eyes as he breathed it in. Gods, he’d missed you.
“Thank you for coming,” he managed, closing the door. “Dinner’s ready.”
You nodded as you shrugged off your jacket. Jack reached for it automatically and felt a surge of relief when you let him take it. It was the smallest allowance, but he’d take it.
“Smells good,” you said, following him to the table. Your voice was carefully neutral and he hated it.
“I made your favorite.” He pulled out your chair with a formality that felt foreign between you. As you sat, his fingers brushed your shoulder accidently, a whisper of contact that sent a jolt through his hand.
Jack moved to his own seat, trying to recover his composure. You were watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. He cleared his throat and poured the wine before serving the meal.
For several minutes you ate in silence, the only sound coming from the gentle clink of silverware. Jack barely tasted the food, too focused on what he needed to say. He’d practiced what he would say, but now that you were here, all his careful preparation seemed pointless.
“I was born on March 13, 1894,” he said suddenly, setting down his fork.
Your eyes snapped to his face, your surprise evident in your expression.
“Rochester, NY. My father was a doctor in a time where that meant everything from delivering babies to pulling teeth.” Jack forced himself to maintain eye contact despite the urge to look away. “I was in my second year of medical school when the United States entered the war.”
You leaned back in your seat giving him your full attention. This was more than he’d shared about his human life in your three years together.
“I was conscripted in June of 1917. I thought…God, I was naïve. I thought it would be some grand adventure. That I’d see Europe, save lives as a medic, come home a hero.” His laugh was short and bitter. “Reality hit the moment we landed in France. The odor was horrible. Death mixed with mud and human waste and gun powder. You could smell the front lines from miles away.”
Jack took a sip of wine. Your eyes never left his face and he drew strength from your steady gaze.
“They sent me to the front with minimal training. I was assigned to a field medical unit but we were chronically under trained and under supplied. The conditions in the trenches were…” He shook his head, searching for words to describe the indescribable. “Imagine standing in water and mud up to your knees. Imagine constant artillery fire, so loud you’d go temporarily deaf between barrages. Rats fat from feeding on corpses running over your boots while you tried to sleep.”
He swallowed as he saw it all again with perfect clarity. The mazelike network of trenches. The faces of young men who knew they were going to die but still hoped otherwise. The exhaustion that settled permanently into his bones.
“It was October when I noticed the first symptoms.” Jack clenched his teeth, a muscle twitching in his jaw before he sucked in a deep breath. “My feet were constantly wet. Everyone’s were. The trenches flooded with every rain, and it rained almost daily that fall. At first, it was just numbness, some pain. I ignored it. Focused on treating others. Complaining about my minor discomfort seemed ridiculous when men were dying all around me.”
He pushed away the plate of food, so he could lean on the table. “Within two weeks, my right foot had swollen so badly I could barely get my boot on. The skin turned gray, then bluish-black. The pain…” He closed his eyes briefly, breathing through the memory. “I’d never experienced anything like it. I couldn’t imagine anything worse. By the time I reported it to my medical officer, gangrene had set in. There was no choice but to amputate.”
You reached across the table again and his hand greedily grasped at yours to tangle your fingers together. He was grateful beyond words that you offered him this small comfort.
“There was always a shortage of medicine. They used what they had sparingly. I was only given enough morphine to dull the edges of the pain. I felt everything. The knife separating tissue. The saw cutting through bone.” His voice was rough with the remembered pain. “They held me down. Four men, one on each limb, while the surgeon worked. I screamed until my throat was raw, begging them to stop, to just let me die.”
Jack’s free hand rubbed absently at his right leg. Even after more than century, flashes of phantom pain sometimes still woke him from sleep.
“I was still in the field hospital, feverish and half-conscious when the Germans attacked. First artillery, then ground troops. They started evacuating patients, but they took the mobile ones first. The ones most likely to live. I heard explosions getting closer, saw medics running past without stopping. I knew they wouldn’t reach me in time.”
He swallowed hard. “I remember thinking that was how I was going to die. Alone and in pain thousands of miles from home.”
His eyes refocused on your face, anchoring himself in the present. There was so much more to say, but it was a story he had never told. One he’d tried his hardest to forget. Jack squeezed your hand once before releasing it, needing the freedom to move. He stood and walked to the window, staring into the darkness for a long moment before turning back to face you.
“I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to tell you.” His voice was quiet and he drew in a deep breath, bracing himself. “I was lying on my cot, certain I was going to die when this man appeared beside me. Just standing there, staring. At first I thought he was a doctor I hadn’t seen before but he wore no uniform, just civilian clothes. I suppose I should have found it odder than I did, but I was delirious with pain and fever.”
He leaned against the windowsill, fingers gripping the edge. “Finally, after what seemed like hours, he tossed aside the blanket and stared at my bandaged stump, poking where the blood had seeped through. He laughed when I hissed in pain, asked me if I wanted to live.” His voice caught on the last word. “I told him no. I begged him to kill me. Twenty-three years old and I wanted nothing more than to die.”
Your eyes were glassy but they never left his face.
“He smiled at me then. Not friendly, not cruel, just…amused. He fingered the band on my sleeve that marked me as a medic. He said, ‘You’re a doctor, yes? Maybe you’ll find this educational.’ Then he—” Jack closed his eyes as if that could stave off the memories. “He bit into his own wrist and forced it against my mouth. I tried to fight him, but I was so weak. And his blood was like nothing I’d ever tasted. Like the first sip of water after being in the heat all day.”
He pushed away from the window, moving restlessly around the room. “The last thing I remember from my human life was his hands on either side of my head. He said, ‘Welcome to immortality, doctor’ and then he snapped my neck.”
Jack stopped moving, watching your reaction carefully. “When I woke, everything was different. The pain in my leg was gone, that was the first thing I noticed. For one blissful moment, I thought I’d dreamed it all, that my leg was whole. But then I reached down. The amputation site had healed completely. Clean, smooth skin over the stump, but the leg was still gone.”
His laugh was a haunted, hollow sound. “That was my introduction to vampirism, learning the transformation could heal wounds but not regenerate limbs. I was going to be this way forever.” He returned to the table but didn’t sit, instead standing with his hands braced on the back of the chair. “The hunger was maddening. Every cell in my body screamed for blood, but I couldn’t move. I discovered later he’d only given me enough blood to turn, but not to complete the process. He’d left me there as some cruel joke, some experiment maybe, and walked away. I never even knew his name.”
You made a small sound of distress and Jack’s eyes flicked to your face registering your horror.
“Three days. I lay there for three days, conscious but paralyzed while the battle raged around me. The artillery would get closer then fade away as the lines shifted. And all the while, I only grew hungrier. I could hear every heartbeat, smell blood from yards away. It was torture beyond anything I’d ever experienced.”
Jack raked a hand through his hair. “On the third night, Allied forced recaptured the area. Two soldiers came through checking for survivors. One of them recognized what I was, what had happened. They carried me out on a stretcher, got me to their camp, found me blood. They saved me.”
He sat again, his movements heavy with exhaustion. “I was shipped to England after that. There was a small vampire community in London that took me in, taught me the rules, the limitations. I was a difficult student.” He sighed. “I was angry at the world, at the cosmic joke that I’d lost my humanity but retained my disability. It seemed like the worst possible outcome.”
Jack looked down at his hands. “It took me decades to accept it. To stop hating what I’d become. To stop fantasizing about finding my sire and ripping him apart. The phantom pain was the worst. Feeling sensation in a limb that wasn’t there and never would be again.”
“Eventually, I learned to adapt.” He glanced up and met your gaze again. “Prosthetics improved, medicine advanced. I finished my medical training, specializing in trauma because I understood it intimately. But I never forgot those moments of being so completely, utterly alone as my entire world shifted. Of being horrified of what was to come.”
He cleared his throat. “The thought of turning you terrifies me down to my bones. My turning was trauma layered upon trauma and the idea of subjecting you to even a fraction of that experience…” Jack shook his head, unable to continue.
He searched your face for any sign of pity or revulsion. He’d laid his darkest memory at your feet, exposing the wound that had never fully healed. The silence stretched until he could barely breathe. Had he said too much? Not enough?
Your reached across the table, palm up and he placed his hand in yours. When you finally spoke, your voice was soft. “Thank you for telling me. I can’t imagine how difficult that was.”
“I should have told you years ago.”
“Maybe, but I understand why you didn’t.” You squeezed his hand gently and it made him ache for the easy intimacy you’d shared before.
“I’ve spent a century trying not to think about it,” he admitted. “Trying to forget as much as I was able. The thought of turning you, of risking you experiencing the smallest fraction of that, terrifies me.” He released your hand and leaned back in his seat as he raked his fingers through his hair.
“Jack, I need you to understand that there isn’t much I wouldn’t endure to spend forever with you.”
He sucked in a breath, stunned at the firm conviction in your voice.
“Do you really think that I haven’t thought about this? For three years, I’ve lived with the knowledge that someday I’d grow old and die while you remain exactly as you are. I’ve seen the shadow in your eyes when I mention plans too far ahead. I’ve made peace with what becoming a vampire would mean. The question was never whether I would only whether or not you wanted me to.”
“I couldn’t ask that of you,” Jack said, voice rough.
“You weren’t asking. You were deciding for me.”
He stared at you, struck by the simple truth in your words.
“My experience wouldn’t be anything like yours, Jack. I wouldn’t be alone, abandoned on a battlefield, already half mad with pain. I wouldn’t be turned by a stranger who walked away. I’d have you.” Your gaze held his, unwavering.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I’ve been a coward.”
You shook your head. “Not a coward. Just human.”
Jack moved around the table and pulled out the chair beside yours, sitting close enough that your knees touched. “I thought I’d lost you and that scared me more than anything else has in my entire long life. I don’t want to live without you, baby, not now and not sixty years from now.”
He reached into his pocket, fingers trembling as he withdrew a small velvet box. He placed it on the table between you, not opening it yet. “I bought this the day after you moved into the house. I knew then what I was too afraid to say. I want to spend the rest of my existence with you.”
His fingers brushed the box but he didn’t open it. “I want forever with you. Whether that is an eternity or the rest of your human life, I’ll take whatever you are willing to give me.”
He finally opened the box, revealing a ring that was perfectly you in every way. “I’m done being afraid. I’m done making decisions based on trauma that happened a century ago. If you want eternity, I’ll give it to you. If you want to remain human, I’ll cherish every day we have together. Whatever you choose, I want to be your husband, your partner. Your mate in every sense of the word.”
Jack held his breath as you reached for the ring. Seconds rarely seemed significant to one as old as him, but these particular seconds stretched into an eternity as he awaited your answer. When you slid the ring onto your finger with a wide smile, relief flooded through him.
You threw your arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance as his arms automatically wrapped around your waist. “Yes,” you whispered against his mouth. “Yes to everything. Marriage, eternity, all of it.”
Your lips parted beneath his and Jack tasted tears, yours or his, he couldn’t tell. His hands traced the familiar contours of your back, your shoulders, your face, relearning you through touch as the kiss deepened from tender reunion to something hungrier, more urgent.
Your fingers worked the buttons of his shirt, clumsy in your haste. He caught your hands, pressing a kiss to each palm. “Slow down. We have all the time in the world.”
His own body betrayed his words as he pulled you closer, desire overriding patience. Nearly a week of separation, fear and uncertainty dissolved beneath the building heat. Your hands slid into his partially unbuttoned shirt, igniting his nerve endings.
“Bedroom,” you breathed against his neck and Jack didn’t hesitate. He lifted you into his arms in one smooth motion, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried down the hallway. He moved with a vampire’s inherent grace, never breaking the trail of kisses along your jaw, your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear.
The bedroom was dark, but neither of you reached for the light. Jack laid you reverently on the bed, standing for a moment to take in the sight of you. God, he’d missed you.
He stripped his shirt and joined you on the bed. “Mine.”
“Yours,” you agreed, reaching for him.
You helped him take the prosthesis off and place it beside the bed. Clothes followed until you were skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. His fingers traced paths he knew by heart, the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist. The soft, tender skin of your inner thigh. His mouth followed the path of his hands, worshipping every inch of you with his tongue and a gentle scrape of fangs.
He lingered at pulse points, inhaling the scent of your blood rushing just beneath the surface, sweeter to him than any other substance on Earth. “I want to memorize you like this,” he murmured against your stomach, voice rough with emotion. “Every beautiful human imperfection.” His hands slid beneath you, lifting your hips to his mouth. “The way you moan when I touch you here.” His tongue traced intimate patterns that made you arch and gasp. “The way your heart races when you’re close.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him upward and he complied, covering your body with his. The first sensation of him entering you drew moans from both of you. He moved slowly at first, savoring each sensation, each gasp and sigh that fell from your lips.
“Look at me,” he urged. When you complied, he felt stripped bare. All of his walls were down, all pretenses abandoned. You saw him completely, and still, you looked at him with love.
Your bodies found their rhythm, familiar yet new. Like coming home. His hands were everywhere, unable to get enough of you. Promises and endearments spilled between kisses. “I love you,” he breathed against your skin. “I’ll love you through time until the stars burn out.”
When you came apart beneath him, Jack followed immediately. The pleasure crashed through him, the mate bond singing with renewed strength. Afterward, you lay tangled together with your head on Jack’s chest. The ring on your finger catching the soft light in the room. Neither of you spoke for several minutes, content.
“I want eternity with you,” you finally said as you lifted your head to meet his eyes. “Not someday. Now.”
His hand stilled on your back. “Are you sure?”
“More sure than I’ve been of anything.” You sat up, the sheet pooling around your waist. “I don’t want to wait, to give either of us the chance to overthink. I want forever to start tonight.”
Jack searched your face for any sign of hesitation or doubt and found none. “Alright.” He sat up against the headboard and guided you to sit with your back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you. The position was intimate yet practical.
“This will be uncomfortable,” he warned, lips brushing your ear. “The blood will taste strange at first, but keep drinking until I tell you to stop.”
He bit into his wrist and brought it to your lips. “Drink.”
You did, hesitantly at first, then more deeply. Jack closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation, monitoring the flow carefully. “More,” he encouraged when you would have stopped. “Just a little more.”
When you had consumed enough for him to be certain you wouldn’t be stuck in the limbo he had been at his turning, he withdrew his wrist. His arms tightened around you, one hand tilting your head to expose your neck, the other spread across your abdomen.
“I love you.” His fangs sank into your neck, drinking deeply to replenish his own stores. In one swift motion, he broke your neck, ending your human life instantly and beginning the transformation. Your body went limp in his arms and he gathered you close, cradling you against his chest.
Jack hadn’t moved in hours. He sat against the headboard, your body cradled in his arms as he waited for you to awaken. The stillness of your body was unnerving. The complete absence of a heartbeat and breath a stark reminder of what he’d taken from you.
“Come back to me,” he whispered against your temple like a prayer. It had been just over five hours since he’d broken your neck and each passing minute stretched his nerves tighter.
The first sign was subtle, just the slight twitch of your fingers against the sheets. Your eyelids flickered next, the movement barely noticeable. Then, suddenly, your eyes flew open and you gasped.
“Easy.” Jack kept his arms around you but loosened his grip to allow you the room to move. “Take it slow. Everything is different now.”
Your eyes darted around the room, pupils dilating and contracting rapidly as they adjusted to vampire vision. He knew you were experiencing an overwhelming influx of sensory information, the world suddenly more vivid than a human could ever hope to perceive. He remained still, a steady presence amongst the chaos.
“Jack?”
“I’m here.” Relief washed through him at the recognition in your eyes, the awareness. Some turnings resulted in temporary memory loss or confusion, but you knew him immediately.
“Everything’s…”
“I know. Your brain is processing information it never could before. The adjustment takes time.”
You shifted in his arms to look at him. “You look different,” you said suddenly. “You’re…glowing.”
Jack nodded. “We see differently. The subtle luminescence of our skin is invisible to humans but clear to us.” He held out his hand beside yours, showing how you both shared the faint sheen. “You’ll see colors you never knew existed.”
You gazed at him in wonder, as if seeing him for the first time, and in a way you were. “You’re beautiful.”
Jack grasped your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. “How are you feeling?”
You pressed a hand to your throat. “It’s burns.”
“The thirst is always strongest when you first wake.” He bit his wrist and held it out to you. “Drink.” He traced the line of your cheek with his knuckle as you satisfied your hunger. “Even with both of us as vampires, our blood will do more for each other than any other source we could find.”
You pulled away after several long sips and licked your lips.
“Better?”
You nodded. “Yes. I feel strong. Light.” You looked over yourself, cataloging changes. “My scar is gone.” You touched your knee where a childhood injury had left a permanent mark.
“The turning heals most superficial damage.” He gestured at his leg. “Just not everything.”
You ran a hand through his curls and he closed his eyes as he leaned into the touch. “Is my hair silver now, too?”
His laughter was warm and rich. “No, baby. That was a side effect of the partial turning. You’re as beautiful as ever.”
“I can’t imagine you with any other color. Maybe this was how you were always meant to be,” you offered.
He smiled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “Maybe so.”
You examined your ring then laid your hand on his chest. “We’re going to live forever.”
He nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Together.” He pressed his forehead to yours and for the first time in his very long life, Jack finally saw eternity for the gift it could be.
synopsis: Sometimes Brendon Park is a very stupid man.
warnings/notes: Omegaverse dynamics. Reader is an ortho surgery fellow. Another attending is a dick to reader. Flangst, my beloved. let me know if i missed something. First time writing Park. @thedamnqueenofhell requested this one for my One Big Bash.
wc: 3.3k
Eight weeks.
That’s how long you had been putting up with one Dr. Keith Jacobs.
You were no stranger to the prejudice and assumptions that came with you being an Omega studying to become a surgeon. You’d dealt with them in undergrad, in med school, and throughout your residency. Now you were a surgical fellow six weeks out from that attending position. Already offered and accepted here at PTMC.
Jacobs was an alphahole of the first order. Not a day went by without him taking the opportunity to make a snide comment, to attempt to tear you down. You ignored him as you had everyone who came before him and as you would everyone who came after him.
But the longer he went without getting the response he clearly wanted, the sharper and more hateful his comments became. You knew it wasn’t entirely due to your designation. No, Jacobs was here as temporary coverage, to fill the spot Dr. Simmons left with her retirement. The spot you’d been hired to fill. He undoubtedly thought if he chased you off, he could keep the job. Asshole.
Unfortunately for him, today you were tired. Exhausted really, functioning only off spite and copious amounts of caffeine. You’d been on call the last three nights. And while you’d only had to come in for one surgery, you never slept well when you knew you could be summoned at any moment. So today, you weren’t putting up with his shit.
You sat at one of the computers finishing up your notes for the surgery you’d finished fifteen minutes ago. Jacobs stood nearby chatting with one of the trauma surgeons, though his voice was pitched to carry straight to you.
“I just don’t understand why they would even give her a fellowship. Omegas are naturally better at following than leading. The designation is wired for support roles. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just interesting that PTMC is encouraging it.” He dropped his voice just a fraction but still loud enough to be heard by you and anyone else that happened to be around. “They can’t possibly think that she’ll be a successful attending.”
You stood, hands braced on the desk and stared him down. “Just because I am an Omega, doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole to me and I just take it.” You leaned closer to him and his eyes widened slightly. “Shove your designation up your ass.”
The department was silent as the few witnesses took in the both of you. Even those who hadn’t heard the entirety of what had been said, knew that it had to have been too far, too much. You were level-headed and calm in even the worst situations. It came from a lifetime of biting your tongue. Well, you were done.
Jacobs’ face turned a brilliant shade of red as he opened his mouth to respond. It snapped shut as someone said your name.
Just your name, but it was enough when it was Brendon Park saying it. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t sharp. Just that calm, even tone he used when he wasn’t busy reprimanding the med students and residents.
Your face flooded with heat. A combination of embarrassment and anger, you supposed. You turned and found him standing a short distance away. His scrubs were impeccable even though it was nearing the end of the shift. Of course, they were. Just like his hair was still gelled back with nary a strand out of place. His jaw was sharp enough to cut. His blue eyes gave nothing away as they assessed the situation.Head of the department. Alpha. And all together perfect for you, even if he’d never be yours.
He didn’t say anything else, simply tilting his head toward the hallway that led to his office and waited. Once you moved to follow, he led the way. The corridor felt longer than it had any right to be. You kept your chin up even if your hands were shaking. Jacobs might be an alpha asshole but he was still your superior. Technically. Telling him to shove anything up his ass probably wasn’t the most intelligent thing you’d ever done.
Park didn’t say a word nor did he look back to make sure you were following. His office door was open and he gestured for you to enter first. He followed and closed the door behind you. You glanced around the office, finding no changes from the last time you were here. The office was sparse but it was all him.
And here, you could detect the slightest hint of warm cedar. His scent was dampened but stronger here than anywhere else and you knew he probably changed his scent patches here when needed. You attempted to breathe shallowly, not wanting this man to get any further under your skin than he already was.
He didn’t sit behind the desk. He leaned against the front of it, arms crossed, posture casual. You realized he was trying to keep this from feeling like a disciplinary meeting and you appreciated it. Some of the tension bled from your shoulders.
“What was that about?” he asked.
You told him all of it. From the first comment about how omegas have no place in the OR to the one he’d made last week to a nurse about your scent being distracting and maybe you should consider a stronger scent patch. Then the suggestion, made twice in the last month, that you’d gotten your fellowship placement because some alpha had put in a good word to get into your nest.
As you spoke, your voice regained its steadiness and the shaking in your hands ceased. You watched his face as you spoke. His expression didn’t change but his jaw tightened, a muscle twitching under the skin. His eyes remained on yours, not looking away even once. He listened without interrupting. When you finished, you felt lighter than you had in weeks.
Park studied you for a moment. “When did this start?”
“His second day.”
His gaze narrowed slightly at that before returning to normal. “Why didn’t you report it?”
You sighed. “I didn’t want to be that omega. The one that couldn’t take a few comments from an alpha. I only have six more weeks before he’ll be gone. I thought I could ignore it.”
“You could have said something to me if you didn’t want to involve HR.” His voice had softened.
“I could have, yes.”
The silence stretched for a beat. “But you didn’t.”
“No, sir.”
He nodded just once, a short downward movement of his chin. An acknowledgement of what you’d told him.
“Finish your rounds and go home,” he said.
That was it. No platitudes. No promises. Just a dismissal.
So, you left.
When you returned for your next shift two days later, you found Jacobs’ name gone from the department board. You glanced at the wall lined with the photos of the surgical attendings. There was no longer a picture of Jacobs smirking from the end of the row. It was if he’d never been there at all. The corners of your lips curled up into a smile.
Park was already at the nurses’ station when you arrived, reviewing his charts for that day’s surgeries. He didn’t look up when you approached. When you said good morning, he responded with nothing more than a short nod, his eyes meeting yours for half a second before returning to the chart.
Gratitude washed through you. Park had handled it. He hadn’t questioned your sincerity, hadn’t taken an alpha’s word over yours. He’d simply assessed the problem and took care of it. And that feeling you’d been shoving down for months welled up. The feeling you got whenever you watched him operate, when you took in the set of his broad shoulders, when he approved of your work with a simple ‘good.’
You were six weeks from being his colleague instead of his fellow. Six weeks from the hierarchy between you becoming something simpler. You had promised yourself you would wait.
That evening you broke that promise.
You decided on brownies. Something that would keep for a couple of days without refrigeration. That he could take a bite of when he had a moment. But you didn’t make the quick ones you could throw together without a second thought. No, these were a layered concoction that were rich without being too sweet. Dark chocolate and raspberry and cream cheese.
The apartment filled with the rich aroma. Once they’d cooled you packaged them carefully in a glass container. You stuck a note to the lid. A simple Thank you for believing me followed by your name. You resisted the urge to add a little heart after it.
You rested your palm against the lid and took a deep breath. An omega bringing food to an alpha was not a casual act of gratitude. It carried weight. It was a courting gesture. It was the kind of thing that said, I value you, I appreciate you, you’re worth me spending my time on. You knew what you were doing. Had known as soon as he asked for no accolades for his actions that were going to do it.
The next morning you arrived an hour early for your shift. Even Park didn’t arrive that early. You set the container on his desk, carefully in the center where he would see it first thing. Then you left, your heart in your throat, and went to prepare for your day.
Brendon found the container just before 6:30. He always arrived a half an hour early for his shift, wanting a chance to review the day’s OR schedule. He paused, setting down his bag, eyes on the container and your familiar scrawl. His brow furrowed as he read the note. Of course he believed you. Why would he do otherwise?
He’d worked with you for years. Watched you grow from a shy resident into a competent, confident surgeon. Jacobs was just some asshole filling a spot that was rightfully yours.
He lifted the lid. The deep, rich aroma of good chocolate flooded his senses, his mouth instantly watering. A pulse of possessive warmth started low in his belly and spread outward, making the hair on his arms stand up. His scent changed before he could stop it, the cedar deepening mixing with the underlying spicy smell of a pleased alpha.
He stood very still for a moment and let himself feel it.
Then he shut it down. Hard.
The last thing you needed was an alpha reading too much into a thank you. You had just spent weeks being insulted and humiliated on a daily basis by another alpha. You didn’t deserve the unwanted attentions of another.
If he ate this food, if he accepted this gesture, he would not be able to maintain the distance he’d built between you shift by shift. He closed the container, carried it to the breakroom and left it on the table. Then he went back to his office, closed the door and did not come out for twenty minutes.
You found it when you stopped by to get a cup of coffee between procedures. Your glass container, still half full of brownies sitting on the table. Crumbs littered the area around it.
You stood just inside the doorway of the empty breakroom and took a deep breath. Then another. Then you picked up the container and carried it to your locker. That night when you got home, you threw the whole thing in the garbage. Then you walked away.
As the days passed, you changed. You knew it but didn’t care enough to correct it. You spoke less in rounds. You kept your eyes anywhere but on Park when he was speaking. You stopped lingering at the nurses’ station to talk to him after your work was finished or between procedures. It was the only thing you knew to do. He had made his position clear and you weren’t going to push when you weren’t wanted.
Park changed too. His interactions with you became shorter, the tone more formal. Not cold, never that, but careful in a way he hadn’t been before. He stopped standing quite as close to you in the OR. Quit making small talk.
The distance between you grew enough that it was noted by others in the department. It was brought up to you exactly once and your cold dismissal was enough to keep them from asking again. No one was brave enough to broach the topic with Park.
It was fine, you told yourself, meaning it less with each passing day.
The shift was a brutal one.
You’d nearly lost a patient on the table. A tib-fib fracture that shifted, nicking the artery. For the longest ninety seconds of your life, the blood had come faster than you could clamp it. Your hands remained steady through all of it. As you found the bleed, as you repaired it, finished the surgery and closed. The patient was stable and in recovery now.
Your hands waited until after to shake. You stood at the sink, too hot water running over your trembling fingers. You pressed your forehead against the cool tile and breathed. Once you were more certain of yourself, sure the anxiety had ebbed enough to not be read on your face, you headed back to work.
At the end of the day, you were still carrying it there in the middle of your chest. As you passed the nurses’ station on your way out you heard the distinct sound of Park’s laugh.
Not the short exhale he gave when he found something mildly amusing. No, this was a real laugh. Low and easy, the way you’d only heard a handful of times. You stopped walking without meaning to, eyes searching him out.
He stood nearby with one of the floor nurses. Cindy, a pretty unmated omega that made residents trip over their own feet when she graced them with a smile. She had her hand on Park’s arm as she smiled up at him. And he let her. He stood there in his stupid purple scrubs with his stupid perfect hair while his eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed at something another omega had said.
He didn’t move her hand.
You kept walking and didn’t look back again. You swiped your badge to clock out then got on the elevator to head to the parking garage. You pushed through the doors to your level. You did not let yourself think about it until you were sitting in the driver’s seat of your car, engine off. The world mostly quiet around you.
And oh gods that hurt. It was one thing to know he didn’t want you. Another entirely to discover he wanted someone else. You sucked in a shaky breath as your fingers scrabbled to get a purchase on the scent patch on your wrist. First your left, then the right, ignoring the sharp pull of the adhesive against your skin.
You tossed them into the trash you kept on the passenger side of your car. Then you removed the larger one on your neck, at the junction of your throat and shoulder. The one that did the most work. Your omega scent began to bleed back into the air around you. The feeling of relief was immediate as your muscles loosened.
You braced your hands on the steering wheel and dropped your forehead to rest against them. You closed your eyes. And you cried.
Quiet sobs filled your car as your shoulders shook with the action. You were exhausted. You’d been holding onto everything so tightly. Pretending the rejection of the only alpha you’d ever really wanted hadn’t affected you in the least. Pretending you could keep things professional. That you could work with him every day without it tearing you up inside.
Your body had finally reached its limit and broke. Tears warmed your cheeks and dripped onto the wheel. You didn’t try to stop them. You could fall apart here in the quiet of the parking garage. Gods knew you wouldn’t be the first person to break in employee parking. You just needed to let it out, then you could pull yourself together and drive home. No one would ever know.
You barely registered the yank of your car door opening. Then hands were on your shoulders, turning you and pulling you out of the seat before you could even fully process what was happening. And then you were against his chest.
For a moment you panicked until that warm cedar scent flooded your nose. Brendon. His arms went around you, one hand resting on your back, the other cradling your head. His touch was gentle, grounding and…not meant for you.
You pushed against him, putting distance between you, minimal as it may be. His hands shifted to hold onto your upper arms.
His gaze raked over you, looking for injury maybe. “Who made you cry?” His voice was rough, urgent. “Tell me and I’ll take care of it.”
You shook your head and huffed in disbelief. You had cried so many times over this man. This alpha that wasn’t yours. “It was you, Brendon. It’s always been you.”
His hands stayed on you but he went still. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, quietly, “Me? What did I do? Please tell me so I can fix it.”
“You can’t fix it. Sometimes things just hurt and you can’t fix them,” you insisted then sucked in a bracing breath. “You’re allowed to not want me, Brendon, but it will take me a while to get over your rejection. It’s just how it is. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.”
His brow furrowed. “Rejection?”
Maybe he wasn’t as smart as you thought he was. “You left my gift on the breakroom table for everyone to eat. That usually counts as a rejection, yes.”
He stared at you, eyes wide with something that looked like panic. “The brownies. You were courting me?”
You blinked. “What did you think I was doing?”
“Saying thank you.” His voice was so quiet you barely heard him.
“Brendon Park.” His name dripped with disbelief as it rolled off your tongue. This stupid, idiot alpha. But just because he didn’t understand, didn’t mean he suddenly wanted you. You opened your mouth to say something else but he interrupted by cradling your face in both of his hands.
His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones. His eyes were dark, blue almost swallowed by his pupils. His scent grew warmer, headier with contentment and something that felt like want.
“I’m sorry, Omega.” His voice was low and rough. “We can discuss what an idiot I am later, but right now I need to kiss you. You smell divine and it’s making my head swim.”
And then he did.
His mouth was warm and softer than you’d imagined. And you had imagined it. So many times. His hands slid from your face to the back of your neck and he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for as long as you had. Perhaps that careful distance he’d maintained between you had cost him something too.
You kissed him back. Your hands found his chest, clutching onto his scrubs to pull him closer. He chuckled against your lips. The world around you disappeared until all that was left was his mouth on yours and his scent in your lungs.
When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven. His forehead rested against yours, his thumbs still tracing your skin. “Five weeks until you’re an attending. I can wait five weeks.”
You laughed, the sound bright and relieved. “I couldn’t.” You closed your eyes and just enjoyed the moment before you pulled back to look at him. “I don’t want to wait, Brendon. I’ve been waiting. I already have the position. We can be discrete but don’t make me wait.” When he didn’t immediately respond, you added, “Please, alpha.”
☆ a love story for the new age - holland march x reader (18+) ☆
word count: 7.5k (oops it was supposed to be 5k)
tags (please read and mind them!): female reader, age gap (reader is 23 and holland is 41), age gap kink, older man/younger woman, virginity kink, reader is not a virgin but shhh it’s roleplay, dub-con themes, corruption kink, intox kink (in fantasy), daddy kink, voyeurism (consensual but holland doesn’t know that hehe), exhibitionism (not explicitly consensual but both parties are into it), masturbation (male and female), vibrators, drinking/alcohol use, smoking, a little degradation, a ton of praise, squirting, hair pulling, belly bulge, slight pain kink, foot fetish if you like really really really squint (i’m not into feet but holland definitely is), erectile dysfunction (slight, mentioned), one (1) blood mention, unsafe-ish sex (reader is on birth control but please use condoms), dubious anatomical accuracy about hymens/virginity (i know how they work but holland either doesn’t or is ignoring it while getting off), shame and guilt that’s so horny it almost becomes a kink itself, use of pet names (“baby”, “sweet girl”, "sweetheart", one "kid", etc.), mild-to-moderately creepy behavior from both holland and reader lmao, reader and holland are both absolute freaks, holland is a dom but he’s still a little pathetic bc that’s how i like him <3, let’s say holly is away at summer camp for this one, sorry for railing your dad holly it will happen again
It had started with a gap in the fence.
Well, no, that’s not true. From the first day you moved in, Holland March was in over his head.
Ever since you’d come over, introduced yourself, gave him your number in case he ever needed to get in touch with you, and walked away with a sweet little wave and a “bye, Mr. March!”, Holland had noticed you were pretty. Very pretty. Unfairly so, he might say. You also just so happened to be twenty-three years old to his forty-one.
So Holland had been adamant that that was it. No making a move on you, nothing to creep you out. You were his young, astoundingly pretty neighbor who waved every time you saw each other outside and sometimes brought over baked goods for Holly, and that was where the relationship ended. That was it.
That had to be it.
There was no point getting his hopes up, so he resolutely did not think about you. Ever.
___
Until the day he noticed the gap in the fence.
See, your backyards were connected, and you had a pool. He’d heard you swimming with your friends sometimes, not that he was listening in, so he knew you used it.
Then one day he was out watering the yard and he walked past that one fence post that had shifted out of place years ago, and something caught his eye. Or rather, someone. Or rather, you, his very pretty, very young neighbor who happened to be sunbathing topless in a chaise lounge.
He hadn’t meant to look. It was an accident, really. A coincidence. He had just glanced over and there you were. And before Holland knew it, he had been looking for a while. Admiring you, really, and for too long, he realized.
He shook it off. This was not going to happen, and he was not going to think about it.
No matter how uncomfortably tight his pants felt all of a sudden, and no matter how quickly he came once he was back in his bedroom, palming himself over his clothes and biting his fist and trying (failing) to think of anything but you.
___
It was gross. He knew it was gross. He was a dirty old man and he knew it.
Healy knew it, for Christ’s sakes. He’d caught Holland staring at you through the window as you walked to your car one morning and smacked him upside the back of his head.
“The hell was that for?!” Holland cried.
“She’s too fuckin’ young for you, that’s what. What is she, twenty?”
“Twenty-three.”
Healy gave him a Look with a capital L.
“She told me!” Holland said, defensively.
“Oh, sure, because that makes it all right.”
___
And yet, that hadn’t been the last time Holland caught himself staring at you. It wasn’t even the last time he saw you topless.
Once a week, at the minimum, he would go out to water the garden and there you’d be, lounging on your beach chair, perfectly framed within the gap in the fence like a work of art, for his eyes only.
It was still unintentional when he looked, he told himself. It wasn’t like he was purposefully going out there to see you. It was just a coincidence that you liked to sunbathe around the same time he went out to water the yard.
And if he’d maybe stopped asking Holly to go take care of the garden as part of her chores, what of it? She was busy with school and friends and he didn’t mind doing it.
For reasons completely unrelated to you, he thought firmly as his eyes wandered over to your side of the fence for the dozenth time that day.
The other issue was, that wasn’t the only time he’d see you. He couldn’t just relegate his secret shame to the backyard (and afterwards, the bedroom, fucking his hand and biting down on his tie to muffle his groans).
No, you’d go for runs every evening that went straight past his front window. And sure, your legs looked perfect and your shorts were so small he nearly mistook them for your underwear once or twice, but that didn’t matter, because you were almost half his age, and he was above noticing things like that.
It became a sort of mantra for Holland to repeat firmly to himself every time he saw you outside. Getting the mail early in the morning, still in your silky pajamas? She’s half my age. Waving at him on your way to work, your high heels clicking on the sidewalk? Half my age. Coming home drunk in a short dress after a night out with your friends. Half my age.
And yet, the mantra didn’t stop him from noticing how pretty you were. How badly he wanted to kiss you. He would actively fantasize about just kissing you, not even sex, just your soft lips on his, your hand in his hand, and he would daydream about it like a fucking schoolboy.
He did also daydream about sex with you. He thought about it all the fucking time, in fact, so much that he started to wonder if there was actually something wrong with him.
Because, Jesus Christ, the shameful fantasies that flooded his mind every time he saw you were disgusting.
There were the thoughts of you letting him fuck you in front of your open windows where all the neighbors could see. The thoughts of keeping you in the office with him, like a secretary, except your only job would be to sit in his lap and warm his cock all day. And god, the nights when you came home drunk, and he could see you, illuminated by the streetlamps as you stumbled to your doorway, were the worst.
He’d never do it. He knew he’d never do it, but he couldn’t help but stroke his cock to the thought of taking advantage of you like this. Of taking you out to a bar, teaching you how to drink like a grown-up, pouring drink after drink into your inviting little mouth until you couldn’t take anymore. Of taking you home, slung over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry because you would be too drunk and too dizzy to walk upright, because you can’t hold your liquor yet, you’re too young. Of stripping you of your tight little dress and your panties and fucking you while you’re still too out of it to think. Because that’s what you need, isn’t it? Someone more experienced to give you what you really want. Someone older and wiser to take care of you and show you what you need.
God, did he think about it. It became a nightly habit, rubbing one out to the thought of you. Even on nights when he’d had far too much whiskey and couldn’t get it up, he would grind his soft cock against his pillow and whine your name until he came all over his bedsheets without even getting hard.
___
It had been six weeks of this torture. Two months since you moved in, not that anyone was counting, and six weeks since he’d seen you half-naked for the first time.
And then, one morning, he had to check that he was indeed awake, because there you were, completely naked before him, and it took a moment for his groggy brain to catch up.
Your windows faced each other. You’d been so good about keeping your curtains and blinds shut when you were changing, not that Holland had ever looked over to check, or Holland had kept his blackout curtains down to mitigate the throbbing migraines he got when he drank too much. Somehow, in two whole months, this level of torture had not been brought before Holland, but now it felt like God was laughing in his face, because you were bending over to put on your panties and Holland could see not only your ass, but just a slight glimpse of your perfect pussy from between your thighs, and he absolutely could not touch himself because the motion might catch your eye and then you would never, ever speak to him again.
So instead he watched, mesmerized by your body, cock straining against his boxers, until finally, finally you left your room and he could cum with only two strokes of his hand, writhing, pent up beyond belief.
He thought about it all day long. He nearly ran a red light on the way to work because he was thinking about it. He nearly popped a boner in front of healy and a witness they were interviewing and he had to rush off to the restroom before things got very, very awkward, because he was thinking about it. He thought about it on the couch that night over his bedtime glass of scotch.
There was no way you couldn’t have noticed your curtains were open, right? There was no way in hell you didn’t know. You turned to the window more than once. It didn’t cross your mind then? You were smart, or at least Holland thought so. You were observant. Anybody would have noticed.
‘She didn’t mean anything by it’, Holland thought as he downed the last of his drink and headed to bed. Maybe you had been running late for work and didn’t want to waste a second closing curtains. Maybe you were tired, and it was still early, and you had other things on your mind. Maybe you simply thought he was still asleep and were willing to take that risk.
There were a thousand rational explanations that didn’t lead to what he wanted them to lead to, because, he thought to himself for the millionth time, this is not going to happen, because she is too fucking young for you, and you are a perverted old man who–
Every coherent thought left Holland’s head as he entered his bedroom.
It was dark there, and dark outside, but there was one light, and that was the light coming from your bedside table, perfectly illuminating you. You, completely naked, with your legs spread and your head thrown back, grinding your clit against…what was that, a vibrator? It had to be, Holland thought as he stepped closer to the window to get a clearer look at you. It looked like one of those ‘magic-wand’ ones he’d seen in the storefronts of sex shops. From the look on your face, and from the sounds he could just barely hear through the closed windows, it seemed to be doing the trick.
He wondered vaguely whether it was new, or whether you’d had it for ages. How many times had that stupid hunk of plastic gotten you off?
Maybe it was a little weird to be jealous of a sex toy, Holland mused as he undid his dress pants and slipped a hand over his cock. But that was fine, because he wasn’t jealous. He just felt bad for you, because you were missing out on how much better he could treat you than that old thing. You had absolutely no idea how good he was with his fingers. He could probably make you squirt, he thought, and bit his lip as he stroked himself faster. He would eat your pussy for days if you’d let him. Stupid fucking toy can’t do that, can it?
He watched as your cunt dripped for him – not for the toy, for him – a pearlescent drop slowly making its way down from your entrance down onto your bedsheets, and his hips jerked upwards into his hand.
He needed to know what you tasted like, needed his tongue in your mouth, in your pussy, in your ass; every bit of you he could have, he wanted. And god, he was hard, he was so hard he was throbbing, the tip of his cock a bright purple-red, dripping pre-cum onto his nice bedroom carpet and onto his dress pants, which had been haphazardly shoved halfway down his thighs at some point, he really didn’t remember or care when.
Holland felt such a knot in his stomach, watching your pussy clench onto nothing, over and over again as you came. Poor baby, you needed him. You needed his big fucking cock inside of you, something for your cute little cunt to grip onto as you came.
‘Jesus, I don’t know if she’s even taken a dick before.’ The thought popped into Holland’s mind unbidden and made his head swim as he stroked himself faster. ‘She’d be so tight, so nervous for her first time…fuck, i’d have to work her open and even then she’d have to struggle on it…have to rub that pretty clit to help her relax enough to stretch…oh, god, she might even bleed…Jesus, that’s so sick, fuck, fuck, i need it, need to pound into her pretty pussy, need to pop her fucking cherry, need to–’
And with that, Holland came harder than he ever had in his life, shooting ropes of white onto the carpet, the wall, his hand, so much he thought it would never end, so intense it knocked him to his knees. He collapsed onto the floor, wincing at the bruises he knew he’d surely have tomorrow, before he fell asleep, completely drained.
That could never happen again, he told himself as he cleaned the bedroom floor the next morning, grimacing at his sore back and knees.
And yet, it did. That night, in fact, you left your curtains open again. and Holland just couldn’t help himself.
And then it happened again. And again. Every night for a week.
Holland genuinely wasn’t sure how much more he could take.
___
You, on the other hand, were starting to get pissed off. You had done everything, everything to get your hot older neighbor to notice you, ever since you’d caught him staring at you the day you moved in.
You had flirted like crazy when you met. You asked him a billion questions about himself and his daughter and his detective agency and you listened so attentively, and he didn’t seem to notice you were being more than friendly.
You went running past his house in the tiniest pair of shorts you owned, multiple times a week, and the fucker minded his manners and looked away, every single time. You went out to get the mail in your silk negligee to try and give him ideas, and he waved at you like seeing you in your pajamas was normal.
For the love of God, you routinely sat in plain view of him, with your tits out, purposefully and directly in front of that gap in the fence where you knew he could see you, you knew it! You could tell you flustered him, you saw him turn red every time you said hello to him, but he just wouldn’t make a move.
You’d had to resort to desperate measures. You accidentally-on-purpose left your blinds open and changed in front of your open window, taking as long as possible in hopes that he’d wake up and see you, but as far as you could tell, it looked like he slept through the whole thing. So you ramped it up to eleven and gave him a show, facing his bedroom window, with the help of your trusty vibrator.
And yet, that window stayed dark, night after night, for an entire week. You almost wondered if he was out of town, but no, you saw his car going in and out of the driveway during the day. So either Holland March had a will of fucking steel, or he simply wasn’t interested, and a creeping fear of the latter was starting to crawl its way into the back of your mind.
You decided to try one final ploy, and if that didn’t work, well. You were probably going to have to move.
___
You waited until you saw that his car was gone from the driveway. Once the mail truck rolled around, you slipped over and plucked a letter from his mailbox. Nothing important, but definitely not junk mail. Something you could justify returning later.
Sure enough, Holland’s car rolled up in the driveway later that night. You waited an hour before heading over, long enough so that it didn’t look like you were waiting for him to get home, but you made sure that the living room light was still on before you knocked on the door.
You stood on the front porch, letter in hand, in a sundress far shorter than what you’d worn to work today. You hoped he wouldn’t ask why you had changed clothes.
The door opened. Holland March was standing there, shirt unbuttoned and untucked, tie loosened, in dark blue dress pants so tight you had to force yourself not to stare.
He attempted to lean against the door in an affectedly casual manner, misjudged the distance and nearly fell before straightening himself back up.
“Hi.”
You stifled a giggle. “Hi, Mr. March! I’m so sorry to bother you, I know it’s late, but, um, I think the mailman dropped off a letter at my place that was meant for you.” You held out the letter, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. “I’m not sure why, I think they just got the numbers mixed up.”
“Oh!” Holland took the letter from your outstretched hand. “Thanks, that’s– that’s really sweet of you, kid.”
That should not have made you wet, you scolded yourself firmly before pushing that to the back of your mind for later. “Yeah, it’s no trouble.”
You paused, then cocked your head as if the idea had just occured to you. “Actually, Mr. March, what are you up to tonight?”
“Tonight? Um…not much, actually, I was just about to have a drink and head to bed, and–”
“Do you wanna come over to my place and have that drink with me instead?”
Holland froze. He looked like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, and he glanced behind him quickly before turning his gaze back to you.
You continued. “I mean, we’ve lived next door to each other for two months, I think we should get to know each other a little bit, don’t you?”
Holland took a deep breath in before giving you a long look that you couldn’t quite read. “One drink?”
“Sure. One drink.”
___
He’d loosened up a bit once he got settled into a conversation. He was polite, asking you about work and how you were settling into your new place.
And suddenly, one drink had turned into three, and you were sprawled on the couch, your legs almost-but-not-quite in his lap as he told you stories about some of the wilder cases he’d worked. There was one, he said, where a guy had tried to stick up a convenience store but left his gun in the car, was so embarrassed afterwards that he had gone on the run without having stolen anything, and the guy’s girlfriend had hired Holland and his partner to drag him back home.
You’d cracked up at that one, and as your laughter died down, you shifted just slightly over so that your legs were resting casually over his, as if they belonged there.
He glanced downward at them, but didn’t say a thing.
“You know,” you said, twirling a strand of your hair between your fingertips. “The one thing I don’t love about L.A. is the dating scene.”
“Oh yeah?” he glanced over at you, taking another sip from his glass of bourbon.
“The guys around here just don’t really know how to treat a lady, as far as I can tell.”
“How so?” He leaned forward to put his glass down on the coffee table, and as he did so, he placed a hand on your legs to keep them in his lap. You had to suppress a grin. Oh, this was happening.
“Oh, y’know…” You shifted your legs against his thighs, very intentionally making it look absentminded and very quickly glancing at his dick to see if – yep, he was hard. This was happening! “They stand you up, they don’t want commitment, they’re terrible in bed, that kind of thing.” That wasn’t strictly true. You hadn’t gone on any dates in LA so far, but you’d heard plenty from your work friends, and frankly, that was a detail you didn’t think Holland necessarily needed to know.
Holland scoffed. “Oh, c’mon. Pretty girl like you? You could have any guy you wanted. I'm surprised they’re not lining up and down the street for you. You’ll find someone who knows how to treat you, I’m sure of it.” But he was still looking straight ahead of him and that simply would not do.
You pointedly nudged his inner thigh with your foot, the fabric of your stocking smooth against his pant leg. That made him look at you, that same look from earlier in his eyes, but this time you could definitely place it. That was the look of a man who was one little push away from giving in to temptation.
You cocked your head, looking up at him with doe eyes, still rubbing his inner thigh with your foot and suppressing a smile at the way his legs spread for you. “Know any guys that might be interested, Mr. March?”
And suddenly, Holland was pulling you into his lap, kissing you hungrily like you were the only thing keeping him alive, his big hands in your hair, then cupping your face, then on your chest pushing you back and –
“Wait,” he panted, his forehead against yours, still staring at your lips. “Wait, we…fuck, we have to stop, you’re too…I’m way too old for you, baby, this is wrong, we–.”
“It’s not,” you replied firmly, grinding slowly against his hard cock. “I’m a grown woman, Holland.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you are,” Holland murmured, kissing you gently before pushing himself back again. “But it’s not…’s not that simple, you’re – fuck me – you’re ten years older than my fuckin’ kid, baby. You call me ‘Mr. March’, for god’s sake. And it really shouldn’t make me hard when you do it, but –”
“That’s what I was going for, Holland,” you giggled.
He blinked. “You…wait, you–”
“I’m not dumb, Holland. I know you watch me through the fence, because I sit there on purpose so you’ll do it. I know you watch me on my runs, because I go past your house on purpose. I don’t know if you saw me changing the other day, or what I’ve been doing every night this week, but…”
“That was on purpose?” He looked dumbstruck.
“So you did see it,” you grinned, feeling triumphant.
In a second, Holland’s mouth was on yours again, and he moved you both so that he was above you, his full weight on you as you grabbed at his shoulders to pull him impossibly closer.
“You fucking – you fuckin’ slut,” he gasps between messy, open-mouthed kisses. “Parading around in front of me like that – mmm – makin’ me think you didn’t know – mmph – makin’ me feel like a fuckin’ predator – Jesus Christ – you’re unbelievable, absolutely – fuck – unbelievable.” His mouth was on your neck now, his facial hair tickling you as he digs his teeth into your sensitive skin. He moaned as he bit a dark bruise into the side of your neck before pulling away with a lewd pop.
“God, and here I thought – c’mere, take this off…” He tugged at the straps of your sundress, pulling them down just enough to expose your breasts. “...there we go, good girl – here I thought you were this cute innocent little thing, makin’ me feel like such a perv for jerking off over you every fuckin’ night for a month –”
You moaned as his fingers brushed over your nipples, teasing them slightly before he pinched you hard, making you squirm underneath him.
“And you were trying to get me to do this to you the whole time,” he continued breathlessly, still roughly toying with you with one hand, the other going to grab you by the hair. “Such a sweet little girl, trying to get Mr. March to fuck you. Is that it?”
You nodded, and he tightened his grip on your hair.
“You gotta use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.”
“You, Holland, I want you, I’ve wanted you for weeks, I want this, I want–”
He cut you off with a bruising kiss, shoving his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like bourbon, you mused as you opened your mouth further, licking at him in return. When he broke away, there was a small trail of spit that connected your bottom lip with his.
Holland rested his forehead against your cheek. “We have to slow down.”
“Why?! Holland, I told you—“
“No, sweetheart, it’s not that,” he murmured, peppering kisses from your cheek to your collarbone. “We gotta—we have to slow down, or else I’m gonna have to fuck you on this couch, and that’s not—mmm—” He cut himself off as you slid your hand beneath his undershirt, grabbing his slender waist and digging your nails in as you kissed him hard on the mouth. His hands tangle in your hair again, like he can’t believe you’re really there. It takes everything in him to break away again. “No, baby, we’re not doing this here. I’m gonna treat you right, I’m gonna fuck you on your bed like you deserve. Okay, sweetheart? Can you do that for me?”
How could you say no to that?
You dragged Holland down the hall and into your bedroom in record time, lightly shoving him towards your bed. He got the hint and sprawled onto his back, long legs dangling slightly off the end, spread invitingly for you.
You climbed onto the edge of the bed, slowly making your way up his body, kissing and groping him as you went, relishing in the way his eyes roll back when you rub your cheek against the bulge in his pants, batting your eyelashes at him.
“Fuck, you’re so hard…is that all for me, Holland?”
“Yours, baby, ‘m all yours…”
You sat up further and positioned yourself over him, straddling his lap, kissing every bit of his face and neck you could reach. Holland’s hands clutched at your hips, guiding them as you pressed yourself against his hard cock.
“Have…have you done this before?” Holland sounded almost drunk as he rocked his hips up into you, seemingly unbothered by the clothes between you.
“Maybe,” you giggled. You absolutely had, many times, but there was no harm in teasing. “Why?”
Holland’s face turned pink and he averted your gaze, although he didn’t let go of the grip he had on you. For the first time all evening, he looked a bit embarrassed.
“Nothin’, I was just…I mean…the other day, I was thinking…”
It clicked. “In that case, yes.”
“What?”
“I said, if it gets you off…” you slipped a hand downwards to stroke Holland’s cock. “Then yes, Holland. I’m a virgin. I’ve never, ever done this kind of thing before.” You gave him a doe-eyed look. “And I really want you to be my first, Mr. March. The first man who’s ever touched me.” You grabbed his hand and moved it upwards to your breast. “Will you show me how to do it, please?”
“Oh, my god,” Holland exhaled.
“Is that a yes?”
Holland didn’t answer. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you and maneuvered the both of you so that he was on top, messily kissing his way down your body before slipping his hands under your dress. “Can I?”
You could feel his fingers at the hem of your panties. You nodded quickly, lifting your hips so he could pull them downwards. From where you lay, you saw him slip them into his suit pocket. Perv, you thought fondly.
He pushed your skirt up further. “Let me see you, sweetheart,” he murmured, positioning himself between your thighs, trailing his fingers upwards. You whined and spread your legs further, shivering as you saw Holland’s eyes go wide.
“Oh, look at you. So pretty, baby, can’t believe you’ve been keeping this pretty pussy from me for this long…” Holland traced a finger gently over your clit and you squirmed, oversensitive from need. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve gotta calm down for me, I’m barely touching you…if you’re this sensitive now, how are you ever gonna take it when I fuck you, hmm?”
“Holland!” you whined. “Please, touch me!”
“I am touching you, baby. You have to tell me a little more than that.”
“Put your fingers in me, then!”
To your frustration, Holland shook his head no. “Let me get you ready first.”
Before you could ask what he meant, you were suddenly overwhelmed with sensation, because holy fuck, Holland’s mouth was on your pussy, and every coherent thought left your brain in a matter of seconds.
You cried out, hips jerking upwards into his mouth without any input from your brain. He wrapped his hands around your thighs and held you in place as you squirmed.
Holland licked you slowly, carefully, purposefully avoiding your clit as he ran his tongue over your folds, over your entrance, almost-but-not-quite enough to be inside of you. He kissed you, open-mouthed and messy, practically making out with your cunt. He teased you mercilessly, alternating between giving you slow, light licks, then a taste of the kind of hard friction you needed, then back to treating you like you were made of porcelain, like he didn’t want you to break. Every so often, he would come so close to your clit, and you tried to urge him on, but he seemed determined to keep you on the edge, and did so for what felt like ages before you finally decided enough was enough..
“More, Holland, I need…” you practically sobbed. “Just…fuck, make me cum, please, I want it so bad…”
“Yeah? You need it?” Holland’s fingers barely grazed your clit, but it was enough to make you writhe against him, trying to get close enough to where he was touching you, really touching you, but it wasn’t happening. “You need me to touch you right here, baby?” He slowly, gently moved his fingers over you, finally playing with your clit properly, but it still just wasn’t enough.
“Yes, yesyesyes, please, Holland…”
Finally, finally, Holland pressed his lips right where you needed him the most, taking your clit in his mouth and sucking hard, not letting up when you whimpered and grabbed at his hair. Quite the opposite, actually; he grabbed one of your thighs and tossed it over his shoulder, grinding his face between your thighs as if he couldn’t get close enough.
And he moaned so prettily while he did it, focusing all his attention on the most sensitive part of you. You were this close to finishing when suddenly, he pulled back.
“Holland!” you cried out in frustration.
“There we go. I think you’re ready,” he said, as if you hadn’t spoken. You blinked.
“For what?” Your head was spinning with your denied release, heart beating so hard you could hear it in your ears.
“My fingers. You said you wanted them, right? Had to get you ready first.”
You exhaled hard, almost a laugh, almost a gasp. “You’re so mean.”
“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” he replied, pressing a slow, sweet kiss to your clit. “‘m gonna make it up to you, ok? Gonna make you feel good, I promise.” He spread you open with his index and middle fingers, rubbing over your entrance, getting them wet before slipping just his middle finger into you, slow and steady, thrusting in and out experimentally. “How’s that, sweetheart?”
“Good, good, it’s so good, Holland, please don’t stop…”
“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he sighed, so quietly you almost couldn’t hear it. “So fucking tight, baby, you’re squeezing me so hard…think you can take another?”
“Yes, do it, do it, please, fuck me open for you…” You were hardly even conscious of the words coming out of your mouth, you were so wrapped in the feeling of finally having Holland inside you, even if it was just one finger, with another teasing your entrance before slowly pressing in– “Fuck.” You moaned as Holland curled his fingers into your spot, much more firmly than he had before. Your legs parted further as he sped up, rubbing quick, hard circles with his fingers inside you.
All the while, he was rambling, whispering sweet nothings with his cheek against your inner thigh. “Doin’ so well for me, babydoll, takin’ my fingers for me. You look so fuckin’ pretty, baby…so wet for me, dripping all over my fuckin’ hand, I wish you could see it. That feel good? Yeah? You want more? There we go, there’s a good girl, take it for me…”
You were getting close, you could feel it. Holland seemed to feel it too, and to your frustration, he stopped again, stilling his fingers as deep inside of you as they could go.
“Don’t cum yet, sweet girl.”
You whined in response, trying to squirm against his grasp, but he held you in place and stroked your leg soothingly.
He shushed you gently. “I know, you want it bad, but just wait. It’ll make it better, I promise. You’re gonna get to cum. Just let daddy take care of you, ok?”
Oh, now that did something to you. You fell back against the pillows, heart beating against your ribcage, so hard you could swear it’d be visible. “Okay. I trust you.”
“Yeah?” You could hear the smile in his voice.
“Give it to me.”
Holland enthusiastically obliged, resuming his rhythm before once again taking your clit into his mouth. The combination of his tongue and his fingers had you close to cumming again in an embarrassingly short amount of time, but Holland wasn’t letting up. You could feel it building and building, so intense your vision swam, and then Holland’s other hand was pressing into your lower stomach, and there was an unfamiliar sort of pressure, and then you were cumming and cumming and cumming, hands buried in Holland’s hair, pulling hard, your eyes screwed shut with pleasure.
When you finally came back down to Earth, you opened your eyes to see Holland beaming at you, his face drenched, more so than you had expected. Then it clicked.
“Holy shit, did I…?”
“Yeah.” Holland’s grin widened.
“Come here.”
Holland didn’t hesitate, climbing on top of you and eagerly shoving his tongue into your mouth. You could taste your own cum all over his face, you could smell it, and even though you were still reeling from your first orgasm, you were more turned on than you had been all evening.
You dragged a hand down Holland’s chest to grope him over his dress pants, which he still, somehow, hadn’t taken off. He was hard – achingly so, you would guess, from the way his cock jumped in your grasp. There was a wet spot where pre-cum had leaked through his clothes while eating you out.
“Mind if I return the favor?” you asked. You weren’t expecting Holland to shake his head.
“No, sweetheart, I…” he trailed off before catching sight of your concerned expression. “It’s not you! I want you to – I really, really want you to,” he pressed a hungry kiss to your neck. “But I won’t last five seconds if you do that right now.”
“I don’t mind,” you giggled.
Holland groaned into the side of your neck. “Fuck, you’re tempting me…” Another kiss. “But…” Kiss. “I’ve been wanting to be inside you…” Kiss. “...for weeks, sweet girl.” Kiss. “And if I don’t do it now I’m gonna lose my mind.”
“Well, in that case, take these off,” you grinned, tugging his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders. Holland attempted to undo his pants one-handed so he could keep touching you and nearly fell on top of you twice before giving up and using both hands to take off the rest of his clothes.
Your eyes widened as you finally saw him bared before you. “Jesus, Holland!”
Holland all but jumped in alarm. “What?! What’s wrong?”
“Your dick’s huge!”
He glanced down, as if double checking. “It is?”
It was. Eight solid inches, long and thick, with a pretty pink tip that was currently dripping onto your bedsheets. You nodded, unabashedly staring.
“Aren’t you lucky, then,” he chuckled. “Getting something so big for your first time.”
“I don’t know…are you sure it’s going to fit, daddy?” You were only partially saying it to lean into the roleplay. Part of you really was worried about the stretch.
“Look at me, babydoll.” Holland brushed a strand of hair out of your face. You did. His eyes were so much bluer up close, you noticed. “You gonna be a good girl for me?” You nodded. “Then you’re gonna take it. I’ll make it feel good for you, sweet girl.”
Holland dragged the tip of his cock over your entrance. “Ready?” he murmured.
“I’m ready. Fuck me, please–” Your voice cracked as you felt him slowly enter you. God, he really was big. You felt your breath speed up and your grip on Holland’s shoulders tightened.
“Good. You’re doing good. Just breathe for me, babydoll.” He pressed in another few inches and you whimpered, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “I know, I know it’s a big stretch. You’re so tight, sweet girl, you’re doing so well for me. Take a breath, we’re over halfway.” You took a few deep breaths. It wasn’t painful, but finally having what you’d been dreaming about every night for weeks was overwhelming, and you were having a hard time thinking straight.
Distantly, you heard Holland ask, “Can you take a little more?”
You nodded shakily.
“There she is, there’s my good little girl.” He was rougher this time, shoving into you harder, making you feel every single inch. “Come on, just a little more for me, almost there…attagirl. There we go. You did it, baby. ” He kissed your forehead. “‘M so proud of you. Such a good girl for me.”
You couldn’t respond. Your eyes fluttered closed as you felt his tip hit your cervix, and you moaned weakly. You felt Holland wrap one of your legs around his waist as he began to thrust into you, slowly, but you could feel his control slipping.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you feel so good…you’re so warm, so tight,” he moaned, hips stuttering slightly in an attempt to keep himself moving slowly, carefully. “And all mine. My good girl. You like being full of me?”
“Yes,” you panted. “Yes, it’s so fucking good, Holland, keep going, more…”
“Fuck.” Holland’s teeth sunk into your shoulder and you gasped, arching upward, chasing the sensation. He fucked you faster, harder, his thick cock rubbing against your spot perfectly. You closed your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the feeling, listening to Holland moan for you, burying your hands in his hair.
“Oh, my god.”
You opened your eyes.
Holland was gazing in rapture at your lower belly as he fucked you. As you focused, you could see – holy fuck, you could actually see the faintest shape of his cock inside you, you could see him move, and fuck, you could feel it, he was so deep, and there was Holland’s hand on you again, and you could feel it pressing his cock from the outside and you were gone, legs shaking as you came, gasping his name.
But he wasn’t slowing down, wasn’t giving you room to breathe after the orgasm you just had. He was putting your legs on his shoulder, leaning over you, nearly folding you in half as he fucked you, chasing his own release.
“Holland, please slow down, ‘s too much…” you slurred.
“You can take it,” he replied, ignoring your cry as he reached a hand between the two of you to rub at your clit. “You can give me one more, can’t you, sweetheart? You wanna be a good girl for your daddy?” Your stomach clenched. You nodded. Your eyes were shut tight, but you could hear the proud smile in Holland’s voice: “God, what’d I ever do to deserve a sweet girl like you? Such a fuckin’ sweetheart to your old man. Gonna make me cum so hard for you, angel, gonna fill you up even more, gonna fill this pretty pussy with my cum…”
You were sobbing. You were so close, so close your legs were shaking, so close you couldn’t breathe.
“You want me to cum for you, baby?” Holland’s voice was ragged as his thrusts got rougher, messier. He was close. “Let me take your virginity and cum inside you? You want a little reward for all that fucking teasing you’ve been doing? Want me to mark you, make you mine?”
And with one final rough thrust, you were over the edge. You could feel yourself clenching hard on his dick as he came with you, letting you milk every drop from him before you both collapsed. Holland laid his head on your chest, listening to your heart beat fast, softening cock still buried inside you.
After a few moments, Holland sat bolt upright. “Shit, fuck, we forgot a condom–”
You placed a hand on his arm, tugging him back towards you. “‘M on the pill an’ I’m clean. Don’t worry about it,” you sighed, still feeling drunk with pleasure. With a loud sigh of relief, Holland fell back onto the pillow beside you, pulling you close to lay on his chest.
You could vaguely smell the smoke from one of his cigarettes as you fell asleep.
___
You woke up the next morning to the sound of a man yelling outside. For a brief, delirious moment, you wondered if it was Holland, but no, Holland was sound asleep next to you, still holding you to his chest.
A second went by, and you didn’t hear anything else. Must have been a dream. But no, the second your eyes closed, you heard it again.
“March! Get out here!”
Holland bolted upright, startling you. He fumbled for the alarm clock on your bedside table. 10:37 am. Fuck.
“Healy’s gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he groaned as he flung himself out of bed, throwing on his clothes from the night before, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.
You giggled, settling back in under the covers. “Good luck, soldier,” you teased. “You’re gonna need it.”
Holland, mostly dressed, rushed back over to you and gave you a hard kiss on the lips before hurrying for the door. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta run, he’s gonna kick my ass, I was supposed to be out there half an hour ago –”
You cut him off with a wave and a smile. “Don’t worry about it. You can make it up to me over dinner tonight.”
Holland blinked in surprise. “You want to…? I mean, yeah! I’d – yeah, that’s perfect, sweetheart, I’d love that!” He beamed, that same winning smile you’d grown to adore.
“Then it’s a date.” You blew him a quick kiss as he left, and called “See you tonight!” just before you heard the front door close behind him.
As you listened to the indistinct sounds of Holland and Healy bickering fading away as they drove off, you drifted back off for a midmorning nap with a satisfied smile on your face.
note: thank you so much for reading!! please please please comment if you like it, this is my first ever holland fic and i hope i did him justice lmao <3
my requests are open and my inbox is also always open to talk about headcanons/ideas/etc <3
the title of this fic is from national anthem by lana del rey
Summary: Reflecting back on the time your Papa first came home.
Word Count: 11.6k
Warnings: no use of Y/N, depictions of PTSD, unintentional harm to a child
Masterlist
At six fifty-eight in the evening, the day shift and the night shift occupy the emergency department at the same time.
The overlap lasts only a few minutes. It smells like antiseptic, old coffee, and the rain drying on everyone's coats. Monitors keep calling from curtained bays while Dana flags the problem rooms and your fathers stand on opposite sides of the desk pretending their lives don't fit together everywhere else.
Robby is finishing a note when Jack walks in. Your papa carries coffee in one hand and his bag in the other. His gait is almost perfectly even unless someone knows what to watch for.
You know.
His right step lands more deliberately when he's tired. Tonight, he shifts his weight off the prosthesis beneath his scrubs and pauses for half a second before turning toward the desk.
"Long day?" Jack asks. He sets the coffee beside Robby's keyboard.
"Long enough," Robby says. He drinks without checking what's in the cup.
Whitaker, Javadi, Mel, and Santos watch nearby. For weeks, they've mistaken the handoffs and bickering for professional distance. None of them noticed the same travel mug changing hands each evening, the lunches packed in matching containers, or the way Robby always leaves before Jack settles fully into the night shift.
You step through the security doors with your backpack hanging from one shoulder and your school jacket tied around your waist. At fifteen, you're old enough to take the bus from the library to the Pitt. Your fathers still make you text when you leave, when you transfer, and when the hospital comes into view.
"Dad," you call, weaving around an empty stretcher. "You left your phone charger in the car again."
Robby turns toward you. So does Jack.
The silence behind them is immediate.
You hold up the charger. "I meant the one who forgets things in daylight."
"That clarification was rude," Robby says. He takes it from you, then hooks an arm around your shoulders and kisses your hair. You lean into his side for the length of the kiss and squeeze him around the waist before pulling away. "How was the library?"
"Quiet until Papa texted me seven times to make sure I was coming straight here." You pull out your phone and tilt the screen toward Robby. "He sent a map of the route I've taken since seventh grade."
Jack's eyebrows rise. "Pittsburgh is dangerous."
"The bus was full of grandmothers."
"Organized crime has excellent demographic reach."
Santos stares between him and Robby. "Wait. Papa?"
Robby closes his eyes briefly. "Please don't make this weird."
"You're together?" Whitaker asks. His face brightens with the horrified delight of someone realizing he's misunderstood months of evidence.
"They've been together since fire was discovered," you tell him. You pull a container from your backpack. "Also, Papa, you forgot your dinner on the counter. Dad made me turn around for it."
"I was going to buy something here." Jack takes the container. His free hand catches gently at the back of your neck, drawing you close enough for a kiss to your forehead, but Robby catches his wrist before he can pull away.
Robby's fingers settle against Jack's pulse in a touch so practiced it almost looks accidental. His thumb rests there for two beats before it slides to Jack's wrist. "Your leg?"
"Socket's irritating me," Jack answers quietly. "I'll fix it upstairs."
"Text me if the skin's broken. Don't wait until midnight."
"Yes, doctor."
"I mean it, Jack."
"I know." Jack's expression softens. He leans in and presses a brief kiss to Robby's temple. "Go home. Our kid has a chemistry test tomorrow, and she thinks staring at the textbook while watching videos counts as studying."
Behind them, Santos makes a strangled sound.
You barely hear it.
Your attention drops to Jack's right pant leg. Most days, the prosthesis belongs to the background, carrying him through school concerts, parent meetings, Sunday walks, sleepless nights, and countless hospital corridors.
Tonight, the careful angle of his foot and the protective set of Robby's mouth return you to the first time you saw it.
You were six years old. You still believed coming home meant everything frightening was over.
Robby told you Jack was coming home on a Tuesday.
He sat across from you at the kitchen table while rain pressed against the windows. Your grilled cheese had been cut into four squares, and a green crayon lay beside the plate where you'd been practicing the letters in Papa's name.
"Thursday afternoon," he said. He kept both palms flat on the table. "Papa's flight lands at two."
Your feet stopped swinging beneath the chair. "This Thursday?"
"This Thursday. Two more sleeps."
Jack had been gone for eleven months, which felt longer than the part of your life you could remember clearly. You'd crossed days off a paper calendar, taken drawings to the post office, and carried his last voicemail around on Robby's phone until you knew every pause in it.
The weekly video calls had stopped for three weeks after an explosion. Robby had called it an accident because you were five and the whole truth wouldn't fit into words you understood. When the calls returned from a hospital room, Jack smiled too much, tired before you finished showing him your pictures, and the camera never showed anything below his chest.
"For real?" you asked. Your fingers pressed dents into the bread. "He's not going to another hospital first?"
"For real." Robby loosened your grip on the sandwich one finger at a time. "He finished the first part of rehabilitation. That's the work he's been doing to get strong enough to come home. He'll still have appointments here."
You searched his face. Robby looked happy, but it was the careful kind of happy adults wore when they were trying not to scare children.
"Is he still hurt?"
Robby paused, choosing words that were honest without being frightening.
"Yes," he said. His thumb moved across your knuckles. "Papa got hurt very badly. The doctors had to take off the lower part of his right leg so the rest of him could heal."
You looked under the table as if the missing limb might be there.
"His whole leg?"
"From below his knee."
Your hand crept down to your own shin. You squeezed it through your pajama pants. "Did he say they could?"
Robby's mouth pulled tight. "Papa was asleep from his injuries when the surgeons had to decide. They did it to keep him alive."
The kitchen seemed to move farther away from you. Rainwater crawled down the glass, making the backyard bend and wobble.
"Does he know they did it?"
"He knows." Robby moved from his chair and crouched beside yours. His knees cracked, and the ordinary sound made the conversation feel even stranger. "He's got a prosthetic leg now. It's a special leg made to help him stand and walk. He's also bringing crutches because he's still learning how to use it."
"Will it grow back?"
"No, honey."
The answer landed with the weight of a door closing. You'd seen a lizard grow a tail back in a library book. You couldn't understand why people were worse at healing than lizards.
You pulled your hand from his and folded both arms over your stomach. "You said he was coming home all better."
"I said he was getting stronger." Robby stayed beside your chair. His eyes shone, though his voice remained steady. "I'm sorry if it sounded like I meant everything would be fixed. I wish I could make those mean the same thing."
"Can he still be Papa?"
Robby's face broke then. He gathered you against his chest and held the back of your head. You burrowed beneath his chin, and he rocked you once in his arms before pressing a kiss to your temple.
"Yes," he whispered into your hair. "He'll always be Papa. He might get tired quickly. Loud noises might scare him before he knows he's safe. Sometimes he might want us close, and sometimes he might need quiet. None of that changes how much he loves you."
You clutched his shirt. "What if the new leg scares me?"
"Then you can tell us." Robby wiped beneath your eyes with his thumbs. "You can be surprised or sad. You can look away and try again later. Papa doesn't need you to do this perfectly. He just needs you to be his kid."
"Can I still sit on his shoulders?"
Robby's face tightened before he smiled. "Maybe not right away. You can ask him when he's ready."
You considered that, then pushed one cold square of grilled cheese toward him. "You can have this one because you're sad."
Robby laughed into a sound that shook. He took a bite because you were watching.
The next two days made the house unfamiliar.
Robby rolled up the hallway rug, moved the coffee table against the wall, and installed a rail beside the front steps. He put a chair in the shower, cleared the shoes from the entryway, and moved the basket of your toys out of the path between the couch and the stairs.
You followed him from room to room with your stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm and growing resentment beneath the other. Every change felt like proof that a stranger was coming instead of Papa.
"Papa likes that rug," you said as Robby carried it toward the basement.
"The edge catches shoes and crutches."
"It never caught his shoes before."
"He didn't use crutches before."
You hated the answer because it was true. You kicked at the pale rectangle left behind on the floor, then burst into tears when dust caught on your sock.
Robby stopped at the basement door. His grip tightened around the rolled fabric.
"Before can't be the rule for everything," he said too sharply. He lowered the rug. "I'm sorry."
You stared at the blank strip of floor the rug had covered. "It doesn't look like our house."
Robby sat on the bottom step and drew you between his knees. Sawdust clung to his hair from drilling the rail into place. You picked a curl clean with careful fingers. He caught your hand and kissed your dusty knuckles before folding both arms around your middle. "I know. Papa needs room to find his balance. We can put some things back when he's ready."
"What if he hates it?"
"He probably will." Robby rubbed both hands down his face. "He hates anyone guessing that he might need help before he asks."
"You do too."
"That's an outrageous accusation." His tired smile appeared when you leaned into him. "It's also accurate."
You held the stuffed rabbit toward him. "She can sleep by the stairs so Papa won't fall."
"That might become another thing to trip over." Robby softened the refusal by kissing one floppy ear. "How about she waits on the couch and supervises?"
You placed the rabbit upright on the couch with strict instructions to watch the front door. By Thursday morning, you'd moved her three times because no place in the altered room looked safe enough.
On Thursday, you waited at the airport between Robby's knees, his hands resting on your shoulders. You held a folded sheet of construction paper that said WALCOM HOME PAPA in purple marker. Robby had offered to correct it. You'd told him Papa would know what it meant.
People came through the security doors in uneven waves. Suitcase wheels rattled over the floor, and every opening brought a gust of cold air. Each time a man in a dark jacket appeared, your heart kicked against your ribs before disappointment made it drop again.
"What if he missed the plane?" you asked for the fourth time.
"He didn't."
"What if they put him on the wrong one?"
"Papa can navigate a deployment. He can find Pittsburgh."
You didn't know what navigate meant, but Robby's hand was shaking on your shoulder, so you stopped asking.
Then Jack appeared.
He wore jeans and a dark jacket, with a duffel over one shoulder. Metal forearm crutches clicked in a careful rhythm. His right pant leg covered a shoe that looked almost ordinary, though the knee above it moved stiffly. He looked thinner than he had on the screen, and there were new gray threads near his temples.
The welcome sign slipped from your fingers. You ran three steps.
Then you stopped.
Jack stopped too.
His face emptied around your hesitation. For one terrible second, you thought stopping had made him sorry to see you.
Robby's hands left your shoulders. He didn't push you forward.
Jack lowered his duffel. "Hey, bug."
His voice was the same.
That hurt more than if it had changed.
Your eyes fixed on the crutches and the careful placement of his feet. "Where do I hug you?"
Jack's breath caught. He shifted both crutches to one side and opened an arm.
"Same place you always did," he said.
You crossed the distance more slowly than you'd started and wrapped yourself around his middle. Jack staggered once. One crutch scraped sideways, and Robby moved, but Jack found his balance before either of them touched him.
His arm closed around you hard enough to lift your heels. He smelled like laundry soap, airport air, and something medicinal. You pressed your face into the zipper of his jacket so you wouldn't have to look down.
"You're tall," Jack murmured against your hair.
"You're skinny," you said into his jacket.
A startled laugh broke out of him. It turned into a sound closer to a sob. His fingers spread protectively across the back of your head, and his chest shook against your cheek.
"I made you a sign," you said because you didn't know what to do when a grown-up cried.
"I saw it." Jack swallowed hard. "Best spelling I've ever seen."
Robby stepped in beside you. He touched Jack's cheek first, giving him time to see the movement. Then he kissed him.
The kiss was brief and trembling. Jack caught the front of Robby's coat and kept him close when it ended. He pressed his forehead against Robby's while Robby's free hand settled at his waist, not holding him up, only letting him know support was there. You stayed tucked against Jack's middle, surrounded by both of them.
"You moved the rug, didn't you?" Jack asked.
Robby's laugh carried a crack through the middle. "Hello to you too."
"Michael."
"Yes, I moved the rug."
"Traitor."
Jack kept one arm around you while Robby took the duffel. You bent to retrieve your sign, and Jack waited instead of hurrying you. Both of your fathers were close enough to touch again.
You thought that would make the fear disappear.
It followed you home instead.
In the car, Jack sat in the passenger seat with both crutches angled between his knees. You watched the back of his head from your booster seat. Every few minutes, he reached for Robby's hand near the gearshift, held it briefly, and let go before the next turn. At a red light, he reached back between the seats without looking. You placed your whole hand around two of his fingers, and he held on until the light changed.
When someone honked behind them, Jack ducked before catching himself. Robby lowered the radio without commenting. You stared out your window and pretended you hadn't seen.
Jack paused at the front steps. The new rail gleamed beside him.
"Subtle," he said. His mouth flattened as he looked at Robby.
Robby set down the bags. "The old rail shook."
"Are you two fighting?" you asked from the doorway.
Both men looked at you.
"No," Jack said. He set one crutch on the first step. "Your daddy is showing affection through unsolicited construction."
Robby stayed close without touching him. "Your papa is expressing gratitude through being unbearable."
Jack planted both crutches, lifted his left foot, then brought the prosthetic one up to meet it. He climbed one step, then another. Sweat appeared along his hairline by the time he reached you, though there were only four steps.
You held the door open with both hands. "I like the rail. It's shiny."
"Betrayed by my entire family," Jack muttered. He kissed the top of your head as he passed.
The first hour at home was filled with things that almost felt normal. Jack inspected the refrigerator, complained that Robby had bought the wrong coffee, and found the picture you'd taped beside his bed months earlier. Then he sat through dinner without eating much and flinched when your fork struck the plate.
That evening, after you were caught staring at the shape beneath his jeans for the fifth time, he asked whether you wanted to see the prosthesis.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed and rolled his jeans above his right knee. His crutches rested within reach against the nightstand. Robby sat on the floor beside you so he wouldn't tower over either of you.
Jack's fingers paused on the fabric.
"You don't have to look tonight," he said. He watched you from beneath lowered brows. "You can change your mind at any point."
You sat in the doorway with Robby's hand around yours and your stuffed rabbit pinned against your ribs. "Can you change your mind?"
Jack glanced at the floor. "About taking it off? Yes. About the leg being gone? No."
He lifted the edge of the suspension sleeve, released the prosthesis, and eased his residual limb out of the socket. Air entered with a soft sound that made you jump.
The limb ended below his knee in a shape your mind resisted. A thin liner covered the skin, and red pressure marks circled the widest part. You knew Robby had explained it, but the sight still made the room feel crooked.
Your grip tightened around Robby's fingers.
Jack set the prosthesis beside him. It stood upright with the empty socket open, more like a piece of equipment than a missing piece of a person.
"Does that hurt?" you asked.
"The red part does a little." Jack rubbed his palm above the irritated skin. "The rest gets sore when I wear it too long. That's why Daddy keeps asking me about it."
"He asks everybody if they hurt."
"Occupational hazard," Jack said.
"Can you feel the fake foot?"
"No. I can feel pressure through the socket, but if you touch the foot, I won't feel it."
You moved one small step closer. "Can I touch it?"
Jack nodded. "Gently."
You touched one finger to the smooth curve of the prosthetic ankle. It was cooler than skin and completely still beneath your fingertip.
"It doesn't look like a robot leg," you said.
"I requested lasers." Jack leaned back on his hands. "Insurance was unreasonable."
You looked up sharply. "Really?"
"No," Robby said before Jack could answer.
"Your daddy hates imagination," Jack told you.
You traced the edge of the shoe. "Are you still you when you're not wearing it?"
The humor left his face.
Robby squeezed your hand, but Jack answered.
"I'm trying to remember who I am," he said.
You climbed beside him, careful not to touch his limb. The mattress dipped under your knees, and Jack watched with uncertainty, tightening his eyes until you settled near his left side.
"Daddy said I could be bad at this," you told him. Your fingers worried one of the rabbit's ears. "I looked away before."
Robby made a quiet protesting sound.
"He said you didn't need perfect."
Jack looked at Robby over your head. Something passed between them that you couldn't yet name. Robby shifted closer until one knee rested against yours and covered your joined hands with his.
"He's right," Jack said. He placed an arm around your shoulders only after you leaned against him. "I looked away the first time too. None of us is going to be good at this right away."
You rested the stuffed rabbit in his lap. "She can practice too."
Jack touched two fingers to the rabbit's head. "Good. I could use the backup."
The first week taught you how many ways a person could be home and still seem far away.
Jack chose the chair that faced the front and back doors. He checked the lock before breakfast, after lunch, and again while Robby read your bedtime story. When a helicopter passed low enough to rattle the window, he dropped the glass in his hand and stared at the ceiling until the sound faded.
The glass didn't break. Water spread across the table and soaked the paper crown you'd been coloring for your stuffed rabbit.
"Papa," you complained. You lifted the dripping page by one corner. "You ruined her crown."
Jack looked down as if he'd only just noticed the water. His breathing was too fast, and one hand gripped the edge of the table.
"I'm sorry, bug." He reached for a towel, then stopped when the helicopter circled somewhere beyond the house. "I'll make her another one."
Robby came in from the hall. His eyes moved from the window to Jack and then to the paper in your hands.
"I've got the water," he said. He gave Jack room to decide whether the words were an offer or an instruction. "Can you take her to find another sheet of paper?"
Jack stood too quickly. His right knee stayed stiff above the socket, and the table jumped when his hip struck it.
You covered the rabbit's ears. "She's having a bad day."
"So am I," Jack muttered.
He heard himself and closed his eyes.
"That's not your fault," he said more gently. He crouched with one hand braced against the chair. "Do you think she'd accept a gold crown as compensation?"
You considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "Only if it has purple jewels."
"Extortion runs in the family."
At the desk upstairs, he drew uneven jewels while you colored them in. His hand trembled whenever the helicopter passed again, but he stayed beside you until the crown was finished. He balanced it on your head first, declared you the royal inspector, and kissed your forehead when you approved it for the rabbit. When Robby brought up three mugs of cocoa, he rested his palm against Jack's shoulder. Jack turned his face into the touch for one quiet second before taking his mug.
Nights were harder.
Jack rarely slept longer than two hours. You heard the soft knock of his crutches after midnight and found him at the kitchen table in the dark. Sometimes Robby sat across from him, their hands linked between two cold mugs. Sometimes Jack stared at the back door alone, fully dressed as though someone might order him to leave.
On the third night, you dragged your blanket down the stairs and climbed into the chair beside him.
"You're supposed to be asleep," Jack whispered. He didn't turn on the light.
"So are you."
"I'm the adult."
"Daddy says adults need sleep too."
Jack glanced toward the stairs. "Your daddy has filled your head with propaganda."
You didn't know what propaganda was. You tucked the corner of your blanket over his left knee anyway. Jack rested his hand over the fabric and kept watch until Robby found both of you. Robby kissed the top of your head, then cupped Jack's cheek only after Jack leaned toward him. He sat on Jack's other side, and the three of you shared one blanket until your eyes closed.
During the day, he treated recovery like an assignment he could pass by doing every part perfectly. He stretched before breakfast, practiced stairs until sweat soaked his shirt, and counted each step around the block beneath his breath. If the socket pinched, he walked farther. If his residual limb shook, he added another exercise.
Robby responded by watching more closely.
Jack responded to being watched by becoming furious.
"Stop studying me," he snapped one afternoon.
Robby froze beside the kitchen counter with a bowl of apple slices in his hands. "You're favoring your left side."
"I'm aware of how I walk."
"Your socket's loose. You're going to damage the skin."
"I've got a rehabilitation team."
"You also have a husband who can see blood through the liner."
You stopped halfway down the stairs. A kindergarten worksheet was tucked beneath your arm, covered in rows of letters that leaned in every direction.
Jack saw you first. His anger vanished so quickly that it frightened you more than the shouting had.
"Hey, bug." He shifted his body to hide his right leg. "Why don't you take your crayons upstairs and pick a book? Daddy or I'll come read it in a minute."
"Are you mad?"
"Not at you." Jack gripped the back of a chair. "Never at you."
You climbed back upstairs because both of them were waiting for you to obey. You left your bedroom door open and sat on the rug with the book in your lap, listening to their voices move below you.
"I can't turn it off," Robby said.
"I don't need an attending at home," Jack answered. The words sounded scraped raw. "I need my husband."
The refrigerator opened and closed. Then the house went quiet.
"I don't know how to be one without trying to keep you alive," Robby said.
Jack's crutches shifted against the floor. "Start by believing I'm here."
You didn't understand why Daddy wanting Papa alive could make Papa angry. You only understood that neither of them came upstairs for a long time.
When Jack finally appeared, he'd changed into shorts and removed the prosthesis. A fresh bandage covered a rubbed place along his limb. Robby followed with an ice pack and the bowl of apple slices.
"We both promised a story," Robby said. He sat on one side of you and offered Jack the ice pack instead of pressing it into his hands.
Jack accepted it. "Then we're both staying."
They read one page at a time, passing the book across your lap. Jack's voice still sounded tired. Robby's shoulder stayed pressed against his. He kissed the crown of your head when it was his turn to read and brushed another kiss against Jack's temple before passing the book back. By the end, your head had fallen against Jack's chest, and his fingers had curled through Robby's.
It was a small peace. Your family built many of them before you learned what they were called.
The phantom pain came three nights later.
A strangled sound woke you. You carried your rabbit downstairs by one ear and found Jack on the couch, his prosthesis tipped against the coffee table. Both hands were locked around the end of his residual limb.
"Papa?" You hovered near the final stair.
Jack's head lifted. Sweat shone across his forehead. "Go back to bed, bug."
"What's wrong?"
"My foot hurts."
You looked at the prosthetic foot on the floor. "That one?"
"No." He dragged a breath through his teeth. "The other one."
You stared at the empty space below his knee. "But it isn't there."
"I know."
Fear turned quickly into frustration. You squeezed the rabbit against your stomach. "Then how can it hurt?"
"I don't know how to explain it right now." Jack bent over his limb as another wave tightened his face. "Please get Daddy."
Robby was already coming down the stairs in bare feet, his glasses crooked and one hand sliding along the wall.
"Phantom pain?" he asked.
Jack nodded once.
Robby stopped beside you instead of rushing forward. "What do you need?"
"A new nervous system."
"I didn't bring one home from work." Robby crouched several feet from the couch. "Medication, compression, massage, or space?"
"Compression." Jack's eyes squeezed shut. "And for both of you to stop looking terrified."
Robby retrieved the compression sock and Jack's medication. He placed both within reach, then waited until Jack held out a hand. Jack worked the sock over his limb with shaking fingers while Robby counted the minutes since his last dose.
You crept closer and set your stuffed rabbit near Jack's left thigh.
"She helps when my ear hurts," you said.
Jack's face tightened for a reason that wasn't pain. "Then I'd better borrow her."
He rested his palm on the rabbit's flattened head. Robby tucked a blanket around his waist without touching the painful limb.
"Your brain remembers your foot?" you asked.
"Something like that." Jack took a careful breath. "My brain has a map of my whole body. It hasn't drawn a new map yet, so sometimes it sends pain to a foot that isn't there."
You pictured the paper maps in your classroom with roads drawn in bright colors. "Can you erase it?"
"The doctors are trying to help me change it. It might take a while."
"Can you tell your brain you're home?"
Jack stared at you.
Robby lowered his face and pressed his knuckles against his mouth.
"I'm working on that too," Jack said. His voice wavered. "My brain's being stubborn."
"Daddy says you are."
"Your daddy says a lot when he thinks I'm not listening."
"You're always listening," Robby said. He settled on the couch only after Jack made room. "That's part of the problem."
Jack leaned against Robby's shoulder. You climbed into the armchair and watched until the lines beside Jack's mouth softened. When he opened one hand toward you, you climbed down and tucked your fingers into his. Robby drew the blanket around all three of you, kissed Jack's damp temple, and rested his cheek against your hair. You still didn't understand how an empty place could hurt. You decided brains were worse at maps than kindergarteners.
Two weeks after Jack came home, a baking sheet hit the kitchen floor.
It was early evening, almost dark outside. Rain tapped the windows while Robby stood at the stove reheating soup. You sat at the kitchen table with your stuffed rabbit in your lap, and construction paper spread around your elbows, building a hospital where the rabbit could recover from a serious case of a torn ear.
Jack sat at the far end of the table sorting the mail. His prosthesis had been bothering him all afternoon, and one crutch rested against the chair within reach. Every few minutes, he pressed a thumb into the muscle above his right knee and tried to hide the movement.
"She needs a bed," you announced. You held up a folded piece of purple paper. "And a machine that beeps."
"No beeping machines at home," Jack said. He turned an envelope over without opening it. "That's my professional recommendation."
"She's very sick."
"Then she needs quiet and excellent snacks."
Robby glanced back from the stove. On his way to the counter, he bent to kiss your hair, then pressed another quick kiss to Jack's shoulder. "Listen to Papa. He's an expert in being difficult during recovery."
Jack caught Robby's wrist before he could move away and brushed his mouth over his knuckles. Then he threw a grocery-store flyer at him. It landed short and slid beneath the table.
You laughed. For a few seconds, the kitchen felt ordinary.
Robby reached above the counter for a bowl. The drying rack shifted when his sleeve brushed it. A baking sheet balanced along the back edge slid free, clipped the counter, and landed flat on the tile.
The crack swallowed every other sound in the room.
Jack moved before you understood that anything had happened.
His chair scraped backward. One hand seized your upper arm while the other caught the back of your shirt. He pulled you from the chair so hard that the table struck your hip. Your shoulder hit a drawer handle on the way down, then Jack dragged you behind the island and folded his body over yours.
The tile knocked the breath out of you. Purple paper scattered beneath the table. Your rabbit landed on her side near the refrigerator.
"Down!" Jack shouted. His voice didn't sound like Papa's. "Stay down. Don't move."
His prosthetic foot jammed against the cabinet base. The force twisted his knee, but he didn't seem to feel it. His fingers dug into your arm while his gaze jumped between the windows and the doorway.
For one confused second, you waited for the bad thing he'd seen to enter the kitchen.
Nothing did.
"Papa, stop." Your cheek pressed against the cold tile. "I don't like it."
The refrigerator motor clicked on.
Jack flattened you harder. Your shirt pulling against your shoulder, scraping beneath your sleeve.
"Contact left," he said through clenched teeth. "Keep your head down."
You didn't know what contact meant. You only knew you couldn't move your arm and Papa was hurting you.
"Let go!" You kicked against the floor and tried to twist free. "Daddy!"
Jack's hand locked tighter.
Robby turned around and stopped so suddenly that his sock slid on the tile. He saw the fallen sheet, Jack's abandoned crutch, the prosthetic foot trapped against the cabinet, and your face beneath Jack's shoulder.
The wooden spoon slipped from his hand. He didn't look at it when it struck the floor.
"Jack." Robby raised both hands. His voice was low, but you heard the fear he was trying to hide. "Look at me. You're in our kitchen."
Jack turned toward him without seeing him. Sweat ran from his temple. His eyes were wide and empty in a way you'd never seen before.
"Where's the exit?" he rasped. "I can't see the exit."
"It's behind me." Robby lowered himself one careful inch at a time. "There's no smoke. There's no fire. It's raining outside. You're in Pittsburgh with me."
Jack's gaze jumped to the window. His body remained heavy over yours.
"She's exposed," he said. "Get her down."
"She's already down." Robby's eyes flicked to the hand around your arm. "You're covering her. I need you to loosen your fingers so I can move her."
"No."
"Jack, listen to my voice. That's our daughter. She's six years old, and she's scared."
You started crying harder when Robby said it. You wanted him to stop talking and pull Jack away. You couldn't understand why he stayed across the kitchen with his hands in the air.
"Daddy, make him stop!"
Pain crossed Robby's face. He kept his voice steady. "I promise, honey. I'm right here."
Jack looked down at the sound of your crying. His eyes caught on your hair beneath his hand, then on your sleeve twisted in his fist. Confusion pulled at his face.
"Bug?"
His fingers opened.
You didn't wait for Robby to reach you.
You crawled out from beneath Jack's arm, slipped on the scattered paper, and struck your knee against the table leg. Robby called your name, but Jack tried to stand at the same moment.
The prosthetic foot stayed wedged beneath the cabinet. Jack's knee folded, and his shoulder slammed into the cupboard doors. Dishes rattled above him.
"Get it off." He clawed at the suspension sleeve. His breaths came too quickly for the words. "Michael, get it off me. Get it off."
Robby lunged and caught him before his head hit the tile.
You saw Robby's arms close around Jack.
Then you ran.
Your shoulder burned as you crossed the hall. You didn't go upstairs because Jack knew your bedroom. You squeezed into the coat closet instead, pushed past hanging jackets, and pulled the door almost closed behind you.
Darkness folded around you.
You crouched behind Robby's winter boots with both hands over your mouth. One sleeve felt wet against your shoulder. Your arm throbbed where Jack's fingers had been, but you were too afraid of making noise to look.
From the kitchen, Jack shouted once. The sound broke into a sob.
Inside the closet, you heard Robby's voice drop lower.
"It's caught beneath the cabinet. I've got to release it. Don't pull, Jack. You'll tear your skin."
Metal scraped across the tile. Jack swore and then cried out.
"It's off," Robby said. "Your prosthesis is off. Put your hand on the floor. Feel the tile."
"I hurt her."
Jack said the words so clearly that you pressed both hands more tightly over your mouth.
"I know." Robby's voice cracked before it steadied. "She ran out of the kitchen. I saw her moving. She's away from the noise."
"Where is she?"
"I don't know yet. I can't leave you while you're falling."
"Go find her."
"I'm going to. First, I need you to stay with me."
Something struck the cabinet. Once. Twice.
"Jack, don't." Robby's words sharpened. "Give me your hands."
"I put my hands on her." Jack sounded as though he were choking. "She told me to stop. I heard her, Michael. I heard her, and I couldn't stop."
"Give me your hands."
"Get away from me."
"I'm not going anywhere."
A broken sound tore through the kitchen. You curled tighter behind the boots and pulled one of Robby's heavy coats over your head.
You couldn't see Jack fold against him. You could hear it in the rustle of clothes and the hard knock of Robby's knee hitting the floor.
"I brought it home," Jack sobbed. "I brought it into the house. I hurt my kid."
"You came home to us." Robby's breathing was loud and measured. "You're in our kitchen. There's rain at the windows. My hands are on yours. Stay with me."
"Don't tell me I'm safe."
"Then don't be safe yet. Be here."
Jack's crying grew louder.
You'd heard adults cry before. Robby had cried when he thought you were asleep during the weeks Jack's video calls stopped. Jack had cried at the airport with his arm around you. This sounded different. His breaths tore out of him, sharp and uneven, and every one carried your name.
Robby kept answering.
"She's in the house."
"I saw her run."
"I'll find her."
"Breathe first."
You understood none of it.
Papa had grabbed you. Papa had looked at you without knowing you. Daddy was holding him instead of coming to find you.
You pressed your face into the wool coat until the fabric scratched your nose. The closet smelled like winter, dust, and Robby's aftershave. You tried to make yourself so small that no one could pull you out.
The kitchen slowly grew quieter.
Robby asked Jack to name things. Jack couldn't do it at first. He said words you didn't recognize, then your name again. Eventually, he managed, "Rain. Refrigerator. Green cabinets."
"Good," Robby murmured. "One more."
There was a long pause.
"You," Jack whispered.
"That's right. I'm here."
More time passed. Your legs began to ache from crouching, but moving felt impossible.
At last, Robby called your name from the kitchen.
You didn't answer.
He called again from the hall. His footsteps passed the closet and went upstairs. You heard your bedroom door open, the bathroom cabinet click, and the squeak of the floorboard beside your bed.
"Honey?" His voice carried down the stairs. "It's Daddy. You're not in trouble. I only need to know where you are."
You bit the inside of your cheek and stayed silent.
Robby came down more quickly. He checked the living room and opened the basement door. Jack said something from the kitchen that you couldn't hear.
"Stay there," Robby answered. "I'll find her."
The closet door shifted when Robby walked past it again. Light moved through the narrow opening and found a small red smear near the inside edge where your sleeve had brushed the paint.
His footsteps stopped.
He didn't pull the door open.
"I think I found you," he said from the other side. His voice was gentler now. "Can I sit here?"
You didn't answer, but you didn't push the door closed either.
Robby lowered himself to the hallway floor. You could see one knee and his hand resting palm-up near the opening.
"Papa's in the kitchen," he said. "His leg's off, and he's sitting on the floor. He isn't coming over here."
"Don't let him."
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Robby's hand curled once against the floor. "I won't."
"Ever."
He took a slow breath. "He won't come near you until you say he can."
You pulled the coat away from your face. "You didn't come."
"No." Robby didn't try to explain immediately. "I didn't. I'm sorry."
"I called you."
"I heard you."
"Then why didn't you make him stop?"
Robby rubbed his thumb against the side of his finger. "I was trying to. Papa's brain thought he was back somewhere dangerous. He couldn't see the kitchen the way we could. I had to use my voice carefully so he wouldn't hold you tighter."
"But he was in the kitchen."
"I know."
"I was right there."
"You were." Robby's voice grew rough. "You were right there, and you needed him to know you."
You stared at his open hand. "Why did you hug him?"
"Because when you got away, Papa fell. His leg was trapped, and his brain still didn't know where he was. He was hitting himself. I had to keep him from getting hurt worse."
"I got hurt worse."
"You did." Robby shifted closer to the door, though he didn't cross it. "I saw your shoulder hit the drawer. I wanted to come after you. I chose to make sure Papa couldn't hurt himself or anybody else before I left him. That was my job as the grown-up, but it meant you were scared and alone. I'm so sorry you had to wait for me."
Your bottom lip trembled. "Do you like him more?"
Robby's face crumpled.
"No, honey." He put his other hand over his mouth for a moment. "I don't love either of you more. Papa needed my hands first because his body wasn't under his control. You needed me too. I couldn't be in both places, and I hate that."
You looked toward the strip of light under the closet door. "He was mean."
"He scared you and hurt you."
"Why?"
"Because something scared him so much before he came home that his brain sometimes thinks it's happening again." Robby kept the words simple, but they still didn't make sense. "The loud noise made him think you were in danger. He tried to protect you, but he couldn't see that he was the one hurting you."
"That's stupid."
"It doesn't make sense from where you're sitting." Robby nodded slowly. "It didn't feel like protection. It felt scary."
"I don't want his brain to do that."
"Neither do I. Neither does Papa. We're going to get more help so it doesn't happen this way again."
Your shoulder throbbed beneath the wet fabric. You moved your arm and gasped.
Robby's attention sharpened. "Will you let me look at where you're hurt?"
You backed farther into the coats. "I'm not coming out."
"You don't have to." He glanced toward the kitchen. "I'll get my bag and come back. Papa's staying where he is."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He stood only after you nodded. His footsteps moved into the kitchen. Jack's voice came quietly.
"Is she hurt?"
"Her shoulder's bleeding. She's scared, and she doesn't want you near her."
The silence that followed seemed to fill the whole house.
"Okay," Jack said at last. The word broke in the middle. "Tell her I won't move."
Robby returned with his medical bag, a clean washcloth, and your blue cup filled with water. He opened the closet door only wide enough to sit in the gap.
"Can I turn on the hall light?"
You shook your head.
"All right." He set the bag beside his knee. "Can I move Daddy's coat off your head so I can see you?"
This time, you nodded.
He peeled the heavy wool away and laid it across the boots. His expression changed when he saw the blood on your sleeve, but his hands stayed careful.
"I'm going to touch your wrist first," he said. "Then I'll help you slide your arm out of the sleeve. Tell me if you need me to stop."
You gripped the blue cup with your other hand while he eased the fabric down. The scrape along your shoulder was shallow, but it stretched several inches. Purple marks were already gathering where Jack's fingers had held your upper arm.
Robby's jaw tightened.
"Is it broken?" you whispered.
"I don't think so. I want you to move your fingers for me."
You did.
"Now your wrist. Good. Can you bend your elbow?"
The movement pulled at your shoulder. You whimpered and stopped.
"That's enough." Robby rested your arm across your lap. "I don't feel anything broken. You've got a scrape and some deep bruises. Cleaning the scrape will sting."
"I don't want it to."
"I know." He opened an antiseptic wipe. "You can squeeze my hand, or you can tell me a story while I do it."
You put the cup down and grabbed two of his fingers.
Robby cleaned the wound in small sections. Each touch burned, and you cried into the sleeve of his shirt when he leaned close enough. He stopped whenever you pulled away and waited until you told him to keep going.
When the bandage was finally in place, he wrapped a cold pack in the washcloth and held it near your arm.
"Do you want to hold this, or do you want me to?"
"You."
Robby pressed it gently against the bruises. You leaned into his chest, still hidden behind the closet door, and listened to his heartbeat. He kissed your hair again and again, each one slow enough that you could feel him making sure you were really there.
"Can we make Papa leave?" you asked.
Robby closed his eyes above your head. "Papa's staying in the living room with me tonight. You can sleep in my room, and I'll sit outside the door. He won't come upstairs."
"I want you in the room."
"Then I'll be in the room."
"What if he gets scary again?"
"I'll keep you safe." Robby's arm tightened around you. "Tomorrow, Papa's calling his doctor and therapist. We're going to make a plan. Your part of that plan will be very simple. If Papa gets confused or scary, you run somewhere safe and call for me. You don't have to talk him better."
You frowned against his shirt. "You talked him better."
"That's a grown-up job. It isn't yours."
Robby carried you out of the closet because your legs had gone numb. You hid your face against his shoulder as he passed the kitchen.
Jack sat against the cabinets with his residual limb covered by a blanket. The prosthesis lay near the stove, and the fallen baking sheet had been pushed beneath the table. His face was swollen from crying. He held both palms open on the floor where you could see them.
He didn't reach for you.
"I'm sorry, bug," he said. His voice barely carried across the room. "You didn't do anything wrong. I scared you, and I hurt you."
You tightened both arms around Robby's neck.
"Don't call me bug."
Jack flinched as if you'd struck him. "Okay."
Robby didn't tell you to be kind. He carried you upstairs.
That night, you slept in Robby and Jack's bed with Robby sitting against the headboard beside you. Each time a pipe clicked, or the rain struck the window harder, your eyes opened.
"Is he coming?" you whispered.
"No." Robby checked the hallway and returned to the bed. "Papa's on the couch."
"Are you going to leave?"
"Not until you're ready."
You pressed your face into his ribs, and he kissed your forehead whenever your breathing caught. You finally fell asleep with two fingers locked around his. When you woke before dawn, he'd shifted lower against the pillows, but his hand was still in yours.
The next morning, the house smelled faintly of burned toast. Jack had tried to make breakfast from the living room and forgotten the bread in the toaster when a truck backfired outside. Robby unplugged it without comment.
Jack sat on the couch without his prosthesis. He looked smaller than he had the day before, his crutches laid flat on the floor so they couldn't fall and frighten you.
While Robby changed the bandage on your shoulder, Jack called his therapist. His voice shook as he described the baking sheet, the way he'd grabbed you, and how long it had taken him to let go. He didn't call it an accident and didn't soften the part where he'd hurt you.
"I need an urgent appointment," he said. His eyes stayed on the carpet. "And we need a safety plan for my daughter."
You didn't know what urgent meant. You knew he was telling someone what he'd done instead of hiding it.
Before Robby drove him to the appointment, Jack stopped at the far end of the hall.
"Can I say goodbye from here?" he asked. His hands stayed at his sides.
You looked at Robby.
"You can say no," Robby told you. He taped the final edge of your bandage. "You can also decide how close is close enough."
You didn't hold out your hand. You couldn't imagine touching Jack yet.
"You can say it there," you whispered.
Jack swallowed. "Goodbye. I'll come back with Daddy, and I won't come near you unless you ask."
"Okay."
It wasn't forgiveness. It was all you could give him that morning.
Recovery became less private after that.
There were more therapy appointments, different medication, changes to Jack's rehabilitation schedule, and family sessions in a room with soft chairs that made loud noises when anyone moved.
At the first family session, you sat in Robby's lap with your bandaged shoulder turned inward. He kept one arm secure around your middle and rested his cheek against your hair whenever the room felt too large. Jack chose a chair across the room. He'd left the prosthesis at home because the skin at the end of his limb had torn during the episode, and his wheelchair allowed him to keep both hands visible in his lap.
The therapist asked whether you wanted to tell Jack what you remembered.
You shook your head.
"That's all right," Jack said. His fingers tightened together. "You don't owe me the story. I remember enough."
You looked at the floor. "You didn't remember me."
Jack went very still.
"No," he said. He didn't ask Robby to rescue him from the answer. "Not the way I should've."
"Did you think I was somebody bad?"
"I didn't think you were bad." He pushed a trembling breath out through his nose. "I thought a bad thing was happening around us. My brain got stuck in an old place."
"Your eyes were open."
"They were."
"Then you should've seen me."
Jack's mouth pulled tight. "You're right. You were there, and I should've seen you."
The therapist didn't turn the conversation into a lesson before you were ready. She let you stay angry. She let Jack sit with what his actions had done without making you comfort him.
Robby drew the safety plan in purple marker because you'd refused the black one. He put three rules on a card and read them aloud.
"Get somewhere safe," he said, tapping the first line. "Find Daddy or another grown-up. You don't have to fix Papa."
You traced the last sentence with one finger. "What if you're at work?"
"Then Papa won't be alone with you until his treatment team says it's safe and all three of us agree." Robby slid the card into your backpack. "For now, I'm here."
Jack's face tightened, but he nodded. "That's the rule."
Grounding lists appeared inside kitchen cabinets and beside Jack's bed. Robby recorded his voice on Jack's phone for moments when he wasn't home. Jack practiced naming the date, the room, and what he could feel beneath his hands. He learned to recognize the warning signs that arrived before panic swallowed the present.
Robby practiced too.
He stopped touching Jack without warning, especially from behind. He learned that asking, "Do you want your husband or a doctor?" could make Jack laugh even on a bad night. When Jack chose his husband, Robby sat beside him without checking his pulse or counting his breaths aloud.
Jack learned to say, "I need both," before pain made the choice for him.
No one asked you to trust him quickly.
For days, you left any room Jack entered. You ate dinner beside Robby while Jack stayed at the other end of the table. You slept in your own bed again only after Robby moved a chair into the hallway and promised Jack would remain downstairs.
Jack kept every promise about distance.
He knocked on rooms that hadn't needed knocking before. He asked before sitting beside you. If a pan clattered, he moved away from you and placed both hands on the nearest solid surface while Robby guided him through the present.
The first time another baking sheet slipped in the drying rack, you ran to the hall before it even fell. Robby found you pressed against the wall with your hands over your ears.
Jack stayed in the kitchen.
"I'm at home," he called from where you couldn't see him. His voice shook, but it remained his. "I'm not coming toward you. Daddy's coming to you."
Robby crouched in front of you. "You did exactly what the plan said."
"Is he scary?"
"He's frightened, but he knows where he is. He's sitting down."
You peeked around Robby's shoulder. Jack was on the floor beside the table, one hand flat on the tile and the other gripping the edge of his shirt. He didn't look at you until you spoke.
"You didn't grab me."
Relief and grief crossed his face together. "No. I didn't."
That wasn't when you forgave him. At six, forgiveness wasn't one choice you could make and finish. It arrived in small pieces that often disappeared again.
It came when Jack packed your lunch and cut the sandwich into stars even though the points tore. It came when he helped with spelling words from the far end of the couch and didn't move closer when you got one wrong. It came when he fell asleep during a movie, and you watched his chest until you were sure his breathing was ordinary. It came the first morning you let him kiss the tips of your fingers instead of your forehead. He asked before every touch, even after you started saying yes more often.
Some days, the prosthesis stayed on until bedtime. Other days, Jack used his crutches or wheelchair without apologizing. He let you see Robby inspect his skin instead of turning away in shame, and Robby asked permission before lifting the liner.
The bruises on your arm faded from purple to yellow. The scrape became a thin pink line near your shoulder. Jack never looked at it without pain tightening his mouth, but he stopped making that pain your responsibility.
Weeks passed before you let him read a bedtime story again.
Jack sat on the rug outside your room while you stayed beneath the blankets. He held the book low enough that you could see his face over the top.
"You skipped a page," you said.
"I was testing you."
"You lost your place."
"Slander."
You giggled before you remembered you were still angry. The sound startled both of you.
Jack smiled carefully and returned to the missed page. He didn't mention that it was the first time you'd laughed with him since the kitchen. When he finished, you reached two fingers beyond the doorway. Jack touched two of his to yours, then left you tucked safely in bed.
The first time you walked to the park together, the sidewalk was still damp from morning rain. Robby stayed home on purpose. He told you that you could turn around at any point, then watched from the porch while Jack settled his forearm crutches and you drew a chalk line at the bottom step.
"That's the starting line," you explained.
Jack looked toward the corner. "Starting what?"
"The walk."
"You don't usually need a starting line for a walk."
"You do if it might turn into a race."
Jack's smile appeared, then faded. "No racing today."
You nodded as if you hadn't hoped otherwise.
For half a block, you matched the rhythm of his crutches. Plant, step, swing. Plant, step, swing. You didn't realize you were doing it until Jack stopped beside a cracked section of sidewalk.
"You don't have to walk like me," he said. Irritation sharpened the edge of his voice. "You can go ahead."
You stopped too. "I'm walking."
"You're waiting for me."
"Daddy says we wait for people."
"Not every second." Jack shifted his weight and looked away. "You used to run to the corner."
"You used to race me."
Pain crossed his face. He turned it into anger before you could understand it. "I can't be that Papa anymore."
"I know!" Your shout startled a bird from the fence. Tears rushed into your eyes. "I don't want old Papa. I want you."
Jack stared at you.
You wiped your nose on your sleeve. "But not scary you. Just you now."
His crutches sank slightly into the wet grass when he moved off the sidewalk and lowered himself until you were closer to the same height.
"Scary me is part of me now," he said carefully. "I'm learning what to do when he tries to take over. You never have to stand close while I do it."
"Is he going to go away?"
Jack looked toward the park instead of lying to you. "I don't know. I think he'll get quieter if I keep working."
You thought about the answer. "Can I still want you if I don't want him?"
Jack's eyes filled. "You can want whatever parts feel safe."
"I want the part that makes rabbit pancakes."
"That's one of my strongest parts."
You held out two fingers instead of your whole hand, leaving him room to balance. Jack looked at them for a long moment before closing two of his around yours.
"We don't have to race," you said.
"Good." He pushed himself upright with a quiet grunt. "Your short legs used to give me an unfair advantage."
"I won three times."
"Unverified."
You reached the park without racing. On the way home, you walked at your own pace. Sometimes that put you several steps ahead, and Jack didn't ask you to slow down. Robby was waiting on the porch when you returned. You climbed the steps first, accepted his kiss against your hair, then turned and held one arm out toward Jack. He joined you carefully. Robby wrapped his free arm around Jack's waist, and for one long moment the three of you stood pressed together beside the shiny rail.
Months later, you discussed Jack's return to the Pitt at the same table where Robby had explained the amputation.
The paper calendar covered nearly half the table. Robby had marked his day shifts in blue. Jack's proposed night shifts were orange. Your school days, therapy appointments, and Saturday swim lessons filled the spaces between them in purple stars.
Jack wore the prosthesis again, though his cane leaned against the table. He'd spent the afternoon walking the route from the staff entrance to the emergency department and back. By dinner, the muscles above his knee trembled whenever he stood.
"Nights make sense," Jack said. He rotated a pencil between his fingers. "Fewer administrators. Different rhythm."
Robby studied him over his glasses. "You also sleep badly at night and feel useful when everyone else is in crisis."
"I knew inviting you into this conversation was a mistake."
"You married the mistake."
Jack's mouth twitched. Then he looked at you. "What do you think?"
"Who's going to be home?"
The pencil stopped moving.
Robby reached for the calendar and turned it toward you. "If Papa takes nights, I'll keep days. He'll come home before you wake up. I'll leave after breakfast, and Papa will be here when you get home from school. I'll be back for dinner and bedtime."
You followed the colors with your finger. "What if Papa's sleeping?"
"I'll sleep while you're at school," Jack said. He tapped the orange boxes. "When you're home, I'll be awake."
"What if his brain gets stuck?" you asked Robby.
Jack's pencil went still again.
Robby didn't tell you not to worry. "Papa hasn't had another episode where he lost the room. His therapist, his rehabilitation team, and both of us think he's ready to try being home with you. We'll keep the safety plan. You can call me at any time."
"Even if you're doing doctor stuff?"
"Even then."
Jack folded both hands around the pencil. "If you aren't ready, I can wait longer. The Pitt will survive without me."
You looked at him. "Do you miss it?"
"Every day."
"More than us?"
"Never more than you." Jack's answer came without hesitation. "Work is somewhere I know how to help. I want to find out if I can still do that."
"When will you see each other?"
"At handoff," Jack said. His eyes met Robby's. "Weekends. Stolen cups of coffee."
Robby placed his hand over Jack's on the table. "And every hour we protect on purpose."
You frowned at the calendar. "It sounds lonely."
"Sometimes it'll be," Robby said. "It also means one of us is here when you need us."
Jack turned his hand beneath Robby's and laced their fingers. "Coming home taught me that being present has to be more than an address. I want to do this right."
You slipped out of your chair and wedged yourself beneath Robby's free arm. He kissed the top of your head while Jack rested a warm hand against your back. You considered both of them. "I get Sundays."
"All of them?" Jack asked.
"Every Sunday unless somebody is dying."
Robby nodded solemnly. "A strict but fair policy."
"No hospital talking at pancakes," you added.
Jack glanced at Robby. "She's drunk with power."
"We created this administration," Robby said. His thumb moved across Jack's knuckles. "We have to live under it."
They built their schedules around that table.
On Jack's first night back, Robby packed his dinner twice. The first container held soup, bread, and apple slices. The second held spare prosthetic liners, skin wipes, medication, and a folded list of numbers Jack already knew.
"Michael," Jack said when he opened the bag. He lifted the emergency supplies. "I'm going to work, not crossing a hostile border."
Robby zipped the bag again. "Humor me."
Jack's expression softened. "That's what I'm doing by not unpacking it."
You sat on the bottom stair in your pajamas, holding the purple safety card. "Are you coming back before breakfast?"
Jack crouched with one hand on the rail. He stayed one step below you so he wouldn't block the stairs. "I'll be here before you wake up. If the night gets long, Daddy will tell you."
"Promise?"
"I promise I'll always tell you the truth about coming home."
It wasn't the promise you'd asked for. Robby had taught him to stop making promises medicine couldn't keep.
You held out two fingers. Jack linked his with yours. Then you leaned forward and kissed his cheek, and his eyes closed around the feeling. He stood and kissed Robby beside the front door.
Their kiss lasted longer than the airport kiss had. Robby checked Jack's face when it ended, and Jack rested his forehead against his.
"Husband or doctor?" Robby asked.
"Husband."
"Then come home safe because I love you."
Jack breathed out. "I love you too."
He came home at seven twelve the next morning, exhausted and carrying terrible vending-machine coffee. You ran from the breakfast table and stopped several feet away, suddenly remembering the kitchen.
Jack noticed the hesitation. He waited.
You crossed the remaining space and wrapped your arms around his waist. He kept both hands where you could see them until you pulled him closer. Then he gathered you against him and kissed your hair, holding on until you were the one who eased back.
"How was work?" you asked into his scrubs.
"Loud, understaffed, and exactly where I needed to be."
Robby stood in the doorway with his work bag over one shoulder. His eyes shone when Jack reached him. He touched your back as he passed, keeping the three of you connected for another moment.
"Welcome back, Dr. Abbot," he said.
Jack kissed him. "Go save daytime, Dr. Robby."
The arrangement was never as neat as the calendar. Emergencies ran late. School events landed between shifts. Jack's prosthesis still hurt, and old memories still followed him home. Some mornings, he removed the leg just inside the front door and crossed the room on crutches because one more step was too much.
He also learned to tell you when he was struggling.
"I'm here," he'd say, pressing his palm to the kitchen table. "My brain's catching up."
When you were little, you followed the safety plan and found Robby. As you grew older, you learned that you could choose to sit nearby without becoming responsible for Jack's recovery. Sometimes you talked about school until his breathing steadied. Sometimes you gave him quiet and let him call Robby.
Robby never stopped coming when either of you needed him. Jack never stopped reminding Robby that love wasn't the same as surveillance.
Their opposite shifts cost them things. They missed going to bed together. They learned to communicate through notes on the refrigerator and half-finished conversations at the Pitt. Their notes ended in cramped hearts, terrible drawings, or instructions for you to hug whichever father was awake. They protected Sunday breakfasts with the intensity of a medical protocol.
They gained things too.
One of them attended every parent conference. One of them sat through every school concert, even when Jack had worked all night, or Robby had spent twelve hours in the emergency department. When you woke from a nightmare about the kitchen, a father was always down the hall.
By the time you were fifteen, most of the Pitts' longtime staff knew the schedule, the marriage, and the daughter who sometimes arrived with a forgotten charger or dinner container. The newest trainees only saw Robby leave as Jack arrived. They mistook the space between shifts for the whole of your fathers' lives.
"You disappeared on us," Robby says.
The emergency department returns around you. Jack is watching from the other side of the desk, his dinner tucked beneath one arm.
"Just remembering," you say. You pull your backpack on again.
Mel glances between the three of you. "How long have you all been a family?"
"Long enough that she used to believe I was funny," Robby says. He reaches for your shoulder.
You step neatly out of range. "I've got no memory of that."
Jack points at you with his dinner container. "See? This is what your parenting has done."
"My parenting?" Robby turns toward him. "You taught her to pick locks."
"One lock. For educational purposes."
Javadi looks at Santos. "How did we miss this?"
Santos watches Robby straighten Jack's collar and shakes her head. "Apparently, we're bad at observation."
"Clinically concerning," Jack says.
Whitaker smiles at you. "So they really work opposite shifts to be home with you?"
You look at your fathers.
Robby's hair is grayer than it was at the airport, and Jack's balance is steadier. The years between then and now live in smaller changes too. Robby waits before reaching for Jack's sore leg. Jack says when he needs help before pain turns the request into surrender. Both of them listen when you say you're afraid without treating fear like ingratitude.
At six, you thought coming home meant nothing frightening could follow through the door. You thought Robby had chosen Jack when he stayed on the kitchen floor, and you thought Jack's open eyes meant he had decided not to know you.
At fifteen, you understand triage, trauma, and the way a brain can mistake memory for the present. Understanding hasn't erased the scar near your shoulder or the hurt of waiting in the dark. It has given the memory somewhere to rest.
Their life has made room for all of it beside chemistry tests, hospital schedules, bad jokes, and Sunday breakfasts.
"They always have," you say.
Whitaker looks from Jack to Robby. "So you barely see each other?"
"We see each other now," Jack says. He lifts the coffee Robby abandoned beside the keyboard and takes a drink from it. His face tightens. "Unfortunately, he still considers this drinkable."
"You brought it," Robby reminds him.
"An error in judgment."
Dana passes behind them with a chart in one hand. "They're unbearable at handoff. You've only just started noticing."
"Thank you, Dana," Robby says.
"Wasn't a compliment."
She keeps walking before Jack can answer. Mel tries to hide a smile and fails.
Jack shifts his weight again. You catch the brief tightening around his eyes.
"You good, Papa?" you ask.
His gaze settles on you. For a second, the emergency department falls away from his expression. Then he taps two fingers against the dinner container, taking inventory of the present.
"Blue scrubs," he says. He looks toward Robby. "Terrible coffee. Nosy trainees."
Robby's expression softens. He doesn't step closer until Jack angles his shoulder toward him. Then Robby places two fingers against the inside of Jack's wrist.
"Your husband," Robby says.
Jack's thumb brushes the back of his hand. "That too."
Robby glances at you. "Your daughter."
Jack smiles. "My daughter."
You move into the open space at Jack's side and slip your hand into his. Robby's arm settles around your shoulders, his other hand still resting against Jack's wrist. Jack leans into both of you without taking his weight off the prosthesis, accepting closeness instead of rescue.
He touches his free hand to his chest, then looks around the department that took him back and the family that taught him how to return.
"I'm home."
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