new dad!Jack Abbot doing skin to skin with your newborn baby <3
It's quiet in the hospital room. Jack's been sitting by the window for a long time now, watching the snow fall and looking over to check on your sleeping form ever so often.
The last 24 hours have been a lot on you. You're sleeping, getting well-needed rest, your little puffs of air the only sound in the room. This and the little coos coming from the bundle in Jack's arms.
Jack smiles down at yours and his baby, his heart hurting with overflowing unconditional love for the little worm resting easy against him. His hand is so large against baby's head, it baffles him how something so loved can be so small.
It's a good thing he runs warm in general because the little worm seems to be very comfortable like this, snuggled against his naked chest and soaking all that loving attention up like a sponge. Baby coos once more and Jack hums, his knuckles brushing over the soft peachy cheek that isn't resting over his heart.
"Let's give mommy some more rest, okay, sweety? Cuddling with daddy is nice, isn't it? No need to make a fuzz, hm?"
Baby blinks at him, thinking about it for minute before seemingly agreeing and snuggling back into the warmth Jack provides.
God, his heart is so full.
His beautiful strong supergirl is finally sleeping and her and his baby is with him, all cozy.
Jack leans back and closes his eyes, letting the bliss wash over him. Baby's hair is whispy soft against his hand and your lips part peacefully in your sleep...
pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader
w/c: 8.3K words
summary: Eight days after your breakup with Robby, a kitchen accident leaves you needing stitches. The only thing worse than the injury is running into him at the Pitt (and seeing him with his ex).
warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealous!r, angst, longing, language, r hurt herself catching a knife, r does not imagine herself having kids.
A/N: I hope you'll enjoy it! This wasn't originally supposed to be a multi-part story, but it ended up getting a little longer than I planned, so part 1 it is. It’s been a while since I last wrote anything, so I’m just hoping I’m not too rusty. Also, I have no medical background, so I apologize if the ER scenes aren't completely accurate. I hope the next part will come fast🌼 (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners)
You knew you should have come straight to the Pitt, the same way you should have seen that his fear of commitment would eventually outweigh the little fantasy world you'd built together over the last few months. Yet you put it off, pretended not to see it, and ignored how much it actually hurt.
“Can you move your fingers?”
You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.
“Yeah.”
Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.
“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”
You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.
It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.
Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.
Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.
Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.
But you're not surprised.
Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.
You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.
Still. Eight days.
Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.
You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.
So you step outside.
You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.
You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.
When you look up, you try not to frown.
It's Jack.
Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.
Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.
“What the hell happened?”
“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.
You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.
And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.
He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.
“How long has it been bleeding?”
“Not that long.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.
“Jesus Christ.”
“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”
“Not anymore.”
Or maybe that's what he says.
Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.
You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.
You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.
And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.
Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.
The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.
Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.
“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.
“I didn't think it was-”
“That bad?” he cuts in.
You shrug.
“I handled it.”
“You were bleeding for two hours.”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”
“You're in the ER.”
Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.
Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.
You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.
Or maybe he knows.
“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.
Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.
And no wedding band. Interesting!
“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”
So he knows who you are.
You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.
You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.
Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.
Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.
“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”
“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.
Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.
“Can you move your fingers for me?”
You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.
The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.
“Again.”
You repeat the motion.
“Good. Now straighten them.”
You do.
“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.
“No.”
He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.
“Tell me if this feels the same.”
You nod.
“It does.”
Langdon glances at Jack.
“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”
“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.
"Three years ago.”
Another nod.
“You're fine.”
You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.
“This part's going to sting.”
“Define sting.”
Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. "It's the worst part.”
“Great.”
Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.
And.
It.
Fúcking.
Burns.
“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”
That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”
“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.
To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.
“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."
Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.
“Take a deep breath.”
Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.
“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.
It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.
Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.
It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.
The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.
But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.
Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.
How many times has he done this?
How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?
“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.
“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.
You just know he's a good teacher.
He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.
You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.
“I hate this shit.”
Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.
But you refuse to watch.
Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.
Anything except your own hand.
“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”
Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.
You glance down.
Thread, needle, forceps.
Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.
“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"
And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.
“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.
Maybe you can keep Jack.
You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.
Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.
The first stitch is… weird.
You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.
Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.
Your fingers twitch instinctively.
“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.
“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”
You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.
“Six or seven, probably.”
“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”
“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.
“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late.”
“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.
Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”
They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.
“You’re definitely number two.”
“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.
And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.
Then the door opens.
You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.
You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.
Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.
“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”
Your stomach drops before you even turn around.
You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.
Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.
Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.
He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.
You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.
When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.
“What the fúck happened?”
He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.
You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”
No detail, no explanation.
He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.
Robby’s jaw tightens.
“When?” he asks.
“Earlier.”
“When?”
You hesitate.
“Two hours ago. Probably more.”
You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”
“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.
“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”
“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.
“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.
“Can we not-”
“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.
Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”
But Robby barely reacts.
“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”
Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.
“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.
But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.
You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.
“No,” you say. “Not really.”
It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.
“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.
He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.
A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.
“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.
The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.
“Again.”
You flex them once more.
“Good. Make a fist.”
You do.
Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.
Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.
“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.
You shake your head. “No.”
“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”
“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.
“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”
Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.
“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.
“I wasn't-”
“You were absolutely going to ask.”
Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.
“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”
Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.
No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.
And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.
The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.
Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.
Robby notices the change immediately.
Of course he does.
His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.
“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.
Not angry this time, just tired.
You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.
“Noted.”
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.
“You should’ve told me.”
You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.
“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.
You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.
You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.
So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.
He blinks. “What-”
“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.
Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.
“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”
For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.
But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.
And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.
Because you’re right.
And that’s the problem.
*
After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.
So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.
“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.
“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”
“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”
“Noted.”
It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.
By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.
“You got someone to take you home?”
You can't help but snort.
“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”
“Didn't say you were.”
“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”
He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.
He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.
You just want to go home.
“Yeah. I know you can.”
There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.
“Thanks. Really.”
“For what?”
“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”
You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.
And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.
“Next time, come sooner.”
“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”
“Good plan.”
You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.
“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”
That earns you a crooked grin.
“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.
“Have a good shift.”
“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”
“Yeah. Don't.”
You freeze.
Of course.
Inhale, exhale.
Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.
At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.
So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.
Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.
His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.
Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.
“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.
You shift instinctively.
“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”
The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.
When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.
And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.
No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).
He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.
Close enough to remember.
“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.
The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.
“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”
From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.
“You should've called,” he says.
There it is. Again.
A laugh escapes you.
His audacity...
“Why?”
“Because I would've helped you.”
You almost laugh.
Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.
And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.
Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.
“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”
His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.
“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”
“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”
The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.
But neither of you moves.
Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.
Almost.
The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.
“Yeah.”
You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.
Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.
He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.
“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”
There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.
Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Safe territory.
“I'll take something when I get home.”
His gaze lingers.
Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.
Or both.
You're being ridiculous.
“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”
“Wow.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”
Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.
This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.
Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.
Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.
And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.
“Just be careful.”
The words come out softer.
Not doctor-soft.
Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.
You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.
You can't do this.
“I will.”
You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.
His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.
He doesn't.
You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.
What is wrong with you?
“Text me when you get home.”
The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.
You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.
You need to get the hell out of here.
“No.”
The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.
And for a moment, something in his face falters.
“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.
Or the lack of it.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.
“I'll be fine.”
He nods.
“I know.”
You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.
So as you walk, you don't look back.
But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.
*
By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.
You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.
Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!
The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.
For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.
Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.
You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.
No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.
Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.
And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.
You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.
Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.
Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.
You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”
Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.
You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.
You shake your head.
The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.
Your eyes sting before you can stop it.
“No,” you say quietly.
Like that helps.
You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.
You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.
You could do a lot of things.
Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.
Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.
Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.
Humorless and pathetic, really.
Because despite everything you miss him.
His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.
Ten days before you're free.
*
Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.
Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.
It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.
You want to use your hand... to test it.
But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).
You tell yourself it's necessary.
You always tell yourself a lot of things.
*
The message comes on the third day.
Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.
No hello. No how are you. No are you available.
Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:
I was told 10 days.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Disappears.
Appears again.
You hate that your pulse picks up.
Then:
Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.
You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.
Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.
You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.
*
You go anyway.
Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.
The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.
Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.
“Back already?”
You glance up.
“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”
His eyes drop to the bandage.
“Follow-up?”
“So I've been told.”
A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.
“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”
“No promises.”
He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.
At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.
Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.
Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.
“Room six.”
“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”
“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”
“Fair.”
“Good luck.”
Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.
The traitor!
The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.
Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.
Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.
Or maybe that's you.
“You came.”
You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.
You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.
“You summoned me via text.”
Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.
“Sit down.”
There's no point arguing, so you do.
The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.
Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.
“Let me see it.”
You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.
His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.
Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.
The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.
Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.
The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.
“Any increased pain?”
“No.”
“Drainage?”
“No.”
“Fever?”
You give him a look.
“No.”
His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
“You've been using it.”
You let out a short laugh.
“That's a bold accusation.”
When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.
“You've been working despite our medical advice.”
The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.
You look away first.
“I had deadlines.”
“I know.”
Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.
Because he does know.
He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.
His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.
“The swelling's worse here.”
Damn it.
You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.
“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”
“You sound like a doctor.”
“I am your doctor.”
The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.
When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.
“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”
You nod, because it should feel reassuring.
Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.
“You'll come back in a week for removal.”
“Yes, doctor.”
His mouth almost curves.
Almost.
You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.
Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.
You don't look back.
Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.
*
You try to work.
You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.
But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.
“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”
Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.
Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.
The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.
You can do better than me.
The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.
Your jaw tightens.
“No, that's bullshit.”
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.
“Shit.”
You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.
It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.
Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.
The screen lights up.
Nothing.
No messages except the family group chat.
No notifications, either.
You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.
I'm happy for you.
You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.
I wish nothing-
Delete.
A frustrated laugh escapes you.
“God.”
The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.
You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.
The music keeps playing in the background.
At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.
Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.
Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.
An older version of me…
A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?
“Yeah.”
You rub your eyes.
“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”
The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.
Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.
You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.
The song continues.
Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?
That one almost makes you laugh.
“Fúcking hell.”
You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.
Everything is careful now.
The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.
Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.
Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.
You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Nope.”
Your finger points at nothing.
“We're not doing that.”
But your imagination ignores you completely.
Of course it does.
A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.
Your stomach tightens.
Not jealousy exactly.
Something uglier.
Much uglier.
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.
You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me
You'd hold me until you died?
Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?
Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.
You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.
You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.
The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.
Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.
It feels really pathetic.
You drag a hand over your face.
“God, I sound insane.”
But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.
*
The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.
There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.
So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.
Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.
And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.
“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.
There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.
When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.
Then he wraps it anyway.
Habit, maybe.
“You’re healed,” he says finally.
“I’m free.”
You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.
A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.
You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.
Like it never left at all.
Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.
“I want you to know something,” you say.
His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.
“I’m happy for you.”
The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.
“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”
You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.
“What are you doing?”
No denial. That alone tells you enough.
You were right.
“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.
And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.
Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.
His jaw tightens.
“Don’t,” he says.
He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.
You almost smile as pick up your bag.
Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.
And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.
“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.
A beat.
“I didn’t need better than you.”
Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.
“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”
The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.
For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.
Then, very quietly:
“You should go.”
And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.
Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.
You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.
A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.
“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”
The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.
He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.
When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.
“We’re done here.”
*
The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.
Like nothing important happened at all.
You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.
Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.
Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.
But you do.
You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.
We’re done here.
Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.
Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?
The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.
What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?
Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.
Permission.
He always said you were too kind.
Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.
And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.
Your grip tightens around the phone.
“Fúcking asshole.”
Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.
jack x reader || authors note: tiktok inspired me cuz today i saw that this girl was dating some forty two year old and he called her purse a pocketbook lol
—
there were little tiny moments, you know, the kind that made her stop and really think..
oh, he’s fifty.
like the time when they had just finished eating dinner at their favorite sushi restaurant.
as she stood, he said, "baby, don’t forget your pocketbook."
she blinked at that.
"my what?" she gawked.
"your pocketbook." he said nonchalantly. pushing his chair in
"you mean, my purse?"
he had the audacity to look at her like she was the strange one. "same thing." he scoffed.
she stared at him for a second before laughing.
"jack." she gasped.
"what?" he threw up his hands dramatically.
"who still says pocketbook?" she said, grabbing her purse before he grabbed her hand to pull her away from the table.
he gave her that look.
“no seriously!” she laughed.
"i don’t know, baby.” he playfully groaned. “people with manners?” he tried to defend as she moved her hands to wrap around his toned arm as they walked.
————
then, like clockwork he always refused to let her carry anything heavy— not because he thought she couldn't.
because, "i've got it."
"jack, it's literally two grocery bags.” she said as he took the bags out of her hands from where they stood next to car.
"and?" he called to her as he walked towards the front door.
“i can hold my own.” she pouted.
"c’mon baby, i like to do this f’you don’t be upset."
————
and don’t even get me started about how every single time they got in the car he’d rest his hand on the back of her seat while he reversed.
she bit her lip and smiled the first time she noticed it happen.
"you know your car has a backup camera." she chuckled.
"i know." he smiled, giving her the perfect view of his jawline as he glanced behind them.
"then why do you still do that?" she wanted to know.
he shrugged as he turned back towards the steering wheel.
she watched as he turned the volume up to the music as he said, "just a habit."
"it's kinda hot." she breathed, her eyelashes fluttering as she blinked up at him from where she sat.
"yeah?" he smirked.
“yeah.”
————
of course he still printed boarding passes.
"jack..."
she in disbelief. she watched him fish out his backpack again to make sure they were in there.
“you know they're on your phone."
"i know." he said, zipping up the backpack and stringing it over his shoulder as they continued walking towards the terminal
"okay.. so why did you print them?"
"what if my phone dies?" he questioned, interlacing his fingers with hers.
"baby, we have a portable charger.”
"still."
she just smiled, stopping him to give him a small peck.
he hummed happily but was confused as to why she thought it was so cute.
———————
and out of habit, he'd send her articles. and nope.. not tiktok’s or reels. he sent her actual news articles.
he honestly thought she’d find them interesting.
so, she would open them almost immediately whenever she’d get the text.
jack: Check this out.
finally, one day as she sat on the couch she just needed to know
"babe..”
"hm?" he looked up from his phone, pushing up his glasses that were resting on the bridge of his nose.
"it's twelve paragraphs."
"uh, yeah." he nodded before looking down at the phone. reading the same article that he had just sent to her.
"there isn't even a video."
"why would there be?" he said in confusion, shaking his head.
the sunshine of the night shift, all cookies and lavender, loves to make the grumpy, sassy, silver fox attending smile through attempts at flirting and baked goods. but what happens when he asks a certain replacement attending for drinks and the sunshine dims?
—angst. hurt/comfort. fluff ending. reader can be described as plus size but no specified race. age gap (reader is in her late 20s, early 30s, our grumpy man in his late 40s, early 50s). medical inaccuracy.
part two coming soon !
thank you to @cafekitsune for the lovely divider!
"Are those croissants?"
"Better yet, they are vanilla cream stuffed croissants."
The unsubtle smell of your new croissants wafted through the air, alerting almost everyone of your presence that came with new baked goods like a package deal. All the pittlings, as you so dearly called them, looked up as Dana playfully scoffed at the obscenely mouthwatering croissants which you brought in.
"Trin, wait—"
"Nope!"
"No, no, no! You stole all of the cookies last week!" Matteo came running, hands already up to defend the desserts as Trinity opened up the lid of your container before you could even reach the nurses' station.
"What about me—I'm literally her favourite—"
Dennis almost tripped trying to catch up as you gave custody of your beloved croissants to one of the hands trying to poach them away. You walked up to the nurses station handing a secret stash to dana and lena, your mama nurses, before grinning at the scene in front of you.
"You're spoiling them." Dana scolded, without any bite. She also knew how much they deserved it, and how you were too sweet to actually stop treating the youngest of the pitt.
You gave her a side hug. "They deserve something after busting their asses here, especially under Robby. God knows what's up his ass these days. How many times did he yell at Samira today?"
Dana and Lena scoffed, "Almost told her she didn't belong here again."
You rolled your eyes. This wasn't new at all. You made a mental note to check up on the girl yourself.
You looked at them in front of you. Matteo, Trinity and Dennis were already battling against each other and somehow Langdon had already gotten away with two pieces—one for Mel, obviously—and then Shen's invading hands also won the match.
Your heart warmed at all of them.
"You done distracting my staff, nurse?"
A buzz of electricity shot through your spine at the deep, gravelly voice. You turned around on your heels, a sly grin adorning your face, cheeks bumped up to meet his almost smirk and beautiful hazel eyes.
Dr. Jack Abbot. Your grumpy, sassy, hot attending. Your personal mission.
"So you agree that I'm distracting?"
Javadi made a choked noise that sounded almost like chortle while covering her mouth.
He huffed at you, crossing his arms on his chest. You had to keep your eyes from drifting to the muscles on his big arms taut against his broad chest.
"Bribing my students with baked goods? That's distracting."
"You know, its crazy—all I keep hearing is that you find me a.k.a my cooking is distracting, doc."
"Yeah? Well that's medically compromising—you should get your ears checked."
You rolled your eyes, your grin unwavering by his dry quips. "Well, what's medically compromising is your appetite, Abbot. Say, when was the last time you tried any of my distracting goods?"
He raised his eyebrows, "Why? You want me distracted too, nurse?" His voice dropped a decibel, as if the whisper was a secret meant to only rile you up. Your cheeks immediately turned pink, dusting the tips of your ears as well.
Your grin faltered. His almost came into view.
"Very subtle—" Shen coughed up, very unsubtly as your intimate moment with the attending came crashing. Jack took a quick look at your face; pink cheeks and ears and the confidence of the sunshine he managed to falter. A prideful feeling almost bloomed in his chest—only he could affect you like this. Fluster you like this. A small smile was about to make to his face, but was he about to let you win?
"Okay, back to work everyone! Santos, you still have to finish those charts!"
He moved away from your space, the warmth lingering in your heart. But you saw it—he almost gave in.
"Well, sunshine—you almost made it. take the win, will ya?" Dana's voice rang out in the back. but you shook your head, your lower lip getting caught between your teeth, leaning back onto the counter, watching your grumpy attending order around. "Never giving up on this, Dana. Not until he actually smiles, or even laughs."
"God, when will you both stop?"
—
It all started during a particularly, mercifully uneventful night at the pitt.
You, including almost everyone at the pitt, had their eyes glued on the screen with dollars on stake. Will the stupid teenagers who stole their professor's car, with a brake fail, be caught by the unwitting police? Or will they crash? In who's vicinity? Presby or will they have to save lives in the pitt, yet again?
You had put 40$ on presby and he had snorted. "You're optimistic."
"You should try it sometimes—might just make your grumpy face prettier, old man."
Whittaker's eyes widened, Trinity side eyed Perlah and Princess who were looking like they just found gold, Jesse and Donnie stopped incessantly organising the crash cart in case the car did crash in the pitt's vicinity and Dana and Robby smirked at each other.
Amusement etched onto the attending's face and it was a thrill you never stopped chasing. "C'mon, even the grumpy dwarf in snow white smiled, doc—what's stopping you?"
He just shook his head at you, huffing at the comment and walked off. You watched him walk away with his back towards you and accepted the challenge. "One day or the other, I'm gonna make you smile, Abbot—maybe even laugh—you'll see!"
He raised his eyebrows at you and leaned back onto a wall with his arms crossed on his chest, making something thunder inside your body. "We'll see about that, nurse. But first, you might want to look at the screen."
The police had caught them.
—
After that day, you brought in your best food and your best lines. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about seeing him smile. I mean, obviously you wanted to see him smile, almost concerned it would make your heart stop, but Jack Abbot started to mean something more.
Seeing him everyday, looking into his soulful eyes, his stupid soft voice while talking to patients and the almost smile he gives you during your shenanigans bloomed a deep, warm, ridiculously fuzzy feeling which had set itself somewhere behind your sternum.
Even if it got a huff out of him, a scoff, a smirk that burned its way through the small space in between you both to between your legs or just raised eyebrows.
So, you never stopped flirting. Never stopped baking. Never stopped chasing his smile. It became your dream. Because you knew it would be breathtaking to see it, feel it and know that you were the cause of it.
So, you were here, with a hop in your step, making your way towards the man.
"And I thought these dull hospital lights could never make anyone look good, but here you are, proving me wrong, Mr. Grouch."
He didn't even look up from the chart he was assessing. "Don't you have patients to check up on?"
"Don't you have some smiling to do?"
He turned to look at you and the warm feeling started to spread through your body, unwarranted. He was about to quip back, his mouth opening slightly when—
"19 year old, GSW to the chest, head trauma, pulse is thready—"
Jack's shoulders and jaw set itself tight, as if bracing for whatever was about to come next. he kept the chart back with a thud, going around you, hand brushing on your lower back. "You're with me. Smiling later." He said, lowly, breath fanning your ear.
"Promise?" Your voice had gone heavy.
You gulped as you both walked towards the gurney, his hand still on your lower back, a small comfort before heading into the storm. He glanced back at you, before getting to the boy after you gave him a nod of readiness.
"Trauma 2 is open!" You heard princess yell.
You took a deep breath before going in, hoping this one will turn around. Everyone is here. Jack is here.
It was going to be okay.
—
Your hands trembled.
Your breath was stoic. It didn't dare to move the air between you or the resident still doing cpr.
Jack glanced at his watch. "Stop."
His voice had lost its sharpness but it still held authority. It honeyed through the trauma room, reaching you. But it didn't warm you up like it usually did. His concerned face was focused at the year 2 resident who was starting to hyperventilate. She still kept going.
He glanced at you. You understood what he needed. You moved forward, your body numb. "Sweetheart, you need to let go. Its okay, its going to be alright—"
"No!" She shrieked. You heard Jack calling her name. "He was younger than me—" She whispered.
Jack stepped forward and gripped her shoulders. "Its okay, doctor. Let go. Look at me—I need you to breathe."
Her hands went slack. The machine beeped mercilessly. "Time of death, 5.57 am."
You circled your arms around her as she fell, weeping into your chest.
"shh, I know. C'mon let's get you out." You whispered, your voice sweet as sugar, your soul numbing as the machine beeped.
Jack looked at you but you avoided his gaze. Your hands were trembling, your vision was blurring and your heart was trying to punch its way through your body. Your brain couldn't take it. But you still took care of the people around you. You squeezed donnie's hand on the way out because you knew his kid was also a teenager. You promised princess a treat because you knew she was not going to eat after this. You took care of the resident in your arms because you knew she wont be able to sleep after this.
His gaze burned on your back as it followed your figure through the overbearing walls of the pitt.
After, you got the resident settled, you were about go off to take a breather when Ellis called your name. "Hey! The kid in trauma 2, do you mind calling his parents and informing them?" Your heart ached and flashbacks of another trauma, another death, another set of parents losing their whole world burned in your mind. But you nodded.
"Hello? am I speaking to Mrs Shah?" You introduced yourself, "I'm speaking from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center—"
Immediately the questions started, the panic, the desperation, the devastation. You sighed, your exhaustion and anguish slipping out. You tried to explain the urgency, that they needed to come immediately. Your hands shook as you hung up and closed your eyes.
You tried to busy yourself, checking up on other patients, but your mind still wandered away to the boy. The sorrow of another soul departing, another young life you couldn't save, another injustice was too heavy. The grief set in your bones.
It was a reminder of how this job got harder. These walls sometimes seemed too hollow, too empty, with the losses all of the doctors had faced. This department wrung people out with its cruelty. You were expected to move on with no time to process everything.
That's where Jack came.
Being with him, bantering, flirting, joking—it gave you joy—something that the E.D could never steal. He made working and just being there easier, as if the air got much more breathable around him. You were almost addicted to the giddiness you felt around him. his salt and pepper curls, his teasing voice with you, his dry sarcasm, the way his black tee stretched around the muscles on his back and biceps—
"Excuse me? We were called in urgently? We are looking for our son? Neil Shah?"
The grief crashed down on you. Your eyes turned glassy again and tried to look for any other nurse or even Jack so that you wouldn't be in this position. Not again. Not where you have to inform the parents that their beloved child has passed away. Not where you have to hear the wails of the mother and denial of the father.
You sighed in defeat and led them to an empty room. Slowly, you explained what had happened. How their son had passed away. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs Shah. Truly."
They had started crying, asking you questions, Demanding answers to truths you didn't know. Until one question. "How did he get shot?"
"He—" Your voice broke, but that's when you felt a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. Your beacon of comfort. You immediately recognized it. "I'm Doctor Abbot—I performed the surgery on your son. Nurse, could you please assist Dr. Kwan with a consult in south eight?"
Your heart filled with gratitude. He gave you an out. And you took it. You nodded but not before mouthing a thank you to the man in front of you. He squeezed your shoulder before holding the door open for you and your heart squeezed. Why did he have to be so kind?
You took a quick glance towards him before getting out. You felt you could breathe.
That did not long last.
"Can you believe he did that? I mean, if I was in his place, I would never put my life on the line—for a girl i just met? That was so stupid—"
You took a sharp inhale and jerked your head to the voice. "How dare you? Just because you don't even have an ounce of the bravery, the courage and the empathy that he had, doesn't mean you get to call it stupid, you—"
Before you could go up to him and slap him, strong hands grabbed you, wrapping around your torso, with no harshness but just comfort coursing through.
"Ogilvie, if you don't have even 1% basic empathy or haven't heard the phrase 'dont talk ill of the dead' I suggest you drop out of medical school and go back to 3rd grade."
You shoulders visibly relax at the voice and at his fingers which softly caressed your chubby love handles—this man was not helping you keep cool. Heat travelled up your neck when you felt his chest rumble with some instructions he gave to the resident in front of him.
Jack called your name and his hands travelled to your shoulders. "Come on, let's go—"
"What? what about the consult—"
"That was a lie—"
"You dog—"
"Come on, you nuisance. Let's get you a breather."
—
"The roof?"
"You'll see."
The door busted open and strong gust of wind hit you in the face. And there it was.
You gasped and your hands went to Jack's forearm. "Oh my god."
"Oh my god."
"Come on, you wanna see the sunrise?"
"Well, at least ask me for a cup of coffee first, old man. You losing your touch already?" He gave you a deadpan look. "But of course, if you insist."
He took you to the railing. "I've heard you go even beyond the railing..."
Jack gave you a side eye. "Oh come on, you really believe anything really stays in the box at this hole?" He still did not entertain you. "Please, Jack?" You gazed up at him, with your best puppy eyes.
"Alright. But only this time."
He ducked and got across first, holding out his hand for you, fingers gently taking your palm and helping you cross the railing. "Thank you," You softly murmured, the touch growing the warmth in your chest. the sunrise had only taken its footing—the soft blue of the sky was slowly lighting up. "So," You took a deep breath, "why did you bring me to your sacred space?"
"Sacred space? Really?" Jack scoffed.
"Everybody knows its where you and Robby come to make heart eyes at each other—" He grunted and you let out a soft laugh. "Come on, tell me." You whined.
"I saw you." He spoke. "After–after you realized he was gone, after we declared the time of death. your hands were trembling," Your breath hitched. "Your breaths were small, your voice was—" You looked away. His gaze bore deep into your eyes, trying to probe out the vulnerability gently, and his voice was too tender, too warm, almost wrapping you up in their saccharine like blanket. "The point is, you still took care of everyone. Donnie, Princess, the resident—"
"Someone has to. I just choose to. Nobody forces me to, Jack." Your voice gets small.
"And when will you let yourself take care? When will you take a breath?" Your breath hitched. "You're the sunshine of the dark side, sweetheart. We don't want you fading out while you take care of others." He syruped.
You hoped it would stay dark so that he couldn't see the red on your cheeks, the heat crawling up your neck and how you couldn't trust your own voice anymore. But you braved on.
"um, I dont know if you know this, doc, but I shifted to nights for a reason other than one grumpy teddy bear," You let out a giggle when jack let out an annoyed huff, "there was a girl, 19, just like today's kid. She was abducted and tried escaping, but the abductor shot her. She was brought in, I was a part of the surgery and despite everything, despite Robby busting his ass—she–" Your voice broke and you gripped the railing. "She almost escaped it, but...her parents were angry more than heartbroken. Her mother threw things at the father, he yelled back and I tried to calm them down, but h-he pulled me in, threw me in the wall and said I was too incompetent, I couldn’t save his daughter's life."
You inhaled sharply. "He killed himself 2 months later."
"Look at me."
"Jack—"
He pleaded your name. "That was not your fault. It will never get easy, I know that...too well. But you learn to live around it, but I need you to understand that it was not your fault."
You nodded. "How do you live with it?"
"Before returning to Pittsburgh, before my...leg, in Afghanistan—we used to get this street food. It used to be sold at nights and we used to switch routes and trade fucking mattresses and anything just to have a chance to get it. Its called kolcha. It used to be heaven in the hell we were put in.
I used to see my brothers get blown up, losing their lives, civilians losing a sense of humanity after the way everyone treated them. But there are soft joys that help the grief. that helped me live. Stopped me from..." He trailed off, a pensive look forming on his face.
Your hand clasped around his on the railing. He gazed up at you, your eyes already on him, so honeyed, filled with care and admiration, with so much compassion, he didn't know what to do with it.
You both just gaped at each other. Your hearts filled to the brim. Getting lost in time.
Suddenly, a ray of sunlight reflected in Jack's hazel eyes and you broke your contact, a gasp forming on your lips as you tore your eyes away to marvel at the jawdropping sunrise.
The sun was officially peeking up. Its rays bounced off skyscrapers made of glass, lighting up the small alleys of the street. The orange and yellow shades painted the horizon and you almost died right there. "Its so beautiful..."
The sunlight was colouring your skin, your giddiness coming out with the sun.
"Will you take care of yourself, sunny?"
You let out a sweet giggle. "Sunny?"
"The sun clearly loves you." He murmured softly before tucking in a strand of hair fallen haphazardly on your eyes, blocking him from the view.
"Hmm, you're going soft on me, old man. Or are you just manipulating me so that I won't tell anyone that your grumpy attitude is a hoax and you're just a big ol' teddy bear?"
He snorted and let out a soft smile.
Your heart jumped.
"Oh my god!" you gasped and pointed. "Oh my god! You smiled!"
"Come on, sunny. Let's get you inside before you tragically die due to slipping while celebrating something that never happened—"
"Excuse me—" You scoffed but let him lead you onto the safer side of the railing, his hands on your shoulders, sliding down to your hands to steady you as you come over.
"Try convincing Robby that you did it—"
"Oh fuck off, you are just a big, fuzzy, loving teddy bear inside—"
His smile burned through you, in your heart.
And as you predicted, you could never forget it.
—
The next day, there was a new skip to your walk as you entered the pitt. You had spent your day trying to calm down your heart every time you reminisced what happened on the roof. Your skin would jump with goosebumps and your cheeks would immediately redden. So you distracted yourself in the best way.
You walked in with a box in your hand. The aroma of the newly tried recipe made everyone turn their heads. But this time you refrained from giving in to your beloved pittlings' puppy eyes.
Lena and Dana raised their eyebrows. "What's got our sunshine happier than before?"
"Nothing." You squealed softly.
"Mhm." Lena hummed. But mama nurse knew you too well. She knew all of you too well. "You know, you spent an awful lotta time on the roof yesterday. And what's that in the box you're tryin' so hard to keep away?"
"Its for Jack." You murmured. "He mentioned this food he had when he was in Afghanistan—"
"Didn't Dr. Abbot take you up on the roof yesterday?" Joy chimed in.
"What!?" Trinity yelped.
"Excuse me?" Dana took her glasses off and left them on the counter with a thud.
"Are you serious?" Matteo asked you, with her eyes wide open as Princess squealed to Perlah. "i knew it! may utang ka sa akin ng 50 bucks!"
Donnie gave you a pat on the back, like he was proud of you. "W–wait—guys—"
"What's going on here?"
You closed your eyes and sighed in defeat. The voice, the man, the mchottie who had you in trouble. Ellis leaned up on the counter with a dangerously smug look on her face. "Well, we were just talking about sunshine here and yo—"
Your eyes widened and embarrassment crawled up your veins in your neck, swirling anxiety in your brain with all the ways this could go wrong. "Okay! Everybody go back to work, now! Trinity, go home. Ellis, your labs for the 33 year old lady in north five are here and Matteo—"
She peered at Matteo with her glasses slid down till her nose, staring at his phone dreamily, who straightened up, as if he was caught with a scandal. "—do us all a favour, keep the yearning for Dr. Javadi aside and get. back. to. work!"
Everyone scrambled off. You gaped at her with a grateful look in your eyes. "You are amazing."
You turned around to look at the man you've been—shamefully or shamelessly you didn't know—thinking about the whole night and your jaw almost dropped. The sight was marvelous.
Jack abbot in gear.
Camouflage pants and a tight black tee.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer." He dryly quipped at you.
Before you could reply, a gurney came bursting through the bay. "55 year old man, cardiac arrest—"
You felt his whole body reset and bracing like it always did. "Sunny, you're with me—"
"Sunny?" Shen asked, a knowing, smug look adorned his face as his eyes jumped from him to you. Your whole body flushed. He was going to be your ruin. Jack ignored Shen's absolutely valid inquiry with the excuse of the patient in front of him. But you're frozen.
He still remembered your conversation.
Did he think about it again and again and again like you did?
Your heart did not stop pumping blood but your brain stopped producing logic it seems.
"Sunny? You still with me?" Hus rough yet gentle voice coaxed you out of your thoughts and reminded you of the situation at hand. You cleared your throat and just nodded wordlessly, hoping no one would notice the red on you face.
How will you survive this man?
After sending him off to surgery, Crus looked between the both of you, as if he could sense the electricity between you, the tension, the undying sense of something happened here and just these two are in denial. "That was smooth."
Jack raised one eyebrow at him, amusement etched onto his face. "What was?"
Crus cleared his throat. You stilled. You knew what was coming. Crus did not stop. "You two make a good team."
You shot him a glare that seemed somewhere between 'i will kill you' and 'please don't make my life hell'. He saw it, noted it, considered it.
And threw it in the trash apparently. "Just saying. Everyone saw it inside. Its like you both were in sync. Unstoppable. Inevitable—"
Don't say it.
"—made for each other."
Shen made a choked sound and Ellis pursed her lips, trying to contain her giggle. Beside you, Jack stilled.
"Sunny makes it easier. Made for the night shift." He grunted out.
"Don't make it sound dramatic." He signed on some discharge papers and handed them to Lena. His hand brushed against yours. "Bye, sunny." he murmured softly against your cheek and left you. All by yourself. To process what just happened.
"So, sunny?"
"Shut up, guys."
You turned around and walked towards the supply closet, nothing but an excuse to ditch the conversation that you are about to face.
They followed you like little ducklings.
"What happened to you guys on the roof?" Crus asked.
"Nothing happened—and how do you know?"
Ellis scoffed as if the notion of anything staying a secret in this hospital was absurdly ridiculous. "Come on! tell us—"
"Nothing happened guys and shush!" You glared at them. They peered on you with curiosity as your body shook with embarrassment? Humiliation? Adrenaline? The mere thought of Jack abbot and you on the roof?
Shen slurped on his stupid watered down coffee. "You should go for it."
"I will stab you—"
"No, he's right! At least then your sexual tension in between emergency traumas will not traumatise us."
"Excuse me?"
"Please—even the unconscious patient can sense it!"
You huffed and crossed your arms as if it could save you from this conversation and put on a mask of denial. "That's not even remotely true. besides—I don't like him!"
The three of them stared at you. "Yes, and Shen doesn't live on caffeine." Ellis deadpanned. "You cant deny something we see literally everyday. You banter, flirt, tease and even cook for him! Didn't you make something specially for him today?"
Crus gasped dramatically. "Whaaaat?"
You rolled your eyes. "Its not that big of a deal."
"Yes, it is." The three of them chimed in unison. Your eyes fell on their faces, their relentless questions and sighed in defeat. You scrunched your face, closing your eyes for just a second and then squinting at them. "Am I that obvious?"
"Yes—"
"No—"
You pursed your lips and raised your eyebrows at them. "Seriously?"
They gave you wordless looks almost meant to serve with pity, empathy, hope. You don't know. "Listen, you just made this afghan food for him which I know you've never even heard of before. You try to make him smile everyday and there is this embarrassingly obvious sexual tension in between you. Don't think that the ED is half blind to miss the looks you give him."
You sharply inhaled.
"Hey, there's no harm in going for it—he will say yes. If he doesn't, that's his loss. some other person will get your perfectly baked goods." Ellis assured you.
That's when your brain imagined it—wildly. Not in the unsaid, shy and restrained ways it has been doing for the past months. The vivid image of you and the attending you made smile, together, in each other's arms, happy. Holding hands, requited secret glances, soft kisses, stolen touches, his eyes with a gentleness and passion just saved for you and a love that's not a secret—its known, its seen and understood—but its just for both of you.
Your heart skipped a beat.
Your cheeks blushed furiously.
The three of them smirked, knowingly.
"I—" You gulped and stammered on your words. "I need to be somewhere." Your hands shook and your brain didn't comprehend what you needed, nor did your body and it all was about to go crashing when—
"What are you all doing there? Don't you have jobs?"
Jack.
You didn't whether to sigh in relief or wring your hair out in frustration. This man was going to end you. "You know, sunny also has patients to attend to, rather than hearing you guys bicker or gossip about whatever it is."
You felt heat and humiliation hiking up your neck as you notice the smug looks they give each other before wandering off. "Yes boss."
But not before Ellis winked at you, Crus gave you a smug salute, and Shen slurped away loudly, obnoxiously, knowingly, looking back and forth between you and Jack.
Speaking of the man, he just leaned against a counter, gazing at you, with an unpredictable and unreadable look on his face. "Well, since you're done organising that supply closet for the 4th time, some patients are getting starved of your sunshine. Unless, of course, the supply room is in dire need of your attention, sunny."
Sudden confidence flared in your chest. "Well, cap'n grumps, you could just say you are in dire need of attention. No need to shame my perfect supply room."
Your mouth spoke before your brain you could stop it. His mouth twitched, just slightly, his amusement not hiding under a curtain and a glimmer in his pretty eyes which made you weak in the knees. "Get back to work, sunny." He murmured, head shaking and his shoulders lighter than before.
You almost giggled. "Of course, boss."
You walked away. every sense in your body was tingling, goosebumps on your skin and a fire somewhere in the pit of your stomach and a familiar fuzzy feeling growing stronger beneath your chest.
You didn't know if you were going to survive this man. You didn't know if you wanted to.
—
The next hours of the shift were determined to drain the soul out of you.
There were 4 traumas at the same time and a statewide insufficiency of nurses. So that meant you had to jump back and forth. Chairs was filled and actually overflowing while you had a scarcity of beds so all the nurses were charged with scheduling, organising and moving beds according to the level of emergency and pain patients were facing. Plus, you had multiple patients and a family who had declared that dr. google was more knowledgeable than a nurse.
Amazing.
And you hadn't gotten a chance to even eat.
When you finally got a chance to eat in the breakroom, that's when you saw it. The kolcha. Untouched. Because you wanted him to have the first bite. First taste. Just to see that Heartwarming smile again.
You bit your lip and took a peek outside. Everything had slowed down. Just for bit, you were sure, before another trauma, another emergency, another goddamn patient too obnoxious and blind to only believe what google says pulls you in.
This was the time, you decided.
So, you picked up the box, an extra hop to your walk, as you looked for him.
Jack abbot.
Ellis' words rang in your ears and your heartbeat sped up. Should I do it?
Take the chance, the risk?
"Hey, Lena, do you know where Jack is?" You asked softly, almost bashfully, as she narrowed her eyes at you but then flashed you a knowing look before pointing at a room.
The buzz in your heart and brain intensified as you walked towards him. You were so giddy, it hurt. Your soft smile had turn into a beam. The anticipation had turned to you nervous and exhilarated. You wanted to see his smile, the one he'll give after you give him a kolcha. Will it be a soft and dedicated one, reserved just for you? Will it be a joyous and unwithdrawn one, not shying away from showing his beautiful wrinkles?
Everything made your heart soar.
Your feet slowed down as you got there and you heard voices. His and... Dr. Al-hashimi. She was laughing before Jack spoke.
"So, you want get that beer we talked about?"
You heard Jack chuckle. A vibration that rumbled through his lungs in his chest to the ground that you apparently walked on. You felt as if it had just been pulled underneath you. It was lighthearted, casual—directed at someone else.
The ringing of elation in your ears stopped. Replaced with a haunting stillness.
"Yeah, of course. I would love to."
Your breath stopped in your lungs.
It was casual without any audible or visible awkwardness. You glanced inside only to see Jack smiling, a sly and playful grin, lighting up his whole face. Directed towards her. Not you.
Never you.
You wondered if she made it easy for him. Like you probably never did. His whole body was turned towards her, a casual openness to him that was never reciprocated with you. Your chest tightened. Throat strained. Something in your temples felt like it was being pulled.
Jack asking Dr. Al Hashimi out for beers. Your breathing felt shallow. Why wouldn't he? She was brilliant, kind almost dazzling with every step she took. She carried herself with maturity that only comes with facing warzones and fighting injustice. She never had to take constant efforts to make someone smile. He did it instantly for her.
Your hold on the box full of kolchas loosened.
Your legs moved before your brain processed everything. Your eyes looked into the distance, your thoughts melding, twisting your heart, a suffocating hurt settling deep in your bones.
You just kept walking.
"Hey, hon—you okay?" You heard someone say, but your mouth didn't move, your voice had gone numb. So, you just gave tight smile and gave a wordless nod and moved ahead.
Get back to work. You have patients.
Your body moved, on instinct, but without any soul in it.
He didn't owe you anything, you realized. He never reciprocated your efforts, nor did he respond. He just grunted, shook his head, raised his eyebrows, scoffed. It was meaningless. Fruitless. It was just amusement to him. You felt your heart hitting the pit of your stomach. He probably never even considered it. You were his nurse. He was your attending. You tried too hard it was almost entertaining. The sunshine of the night shift. Overbearing. aAways shining. Never needed anything back.
You were nothing like her.
She was everything he could want.
You never even understood where you left the box of kolchas meant for him. It was discarded somewhere like it never included unconditional efforts, hope and love. Like you didn't just stay up the hours you were supposed to put in for sleep to make something you had never made from scratch, just for him. It was not like he ever tried anything you made.
You just walked to a patient, and gave them a smile.
But it felt foreign on your face.
You asked them what was wrong, checked their pulse, gave necessary meds and equipment to the resident in front of you. It felt mechanical. Your eyes were vacant. Too preoccupied with trying to see the things your heart missed. the hope that you harboured over time, the anticipation and giddiness on seeing him, the fuzzy feeling inside your sternum.
Now replaced with a sudden anxiety. A hollowness.
"There she is." You almost jumped, startled by the intrusion of the voice you were now dreading to listen to. "I was looking for you."
Flashes of his soft smile, the wonderful sound of his chuckle, the casual openness—never meant for you—shattered you. You stood there still, unresponsive.
"Sunny?" Jack asked, oh-so-gently, but it just pricked your skin like needles. Even his soft words had become a sign of betrayal. Was he just dragging you along?
A shaky exhale escaped you but your face remained stoic. Your movements were calculated.
"Lena wants you to talk to this patient, he doesn't agree with any of the nurses, says he wants a 'real, qualified doctor'."
"Okay—"
"—and ortho has your results ready for north five, just sign on those." You said in a clipped tone. Tou couldn’t even look at him anymore. You had to get out of there.
But you could still feel him. His furrowed eyebrows, tensed shoulders, concerned eyes—searching for answers, searching for you. All confused. But you didn't have answers. Not anymore.
So, you left, wordlessly, with your broken heart.
Him, with confusion etched onto his features.
Because you realized that while you looked for him in every room before even entering it, he probably never did.
Summary: Robby quickly grows fond of his new next door neighbour, through shared mornings and casual companionship.
Pairing: michael “robby” robinavitch x fem!reader
Contains: sexual content (smut, pwp), explicit language, fluff, age gap, meet cute, semi-domesticity, bar fight mention (injuries, but not heavily described), pet names, drinking, smoking, jealousy, reader works nights, referred to as "girl", referred to with she/her pronouns, no use of y/n
Word Count: 11.4k
Note: i’ve been working on this for awhile and i just needed to get it out of my drafts. it gets a little bit sappy in the worst way possible (/j). this is my first time properly writing smut so… take it lightly. lol can you guess my favourite pet name?
The first time he spotted you was on a Sunday afternoon.
Sunlight streamed down the canopies on his street as you stomped up your new front steps with a box in your arms. A cool breeze blew your dress to one side, hair following suit. Arms glowed in the warm light, damp with sweat from the heat and from the exercise. You dropped the box by the door, then hurried back outside.
He was coming back from a late lunch with Jake, catching up and all. You don’t see him yet, but he’s frozen on the sidewalk, looking at the moving truck parked in the street. It’s you and his next door neighbour standing by the truck, assessing the situation.
Your friend spotted him first, raising an arm up to wave. “Robby.”
You turned, eyes squinting. The first thing you saw was his beard, then the crinkle between his eyebrows when he was looking at you, trying to figure you out. Your friend hopped down from the truck to meet him in the middle. You followed.
“Hey, Serena.” He greeted her, voice all gruff. He crossed one arm over the other, the glint of his watch facing you. After trailing the cotton of your dress up, his eyes met yours. Golden hour was doing wonders for you.
“This is my friend,” Serena introduced you, “she’s taking over my lease while I’m gone.”
Robby nodded, “Nice to meet you.”
“You must be the doctor.” You smiled, mouth wider than intended. Serena had mentioned him to you once or twice. Emergency doctor, barely home, but shut-in when he was. Grumpy old man, she had joked, but she never mentioned he was… attractive.
Robby gave a bashful nod, and Serena must’ve caught you staring because she nudged you on the shoulder. You recoiled, rubbing your arm dramatically.
“Hey, play nice.” She warned you teasingly. Her eyes darted to him, leaning towards Robby like she was telling a secret, “This one bites.”
“Serena…” You scolded as she headed back to the truck with a laugh and a skip. Face burnt in embarrassment, you cursed her out in your head. You exhaled, looking at Robby’s amusement, an eyebrow quirked by intrigue and a subtle rise of his lip. Meekly, you attempted to smile, “Sorry… Nice meeting you.” You trekked back to Serena quickly.
Robby let out a breathy laugh to himself, before shaking his head and walking to the door. From over his shoulder, he heard you and Serena laughing to each other.
“You didn’t tell me that Grumpy Old Man was hot.” He heard you say to Serena. She cackled with an eww attached to it.
The second time you saw him, you were coming home from work.
It was early in the morning, six o’clock or so. You were approaching the steps to your front door, and he was just emerging from his. Rubbing your eyelids, you couldn’t help but look over. He had on a brown hooded jacket over his scrubs and dark brown boots. His hair was dishevelled, like he didn’t even look in the mirror before leaving.
When he reached for his keys in his pocket, you realized you had been staring. His head turned and, all of a sudden, you weren’t.
“Morning,” Robby said your name as he gave a sleepy grin.
With a yawn, you nodded, “Headed to work, Dr. Robby?”
He laughed softly, “Uh, huh.” He noticed that you had a bag full of your things and were dressed in sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt, leaning against the rail. “Just got back from somewhere, or…”
“Work,” You nodded, “You know how it is.” He gave a slow nod. You grabbed your keys from your purse and reached for the door. Before opening, you turned over your shoulder, “Have a good work day, Dr. Robby.”
The third time, Robby came home from a night shift.
His sleep schedule hadn’t gotten the memo, but the caffeine in his system told him otherwise. Finishing his shift, he was absolutely exhausted yet alert. The night was college students getting their stomach pumped, babies with too-high fevers, a diner chef with third-degree burns, and sleep deprived parents pacing in the waiting room. Nothing extreme, nothing unusual, but, then again, it was an emergency department.
The sun had been peeking above the buildings that sprawled past his street, and the brisk morning temperature held steady on his way home. Medium blues and lilacs coated the sky and clouds moved so slowly.
From your stoop, he spotted a puff of smoke flying into the air. Drowning in a dark hoodie, you were perched on your steps, cigarette in one hand and phone in the other. Your knees were pulled to your chest and you were peeking over the railing to see him. He might’ve decided he was too tired to say hello if you hadn’t waved.
“Robby.” You called, not bothering to stand from your seated position.
“Hi.” He passed his own door, approaching you.
Your eyes glazed over his tired face and rolled up sleeves as he stopped in front of you. Putting your phone down, you patted the brick beside you, sit, like he was a dog. And he obeyed, the smell of coffee, faint pine, and hand sanitizer lingering from one place to the next.
You offered him the cigarette wordlessly, then immediately caught yourself, “Oh, sorry.” You gestured at him, “Doctor. I know.”
With slow hesitation, he shook his head slightly, “Uh, uh.” His fingers traced yours, reaching for the cigarette. He was all wound up anyway, he probably needed it. You gave it to him graciously.
In between his lips, he felt the grain of your glitter lip gloss and tasted the flavour of bubble gum on the filter. You leaned back on your hands, watching him puff. It would be a disservice to not recognize how attractive it was: the suck of his cheeks, lines on his face flattening and reshaping, the pull, then the release. He held the cigarette in between his index and middle, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Work was rough?” You asked quietly, more interested in the way the smoke played by his face than his answer.
“Just tired. I don’t usually work nights.”
You gave a hum of affirmation, taking the cigarette back from him and puffing yourself.
“How was work for you?” He nudged his knee against your bare legs, which were now stretched into the sidewalk landing.
“Same old, same old.” You exhaled, facing away from him and crossing one of your legs over the other. Passing the cigarette back, you caught his eye. He had been looking over his shoulder at you, expressionless and observant. Not realizing he was so close, you almost bumped him doing so.
“What do you do? For work, I mean.” He asked quietly, then took a puff.
You weren’t really listening, scanning his figure instead. The crows feet by his eye, the tired wrinkles on the side of his neck, and the bend of his arm as he rested it against his thigh. You couldn’t even feel guilty because the sight had been that good. Eyes landed on his badge that dangled from his hip. You smiled, tapping it.
“Michael Robinavitch, MD.” You read, looking back up to him. His head turned back to you, the tired look still overshadowing whatever emotion he wanted to convey. “Cute photo.” You teased, grabbing the cigarette back from him.
“Thanks,” he chuckled softly, shaking his head to himself. He watched you take another hit, then stamp it out on the ground. “How do you like the neighbourhood?”
“It’s nice. Very…” you hummed, “Geriatric.”
“Hey…” He scolded playfully.
You gestured to an old couple across the street, who had been emerging from their front door with a huge greyhound. Waving, you caught their attention and they returned the wave.
“The Robinsons are sweet.” You told him, nudging his shoulder, “I’ve talked to them a few times on their morning walk. Susie’s getting cataract surgery next month.”
“Right.” He nodded mockingly at you.
“But my next door neighbour…” You started, a coquettish grin growing on your face. “He’s another story.”
“Really?” He tilted his head at you and raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, he’s up at ungodly hours of the day, throwing parties and doing God-knows-what.” You exaggerated, watching the Robinsons make their way down the street. “I can barely sleep with all that noise.”
“He sounds terrible.” Robby played along with a smile.
Raising an eyebrow at him, you warned, “He’s lucky we don’t have an HOA.”
“Okay,” he rolled his eyes. You smiled, watching as his eyes landed back on yours.
Truthfully, you nodded, “The neighbourhood’s nice, much nicer than my last one. Not noisy at all, even when I’m asleep.”
“And your next door neighbour?” He raised an eyebrow at you.
“Haven’t decided yet.” You pursed your lips. His eyes held yours, and your breath caught. He tilted his head at you, goading more of a definitive answer from you. Then, you nudged his arm again, “You do shut the door like a maniac, though.”
Half-laugh, half-yawn, he smiled anyway, “Uh, huh.”
You looked at the sun, which was breaking between the buildings at the end of the street. The cool morning air had dissipated into something slightly warmer, and you took that as your cue.
“Should probably get some rest.” You said, meant more for him than you.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He nodded, starting to stand from his sitting position. He slowly made his way back to his door. You stood, watching as he walked down the sidewalk.
“Goodnight,” He called your name from his stoop, looking at you until you said it back.
“Goodnight, Dr. Robinavitch.” You smiled sweetly before escorting yourself into your apartment.
Then, it became a common thing.
Usually, it was a quick hello in the morning— an acknowledgement of his scrubs and ruffled hair and a cheeky goodnight as the sun came up. Sometimes, you’d ask for some miscellaneous ingredient you probably had at the back of your pantry (but wanted to see him). Then, it evolved into something more, like coming over for coffee in the morning.
You’d bring pastries from the bakery a few blocks down. Robby would make some comment about you “spoiling him.” You’d pat his belly playfully after he ate, like you knew him for ages. He’d smile warmly, leaning into your touch. There’d be a moment where maybe you got too close and your eye caught his with a hitch of the breath. Then, you two would go on your neighbourhood walk as if nothing had happened.
Or Robby found himself tagging along on your grocery trips. You’d be halfway out the door with your reusable bags in tow and he’d catch you from his window. He’d insist on driving, nudging his head to where his car was parked down the street. You’d take aux, playing some modern music he didn’t really know.
“Learn a thing or two, old man.” You’d smile, nudging him before singing along again.
At the grocery store, an old lady would make comments about what a sweet couple you were— how you two reminded her of her late husband. Robby would stay quiet, watching your reaction, if any. Then you’d smile and thank them without a hassle.
Or it was simply a text. Not that he expected to see you everyday, but it was nice to have some kind of reassurance that you wouldn’t evaporate into thin air one day. Some days, you had been out on the town and texting Robby about some nice-looking restaurants or cafes. He’d reply with a “Let’s do it”, secretively smiling at his phone like a teenage girl.
If an ambulance drove by, you’d snap a picture and send it to him, knowing he was waiting for it. Thinking of you. Wink emoji.
This became routine, and you had memorized his schedule around yours. It was domestic without the strings. It was lighthearted companionship. You liked the arrangement, and he seemed to too. Especially since work felt lonely, it was nice to come home and have a constant.
On very rare occasions, you invited Robby over for dinner, when he had come home from work and you had a day off, or when you both had a day off.
“You probably don’t eat much in that hospital, huh?” You teased, passing him a beer from the fridge. You had been stirring the pot of pasta on your stove, while he was leaning against your counter, watching you intently.
“I manage.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled at you. He was in his “normal person” clothes, a simple t-shirt with a forest green collared jacket on top and some blue jeans. You two had decided to try that new bar down the street after dinner.
You watched the way he fit into the kitchen. So casually, he stood beside you like that’s where he belonged. He had taken the San Diego magnet bottle opener from the side of the fridge, exactly where he knew it was. He even took his shoes off at the door, just as you requested. His hand around the cold glass of the beer bottle was so unconcerned, just as his face was. You’d never seen him so relaxed.
On mornings where you caught him on the way to work, it was like his shoulders were infinitely tense, automatically flinching at an alarm that wasn’t there. The times you did see him return from work, there was a weariness on his face and a slight droop of the eyes. He looked like he needed a big nap, or a cigarette. You wanted to be the one he fell into at the end of the day, and you were.
You hadn’t considered it too much, since his presence became a habit, but you realized you liked Robby more than you let on. Not only did you want him there, in your house, around all the time, but you wanted him.
“What?” Robby’s voice and chuckle cut through that thought. His eyes scattered like he’d done something wrong.
Voice weak, mouth gone dry, your eyes darted back up to his face and you asked, “Can you pass the Parmesan next to you?”
He nodded as he obeyed, “You were staring.”
“Yeah, I just had a mini stroke, I think.” You said unseriously, sprinkling cheese over the pasta like you hadn’t said that.
“What?” He repeated, now more alert. He had shifted forward, arms flexed and hands ready, like you needed them.
“No, I’m kidding.” You laughed, stirring the pot again.
He settled back into his former position, “Geez, kid. You can’t just say that, ‘specially not to a doctor.”
You sucked in a breath, reaching to turn off the stove, “Dinner’s ready.”
After dinner, you two had ended up at the bar, just as intended. It was far more hip than you thought, falling into a neighbourhood of elderly people. It had a stupid name, The Orca, after the boat in Jaws. The name had nothing to do with the interior.
It was just as dark as it was on the street. The only few lights coming from very dim green glass lamps hanging from the ceiling and the purple, turquoise, green, and warm yellow spotlights that coated a dance floor. Tipsy adults had been dancing— genuinely dancing— to whatever music the DJ was playing. It was packed, expected for a Friday night.
“I don’t think I’ve danced at a bar since I was in med school.” Robby noted with a chuckle. You were leading him towards the bar, which was busy all around.
Sliding between full stools, you got the attention of one of the bartenders. You turned to Robby, who was just inches behind you.
“What’re you drinking?” You asked, nudging your head towards the bar.
“Gin and tonic?” He shrugged, surveying the area for some seats.
You ordered his drink, along with a Rum and Coke for yourself, and requested an open tab. The bartender nodded and trailed off to do so.
As a group had come and gone from your section of the bar, some guy slid by next to you, “Busy, huh?”
You had been watching your bartender, then realized he was talking to you. Turning over, you squinted your eyes, “Huh?”
Absolutely focused on you, he was probably around your age, nursing a pint. He was fairly attractive, maybe on any other night you’d care. You weren’t a stranger to getting hit on at a bar, but you had just been so disinterested, mind on something else— someone.
“The bar,” He nodded, gesturing around, “It’s busy.”
“Oh,” you shrugged indifferently, “Yeah, well, it’s Friday.”
“Yeah,” He nodded with a smile, leaning towards you, “What brings you here tonight?”
The bartender had finished up with your drinks, placing two glasses in front of you. After a quick thanks, you looked back to the guy and repeated, slightly irritated, “It’s Friday.”
Reaching out for the glasses, you felt Robby tap on your shoulder, “Seats over there.” He nudged his head to the other side of the room, then to the drinks, “I’ll grab ‘em.” You nodded, moving aside for him.
Slipping past you, he glared over, spotting the guy who had been speaking to you. The guy’s mouth had fallen slightly ajar as Robby pointedly asked, “Did you need somethin’?”
The guy narrowed his eyes at Robby, who towered over him, and mumbled some “Jesus” under his breath with the roll of his eyes. He walked away and Robby had followed you.
“Seems like you got some fans.” Robby said, sliding into the U-shaped booth beside you and placing the drinks on the table. The red vinyl was sticky under your palms as you scooted closer to him.
You smiled bashfully and shook your head, “Nah, he was just bored.” Robby gestured to him and his friends by the bar, who had been mumbling to each other and looking in your direction.
“A lot of attention for someone so bored.” He mocked, seemingly ticked off.
“Are you jealous, doctor?” You sang, nudging his arm with your elbow. A smile grew on your face as you took a sip of your drink.
The blush on his face and his avoidant eye contact made you settle in closer to him. You watched his hands grasp around his glass, bringing it up to his lips and completely disregarding that there had been a straw in it.
“Well, how about you?” You insisted with a nod, folding one hand over the other on the table. “I’m sure girls are all over you at the bars.”
“Honey,” he chuckled, causing you to cock an eyebrow, “I haven’t properly been to a bar in months.”
“Why not?”
“Well, work… for one.” He shrugged. “And—“
“Okay, how about work?” You interjected, leaning in. “Is it Grey’s Anatomy up in there or what?”
Robby leaned back, a smile playing at his lips and a laugh stuck in his throat, “Excuse me?”
“Oh, c’mon, are you the hospital hussy?” You sipped on your drink, teasing him with a playful grin.
He tilted his head to the side and squinted his eyes at you as he pursed his lips. You stared right back, as if there had been some competition. That was the thing about you and Robby— you acted like he was your age, not some deadbeat old man whose job ruled his life. He felt like he was still young with you, or at least virile. You acted like it wasn’t ridiculous you two were at the bar together, squeezed into a booth all romantic-like.
“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” He furrowed his eyebrows, but his lips upturned.
You liked the element of surprise you put in Robby. Picking up on his tired eyes, the could’ve-been life that sat wistfully inside of him, you saw the dead end that he thought he met. You felt it too, so mixing it up, saying whatever was on your mind, made it less sad and less lonely. The light at the end of the tunnel, or whatever.
Finishing up your own drink, you noticed that he was running dry as well. His eyes wandered around the swarm of bodies that moved in sync. It was that wistfulness again, a sparkle of nostalgia in his eyes. A smile grew on your face as you recognized the song change.
You nodded your head at him, “You wanna dance?”
Taken aback, Robby gave a surprised smile, “Dancing? Am I in my twenties again?”
“That wasn’t a no.” You sang, smiling as you coaxed his arm to the dance floor.
“I don’t know how to dance.” He protested, reluctantly following you out of the booth.
“Does anyone?”
You yanked him close by his forearms, having him crowd you, making sure it was obvious who was whose. He smiled like it was ridiculous, saying so under his breath as well.
You started swaying to the music, finding a rhythm with him. He did the same, slowly trying to break the barrier between awkwardness and euphoria. You smiled, watching him do so. There was something so charming about his meeting you in the middle.
You leaned your head towards his ear and said, “I was staring, by the way.” Pulling back, you saw the grin on his face grow wider.
“Were you?” He tilted his head teasingly.
“You knew I was.”
“I wasn’t sure if you had a mini stroke or not.” He shrugged and you rolled your eyes.
You placed your forearms to rest on his shoulders, beckoning him to slide in closer to you. He did so, hands finding your hips. Becoming one unit, your moves glued to each other’s, just as your eyes did. Your face neared his and you smelled the gin on his lips and felt the heat of him overtake you.
“Hey,” you called, practically into his beard. He nodded wordlessly, completely entranced by his view. You leaned forward but waited for a sign of reciprocity. He smiled again before following suit.
Slowly, you exhaled, surveying his face one more time before pulling yourself up to him. Lips grazed his beard before anything and the tip of his nose touched your cheek. You felt his hands press into your lower back, grasping like he was about to slip. You could’ve sworn he made a sound when you kissed him.
Music reverbed off the walls and the lights went out on you. The contact of his lips felt like a crashing shock. It was one press— the surface area finding yours as if he needed to memorize it. When his body pressed against yours, your shoulders heighted and your body pushed against him. More. It felt greedy.
He started pulling back but immediately caught you again. Your lips desperately trailed him, kisses turning sloppier, faster, needier. Every press felt like you found an oasis, sipping water like you had been dehydrated for months, yet you hadn’t even tasted his tongue.
Your hands found his hair, fingers grazing the soft texture at the base of his skull. The sensation of the skin on his lips, the graze of his beard, the hair between your fingers, the texture of his jacket on your arms all felt like too much but also too little.
“Robby,” you mumbled, cut off by his teeth nibbling on your bottom lip.
He hummed in return, “Yeah, baby?” He left a kiss on the corner of your lips, like he was starting a trail to return to. His head moved to the right side of your neck, soft kisses along the bone behind your ear, then your jaw, then lower and lower…
“Robby,” You repeated, more as an exhale than a proper word, like it was the only thing blinding your thoughts. His lips lifted from your neck, but his hands stayed stable on your waist. You gulped and opened your eyes slowly, afraid you had imagined it all.
When your eyes did open fully, you saw Robby, who was staring at you with a certain hunger in his eyes. The purple lights from the club surfaced over his face and you remembered where you were. He was so patient, eyes scanning around your face, ready whenever you finished that thought. Your mouth stayed ajar, dumbfounded.
Your breath desperately caught up with your heart. The sound of the music was white noise, indistinguishable from a breeze in the wind. Your eyes widened and you blinked like you couldn’t believe it. Your senses both shut down and tensed, all at once, as you zeroed in on Robby, who had grown a smile on his face. It was a movie kiss, you identified, a perfect release that could have only been rehearsed trillions of times but happened to fall into you like a shooting star.
“Honey,” he whispered, “You’re staring again.”
You snapped out of it, looking away from Robby sheepishly. It definitely wasn’t the first time you’ve been kissed, but it definitely was the first time you’ve been kissed like that. There was something so sure about Robby; maybe it was the slowburn but you assumed it was the way he guided you, like you didn’t have to worry about anything but being with him.
He squeezed his hands around your waist to get your attention and said, “Use your words.”
“Home, Robby. Please.” You inhaled sharply, “Take me home.”
The walk back was quiet. The orange of the street lights guided you home and strangers slinking around the streets reminded you just how eager you were to leave the club. Robby had slipped his jacket around your shoulders and his hand in yours. He pressed kisses into your temple while you walked, mumbling sweet little reassurance as you leaned into him.
Your knees felt weak when you approached his door and you wanted nothing more than to feel him again and again. On his stoop, your hands and your back found stability on the cold, steel railing. You felt drunk, not from the drink, but from the buzz and possibility of Robby wanting you too.
Your bottom lip slipped between your own teeth as he looked at you. You were wide-eyed and awestruck, so desperate to know what happens next. His eyes glazed over you in his jacket and he slipped an arm between the jacket and your back, pulling you closer.
You let out a satisfied hum, watching him unlock his door. Robby smiled down at you as he pushed it open, taking you with him. Your head reached up to his while he shut the door behind you.
Swiftly, his face met yours and his lips enveloped you again. You sighed into it, drawing closer to him. Your hands eagerly found his chest, running your fingers and palms up and down on the cotton of his shirt. You drew your head back against the door in ecstasy, so relieved and self-indulgent.
This time, his tongue found your bottom lip and eventually the inside of your mouth in three-fourths time. It all happened so slowly, and you drank up every painful millisecond. He relaxed against you, attempting to ease your heart’s tempo. God, he knew you wanted more, but he exhibited such good self control. You whined into it, feeling lightheaded from the taste of him.
Lips felt wet and messy all of a sudden, but he was taking his time with every kiss, both giving and taking. His mouth worked on you, like tuning a piano to perfection, with controlled movements and an ear for perfect tune. While his hands ran up and down your sides, you felt yourself shudder against him. His bottom half pressed against you as your back pressed up against the door.
With a groan, you bit down on his bottom lip, begging for more. Your leg hiked up around his hip, craving to feel him closer against you. His right hand found the back of your thigh, running up to grab onto your ass. Perching you on him for just a moment, his lips left yours then his head dipped to your neck.
“You really want me to fuck you against the door?” He mumbled into your skin sarcastically, heat against it causing you to gravitate closer to him. You felt his nose against your pulse and his beard grazing the skin on your collarbone, overwhelming you in the best way.
“Uh, uh.” You gulped, shaking your head as he planted soft, wet kisses up the column of your throat. His hands latched onto you more firmly and he pulled you in. Face moving up from your neck, his eyes found yours and his arm slipped around your back again.
“Good.”
With a yelp, you followed as he began to drag you down the hall with him. You giggled, quick and giddy, causing him to let out a chuckle as well. Your face pressed into his shoulder, warm with excitement and anticipation— so much so, you didn’t realize both of your shoes had been checked at the door. It was silly, the way he made you blush, like you were living some life you only knew before your alarm went off.
Reaching his room, it was barely lit by the warm street lights through the window. The glow surfaced on his face and you could tell he was smiling too. You pushed his jacket off of your shoulders, dropping it to the floor recklessly. He pulled you in close again, and your mouth reached for his lips. He tilted his head up before you could meet them.
“Robby,” you scolded playfully. His beard tickled your fingers as you ran them through.
He smiled down at you, “I just wanna look at you.”
“I’ll be here all night.” You teased, voice breathy as your hands found the scruff of his jaw. When you kissed him again, his arms went around you and lifted you up, carrying you towards the bed. You wrapped your arms around his neck and your head tucked into his shoulder.
Your back hit the mattress and it felt like the perfect fit. The plush of his comforter molded around your arms and the smell of eucalyptus, wood, and man overtook you. He had a huge, cozy bed, expected of a doctor in his department— you could wonder why he was always so exhausted. You’d trade your cheap queen mattress for the memories you’d have on this foam any day.
Robby settled between your legs, bodies pressed together. You felt him above your jeans, slowly rutting into you just like you wanted. Your legs dangled around his hips automatically, allowing him to get as close to your core as possible. Eagerly, you giggled again as he placed his hands on your hips.
“What’s so funny?” He teased, reaching his head down to nip at your neck again.
You sighed, throwing your head back to give him room, “Need you to touch me.”
Your hands found his sides, grasping at the tense muscles on his back then finding the hem near his hips to slide your hands in. Your fingertips pressed on the soft flesh of him, feeling as he moved against you.
“Where, sweetheart?” His breath made you press up closer to him.
Your breath caught in your throat as his head slowly made its way down. First, the space between your shirt’s neckline and the base of your neck, then the valley between your chest. His right hand ruched up your shirt, the warmth from his hand meeting the chill in your skin. Each beat of your heart sped up as his lips pressed against you.
While doing so, he kneeled against you, keeping his body a distance away from yours. His eyes made their way up you dangerously slow. The space between you felt agonizing as the fabric of his shirt teased your bare stomach.
Attempting to find release for the ache in your core, you pushed yourself down to feel him against you. When his knee dipped into the mattress, your hips bucked upwards on his thigh, like a reflex. A soft sound coming from your mouth, you felt Robby grin against your skin.
He hummed, “I’ll take that as an answer.”
As he drew his head up, you urged him to come closer, pulling him by his back. Your eyes found him in the dim light, pulling his shirt over his head. He seemed to shiver at your touch, fingers finding the surface of his chest before tossing his shirt onto the floor.
Robby followed suit, hands going under your top and pulling it over your head. Humming, you smiled as he sat back, running his hands up and down your torso. He squeezed at your chest and smiled.
You groaned, “Robby,” more annoyed than intended.
“Yeah, baby?” He leaned his head down, body hovering over you once again.
“Taking your sweet ass time, huh?” You mumbled, hands finding the sides of his neck. He shook his head and you could practically feel him roll his eyes.
His hand lightly pushed down on your bare stomach as his fingers searched for the button on your pants. Legs still surrounding his thigh, you squeezed against him as he skimmed your bare waist under the denim.
“Sweetheart, you’re gonna have to move your legs if you want me to touch you.” He chuckled roughly, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
You obliged, staring up at him while he focused on getting your pants off. When he slipped them off, his fingers skimmed over your lace-clad hipbone, causing you to shudder against him. His head was tilted down, zeroed in on your core.
The wet between your legs gathered when he looked at your face, burning to be acknowledged. There was also a tingling sensation that had been playing on your lips. Desperate to find his, you reached your chin up. Through your underwear, you felt two of his fingers press against you and you pressed up with a quiet moan, taking his mouth to yours. His tongue met yours with a hum and an exhale.
Robby was still on his knees, and his fingers found their way into your panties. Pushing the gusset aside, he slid the wet up and down your folds, causing you to buck your hips up to him. He hadn’t even put any fingers in you yet, but you were so sensitive that anything was enough.
His lips turned sloppy against yours, saliva mixed with whines. Your breath was jagged too, chasing the high he was giving. Your hands splayed around his head, so eager you had no clue if you wanted to push his head closer to yours or hold the nape of this neck, intertwining fingers with his short pieces of hair.
Body attempted to push towards him, only failing when his other hand forced your hips down. Whining, you buried your face into him like you needed everything— lips, tongue, beard, nose, wrinkles and all. Yeah, he was hungry, but you were starving.
His fingers hooked on your panties without disconnecting his face from yours. He pushed them off with the help of your elevated hips, and you kicked them off your legs.
Moaning into his mouth, your hips met his fingers against your entrance. You whined as he stalled just outside. Face pulling away, he smiled at you.
“Eager, are we?” He teased, fingers meeting your puffy clit. He rubbed up and down, gliding around and on it. It was enough pressure for you to grasp at his shoulders.
“Need it so bad, Dr. Robby.” You whined, pushing your hips into the mattress as he went to tease your entrance.
“Fuck,” he groaned quietly, fingers ghosting over you, “Wow.”
Your head fell back and mouth into an O-shape as his fingers slid into you. The gush had you moving your hips into his still fingers. He watched your face as you did so, bringing himself closer to you.
His mouth moved with yours as he rocked his fingers into you. You could gauge his eagerness by how his fingers curled in you, like he wanted to feel all of you. You really squealed when he moved to rub on your clit again, eliciting a chuckle from him.
“Are you gonna finish on my fingers, sweetheart?” Robby teased before you kissed him again with a whine. When his fingers slipped back inside of you, your body met him in the middle with each movement, desperate to get off.
Fingers pumping into you, his thumb found your clit and drove you close to the edge. You threw your head back again as he lifted his. Breaths turned shorter and you clung to his shoulders, one hand making its way to the side of his head.
“Oh, fuck.” You mumbled, hips raising off the bed to meet him. You looked back at him and he had been staring at your face the whole time. The determination in his eyes made you lightheaded. He nodded as he felt you pulse around him, only to speed up.
Your breath hurried as you felt heat bubbling in your core. Your hips locked and sweat grew on your skin, all over your body. Biting down on your lip, you hummed as your hands pressed down on Robby. You grew tight around his fingers and felt yourself gush.
Rutting your hips up to his fingers again, you moaned and exhaled. Hips stalling against him with his eyes on yours. You vibrated under him without proper release, riding the high of his pressure on you. He kept his fingers in you, causing you to pulse with an ah-ah-ah noise leaving your mouth.
Dropping your hips, you felt the wave of release crash over you, sighing with a whine as his fingers slipped out of you. You panted as you watched a smile grow on his face.
Gulping, you pushed your fingers through his short hair and he placed his hand on the outside of your thigh. He squeezed as he dipped his head towards you.
You kissed him slowly this time, fire inside you still burning, skin heated with sweat. Lips moved in sync and it was his turn to groan when your hand reached surfaced over the bulge growing in his pants.
You tugged at his belt buckle, yanking it off and going for the button on his jeans. At the glimpse of his dark blue boxers, you bit your lip. He helped you, pulling his pants and boxers away altogether.
Robby was… Fuck, he was exactly what you expected. Thick, strong, filling… The length of him had already been dripping. He had fallen against your lower abdomen, painting you giddy. You didn’t mean to, but you smiled far too wide as you stared.
“Mmm, I’m excited.” You joked, looking up at him as he squeezed at the plush of your thighs.
“You’re somethin’ else.” He mumbled, shaking his head as he leaned in to kiss you again.
Reaching your hands around his neck, you pressed your hips up to him as he fell between you. Grinding against the wet gathered at your entrance, he groaned into your mouth as he met you in the middle. You felt the friction against your clit as you squeezed your legs around him.
After humming into a kiss, you tilted your head away, “You’re clean, right?” He stalled against you, about to speak, but you cut him off. “Oh, doctor, right. I know…”
“You?” He nodded once, raising himself on his elbows.
“Mhmm,” you ran a hand over his beard and rested it on his shoulder, grinding over the length of him with a heavy breath, “Birth control too. You wanna fuck me raw, Dr. Robby?” You purred, chin tilting up with a smirk.
“Jesus,” he shook his head at you with a smile.
His hand ran up and down the surface of your thigh, coaxing you closer to him. An arm caged around the side of your neck, fingers pushing hair behind your ear. Your knees locking around his waist, he slowly worked his way inside. You reached up for his lips again, smooth surface pressing softly.
His lips felt like silk against yours, smooth sheets against your skin. The roughness of his beard only tickled you, balancing out delicately. The pads of his fingers barely squeezed on you, rather rubbing circles to ease you in.
As he slowly started to fill you in, your breath synced with his. Mouth suddenly still against yours, he panted, peeling himself off your face hesitantly. The wince in his eyes told you everything, crows feet growing beautifully in ecstasy. Fuck was the word, right, but he had started so gentle that maybe there should’ve been a word more lush, tender even.
As he bottomed out, you inhaled sharply, eyes grazing over his face. He stared at you and ran his hand up to your side. Clenching around him, you stayed as still as he did, anticipating, waiting.
He was deliberately slow with it, inching out of you like he was holding himself back. Rocking into you, each drag made you more eager, made you insatiable. His eyes burned into yours, watching your breath catch each slow two-seconds his pelvic bone met yours.
“Robby,” you whispered, his bottom lip hanging off of yours.
Squeezing at your ribs, he sighed, “Yes, sweetheart?”
“C’mon, honey, I’m not gonna break.” You cooed as his forehead rested against yours.
“Yeah?” He mumbled, giving a small kiss to your lips.
You lifted your hips off the bed, begging to meet him in the middle. Hands grasping at his back, you rocked your hips onto him. His breath turned heavy against you as his hand found your waist. Pushes turned to shoves while you prodded him to go harder on you.
“Don’t even need to move, you’ll fuck yourself on me, won’t you?” He rasped into your lips before giving you a bruising kiss.
His hand went heavy on you, pushing your hips down on the bed. You squealed against the kiss as you felt him drive further, faster. Slipping in and out, he huffed as he met your cervix, legs pushing open more for him.
Quickening the pace, he locked you under him. He was more heavy pants and hums than he was grunts or moans. Hips snapping against each other, sweat brewing over your skin, the sound was absurd. Still, his face hung over yours, staring at you in awe.
Blissed out, you panted a mess of noises as he thrusted into you, the bed rocking slightly beneath you. You arched your back, bringing your stomach to meet his and trying to get somewhat closer to his body. Throwing your head back, you shut your eyes as the pressure wound up in you.
Legs reaching up, you locked your ankles behind his back, pulling him further in and earning a heavy shit, sweetheart from him. Chasing your high, you swore you saw stars, pressing your closed eyes tighter.
“C’mon, baby, look at me.” He croaked, muscles tightening. His hand that was on the side of your head moved to grasp your hand, which was intertwined with the sheet.
“Feel so good,” you murmured. Your eyes fluttered open, fingers grasping as they met his hand. Your other hand found the side of his face. “Kiss me. Please.” You nodded your head up, eager to meet his lips in yours.
With the shift of his hips, his mouth caught against yours, a groan falling in between. His pace changed, harder and sloppier, skin meeting with a slap. Tongue intertwined in yours, muffed moans filled the room. Breaths were forgone for the sweetness of his saliva.
Robby noticed the way you squirmed against him, like you were just there. He reached down between you and pressed his fingers to your sweet spot. You started to writhe into him, whining and bucking your hips.
“Oh, my God.” Your hands grasped his as you let out a muffled noise.
“God, if you keep squeezing like that, sweetheart—“ His hips stuttered, feeling you gush around him.
The overwhelming and enduring fire in you reached its crescendo. All of a sudden, the press of his body against you, his hands on you, the light feathering of his body hair over your stomach, and, of course, the absolute jackhammer of him blended like static on your senses. Ringing grew in your ears and with another snap:
“Oh, fuck!” You choked out, throwing your head back on the pillow.
The aftershocks of your climax still rode out as he found his. Your whines and moans filled the room as you let him use you up. Your walls clenching and contracting around him was enough to send him reeling. Hips shuddering, he plunged all the way back in. Everything in him buckled as he twitched and spasmed.
With a few deep jerks, Robby growled into you, “Oh, shit, so fuck–ing perfect. So beautiful, baby. You’re so good for me. Fuck, yes!” Filling you warmly, he went limp with a big exhale.
Panting against him, you kept your fingers intertwined and let him fall onto you. His forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, sweat against sweat. The deadweight of his body felt perfect, trailing the overstimulation of it all. With him still inside of you, you pressed your hand to his back.
Lightheaded, you attempted to catch your own breath, inhaling deeply but lazily. You ran your fingers up and down the slick skin on his back. Mind going numb, you allowed yourself to doze a little, eyes half-lidded.
Huffing, he tilted his head to you, softly pressing a kiss to your temple, “Sorry, sweetheart. Must be crushing you.” He began raising himself on his elbows, ready to roll over to the side of you.
Whining disapprovingly, you pulled him back in, making him rest back on top of you. He followed hesitantly, allowing himself to relax. Your legs stayed wrapped around him, tightly holding him in as he softened.
“M’so sweaty, honey.” He said, face buried into the pillows. “Should clean up.”
“Tired,” you whined again. Sighing, he lifted his head to pepper kisses on your face, cheek, forehead, nose.
“C’mon, don’t want to see you in the emergency room with a UTI.” He mumbled into your skin.
“So dramatic, Dr. Robby.” You rolled your eyes, slipping your hand out of his to wrap around his back. Embracing him, you tucked your head into the opposite crook of his neck. “Let me hold you for a little, please?” You pleaded softly. “Then, we can go clean up.”
Exhaling, Robby collapsed back onto you. He couldn’t even try to fight it if he wanted. He continued pressing tiny pecks into your skin, nipping at your neck and up your jaw.
Eventually, you would get up, but for now, Robby was yours.
The morning slipped in like it had been attached to the night. The sun was hushed behind his curtains and you had woken up slowly and effortlessly. Over the rays that slipped in, you were in one of Robby’s worn shirts— he made some comment that it was definitely older than you. He remained shirtless, chest hair free under the morning light.
You had been facing Robby and his fingers were hanging off your ribs. Head tucked into his chest, you had an arm around the plush of his stomach by default. The snores he let out made you softly chuckle, unaware of how you possibly slept through it.
Turning away from Robby, you rolled onto your stomach, checking your phone for any morning notifications. You heard him shift next to you, the bed dipping slightly behind you.
He rolled over with a rasped “Morning, sweetheart.”
His hand surfaced over your back, under the shirt, like he was searching for something. With a tired sigh, his lips found your spine, kissing from the base of your neck slowly to the dip in your waist. The touch made you shiver against the sheets and gravitated you towards him.
“You’re addicted to that thing.” He mumbled, his breath and the movement of his lips causing you to flinch a little. He tapped your hip with his hand, as if trying to catch your attention. The ghost of his mouth faded on your back as he fell back into his former position.
Dropping your phone back on the nightstand, you rolled over to meet him in the middle of the bed. With a smile, you pressed your hands against his bare chest and found his lips to meet yours. It felt nicer in the daylight somehow, the sunrays peeking through the window to coat the lines on his face. The plush on his lips were somehow rougher, waiting to be broken in for the day.
“Happy?” You said, running your hand over the side of his beard. Your face was only a distance away from his and your body had leaned off his side. He hummed as you pressed another delicate kiss on his lips.
You pulled yourself onto his hips, so you could feel your body flush against his. He let out a slight hum at the feeling of your skin pressed together. His hands went to your lower back, grasping to feel you closer.
“Do you wanna go to that diner for breakfast?” You pressed another kiss on his lips as you rested your arms around his head. You shifted yourself on his hips, feeling the morning greet you.
“Mhmm,” Robby nodded, but it seemed like he hadn’t really heard you. He ran his hand over your hair, letting you lazily grind over him.
You hummed, “Found out I have to go to work tonight.”
“Leavin’ me on my day off?” He mumbled, hands resting on the underside of your thighs as he pressed a kiss onto your cheek.
“It’s just later tonight. You’ll survive.” You teased, fingers playing with his hair.
“Better make the rest of the day, then.” He said before reaching his head up to sweep you into a deeper kiss. You giggled as his hands went under your (his) shirt to pull it off.
The next morning, Jack had called Robby into the ED, although he wasn’t meant to work at all that day. With Shen on vacation, he assumed he could handle it. Apparently, patients started piling up, and there was a crisis downtown— something about a bar fight, Robby wasn’t exactly sure.
As Robby made his way in around four, Jack patted him on the back, “God, am I glad to see you, brother.”
They walked towards central, Robby looking around at the chaos flooding into the walkways. “Jesus, what’s going on?”
“Huge bar fight from the Strip District. Mostly bruises, cuts, and fractured bones, but we have one in trauma with a stab wound, about to be transferred to the OR.” Jack explained. “Everyone got in around three-thirty, so all of the beds are full now.”
“When are they not?” They approached central and Robby nodded at Lena.
Jack nudged his head over to Trauma One, and Robby followed. Peeking inside, he saw a larger man on the table with an ice pick sticking out of his side and a gash across his arm. Walsh and Donnie were over him, observing and checking his vitals.
“What happened there?” Robby asked, folding his arms.
“Someone at the bar got creative. We don’t have a full story yet.” Jack continued walking down, towards the other rooms and beds. “The police are on their way, but I don’t think anyone will get arrested.”
“Why?”
“Ever seen Coyote Ugly?” Jack raised an eyebrow.
“Yes…” Robby nodded slowly as Jack gestured down the walkway.
Robby looked to the curtains that were crowded with girls in sequins, glitter, leather party clothes, some with blood staining them.
“You chipped my fuckin’ tooth!” One of the girls in a wheelchair, who had a towel over her mouth, yelled across the way.
“It was an accident, bitch!” The other girl was on a bed, her foot elevated and a bruise on her cheek.
The area was overflowing. Girls chattering and girls half-asleep, there was even a couple arguing in one of the rooms. Robby had experienced bar fights coming in before, but it was always a bunch of beer-bellied guys or boyfriends defending their masculinity. He toed his way over, eyes roaming the area for a quick survey.
“Fuck, boss, do you think we’ll get fired?” One of the girls, who had some cuts on her legs and a black eye, called from one of the beds. She was being treated by Mateo.
“No way,” That was your voice, one that Robby had to second guess because why the hell would you be here?, “If Gustav wants to fire you guys, he’s gonna have to go through me first. Besides, though, you guys gotta stop bringing boyfriends into the bar.”
Swiftly, Robby turned on his heel, spotting you slumped over in a chair. By one of the beds, you had a bruise on your cheekbone, one on your knee, and a gauze wrapped around your right hand. You were in knee-high boots and possibly the most revealing outfit he’d ever seen you in. You leaned on your non-gauzed hand with a furrow in your brow. He called your name, rushing over.
Alarmed, you sat up with your eyes wide, “Robby.”
“Sweetheart,” his voice turned soft, concerned. He came to your side, kneeling next to the chair, and, immediately, you felt your face burn up.
“Fuck.” You pressed your left hand to your forehead, shutting your eyes. “This is so embarrassing.”
The girls who had been arguing across from you chirped up:
“Damn,” Kelly, a broken ankle propped on the bed, cursed your name, “Is this your man?”
“Who else would she be cooking all that food for?” Chris responded, lowering the towel from her bleeding mouth.
“In such a good mood. No wonder she started tipping out.” Jenna, in the bed beside you, joked with a shake of her head. “Been getting it good, huh, boss?” She pinched your elbow teasingly, which made you wince.
“Ignore them.” You rolled your eyes, flitting your hand at them. You looked at him, “I thought you weren’t working today.”
“I got called in. What the hell happened?” Robby took your gauzed hand in his, examining where your palm had been cut. What he couldn’t see was Jack, who had been peering over from across the hallway. A soft eyebrow raised in interest, and a sharp inhale, this is why Robby had been so nice and calm and easygoing.
“Uh,” you looked around, and all eyes were on you, “Can we talk… privately?” He nodded slowly, standing and helping you up. You winced at his action and mumbled, “I’m fine.”
Making your way a distance from the curtains, the girls resumed their chatter, now diminished to hushed whispers. Robby walked beside you, hand still holding yours. Landing somewhere by Pedes, Robby folded his arms in front of you.
He furrowed his eyebrows concernedly, “I heard the police got involved? What’s going on, sweetheart?”
“A bunch of tourists came in tonight and got fucking sloshed.” You sighed, “I had it under control until one of them thought it was a good idea to try to grab Kelly off the bar—”
“Why was she on the bar?” He jutted his head out, now even more worried.
“Nevermind that.” You shook your head. “His group thought it was funny to harass the other girls as well.” You gestured to the curtains. “Bella was getting felt up by some asshole, and, for some reason, her stupid fucking boyfriend showed up.
“He got crazy possessive about her and broke out into some animalistic aggression? I don’t know,” you spoke frantically and defensively, like you were in trouble with your parents, “he started howling and swinging at the tourists. Long story short, it gave everyone else an excuse to fight.”
“Okay…” He nodded slowly, then tapped at the gauze on your hand. “Doesn’t explain this.” You shook your head as your eyes caught the man who was being wheeled out of Trauma. His eyes softened, “Oh.”
“His stupid friends fled before the cops came.” You turned back to Robby, “I just wanted to protect my girls.”
“Uh, huh.” He saw the panic in your eyes settle when he nodded.
“I had it under control. We didn’t need to come here.” You reasoned with an exhale.
“But I’m glad you did.” He placed a hand on your bicep, attempting to be supportive. You dropped your shoulders when he did, unaware you had been anxious.
“There’s, uh… Something else.” You mumbled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear out of stress.
“Tell me.” Robby spoke softly, hand rubbing up and down your arm.
“Half these girls don’t have health insurance, the other half are still on their parents’.” You exhaled, like you had been holding a weight in your chest. “I really didn’t wanna take them to the ER, but someone called the cops.” You explained to Robby with a hand pressed to your forehead.
“Okay,” he sighed, “You can talk to our case manager, Noelle Hastings, and she’ll discuss some options with you.”
“She’s not gonna tell me anything I don’t already know. Can we wipe this from the record, call it a… write-off or something?” You neared Robby, able to lean towards him.
He mumbled your name, “I… Since there’s probably been a police report, it’s already on the record. Please, just talk to Noelle. She can help.” You shut your eyes with an exhale and let out a soft okay. “I’ll have them send her down.” He patted your arm, taking you closer to him.
“Thanks,” you whispered, although you weren’t really sure what for. He pressed a kiss onto your forehead before leading you back to the curtains.
After having talked to the cops, the woman identified as Noelle made her way over to you. She was long legs, shiny black heels, a proper navy pantsuit, and luscious black hair in a half up-half down. An older lady, her wrinkles were a testament to her grooming, beautiful around her eyes and complimenting her smile.
“Hi, I’m Noelle Hastings, the case manager here at PTMC.” She greeted as you stood up, one hand clutching a tablet. Her eyes glazed over your outfit as she chuckled, “Looks like someone had quite the night.”
Following her off to Central, you realized you felt silly around her. She had been so professional, and half the surface of your skin met the cold air conditioning of the emergency department, hair slightly messy from the fight. You never shivered, though, standing up straight in front of Noelle.
You laughed awkwardly, attempting to pull down the little fabric you had around your hips, “Um, I assume you’re caught up on the circumstances.”
“Yes,” She nodded once, her eyes crinkling as she exhaled. “Some of these are quite a hefty bill for those uninsured. They are all technically work-related injuries, so I suggest talking to your boss about worker’s comp when you can.”
“Okay,” you shrugged, then looked away, “Shit, I don’t know if my boss will go for that.”
“Well, another option is financial assistance from the hospital. If some of them fall under certain income limits, they could qualify for Charity Care and PTMC will cover it.” She explained delicately, like she knew you were on edge.
“How can we…” You looked back at her, who had a concerned look for you. “How can we check?”
“I can talk to the girls about their income, if that’s okay with them,” she offered supportively, "Then, we can move forward with some forms and things.”
“Everything okay here?” You heard Robby’s voice trickle in, coming to stand beside you. He looked to Noelle for an answer, who had made dreamy-eyes at him when he stepped forward. If she hadn’t calmed your nerves, you wouldn’t have noticed.
You recognized the glint in her eye, a narrow like there was a secret you weren’t in on and a smirk on her face. The friendly smile on her face only grew into something more… suggestive?
“Yes, I briefed her on our options.” Noelle nodded. With you still there, girlish youth grew on her face, suddenly lit up and hopeful with a little bit of desperation. She took a step forward, “Dr. Robby, if I could just—“
“Great,” Robby nodded like he hadn’t heard her. You looked between them, inquisitive and a little entertained. Ready to walk away, his hand skimmed over yours as he looked at you, “Did you need anything from me?”
Receptive, your hand wrapped around his and gave a squeeze, “No. Thanks, honey.”
He nodded again, a bashful smile playing at his lips before he trailed off. You watched him walk away, biting at the inside of your cheek to stop a proud smile from coming about.
Turning back, you nodded at Noelle, “Thank you again.”
You began to walk away, then her voice stopped you.
“Do you, uh,” she started, the veil of professionalism faltering for just a moment through her curious eyes, “Do you know Dr. Robinavitch?”
“We’re…” You stopped yourself, then cleared your throat, “Why?”
She looked away and exhaled a little, “Oh, nothing… Just—”
“We’re neighbours.” You grinned with the tilt of your head, unintentionally fishing for more information. It wasn’t technically a lie, but it definitely wasn’t what she was asking.
“He just, uh,” She shook her head, then looked back up, “Kinda dropped out a few months ago.”
“You mean he… ghosted you?” You slowly nodded understandingly.
Could’ve been. That’s what Noelle was. In all her polished and experienced beauty, Robby had led her on. Why he let such a woman get away was beyond you. And maybe it was self-centred to think so, but the timeline had lined up to when you landed on Robby’s front steps.
She was older than you, more mature, no doubt. You were practically in shiny underwear in front of her with big lashes and glittery lip gloss, looking like some little aspiring cosmetologist’s fucked up Barbie doll.
“God, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.” She muttered, more to herself than to you. Her hand moved to cover her face slightly, embarrassment blooming on her cheeks. In this state, she was another girl just like you, confidence faltering over this old man.
“No,” you shook your head supportively, then offered playfully, “didn’t really know a 50 year old man could have a situationship.”
“Stupid, right?” Noelle shrugged, rolling her eyes. Removing her hand from her face while flicking her hair away, she scoffed, “Guess I just thought we had something real. Jokes on me for trying something with a man so lonely.”
You chuckled at her honesty, “Happens to the best of us.”
With a pressed smile, she nodded, “I’ll go speak to the girls now.”
“Of course,” You affirmed as she trailed off.
A few hours after the whole bar fight party had been discharged and everyone was slowly getting caught up, Jack stopped by at Central, where Robby had been finishing up some charts.
Knocking on the counter, Jack nodded, “How’s it going?”
“About ready to head home.” Robby sighed, tilting his glasses down to look at Jack.
“What, uh…” Jack leaned over the surface, an amused smile growing on his face, “What’s going on with the fighter from earlier?”
Robby laughed to himself, leaning over the desk like he and Jack were two girls at a sleepover, “The fighter?” He mocked, raising an eyebrow innocently.
“You know, the leader in that tiny skirt…” Jack teased, watching Robby’s expression soften, “What’s going on there?”
“Uh, she moved in next door a few months ago,” Robby shook his head bashfully, “We became friends pretty quickly, and, uh… you know.”
“I know? What are you, a teenager?” Jack scoffed playfully.
“I don’t know what you want from me, man.” Robby smiled, tilting his head, “It’s new.”
“That’s where all your free time has been going, then?”
“Sorry I don’t want to play pickleball on my Sundays.” Robby joked, logging out and rolling his eyes. He stood from his chair, reaching for his jacket, which rested on the back of it.
“Young thing.” Jack commented, standing up straight. “Is this the one packing your lunches?”
Sighing, Robby slipped on his jacket, “Leftovers from dinner.”
“I’m happy for you, man.” With the pat of his back, he tilted his head up and joked, “Careful with that one, though. She’s feisty.”
“Yeah, I should get home, check on her.” Robby laughed with the shake of his head. “Shouldn’t even be working right now.”
Jack rolled his eyes, “Alright, Chief.”
Upon coming home, Robby saw you where he usually did, on your stoop with a cigarette and your cell phone. You had swapped your sequined halter for your big hoodie, and your legs stayed bare on the stairs, pulled to your chest and feet in slippers. Your nails tapped on your screen frantically, but your face stayed straight, eyes drooping tiredly.
“Hey, killer.” He said, making his way over to you.
You tried to laugh but it came out as a small huff, “Hey, Hospital Heartbreaker.”
He chuckled as he sat beside you, shaking his head, “That’s a new one.”
“That, uh,” you gestured the cigarette to him, which he declined, “case manager…” You raised an eyebrow playfully as he nodded. “I was right about you.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled, sitting back. He was close enough that his scrub bottoms were flush against the skin of your thigh. “Wasn’t serious. It was before… you.”
“Does she know that?” You chuckled with a draw of the cigarette.
Robby tilted his chin at you, “How are you doing?”
“Seen worse days.” You tilted your head at him with a lopsided smile. “Should’ve seen the other guy.”
He nodded his head slowly, “I did.”
“Is he gonna be okay?” You asked, more out of curiosity than concern, eyes trailing to the street..
“I… don’t know.” He exhaled.
“Hope not, that bastard deserves jail time.” You hissed half-jokingly, taking another drag of your cigarette and blowing it in the opposite direction.
Robby cleared his throat, shifting in his seat, “I didn’t know your job was so… dangerous.”
“Yeah.” You shrugged, like it was the most simple thing in the world.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?” His eyebrows knit together, genuine concern brewing in him. He looked at you in confusion, eyes uneasy as he waited patiently for a response.
“I don’t know…” You offered hesitantly, “I thought you’d…”
“Care?”
“I don’t know what I thought. I’m just a private person, I guess.” You shrugged dismissively, turned away from him at this point. “Working at a club isn’t uncommon.”
You didn’t mean to be so defensive, but you never thought your worlds would collide the way it did. You never intended to take Robby seriously until you realized how much you actually liked him.
With a final puff of the cigarette, you said, “My last boyfriend was a detective. He kinda… had a thing for being invasive about my job, then our relationship turned into a sting operation. It was a whole thing.” You swatted your hand in the air tiredly.
“Didn’t take you for one with crazy exes.” He joked, but you couldn’t even smile.
“Sammy’s not crazy… he’s just,” you shook your head, unsure why you even bothered to bring it up, “Whatever. Doesn’t matter anymore.”
Robby watched as you tapped the ashes off the cigarette and reached to put it out on the ground. His eyes softened when you looked at him.
“Well, I’d like you to stay safe.” He said, like it was a suggestion, medicine for whatever illness the night gave you. “And I want to know what’s going on with you. I don’t want to hover, just want you to come home in one piece.” His hand found the side of your face, urging you to lean into him.
“Home.” You repeated with a nod, like it was an epiphany.
“Yeah.” He smiled.
“What, are you my boyfriend now?” You teased, nudging his knee with yours.
“Boyfriend,” he repeated, like he was trying it on for size, running a thumb over your cheekbone, “Yeah…”
Summary: You finally talked Jack into ditching the hospital for a beach getaway since every other trip you've taken together has been during colder seasons, buried under layers. Stripping down to swimwear, you're reminded of how just damn good your man looks under the Italian sun.
Warning: SMUT (MDNI 18+) established relationship, language, pet names, flashbacks to so much vacation sex (descriptions of p in v sex, oral - both m&f), heavy petting/teasing, insecurity (jack's leg and prosthetic), alcohol consumption, pushy italian man not understanding you aren't interested, protective jack, lots of physical touch (dat man is obsessed with you), dirty talk, praise, semi-public smut, (fingering), risk of getting caught, possessiveness, casual dominance, its basically a story about vacation sex, but with plot and love 🙂↔️
A/N: How are there not more vacation!jack fics? Please send them all my way. I hope people have some fun upcoming vacations planned as summer ramps up! GIF by @sammy-bryant found HERE. Dividers as always by @saradika-graphics.
POSITANO, AMALFI COAST ITALY
You woke slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains of your suite at Le Sirenuse. Jack lay on his stomach beside you, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other relaxed at his side. His face was turned toward you, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth slightly parted. You had talked your man into ditching the hospital for a sunny getaway. Jack was utterly deserving of this rest. You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, breathing in the faint scent of salt and his skin. He had been working tirelessly lately, and dating someone in such a high-stakes profession wasn’t easy, but he had recently switched to the day shift, telling you he didn’t like your opposite schedules anymore. Knowing he wanted to spend more time with you made you feel truly special.
You slipped out of bed and moved to the kitchenette, brewing coffee while the sea breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors. Once it was ready, you carried your mug outside and settled into one of the chairs overlooking the glittering water. It was Day 4 of the trip. The first day had been quiet, just wandering Positano’s narrow streets until Jack pulled you back to the suite and fucked you deep and slow until you fell apart for him. You felt his warmth flood your pussy before you both passed out after the long travel day.
Day 2 started with you going down on him, but he stopped you before things could go further. He pulled you up, his breathing heavy, and pressed you against the wall on the private terrace. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into you with harsh rolls of his hips, the morning sun warming both of you. You came with your forehead against his shoulder, and he followed soon after, breathing hard against your neck.
You then went to the hotel pool. Jack had said he would join you after lunch, but ended up staying inside and told you he got wrapped up in a book. Later, you drove to Tramonti, toured the vineyard, and drank tons of wine and cheese for hours. You both were probably a bit tipsy by the time you came back for dinner to sober up with some food and water. Before you went to sleep, you enjoyed another round. Jack ate you out from behind before bending you over the bed, taking his time to reach that spot that had your vision swimming with tears and your voice breaking over his name while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear. His teeth bared when he pumped you full of his spend, and you continued to scream his name into the mattress.
Yesterday’s boat cruise was an 8-hour journey along a breathtaking coastline, featuring sights like Emerald Grotto, Furore Fjord, Amalfi, Maiori, Minori, Atrani, and Nerano. Despite the warm sun and the stunning scenery, Jack stayed in his T-shirt and jeans the entire time, while you relaxed in your bikini and cover-up. Both of you ended up talking with a lovely couple visiting from California. For most of the cruise, you hung out with them, sharing stories and enjoying the beautiful views together before returning to the hotel and just sleeping in each other’s arms.
You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you weren’t an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) you’d taken together in the two years you’d been a couple. The other big trips had been travelling across the Maritime Canadian provinces one autumn, and exploring Japan one winter, hopping between cities on train platforms and staying bundled in layers the entire time. In his everyday life, it was rare for Jack to wear shorts unless he was in the privacy of your shared home—he even preferred his athletic pants when he ran every day back in Pittsburgh. But here, in this quiet, sun-soaked place, you hoped he might finally feel comfortable enough to shed those layers, to wear shorts or trunks like everyone else.
The soft scrape of crutches pulled your attention away from the glittering sea. Jack stepped onto the balcony without his prosthetic, the morning light catching the smooth, healed skin just below his knee. His chest was bare, and his boxer briefs hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His curls were mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded from rest. God, he looked so fucking good on vacation.
"You look beautiful," he said, voice gravel-rough from sleep, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.
Warmth bloomed in your chest. "I never want to leave this place. It’s perfect."
Jack lowered himself into the chair beside you and set the crutches aside. You reached for the bare skin of his amputated limb, fingers gliding over the smooth, warm flesh to massage it. He let out a low, rumbling groan, head tipping back against the chair, throat working as his eyes fluttered half-shut. The sound vibrated straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.
You leaned in to quickly kiss him, not thinking it would escalate to anything, but then his hand slid up your side, strong fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. Your thighs spread over him, the heat of his body pressing up between your legs. His mouth claimed yours again, tongue sliding hot and deliberate against yours. He cupped your breast beneath your shirt, thumb dragging slow circles around your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. You felt yourself growing slick, the fabric of your underwear clinging damply as he rocked you subtly against the thickening ridge in his briefs.
"Feel that?" Jack murmured against your lips. "See how fucking hard you make me?"
"I have plans for us this morning," you whined as you began to pull away. "Stop trying to distract me."
"We’re on vacation, pretty sure this right here is the plan," his hand drifted lower, palm pressing firmly between your thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp cotton. You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward into his touch. Your lips parted, breath coming quicker as your fingers curled into his shoulders. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expression—the way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.
"That’s it, pretty girl," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His palm rocked against your clit through the thin fabric, steady and deliberate, building the ache until your thighs trembled around him. You could smell the faint musk of his skin, hear the distant crash of waves below, feel the sun warming your back as your body grew hotter, wetter, needier.
"J-Jack," you moaned breathlessly, feeling yourself giving in.
"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.
You made sure to listen and Jack’s breathing deepened—chest rising and falling faster, jaw tight, pupils blown wide as he watched you. A low groan rumbled from him when you rocked harder, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
"God, you’re the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until you’re shaking." His free hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you again...slow and fucking filthy.
You moaned into his mouth, hips rolling, the wet heat between your legs growing slicker with every teasing press of his palm. Your nipples ached against the fabric of your shirt, every nerve alive and begging for more. When you finally pulled back enough to speak, voice breathy, you said:
"I booked us that Arienzo Beach Club pass for today."
"Oh?" Jack’s expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.
"Yeah, it’s a short walk away."
His hand stilled between your thighs. He looked away, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"One of the hotel concierge staff told me about this little walking tour. Kind of a hidden‑gem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obvious—he probably hadn’t thought about it for even a second before saying it.
You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Don’t you want to be in one of those private cabanas with me?"
He withdrew his hand with a final, reluctant twitch of his fingers, then gently lifted you from his lap and settled you onto the chair beside him. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
"I don't want to take away from your beach time. You should go, and we can meet up afterwards."
Jack reached for his crutches, stood, and headed inside without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of running water soon drifted out. The frustration (and horniness) hit you hard, twisting together in your chest as you sat alone on the balcony, the morning sun suddenly feeling too bright...and too empty.
The water hit Jack’s skin hard, almost scalding, but he didn’t turn it down as he sat on his shower chair. He braced one hand against the tile with his head bowed down. He hated disappointing you. Hated the look in your eyes when he shut down.
Traveling with him wasn’t simple, and he knew it. Checking his crutches at the airport. Packing the waterproof (swim leg) prosthetic. Making sure the shower chair fit in his duffle. Calling hotels ahead of time to double-check handicap accessibility, even when they promised everything was fine. It was exhausting. It required planning. It was stressful.
And he hated that you had to deal with any of it.
What he hated more was the thought that you might be pretending it didn't matter.
He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the fear and self‑loathing churn through him. Jack’s insecurities about his leg didn’t usually own him. Most days, he moved through the world with his usual stubborn defiance. But trips like this, where his body was on display and mobility mattered… it brought every buried doubt roaring back. He hated the way he felt less on days like this—less capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasn’t simple for him.
Jack also didn't want you dealing with the stares at the pool or the beach. The curious looks, the pitying ones, the ones that stuck around too long. He didn't want to slow you down. Didn't want to be the thing you had to work around. Didn't want to be the weight dragging down your plans. The truth was he wanted the cabana, the sun, and your skin under his hands.
He stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he reached for the towel. He dried off, sat on the bench, and reached for the prosthetic. The socket slid on with a familiar hiss of air, the weight settling against his residual limb. He flexed his foot experimentally, testing the response. Good. No pain today, at least. He dressed quickly, and when he emerged into the suite, you were already dressed. The cover-up was one of his favorites—that lavender cream-colored thing that fell from your shoulders and hinted at the curves beneath without revealing them. Your sunglasses were pushed up on your head, holding back your hair, and you were reaching for a book from the side table, your tote bag already slung over your shoulder.
His chest tightened. You'd been ready to go without him.
"No brunch together?" he asked, and even he could hear the wounded edge in his voice.
You glanced up, and he watched your expression shift—a flicker of something that might have been frustration, quickly smoothed over into something lighter.
"The beach club pass includes food and alcohol," you said, moving toward him with that knowing smile playing at your lips. "But I was waiting for you to get out of the shower to ask if you wanted to eat with me first. You know…if you have time before that 'walking tour' of yours." The sarcasm was gentle, but it was there.
He deserved that.
"I do have time," Jack said quietly. He closed the distance between you and kissed you, pouring everything he couldn't quite say into the press of his mouth against yours. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against yours.
"I love you," he murmured. You were quiet for a moment, and he felt the weight of what you weren’t saying hang between you. He appreciated that you weren't calling him out, weren't demanding explanations or forcing a conversation he wasn't quite ready to have. But he also knew you deserved better than a man who was too afraid to just be with you at the beach.
"I love you too," you replied, and because you were perfect, you changed the subject as you both headed toward the door.
"There are rumors that George and Amal got here last night," you winked, stepping into the hallway. "They might be staying at this very hotel."
Jack followed, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to his lips as you walked toward the elevator. "I still can't believe you read celebrity gossip," he said, against your skin, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as you pressed the elevator button. You were a highly respected wealth advisor at an institution managing over $10 billion in assets. Jack found it fascinating that you could dissect market volatility before breakfast and had an encyclopedic knowledge of who was dating who in Hollywood.
"It's Page Six," you squeaked in protest, as the elevator doors slid open. "It's basically required reading."
He grinned, watching you step into the elevator with that easy confidence you carried everywhere. God, he loved you.
"Oh, and Dua Lipa and Callum Turner just got married," you added as the doors closed, descending toward the lobby. "She looked so beautiful in her custom Schiaparelli skirt suit."
Jack paused. "Who?”
You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "You’re lucky you’re hot."
The sun blazed overhead, turning the water into liquid sapphire that stretched out in gentle rolls toward the horizon. You peeled off your cover-up in the cabana, the purple bikini clinging tighter than your usual suits, and the bottoms riding high on your hips. A quick squeeze of sunscreen across your shoulders and thighs left your skin gleaming. The beach wasn’t deserted, with couples lounging on loungers, and a few families splashing at the shoreline. But, the crowd was sparse compared to the packed stretches you had seen elsewhere. You wished Jack were here with you.
You settled into the padded chair, watching the scene unfold. A silver-haired man in linen shorts kept his arm draped around a much younger woman in a white micro-bikini; she laughed at everything he said and let him feed her strawberries from a silver bowl. Two cabanas down, another older man scrolled on his phone while his companion, maybe 22, knelt between his knees applying lotion to his calves, her ass in the air. The dynamic was clear everywhere you looked: older money, younger beauty, easy transactions wrapped in flirtation and sunblock.
A young waiter in crisp, white shorts and a polo shirt appeared at the edge of the cabana, a small notepad in hand.
"Good afternoon. Can I start you with any drinks from the beach bar?" he asked with a surprisingly Australian accent.
"A mojito, please."
"Right away, Signorina," the waiter said with a polite nod, already turning to head back to the thatch-roofed bar nestled among the trees. Less than five minutes later, the waiter was back, presenting a tall, frosty glass.
"Grazie," you said.
The mojito was perfect and just what you needed.
You cracked open one of the paperbacks you had packed, but then your phone buzzed with that unmistakable Outlook chime you had sworn you were ignoring this whole trip. You’d been doing a surprisingly good job of not checking work emails on this trip, but curiosity tugged at you until you finally reached for the phone, muttering to yourself that you were just as bad as Jack when it came to being too dedicated to your job. One new email sat at the top from a long-time client whose portfolio had taken a beating in the market downturn. The message detailed how he'd panic-sold half his positions at the bottom last week; now he was second-guessing everything and wanted to move the rest into cash. You sighed, closed the app, and tried to focus on your book instead.
After a while, the heat became too much. You walked down to the water, the first cool rush licking up your calves, then your thighs, until you dove under. The sea felt silky against your sunscreen-slick skin, the salt stinging pleasantly at the edges of your bikini. You swam lazy laps parallel to the shore, and the current tugging gently at your body. When your arms started to tire, you waded back out, droplets sliding down your stomach.
You were halfway to the cabana when a tall man in board shorts stepped into your path.
"Bella, you swim like a goddess," he said in a thick Italian accent, eyes dropping to your chest. You smiled politely and kept walking, but he matched your pace.
"You’re not from around here, are you?"
"Nope."
"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals don’t look like you."
"Lucky them," you muttered.
"I would love to buy you a drink," he said, stepping a little closer.
"I can buy my own drink," you said, tone still polite but firmer now.
He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, independent."
"I guess."
"Come on, bella. One drink. You’ll enjoy it."
"I’m not interested."
"Oof. You’re breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.
"You’ll live." You sort of hated that you had to say the next part, "Also, I have a boyfriend," but it felt like he was operating under the assumption that your rejection needed a reason he would accept. A simple lack of interest wasn’t going to be one. Maybe if you referenced another man's 'claim' on you, he would take you seriously.
"If you looked like that and were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, bella."
"Good thing I’m not yours, then."
He opened his mouth to fire back, but then his expression shifted. Not toward you, but past you.
A familiar voice cut through the air behind you, calm but edged with steel.
"Is there a fucking reason you’re harassing her?"
You were shocked to see Jack standing shirtless in swim trunks and a t-shirt twisted between his hands. The afternoon light was catching the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, chest, and arms. His salt and pepper curls looked so fucking luscious on this trip. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. There was something about the way he looked at people…that did all the talking.
The Italian man straightened, but you could see the hesitation flicker across his face. Jack took a step forward, unhurried, and his waterproof prosthetic (swim leg) caught the light as his leg shifted beneath him with each measured stride. The man's eyes locked onto it for a fraction of a second, and his confident smirk faltered.
"I asked you a question," Jack said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "You deaf, or just stupid?"
"Look, I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to be a disrespectful asshole?" Jack's smile was all teeth, no warmth. The man took an actual step back. Jack didn't move; he just continued to look at him, that cold, assessing stare that suggested he had already decided exactly what he'd do if this continued.
"Listen carefully, you prick," Jack's voice was ice. "Women deal with enough without guys like you pretending that persistence is charming. She said she wasn’t interested. That’s your fucking cue to leave."
The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'm—I'm g-gone."
You stared at Jack, surprised and instantly warm between your thighs at the protective edge in his tone. He rarely swooped in, usually letting you fight your own battles and handle your own shit. But this was different; he had stepped in because someone had disrespected you, not because you were his property to protect. He did it without that ugly display of ownership and gross possessive edge some men mistook for devotion.
Jack balled up the t-shirt in his hand and tossed it into the cabana behind him before he grabbed your towel without a word and began drying you, slow passes over your arms, your stomach, the curve of your ass. The towel moved across your shoulder blades with surprising gentleness, and you realized his jaw had already unclenched.
"You okay?" he grunted, tossing the towel aside. You turned to face him, still damp, still warm from the sun and something else entirely.
"Yeah. I am."
He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Good."
"That was a little caveman of you," you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.
"Yeah, well," he muttered, while a faint flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. "He was out of line."
You stepped closer, nudging his arm with your shoulder.
"Relax, handsome," you said, smile widening. "I liked it." You pulled him into the cabana, the canvas flaps falling closed behind you. The waiter appeared almost immediately to take your drink orders. Once he returned, Jack took his beer and settled on the wide lounger, pulling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. You set your second mojito of the day on the mantle nearby. His hands stayed on you, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your bikini bottom.
After the waiter left, the mood shifted. Jack’s fingers stilled. "I’m sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, I’ve just… gotten tired of the stares. I didn't want you dealing with people looking at my prosthetic, wondering what you're doing with me. Honestly…" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "…sometimes I wonder what you’re doing with me."
You turned in his arms, cupping his face, and his eyes that now looked green were fixed somewhere past your shoulder.
"Jack, look at me." You waited until his eyes met yours. "Talk to me."
"I can't remember the last time I went to a beach or a pool without dreading it. Years, probably. I've spent so long avoiding situations like this—all the stares, the questions people have asked, the way I've convinced myself that you probably regret travelling here instead of going with someone who could just... be normal."
"Hey." You tilted his chin up. "Stop. You are normal. And I'm not going anywhere."
"You say that now—"
"I'm not finished." You softened your tone but kept it firm. "I know you've probably convinced yourself that your prosthetic makes you less than, or that it's some kind of burden to be around." You traced his jawline. "But that's not the truth, Jack. Not even close." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he listened. "I love every part of you. Your leg doesn't change that—it never could." You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then his lips. "I love you."
His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer.
"And I really appreciate you for being here, and coming to the beach," you continued, your voice soft against his skin. "But I don't ever want you to put yourself in a situation where you feel uncomfortable either. It doesn't matter if we're here or in fucking Antarctica. I just want to spend time with you. That's it. That's all that matters to me." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "If something doesn't feel right," you said, brushing a curl from his forehead, "you tell me. We figure it out together. We do what feels good for us—not what you think you're supposed to do or what you think I want. Your comfort matters just as much as mine."
His eyes glistened slightly as he nodded, his jaw working like he was fighting to keep his composure.
"For the record. I’m loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation I’ve ever been on."
"Really?" you asked meekly.
Jack swallowed, his gaze locked on your mouth. "Really."
You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His palm slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin purple fabric, before he cupped you fully, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.
"7 more days of paradise," you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled back, voice dreamy. You had an early flight tomorrow flying out to Palermo to wrap up your vacation in Sicily and spend ample time visiting the island. It was a very much needed 2 weeks off.
Jack smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I could get used to this. You, half-naked all the time. Might never let you put clothes on again." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the spot he’d bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmer’s tan he would absolutely deny having).
"We’re going to need another bottle of sunscreen just for you," you said as you reached for the bottle.
"For the record, I can tan," he rolled his eyes. "Eventually… After several medical interventions."
You giggled, squeezing sunscreen into your palms and began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders, careful and thorough. His skin warmed quickly under your hands, and he stayed still, letting you work while he reached down to cover the top of his thighs. Once you were done, he tugged you closer again. His hands never left you—stroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldn’t get enough. The cabana stayed quiet except for the distant waves and the low murmur of your voices, the two of you wrapped around each other while the sun climbed higher outside.
"I haven’t seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "It’s fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."
"You don’t think it’s too revealing?" you teased.
"Baby, it’s perfect. You look incredible. I can’t stop touching you." There was something almost disorienting about the way he was looking at you… like you were the only thing in his entire world worth seeing. It was still hard to understand why Jack saw you as sexy. Past boyfriends had never made you feel that way… but Jack? He fucking worshipped you. You had never experienced this kind of adoration before. Being someone's everything.
You lounged together for a while, then swam into the ocean. The water enveloped you both in its cool, briny embrace as Jack pulled you deeper, the waves lapping at your breasts while the sandy bottom shifted beneath your feet. The scent of sea air and his natural musk filled your nostrils, heightening every sensation as his breath mingled with yours in short, excited puffs. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, with your tongues dancing in a playful, teenage frenzy of sucking and exploring every corner of each other's mouths. Salty droplets ran down your faces, mixing into the kiss, while the smell of wet skin and ocean breeze enveloped you. His hands were on your hips, and he pulled you tighter against the hard evidence of his own arousal pressing through his swim trunks.
A sharp gasp hitched in your throat, your eyes flying wide.
"Jack," you whispered, your voice a shaky mix of awe and sudden, dizzying arousal. "What are you doing?"
A slow, utterly wicked smile spread across his lips, and his eyebrows lifted in a silent, unmistakable challenge.
"Shhh, just relax," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I've got you."
You felt his fingers trace the edge of your swimsuit bottoms, a teasing hint that made your breath catch. "Jack, wait—" you breathed, your voice tight with a fear that was half genuine alarm, half intoxicating thrill. Your gaze shot to the shore, a frantic scan of the distant, blurred figures. "Someone could... what if someone sees."
"Half are asleep,” he whispered, his breath hot on your damp skin. "The other half are staring at their phones, trying to figure out if the weird shadow on their screen is a cloud or a notification that their life is profoundly boring." He dipped his head, his nose gliding along the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of saltwater and sunscreen on your skin.
His logic was a seductive trap.
"But..." you managed to say (not really knowing what else to say), as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll against his hard cock.
He hushed you gently, nuzzling into the damp hair at your temple. "I'm just finishing what I started earlier," he whispered. "Let me take care of you now."
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and your eyes went wide. A soft, surprised "oh" escaped you as he found your clit, circling with a touch that was electrifying. You could hear the distant laughter and chatter of beachgoers, the rhythmic crash of waves, but it all faded into the background.
Jack loved watching that little hitch in your breath. He loved that he could undo you like this. You were usually all sharp wit and raised eyebrows, but here…here you were just soft sighs and pliant for him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for stability as your knees felt weak, even supported by the water.
"Jack," you breathed out, the name itself a plea. The sun warmed the top of your head while the underwater world remained your private haven.
"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss just below your jaw. "You’re doing so good for me."
You were so responsive. Every little circle, every shift of his fingers, and you were shivering. He was looking at your face… and all the tension was gone. Just pure, sweet surrender. He could do this forever, just watching you fall apart. His fingers continued their gentle, persistent torment. Then, slowly, he began to slide a finger inside you. The sensation made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for a split second at the new, fuller pressure.
"Shhh, easy," he soothed, his voice a velvet command. He stilled his hand, letting you adjust, his thumb never ceasing its soft circles. "Just relax into it, sweetheart. There you go… that’s my girl."
As your body accepted him, he began a slow, shallow rhythm, his finger moving in and out with a slippery ease aided by the water and your own growing wetness. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your mouth falling open in a silent, overwhelmed gasp. The dual sensations were too much—the focused, maddening friction of his thumb and the soft, filling stretch of his finger moving inside you. A low, helpless moan finally broke free.
Jack caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your noises as the waves gently rocked you both. His kiss was tender but consuming, his tongue stroking yours in time with the rhythm of his hand. When he broke for air, his praise was a hot whisper against your slick lips.
"Listen to you," he breathed, his own voice rough with want. "So pretty. So perfect.”
His movements became more deliberate with his thick finger curling slightly—and your entire body jolted against him. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat.
"God, Jack, please..." you whimpered.
"There?" he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pressed against it again, and your second cry was louder, less controlled, a raw sound of pleasure that echoed slightly over the water before being swallowed by a wave. Jack’s eyes, filled with lust, flicked toward the distant, indistinct shapes on the shore.
"Shhh, baby," he whispered, but there was a new, teasing edge to his tenderness. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple. "You don’t want everyone to hear, do you?"
He curled his finger again, rubbing that sensitive spot of yours. Another moan, high and desperate, was ripped from you as your hips jerked against his hand. You tried to stifle it, biting your lip, but it was useless. The pleasure was too overwhelming.
A low, husky chuckle vibrated against your skin. His lips were right by your ear. "Or… maybe you do," he murmured, his voice dripping with knowing amusement. "Maybe you like the idea that someone might hear how good I make you feel."
He added a second finger alongside the first, stretching you just a little more, the sensation making you whine. Every slight shift of your bodies rubbed him against you.
"Fuck," he groaned, the word strained. His fingers never stopped their sinful work, pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm now, his thumb a consistent counterpoint on your clit.
"God, I wish I could fuck you right now. Make you scream my name so loud the whole beach knows who you belong to."
The vividness of his words, the possessive heat in them, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. Your own sounds were becoming impossible to control—soft, choked sobs of pleasure with every inward stroke of his fingers.
"Jack..." your voice, a ragged, breathless mess against his neck. "Jack... I love you. I love you, don't stop, please don't ever stop..." The words tumbled out, unfiltered and soaked in pure, delirious pleasure. You were babbling, lost in the storm he was orchestrating with his hands. He shushed you again, but it was a mockery of comfort now. He loved this. He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of your pleasure, the way you completely fell apart for him and him alone. Hearing you babble his name and those three little words while he had you at his mercy was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.
He trailed his mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a wet, salty path to your collarbone. The contrast of his hot mouth and the cool ocean sent shivers racing over your skin, pulling you tighter against his hard cock.
"I love you too," he murmured, while his eyes held yours, with flecks of green and gold that were endless. "You're going to come for me right here." His fingers continued pressing that perfect spot with unerring precision as he spoke. "And when you do, I want you thinking about how when we go back to the hotel room, I'm going to spend an hour between your legs, tasting you until you come over and over again, just from my tongue."
"Oh f-fuck," you gasped, feeling your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation starting deep in your belly, threatening to crest and drown you with the cool water lapping at your waist. Your hips began to move against his hand of their own volition, a frantic, shallow rhythm seeking more friction, more of him.
"And when you're shaking, when you're begging for it, that's when I'm finally going to fuck you."
He saw the panic and the pleasure warring in your eyes, the desperate clamp of your jaw as you fought to stay quiet. It only spurred him on. His thumb became relentless on your clit, a firm, circling pressure, while his fingers fucked into you.
"Hard and fast," he growled, his own breath starting to come faster, his control fraying at the edges just watching you. "I'm going to fill you up so completely that you'll feel me for days. You're going to come on my cock just like you're coming on my fingers right now, aren't you, baby?"
The command in his voice, and the vivid promise, was the final thread to snap. Your body went rigid, a silent scream locked in your throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot shockwave of pure, shattering pleasure.
He saw it the second it hit you—the way your eyes rolled back, the tears that instantly welled and spilled over. He captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing every choked sob and whimper of ecstasy. His tongue swept against yours, tender and claiming, as he gentled the movements of his hand. He tasted the salt of your tears and felt the helpless tremors still coursing through your limbs.
You were a boneless, quivering weight against him, your face buried in the damp skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt, sunscreen, and him. His own breathing was ragged, his body a tightly coiled line of tension pressed against your stomach. For a long moment, he just held you, one arm a solid band around your back, the other hand gently cupping the back of your head.
"You did so good for me."
He shifted slightly, and you could feel him. The hard, insistent length of his cock straining against the fabric of his swim trunks, pressing into your stomach—a stark contrast to your own spent, liquid state. A weak sound of concern escaped your lips.
"Don't you worry about that." Jack gave a strained chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll take care of it later. Right now... we'll get you some water. And some shade."
He draped you over the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek rested against the wet skin between his shoulder blades; the world reduced to the sound of his breathing and the gentle lap of the water as he swam. He reached the shallows where the waves gently broke. With a grunt of effort, he stood up, the water dropping from his torso. He kept you secure on his back, your legs hooked over his hips, his hands firmly under your thighs.
Jack walked up the beach in an almost casual stride, nodding at a few scattered sunbathers who glanced your way and were probably staring at his swim leg prosthetic (or his raging hard-on). You, clinging to him, were just the tired girlfriend getting a piggyback ride from her attentive boyfriend. The perfect, innocent picture. He reached the private cabana, and with a final, effortless heave, he swung you gently off his back, depositing you onto the lounger. You landed with a soft thump, your limbs still feeling like over-cooked spaghetti.
He turned and grabbed the bottles of chilled water that the waiter offered immediately. Crouching down in front of you, he uncapped it with a sharp twist.
"Open," he said, his voice low. He didn't hand you the bottle. Instead, he brought it to your lips. When you parted them automatically, he tilted it, the cold water pouring into your mouth. "Drink," he ordered, watching your throat work as you swallowed. A little trickled down your chin, and his gaze followed the droplet's path over your collarbone. You drank until the bottle was empty.
"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. A shaky, sated smile touched your lips as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.
"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping that utterly intimate register of his. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss.
"You wore me out," you mumbled, your voice thick and drowsy. Your head lolled back against the cabana bed. The sun felt like a warm blanket, and the intense pleasure had left your body feeling heavy, deliciously used, and utterly spent. "Just... gonna close my eyes for a minute..."
Your words slurred into a soft sigh as your eyelids fluttered shut. The world faded to the sound of the distant waves and the feeling of the warm lounger beneath you. You were already slipping into a contented, post-coital doze. He watched you, the bottle of water hanging loosely from his fingers. You were his masterpiece... and beautifully ruined. He sat down in the shade, the frame creaking softly under his weight, and leaned back, stretching his legs out.
"Come here," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He patted his chest, right over his heart.
Still floating in that boneless, sated haze, you didn't hesitate. You crawled the short distance from where you were and settled against him, your head finding its perfect place on the solid pillow of his muscle. His arm came around you, heavy and secure, his hand splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. His other hand began tracing those lazy, hypnotic circles on the small of your back.
Your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.
"I love you," you murmured.
"I love you," he echoed, just as you were slipping away.
You stirred, consciousness returning slowly, and pleasantly. The world came back in pieces: the dappled shade of the cabana, the distant cry of seagulls, the solid, warm weight beneath you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and glanced at your phone screen where it lay beside the lounger. 4:00 PM. You’d been out for over an hour.
You tilted your head up. He was awake, watching you from behind his sunglasses, a soft, unguarded curve to his mouth. You leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.
"Mmm," you hummed against his mouth as you pulled back just an inch. "I think I need a snack before dinner. All that... 'swimming'.. worked up an appetite." His hand slid from your back to cup your ass, giving it a firm, appreciative squeeze.
"Is that right?" he said, his voice gravelly with disuse. "What kind of snack are you craving?"
"Something sweet," you teased, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe something I can eat right here."
"Tempting." His gaze was hot and appreciative. "But if I start feeding you here, we won't make it to dinner. Let's pack up." He gave your ass one last playful smack before releasing you. "Up you get."
You pouted dramatically, making a show of stretching your still-tingling limbs. He stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to his torso.
"Watching the people here is fascinating, isn't it?" he mused, his tone conversational but his eyes locked on you. You followed his gaze out to the beach. A group of young women were taking an absurd number of selfies a little way down the shore, angling their bodies and drinks just so.
"Right?" you squealed, playing along, putting a hand on your hip and mimicking their poses with exaggerated flair. "The struggle is so real! Do I look aspirational? Do I look like I have my life together?
He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished smoothing his shirt.
"You," he said, stepping close and pulling you to the edge of the sofa bed, "look like you just got fucked senseless. Which is infinitely better."
You laughed and swatted his chest, and wriggled out of his grasp to reach for your cover-up draped over the back of a chair and shimmied into it. The two of you stepped out of the cabana and began walking hand-in-hand, but you were surprised when Jack started pulling you closer to the shore. You saw Jack raise a hand, catching the eye of one of the influencer girls from the selfie group. She was tall and clad in a minuscule neon green bikini, her phone held up as she surveyed the light.
"Scusi," he called. He made a frame with his fingers, pointing at you and himself, then pretended he was taking a picture with an invisible camera. She immediately lowered her own phone.
"Oh! Photo! Yes, of course, I speak English," she said. Her accent was a pleasant, unplaceable blend, as she gracefully stepped away from her own photoshoot.
He handed her his phone, while whispering to you. "Is it that obvious that I'm American?"
"Yes," you giggled.
She grinned, positioning you both close, his arm tight around your waist, his waterproof prosthetic clearly visible in the frame. The fact that he wanted the photo with his leg showing made your eyes sting. Influencer girl took a few steps back, expertly using the natural light and the stunning views as her canvas.
"Get closer! Yes, like that. Perfect."
He pressed a kiss to your temple as the girl snapped the first photo.
"Beautiful! Now look at each other. Give me a real smile!" she coached, moving slightly to adjust the angle.
You turned your face toward Jack, and the look in his eyes stole your breath. It was open affection, a quiet joy at simply being there with you, exactly as you both were. Your smile changed, becoming real and unguarded. The camera clicked several times in rapid succession.
"Amazing! You two are gorgeous. That light is everything."
"Grazie," Jack said, the Italian word clumsy but earnest.
"Thank you," you said.
As the girl returned Jack's phone, she lingered for a moment and asked the usual small talk question about where you were from. You answered, and within seconds, the conversation shifted with the realization that you and she had grown up in the same country. What a small world. Your attention was suddenly fully on her, and you were completely absorbed talking to her in your native mother tongue and discussing the last time you had been back home. Jack took advantage of the moment and opened his messages to Robby and attached one of the many photos.
Surprisingly, Robby answered almost instantly since it was a little past 10 AM, which was usually when he sneaked in a snack.
Robby: She’s so out of your league.
Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. He’d known that from day one, and he still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.
Jack: I think I’m going to do it tonight.
Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, you’ve been carrying that ring around for a year.
Jack: I’m nervous as hell.
Robby: She’s perfect. Go get her, brother.
Robby then sent another quick message.
Robby: You look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.
Jack thought about the man he’d been before he met you. He was convinced that good things weren’t meant for him. And then you showed up…and you made him want things he’d never let himself want.
When Jack looked up, you were turning back toward him, waiting with that patient little smile he loved more than he could ever say. Jack smiled, slipped the phone away, and reached for your hand as you walked back toward the hotel.
You're the infamous steel-clad eldest daughter of Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell. After a hard-earned victory against the Skagosi uprising in the North, you and your father make your way over to the Red Keep, where your father is to serve on the board of advisors for the Lord Protector of the realm. As it's your first time venturing in the South, you're enraptured by King's Landing and its lively streets. At dawn, you train in the yard, during the day, you enjoy the company of the ladies of the court, and at night, you may come to enjoy the occasional trip into the narrow but lively alleys of King's Landing with you new found friends.
And Valarr is just instantly whipped.
Tags: love at first sight (from Valarr), reader is a headstrong warrior woman but is still girly when she wants to be (no internalized misogyny in this household), strictly platonic Daeron x reader, mutual pining, you both have zero rizz at the start, kind of? slow burn (but not really bc i am Impatient), ngl i do not know if i'll write smut, but if i do y'all can trust that i'll put my whole soul into it! The chapters will be divided by the change of perspectives and won't always exactly chronogically follow each other, in true ASOIAF fashion.
Series masterlist
Masterlist
WC: 1.4k words
The battlefield after a freshly won battle always stunk.
“They failed to mention the stink along with the glory in the songs, father”, you said, scrunching your nose at the smells that rose from the high stacks of corpses in varying stages of decay. Indeed, in the songs written by the soft-handed bards and singers, there was no mention of the eye-stinging stink released by the slowly but surely bloating corpses, and their loosened bowels. The spring was starting to reach its fingers even to the North, bringing rot, maggots, and decay to the corpses with much more haste than in winter.
Your father, Cregan Stark, left out a huff, which was supposedly meant to be a laugh, but he was too exhausted from the past weeks to give one of his deep, hearty laughs.
“The singers always leave that part out, aye. Just like how they never sing of these incessant swarms of flies.”
You only nodded. Now that the battle fever was wearing off, the exhiliration and the strength was radpily wearing off, replaced by a strong longing for a good long soak in the hot springs under Winterfell, and a clean linen nightgown. your tunic and breeches under the chainmail were soaked with sweat, blood and other bodily fluids you refused to think of, your feet and lower back were starting to file their complaints in form of stubborn, deep seated aches under the weight of the steel plates. Some stray hairs which escaped from the braid were plastered over your forehead, partially sweat-matted from the weight and heat of your wolfshead helmet, which your was holding under the left arm.
Though you would have made a curious sight in other parts of the Seven Kingdoms, the sight of you in mails and steel plated armor was no novelty among your kin and your father’s men. However, no novelty did not mean that you did not notice the occasional sneers and cruel japes - and that you did not have to work twice, nay, thrice as hard as any man in order to gain your men’s trusts.
You father always said with affection in his eyes that you were as stubborn and headstrong as a direwolf, and as fierce as a dragon, a reference to your late grandmother, Princess Rhaena, who married your grandsire, Benjen Stark, as a part of the marriage pact formed during the Dance of the Dragons by Prince Jaecerys Velaryon and Lord Cregan Stark - the Old Man of Winterfell, not your father - upon the Wall. With that stubbornness and ferocity you won the hearts and loyalty of the men you commanded - most nights after a battle, they were oft the only things keeping you afoot.
You turned your eyes back to the pile of corpses in their yet uncovered mass grave. After the decay had set in, the Northmen and the Stoneborn of Skagos were only distinguishable via their grey-white cloaks or their pelts, however caked with mud and blood they were. You thought you’d spotted the unmistakable hooked nose and squared jaw of a Wintertown soldier - a baker by trade, in the warm summer years, he and his wife used to supply Winterfell and Wintertown with their famous wildberry tarts, which was a rare treat in the North.
You clenched your jaw, feeling that familiar sting and then the deep sinking ache of grief. Soldiers died in war - especially the lowborn soldiers, only clad in boiled leather or chainmail, with no luxury of castle-forged steel plated armor or a master-at-arms to train under ever since you could walk and hold a wooden sword. Most highborn lords never seemed to spare them any thought, only took the glory for themselves, and simply expected more smallfolk to fill their places when the others fell.
Cregan had taught you differently, though. He taught you and your siblings to treat the servants in Winterfell with respect, and took you lot to Wintertown regularly. He’d show you the marketplaces, the bakeries, the butchers’, the forges, the breweries, and show you how much honest work from the smallfolks it took to afford your family a comfortable lifestyle. And accentuated the importance of having the smallfolks’ love, for no lords who had scorned their smallfolk so badly ever met a peaceful end. Without affection for the lords, no baker would put their efforts into conjuring up new treats for the litlte lordlings and ladies, no smith would painstakingly ensure that the mail was as gapless and perfectly tempered for their lords, and the soldiers would not join their causes with half as much enthusiasm when the hour of need came. And unhappy, scorned soldiers with no love for their liege meant desertions in the best case, and mutiny in the worst cases.
So your lord father had taught them that the lords and ladies needed the smallfolk just as much as the smallfolk needed them, if not more. And what are titles, really, when you were fighting for your life on the battlefield? Before blades, we are all only men, made of flesh and blood, just like everybody else.
Your eyes stung, though you were not sure if it was from the dank fumes of the corpses or from the grief of gazing upon your beloved baker. He had two sons in Wintertown, one still a boy of eleven, the other seven-and-ten, having freshly taken over the main operations of their family business. He had undoubtedly taken up the spear and shield in llieu of his oldest son, and now he had also welcomed death in his stead. His wife would be waiting for him, you were sure, they’d been trying for a third child now for a while, despite their age. There’d be no more children for them now, you thought. And the thought lingered bitterly on your tongue.
Cregan caught your line of sight, noticing the baker’s slowly swelling corpse. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and his eyebrows furrowed the littlest bit, showing the hint of grief he was not letting show otherwise.
You buried the blade of a longsword, long since abandoned by its owner, into the ground, as a mark of respect for the fallen. In little time, all that would remain of them would be a mound of earth and a rusty longsword in the ground to mark them, though the longsword would likely be carried off by somebody desperate for some coppers. Nevertheless, they all deserved a sign of respect and mourning, even if it weren’t permanent. Nobody sung songs for the fallen footsoldiers, no matter how crucial they’d been to sway the tides of the battle.
“So”, You started, “I assume the ravens have already flown with the words of our victory.”
“Aye” your father nodded, now not only looking at the baker, but also at other men who had fallen under their command, wordlessly grieving the loss of his people, no doubt.
“Well then father, let us return home. My stomach is begging for a good old turnip and beef soup of Old Merry’s.” You said, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips, eyes gazing far away, as though you could already see the old walls and towers of Winterfell, your home.
“Aye, and let us hope that your brother and uncles have not burnt down the castle in our absence. “ Your father jested, your brother was always more inclined to lordly affairs, whereas you and your father were the warriors of the family. The jest was referring to the time where your brother and uncles insisted on attempting to grill their venison that they’d hunted themselves, and near burnt down the kitchens in their attempt.
You let out a genuine laugh, the first one in days, maybe weeks since you and your father’s army arrived at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to crush out the last waves of the Skagosi uprising.
Your father’s eyes were also looking off to the distance, no doubt already thinking of the warrm embrace of his wife and his brothers. Your sisters had left Winterfell after their marriage a handful of years ago, but would nevertheless sigh in relief when they’d heard of your victory, and most importantly, of your survival.
The tents and pavillions were already near unmounted, you made your way to the horses to finally start on your way home.
tags: friends to lovers; love confessions; repressed feelings; requited unrequited love; established friendship;
[[[The world is still on its axis for everyone else when you make love. But for you its a whirwind, a spinning wheel. A dream. You have only been adjusting to the idea of loving Valarr openly. Now you have to adjust to the reality that you can keep him forever.]]]
continuation of twenty long years [part ONE] [part TWO] [part THREE] [part FOUR] [part FIVE] [part SIX]
[i am his and he is mine (the wedding)]
[celestial bodies (wedding night) PART ONE]
[celestial bodies (wedding night) PART TWO]
The tips of your fingers are still alight with nervous excitement when Valarr finds you.
In the middle of the dance floor, with your hand still in Prince Baelor’s steady ones, you are trying to find gravity of your own. His words ring inside your ear, echoing with some great and formidable hope. Hope, is what you are thinking when Valarr comes up to his father and taps him on the shoulder.
“I think I am owed a dance with my wife,” he says, lips curled into that wondrous smile.
The Prince turns, smiles with all the warmth in the world, and nods at his son. “Have a thousand dances, son.”
Then he tilts his head back to you and says, “Have a thousand joy.”
You feel moisture prick at your eyes and you blink, foolishly embarrassed. As if the barrage of happiness is something you should hide from everyone lest it comes across as too commonplace. Yet you cannot help but let out a helpless chuckle in answer as Prince Baelor—your good-father—lets Valarr take your hand, pats him goodnaturedly on the shoulder and saunters off. You look at the passing body for a minute, the gravity of his presence leaving you to your beloved entirely.
Valarr replaces his father easily. He slides his arm across your hip and you press your sweaty palm against his other hand. And you dance with your husband. Step by step, feet following each other in melodious, mirrored rhythm. Your bodies sway as the music drags on, soft and sweet, supple. Other pairs join you, dancing around with the sound of the music heightening at every passing second.
“What did he say?” Valarr asks. You see the smile in him falter, just for the fraction of a second, before he leans in to look straight in your eyes.
“Are you worried?” you ask.
“He can be a bit too… proper. I do not want him to frighten you.”
“He did no such thing. He welcomed me to the family.”
His hand anchors your waist as he twirls you. “Well, that’s foolish. You’ve been family since ages.”
You chuckle, you cannot help yourself. “Valarr, you might have dreamt this wedding up a hundred times…”
“Fifty-four times, exactly…”
“But this only happened once, and only today.”
He rolls his eyes, delighted despite his best attempts. You see a flicker of smile on his lips, which he hides promptly with a bite. You ignore the itch to touch his face, the slight, pearly-white sight of his teeth against his lower lip. But Valarr, lost on propriety, leans closer. The familiar smell of musk and mint clog your senses. As if spellbound, you lean up on cue. And your lips are almost about to touch, when there is a loud, grating yell from the other side of the great hall.
“Cousin!”
Valarr’s smile drops, momentarily, before he straightens up and faces the sound. You clutch his arms, mind buzzing with surprise, as you stare at Aerion Brightflame. He points at you and hoots, loud and delightfully obnoxious. He has a goblet in his hand and he takes a sip out of it—cornering your attention.
“Time for the bedding ceremony,” Aerion declares. "I can escort my dearest new cousin-bride to her chambers."
You try to smile politely, as an answer, while you feel Valarr’s hand tighten its grip on your body. Aerion has always been willful. And it has always been in Valarr’s protective nature to brush up the rough edges of his family so that they may appear blurrier, to others. He is not the one to contradict a family member in front of the masses. But his hands are steady now, tighter than before, and the entire hall fills with his voice, amused but firm enough that no one contradicts when he replies…
“If anyone is to carry my wife, cousin, it will be me.”
—----
You have been to Valarr’s bedchambers only once before.
By a great, measly accident.
Of sorts.
It was spring evening and you were running away from Aerion, who’d sneaked up on you trying to steal lemon cakes and mead from the kitchen. You had the alcohol in your hand, and Valarr had the basket of cakes. Your other hands were joined together as you raced past the guards, finding shadowed corners to hide for mere moments before you’d run off again—feet nervous and giddy.
It wasn’t until you were inside the great, immersive space and the door struck shut that you realised where you’d landed. Your breath hitched, surprised, confused at the brightened room as you turned back and saw a plethora of new things before your mind could fully be adjusted. Armoured knight statues, window covers billowing in the open air, a bookshelf, a writing desk. A gargantuan, sensual bed. You blinked as a tremor rose up your spine, tickling your skin in a deliciously nervous haze. You were seventeen. You knew you shouldn’t be there.
Valarr called your name, sensing the hesitance, the doubt, the tingling echo of the words we must not.
As he calls your name now, the memory floats back to you. Strange but dear. It feels that those were different people, in your memory. Different children with different destinies. You had spluttered a weak excuse and ran out of the room, the mead on your hand dropping and making the unholiest of sounds. The sound from the past still rings in your head as he puts you down from his hold. Your feet land steady on the stone floor but his arms are still around you.
It feels strangely exhilarating now to know that you should be here.
“Glad we got rid of them,” you say.
He’s carried you all the way from the great hall to his bedchamber—with Aerion and his hoard of miscreants hooting raucously behind you. “If only for a minute,” you add, staring at the shadows of their feet in the miniscule slit of the door.
Valarr makes a sound, a slight, stuck noise that is strange enough to make you turn your body and stare at him. Only to find him staring back. It is dark enough in the room, with only the moon’s light and the half drawn lanterns from all the corners to light up the precious few details. Yet so close, you see your lover clearly. As clear and sharp as day. The soft, bewildered slant of his lips, the way his teeth scraped over his bottom lip. The delectable, almost tangible lust in his eyes.
You almost stop breathing as he lifts his hand to touch your upturned veil.
“You look good in my colour,” he says densely. Then, after a pause. “Our colour. My name, my love, my life—all yours.”
You don’t know what to say. Suddenly, you are lost for words. All those silly books you read, silly poems and similes and songs all become powder in your mouth. You stare up at the shadows flickering on his lovely face and how the light catches the silver strand of his hair. Wordlessly, Valarr starts to undo your hair, find and pull at all those tiny, bothersome pins holding your hair up and in its intricate place. The air between you heavies, turns into a sweet-smelling menace.
As if to ignore the stupified, lovelorn mess of your head, you mimic him, putting your hands to use to undo the laces of his dark robe. Then comes the urgent matter of the buttons of his doublet. The sash bearing the Targaryen sigil, his sword and sheath, the leather belt clutching all these into places. It falls down unceremoniously, with a dull thud that reverberates inside your head. Valarr’s hands are warm, trembling only the slight, as he takes off the robe he put over you in the ceremony. The laces of your gown is an intricate matter, the ribbons twist around his fingers as he undos them without any hurry. The lace of your skirt is next. You step out of the billowing silk after it falls around your ankles. Time coagulates around you, melts and reshapes into something far more imposing than it has any right to be.
The clothes fall around you with increasing desperation. You feel the summer air more and more on your skin as your hands work. Your heart thuds sparingly, with no cohesive rhythm. It springs up somewhere in your throat as you both are finally standing in only your shifts. Your camise is virgin-white and almost entirely see-through in the moonlight even as it comes down to your knees. Valarr’s dress-shirt, same white, same damningly translucent, radiates the heat of his chest. He stares at your face, slightly out of breath, and puts his hand on your shoulder.
He leans in, and the breath from his next words flutters your eyelashes.
He says, “Those perverts are out there, still.”
You gulp a small heap of air stuck in your throat. “When do you think they’ll go?”
Valarr kisses the gap between your eyes. “Not until they get what they want.”
“And they want…”
“They want to hear us, the sounds we’ll make.” Another kiss on the side of your temple, the same place his father had kissed you not an hour ago. His words are grated, heavy, filled with lust. “The sounds we make with our throats, with our bodies meeting… the creaks of our bed. They want to make a map of it.”
“What do we do? Wait until they scatter away?” Your voice is soft, quiet. You realise that your words sound... disappointed. As if you were not up in the quiet of your room, not a fortnight ago, worrying about what’ll happen in your marriage bed. And now it sounds—gods help you, because it sounds like you want it more than anything— “We do nothing?”
You feel his chuckle warm your cheeks before you hear the sound of it. And it intoxicates you, dizzies you—all of it. The bedchamber, the moonlight spaces only marked bright because of the shadows, the nakedness of both of you and his eyes his smile and the thirst in his voice. The greed you feel scraping your insides. You want to feel his laugh, the warm, sweet breath of his, on every inch of your body. And you want it now.
He tilts his head back to look at you and you chase his lips for a kiss—slow and tender and wanting. You grip his arm and moan against his lips. His tongue slips inside your mouth and you feel him taste you, skim the inside of you as if he’s ravenous. The time congeals around you—sweet, sweet, precious—and you chase the high, the pull in your chest screeching at you to lose the rest of your clothes, the rest of you. But you digress. You pull back to stare inquisitively at him.
What do we do? Nothing? You mouth. Because you want him and want the privacy. You want to let the world know he is yours and you want to them to revel in their imaginary stories rather than share an inch of the feeling that’s gotten over you. You stare at your husband, your lover, your prince and you know he knows of your desire to the sultry, supple core of it. Always has.
His hands are still in your hair. His hold is firm, tight—his eyes glint with that mischievous smirk. The same one you saw as he pulled your hand and got you inside this very bedchamber when you were seventeen and three years into being in love with him. He licks his lips, as if to get the barest shadow of your taste again.
And then he says, so very quiet, so very intent, “Oh, no, dearest. I have a plan.”
am i getting annoying? i know i’m getting annoying 🙂well, the next part’s the smut. i am not good at smut.
so here’s to drawing out the yearning for another chapter. because of course this is my favourite escape as life goes shit around me lol
Valarr and you are childhood friends. Only friends, you thought for such a long time that it became part of your narrative. Oh, you know him so well because you’re his friend. He looks at you from across the crowded ballroom because you are his oldest friend. There could never be anything else… could it?
tags: friends to lovers; repressed feelings; requited unrequited love; established friendship;
He was thirteen, and seven inches taller. Leaning against one of the pillars in the patio of the royal garden, he was as still as a statue. One of those intricate, lifelike marbles you saw on your way around the Red Keep. It was a summer morning, and the sun had been shining brilliantly in the open garden, spilling its light on the symmetrical rows of sunflowers and pansies. Yet, he was standing in the shadows, hunched at the ground. Slowly, you walked to him—you were playing hide and seek, you see—wondering if he were someone you should be looking for.
He stirred when you reached him, straightening his spine. It was then that you saw the single white streak in his dark hair. And then he turned. As his eyes fell on you—one ocean blue and the other deep onyx—you almost gasped. You had never seen someone so beautiful before.
“Who are you?” he asked softly.
Before you could answer, something moved out of the corner of your eyes. You stared at the ground to find a spider—quite large, foreboding and colourful—skittering on the edge of a small rose bush. You crouched down to see it more clearly, the scatter of colours on its back, the way it clicked its pinchers.
“Beautiful, is it not?” he said. He had a soft, heavy voice. Poised, slow, as if he tasted each word before he spoke.
“Yes,” you agreed.
“I saw it circling the flowers for some time. I heard that spiders see colours differently than humans. I guess I wanted to see what it saw.”
“That must be lonely,” you said softly, eyes locked into the small creature. When you realised that his eyes were still on you, you straightened up quickly, adding, “I meant the spider, Your Grace. Not… not you.”
He smiles, and his face illuminates into something angelic. “But I must be then, to find solace in such a solitary creature.”
You blinked, unsure of what he was saying, unsure of yourself, suddenly. You hadn’t meant to come to the garden; you hadn’t meant to wander out of the Red Keep. And yet, you stared at the soft, strange boy and felt that perhaps you were where you were meant to be anyway.
—--
You were there for the enjoyment of the little princesses. Princess Daella and Rhae were temperamental little girls who scared off any Septas who’d be unlucky enough to cross their paths. After their fifth Septa escaped, your mother, one of the ladies-in-waiting to the queen, suggested that you might be a helpful alternative. No one had any reason to object. You had been at the court for a few weeks and everyone liked you. You weren’t particularly the prettiest, or the brightest, or the most joyful, but there was something about you, your mother said, that made people like you. You could reel people in, make them see themselves more favourably.
Heavens know what she meant, because you never did.
Beautiful and beguiling, the little princesses looked like little dolls to you. You liked them enough at first, liked the sound of their laughter—dainty, like birds, liked how they mimicked each other like shadows, liked the sight of them running in the Red Keep, two flutters of silver-white in the sunlight. They loved when you told them stories of old Valyria, of the doom and the tragedy, of dragons. Sometimes their brother Aegon and cousin Matarys joined in, and requested something particular. Mayhaps the story of the Dance of the Dragons? Egg loved to embellish his stories, he was a natural.
Liar, his brother Aerion snickered.
Storyteller, you assured him.
Needless to say you loved all of them. In their restlessness and their raucousness. Their awful temper and their sweet vexations. Their loneliness and the pointless defiance of their fate. You see, each of them knew what they were meant to be. Daeron meant to be half-asleep throughout his entire life, stirring forever awake from some distant dream, Aerion was meant to be mad, always—afraid that someone had taken a slight to him at every corner of life. Aemon was to be sent away somewhere far, where he would not tarnish the name of his house with his quiet and feeble mind. Daella and Rhae were supposed to be married off and forgotten, fading into some obscure and distant life. Aegon was forever the odd one out, a lonely child. They all ran around the castle, unaware of the invisible dark string that bound them together.
Prince Valarr was the quietest. He used to come fetch his brother Matarys, his steps always low and even. He was always even—balanced. The heir to the heir was beautiful, respectful and poised. The perfect prince. He was the unsung conqueror of all the tortured fantasies of the girls at court. He always smiled, looked and acted older than he was—a splitting image of his father, Prince Baelor—and he was perfect, as they all said. Yet you wondered, when you saw him, if it all was true. Because he didn’t seem like a perfect prince when he hovered around the periphery of your vision. No, he was a quiet, contemplative boy, who glowered at Aerion when he was cruel to Egg or Aemon; he played hide and seek with Matarys. He was a terrible dancer and an excellent fencer. He liked to watch insects. He got flustered whenever he found you staring at him from across the dim lit rooms. It was ten long weeks before he came to you after you let the children play monsters-and-maidens.
“Would you like to…” he hesitated, and you had a sinking suspicion that he had practiced the question well before he came into the nursery.
“Yes?”
“See to that spider again?”
A small smile creeped up to your face in spite of you. “The lonely one?”
“That one exactly.”
You stared up at him. The nursery was a large room full of wide corners, it stretched as far as the children could run. The entire room was open, the wide balcony on the side of them overlooked the royal garden. In the mornings, as the wind blew through the unruly bushes of flowers and ferns, the sweet smell imbibed the room in a breathtaking haze. By all of your logic you knew that you should refuse. It was not a tactile knowledge, but a soft, slithering understanding. You should say no.
Well, you should have.
—--
It was easy, being his friend.
Too easy. It was as if there was no other way, no other path that did not bring you face to face. In the morning he trained with the kingsguards, and you walked Egg to the maesters at the schoolroom. At noon they all ate together and you couldn’t help but be at close proximity as Matarys showed everyone what he learned at the yard. When the Great Hall would be opened to the smallfolk for an audience, you were there with your father. Sometimes your eyes met with his unmatched pair, across the room, across the hoards of unsuspecting people. He would smile or roll his eyes, just a little, almost imperceptible, when some lord made a tiresome jest, or Aerion made himself a fool. At night when you’d return from the princesses chambers he’d find you along the long and winding pathway, and would offer to accompany you back to your chambers safe and sound. More often than not you would lose your way to the garden, or the astronomy tower, to look at the heavens above. He knew all the constellations, and you liked to trace them with him.
Sometimes it felt as though you were writing a story, retaining a piece of you and Valarr that did not exist—not entirely, at least—in reality. You talked of stars and desserts and rivers—water wading through paths forged by natural erosion and calamities for hundreds of years. Of poetry and politics and how it might feel living past one’s myth.
It’s all natural, all innocent. Until one afternoon…
You are fifteen, and he has just gotten back from a royal tour of the Riverlands. You heard from the other ladies that it was supposed to be a muddy, tiresome journey back. And so you brushed and cleared and re-organised his beetle collection by hand, knowing that these would be Valarr’s solace when he came back.
“Oh, princess, no one knows me as you do,” he mutters to himself as he stares down at the glass box. Then he turns, suddenly solemn, and asks, “Do you think we’ll ever be apart?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think it’ll always be like this? Us? The shared breakfast, the beetle collection, the stars?”
You know better than to lie. “I don’t think so. Not when we get older. I will probably… get married off and live somewhere else.”
Something unfamiliar passes by his face. In the fading light of the day, the silver streak in his head catches a stray band of rays. The silver shines. Valarr purses his lips, the expression gone as soon as it comes, replaced by his familiar solemnity.
“Then I shall hope we never get older.”
—---
“Does he call you princess?” your mother asks suddenly. “Some of the servants heard it, but I cannot be sure…”
“It is nothing,” you say, flushed, looking down at the hem of your blue gown.
“Nothing?”
“Just a… pet name. Something he calls me by.”
Your mother stares at you. It is a sharp, smoldering gaze and it makes the heat in your throat rise up to your cheeks. You are walking by the large corridor leading to the Great Hall. Your mother insists that a woman should not only know household chores but also learn how the realm works. It is early in the morning, and the sleep hasn’t completely left you. Her sudden question comes at you like a splintered arrow.
“Something he calls you by,” she repeats, and you wonder if that’s how juvenile your words sounded.
To be honest, you do not remember when he started calling you that. And you know that it would not do well to dwell on it, or to explain that to your mother. Your mother is made of custom and propriety. And you are—
“You are not a princess,” she is saying. “And calling you one is improper. But I guess…” She sighs. “I guess we have to find a middle ground somewhere. He favours you, and that is good. Proximity to a royal can grant you great advantages in life.”
A flock of court ladies pass you and your mother, and she smiles at them sweetly. Their feet make delicate sounds on the marble floor. “It is not fair, but it is life. Some people are born with significance, and some must gather it from others. But you must never confuse the source with the receiver. Do you understand?”
You had stopped walking, coming just at the mouth of the Great Hall. You can hear the sounds of footsteps and men, women talking over one another. On the other side, there are people, important people crowding to get an audience with the king. Some of them come to see The Young Prince, too. You know this because you have heard his praises on the streets. How the Prince is kind and gentle and dutiful. A young dragon, they call him sometimes. His presence brings about a fire that the smallfolk have not seen since Aegon the Dragon.
You purse your lips, nodding silently. Your mother worries needlessly. You know you’d never confuse his friendship with anything else. How could you?
—---
“What’s wrong?” Valarr asks suddenly.
You blink, surprised that he noticed. You thought you were faring rather well, considering the seed of disquiet your mother planted in your head. Everywhere you looked, you now saw people staring at you with scandalous eyes. Your corset felt tighter whenever you and Valarr crossed any group of women.
You stare at the feather-pen in your hand. You both have been at the library since the early hours of the morning. Valarr takes it upon himself to teach you whatever his maesters have taught him. Today, it is the history of the North. Winterfell, the First Men, all that frigid snow.
Your voice is small as you admit, “It seems that being around you is something of an achievement in itself. My mother is proud of me because I made myself your friend.”
“Made yourself?” He scoffs. “You have not made yourself my friend. You just are.”
“Right. But as it is, your presence is a currency of some sorts. I make myself valuable by being around you.”
He narrows his eyes. The space between them crinkles the way it does when he is distressed. “You know that isn’t true.”
“Yes, yes.” You nod, unfocused. “But it sort of is, Val. You are a prince and you are—”
“What?”
You sigh, unable to come to a better conclusion.
He does not press you. He stares down at your collection of scrolls and parchments, and traces his index over the words you wrote in cursive—he likes your penmanship better, he has told you scores of times.
“Mayhaps it can be that I am two people,” he says heavily. “Val and Prince Valarr. My father says a prince belongs to the realm before it belongs to anyone else. He must be strong and silent and just and brave. Therefore the prince must be a thing, more than a person.”
“But you are a person,” you say softly. “You are my favourite person.”
He smiles. “And I am contemplative and brooding and overtly concerned with mine inadequacy. I am doubtful and…”
“You are clever and full of heart,” you interrupt him forcefully. “You are kind.”
He leans in as if he is telling you a secret, and you are terrified of how good it makes you feel. “Therefore, to you I am Val. Always.”
—------
Things change when you have your first blood, of course.
You wake up at night terrified that something unthinkable has happened. You look down at your legs to find a striking, alarming red moisture on the sheet. You knew about it, of course. The Septas and your mother had warned you about it beforehand. But still, the sight of the blood—your blood—fills you with an unknown dread. You are a woman now. Your mother had said that things will change once you are a woman. That your world will get wider, more people will be invited to come into it, that you will become something more than what you are now. You immediately dread the moment you’ll have to tell your mother.
You gather the soiled sheets with your trembling hands and clean yourself as best as you can. The water is cold and harsh as you wipe away the blood from your skin. The endeavour takes too long and the sky is lighter when you finally get to bed again.
Lying on your cold sheets, looking at the patch of the dawn sky through your window, you try to think of anything else to numb this peculiar pain in your lower abdomen.
Strangely, you think of Valarr. It shouldn’t be new, you always think of Valarr when you are in distress. But today the thoughts are alien and new and intoxicating. Would he realise something is different about you now? You remember that he’s gone hunting with his father. That he might be under the open sky right now, staring up at the brightening sky and trying to remember all the names of the distant stars. He likes that, you know. You know him so well.
Ever since you knew about that thing that makes a woman, you wondered about what makes a man? You are almost certain that whatever changes that were to happen had happened to Valarr. That there was a silence in him, a sticky reminiscence in the way he looked at you for the last few months.
Your hands brush over your breasts and you shiver. The thought of it makes you flush despite yourself.
—------
“There’s something different,” he comments in the morning. Fresh off the royal carriage, he is still in his hunting doublet. He takes off his hat and shakes his head, making droplets of sweat fall from his wet hair. As he leans to her, a smirk pulling at his lips, the green of his doublet reflects on his lighter eye.
A strange heat rises to your cheeks.
“There is,” he says. You are alone at the garden, all the other people have gone to inspect the enormous boar the hunting party have captured. So you allow this small moment to yourself, do not budge when he sits beside you and nudges your shoulder.
“Mayhaps,” you reply evenly.
His stare is so sharp it makes you shiver. You do not acknowledge it, or elaborate your answer, letting the silence stretch into a tense, charged. It becomes thick, heavy with intent.
“Keeping secrets from me, are you?” he says finally, his voice low and syrupy.
“What if I am?” you ask. It sounds more desperate than you intended, makes it sound more a plea than a challenge. “Do you not have secrets?”
He doesn’t answer. And you do not know if it is better or worse. That this feeling, this numbing, blinding intensity has always existed—whenever he was too near, wherever you could trace the light flutter of stubbles on his jaw, the specks of light dust his eyes. That you forget your reason when he stares at you sometimes. It wasn’t the blood from the night before, not some sudden, drastic change in your body, it was Valarr. You realise that he has inhabited your mind for quite some time now.
“I have brought something for you,” he says, reaching inside the back pocket of his doublet and taking out a breathtakingly blue rose, stem and all. The sight of it makes your heart flutter.
“You remembered,” you say softly.
“Of course. You wanted it.”
You take the flower and your hands brush. Staring down at the beauty, the half-hearted promise that you made him buzz in your head. It had been innocent enough when you said it, but now it feels more intent, like admitting to a light felony.
“A kiss for your promise,” you mumble.
“Oh,” he fidgets, “oh, you don’t have to…”
“I want to,” you whisper, tilting your head up to catch his eyes. His lips part, and there is that—there is that—flush of colour in his face. Ruby red, deliciously real, covering his cheeks as he goes astonishingly still when you reach out and touch his hand. The pupils in his eyes are blown out—covering almost the entire colours. It is a fascinating sight, and you try to commit it all into your precious memory.
—--
At night, you lie awake and think about it in great detail. The sharp intake of his breath when your lips met his cheek. That smallest moment when your nose brushed against his skin and you could smell him if you dared inhale. But you did not. How could you? Your hand clasped his, sweats mixing on your palm, you weren’t quite sure if he’d stopped breathing or was it just you? Did the entire world stop? Would it ever move again?
You clutch your pillow and mesh your face into the soft cover.
You could spend hours studying him. His face, alone, is a wonder. How his eyes look different in different times of day. The light blue is crystal clear in the sunlight, the onyx is an abyss in the night. The slight ripple in his muscles when he clenches his jaws, that tight bound of skin over it. Those stubbles, dark and sparring, littered over his cheeks in no cohesive pattern—you touched it, felt the graze on your lips as you kissed his cheek. But, oh, you want to take your sweet time, build patterns on that stretch of skin. You want to dip your thumb into the crate on his cheeks when he smiles. You want to touch his throat as he laughs, feel the vibration there, feel his life in your palm. You want to run your fingers through the infamous white streak at the back of his head. You wonder if he is sensitive there. One afternoon, as you were drinking stolen Arbour wine, you brushed his hair to chase off a bug that perched on his head. He shuddered at the contact. You haven’t forgotten the feel of it since.
It scares you, you think, how much your hands want to do. How they feel both useless and menacing. If they should ever evade your restless restraint, if they should ever let go of that senseless control, where would it lead you? There’s a budding glow of warmth between your thighs that you ignore. It is ominous, ominous, unthinkable. He is Val, your Val. A friend you saw vomit by the bushes when he drank too much Myrish wine, you saw him go pale at the first beheading you both watched, you saw him cry out in anger at Aerion when his cousin got the best of him, you saw him steal lemon cakes from the kitchen and smirk when he evaded the watchful eyes of the head cook. You grew up, together together. And you are friends, he sees you as his friend—which you know is the most you can have. Most you can dream of.
The rose on your bedside table is emanating a beautiful smell. Soft and hazy—like melancholy. It imbibes your air and lulls you to a fretful sleep.
—----
“The boar was delicious,” your mother comments a few days later.
You look up from your needlework. “What?”
“The boar that Prince Baelor returned with from their hunting,” she says. “The one they served at the feast the same night?”
Her voice is nonchalant enough. But you can see that she is watching you out of the corner of her eyes. In the closed air of your mother’s chambers, you suddenly feel like a rare insect, propped up for inspection.
“Yes. Yes, it was nice.”
“Did you think so?” She smiles sweetly. “I am surprised. I thought I saw you leave before the main course.”
You swallow your treacherous breath down. “No, mama, I—”
“Just after The Young Prince left too, actually. I noticed he wasn’t present when the royal coaches arrived in the morning, as well. The ladies were all wondering where he went.”
You look down at your needlework again. Lying will not get you anywhere, you know this much. But what of the truth? You hadn’t meant to follow him out into the garden during the feast. You had specifically forbade it. But he had that smile on him, the charming, pleading smile, and that soft voice—Oh, come on, I snatched the good stuff. The Arbor wine, the wine your mother loathes. Humor me, Princess—and you knew you were doomed, so why not chase it?
Yet the charm of the night has faded, leaving you here, in front of your mother, with some unpalatable reality. You followed the prince out of the great feast in front of the cold, sore sight of everyone, foolishly thinking you would not get noticed.
“Where did he go, my love?” Your mother asks. “Where did you go?”
“I wouldn’t tell you,” your voice is small. So small that it makes you mad. “But you know already.”
“I was hoping that you’d disappoint me not.”
“I did not do anything to disappoint...”
“Did you lose your virtue?”
“No! We just drank some wine and talked. Jested. We did not… mother, we are friends.”
“Friends,” your mother scoffs. And it is the first time that you have heard such venom from her. You grip the silk in your hand, fingers spasming. “I do not know what that word means. Friends.”
“We are—”
“You are a daughter of a middling nobleman, and he is a prince of the realm. He is the heir. When you were young I let you live in the delusion that you could be permitted to be in the same room as him. But you are not a child anymore. You cannot be this foolish anymore.”
You shudder at how callous it all sounds, but you cannot back down, cannot lower your gaze from your mother’s now. You have always known this to be true, but somehow listening to it all makes you nauseous. Makes you smaller. “But that does not matter. He sees me as his friend. There is nothing more.”
“Daughter, I only say this to spare you pain.”
You nod, head heavy. “I know.”
“The king will throw a feast in the coming week, after his seventeenth nameday. His mother thinks…” Your mother sighs, and for a second you think you feel sympathy from her. “Princess Jena thinks that it is time he found a wife.”
Something heavy drops in your chest. It cannot be your heart, for you cannot feel it beat at all.
“Lords from all the great houses will attend with their eligible daughters. They will all be vying for Prince Valarr’s attention. Beautiful, wealthy noblewomen. And when they come you would not get the privilege of anonymity. They shall want to know who this girl is that the Prince flees from parties and drinks wine with. I have raised you to be an honourable young woman. I will not have you malign your name for a boy who will choose another.”
Tears pool at your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You realise that in her own, cruel way, your mother is protecting you. You brush your trembling palm over the half-done handkerchief you were making for Val. The stitch is still uneven, you have never quite mastered the fine arts. But the spider is still perceptible. You wonder if your mother knows the significance of it. You dare not ask.
—------
“I need your help,” Valarr says as soon as he sees you.
That is, as he corners you in the Sept. You have been consciously avoiding him for the better part of last week. You have been clever enough, you think. Deliberately learning his routine steps and tracing backwards. You’d leave any room ten minutes prior to when he’d barge in. You avoided the gardens, the library, and the training yards religiously. You retracted from feasts. Yet somehow the hiding, the persistent fleeing, has made his presence all the more stark in your mind. You enter a room and smell him, almost, as if he were here. You see the dent in a chair where he set, the dust his boots had brought, a half empty glass of water he sipped not a minute ago. All more alive than they were before.
You started frequenting the Sept since you know this might be your only respite from his prying eyes. The seven gods have not been thus helpful, but they have been silent. At the very least.
Yet five days into your hiding, Valarr has found you. You are kneeling in front of one of the colossal idol of The Crone, hands clasped together to concentrate. Around you a hundred candles flicker in the darkness, sending their scented steam rising up onto the roof of the Sept. The air is warm and thick, sandalwood and sage. And in the unfettered silence his sudden presence is like a burst of sunlight. You determinedly keep your eyes closed.
“I am serious,” he whispers. “Help.”
“For what?” you whisper back.
“Well, father is arranging a feast for my seventeenth. It is going to be massive, large and boisterous, and… everything. You see, my mother… mother is—Will you please look at me?”
You blink, surprised by the unusual timbre in his voice. You tilt your head to look at him. And the sight—Oh, you should have prepared yourself—of him up close and personal, is enough to make you shiver. His mismatched eyes have changed colours in the candlelight. The ocean-blue is almost sparkling, spilling out flickers of light. And the other one, the deep, dark of onyx is darker still, pulling you in some great and terrible longing.
“What?” You pray he doesn’t hear the break in your voice.
“I want to stall it.”
“Why?”
“They want to find a suitable match for me. They will invite all the great lords to bring their… daughters.”
Your throat burns at the thought, but you smile. “That is good news.”
“What?”
“You are—” You gulp down the stone lodged in your throat. “You are eligible. And it is time you… marry.”
“But I don’t want to—”
“As your friend, I think it is just the right time.”
Something soft flickers in his eyes. His mouth twitches. It almost looks painful. “As my friend?” he says softly.
“Yes, of course.” Your hands grip the stone in front of you. “What else?”
He stares down, as if embarrassed. “Yes. I see, yes.”
You close your eyes again, willing yourself to concentrate on your half-hearted prayers. You can feel him still, kneeling beside you—you almost wonder if he is wishing the same thing as you. To be someone else, someplace else, to get rid of the persistent ache in your heart. To not know him at all. Or perhaps he is only praying for what he always does—the Crone to guide him wisdom, to do what is best for his family and his name. You wonder, which would be worse? Around you the hum of the walls intensifies.
Neither of you move for a long, long time.
..............
PART TWO
In the next part we’re going to get more of Valarr.
full pairing masterlist here (not necessary to read in order)
wc: 3.3k
summary: this thing with your attending ascends to a new level
contains: mdni! implied age gap, power imbalance, ooey gooey disgusting people having lovey dovey sex
a/n: this pairing is so special to meeee! please reblog if you like it, rbs keep your fav writers alive | beautiful divider from @andromeda-graphics
Jack Abbot holds his phone a full eight inches from his face, squinting and readjusting to the font on the screen. He finally registers the contents of the text you'd sent, and a slow, surprised blink flickers over his face.
You glance up surreptitiously from a patient's chart, clear on the other end of Central. Your heart is hammering as you think of your text, at how seditious it sounded, at least by your somewhat prudent standards.
If we get out of here at the same time, I'd love an escort home.
That ember between you and Jack sparked when you switched to the night shift a couple of months ago. Flame caught last week when you kissed him in the park, and he kissed you back.
Since then, nothing but a whisper of smoke. He's been friendly at work —professional— to your increasing frustrations. When you meet him at the park after each shift, a recently established ritual, he's not so much as touched you.
You've begun to wonder if you damaged something irreparably by kissing him. But, god, the thought of his lips over yours has driven you crazy over the past week. The memory of his warm, dominant mouth over yours sneaks up on you in the middle of shifts, knocking you in the knees and turning you into a wobbly mess.
And, if you're being honest with yourself, your vibrator just isn't cutting it.
Movement from across the hub catches your eye, and you watch Abbot jab his index finger at his phone. A resounding buzz in your pocket shoots straight to your core, but you maintain your composure as best you can, and wait for him to stalk off to another patient.
Once he's disappeared behind a curtain, you fumble for your phone, chest heaving slowly when you see his response. Simple and clear. Classic Abbot.
7:30. Our spot across the street.
Your spot —yours and Abbot's, that you share, together— is a bench in the park across the street from the hospital. Enclosed in a copse of trees, sunrise filtering through the branches, it's been the perfect hideaway this past month of meeting him after each shift.
Not that there's been anything to hide. Deep conversation, inside jokes, and one tummy-turning kiss.
You're pacing the length of the bench when a familiar frame ambles ever closer.
Your ponytail is loose, the easy morning breeze catching it as Jack reaches you. His camoflauge-printed backpack is slung over one shoulder, his slight limp more prominent at the end of a twelve-hour shift. He looks tired, but not dragging, and you feel the same. You don't think you could folllw through with this if the shift had been particularly taxing.
"You're not anxious, are you, sunshine?" Abbot's lips twist in the side of his mouth in that fond manner he seems to save especially for you.
"Just restless," you lie, hoisting your own backpack up. You adjust the straps, wrapping your hands around them. "Thank you for walking me home, Dr. Abbot."
He laughs. You worry for a split-second that he's laughing at you. But then he extends a hand.
"How far's your place?" He asks as you tentatively slide your palm down to his. His hands are calloused, weathered like you thought they'd be, but surprisingly gentle. Skilled in keeping steady in moments like these.
You let him cradle your hand in his, trying not to focus too hard on the acrobatic flips in your tummy. "It's about a twenty minute walk," you explain, then give the address. The downward twitch of your eyes betrays your concern.
He doesn't balk, but uses his free hand to tug his phone out of the pocket of his cargo pants. "You alright with an Uber?"
You nod. "Yeah, but I can Venmo you for half—"
He squeezes your hand. "Not necessary, sunshine," he cuts you off as he leads you down the path. You have the fluttery realization that you've only ever walked separately through this park, never together.
When your lips flatten in a tight line, he squeezes your hand again. The feeling shoots up and down your nerve endings, mini strikes of lightning.
Jesus Christ. If holding this man's hand can get you all hot and bothered…
"You have trouble letting people take care of you," he observes. A statement, not a question. He doesn't even bother to look up from the Uber app on his phone.
"I— wh— excuse me?" A fizzy laugh of disbelief blusters through you. A psych evaluation wasn't exactly how you expected this morning to go.
"I do the same thing," Abbot shrugs as he leads you to the sidewalk. Conveniently, you realize, on the other side of the park as the hospital. "It's okay," he adds, unnecessarily.
You hum, rolling this thought around your head as the Uber lines up with the curb. Abbot opens the door for you, because of course he does.
The ten-minute ride to your building is dizzying, your heart beating in your ears the entire time. The forefront of your mind has gone completely impotent for small talk, settling instead for a buzzy silence.
Abbot rubs the back of your palm with his thumb in an intimate form of comfort you allow yourself to accept. You find yourself looking at everything in the car except for him, practically springing up when it rolls to a stop at your building.
Opting for the elevator in lieu of stairs to your third-floor apartment, you lead your senior attending to your door. Your backpack suddenly weighs as though it's packed with bricks. The hallway suddenly stretches miles long.
When you brave a glance over your shoulder, Jack trails after you, the corners of his mouth flicking up when his eyes meet yours. An unspoken question, volleyed telepathically from his brain to yours.
Are we actually doing this?
An uncharacteristic surge of confidence drives you to your door, digging your keys from the pocket. You turn the lock, tongue jutting out to wet your lips. Jack slides his hands along the straps of his backpack.
His eyes shoot to yours when the door creaks open.
A bubble of nervous energy pops somewhere in your chest.
"Are you a vampire?" You ask suddenly.
The question stuns him into a low, terse laugh. "What?"
"Do you need to be invited in?" The quirk of a smile betrays that you're merely teasing. You nod sideways to the open door. "Would you like to come in, Dr. Abbot?"
A visible grimace twists his expression. "You can't… you can't call me doctor right now, sunshine," he laughs good-naturedly, but the weight of the words tells you he really means it.
"Got it," you snatch your backpack and lug it inside, closing the door behind him when he follows. "Jack."
Jack's eyes scan your apartment contemplatively, and you're all too aware of the tightly compacted space. A kitchen and living room split in two by a granite island, a bedroom and en-suite just off to the side. Morning light spills in through the living room windows, illuminating the small space.
"It's a little small," you ramble. "But it's close to the hospital! And it's got a great view."
"It's very…" Jack sets his own backpack beside yours, stepping into the space. "You."
This makes you smile, a twinkle where the morning light catches your eye. "What's that supposed to mean?" You ask, feigning suspicion.
Jack doubles back, meeting you where you lean against the kitchen island. He takes your hand in his. Two sets of fingers fumble and tangle together. "I mean that it's warm," his voice drops an octave, flowing honey in your ears.
His eyes meet yours pointedly, and your gaze dips shyly. His other hand curls beneath your chin, coaxing you to look back at him. "And cozy," he adds, bridging the gap between you by pressing his lips to your cheek. His stubble tickles, and your legs wobble beneath you. "And inviting," he husks into your ear, lips moving to your jaw. "And disarming, in the best way possible."
Your hand breaks from his, white-knuckling a fist into his t-shirt, the other snaking up to finally answer a question that's been rattling in the back of your mind for months. Jack Abbot's hair is soft, just as hypothesized, curls melting against your palm like snow.
"That's nice," is the grand, quippy retort that spills out of you before you can think better of it. "You're nice."
"Don't tell anybody," Jack chuffs, pressing scratchy kisses into the underside of your jaw. Cradling your chin with one hand, the other presses your hip into the countertop, holding you in place, as if he anticipates your squirminess. Which he's right about, of course. "You'll spoil my reputation."
"I think you're doing that yourself," you tease back, craning your head up for him.
But his kisses come to a halt, a short breath puffing from his mouth, ticking your ear.
Jack rears his head back, fingers loosening their grip on your waist. "You're right," he slowly peels away. "This isn't… I'm breaking a lot of rules right now," his voice warbles.
You blink. The color has drained from his face.
"Jack?"
He doesn't step away from you, but his hands hover in the liminal space between your body and his. Caught, you think, between two opposing lines of thought.
You tug on the fabric over his torso. "Hey," you urge. "I'm breaking the rules, too," you say softly, even though the absence of his touch sends a shudder through you. "I invited you here, Jack," you remind him.
He loosens a little, scrunching his face up in some sort of internal war that you realize doesn't concern you. This isn't about you. It's his guilt, rattling inside of him like a jar of marbles.
"I'm taking advantage," he murmurs, refusing to look at you. "It isn't right."
"We're two consenting adults," you retort matter-of-factly. "It doesn't need to leave the walls of this apartment."
Jack shakes his head again. He's locked in some prison of moral dilemna, wracked with guilt and shouldering all the responsibilities. You should have expected it —this is exactly what he does with all his patients. He bends the rules and works the system to help his patients, but not at the potential cost of anyone's career but his own.
He won't put you in jeopardy, too.
"You have trouble letting people take care of you," you say finally, squaring your shoulders. His gaze snaps to you. As if in warning.
The morning sun through the window elucidates details of his face you've never been close enough to see. Silver fox truly is the best way to describe Jack Abbot, with the toasted hue of the stubble, jagged edges of his jaw, and the lines of skin branching from the corners of his eyes.
Yearning swirls around in your stomach.
"If I kiss you," you trace a finger over the lines around his mouth. He twitches at first, then relaxes into it. "Will you let me?"
Pouting old man, you think.
His Adam's apple bobs. "Yeah," he exhales, the word softened in relief.
You cup the back of his head, holding him steady so you can stand on your toes and do just that. He melts into it when you slide your lips over his, a soft, easy kiss.
It feels like everything you've never had, this kiss. Like he wants you just as much as you want him, like he doesn't have a specific end in mind, like he isn't pushing some sort of agenda. Every man in your past has betrayed you in varying degrees, but you feel oddly confident in placing your trust in Jack, in allowing him to hold the pieces of you that you shield from the rest of the world.
"You taste like cinnamon," Jack observes when the two of you finally come up for air.
You thread your fingers through his hair, humming contentedly. "I put it in my tea," you offer as explanation, though you're sure he wasn't asking.
Jack grabs you gently by the hips, and you give a little hop. Ass on the counter, legs opening to create space.
Your tongue dips into his mouth just as his fingers dig into your waist. Jack lets you, in a surprising moment of submission, groaning into your open mouth.
You tug at the hem of his shirt. He breaks away from you to pull it over his head and toss it aside. You have to pause for a second, drinking in the freckled skin and forearms lined with a tan that doesn't quite reach his elbows. Your eyes trail over his round, full pectorals next, then down to the rigidity of his torso.
He shyly looks away. You give a little shake of your head.
Wordlessly, he cradles your jaw, then surges forward to kiss you again. Warmth emanates from his skin, trapping you in a vacuum of airless heat. His tongue presses against your lips, and you grant him entrance, an uncontrollable whimper dissolving into his mouth.
Soon he's carrying you to the bedroom with an exaggerated limp you feel inclined to address. You scoot up on the bed, licking your lips breathlessly as he climbs over you. His stalwart frame over yours, a work rivaling that of Michelangelo, all grooves and angles and crooks.
"Is this okay?" Jack's propped up over you, slowing in a moment of tenderness, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear.
"Yes," you exhale, sliding your hands up and down his arms.
"B-because if it's not, I can—"
"Jack," you flatten your palms over his cheeks in a mild smack. That certainly gets his attention. The warmth of his eyes crackle, a hazel fireplace, as they look down into yours. "I'm good. I want this," you nod to emphasize your point.
And then he's kissing you again, all hungry and desperate like he needs you to breathe. All you can hear are the coalesced sounds of your breathing —yours, airy and quick, his, gravely and heavy.
"Fuck," he murmurs against you before sliding his tongue into your mouth once again. It's a homecoming as he laps into you, hands traveling under the hem of your scrub top and the t-shirt beneath. You've never felt that you're exactly where you're supposed to be.
You do now.
His fingers slide beneath the band of your sports bra, pressing firmly into the plush of your breasts. "Fuck," he says again, his thumb catching your nipple. You gasp.
His eyes snap open into yours. "Okay?"
"Perfect," you suppress your impatience. He's being responsible about it, of course he is. He's the ER cowboy, he follows the rules until the system turns out to be broken.
You slide your hand beneath the waistband of his pants. You saw the bulge straining against the seams, but you had no idea he'd feel so… solid.
His vulpine face twitches a little when your hand slides over his partial erection. "This is okay?" You ask, because you feel like you should, and he shudders a nod.
"Yes, fuck. Please, sunshine," he groans. You stroke him, a long, languid slide down his shaft, the throbbing increasing in intensity.
"Is that a crike kit in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" You joke before you can think better of it, and before you can flush with embarrassment, his thumb rolls over your nipple.
"You're ridiculous," he laughs, husky and low and warm in your ear.
Lots of kisses follow, especially when your shirt comes off. Then his pants, then your pants.
His prosthetic glints under the light of your bedroom, and you ask if needs to take it off first. He insists he's fine, thanks you for being so considerate by kissing down your stomach, to the upper plains of your thighs.
"You taste so good, sunshine," he murmurs against you. "Can't wait to be inside you."
"I can see that," you exhale, the words coming out brattier than you intend. Jack throws a wicked grin your way.
Your panties are soon tossed aside. Jack kisses the thrush of your middle before slowly extending a finger. He feels you out, opens you up. He slackens your jaw. He blurs your vision.
You whine. "Oh, my god, Jack, please."
"Let me take care of you, angel girl," he kisses your neck, then pushes his finger further in.
When you tug down his boxers a few moments later, you balk.
"I don't think—"
"It'll fit," Jack assures you with a kiss. "And if it doesn't, you tell me, okay? This is just as much for you as it is for me."
As his finger moves around inside you with skilled precision and melts every nerve ending, you beg to differ, but the words won't form.
Jack kisses your lips the same time he slides his cock into you. He swallows the moan you emit, working you slowly, carefully. When he releases your mouth from his, he asks if you're okay, again.
"Yes, yes, yes, fuck," you groan, curling your hands around his bicep. Your thighs tense and tighten around him. "Please, Jack, please. You can let go."
Jack obliges.
He carefully rolls his hips into you. Long push in, tantalizingly slow drag out. Once you're open for him, he picks up his speed, his finger working against your clit simultaneously.
"Fuck, you're taking me so well," he praises, finding exactly what you need after a moment's work.
His cock fills you, his free hand holding your hip in place because god, you're squirmy. "Stay still, angel," he pleads, kissing your nose.
His hips snap and he ruts into you, quickly, so fast. Then it's all pressure and heat and salt from tears stinging at your eyes.
Tightness clenches throughout your middle as you screw your eyes shut. "Oh my god," you cry, because it's never felt like this before. "Oh, my god, Jack, I'm gonna—"
"Go ahead, angel," Jack groans into you. "You can let go."
When you finally do, pins prick all over your arms and legs. There's this drawn-out moment of ethereal bliss that coats over you like the tail of a shooting star. A sharp moan.
Warmth. Lightning. Peace and release.
Jack's not too far behind, his face tightening in a paralleled moment as he spills into you. "Fuck," he grumbles as he does, red flooding over the freckles of his cheeks. "Fuck, angel, I'm so sorry, I—"
"It's okay," you pant, still clenched around him as his thrusts turn into slow, descending rolls. "It's okay, Jack. I'm on birth control."
He nods, lowering his forehead so it's anchored against yours. "I thought maybe I'd last longer than that, though," he chuckles, clearly sheepish about it. "It's… it's been a while."
"That's okay," is all you're able to say, apparently, as you slide your fingers against his stubble. "It was good, Jack. It was good."
The breathy, lighthearted smile on your face makes Jack inclined to believe you.
He slowly pulls out, the weight of his forehead still pressed to yours.
Your jaw drops as his cock leaves you feeling cold and ghosted. He kisses down your nose, your cheeks, your chin, then ends on your lips.
"You were so perfect," he breathes into you between kisses. "So perfect, sunshine."
"Maybe it's just been a while," your laugh is airy and deflective. Jack lands on his back beside you. His shoulders bump against yours, crammed comfortably like sardines on your queen-sized mattress.
He grabs you by the arm, lifting the inside of your wrist to his lips. His kisses are feathery light and quick, as though he's expecting you to dissolve like sand between his fingers.
"No," Jack exhales, his voice jagged and comforting, a warm, scratchy sweater. "It was perfect because it's us. Because it's you."
content warnings: apathetic parental figure, heavy on the yearning, a possibly wobbly timeline, future parts will have updated content warnings
word count: 5.9k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
“Do you have a mate?”
The clatter of silverware and gentle chatter around the table came to a halt, all eyes swinging between the overly brazen Day Court liaison and Azriel. A rapid flush was creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears, his hand slowly lowering the fork that had been half way to his mouth.
His lips parted slightly and he blinked slowly, staring at the female across from him who was toying with her crystal glass holding half a sip of dark wine. The question was wildly inappropriate from an official guest in the High Lord and Lady’s home, but not entirely unexpected—not to you, at least. You had kept a catalog of every sly look and sultry upturn of her lips she had cast Azriel’s way the entire evening.
Every prolonged glance she cast his way was another pinprick against your lungs, but you could not even fault her for it. Azriel was beautiful, alluring in a way that made every other male pale in comparison. She was beautiful too, with luscious dark hair that fell in tight spirals to her mid back, glittering gold paint accenting her dark complexion in all the right places, and eyes so sharp and bright that there was no question she belonged in Helion’s court. It only made the fire in your blood burn hotter.
Inexplicably, Azriel’s eyes darted to you. A fleeting glance loaded with emotions locked behind a stonewall. It was entirely confusing and infuriating. The male who had waxed poetic to you only months ago about finding his beautiful mate, the greatest gift the Mother could have bestowed upon him, even though she didn’t reciprocate it, was awfully silent now.
A childish, foolish part of you had always thought that Azriel might be the one—that he might one day be yours. That one day the Mother might finally lift the veil between you, that she might finally pull an invisible string between your souls taut and end your insufferable pining. It did not matter that you had lived centuries beside the male, that you had endured centuries of yearning for the boy you met as a mere child. It did not matter that every day that passed your soul grew a little more weary. There would always be a part of you that burned for Azriel.
It was pathetic.
It was inevitable.
You had accepted it decades ago, maybe even longer.
You were okay with loving him from a distance for eternity, as long as you had him. As long as there was still a possibility. A seed of hope to kindle your fantasies, to make them feel just a little real.
“Yes.”
The solid, quiet answer rang through the room, an arrow that ricocheted off the walls and the ceiling only to lodge directly in the center of your chest. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
Rhys and Cassian were unsurprised by his answer, but their mates appeared to be suppressing their shock and confusion at the revelation. Mor looked…indifferent. Intrigued, maybe. You weren’t sure if she knew. You could not tell if her narrowed eyes gazing over the rim of her wine glass were from confusion, or disapproval—if she might know more than you.
Then her eyes cut from Azriel to you, her lips pursed in a way that made your skin prickle, and you really didn’t want to know what her thoughts were on whatever she believed was happening at this table.
The female—Soleil, was her name—hummed, her glass setting on the tablecloth with a soft thud. “Interesting,” she said, the word drawn out just enough to know she cared only for her own self-interest. Her brows raised a bit, glancing around the table pointedly as everyone else watched her with bated breath. “Where is she then?”
Azriel’s throat bobbed, and his grip tightened around his fork. And because you loved him, briefly, your heart ached for him.
Because you loved him, you noticed the nearly imperceptible twitch of his wings. You noticed the slight stagger in his breath as he looked away from Soleil. You noticed the way his body, adorned in dark leathers, blurred just a bit at the edges, and the how the planes of his face grew just a little more shadowed.
You almost stretched your leg out beneath the table, almost toed his boot with your own from where you sat across from him.
“The private lives of my court are of no concern to yours.” Rhys’s voice was sharp and finite, his words yanking you back to the present, forcing you to remember yourself.
Azriel’s shoulders relaxed, but his gaze was impassive as he looked from Soleil to his brother. Soleil’s lips were pursed, the shine of amusement in her eyes dulled.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rhysand,” she answered, with far more gall than she should. “There are political advantages to be considered, potential alliances—”
“Azriel has a mate,” Rhys cut her off, his words scalding your chest as they slid down to your stomach. “He is spoken for—and even if he was not, the members of my court are not pawns for you to play with.”
Azriel has a mate.
He is spoken for.
A mate.
Simple facts that you had managed to leave as blurry half-truths revealed from booze loosened lips in a dark alley in Velaris for nearly two months in the back of your mind. Now they were real. Now everyone else knew too.
You stood up, your chair scraping along the hardwood floor. Everyone’s eyes cut to you, but the only ones you could focus on were the ones that left you feeling so raw and exposed you ached all over.
You could only hold his eyes for a brief moment, immediately looking down at your feet when you felt a tendril of shadow curl around your ankle. You could hardly breathe. “Excuse me,” you muttered, then fought for every ounce of dignity and composure you could muster as you walked out of the dining room, your pace quickening once you were in the hall.
You didn’t start running until you were out the front door and the moonlight hit your cheeks and outstretched wings, and even if you heard the door open and close behind you as you took off into the sky, you didn’t look back.
~ ~ ~
“Have you met the new boy?”
You blinked owlishly at your mother, your heart racing in your chest. “Who?”
She cast a glare over her shoulder, her peeling of the potatoes over the sink growing more aggressive. “The new boy in your cohort. They say he is a shadowsinger.”
There was no new boy in your cohort. There were no boys at all in your cohort, not since they separated the girls and boys after they turned ten—and you turned ten last month. Your mother knew this.
Instead of reminding her—correcting her—you asked, “What’s a shadowsinger?”
She huffed, the peeler and potato hitting the edge of the sink. “Do you know nothing?” she snapped.
Somehow, you always made her mad. You never said the right thing.
“Pay attention tomorrow,” She told you. You nodded when she looked at you again, but you avoided her eyes. “A shadow boy would be hard to miss.”
If there was a boy made of shadows, you imagined he would be hard to miss—even if you only saw the boys in the eating hall—but there was no “shadow boy”, and there were no new faces that stuck out as you made your way to your table.
The other girls at your table were all older, and none of them were particularly nice, but at least they had let you sit with them. It was better than sitting with the girls in your age group. These girls left you alone, and they always had stories to share.
The stories were generally trivial and petty. Sometimes they talked about boys. You tried not to listen too closely during those conversations.
“Have you seen him yet?” one of the girls, Freya, asked.
Across the table, Lara furrowed her brows. “Who?”
“The new boy,” Freya answered eagerly. “I’ve heard he’s cute.”
A third girl, one you had forgotten the name of, scrunched up her face. “He talks to shadows, Freya.”
Freya waved away the comment as if it was entirely inconsequential and not the strangest thing you had heard in your life—also, she said he talked to shadows, not that he was made of them.
Lara looked even more disturbed. “He’s also eleven.”
At that, Freya looked more discouraged. “I didn’t know that,” she groaned. “I don’t know why I listen to anything that comes out of Elsie’s mouth.”
Their conversation pivoted, moving on quickly from the new boy who allegedly talked to shadows. You looked around the dining hall again, no longer looking for someone made of shadow, but anyone that seemed unfamiliar.
You knew all these faces, though, whether you wanted to or not. There were only so many children in the camp, let alone ones that were eleven. Your eyes snagged on a boy that was in your age group across the hall, his hair wild and eyes fiery as he climbed up on the table, his voice carrying throughout the entire hall.
It sounded like the beginning of a challenge—Mother only knew what for. Cassian had always been wild and a little unpredictable. He was never mean to you like some of the other boys, though, so you tried to ignore his antics. Still—if you were new and at your dining table sat Cassian, you might hide away too.
So you stood up, pocketing your apple and tossing the rest of your lunch in the bin, the girls at your table not even batting an eye as you slipped outside the dining hall. Fresh snow was falling in big flakes from the sky, a fresh layer sticking to the stone path. You weren’t supposed to be outside, but you still had ten minutes until the end of lunch, and you wanted to find this boy.
Maybe it was foolish to seek out an Illyrian boy on your own—a boy that spoke to shadows, no less—but there was a coil inside your chest rapidly growing tighter the longer you thought about him. Every step you took along the wall of the mess hall pushed a little more air out of your lungs, and you needed to find him.
A black inky tendril darted in front of your face, just barely grazing your nose as you rounded the back corner of the building. You reared back, your feet slipping from beneath you on the freshly fallen snow. You had never been the most graceful child—an embarrassment, according to your mother—so it was no surprise when you fell down into the cold, wet snow instead of regaining your balance.
There would be no hiding where you had wandered off to during lunch now.
“I’m so sorry!”
Your head snapped up to find a wide-eyed boy standing over you. His hair was dark and unkempt, the strands so long it was starting to curl around his ears. His face was flushed a light shade of red, and his eyes were a bright hazel that shined with embarrassment. He held his hand out to you, his wings twitching behind him as he waited for you to take it.
You slipped your hand into his, the skin rough and jagged in a way that made your breath hitch—then the coil that was tight in the center of your chest sprung free, and you could finally take a full breath again. You stared at him as he pulled you to your feet, his skin warm despite standing in the dreadful cold. Your skin tingled, and your entire body felt shimmery—like fresh snow beneath rays of sunlight—yet you somehow felt overwhelmingly warm where your heart beat hard in your chest.
He was very tall. Taller than most of the boys in your year—maybe even taller than Cassian, who was the tallest of them all, and very proud of that fact. Standing in front of you, you barely rose past his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said again, his voice much softer. He let your hand drop, then tucked his hands behind his back.
Your eyes flit down to your cold and limp hand, thinking about the way his skin looked like it had been gnawed on by a beast in the forest. You almost made a comment, almost asked one of your many questions that your mother reprimanded you for time and time again—then you saw them. Dark yet translucent tendrils of…something, creeping out from behind his back, some slithering over his shoulder like a territorial pet.
Shadows.
They were shadows.
Your ogling must have been obvious, because the boy looked down at his shoulder, then back at you, somehow even more embarrassed. “They won’t hurt you,” he promised, his voice quiet and a little desperate.
It was strange. Strange for a boy to tell you he was not a threat, strange that he cared. Strange, because most of the boys in this camp seemed to relish in doing the exact opposite. Most of them saw your separation in year ten as a reminder of who was better, stronger, smarter—and it was certainly not the females.
“You’re the new boy,” you said, voice trembling a bit from the cold.
The boy blinked.
You wiped your hands on your pants, drying them of the melted snow before tucking them beneath your arms. “They say you talk to shadows.”
His face scrunched up at that, just a little, just enough to make your lips quirk up at the side. Then his shoulders fell. “I guess,” he muttered, then took a step back.
“That seems cool,” you hurried out, stepping a little too close to him, but he didn’t move away. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. It was likely the cold. “I was looking for you, actually.”
He eyed you warily, and suddenly you felt like the strange one—which, maybe you were, in his defense. You stepped back, your chest aching as his warmth vanished. You reached into your coat, pulling out the apple you had smuggled outside. You thrust it toward him, the movement awkward and hasty. The boy just stared at it.
Your face suddenly felt warm.
You shook the apple in front of him. “For you.”
He glanced between your eyes and your outstretched hand, seconds stretching between you before he finally took the apple. “Thank you?”
“Y/N,” you offered, though you weren’t sure if he was really asking. You shrugged, taking another step back. “Maybe don’t skip lunch anymore,” you said. “The girls at my table have already noticed, at least.”
He held the apple with both hands, nearly covering it. He looked down, avoiding your gaze.
You bit your lip, knowing your time was running out and he probably wanted you to leave him be, and yet— “I know Cassian is loud—like, really loud.” The boy’s eyes snapped back to you. “But he’s sort of nice? In a weird way. He won’t do anything too bad.”
He frowned. “He stole my gloves.”
You winced. “He…does that.” You scrunched up your nose, gesturing to the hall. “He’s better than the rest of them.” The wind was starting to whip at the damp legs of your pants, and you were beginning to tremble. “I should go.” You waved, regretting it immediately, then turned around.
“Azriel,” he said.
You turned on your heel, eyes wide. “What?”
He blinked once, then said, “I’m Azriel.”
You grinned, your eyes crinkling up at the edges and your mouth stretched wide. “Bye, Azriel.”
~ ~ ~
“Are we going to talk about it?”
The thud of your fist against the leather bag was answer enough.
Nesta appeared at the other side of the bag, bracing it as it started to swing. You met her eyes briefly, her gaze cold and impatient. You hit the bag again, a huff falling from her as she replanted her feet. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why must you all be so dramatic?” You hit the bag again, this time the angle off, and pain raced through your hand. “Y/N,” she said, her voice firm. You glared at her, holding your hand against your chest. “Did you know?”
You considered playing coy, acting aloof, but it would only get you so far with Nesta. You started to unwrap the leather wound around your hands, admitting softly, “Yes.”
She blinked, her shock evident. “I thought—” She shook her head. “You left so suddenly.”
“A headache overcame me.” You inspected the redness of your knuckles, your joints aching as you flexed your hand. It had been over two hours since you came up here, the sun only just now creeping up over the horizon.
“A headache,” she deadpanned.
You shrugged, walking over to your pile of things on the floor. You sat down, dropping the leathers beside you as you drank from your water.
“And Azriel—did he help you with this headache?”
Your head snapped to her. “What?”
She rolled her eyes again. “He left dinner not even a minute after you, then never returned. Do you think us so dense—”
“Azriel did not follow me,” you told her, making your confusion clear in your tone. The sound of a door opening and closing behind you as you took to the sky echoed in your mind. “Why would he?”
Nesta, for once, was at a loss for words.
Why would he not check on his friend?
Why would he follow you home from dinner, a female who was not his mate?
It was a back and forth you could spin in circles for an eternity if you let her, and you had no energy for her interrogations.
Your breath caught in your throat as a dark tendril gently slid down your arm, curling around your wrist as you lowered your water. Nesta watched the shadow silently, the two of you holding your breath as Azriel walked through the doorway, then froze.
He glanced at Nesta, then his eyes fell on you. “Good morning,” he said softly, hesitantly. You needed to get out of here.
You waved the shadow away, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “Good morning,” you said back, gathering your things in your arms before standing. “I was just leaving, so I’ll leave you be.”
Azriel blinked, but he didn’t say another word, even as you felt his gaze follow you all the way to the corridor, and you were finally free of his attention.
~ ~ ~
“Hi.”
Azriel flinched so violently that he stumbled back into the tree behind him, a dusting of snow falling down around him. His head whipped to you, where you were standing sheepishly at his side.
“Sorry,” you said, but still took a step forward. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Which was true, but you also had enough sense to realize that he was lost in his own world, given he was standing still in the middle of the forest alone.
His face was flushed as his bewildered eyes sharpened into a glare. He brushed the snow from his shoulders as he stood up straight, and his shadows wiggled around his feet as if they too had been startled. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.
You raised your brows, a bit of indignation crawling up your spine. He was the one loitering on the edge of your clearing. At least, you considered it yours. No one else had ever stumbled upon you here when you managed to slip away from your mother for the evening. “What are you doing here?” you threw back.
His face somehow turned redder. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
You looked him up and down, noticing the thick flying leathers that looked slightly too small for his body. The boys always got a new set of leathers when they turned ten, but never the girls.
Azriel must have been given a poorly sized spare when he arrived in camp.
You watched the shadows slinking up his body, blurring the edges of him into darkness, as if they might engulf him to save him from your prying gaze. You took another step closer, barely a foot between you now, and Azriel eyed you warily as you stuck your palm out.
A tendril of shadow immediately broke away from his side, skittering closer to you to wrap around your wrist and weave in between your fingers. You giggled at the cool and silken touch that was unlike anything you had ever felt. They were sort of cute.
“I’m sorry,” Azriel rasped, dragging your attention back to him. “I’m getting better at controlling them.” His shadows pulsed once, as if disgruntled by that, and Azriel grimaced. “They won’t hurt you.”
He had said the same thing the first time you met him, and again when you bumped into him once on your way home. “I know,” you said simply, rather than remind him of his past assurances.
You dropped your hand, content to let the shadow brush over your skin as it pleased. “I heard Cassian talking to Rhys a few days ago,” you said, curiosity seeping from your voice. You met Azriel’s eyes again, who already looked like he was dreading whatever might follow your sentence. “They said something about flying lessons?”
Azriel looked away, and the shadow around your hand darted back to him. “They’re teaching me,” he murmured.
“Teaching you?”
Azriel looked pained. “Yes.”
“What do you mean?”
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back.
“I don’t know how.”
“To fly?” you asked, incredulity clear in your voice.
Azriel nodded slowly, the movement forced and stiff.
“Oh.”
You had your suspicions that Rhys and Cassian were talking about Azriel. The three had formed an unexpected trio since Azriel arrived a few weeks ago, though you weren’t sure they were friends. Rhys and Cassian seemed to be antagonizing Azriel at every turn, yet they seemed to close ranks around him when others tested him.
You had also heard from some girls at lunch that Azriel was apparently living with them.
Azriel rubbed at his nose, and only then did you realize that his hands were covered by black leather gloves that looked nicer than the rest of his garments. “Cassian and Rhysand don’t know how to keep their mouths shut,” he grumbled.
You winced. “Are they good teachers?” you asked, trying and probably failing to hide your skepticism.
He gave you a dubious look. “No.”
You pursed your lips. “Well I could teach you.”
Azriel's face flushed red again, and he started shaking his head. “No—no. I don’t need anyone’s help—”
“I was coming out here to fly anyway,” you interrupted him. You shrugged when he finally met your eyes. “I always come here—or, there—” You pointed to the clearing through the trees where there was a small cliff you liked to jump from. Azriel turned to look. “To fly by myself. I wouldn’t mind a friend.”
Azriel’s head snapped toward you again. Your face warmed. “I would like that,” he said softly.
You smiled, then grabbed his hand, your chest feeling warm with excitement. “Let’s go.”
You dragged him through the trees at an awkwardly fast pace that was on the verge of becoming a run, and when you tripped over a branch sticking out of the snow, Azriel caught you before you could fall. The two of you giggled as he pulled you upright, and you kept moving toward the clearing.
The sun was bright once you were free from the canopy of the woods, a few rare beams breaking through the overcast sky and making the snow shimmer. You dragged Azriel up the hill that led to a cliff—if you could really call it that. It would certainly hurt if you fell, but you wouldn’t die. You thought.
You dropped Azriel’s hand as you neared the ledge, looking down at the snow covered ground. You turned to smile at him, but looked less than thrilled as he looked out over edge. “Please do not shove me off this ledge—”
“What?” you exclaimed. “Who said anything about shoving you off a cliff?”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you remember who my teachers are?”
You huffed. “Well we’re not doing that.” You reached for his hand again, pulling him closer so that he toed the edge with you. His muscles were tight with tension, so you gave his hand a squeeze as you smiled at him. “We’re going to jump.”
Azriel tried to jerk away, but you kept your grip firm on his hand. “How is that any different—”
You shook your joined hands. “I won’t let go, for one.”
He immediately shook his head. “I’m bigger than you. I’ll just pull you down and then we’ll both get hurt.”
“I’m stronger than I look,” you argued. “I can manage a soft landing for both of us just fine.” Maybe not soft, but you could cushion the fall if you had to probably. “But it doesn’t matter because you’re going to glide, not fall.”
His throat bobbed, but he didn’t argue. “How?”
“Spread your wings.” You did just that, your wings stretching out a little wider than necessary, but you wanted to make a point.
Azriel seemed to chew the inside of his cheek before nodding, then he took in a deep breath and stretched his wings wide behind him. His wings were larger than yours, a deeper shade of purple than your more rustic hue. They caught a ray of sunlight, and the delicate membrane shimmered. He squeezed your hand, and you had to think before you could remember what to say next.
“Good,” you said, and you leaned forward a bit, your wing brushing with his.
Azriel sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry—”
You waved him off, not minding at all if his wings brushed against yours. He was your friend. You trusted him. He wasn’t mean or loud or aggressive like the other boys in the camp. “It’s fine, Azriel.”
He nodded, and he didn’t let go of your hand.
“We’re going to jump, and we’re going to leave our wings out like this. They will catch the wind, if we fall forward a bit, and then we just glide. There is plenty of space. That’s it.”
“Okay,” he agreed, his voice slightly shaky. He nodded, then said again, “Okay, I can do that.”
You grinned, nodding excitedly. “Ready?” you asked, dragging him even closer to the edge, the toes of your boots hanging over.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Now!” you yelled, and the two of you jumped, and your bodies both instinctively leveled out with the ground, the wind whipping around your face as you grew closer to the Earth.
Then your body jerked, and the wind was pushing against the membrane of your wings, and you were soaring across the clearing.
Azriel laughed beside you, a smile stretching across his face as the two of you flew over the wide expanse of the mountain clearing. “This is amazing!” he yelled.
“I told you it would be fine!”
He squeezed your hand, closing his eyes as the wind washed over his face, and it was the most joy you had seen on his face since you found him behind the mess hall weeks ago.
Unfortunately, you were paying far too much attention to the boy beside you and not to your surroundings, and the rapidly nearing tree line in your peripheral made you jerk upright, stealing any of the momentum the two of you had found.
Azriel’s eyes flew open as you flapped your wings haphazardly, trying to right the two of you unsuccessfully, and then you were just trying to soften the inevitable fall. The two of you landed in a plume of snow, tumbling over one another with the force of your fall. You eventually came to a stop, Azriel’s body covering your own.
Your body ached, and you knew it would hurt tomorrow, but you seemed to be fine otherwise. Azriel’s shoulders were shaking, his face hidden from your view, and your stomach dropped. “Azriel, I’m so sorry. Cauldron, are you okay? I should—”
Azriel was laughing. He pushed himself up, still hovering over you as he finally met your eyes. He looked fine. He looked more than fine.
He rolled off of you, laying next to you in the snow as he gave into his uncontrollable laughter. You started laughing too, even if moments ago you were terrified he was hurt or that he might hate you now.
“That was amazing,” he said around his laughter. “Thank you.”
Your laughter slowed, small chuckles still escaping from your lips as you turned to meet his sparkling eyes. “What are friends for?”
~ ~ ~
“You’re avoiding me.”
The spoon in your hand clanked against your mug, some of the tea sloshing over the side. You took in a sharp breath, then reached for a towel to wipe it up.
“It’s the middle of the night, Azriel.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” He walked closer, his hip leaning against the counter only a few feet away from you. “Have I done something?” he asked, a bit quieter.
You finally looked at him, your hand still clutching the towel as you leaned on the counter. You hated the way your chest ached every time you saw him. Before, your heart had ached from feeling so overwhelmingly full—a tightness caused by feeling so much and with desperate hope to one day give it all to him. Now, your chest ached from an emptiness that had hollowed you out, your heart and soul dark and weathered and still soaked with love, but a love that now faced the agonizing reality of never being seen.
“No,” you said, quietly, after too many beats had passed. You looked down at the towel in your hand, clutching the fabric tight as you forced yourself to take just one full breath. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Azriel.”
Your breath caught in your throat when his hand grabbed yours resting on the counter, gently pulling the towel from your grasp. His thumb brushed over the back of your knuckles, the two of you staring at your hands on the counter. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.
His voice made your heart ache. The way he softened the syllables as if they might not pierce the fragile cloak of night around you. The way his questions were always gentle, genuine, and entirely sincere—spoken in tones that always made your defenses disintegrate.
“I haven’t been sleeping,” you answered quietly, finally daring to meet his eyes. You shrugged, as if that might knock the guilt of the half-truth off your shoulders. “I’m tired, that's all.”
Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because you have broken my heart. Because you have truly done nothing wrong and still I am left poorly gluing shredded pieces of myself back together that fall apart every time I’m near you.
“It’s nothing. Really, I’ll be fine.”
Azriel looks like he does not believe you. He doesn’t believe you, not a word that has come out of your mouth. You are admittedly a terrible liar—although you have mastered the art of evasion and half-truths over centuries of secret pining—and Azriel knows this. He knows you.
He’s also the Spymaster of the Night Court, of course.
He seems to take pity on you, for whatever reason. He blows a puff of air out of his nose as he looks away, slowly pulling his hand from yours to rest it on the counter. The inches between you now feel like an endless chasm.
“I am visiting my mother tomorrow,” he tells you quietly.
You frown. “Tomorrow?” you repeat. “Why didn’t you tell—”
Your words die in your throat when you meet his gaze, a pointed look staring back at you that makes a tendril of shame curl low in your stomach. You swallow hard, looking away. “She’ll enjoy that,” you say softly.
“Do you want to come with me?”
Your heart stutters. His eyes are wide and pleading, begging you for an answer you cannot fathom why he wants.
“I would like it if you came with me,” he adds softly. His shadows slowly slink out from behind him, curling around your ankles and moving up your calves.
Their touch is light and silken, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It’s meant to be a soothing touch, a comfort you had taken from them for centuries. You had never feared Azriel’s shadows, not even when they knocked you on your ass that first day you met.
Their familiar strokes now left your heart racing, a coil of panic unfurling in your chest as you thought of what he was asking, as you thought of all you stood to lose in a handful of time that was quickly slipping through your fingers.
He had found his mate.
Moments like these, intimate conversations in the dark between shared breaths, were now fleeting. Tendrils of shadows that had felt like an extra limb were no longer yours. You were a fixture in his life that was fading, your presence now blurry and confusing and ephemeral.
He was a pillar in your life that was cracking, bits and pieces crumbling as time pressed in. It was inevitable that the bond would snap for her. It was inevitable that Azriel would devote himself to his mate. It was only a matter of time.
You swallowed hard, acid burning the back of your throat. You reached clumsily for your tea, your fingers bumping harshly against the handle, sending more liquid sloshing over the sides. You cursed, grabbing for the towel again at the same time Azriel did.
His fingers covered yours, and you yanked your hand away within a second.
He blinked, a flash of hurt passing through his eyes for the briefest of moments.
You stepped back, eyes darting between the spilled tea, Azriel’s hand on the towel, and Azriel’s soft and confused eyes. You shook your head once, a motion you barely realized you were making before you choked out, “I can’t.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, batting away a shadow that had come up to stroke your cheek. “I can’t,” you said again.
“Y/N—”
Forcing yourself to meet his eyes, willing your voice not to tremble, you plastered on a forced and painful smile as you said, “I can’t go with you, I mean. I’m sorry.” You glanced once more at the spilled tea, slowly spreading across the granite countertop. “Send your mother my love.”
Azriel looked like he wanted to argue, to ask again, but you could not bear to hear another invitation. You could not bear to see misplaced disappointment on his face when you declined again.
So you walked away, your sock clad feet slipping once on the stone floor in your haste, Azriel’s arm shooting out to catch you. You sniffed once, your skin flushed and cheeks searing, moving out of his hold and disappearing down the dimly lit hallway.
Sleep evaded you the rest of the night, the image of spilled tea and drooping wings and glistening hazel irises haunting your every thought.
~ ~ ~
a/n: I will try to do a taglist for this series! let me know if you want to be added :)
the girls keep trying to set you up on vacation. that is, until they find the senior attending in your bed and realize why you keep shutting them down
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted
PAIRING: jack abbot x reader
WARNINGS: fem!reader, sunshine reader, reader has breasts, reader and jack are naked in bed together!, kissing, light possessiveness, secret relationship, very soft jack abbot
PROMPT: here!
WC: 1.1k
Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed.
And yes, maybe that would sound more profound if you had a wider frame of reference.
What you do have to compare him to amounts to a few teenage makeouts under splintered bleachers, some smattering of questionable judgment calls at frat parties, and then essentially nothing once medical school dragged your life into an alley and shot it dead.
Still. Even a limited sample can yield a clear, uncontestable result, and the result is Jack.
Jack, whose kisses arrive so confidently, like he has never once doubted where his mouth belongs, golden and fizzing, like champagne left to bloom in the heat of summer while your whole body hitches in open-mouthed amazement just to feel it.
Even now, even when the cool air whispers in through the balcony door and skims over your legs beneath tangled sheets, raising goosebumps in delicate lines along your thighs.
Jack notices instantly, the faintest smile warning against your lips as he shifts closer, chasing off the chill and dimming everything else until he is all you know.
When he kisses you again, it’s slower, lush and lazy, every nerve in you waking and stretching toward him, and when he pulls back, it’s only far enough that his lips barely graze the corner of your mouth.
Waiting, poised, always right there if you need more.
And you always seem to need more.
“C’mon,” he urges, his voice raspy from sleep, infused with a smugness you’d like to resent — because he knows he’s won this round. “Tell me again how much better I am than everyone else.”
You laugh before he can kiss it back out of you, a warm burst of affection filling in the little space between you.
“Such an ego trip,” you mutter softly. “But, unfortunately for literally every other man on earth, you are kind of ruining the curve here, Dr. Abbot.”
“That’s what I thought.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling anyway. “See, that confidence really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is —especially since you spent all last night watching Victoria and Samira scout alternatives for me.”
His fingers tense slightly against your waist, pulling you that much closer as his brows lift with genuine offense. “Should I have been worried?”
“Maybe a little,” you tease, unable to help yourself. “They were getting ambitious by the end there.”
He exhales, voice husky and low. “Let them get ambitious. They’ll just have to get used to being disappointed.”
You cant your head to the side and let your lips skim the sharp, firm line of his jaw, feeling the small catch in his breath as it happens.
That tiny lovely moment that reminds you all that swagger is something wonderfully human, something you can touch and affect and undo a little.
“They just don’t know the position’s already been monopolized.”
“And it’s a position I’m extremely attached to, baby.” His lips twitch as his thumb keeps tracing small circles into your skin. “Although,” he murmurs, “there are a few other positions I’m equally invested in exploring with you.”
“Cheeky.”
The accusation loses most of its force when you can feel the tips of your ears burning.
You don’t wait for him to answer. That would only give him room to keep going, and he is very good at that, good at pressing exactly where you are weakest until you dissolve on contact.
So you put a hand to him instead and guide him back, trading positions until his shoulders are against the mattress and he is looking up from the pillows.
He lets you do it without a fight (the only way you could manage it), only smiling as he runs his hands along your naked sides in long idle strokes until his palms settle against the valet of your chest.
After that you have to look away. Or rather, down. It’s easier to fold yourself against him than to hold his gaze when it gets like that, open and intent and almost too knowing.
Better to focus on the terrain of him. The freckles and beauty marks and scattered dark points across his skin that your fingers can follow and reorder into something legible. A constellation, naturally. Andromeda before they put her back up in the night sky where everyone could stare and nobody could touch.
A sudden knock at the door jolts both of you apart, but you barely make it half an inch away from Jack before the door swings open anyway, accompanied by a voice you would recognize in any state of consciousness.
“Babe, please tell me you’re awake, because we’ve all been dying to hear if you liked that guy from last night. Also, we found his Instagram and —” Victoria’s voice dies on the spot.
You make a tiny, strangled sound of pure horror.
Thankfully, Jack reacts for you, rolling you back into the mattress and yanking the sheet up over your head like that is somehow going to undo the last ten seconds instead of simply turning you into a very obvious person-shaped lump.
Which also doesn’t solve the larger issue, namely that there is a very naked senior attending what is meant to be your bed, in your room.
So much for plausible deniability.
“Oh,” Victoria says. Then, apparently finding that insufficiently expansive: “oh my god.” Beneath the sheet your face goes so hot it feels chemical. “Wow. This is —” She breaks off. You can practically hear the competing impulses at work: decorum on one side, unrestrained glee on the other. “I mean, congratulations, but also wow.”
Jack does not even have the decency to sound flustered. “Thanks.”
You sigh. At this point you’re not sure there’s really anything left to do but surrender gracefully to the smoking ruin of your secret.
“Would you believe he’s just here for a really, really thorough rounds update?” you ask, peeking out from the sheets with what you feel is a very convincing amount of innocence.
“On vacation?” she asks flatly. “Wow. Healthcare workers are getting more and more dedicated.”
Jack settles further back against the pillows. “Patient care never stops.”
Victoria presses her lips together tightly. It’s obvious she is fighting for her life not to laugh, and maybe not even fighting that hard.
“Right. Message received. I’m gonna give you two your privacy. Samira owes me forty bucks, so I need to go collect on that anyway.”
She slams the door shut behind her.
You drop the sheet at last and look up at the ceiling, momentarily unable to imagine a more useful direction in which to direct your face.
“So,” you say, sitting up and giving Jack what you mean to be a stern glare, “I think the secret aspect of this relationship may be over.”
He glances at you. “Did we even have a secret, really?”
“Maybe for like, a week.”
He kisses you again. The thesis remains intact. Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed, and now, apparently, that is no longer private research.
this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!
you lose your bikini top and decide to use jack as a human shield
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted
PAIRING: jack abbot x reader
WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader is topless, nipple mention, flirting, sexual tension, partial nudity, alcohol mention, both jack and r are tipsy, kissing!!
PROMPT: here!
WC: 1.2k
“You made me lose it.”
The complaint is half-swallowed against the wet skin of Jack’s back and the dull crash of the waves.
You cling tighter as Jack wades through the surf, arms hooked around his neck, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades where the sea has left him slick and gold and gleaming.
Every step moves you against him, your body sliding closer, nipples flattening to the hard line of him, and when he laughs, the sound moves under your skin before it reaches your ears.
A small, private earthquake.
He turns his head just enough that water slides off the edge of his jaw. “I did not make you do anything. You did that all on your own to avoid my excellent points about tiger sharks.”
“That’s not a true recollection of the events and they only sounded excellent because you were saying them in your stupid doctor voice,” you grumble, chin now hooked over his shoulder while the waterline drops lower and lower around his legs, the drag of the tide giving up on both of you inch by inch. Near the shore he slows, more careful now, one hand firm beneath your thigh while his prosthetic sinks a little into the uneven sand before he shifts and steadies and steps again. “You were supposed to agree with me.”
Jack smiles.
“I’ll try to remember that next time.” He steps out of the water, dragging both of you into the moonlit shallows. “Agree with you first. Correct the shark misinformation second. Recover the missing bikini top…never.”
He puts emphasis on the misinformation part.
You roll yours eyes and cinch your arms tighter around his neck.
The second you clear the waterline you seem to realize the ocean was doing more for you than you gave it credit for. In the water, at least, there had been plausible visual confusion. Distortion.
Out here there is only the moon, a waxing gibbous tonight, and your own bad luck.
Your bikini top had not come off in any glamorous way either.
A wave basically clotheslined you mid-argument, you went under still debating your point, and by the time you surfaced your top had been ripped clean off.
You had crossed both arms over your chest and stared at Jack with horror.
He, to his credit, or maybe to his deep private enjoyment, had just turned around so you could climb onto his back and use him as a human wall and shield.
“Convenient,” you murmur. “I’m starting to think you have a vested interest in the bikini top staying missing.”
“Trust me,” he says, voice dry, “if I had a vested interest in seeing you topless, I’d prefer it happen under circumstances that involved fewer opportunities for you to drown.”
You glance toward the vacant stripe of shoreline, suddenly grateful for the hour. Almost midnight. No passing strangers, no coworkers smoking in little clusters on the sand, no one to witness you wrapped around your attending in wet bikini bottoms and not much else besides nerve.
Lucky. Because this whole thing seemed like a very good idea twenty minutes ago and now feels a little less airtight.
You’re both tipsy, brined with salt and that strange vacation logic that makes every bad idea glow with intrigue. This was not among the more sensible things either of you had ever done.
But you had tilted your glass toward him, smiled over the rim, and said please in that sweetly loaded voice that seems to dissolve whatever remains of his better judgment on impact.
Cause and effect. Something you love to keep in your back pocket for emergencies.
You bite back a grin. “Jack, are you trying to tell me there are circumstances under which you’d find this whole situation acceptable?”
The beach house looms closer with each step. Most of it is dark now, but one light still burns upstairs. His room, you think.
Jack lets out a low, quiet laugh and hikes you a little higher on his back.
“Yes,” he says simply. “Ideally somewhere private. Dry. Preferably with you in my bed.”
A little startled giggle escapes you before you can stop it. You press your face at once in the curve of his neck. You’re not sure you can believe he’d say something like that so plainly.
As if that was the most ordinary thing in the world to tell you.
“Oh.”
Entire vocabulary gone. Reduced to a single syllable by one middle-aged man with a good mouth and a bad attitude.
“That’s all you’ve got?” he asks, dry amusement curling through the words. “Interesting. You seemed a lot more talkative in the ocean.”
“I was talkative because we were discussing facts,” you mumble. “Tiger sharks are mostly found in tropical and subtropical water, yes, but sharks generally can end up in weird places sometimes, so I feel like I was making a broader point about ocean unpredictability, which was valid.”
“Uh-huh.”
The sound is mild, but dismissive enough to make it clear he is not entertaining your argument as anything but cute deflection.
By then the porch is beneath him, old boards washed pale under a flickering lamp to the right of his shoulder. You worry about splinters on his bare foot.
He lowers you carefully from his back, slowly enough that your hands trail over him in stages, shoulder to arm to chest, your palms smoothing there as though your body is reluctant to stop touching his.
He doesn’t let it.
Instead of setting you down and stepping away, he catches you before your balance can settle, your feet coming to rest over his, your toes tucked against the tops of them so you never quite have to meet the porch at all.
You stay suspended against him, your naked chest pressed to the front of him, every chilled inch of skin suddenly aware of where he is warm.
Your nipples tighten into points almost immediately.
“You get shy when I’m direct,” he says, eyes on your face like he’s studying something newly confirmed. “That’s useful information.”
“Why? Do you like making me nervous? I don’t know what that says about you.”Your fingers flex once against his chest.
He tilts his head.
“I think I like knowing I can,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
“And what exactly are you planning to do with that information now that you have it?”
Jack’s eyes flick once to your mouth, then back up.
“Depends. How cooperative are you feeling?”
It is a ridiculous question, considering your current position, considering the fact that you’re still practically draped over him, and maybe that’s why you don’t answer fast enough — because he takes the pause as permission and closes the distance himself.
His mouth is warm and salt-touched and far too certain, and when he kisses you it feels less like a question than a decision, one he’s been circling for a while and has finally chosen to act on.
For one strange second you forget every single thing you’ve ever known, including your own name, the year, and the fact that human beings typically continue breathing through moments like this.
Then the air comes back all at once and you pull in a startled breath against his lips.
When he draws back, his forehead stays close to yours.
You can still feel the shape of the kiss still in your lips, in your throat, in the pit of your stomach where everything has gone loose and sparkling.
“Oh, that’s horrible,” you say.
Jack’s brow lifts in surprise. “Horrible?”
“Yes. Very manipulative.” His hands slide up and down your bare sides. “You lured me into a vulnerable conversational position and then took advantage of the pause.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s one interpretation.”
“It’s the correct interpretation.”
He laughs again, hand shifting higher on your back, feeling the goosebumps there.
“C’mon,” he says. “You can keep telling me how wrong I am inside.”
“Good,” you mutter, ignoring the impulse to reach up and kiss him again. “Because I was planning to.”
“I know.”
this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!
Summary: You were only unloading Jack’s dishwasher. That was all. You were in his kitchen, barefoot and comfortable in one of his old shirts, waiting for him to come home from tactical training. Domestic. Normal. Safe. And then Jack walked in wearing tactical gear. The vest. The boots. The radio. The duty belt. The quiet, knowing look on his face when he realized you could not stop staring. You tried to be normal about it. Jack noticed. Of course he did.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, established relationship, tactical gear/uniform kink, dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, light restraint, orgasm denial, oral sex, rough sex, kitchen counter sex, consent-heavy dominance, aftercare, Jack being smug and quietly devastating.
Author's Note: You’re welcome, readers. Tactical gear Jack has been in my head for far too long, and today I am making that everyone’s problem. This is for everyone who looked at that vest and immediately understood the vision. the boots, the radio, the command voice, the smugness, the “leave it on” of it all.
We did this together, and honestly? I think we should all be ashamed.
But we won’t be.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
You knew Jack’s kitchen well enough to know he had run the dishwasher. That was the first problem. The second problem was that you also knew Jack well enough to know he had absolutely no intention of unloading it before he left for tactical training.
You found the clean dishes by accident.
You had been at his townhouse for almost an hour, tucked into the corner of his couch in one of his old T-shirts and the soft lounge shorts you kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Jack pretended not to notice they had taken up permanent residence there. You pretended to believe him.
The TV murmured low in the living room. Your phone was facedown beside you. Late afternoon light stretched warm across the hardwood, catching on the coffee table, the arm of the couch, the spot near the entry where Jack always kicked off his boots, even though he complained when you did the same thing.
He had told you to let yourself in.
He always did now.
That was dangerous information if you let yourself think about it too long, so mostly, you didn’t.
You used your key. You kicked off your shoes. You curled up in his house like it had started making room for you without either of you saying it out loud.
Then you wandered into the kitchen for water, saw the clean light glowing on the dishwasher, and sighed as if this were somehow your responsibility.
“Of course,” you muttered.
The dishwasher door opened with a soft hiss. Warm air rolled up, damp and clean, smelling faintly like detergent and steam. The heat brushed your bare legs. Jack had loaded the bowls in the wrong direction again, because apparently, a man could be trusted with a trauma bay, tactical medical support, and other people’s lives, but not proper dishwasher geometry.
You started unloading it anyway.
Not because you were trying to be domestic. Not because the green mug already in his cabinet made something soft move behind your ribs. Definitely not because this had started to feel like your kitchen too.
You were simply a helpful person.
A generous person.
A person who had taken her bra off the second she got comfortable because Jack was not home yet, and you had planned to do nothing more strenuous than drink water, watch terrible television, and bully him into ordering Thai food when he got back.
You put the plates away first. Then the bowls. Then the mugs. The green one went on the second shelf, where Jack always reached for it in the morning, even though he claimed he did not have a favorite.
You were stretching to slide a mug into place when the front door opened.
You did not look over right away. “You ran the dishwasher and abandoned it,” you called, rising onto your toes. “I’m choosing to believe that was a cry for help.”
Jack did not answer. That was your first clue. Your fingers paused on the cabinet handle. The house changed when Jack entered it. You never knew how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. It was not sound, exactly. Not silence. Not even presence.
It was pressure. A subtle rearranging of the air.
You lowered yourself back onto your heels and turned.
Jack stood just inside the kitchen entry.
And your entire brain stopped. Not paused. Stopped. You had seen him in scrubs. You had seen him in old T-shirts and jeans, and the gray sweatpants he pretended were not specifically engineered to ruin your life. You had seen him half-asleep at this very counter, hair flattened on one side, making coffee with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on a French press. You had even seen him at work when he got sharp and calm, voice low, hands steady, the whole room rearranging itself around him because Jack Abbot had decided panic was not useful.
But this—
This was different.
Camouflage tactical pants tucked into boots. A tan quarter-zip stretched across his chest and shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. Camouflage sleeves pushed up enough to make his forearms a personal attack. Protective glasses shoved into his hair. A radio clipped at his shoulder. A duty belt low on his hips, heavy with equipment you did not know the names for, and suddenly wanted explained to you in unnecessary detail.
And the vest.
God help you, the vest.
It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was bulky and practical and worn in, half-unfastened, like he had started taking it off and gotten distracted. A black patch across the front read POLICE in block letters.
It should not have done anything to you.
It did several things.
Several immediate, humiliating things.
Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the mug still in your hand.
His mouth twitched. Barely. “You okay?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Yeah.” Your voice caught. “I—yeah.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough.
Heat rushed up your neck.
You turned back to the cabinet too quickly and shoved the mug onto the shelf. The wrong shelf. The green mug sat neatly beside his stack of bowls. The kitchen went horribly quiet.
Jack looked at the mug. Then at you. “That’s the bowl cabinet.”
Your fingers were still on the cabinet door. “I know.”
“You put a mug in it.”
“It’s visiting.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Small. Slow. Awful.
You shut the cabinet like that would erase the evidence, and bent for a plate from the dishwasher. A plate was normal. A plate was safe. A plate had never come home from tactical training looking like it could ruin your life with one raised eyebrow and a vest buckle.
Jack stepped farther into the kitchen. His boots sounded heavy on the tile.
You stared very hard at the plate. “Training was good?”
Jack hummed. “Mm-hm.”
“Good.” You croaked.
“Long.”
“Right.” You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Long is… training often is that.”
Jack went quiet. That was worse than if he had laughed.
You lifted the plate toward the cabinet. Wrong cabinet. Again. You froze with your arm half-raised.
Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.
You could feel him looking at the cabinet. Then at the plate. Then at you.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I didn’t.” Jack replied.
You couldn’t look at him. “You were about to.”
“No.”
Somehow, that was worse.
You lowered the plate slowly and opened the correct cabinet with all the dignity available to a person actively losing a fight with kitchen storage.
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Still in the gear. Still quiet. Still watching.
“You’re flustered.”
You laughed. It came out too high. “I am unloading the dishwasher.”
“Badly,” Jack murmured.
You exhaled, “You’re welcome.”
His eyes dropped. Not crudely. Not obviously. Just enough. Bare legs. Soft lounge shorts. His T-shirt. Your bare feet on his kitchen tile. You, too comfortable in his house to have expected him like this.
When his gaze returned to your face, something had shifted. Still amused. Still warm.
But darker now. More certain. “Oh.”
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘oh.’”
“I did.”
You pressed your lips together, “Don’t.”
He pushed off the doorway and took one slow step closer. You looked at the vest.
Mistake.
Jack noticed. His hand rested briefly against the front of it, fingers brushing one of the buckles like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly where your eyes were.
You looked away so fast that your shin almost caught the open dishwasher door.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Careful.”
You gripped the counter. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yep.” Too fast.
He came closer. Not too close. Close enough. The kitchen smelled like detergent, steam, and him now. Work and heat and Jack.
You picked up another mug. Then forgot why you were holding it.
His gaze flicked to it. Then back to you. “Need help?”
“No.”
“You sure?” He asked.
“Yes.” You answered quickly.
Jack glanced at the mug in your hand, “You’ve been holding that for a while.”
You looked down. You were, in fact, still holding the mug.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
Jack’s smile deepened. Small. Unbearably pleased.
You shoved the mug into the correct cabinet this time and immediately wished you had not looked proud of yourself for completing a task toddlers could master.
Jack caught that too. “Good job.”
Your face went instantly hot. The words were mild. Too mild.
That was the problem.
He had said them like he was talking about the mug, but his voice had gone just low enough to make your pulse stumble.
You turned to him. “Don’t do that.”
His expression stayed innocent. Too innocent. “Do what?”
You glared, “You know.”
“I don’t.” Jack shrugged a shoulder.
“You absolutely do.”
A beat passed.
His eyes dropped to the way your hand curled around the counter edge.
When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “You like the gear.”
Your mouth went dry. “I—what?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
You shook your head, “I do not.”
He raised a brow, “No?”
“No.” Your eyes betrayed you, straight to the vest.
Jack saw. The smugness sharpened.
You shut your eyes. “Damn it.”
A low sound left him. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “That’s what I thought.”
You opened your eyes.
He was close now. Close enough that you could see the dust on his boots, the tired edge around his eyes, the way the tan quarter-zip pulled across his shoulders beneath the vest.
You swallowed.
Jack watched your throat move. Said nothing.
Which was, frankly, rude.
“You’re enjoying this,” you said.
“A little.” Too honest. Too calm.
Your stomach flipped. “You’re supposed to deny it.”
“No.” The single word landed low.
Your hand slipped on the counter.
Jack’s gaze dropped to it. Then back to your face. His smile softened into something darker.
More focused. “Oh, baby.”
Your entire body went warm. “Don’t call me that right now.”
His head tilted. “Why?”
“Because I’m already—” You stopped.
Jack waited. His eyes stayed on your face, patient and pleased and quiet enough to make the silence feel like a touch.
You cleared your throat. “Because I’m unloading the dishwasher.”
He looked at the open dishwasher. Then, at the single spoon still sitting in the rack. Then back at you. “Almost done.”
You hated him.
You wanted him so badly your knees felt unreliable.
Jack stepped closer. Your back met the counter. He did not touch you.
Not yet.
His gaze moved over your face, taking in the blush, the uneven breathing, the way you kept trying not to look at the vest and failing every time.
Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. His fingers brushed the loose collar of your T-shirt where it rested against your shoulder.
Barely. Not enough. Too much.
His voice dropped, “You want me to take it off?”
Your eyes jumped to his. “The shirt?”
His mouth curved. “The vest.”
Oh. Right. The vest.
You looked at it again, because apparently, you had learned nothing.
Jack watched you look. Watched your breath catch. Watched your fingers tighten against the counter.
When you dragged your eyes back to his, he looked unbearably smug. Your voice came out smaller than planned. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack went very still. The kitchen went quiet around you.
His thumb brushed once against your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”
You nodded.
He waited. Right. Words.
“Yes,” you said softly. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack smiled then. Slow. Private. Absolutely lethal.
“Hands on the counter.”
Your breath left you. “What?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
The words were quiet. That was the problem. Jack did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The command settled into the kitchen with the same calm certainty he carried into rooms where people were used to listening when he spoke.
Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter.
Jack saw. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then came back to your face.
“You good?”
You nodded, then caught yourself because his eyebrow moved. Barely. Still enough.
“I’m good.”
Jack believed you. That was worse. Better. Both.
His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, not quite mercy.
“Then, hands on the counter.”
The kitchen seemed to shrink around the sentence.
The open dishwasher breathed out the last of its heat beside you. The single spoon still sat in the rack, ridiculous and bright beneath the kitchen light. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured to itself, low enough to be forgotten but not low enough to let the house feel empty.
You turned because he told you to. That was the first thing. The second was that Jack noticed the exact moment you realized you liked it.
Your palms met the counter. Cool stone. Smooth beneath your hands. You spread your fingers over it and tried not to think about how exposed the gesture made you feel. Tried not to think about the soft lounge shorts riding high on your thighs, the oversized T-shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, the fact that your back was to him now, and you could no longer use his face to prepare yourself for what he might do next.
Behind you, Jack did not move.
The silence was deliberate.
You felt it travel down the line of your spine.
Your skin prickled. “Jack.”
His boots sounded once on the tile. Then again. Slow. Measured. Not stalking. Not rushing.
Just coming closer because he had decided to, and because you had put your hands where he told you to put them.
He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.
The vest touched you first.
A brush of hard tactical fabric between your shoulder blades. Warm from his body underneath, rough at the edges, practical in a way that made it feel more obscene than anything designed to be sexy ever could.
Your fingers curled against the counter.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “I didn’t tell you to move.”
You had not moved. Not really. But your hands had lifted by a fraction, your fingers starting to curl like they wanted to reach back for him before you remembered yourself.
You flattened them again. The counter was cold. Your skin was not.
Jack’s hand settled at your waist. Warm. Steady. A single touch, and your whole body went too aware of itself. The old cotton of his shirt against your skin. The loose waistband of your shorts. The bare line of your shoulder where the collar had slipped. The cool air in the kitchen. The hard vest behind you.
His thumb moved once against your side. “Good.”
One word. No flourish. No smirk you could see.
Still, your breath went uneven.
Jack heard it.
His hand stayed where it was, not moving higher, not moving lower, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in giving you anywhere to hide. “You like that.”
Your eyes shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His mouth brushed the side of your neck. Barely there. “Liar.”
It should not have sounded affectionate. It did. A shiver moved through you before you could stop it. Jack’s palm flexed at your waist, grounding you without letting you pretend he had missed it.
The kitchen smelled like detergent, fading steam, and him.
Cold air still clung to his clothes from outside. Beneath that was sweat, dust, soap, and the faint metallic edge of gear and training equipment. It was not cologne. It was not polished. It was Jack after a long day doing something physical and dangerous enough that your body had apparently decided common sense was optional.
His other hand came to your opposite hip. Now he had you between him and the counter. Not trapped. Held.
There was a difference. Jack knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too.
His mouth touched your shoulder, a slow kiss just below the place where your shirt had slipped. The touch was soft enough to make your knees go weak. His hands tightened at your hips before you could sway.
Jack’s thumbs moved in slow arcs beneath the hem of your shirt, finding skin. Your breath caught. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked softly as it cooled. Jack’s vest shifted against your back when he leaned closer, and the sound of it—fabric, buckles, the faint scrape of equipment—went straight through you.
His fingers skimmed your stomach. Not high enough. Not low enough. Just enough to make you feel the shape of his restraint.
You started to turn your head toward him.
His hand left your waist and came to your jaw, two fingers beneath your chin, guiding your face forward again. “No.”
Your pulse jumped. The word was quiet. Simple. Devastating.
You faced forward again.
Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand dropped back to your side. “Stay there.”
You pressed your palms more firmly to the counter. “That’s bossy.”
His mouth hovered near your ear. “You like bossy.”
Your face burned. “I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
A frustrated sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.
Jack stilled. Then, softly, “There.”
Your stomach flipped. “What?”
“That sound.” His lips touched the back of your shoulder.
The hand beneath your shirt slid slowly up your stomach, then stopped at your ribs. Waiting. Teasing. Holding back exactly enough to make you feel the absence of everything he was not doing.
You went silent.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck. Slow. Patient. Awful. Every touch felt measured. Not because he was hesitant, but because he had figured out that patience ruined you and was immediately putting that information to use.
His palm flattened over your stomach and drew you back against him. The vest pressed hard into your back. The duty belt brushed the back of your thigh. You felt him there, solid and warm and controlled, and your body gave one helpless little shift backward before your mind could stop it.
Jack’s grip tightened. Not a warning. A response. His breath changed against your neck. For the first time since he had walked through the door, the smug control slipped just enough for you to feel the man underneath it.
You caught it.
Your mouth curved despite yourself. “There he is.”
Jack went still. The air changed. His hand stayed flat over your stomach, but his thumb stopped moving.
You had gotten him. Only a little. Only for a second. But enough.
His mouth came close to your ear. “Careful.”
Your smile widened, shaky but real. “With what?”
His hand slid to your hip and pulled you back into him again, slower this time.
Your smile disappeared. Every thought went with it.
“Thinking you’re in charge because I let you have one.”
You swallowed hard. “That was one?”
His mouth brushed your neck. “One.”
The word should not have undone you. It did. You were suddenly aware of your hands again, of how badly you wanted to take them off the counter. To reach back. To touch the vest. The straps. His belt. His hands. Anything. You wanted to turn around and get your mouth on his, wanted to make him stop sounding so calm when you could feel he was not.
Your fingers flexed.
Jack saw. “Hands.”
You flattened them.
He kissed your shoulder. A reward. You hated how fast it worked. You loved how fast it worked.
Jack’s hand slipped beneath your shirt again, slower now, knuckles brushing bare skin on the way up. His touch stayed to the edges: waist, ribs, stomach, the underside of wanting without giving it a name. He was not rushing toward the places your body begged for. He was making you feel every inch before then.
You let your head tip to the side. More room. You did not say it.
Jack did not need you to. His mouth found the space you gave him. His lips were warm against your neck, then his teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch, and your hands press flat again against the stone.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
The praise sank into you slowly like heat. You had been embarrassed before. Flustered. Mouthy because it was easier to be difficult than honest. But somewhere between the counter under your palms and his vest at your back, the fight in you had softened.
Not gone. Changed.
You were still aware of how ridiculous this should have been. The open dishwasher. The last spoon. The clean mug sitting in the bowl cabinet. His kitchen lit golden in the late afternoon while Jack stood behind you in tactical gear and touched you like he had all night and no intention of wasting a second.
But the embarrassment had started to dissolve into something heavier.
Relief, maybe. Relief at not having to hide how much you wanted him. Relief at being told exactly what to do by someone who would stop the moment you asked.
Relief at Jack’s quiet certainty, at the way he gave commands like promises and praise like reward. His hands slid down to the hem of your shirt.
You tensed, not from fear. Anticipation moved through you so sharply that your breath caught in your throat.
Jack felt it. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Still good?”
“Yes.”
He trusted it.
His thumbs hooked beneath the fabric. “Arms up.”
The command was simple. That made it worse. You had been told to keep your hands on the counter. Now he was telling you to move them. The shift itself felt intimate, as if he were changing the rules and trusting you to follow.
You lifted your hands slowly.
The counter disappeared from beneath your palms, leaving you briefly unanchored. Your arms rose above your head. The position pulled the shirt higher, exposing the line of your stomach, leaving you open to him in a way that made your face burn before he had even taken anything off.
Jack watched. You could feel him watching. His hands rested at your waist for one long second, as if he was taking in the fact that you were standing there because he had told you to.
The silence made your pulse beat harder.
Then he began to lift your shirt. Slowly. The cotton slid up your stomach. Over your ribs. Higher. He did not rush. Of course, he did not rush. Jack had learned that patience ruined you and had apparently decided to make it your problem.
You made a small, impatient sound before you could stop yourself.
The shirt stopped. You froze.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Something you need?”
Your eyes closed. Terrible man. “No.”
His fingers held the shirt exactly where it was. Not up. Not down.
A strip of kitchen air cooled your skin.
“No?”
Your pride made one final, useless attempt at survival. It failed immediately.
“Please.”
Jack’s breath changed. Only slightly. Enough.
His mouth touched your shoulder. “Please, what?”
The word sat on your tongue, embarrassing and simple, and exactly what he wanted.
“Take it off.”
A pause.
Then his lips curved against your skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re still listening.” He lifted the shirt the rest of the way.
The fabric dragged over your chest, your shoulders, your raised arms. For a second, it covered your face, warm cotton and the faint smell of him, and then it was gone, dropped somewhere behind you onto the kitchen floor.
The air touched your bare skin.
Jack went still. Completely. Your arms were still raised. Your breathing had gone uneven. The vest pressed warm and hard against your back. And Jack, who had been so smug, so pleased, so devastatingly in control, did not say anything. For one second. Two.
The silence reached your pulse before his voice did. “You weren’t wearing anything under this.”
Your face went hot. “I was comfortable.”
His hand came back to your waist. Slow. Firm. “In my kitchen.”
“You weren’t home.”
His fingers tightened once. “I am now.”
The words landed low and heavy between you.
You started to lower your arms.
Jack caught the movement immediately. “Ah.”
You froze.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could move.”
Your whole body went hot. Slowly, you lifted your arms back into place.
Jack’s hand slid over your waist, controlled, almost reverent, like he was taking a second to recover and refusing to let you see how badly he needed it.
Unfortunately for him, you knew him too well.
Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “Oh.”
His fingers paused.
You smiled, breathless. “Oh, baby.”
Jack’s grip tightened at your waist. “Careful.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. “Did you not know?”
His mouth hovered near your ear. His voice was low. Still controlled. Barely. “I know now.”
A shiver moved through you.
Jack felt it.
His mouth touched the side of your neck. “There you go.”
Your arms ached faintly from being raised, but you did not lower them.
He had not told you to.
Jack noticed.
You felt the exact moment he noticed: the way his hand stilled, the way his breath went rough, the way his body pressed closer behind yours until the vest brushed your bare back again.
He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “You’re waiting.”
Your eyes fluttered. “You didn’t tell me I could move.”
For a second, he was silent.
Then his hand spread over your stomach and pulled you gently back into him. “That’s my girl.”
The praise hit harder than you expected.
Your breath shook.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck, slower now, rewarding every second you kept your arms lifted. His hand stayed at your waist, then drifted over your stomach, then back to your hip. Teasing. Learning. Not attempt to hide how much he liked the way you were listening.
Finally, his voice came low against your skin. “Hands down.”
You lowered them slowly. Relief moved through your shoulders.
Before you could decide what to do with your hands, Jack spoke again.
“Behind your back.”
Your pulse jumped. The kitchen blurred softly at the edges. You turned your head a fraction.
Jack was waiting there over your shoulder, eyes dark and steady, giving you time because he always gave you time.
Your hands slid behind you. Slowly. Obediently.
His mouth curved. “There she is.”
The words were soft. Too soft for what they did to you. Your hands stayed behind your back, fingers curling around your opposite wrist, because you had no idea what else to do with them. The position pulled your shoulders back and left you open to him, skin still warm where his mouth had been and cooler now beneath the kitchen air.
Jack did not touch you right away. He looked. You felt the weight of it move over you. Down the side of your neck. Across your shoulders. Along the line of your spine where the vest had been brushing you. The kitchen felt too ordinary amid the silence: the open dishwasher, the clean spoon still abandoned on the rack, the soft ticking of cooling metal, the fading detergent steam caught beneath the sharper scent of him.
Then he stepped closer. The vest touched your back first. Hard fabric. Warm underneath. A scrape of tactical gear against bare skin that made your stomach pull tight.
Your breath caught.
Jack heard it. His hand moved behind you, slow enough that you could have stepped away, and closed around both of your wrists. Not tight. Not rough. Just firm. Certain.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist, and the carefulness of it almost made the whole thing worse. He held you like he meant it. Like he knew exactly what you were giving him and had no intention of taking it lightly.
“You good?” he asked against your shoulder.
Your answer came out quieter than you expected. “I’m good.”
His grip settled.
His free hand came to your waist, palm spreading warm against your skin. Then he drew you back by degrees, not pulling hard, not forcing, just guiding until your spine met the vest and your hips met the solid line of him behind you.
Your lips parted.
The air left the room.
Jack’s mouth touched the side of your neck. Barely.
You felt it everywhere.
He kissed you slowly, once beneath your ear, then again lower, where your pulse had become embarrassingly easy to find. His hand slipped from your waist to your stomach, flat and steady, holding you against him while his mouth learned what made your breath change.
You tried to swallow. It came out as a sound instead.
Jack’s grip around your wrists tightened. Not a warning. A response.
He liked that.
You knew because his breath shifted against your neck. Because the calm line of him behind you went a little less calm. Because his hand pressed you more firmly back into him, making sure you felt exactly what listening to him had done.
Your eyes opened. The kitchen cabinets blurred in front of you. The cabinet with the mugs. The bowl cabinet with the green mug still sitting in the wrong place because neither of you had bothered to fix it.
You should have found that funny.
You would have, if Jack’s mouth had not opened against your shoulder. If his teeth had not skimmed just enough to make your knees loosen. If his free hand had not slid to your hip and pulled you back again, slower this time, letting you feel him through all that gear, all that restraint.
“Jack.” His name came out thin.
He hummed against your skin. Not a question. Not yet. He knew what you wanted. That was the problem. He knew, and he was taking his time with the knowledge. His hand dragged slowly over your stomach, then back to your waist, then lower to the band of your shorts. He did not go beneath it yet. He only rested there, fingers spread, the heel of his hand warm against the place where your body had gone tight with waiting.
You pulled against his grip without meaning to. His hand around your wrists did not move. The reminder went through you like a spark.
You were not trapped.
You were held.
There was a difference, and Jack knew exactly how to make you feel it.
His mouth came to your ear. “Tell me.”
Only two words. Soft. Rough at the edges.
You closed your eyes.
The old instinct rose—joke, dodge, say something difficult enough to make the wanting less obvious. But your shirt was on the floor. His vest was against your back. His hand was at your waistband. And you were tired of pretending you were not shaking.
“Touch me,” you whispered.
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder. A reward. His hand slipped lower into the waistband of your shorts. Slowly. The first real touch made your whole body lock. Jack held you through it. One hand around your wrists, the other moving with maddening patience, his mouth warm at your neck, his breath uneven now.
He did not ask again.
He trusted the way you leaned into him. He trusted the way your head tipped back against his shoulder. He trusted the way your fingers curled helplessly in his grip instead of pulling away.
And because he trusted you, you gave him more.
A breath. A sound. His name, softer this time.
Jack moved as if he were learning you by touch and already knew he would remember every answer. Every shiver. Every little hitch of breath. Every helpless attempt to chase his hand when he slowed down.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Your body listened before your pride could object.
A low sound moved out of him, almost a laugh, pleased and dark and far too close to your ear. He liked that too. He liked it when you listened.
You could feel it in the way his grip tightened around your wrists. In the way his mouth became less patient at your neck. In the way his body leaned heavier into yours for one second before he reined himself back in.
“You’re doing so good.” The praise sank into you, warm and devastating.
Your head fell back against him. The ceiling light caught in your vision. Soft gold. Too bright. Too ordinary for this. His kitchen. His counter. The open dishwasher still breathing out the last of its heat.
Jack’s hand moved again. The world narrowed. The hard vest. The radio is brushing your shoulder. The duty belt against the back of your thigh. His mouth at your throat. His breathing is no longer even.
He brought you closer slowly. So slowly, you almost did not recognize what he was doing until your hands tightened in his hold and your legs started to tremble.
Your breath broke. “Please.”
The word slipped out raw.
Jack stopped kissing your neck. Everything in him seemed to listen. His hand did not stop.
Not yet.
“Please what?”
You made a sound that was not quite an answer.
He slowed. Cruel. Controlled. Patient enough to ruin you.
Your forehead nearly dipped into the counter in front of you. “Jack.”
His mouth touched your shoulder. “That’s not an answer.”
Your face burned. Not shame. Something warmer. Something that made the wanting sharper because he was making you stand inside it and speak.
“Please don’t stop.”
His breath left him rough against your neck. There. That got to him.
The knowledge made your knees weaker.
Jack gave you what you had asked for, and your whole body went soft and tight at once. Your wrists strained in his hold. His grip steadied you immediately, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth returned to your neck and his fingers worked over you in slow, tight circles.
You were close enough now that the room started to slip.
The tile beneath your feet. The cabinet in front of you. The hum of the refrigerator.
All of it blurred around him. His hand. His vest. His voice in your ear. “That’s it.”
You shook against him.
He felt it.
He gave you more.
Then, just as your body started to tip toward the edge, just as your breath caught and stayed caught, just as your fingers curled helplessly behind your back—
Jack stopped. Completely.
For one impossible second, you could not process the absence. Then you made a sound so desperate it should have embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
You were too far gone for that.
Your body tried to follow his hand.
Jack’s arm came around your waist immediately, holding you still, holding you up, his mouth pressing to your shoulder in something almost tender. “Easy.”
You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”
“I’ve got you.” He murmured.
“You stopped.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I did.”
You pulled at your wrists, helpless now, frustrated enough that your eyes burned. “Why?”
His hand rested flat over your stomach. Still. Warm. Maddening.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Because you begged so pretty.”
Heat rushed through you, full-body and humiliating.
“And I want to hear you do it again.”
For a second, you could not answer. You could only stand there with your hands still held behind your back, Jack’s vest pressed against your bare skin, his arm firm around your waist, his breath warm at your ear. The kitchen felt too bright for what he had done to you. Too normal. Cabinets. Counter. Open dishwasher. The last spoon was still sitting in the rack like neither of you had any intention of finishing what you started.
You whispered his name.
Jack’s mouth touched your shoulder. “Turn around.”
Your pulse jumped.
His grip loosened around your wrists. For a second, you did not move. Not because you did not want to. Because the absence of his hold made you feel strangely weightless, like your body had forgotten what to do without his hand telling it where to stay.
Jack noticed. His fingers brushed once over the inside of your wrist before he let go completely.
“Slow.”
One word. You obeyed. You turned carefully, bare feet shifting against the cool tile, counter at your back now, open dishwasher to your side, Jack in front of you.
He looked almost unfairly composed for a man whose breathing had gone rough against your neck moments ago.
Almost.
His vest was still half-unfastened. The tan shirt beneath it clung to his shoulders. His hair was mussed from the protective glasses shoved into it. There was dust on his boots. A shadow along his jaw. His eyes moved over your face first, then lower, and the effort it took him to bring them back up made your stomach twist.
“There,” he said softly.
Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you. “What?”
Jack stepped closer. His hands settled at your waist. “I wanted to see your face.”
The sentence should have been tender. It was. That made it worse. His thumbs moved once over your skin, slow and warm. He watched you take the touch. Watched your lips part, your shoulders lift, the way your body could not decide whether to lean into him or brace against the counter.
Then he bent slightly.
“Jack—”
His hands tightened at your waist. A warning. A promise.
Then he lifted you.
The counter was cold beneath you.
You gasped at the sudden shock of it, the stone pressing against the backs of your thighs, cool enough to make your whole body jolt. Jack stepped between your legs before you could close them, his gear brushing you, his hands still steady at your waist.
The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The television in the living room had gone to some muted commercial you could not place. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked again, cooling metal, soft and domestic and absurd.
Jack stood between your knees like he belonged there. Like he had always intended to put you there.
Your hands moved toward him before you thought better of it.
He caught your wrists. Fast.
Your breath stopped.
Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Not yet.”
You made a soft, frustrated sound.
His mouth curved. “Hands on the counter.”
You stared at him. “You just let me turn around.”
“And now I’m telling you where to put them.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re very bossy.”
Jack guided your hands to the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.
His fingers pressed over yours until you gripped it. “Hold here.”
Your hands curled around the counter. The stone was cold under your palms.
Jack waited until he saw your fingers tighten. Then he let go. “Good.”
The word went through you with humiliating ease.
Jack saw that too. His gaze sharpened. “You’re going to be a problem now.”
You tried to breathe normally. “You already knew I was a problem.”
“I knew you were mouthy.” His hands slid to your knees. Slow. Firm. “This is different.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs as he eased your legs wider. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain. Every inch of space he made felt deliberate.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “You love my mouth,” you said.
Jack stopped. For half a second, the entire kitchen went still.
Then his eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Amused. Worse than amused. “Yes.”
The answer was immediate. Too immediate. Your pulse stumbled.
Jack’s thumbs moved once over the inside of your knees. “But right now,” he said, voice low, “I’m interested in what it does when I tell you to be quiet.”
Oh.
Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.
Jack’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “There she is.”
Your face burned. “That was mean.”
“No.” His hands moved higher on your thighs, slow enough to make your thoughts scatter. “That was honest.”
The kitchen air felt cool against your bare skin. Jack felt warm everywhere he touched you. The vest shifted when he leaned down, hard fabric brushing the inside of your leg before he caught himself and adjusted.
Still controlled. Still careful. Still somehow making every careful thing feel worse.
His fingers found the waistband of your shorts. You went still. Jack noticed. His gaze lifted to your face. “You good?”
Your throat worked. “I’m good.”
His thumbs slipped beneath the soft fabric. “Hands stay.”
Your fingers curled harder around the counter.
Jack drew your shorts down slowly. Not because they were difficult. Because he wanted you to feel every second of it, the fabric dragged over your hips, your thighs, catching briefly beneath you until he lifted you just enough to ease it free. The movement was smooth and effortless, one hand at your waist, one at your thigh, his body still between your knees, the vest brushing your skin whenever he leaned close.
You stared at the ceiling because looking at him felt impossible. That did not help. The ceiling was too ordinary. The kitchen light was too warm. The dishwasher was still open. Your shorts slid down your legs and fell somewhere near his boots.
Jack did not move for a moment. He just looked.
The quiet of it made your pulse beat everywhere. “Jack.”
His hands settled back on your thighs. “I’m here.”
The answer came immediately. Grounding. Ruinous. His thumbs moved slowly over your skin, and he eased your knees apart again, reclaiming the space he had made before.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He lowered his head and kissed the inside of your knee.
Soft. Patient. A beginning.
Your head tipped back against the cabinet.
Jack’s voice came low against your skin. “You asked so nicely before.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. “I was desperate.”
“I know.” The smile was in his voice.
You hated that. You loved that.
His mouth moved higher. Still not enough. Your hands twitched on the counter.
Jack noticed without looking up. “Hands stay.”
Your grip tightened immediately.
The reward came as another kiss, slow and warm, higher than the last.
You let out a shaking breath.
Jack looked up at you. Focused. The kind of focus that made rooms go quiet around him. “Then take it.”
The words emptied your lungs.
Jack lowered his mouth.
The first touch made your whole body jerk. Your fingers clamped around the counter. The cold stone bit into your palms. Your shoulders hit the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, and Jack’s hands tightened on your thighs to keep you there, open and still and absolutely nowhere near in control.
“Oh, my God.” The words broke out of you before you could stop them.
Jack paused. Barely.
You felt the shape of his smile against you. “Quiet.”
You inhaled sharply.
Then he did it again. Slower this time. Like he wanted to feel the exact second you lost the fight with yourself. Your head tipped back against the cabinet. The kitchen light went soft and gold behind your closed eyes. Everything narrowed to Jack between your thighs, the rough brush of his vest against your leg, the pressure of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to listen with his entire body.
You tried to move.
Jack held you still. Not harsh. Firm enough. A reminder.
Your hands stayed on the counter. Barely.
His thumb stroked once over your thigh, approval without words, and the gentleness of it almost made you unravel faster than the rest. You made another sound. Smaller. More helpless.
Jack hummed low, pleased, and the vibration went through you like a spark.
Your eyes flew open.
He looked up. That was worse. His mouth was still close. His eyes were dark and steady, watching your face like he was reading every answer you gave him. “You like that?”
Your voice had vanished. You nodded.
Jack’s hands stilled.
The silence pressed hot against your skin. Right. Words.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved. “Tell me.”
Your fingers dug into the counter. “I like that.”
He rewarded you immediately.
Your breath broke.
Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs, adjusting you closer to the edge, and the movement made the counter colder, him warmer, the room smaller. You wanted to touch him so badly your hands ached around the stone.
One hand slipped. Only an inch.
Jack lifted his head. “No.”
The word was quiet. Your hand froze.
He did not look angry. He looked pleased. Terribly pleased. “Where do your hands stay?”
Your face burned. “On the counter.”
His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh. “That’s right.”
He waited until your hand curled back around the edge.
Then his tongue found you again. A reward. A ruin. You were a mess within seconds. Not gracefully. Not prettily. Completely. Breath snagging. Thighs trembling. Shoulders pressed against the cabinet. Hands locked around the counter because Jack had told you to keep them there, and somehow that command had become the last solid thing in the room.
Jack took his time. Of course he did. He had learned that patience ruined you, and now he was proving it. Every time you thought you knew the rhythm, he changed it. Every time your body started to rise toward something, he softened. Every time you whispered his name, he gave you enough to make you do it again.
“Jack.”
His hands tightened. You heard his breath change. Felt it. He liked his name like that. You knew it now.
You used it. “Jack, please.”
He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against your skin. “Please what?”
You let out a broken little laugh, almost angry with how badly you needed him. “You know.”
“I do.” His mouth brushed higher. Not enough. Not yet. “I want to hear you.”
Your head fell back. The cabinet was cool against your shoulder blades. Your own breathing sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Please don’t stop.”
Jack’s hands flexed. There. He liked that. The knowledge made you ache.
He gave you more. The room slipped sideways. The hum of the refrigerator disappeared. The TV disappeared. The open dishwasher, the cooling spoon, the late afternoon light across the tile — all of it blurred into sensation.
Jack’s mouth. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice, when he murmured, “Good girl,” like praise, was another way to touch you.
Your hands started to loosen from the counter. You caught yourself.
Jack saw anyway. “That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hold on.”
You did. Your fingers curled around the edge until your knuckles ached. Your thighs trembled under his hands.
He brought you close slowly. Too slowly. You could feel it building, feel yourself tipping toward that bright, impossible edge he had denied you once already. Your breath came in pieces. Your body tried to move with him, tried to chase, tried to close around him.
Jack held you open. Held you still. Kept you there.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He lifted his eyes to yours. The sight almost ended you by itself. Still in gear. Still composed enough to look up like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Not composed enough to hide the roughness in his breathing.
“What do you need?” The question was quiet. Devastating.
You swallowed. The begging came easier this time. Too easy. “Please.”
His mouth touched your thigh. “Please what?”
Your cheeks burned.
You did not hide. Not this time. “Please let me.”
Jack went still. His eyes darkened. For one breath, all the smugness slipped, and what was left underneath was hunger so sharp it made your fingers tighten on the counter.
Then his mouth curved slowly. “There it is.”
He kissed your thigh. A reward. “Again.”
You shook your head once, breathless. “Jack.”
“Again.” His voice was rougher now. Less teasing. More affected.
And because you could hear what it did to him, because you could feel that he was not nearly as untouched as he pretended, you gave him the words.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me come.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. Then he lowered his mouth again. This time, he did not stop. Your whole body went tight. The counter edge cut into your palms. Your breath caught and stayed caught. Jack’s hands held you through the first shudder, then the next, one arm pressing over your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted you while the rest of you broke apart around him.
You heard yourself say his name. Once. Twice. Too soft to be a scream. Too ruined to be anything else.
Jack stayed with you through all of it. Not rushing. Not moving away. His mouth is softer now, his hands gentler, easing you down instead of dropping you.
Your body went heavy. Boneless. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and the kitchen came back in pieces.
The hum of the refrigerator. The detergent smell. The cool counter under your palms. The sound of Jack breathing. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then the lower part of your thigh.
Then he looked up at you. His hair was mussed. His mouth was wet. His vest was still on. And he looked unbearably pleased with himself. “You still good?”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “I think you know I’m not.”
His mouth curved. Warm. Smug.
So comepletely Jack, you almost laughed.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”
He rose slowly, stepping back between your thighs.
His hands settled on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching you. He leaned close enough that the vest brushed your bare skin again, and you shivered even now.
Jack noticed. His smile deepened.
You closed your eyes. “I hate the vest.”
“No, you don’t.”
Your laugh came out weak. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack’s mouth brushed yours. Slow. Deep. A reward and a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark again.
Your hands slid from the counter toward him. This time, he let you touch the vest.
For one second.
Only one.
Then his hand closed gently around your wrist. “Not yet.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved over your pulse. “I’m not done with you.”
The words landed low.
Your hand was still caught in his. Your fingers had barely touched the vest before he stopped you, and somehow that single second had made the wanting worse. Rough fabric beneath your palm. The hard line of the strap. Heat beneath it. Jack beneath all of it.
You stared at him.
Jack stared back. His thumb moved once over your pulse. Not soothing. Not really.
A reminder.
The kitchen still felt tilted around you. Your body was loose and shaking from what he had already done, your thighs still bracketed around him, the counter cold beneath you, the cabinet cool against your back. Everything smelled like detergent and sweat and Jack. The open dishwasher had stopped steaming now, but the clean scent lingered beneath the sharper edge of his gear.
Your voice came out thin. “You’re not?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”
Your fingers flexed in his hold.
He looked down at the movement. Then back at your face. “You want to touch me.”
It was not a question.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes darkened.
For a second, the smugness softened into something heavier. Hungrier. The kind of look that made you realize he had been holding himself together too. Not unaffected. Not even close. Just disciplined enough to make you think the ruin had been one-sided.
It had not.
The proof was in the tension along his jaw. The roughness of his breathing. The way his hand tightened around your wrist before easing again, like he had to remind himself not to rush just because he wanted to.
Jack leaned in. His vest brushed your bare skin.
Your breath caught.
He noticed. “Soon,” he said.
Your eyes fluttered. That one word felt like a promise and a punishment. “Jack.”
His mouth touched yours. Not a kiss. Almost. “Hands up.”
Your pulse kicked. “What?”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “Above your head.”
The kitchen seemed to go quieter.
You were still sitting on the counter, still trembling, still trying to recover from him, and now he wanted your hands where he could see them. Where you could not reach for him. Where he could take that final inch of control before giving anything back.
Your fingers curled once against his.
Then you lifted your hands.
Slowly.
Jack guided them the rest of the way, his palm firm around your wrists as he pinned them above your head against the cabinet.
The wood was cool behind your knuckles.
Jack’s body filled the space between your thighs. His gear brushed you everywhere. The hard vest. The duty belt. The heavy weight of him still mostly dressed while you were bare and breathless on his kitchen counter.
He looked at you like that did something to him. Like he had meant to keep the upper hand and had not accounted for the sight of you listening this well.
His mouth moved against your jaw. “Still good?”
You nodded once. “I’m good.”
His grip settled around your wrists. “Stay there.”
Your answer came out as a breath. “Okay.”
Jack kissed you then. Slow at first. Deep enough to make your hands flex above your head, your wrists pressing into his palm, your body shifting toward him before he had given you permission to move. His mouth tasted like heat and restraint and the ruin he had pulled out of you minutes ago.
Then the kiss changed. Something in him shifted. The edge of all that careful patience wore thin. His free hand slid down your side, over your hip, beneath your thigh, drawing you closer to the edge of the counter with one controlled pull. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter dragged cool beneath you. His gear scraped softly, buckles and fabric and belt, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen.
Jack’s forehead touched yours. His breathing was no longer even. Not even close.
“You sure?” The question was rougher now. Less composed.
You looked at him. Really looked.
At the dark focus in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way he was still holding himself back because your answer mattered more than his urgency.
Your chest tightened. “Yes.”
His hand tightened around your wrists. “You want this?”
“Yes.”
Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Like the answer hit him somewhere deep. When he opened them again, the smugness was gone. What remained was worse.
Need, disciplined down to a blade. “Say it.”
Your breath caught.
His mouth hovered over yours. “Tell me.”
You swallowed. The words felt different now. Less like begging. More like choosing.
“I want you to fuck me.”
Jack went still. The whole kitchen held its breath with him. Then he kissed you hard. Not careless. Never that. But harder than before, deeper, the last of his patience burning down to something urgent and raw. His hand stayed around your wrists, keeping them above your head while his other hand moved between you.
You heard the shift of his belt.
The low rasp of a zipper.
Your whole body went tight.
Jack felt it immediately.
His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
He pushed his pants and boxers down only as much as he needed. No more. The gear stayed. The vest stayed. The boots, the belt, the tan fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. He was still dressed like he had walked in from training and found you in his kitchen, and that fact made everything feel sharper. More desperate. Less polished.
Jack’s hand came back to your hip.
He looked at you. Waited.
Your wrists flexed above your head. “I’m good,” you whispered.
His gaze softened for one breath. Then he moved closer. He pushed into you slowly, stealing the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the cabinet.
Jack stopped. Completely.
Every muscle in him seemed locked with the effort of it. “You okay?”
“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Breathless. Certain.
Jack’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Good.”
Then he moved. Slowly at first. Controlled even now. He gave you time to feel every inch of the change, the stretch of being held open to him, the pressure of his body against yours, the hard edge of his vest against your chest every time he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to move your hands down on instinct, needing to touch him, needing something to hold onto besides the cool cabinet and his command.
His grip tightened around your wrists. “Not yet.”
A sound left you. Frustrated. Needy.
Jack’s mouth found your neck. “I know.”
He moved again, deeper this time, harder, and the whole room tilted. Your legs tightened around him. His breathing broke. A real break. Low and rough against your throat.
You caught it even through the haze. “There,” you whispered.
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. “What?”
Your lips parted around a shaky breath. “Right there, Jack. Please.”
He drove into you again, harder, and the words disappeared from both of you. The counter creaked softly beneath you. The cabinet knocked once against your wrists. The spoon in the dishwasher shifted with a tiny metallic sound that should have been funny and was not, because Jack was moving now like the control he had used to wreck you had finally turned on him.
Still measured. Still focused. But rougher. More urgent. His mouth found yours again, catching the sounds you could not swallow. His hand kept your wrists pinned above your head. His other hand gripped your hip, dragging you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the vest brushed and pressed and turned every thrust into another reminder of how this had started.
You were shaking again.
Already.
Jack felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a flash of smugness cutting through the roughness. “Already?”
You would have snapped at him if you could breathe. Instead, you made a broken sound and pulled against his grip.
He held you there.
“You did that on purpose,” you managed.
“I did.” His voice was rough. Pleased. Not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be.
That made you smile despite yourself. “You’re not as calm as you think.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the room narrowed to that look.
Then his hand released your wrists. “Touch me.”
You did not need to be told twice. Your hands came down fast. One grabbed the edge of the vest. The other slid to the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, finally, finally holding on to him the way your whole body had been begging to since he walked through the door.
Jack groaned. A real sound. Low. Uncontrolled. The sound ruined you.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “There he is.”
Jack caught your mouth with his. The kiss turned messy. Hotter. Less careful around the edges. His hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched you higher on the counter, changing the angle until your nails dug into the back of his neck and your whole body jolted against him.
The gear scraped against your skin.
His vest. His belt. The rough line of fabric and equipment. The hard, practical pieces of him still on while his control came apart under your hands. He was still dominant. Still the one setting the pace. But now you could feel what it cost him. Every breath. Every rough sound against your mouth. Every time his rhythm faltered because your hands found another strap, another edge, another place where his body was warm beneath the gear.
“Jack.”
His forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve got you.” The words came rough. Almost broken.
“You keep saying that.”
His hand tightened on your hip. “Because I do.”
Your chest pulled tight. For one second, the heat went soft at the center. Then he moved again, and you lost the thought completely. The kitchen blurred. Your hands clutched at him, one fisted in the vest, one at his neck, holding him close as he drove you higher. The refrigerator hummed somewhere far away. The counter was cold beneath you. His mouth was hot against yours. His breathing filled your ears.
His praise came low and rough, no longer polished, no longer smug in the same way. “That’s it.”
Your eyes closed.
“Good girl.”
Your fingers tightened.
“Just like that.”
Your body answered every word.
Jack knew it. He used it. He kept one hand at your hip and brought the other to your jaw, making you look at him when your head started to fall back.
“Stay with me.”
Your eyes opened.
He was close. You could see it now. In the tension around his mouth. In the way his breath caught every time you pulled him harder against you. In the way the rhythm turned rougher, less perfect, more honest.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your cheek. “I know.”
“I’m—” You tried.
“I know.” His mouth touched yours. “Let me feel it.”
The words tipped you over. Your whole body went tight around him, hands clutching at the vest, mouth open against his, his name breaking somewhere in your throat as the room disappeared in a rush of heat and sound and Jack holding you through it.
Jack’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath breaking hot against your mouth.
“Oh, fuck.”
Your hands tightened in the front of his vest. “Jack.”
His grip dug into your hip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he was there with you, right there, as gone as you were.
“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice wrecked now. “Oh—fu-fuck.”
The sound of him losing control almost tipped you over again.
His mouth brushed yours, messy and barely there.
“God, you’re doing so good,” he breathed. “So good for me.”
You clung to him, his vest rough beneath your hands, his body tense and shaking against yours.
“Jack,” you whispered again.
That was what did it.
His eyes closed. His breath caught. His whole body went tight, and then he buried his face against your neck with a rough, broken sound.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “Good girl. Good—God, baby.”
His hand tightened once at your waist. Then loosened. His body stayed pressed to yours, still shaking in small aftershocks he could not quite hide. For a moment, there was no command. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack breathing hard against your throat, vest rough beneath your hands, his body warm and heavy and finally, completely undone.
His mouth pressed to your skin. His body went still.
For a long moment, there was only breathing.
Yours. His.
The hum of the refrigerator returning slowly. The cooling dishwasher. The ordinary kitchen gathering itself around the wreckage of what had just happened on the counter.
Your hands stayed on him. One in his hair. One curled into the vest.
Neither of you moved. Then Jack laughed once. Soft. Rough. Disbelieving.
His forehead stayed against your shoulder. “You okay?”
Your laugh came out weak. “I think my soul left my body.”
His shoulders moved with a quiet laugh. The sound warmed your skin. “Still good?”
You nodded against him. “I’m good.”
His hand, no longer commanding, slid slowly up your back.
Gentle now. Careful.
The dominance loosening into care before you could fully come down from it.
He lifted his head and looked at you.
His face had softened. His hair was a mess. His mouth was warm and swollen from kissing you. The vest was still on, crooked now, one strap half-loose, the POLICE patch no longer centered.
You reached up and touched it with two fingers.
Jack looked down. Then back at you. His mouth curved. Smug again. Barely. “You still hate the vest?”
You stared at him. Then at the vest. Then back at him. “I need you to understand that I am currently too vulnerable to answer questions.”
Jack laughed, low and warm. His thumb brushed your cheek. “That bad?”
You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “Worse.”
His smile softened. “Come here.”
“You are already kind of in my personal space.” You exhaled a laugh.
“Come here anyway.”
This time, there was no command in it. Just him. You leaned into him, and Jack gathered you carefully against the front of all that gear, one arm around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. The vest was still hard against your skin.
Somehow, in his arms, it felt softer.
He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
“You did so good,” he said quietly.
Your eyes closed. That praise hit differently now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Warm.
You let out a slow breath against his neck. “Don’t be smug.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your hair. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
You laughed, boneless and breathless.
He held you tighter for a second, like the laugh mattered.
Behind you, the dishwasher clicked one last time.
Your eyes opened.
“The spoon,” you whispered.
Jack went still. Then he started laughing against your shoulder.
You felt it more than heard it. Deep. Quiet. Helpless.
You smiled into the side of his neck. “Your dishwasher is still open.”
“I know.”
“You’re breaking kitchen safety rules.”
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you.
His eyes were still dark, but softer now. “You want to finish unloading it?”
You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then at the vest. “Absolutely not.”
His smile came slow. Warm. Entirely too pleased. “Good answer.”
You ended up in Jack’s bed after.
Not right away.
There was the shower first, warm water and his hands gentler than they had been in the kitchen. He washed the places where the counter had pressed into your skin. He kissed your shoulder under the spray. He wrapped you in a towel without making a joke about how unsteady your legs still were, which you appreciated enough not to mention how smug he looked about it.
Then one of his shirts.
Then water.
Then bed.
The room was dim by then, the late afternoon light gone blue at the edges of the blinds. You were curled against his side, cheek resting over his heart, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheet. Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, up and down, steady enough that your breathing had started to match his without you meaning for it to.
He had been quiet for a while. Not distant quiet. Jack had different kinds of quiet. You knew them now.
This one was warm. Settled.
His fingers paused at the center of your back. “Hey.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
His face was softer than it had been in the kitchen. Hair damp. Jaw relaxed. No gear. No vest. No command in his voice now.
Just Jack.
“Hey,” you said.
His thumb moved once against your side. “You okay?”
You smiled faintly. “I’m good.”
He nodded. No hovering. No second-guessing. Just belief. Then his gaze dropped to where his hand rested against your back. For a second, you thought he might make a joke. Something about the vest. Something about the spoon. Something dry enough to pull you both back onto safer ground.
He didn’t.
His voice was low when he spoke. “Thank you.”
Your brow softened. “For what?”
Jack’s hand stilled. His eyes came back to yours. “For trusting me like that.”
The room went quiet around the words. Not empty. Full.
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
Jack looked almost careful now, like the sentence had cost him more than any command he had given you downstairs. Like this was the part where he had less armor. No tactical vest. No smugness. No easy way to turn the weight of it into heat.
Just him, telling you he knew what you had handed him.
You shifted closer, your hand settling over his chest. “I do trust you.”
His jaw moved once. “I know.”
His fingers resumed their slow path over your back, but his voice stayed rougher than before. “I just don’t want to ever take it lightly.”
Oh.
That landed deeper than you expected.
You pressed your cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.
“You don’t.”
Jack’s arm tightened around you.
Not much.
Enough.
You felt his mouth touch your hair. “Good.”
You closed your eyes.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The house was quiet. The kitchen was downstairs with its open dishwasher and its abandoned spoon and the counter you were still not emotionally prepared to think about. The vest was somewhere else now. The boots. The belt. All the hard edges stripped away.
But Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back.
And when he kissed the top of your head again, it felt like the softest part of everything he had meant all along.
SUMMARY ➩ Jack Abbot is the perfect neighbor who is always willing to offer you a helping hand. Until you ask him to take your virginity.
WARNINGS ➩ age gap (reader is early 20s and jack is 50), they have sex and all the things that sex brings along, jack might be ooc
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ Well for once I tried to deliver real smut for you guys so buckle up and leave me some feedback on this one if you like it! NOT PROOFREAD AT ALL and it’s probably obvious so be kind about mistakes lol I wanted to get this to you guys asap!
“I need a favor.”
Jack was used to you asking him for help, had been for the two years since you moved into the apartment directly across from his.
He didn’t mind offering you a lending hand when he saw you struggling to carry your boxes from your small run down car, it wasn’t an inconvenience to collect your mail if you ever had to leave town for a few days, and he really couldn’t complain about having to remind you to get your laundry from the unit down below because it held him accountable too.
It was such a common occurrence, you asking him for a favor, that he wasn’t too surprised to find you at his door. He only gave a soft sigh as you pushed past him to enter his apartment, offering you a lot more patience than he did the newbies at the hospital.
You were always sweet, maybe a little bossy at times, but it gave him some amusement in his otherwise strict routine.
Plus it was admittedly nice to feel needed.
You came to him when your apartment had a leak or your air conditioning went out, knocked on his door whenever it was raining and you’d forgotten an umbrella after locking yourself out, and you even sometimes popped over just to get his opinion on what you should wear out on a random night.
Everybody was always telling Jack he needed a hobby that didn’t involve putting his life on the line, so he rarely told you no and tried his best to brush off Robby whenever he asked what was keeping him so busy lately.
It would be hard enough to explain the dynamic he had with his much younger neighbor but even more so considering you were now standing in the middle of his apartment with a frustrated look on your face, hands on your hips as you tapped your bunny slipper covered foot.
“What is it now?” His voice was gruff and disinterested but you knew well enough that he would do whatever you asked and he was well aware of that too. Still, it helped him just a little to pretend to contemplate it for a second or two first.
“I need you to have sex with me.”
You said it like it was as simple as asking him to come over and check your water pressure, falling out of your mouth casually and landing heavily in the quiet room.
There was no need to pretend this time as he fell into a bewildered silence, raising an eyebrow in your direction and letting his eyes track you as you dramatically sighed and went to flop down on his couch. You’d demanded about a year ago that he got some pillows for it, along with a few other interior design suggestions.
He’d picked up four after his shift that night.
“Please say something.” You were turned around on the couch so you could face him over the back of it, arms crossed as you rested your chin ontop of them.
“I have nothing to say to that.” He shook his head immediately, that stern expression he used on an unruly patient or Robby when he got a little too pushy.
This just made you sigh again, loud and exaggerated as you turned back around to fully lay flat on his couch.
“Why are you even asking me that?” He didn’t want to pry because he knew you well enough by now to know you’d just be encouraged by that but his curiosity got the best of him, circling around to sit across from you on one of the living room chairs.
You didn’t sit up but you turned your head to the side to look at him, a slight frown on your face that he didn’t think was particularly genuine. Your personality was always something Jack admired, not getting a lot of time in his own life to be so bold with his emotions and carefree in the way he spoke and behaved.
He was serious and guarded where you were a walking billboard for spontaneity, coming to him crying about random problems after only half a week of living in the building.
It was mostly endearing but there was the more critical part of him that wondered how lonely you must be to be making friends and finding comfort with some random guy across the hallway, a much older one at that.
Jack knew he had a bit of a hero complex but it typically manifested in a more extreme way, quite literally jumping into battle to save lives or operating on them in their lowest moments. This dynamic with you was a new form of care taking and there’d been a handful of times he’d doubted his own motives.
“Because I have a date next week and I am a complete lost cause when it comes to all things intimacy.” You still had a theatrical flare to your voice, not facing him anymore and instead rambling straight up to his ceiling with your hands gesturing wildly.
He tensed up for two reasons now, one being the mention of a date and the other was your implication you didn’t have any experience.
“But you’ve had sex before.” It came out slowly and half like a question, half like an assumption.
There wasn’t any real reason for him to think that other than his own social expectations. You were gorgeous, one of the prettiest women he’d seen in a very long time, and had a naturally magnetic energy to you that even he couldn’t resist most of the time, platonically but also selfishly deep down, a little more than that.
He’d seen you go on a handful of dates in the last year or two, all guys your age that didn’t seem to know how to pick up a check let alone please you properly.
That’s where Jack’s problem stemmed from.
There had been almost no ulterior motive the first year he had known you, genuinely trying to be helpful and to be a good neighbor. He would get upset when his coworkers would call him anti social or make digs at how unfriendly he was because he hadn’t always been like that and he figured helping out the girl next door was a good first step to getting that part of himself back.
You’d told him after a few months that you had no family on this side of the country, completely starting fresh at a new company you’d applied to on a whim.
It was completely innocent.
Yes, you were undoubtedly beautiful in a way that made his head spin for a second when he first saw you. You had been standing near your car and fighting with a box, both by tugging at it and saying less than kind words in its direction like it could understand you.
Jack had hesitated for a handful of seconds before making his way over and offering to help, feeling this weird pull in his chest when you blinked up at him in surprise and eagerly thanked him.
Once you were in his life, you never left. And he made space for you effortlessly because, quite frankly, he had plenty of it to offer up.
About seven months ago was the first time he had ever seen you with a guy.
He’d been coming home from a long and rare day shift (covering for Robby so he could attend Jake’s graduation), dragging his leg behind him and praying nobody stopped him on the way to his apartment so he could crawl into bed for a few short hours before he had to do it all over again for his own shift.
The only distraction he would have allowed was you but you were clearly busy, standing in the hallway as he got off the elevator and touching the rather small bicep of a guy your age.
Jack hesitated, considered getting right back on the elevator before it could close on him, and then slowly walked to his door.
He had hoped you wouldn’t acknowledge him because his throat was already weirdly tight as he eyed you and the way you stared up at the man (boy, if Jack had to really label it) with that soft and curious expression you always had.
“Jack.” Your voice was full of excitement and he faltered, his key left in his doors lock as he turned to give you an attempt at a polite smile. “Covering somebody again?”
If this had been any other day then Jack would have invited you into his apartment to talk instead of lingering in the hallway. He would have ignored his exhaustion to pair his black coffee with the hot chocolate flavor you liked that he kept in his bottom drawer, complained to you about being tired and listened to you scold him for working too much when he didn’t need to.
But you were in a pretty dress that was clearly on its way to dinner and your date was giving Jack that possessive stare that guys fresh out of college thought was intimidating.
So instead he simply nodded his head and continued to unlock his door.
“This is Asher.” You continued abruptly as he turned his door handled, leaving it cracked as he stopped to look at you again.
He gave you a once over to make sure everything was okay, wondering why you were still insisting on talking to him when you were so clearly meant to be going somewhere else. You didn’t look too uncomfortable but you were watching him back just as intensely so he mentally stored the name and face of the guy anyways, just in case something happened.
“Ashton.” Your date finally spoke and his voice was annoyed and laced with immature bitterness, although slightly valid considering you had forgotten his name.
Your eyes widened, still boring into Jacks, and he smiled a little before giving you a small wave and heading inside.
Jack realized quickly after that encounter that his intentions were a lot less innocent than he had initially thought they were. He’d closed his door before immediately pressing his back against it, listening to the sound of your small heels leaving the hallway as you apologized to your date with a clenched jaw and a pain in his stomach.
The next few dates after that just confirmed what he had already realized from the first one.
He was attracted to you.
Maybe even liked you.
You talked to Jack about almost everything going on in your life, even things he definitely would not have cared about if it came from anybody else, but you never once brought up the dates. At first he had worried you had somehow noticed his weird demeanor that day in the hallway but Jack wasn’t very expressive in general so he figured you must keep that part of your life private for other reasons.
The attraction part was easy to accept mostly, he was only a man and you were clearly gorgeous. Although the age gap was something Jack couldn’t get himself to look past.
You were barely in your early twenties, over half his age younger and overly obviously so. You radiated youth, from your appearance and the way you spoke down to your hobbies and interests.
You were clearly a very young girl and he had felt like a pervert from the moment he saw you outside of that car for the way his body warmed. Jack hadn’t felt much attraction to anybody at all since his wife died, at first out of a lingering loyalty to her that barely faded and then just due to his busyness and his own mental blocks.
That was not a problem when it came to you and he had to give a genuine effort when he was around you to act normal.
You’d come over in tiny sleep shorts or a tight tank top that showed your hardened nipples through the thin fabric, join him for morning yoga in downright sinful leggings and he even was attracted to the stupid bunny slippers you wore.
But you were a young girl and he was a disciplined old man so he barely looked twice in your direction when you were bending over to get mail and he never once touched you, setting boundaries for himself and keeping them.
Which was why it was so hard for him when you slowly shook your head to his question about having sex before.
“What about those guys?” His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you and you sighed like you were embarrassed, a rare emotion to see from you.
“We barely kissed.” You shrugged and finally sat up from your dramatic position on the couch. “Please Jack, I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.” He said immediately, slightly offended you were seemingly only asking him because you had no other options.
You looked completely dejected now but Jack knew there was no way he could possibly accept this request, for too many reasons but especially because of his own moral code. He also didn’t want to ruin what you’d had going on, enjoying your company on his hard nights and finding himself finally letting somebody in after so many years alone.
“Okay so no sex.” You say softly and you stand up when he does, following him as he walks into the kitchen and leaning against the counter to watch him set the coffee machine settings. “But can’t you show me little things.”
He sends you a sharp look that you return with a gentle pleading smile, bouncing in place a little like you think your cuteness is the answer to everything.
And it just might be because Jack sighs softly and turns his full attention back to you.
“Like what?” He knows him asking for specifics will give you hope and he can see it immediately on your face, brightening and taking a step closer to him that makes him tense.
“Maybe just telling me what guys like?” You suggest softly and the words coming from your mouth make him almost groan, keeping his face flat and emotionless as you speak. “And some kissing lessons.”
“You know how to kiss.” He shook his head at you and went to turn back to his coffee but your hand wrapped around his wrist to stop him, successfully keeping his attention on you. He realized that it might be the first time you’d ever actually touched him, skin against skin. “I’ve seen it.”
His posture tightens as he reminds himself of that fact, easily recalling the vivid memory of leaving his apartment to head to work and finding you coming home from a date and making out with a guy against your door.
You hadn’t noticed him at first but he had slammed his door harder than normal, shamefully intentional.
There’d been a pang of guilt when you jumped in surprise and separated from the guy who looked the douchiest out of all of them but it was hard to feel it when you have him a slightly grateful look on his way to the elevator.
You were blinking at him now, almost like you were realizing something, and he looked away in favor of glancing at the clock on the wall.
“Not a kiss that feels good.” Your voice was more serious now, sounding genuinely disheartened by the conversation and the slow unveiling of your inexperience.
He sighed again, just trying to get rid of the tightness in his chest, before shaking his head firmly and fully turning away from you to fill up his coffee mug.
“I’m not doing it.”
—
Jack thought about your offer for the next two weeks. Obsessively.
He waited to hear you bringing somebody else over, someone who had jumped on the golden opportunity to touch you for the first time when he hesitated. You didn’t seem to go on any dates but he supposed you wouldn’t have told him anyways.
The thought of you experiencing sex with some asshole you met off a dating app, nervous and unsure on what to do without guidance, was eating away at him.
Jack was a fixer, he liked to help you, and he had already accepted the fact that he was extremely attracted to you. It wasn’t like he didn’t recognize the jealously in his stomach everytime he saw you with somebody else, a type of anger he hadn’t felt since he was preparing to go into a real life war.
Subdued by age and a calmer reality now but it was still fresh hot anger that he couldn’t shake no matter how much he tried.
You came to him with this problem, not just for pointers and tips but you had actually asked him to be the one to take your virginity.
Virginity.
Jack couldn’t get the concept out of his head and while he hadn’t necessarily considered himself somebody who would care about that type of thing, especially not as he entered his fifties, it did bring a wave of heat over him whenever he thought about it.
You’d never been touched before outside of a few unsatisfactory make out sessions. You, the pretty girl with downright sinful choices of pajamas that consumed his day to day life so easily after he spent such a long time alone.
He thought about it endlessly until it led to him knocking on your door, a rare switch of the usual dynamic that left him feeling a little awkward before you answered.
The sensation went away when you looked up at him, eyes a little wide with confusion as you silently stepped back to let him inside. It was rare for you to be so quiet but maybe you could tell what he was thinking by the look on his face, maybe you were thinking about the same exact thing.
“I’ll help you.” His voice was gruff and flat, waiting until your door closed behind him before he spoke. Your face immediately lit up but he silenced anything you were going to say with a raised hand, your parted lips closing as you waited for him to finish. “But I’m not sleeping with you.”
You pouted a little at the condition but stepped forward after a few seconds, far too close to him for his sanity but he figured you’d be getting a lot closer soon so he forced his breathing to stay level.
Jack used to consider himself quite smooth, still a natural flirt when he joked around with older patients or teased Robby.
But he was completely thrown off of any existing game when it came to you. He didn’t even know he could still feel this way about somebody, the yearning and lustful feeling having been dormant for a long time before you moved in.
“I’ll take whatever you give me.” Your voice was soft now and he’d never heard you like that, maybe a bit of a whine when you impatiently asked him to help you with something, but never so pleading.
You’d shifted even closer as you spoke and he couldn’t help himself now that he practically had permission, his large and rough hand sliding over your waist to rest on the small of your back.
You sucked in a sharp breath at the feeling and he was suddenly aware of how much fun this was going to be if you were that sensitive.
“Not tonight okay?” He replied and his low tone made your eyes soften, nodding eagerly and hesitantly letting your hands land on his chest in balled up fist. “We can talk about it more later and work out some conditions.”
“You’re giving me rules?” You’d collected yourself enough to finally give him some of that familiar attitude, smiling slightly as you stared up at him. He rolled his eyes but let his hand tighten against your back, moving you forward and just trying to test your reaction to the touch.
You lost your smile immediately, shuffling closer until you were pressed against him as your eyes darted all around his face with surprise. It was clear you didn’t expect him to accept at all let alone this easily, despite his two weeks of contemplation, he wasn’t at all hesitate now.
“You need them.” He retorted and his free hand brushed some of your hair behind your ear, the first time you were ever really touching each other being this intimate was sending another wave of affection through him.
A few years ago, Jack couldn’t even get himself to look at another woman, let alone hold one so gently. Even with the slightly out of the ordinary circumstances, he cared for you and you trusted him and that was all that really mattered in his eyes.
“You’re mean.” You’re whispering it and his head tilts at the sound it, overly fond and curious how you can affect him so much just by changing the tone of your voice. “Kiss me atleast.”
It comes out a demand and his eyebrows naturally furrow at the sound of it, knowing immediately that will have to be one of the rules he gives you when you talk them over.
Manners.
He doesn’t respond for a second but you seem to understand before he even needs to scold you, lips parting in realization before they form a small pout and you unclench your fist so your palm is flat on his chest now instead.
“Please give me a kiss Jack.” You sound sweeter now and he would think it was an act, making fun of him for his sudden silent sternness, if it wasn’t for the genuinely pleading look on your face.
The knowledge that you listen so easily, even when he doesn’t actually say it, overrides his senses so much that he actually does bend down to kiss you.
It’s soft at first which you don’t seem to understand, immediately trying to eagerly make out with him like that’s all you really know. He moves one of his hands from your side to hold under your jaw, applying a little bit of pressure near your throat to indicate he wants you to slow down.
You melt against him at the touch but do as he silently communicates and relax a little bit, still moving your mouth a bit sloppily against his but learning to adapt to his slow and easy pace.
Eventually you get the rhythm down perfectly, lips moving together without anything extra added. You asked Jack to teach you so he was going to do exactly that, starting from the basics.
Your face was completely dazed when he pulled back, instinctively shifting forward to try and kiss him again and making a small disappointment noise when his hold near your throat tightened in warning.
“You asked for a kiss.” He said in a low voice, still close to your face so he could perfectly see the way your widened eyes shifted around his features.
He was a bit mesmerized by the way you looked now, so unlike yourself on any other day. It both made his guilt over being perverse grow and also solidified that he didn’t care how wrong it was as long as you kept looking at him like that.
“Get some sleep.” He waited a few seconds before taking the necessary steps away from you, taking a sharp breath as he turned and left your apartment.
His own door had barely closed behind him before there was insistent knocks on it, his head immediately hanging since he knew exactly who it was.
Your eyebrows were furrowed when he pulled the handle to reveal you in the hallway, standing stiffly and glaring up at him but not making any move to come inside. You shifted in place and let out a huff of annoyance as you seemed to search for the right words to convey what you wanted.
“Can you kiss me one more time?” You eventually settled on the blunt question, shifting closer so you were both halfway in his doorway.
While he had a foot inside his apartment still, you had one in the hallway. It left you standing too close for his sanity, feeling it slip almost entirely again when your small hand landed on his forearm and rubbed softly.
“What’s wrong?” He asked softly, sensing your frustration but not knowing where it was stemming from.
He cupped your face with one of his hands, letting the other rest back on your side. You stared up at him as he took a few slow steps forward, backing you up with each one until your back hit the doorframe and took a soft near gasp from your lips.
“Nothing I just…” You trail off as you pout, scanning over his face and then down his chest until you can’t bend your head anymore to look. “I want one more. Please.”
You added it as an afterthought but it was enough for him, pressing his mouth back against yours.
This time, apparently a very quick learner, you were able to meet his pace right away and your mouths moved softly together. Your arms went around his neck so you could fully cling to him as you kissed deeply, heads tilting and quiet pleased noises rumbling in your throat.
You only got louder when his tongue pressed lightly into your mouth, mostly just to test your reaction but unable to stop himself when you were eagerly matching the actions.
It was sloppy and a little too wet, sounds of your tongues tangling together filling the silent hallway and sending a sharp heat down to his gut. He liked how clumsy you were, growing addicted to the way you seemed to have no idea what you were doing but too desperate to stop yourself and ask him for his help.
Jack knew he liked feeling needed but this was a whole different beast, one that came paired with some light shame.
You weren’t innocent and you knew exactly what you needed to about sex but your body was inexperienced and it was getting clearer by the second, your little gasp when he kissed you deeper and the way you tightened your hold on him everytime he went to pull back and attempt to slow down.
You’re red in the face by the time he manages to get you to stop eagerly kissing him, still instinctively shifting closer when he moves back. He gives you a lighthearted sigh, occupied by the softest smile he can manage so he doesn’t actually hurt your feelings when he presses you back against the doorway with the hand that’s still on your hip.
“Time for bed.” He tries to keep his tone light but it comes out more authoritative than he had meant for it to, most likely driven by the way you automatically started to frown as soon as he held you away from him. “We can talk tomorrow.”
You clearly weren’t happy about that but you surprisingly gave him a soft nod, shifting your body until you were out of his entrance and closer to your own.
He watched you and your dazed face, slightly wobbly on your feet, as you disappeared behind your apartment door with a small wave.
-
Jack had started off his day rough the following morning, barely able to sleep after what had happened.
It was a completely split mixture of wanting you so bad it was driving him to literal insanity and feeling disgustingly guilty for even looking in your direction.
He almost considered calling Robby about it but he really didn’t need to hear the lecture that would undoubtedly come his way about the situation. Plus he figured that whatever Robby knew, Dana knew, and if Dana knew then it was only a matter of time before the entire emergency department was gossiping about Jack Abbot and his young neighbor.
The dilemma was so strong that he had almost completely forgotten about the fact he had told you that you’d talk today, although almost intentional.
He was halfway avoiding having to actually sit down and make this arrangement a reality, still having a hard time believing what had happened last night was even real.
He had just started to get changed for work when the knocking on his door started and he knew it was you immediately, standing still and hanging his head for a few seconds like he figured he could just wait you out.
It didn’t take long for his senses to kick back in and he was pulling on a plain black shirt before making his way over to the door, raising his eyebrows at you when he saw how irritated you looked.
You brushed past him immediately and he lingered with his hand on the door knob for a moment before closing it and preparing himself to face whatever wrath you were about to send his direction.
“You didn’t come over.” You immediately accused, finger pointing in his direction as you stood in the middle of his living room with an angry expression. “You didn’t even text me.”
He was already walking closer to you as you spoke and your defenses naturally crumbled at the proximity, especially when his hands were sliding over your ribs to both hold you steady and let him feel your breathing as subtly as possible.
“You can’t just kiss me like that and then ignore me.” You continue on but your tone is a lot softer now that he’s touching you, already getting that dazed edge to it he had heard last night.
“I didn’t mean to ignore you.” He shakes his head and frees a hand to tuck some hair behind your ear, your features have completely softened now at the movement.
Jack wonders for the first time if you might have feelings for him beyond trust and attraction.
For some reason, he hadn’t really considered the possibility before. You were practically his polar opposite and he had nothing in common with any of the boys you went on dates with.
But now, with you blinking up at him like you were hanging on to his every word, he let himself think it might just be likely.
“I figured you changed your mind.” Your words are a little slurred from the insistent pout you have on your face and he sighs again, gently leading you over to sit on his couch.
Your knees brush together as you scoot closer to him the second he’s settled on top of the cushion, your hand wrapping around three of his fingers and squeezing lightly as you wait for him to respond to your fear of being rejected.
“I didn’t but I want to make sure you understand what you’re asking.” His voice is low and nearing stern, the same tone he uses on the new med students who seem a little more cocky than they are willing to learn. He knows that’s not the case with you, knows you’re desperate for any expertise he can offer you, but he still wants you to pay attention and properly understand him. “There’s other ways for you to do this.”
“What, like other guys?” Your eyebrows furrow like the thought confuses you.
His stomach tightens immediately, sick at the thought of it, but he stiffly nods his head.
You’re shifting even closer immediately and he lets out a breath when you’re leaning over his knee nearly, closer to his face than before and scanning over it again.
“I don’t want another guy Jack. I just want it to be you.” You’re whispering now and he can’t stop himself from pressing a light kiss to your mouth, brief but necessary when his brain processes the lack of distance between you. That makes you smile finally and he suddenly feels very stupid for ever questioning you when you’re making a request like this.
“Tell me why.” He mumbles, easily sliding his hands around your middle so he can tug you over more and into his lap. You kiss him again once you’re settled in his lap, still quick like you’re both using it as punctuation during your conversation. “Why me?”
He wants to hear you give a legitimate reason, to undo the hesitance you gave him when you said it was only because you didn’t have anybody else to ask. That’d been weighing on him more than anything else, the thought that you had just settled for your older lonely neighbor who was clearly willing to help you with anything in spite of himself.
Your next kiss was much longer, deeper as you fully sink down in his lap and move your mouth against his desperately. He’d accept that alone as an answer, big palms rubbing over your back and sides so he can keep pulling you impossibly closer.
Your nose is rubbing against his when you pull back, the sounds of your breathing being heavier now making his head spin with the necessary impulsivity to keep making terrible decisions with you.
“You’d make me feel good.” The answer you’d landed on was much more devastating than he was prepared for, his eyes darkening at how confident you sounded in that fact. “I know you would.”
His hands tightened around your soft skin for a second, needing to take a deep breath to ground himself.
It takes a second for him to reply, tucking his face into your neck and inhaling sharply. You smell as sweet as you always do but it’s intoxicating to have it this close after so long, skin soft under his lips as he kisses you softly.
Your breathing gets shaky, arms looping around his neck so you’re practically hugging him. You’re warm on top of him and making the sweetest noises when he moves along your jaw, shifting in his lap to try and get his attention back on your conversation.
“You’ll do it right?” You ask softly, running your hand through his hair and tugging just enough to make him finally look back at your face. His eyes are dark and unfocused as he stares at your pretty features. “Jack?”
“Yeah honey.” He says back after another long silence, voice deeper than he’d ever heard it as he leans in to kiss you again.
You kiss for a long time, wiggling around in his lap when your tongues tangle together and you get to taste him properly again. It’s addicting for both of you, both of your hands running all over the other’s body like you’re trying to learn every part of it you can reach.
Eventually you’re fully rocking against him from your neediness and it takes a second for him to process it, snapped back to focus when he hears the way your whines are getting higher pitched. A near growl leaves his throat as he grabs your hips firmly, thumbs pressing into the bone so he can stop you from moving on top of him like that.
“Jackie.” You whine desperately, kissing him again and successfully distracting him long enough that you can start humping again.
“Stop baby I have work soon.” He scolds in between the sloppy kisses, lips and chin slightly wet from how uncoordinated you still are.
You make another soft noise and he’s confused for half a second before he realizes it’s because of the pet name, smiling softly from his fondness for you as you hide down in his neck for a second.
“You’re hard now, I can feel it.” You’re whispering right against his skin and a shiver runs over him at the lewd words falling from such a pretty mouth, high pitched and almost innocent voice making the sentence sound so much dirtier than it needed to be.
At first Jack doesn’t think you’re right, knowing himself and his body enough to expect he’s not stirring down there even if he wants you so bad it makes him feel insane.
He’s had issues with it for years now, a deadly combination of his age, his traumas, and the carousel of medications he has to be on for a variety of things he wouldn’t disclose to you out of his own pride. That was the reason Jack had stopped trying to hook up with people years ago, giving up on porn entirely when he’d have to spend an hour trying to get hard before he could even attempt to actually get himself off.
It was in the back of his mind when you’d asked him to help you with this but he figured this was about your pleasure, he wouldn’t need to be hard to get you off especially if he stuck to his guns about not actually having sex with you.
He was sucking in a deep breath to explain this to you in less detail, make sure you understood that he wasn’t hard but it had nothing to do with you or his attraction to you, when you gave a particularly deep and slow roll of your hips.
And the effect was completely undeniable.
A shudder ran over him, eyes dropping to his lap that you were still rocking on top of. Your tiny little shorts were so clearly pressing against the tent in his scrub pants, catching on it whenever you lost the energy to move properly as you let out another needy whine and hid back in his neck.
You were completely unaware of his current mental situation, baffled at how easily you’d gotten him to this state from just some sloppy kissing.
You must’ve thought he was ignoring you because you picked up your head to glare at him, a pout on your swollen lips.
“Sorry sweetheart.” He sighed and kissed you gently, rubbing your sides up to your ribs and coming back down right when he felt the swell of your breast against his fingertips. “I really have to go.”
“Let me suck you off.” You requested easily and his breath caught, nearly choking at how simple you made it sound. “I wanna learn and you’re so hard right now Jackie. Please let me do it.”
“That’s not the point of this.” He shook his head immediately and moved you by your hips so you were sat next to him and no longer settled in his lap, clearly upsetting you as you scrambled up on your knees and gripped his bicep so he couldn’t get off the couch yet.
“The point is to teach me things about sex and I’ll need to know this.” You counter, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at why he’s rejecting you.
He finds it a little amusing that you’re so used to him accepting your requests for things that you’re genuinely lost when he doesn’t immediately fold for you. It’s a bratty habit he should have corrected months ago but he can’t find himself caring too much, liking how dependent you’d become on him.
Jack has to contemplate this because he knows you’re right, stomach turning a little at the reminder that you’re going to use whatever he shows you on somebody else down the line.
That selfishly makes him want to cancel this whole thing and leave you completely clueless, hopefully to the point you decide to swear off sex with other men entirely. But he knows how stubborn you are and how stuck you get on something once it catches your attention, figuring you’d get on a dating app and find some idiot in finance to take your virginity as soon as he put an end to this arrangement.
So he lets you slip to your knees off the couch, taking his hesitance to decline again as a positive sign.
“Wait.” He interjects and you freeze, sighing in annoyance as you prepare for him to give another reason you can’t do it. Instead he pulls one of the pillows off the couch and slides in near his feet, your eyes softening as you shift so you’re kneeling on the plush cushion instead of the floor.
“How do I start?” You ask softly, eyeing the bunched up fabric in front of you with interest. He has to stare at the ceiling for a second, slightly losing it at the sight of you kneeling on his floor between his legs. “Do I have to get you ready?”
“No.” He says it gruffly and you tense again, his tone way sharper than he’d meant for it to be. “It’s… I’m ready baby trust me. Just give me a second.”
That calms you down immediately, enough that you rest your head on his knee as you try your best to be patient. His eyes go back to you at the touch and he watches the way you squirm against the pillow, clearly still riled up from the kissing and maybe even the thought of taking him in your mouth.
“Has it been awhile Jack?” Your voice is ridiculous now, clearly teasing him and developing this soft purr that almost irritates him.
His hand goes into your hair at the sound of it, tightening enough that you lift your cheek off his knee and stare up at him with wide eyes.
“Watch it.” He says lowly, using his free hand to untie his scrub pants as you eye the movement with fascination. Your lips part as you stare at his hand and the way his fingers twist the strings, he has half the thought to make you choke on the digits before you try and take anything bigger but your attitude has left him feeling just as impatient. “We’ve got to work on your manners if you want me to teach you.”
That makes you snap back into focus, frowning at his words and shaking your head as you straighten up on your knees.
“I have manners Jack.” You’re clearly trying to convince him, small hands smoothing over his thighs.
He starts to deny it but he’s cut off when you lean forward to nuzzle against him, face pressing right where he’s currently aching under two layers of fabric. His breath catches in his throat and he instinctively tightens the hand that’s in your hair, mumbling out an apology when you make a pained noise but barely loosening it after.
He feels like he needs to keep it there to have any sort of control in this situation, especially given the way you’re almost desperately rubbing your face on his lap.
“Should’ve told me you were this needy.” He half scolds as he shifts his waistband down lower, waiting for you to notice and pick yourself up just long enough to get his pants down.
You don’t give him long at all before you’re back to obsessing over the sight in front of you, eyes fully dazed now that it’s just his boxers separating you from putting your mouth on his hard length.
You’re clearly trying to be patient in an attempt to prove you have any sort of manners, a little pride rippling through him similar to the feeling he got when you had corrected yourself the other night to politely ask him for a kiss.
“You wouldn’t have done anything about it.” You say softly, not accusatory but confident in it like you know it’s true. You lean forward and kiss against the covered bulge, a groan leaving him. “You’re too good of a guy.”
“Clearly not.” He rasped just as you start to lose that faux patience you’re trying so hard to pretend you have, tugging at the waistband of his underwear and smiling softly when he lifts his hips off the couch without arguing. “And you know I never tell you no sweetheart.”
“Yeah?” You’re still trying to talk to him but now you’re completely lost in the sight of him half naked and sitting there with his legs spread in front of you, too desperate to even be intimidated by the size of him. “You would’ve let me do this months ago Jackie?”
He sighs and tightens his hold in your hair again, bringing you forward until he can feel your breath where he’s most sensitive.
Your eyes flicker up to him and the sight is devastating for how deprived he’s been, a pretty young girl like you sitting so nicely on your knees for the first time ever. He can barely even feel that guilt and slightly sick sensation, knowing how perverted it is that he could probably get off just looking at your face and thinking about the way he’s about to corrupt you.
“Stop talking.” He instructs gruffly and you nod eagerly, eyes back on his length and only now looking a little nervous as you swallow before your lips part in anticipation. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Want it so bad.” You don’t hesitate to answer and your voice is a little whinier, swaying forward like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.
Jack lets you move until you’re right there, eyes locked on your face as you give him a nervous look and try to take him in your mouth.
It’s awkward and you’re tense, expression full of hesitation like you’re waiting for him to tell you how to do it properly but he lets himself bask in this for a few seconds.
He knows it’s sick but he finds you the most beautiful like this, confused and desperate to please him without knowing how to. You go between sucking and licking at the tip of his length and while it feels good, no doubt about that especially after how long it’s been, it’s nothing compared to how clearly inexperienced you are.
Finally, he snaps out of his sick fantasies of watching you embarrass yourself trying to please him, and he decides to actually do what you’d asked and teach you something.
“Relax your jaw baby. Just take what you can okay?” His voice is low and gentle, hand loose in your hair but clenching into a tight fist whenever you brush against his sensitive skin with your teeth on accident or try to overachieve and take him deeper.
You do seem to calm down a little now that he’s finally speaking, shoulders slumping and your eyes fluttering shut as you get used to the feeling of him on your tongue.
You’ve barely taken him at all but he’s transfixed by the sight, perfectly content to sit here and cock warm your mouth until you were ready to move him down your throat.
He watches you closely as you pull back to take a few deep breaths, pouting a little at his length and hesitating before you’re touching him with your hand. It’s all experimental, tugging and feeling the skin against your palm while he grunts above you and tries to control himself.
It’s barely sexual on your end considering how fascinated you are by the new experience but he’s halfway losing his mind knowing this is the first time you’re touching somebody like this.
“I gotta go soon sweetheart.” He says and your eyes finally snap back up to him, turning a little red considering you’d been caught just staring at his length as you touched him. “You can play with me all you want after my shift.”
Now you’re full on blushing but you nod your head obediently and lean back in to take him in your mouth again, a little more confident now as you lick around the head and repeat movements whenever it draws a sound out from him.
Jack can barely stand it and he has to put both hands in your hair to keep himself from fucking up into your warm mouth, groaning from the effort it’s taking and considering telling you to get back on the couch before he goes too far with you too early.
You’re clearly just as impatient because you try to take more of him finally and immediately gag at the sensation, pulling back and frowning up at him.
“Help Jackie.” Your voice is whiny and has a little rasp to it now and he kisses his teeth at the sound, petting your hair back out of your face.
“I can’t help with that baby, you’ve just got to practice.” He tries his best to soothe you but you’re clearly frustrated.
“Can’t you just force my head down?” You’re rubbing his thighs as you speak in that ridiculously bratty voice, wiggling around on the pillow like the thought alone is exciting you.
He wants to say no, wants to tell you why it’s such a terrible idea for him to forcefully fuck your throat right before he has to go to work. There’s a million reasons he should be rejecting you right now but that sick voice in the back of his head is struggling to get the words out, especially when you go back to softly kitten licking at his length to keep him hard.
“Fuck you’re nasty.” He gruffs out and your eyes light up at the words, nodding your head and taking him back in your mouth as you keep trying your best to fit him deeper. “You want me in your throat that bad?”
You can’t talk now but your desires are obvious.
He eyes the way you’re shifting on the cushion below you, adjusting his foot the best he can so it’s between your thighs as you kneel. That seems to make you even more desperate, rubbing against him almost feverishly now as you try to focus on having him in your mouth.
There’s no option to do so when he brings his hands back to your hair, silently showing you he accepts your request when he moves his hips off the couch and keeps your face firmly in place so he can push deeper down your throat.
He feels you gag slightly around him but your eyes roll to the back of your head at the same time and you hump against his foot even faster so he can’t find it in himself to stop, thrusting slowly to make sure you don’t end up getting sick or feeling too sore by the time he’s finished.
Jack knows this is far beyond teaching, he’s not even speaking anymore and instead just using your throat to get himself off but you’re even more eager for it than him and he’d never deny you anything you asked for.
“This tiny little throat.” His voice is nearing a growl as he helps move your head up and down his length, reveling in the way you gag and drool around him. “You’re doing so good baby.”
The praise seems to do it for you more than anything else, rubbing your core against his foot so eagerly that you can barely focus on sucking him off. You’re getting too messy to control yourself, mouth slipping off every few thrust before you whine at the loss and immediately take him back in your throat.
Jack takes pity on both of you, both for his own sanity and because he can’t stop thinking about the fact he’ll need to leave as soon as this is done.
You’re clearly upset when he pulls you off, making a loud noise of disagreement that barely sounds like an actual word and frowning at him when he sends you a stern look and wraps his hand around himself instead.
You seem to forget your anger pretty quickly as you watch him touch himself, hips slowed down to a slow rock against his foot as you stare at his length and the way he’s making himself feel good above you.
Jack has to look away when he comes because he feels pretty close to forcing your head back down and making you swallow it, although half positive you’d actually enjoy that more than him judging by how eager you are to try things.
You’re laying your head back on his thigh while he grunts and curses, tightening his fist and going back to staring at your face just for a brief moment so he has a clearer picture to think about.
It’s quiet in the living room afterwards and he feels an odd sense of embarrassment, a rare vulnerability considering you’re still fully clothed and kneeling on the floor. He fixes one of those problems by effortlessly pulling you up by your arms, settling you back against the cushions.
He stands and pulls his pants up while he does so, knowing he’ll have to shower off before he can go to work and get a new pair of scrubs anyways.
There’s a second of hesitation before he goes to get you some water, leaning over your dazed frame and kissing you softly.
“Was it good?” You ask quietly against his mouth, hand tangling in his hair like you don’t want him to go anywhere without answering you first. “You stopped me.”
“You were perfect.” He answers simply and he means it, would probably feel the same if you had accidentally bit him though.
“I wanted to taste you.” You’re pouting again and every time he thinks he gets used to you, you prove him beyond wrong. He sighs and leans further against you on the couch so you’re fully sinking into the cushion below you.
“Next time.”
It comes out before he can stop it and he fully plans to backtrack but your eyes light up at the idea of him letting you do that again so he doesn’t, letting it linger for a few seconds.
“Not when I have to leave you right after. You won’t like it and I don’t want to hurt you.” He’s talking in the stern and no nonsense way he does at work, trying to make sure you understand even though you’re slowly starting to smile as he speaks and he realizes you’re probably not paying any attention.
“You won’t hurt me Jack.” You whisper and it’s so sweet he almost considers calling in so he can stay with you a little longer. “Not in a way I won’t like.”
That makes him scoff out a laugh, a rare sound from him and you look even more pleased at the noise.
“You don’t even know what you like sweetheart.” He says softly and brushes your hair out of your face, letting both his fingertips and eyes trail down your neck until he reaches your collarbones. “But I’ll show you.”
“You’ll show me?” You’re teasing him now, biting your bottom lip to try and hide your smile to no avail.
“Yeah I will.” He smiles too and kisses you again, a little too soft considering what you actually are to each other.
He eventually manages to get off of you long enough to get you some water, watching carefully as you take a few sips and rubbing your knee when you wince at first. He wants to feel guilty for making your throat sore but he can’t, sick enough to admit he just feels the urge to make you take him deeper next time to see if you’ll really let him.
You’re still laying on his couch when he gets out of his brief shower, having changed his pants and taken a few deep breaths while staring in the mirror to try and get ahold of himself. He needs to switch back to reality for atleast a few hours, become the weathered doctor who doesn’t lose his mind over a pretty girl asking for favors.
You set your phone down on your chest, giving him your full attention as he moves towards the door to tug his shoes on.
There’s no indication you plan to leave before he does but he can’t find it in himself to mind the intrusion, going back over to the couch to give you a kiss on the forehead.
“Staying here?” He says in a low voice and you nod eagerly, eyes locked on his.
He lets himself think about his entire way to work, the image of you being there when he gets home from a hard shift. It had been a long time since he had someone to come home to and having you across the hall was already a gift within itself.
Now you’d crossed a line and if he let himself forget the terms and conditions, the fact you were loosely using him just to end up with somebody else as the actual end goal, then he could pretend for a moment that you were the person he got to crawl into bed with when work was tough.
Despite how much he thought about you during his shift, every moment he wasn’t being bombarded with questions or saving somebody’s life on autopilot, you weren’t actually there when he came back.
He knew it before he even opened the door, confirmed by how neatly the pillows on the couch were placed again and the fact your glass of water was rinsed and put away in the dishwasher.
You’d made it look like you were never even there and he knew you still enjoyed his company, maybe enjoyed the newly added sexual dynamic even more, but that didn’t mean you wanted to comfort him after he lost a patient or help soothe him when his leg was bothering him from standing all day.
Jack had to remind himself of the part he was playing in your life currently and try his best to not be disappointed.
It’s two days until he sees you again and he thinks it’s one of the longest spans you’ve gone without talking in almost a year.
He’s just about to start really acting out of character by banging at your front door and asking if you’re avoiding him when he runs into you downstairs, freezing as soon as he enters the lowly lit laundry room to find you leaning against one of the washers and looking extremely bored.
You’re as beautiful as always, casually dressed in nothing but an old band shirt that hangs off your shoulder and a pair of shorts so small he’s pretty sure it’s just boxy underwear.
You don’t look up when he comes in until his leg slightly catches on the step, accustomed enough to the sound of the light dragging he sometimes can’t stop from happening when he’s extra tired.
It’s a relief to find that you don’t have any awkwardness on your face, no sign of being uncomfortable or upset with him.
Then he figures that might just be worse.
He would just about die if he had done anything that made you want to avoid him but the alternative seems to be that you just didn’t want to speak to him and that makes his chest sting.
There’s nothing but silence and the rattling of the old washer as it rocks back and forth on the cement floor, both of you seemingly having decided to not speak to each other first.
(sorry for the brief awkward spacing tumblr says this is too long)
It’s another five minutes of the now awkward stretch of quiet before you clear your throat, turning to face him where he’s fidgeting with his laundry baskets broken handle just to have something to focus on.
“So I went on a date last night.” You say softly, eyebrows raised like you’re genuinely interested in his reaction.
His stomach turns but it’s a relief to have you looking at him again so he takes it, swallowing hard and racking his brain for a response that’s appropriate.
“How’d it go?” He’s asking out of politeness but he’s silently praying you suddenly decide you don’t want to tell him about it. It wouldn’t even make him feel better to hear it had ended terribly, not wanting you to feel any type of negative emotions even if it technically was in his benefit.
He definitely can’t take any sort of mention of you being with another guy physically. He knows it’s coming eventually, it’s the sole purpose behind why he even gets to touch you, but he’s not ready just yet.
You’re quiet again and he really looks at you now, takes in the silent contemplation on your face and the way you tap your fingers on the metal of the washer for a second before pushing off of it entirely.
Then you’re in his space again and it’s like an instinctive move to cup your face, hand on your waist so he can lightly push you back against the machine he’d been in front of. You touch his chest, lightly rubbing in soft circles, and he wants to sigh in relief if that wouldn’t be so painfully obvious.
“Wasn’t a great time.” You whisper and your eyes are on his lips as you speak.
His eyebrows raise and his hand on your body tightens slightly at the same time he uses his thumb to press under your chin and make you tilt your jaw back.
“Why not?” He hates the thought of getting details but he needs to know some idiot from a dating app hadn’t done anything to hurt you.
You don’t answer right away, just standing there and letting your eyes scan over his features on rotation. You finally let out a small breath like you’re about to speak but it never comes, small hands moving to grip his biceps.
“Did he touch you?” He can’t stop himself from asking even though the question makes his voice come out low enough that your eyes flash with surprise for a second, snapping away from his mouth to meet his stare again like you’re looking for something in it.
You shake your head immediately, squeezing his arms and shifting against the vibrating machine.
He’s kissing you then and he tells himself it’s out of relief, the knowledge that you’re still untouched by anybody except for him instantly making this conversation easier.
You’re returning it right away and he’s pleasantly surprised by how quickly you caught on to the type of kissing he likes, his personal preference. He figures he should eventually tell you that not ever guy was going to like your constant licking into his mouth but for now he lets it be, wants you to be trying to please him specifically and not whoever you’d use these lessons with.
It’s ridiculously cute how desperate you get, only needing a few seconds of your tongue inside his mouth before you’re arching off the machine and making soft noises against his lips.
His hands are all over you as soon as he notices the state of you, sliding down to cup your ass with both palms and tug you tighter to his frame.
That makes you out rightly whimper, clumsily trying to hitch a leg around his waist and sighing in relief when he holds your thigh to keep it there. The wet sounds of your mouths fill the small room, body slightly shaking both from need and from the way the washer is vibrating against your back.
“Missed you.” You whimper it out when he pulls back to let you breathe, kissing down your jaw and tightening his grip on the soft curve hidden under your underwear. “Didn’t call me.”
“Were you waiting for me to call baby?” He asks softly, despite how much it had been bothering him, he would never want to make you feel guilty for not reaching out to him after what you’d done.
You don’t answer so he pulls his head out of your neck to look at your face, seeing the soft frown and the hesitation in your eyes.
“Hey.” He breaths out and pushes your hair back to get your attention fully on him, your body softening and completely leaning against his to the point you’d definitely fall if he took a step backwards. “I wanted to give you space. Let you decide when you wanted to continue this, if you did.”
“I don’t want space.” You counter and it’s a little past bratty but he’s so beyond fond of you that he can’t help but let the corners of his mouth turn up at the sound of it. “You’re supposed to take care of me.”
He’s not sure when your dynamic became this way but he feels it as much as you apparently do, knows it’s his duty to make sure you’re always fine and not needing anything he can’t fix. Now there’s the added element of making you feel good, touching you in ways you’re not used to and showing you what pleasure can be like, and he’s not taking it lightly.
“Then I’ll call.” He say softly and your eyes lock on his as you nod in agreement, his hand cupping your cheek so he can keep you still enough to kiss you briefly. “You want me to chase you and I’ll chase you.”
“Right now I just want you to kiss me.” You whisper and he doesn’t need to hear anything else.
You’re back to kissing and it’s feverish now, more tongue than anything and your hands groping each other anywhere you can touch.
He’s lifting you up off the ground just so he can press himself between your legs and swallow the soft needy noises you let out at the feeling, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist so he can’t pull away at all. You’re pressed back against the metal with his hands under your shirt and wrapped around your frame to make sure you don’t fall, thick fingers splayed out against your ribs.
It’s getting hotter in the room and it’s mostly due to the way you’re whining and trying to roll your hips into him, unsuccessful considering how hard he’s got you pinned back to the washer.
“Jack please.” You pant and pull away from his mouth, tucking into his neck and rubbing your soft cheek against his stubble like a needy cat. “Please touch me. Do anything.”
He’s grunting at the request and gently setting you back down on your feet so he can free up a hand, using it to push your shirt up to your neck. He’s not too surprised to find that you’re not wearing anything underneath and your surprised gasp swallows the sound of his low groan.
You’re whining lewdly when he leans down to press kisses against your skin, middle of your breast first to avoid putting his mouth where you really want it. You’re panting, chest rising and falling under his mouth, and tangling a hand in his ash colored curls to try and steer him where you need him.
He wants to smack your hand away and warn you to be patient but he wants you too bad to try and discipline you right now, letting his mouth latch onto to one of your hard nipples so he can hear whatever noise that brings out of you.
It’s loud and intoxicating, his head spinning a little as he keeps sucking and licking your skin, letting your shirt rest on the top of his head so he can use his other hand to roughly grope your other breast and make sure you’re getting equal attention.
“Oh fuck Jack.” You’re whimpering and trying to hump against nothing, back arching as you whine and hold him to your body like he has any plans of getting away from you. “T-that feels so good.”
“Come upstairs.” His voice is so rough it surprises himself, picking his head off your chest and letting your shirt drop so he can kiss you swiftly.
You frown at the loss of contact, rubbing your nose against his and still lightly petting his hair.
“Why not here?” You ask softly and he gives you a disapproving look that makes you sigh and rest your forehead down against his shoulder for a few seconds while you catch your breath. “It’s too far.”
He thinks for a moment before he’s adjusting his stance to pick you up off the ground, abandoning your laundry and his that both likely need to be switched out soon. He’d gladly let it sit and wash it again later if it means getting you up to his apartment as fast as possible.
You make a small surprised noise and cling to him, arms behind his neck and legs wrapped around his middle and he makes his way up the few stairs towards the elevators.
“Jack your leg.” The sight of the steps seems to remind you of his disability and he’d be more irritated by your worry if it didn’t sound so genuine.
You clearly don’t ever think too much about his leg restricting him, never shying away from asking him to lift heavy things or walk with you down to the store. You don’t treat him like he’s fragile or any less of a man for having limitations and he’s always liked that about you, same way he somehow likes your gentle concern even though it would have bothered him if it was anybody else.
“Think I can’t throw you around because of my leg?” He mumbles and you tense in his hold as he walks like you think he might be serious before you’re breathing out a laugh and hiding in his neck.
Jack finally gets back to his apartment, going crazy from the way you’d started to kiss his jaw and whine impatiently in the elevator. Your hands run up and down his arms like you’re marveling at the strength it takes to carry you for as long as he was, making soft needy noises and squirming around.
He can’t even care about the possibility somebody could see him with you, one of the neighbor he’d lived next to for years watching as Jack Abbot carries the much younger girl next door through his entry way as she whines for him to touch her more.
“Calm down baby.” His voice is soft once he gets to his room, setting you down on his bed and taking a few seconds to stare at you as you lay there and pout up at him.
You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and his gut twists a little at the observation, a mixture of desperate unfamiliar need and the same guilt from before accompanied by a new layer of it.
He thinks of his wife for the first time in a while. He used to spend every waking second with her on his mind but she had naturally started to fade from his mind once he met you, something he hadn’t even noticed until you’d already been living across the hall for a few months.
You’d came over for the first time and asked him to borrow some ingredients, strolling around his living room and eyeballing the photos on his walls while he poured some sugar into a small tupperware bowl for you to take back to your place. You had turned to him with a curious face and asked him where his wife was, obviously confused considering you’d never heard of her before despite how frequently you and him small talked.
That was the first time Jack noticed how little he’d been thinking of her lately, not just in the painful mourning way he’d been suffering through since she passed but in general too.
Now he was waking up in the morning and anticipating the next time you’d knock on his door, focusing on his health again so he could occupy you on your walks and not picking up too many extra shifts at work just incase you needed something and he wasn’t there.
Jack was thinking about her again now as you laid on his bed but only because he couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted something this bad, trying to compare the feeling of you to how he felt in his marriage and still thinking it fell short.
He had loved his wife, undoubtedly, but he craved you in a way that almost felt inhumane.
“You’re being mean to me.” You say softly to break him out of his trance, having zoned out just staring down at you and the way your chest was rising and falling with every deep breath.
“I’m never mean to you honey.” He whispers back and finally moves to lay down with you, hovering over your frame and running a hand from your waist to your ribs as he kisses you softly. “I take good care of you, don’t I?”
It’s a bit mean to throw your words from earlier back in your face, especially as he lets his mouth trail down your neck. You make a whiny noise and grip his shoulders, nodding your head and shifting under him so your legs are spread further.
“Yes Jack yes, you take care of me.” You’re practically whimpering and he feels almost drunk from how easily you get this needy, pausing his soft kisses to shift up on his knees and tug your shirt over your head.
You’re the prettiest sight he’s ever seen and he can’t help himself from bringing his mouth right back to your chest, drinking in the way you gasp and moan while he’s licking and sucking on your nipples. His other hand is softly groping whichever breast he doesn’t have his mouth on at the moment and your backs arching off his bed, scratching his shoulders through his shirt.
“Please touch me.” You’re begging after only a few minutes of the slow torture and he lets out a sharp breath, shifting so he’s more to the side of you than on top.
You’re quiet when he rubs his hand down your chest and over your stomach, rubbing at the waistband of your underwear for a few seconds just to hear the way you pant before he’s smoothing over your thighs.
Your back is basically against his chest as he hooks your leg over his to make sure yours are nice and spread for him, kissing your neck softly when he rubs your hips above your underwear.
You bare your neck for him easily and he’s selfish in the way he marks you, sucking any part of your warm skin he can reach so you’re left purple and red all over. He wants anybody you see for the next week or two to know you’ve been with somebody else, to see the claim he laid to your body even if he doesn’t let things go as far as you want him to take it.
Jack doesn’t need to be asked twice to touch you, big hand leaving your hip so he can fully palm your core.
Your reaction is just the way he had hoped it would be, sharp gasp leaving your lips as you instantly buck up against his touch. You whine desperately when he goes back to rubbing your thigh instead, giving you a second to work yourself up to the point he wants you to be at.
“Jack.” You don’t even sound like yourself now and it’s intoxicating, so pleading and broken. “Please.”
“Please what?” He’s practically whispering, perfectly calm and the direct opposite of how broken you sound just from him lightly touching you.
He moves you so you’re fully between his legs, back against his chest as he cages himself around you to keep you from moving.
You’re practically shaking, whimpering and moving your hips against nothing with the hopes he’ll cave and end up touching you again. You’re distracting to look at, body bare except for the pathetic excuse of underwear shorts you’d been wearing under your shirt, like you’d just been hoping he would be the one to find you in the laundry mat.
He has half the thought to make fun of you for that, make you tell him exactly what you were thinking when you left your apartment wearing so little, but he doesn’t think you could handle him saying much at all right now especially not something so demeaning.
“I’m going to touch you.” He says gently instead and kisses the side of your head, letting his hand go back to groping your chest just to make sure you stay worked up.
Even though he doubts at this point he even needs to touch you for that to happen.
“Yeah yeah.” You’re nodding in agreement, seemingly pleased at his decision as you relax back against him and let him touch you freely.
His other hands back between your legs now, letting you get used to the feeling of somebody touching you where you’re most sensitive. He’s just rubbing back and forth, listening to the way you pant and pulling back whenever you start to try and shift against his hand on your own.
“You’re wet just from that?” His voice is a little mean now but you don’t seem to mind, trying to clamp your thighs around his hand but being stopped by the sharp swat he sends to your skin. You wince but move your foot back to the other side of his leg so yours stay open, pouting softly at the silent punishment. “Answer me when I ask you something.”
“I’m always wet around you.” You admit with an embarrassed tone lacing your words, squirming like you wish you could hide yourself from the way he’s staring down at your body. “Want you so bad.”
“I want you too.” He kisses the side of your head, still rubbing you with just enough pressure to make you feel the friction but not to actually get off. “Gonna make you feel so good, you’ve just got to be patient.”
“Stop being scared to hurt me.” Your voice is shaky but as firm as possible, trying to show him you’re a big girl and can handle a little bit of the roughness he’s so clearly holding back.
It’s obvious in the way he was grabbing your throat your first kiss, moving your body around easily whenever he needed to, and scolding you just enough for you to be able to catch the mean tone seeping in accidentally.
Jack clearly has a darker side to him that he’s not letting you see and it’s obviously frustrating you, wanting to be taken seriously.
“I’ll hurt you if that’s what you want sweetheart but not for your first time.” His words don’t leave any room for argument so you don’t even try, sinking back against his firm chest and letting out a deep breath when he shifts behind you and presses himself forward.
It’s not long before you’re not able to wait anymore and he lets you scramble to tug down your underwear, keeping his fingers lightly rubbing between your folds and watching as you struggle to get the fabric past his insistent hand.
Eventually he lets you pull them off and then he’s right back to touching you, bare this time. You both suck in a breath at the contact and you’re practically laying down from how far you’d slid down his chest, spreading your legs as wide as they can go and whimpering while he touches you.
“Do you touch yourself like this baby?” He can’t help the curiosity, the image of you in your bed trying to get yourself off stuck in his mind now.
You shake your head and frown, trying to twist your neck to look at him but being stopped when he uses his free hand to roughly grip your chin and make you keep your eyes on the way he’s touching you, thumb on your sensitive clit now while you roll your hips the best you can.
“No I…” You can barely think let alone speak, clearly struggling as you make a pained and desperate noise. “I get nervous.”
Jack sighs and collects some of your wetness on his middle finger before finally pressing it against the tightness of your hole, not pushing in just yet but teasing it with light pressure and letting you get used to the feeling.
“When you’re with somebody, they should always be this gentle with you at first.” He’s saying softly, remembering that he’s supposed to be actually teaching you something and not just getting you off because he desperately wants to.
You frown deeply as he starts to talk and he doesn’t really understand why, thinks maybe you’re still being pouty that he won’t get rougher with you.
He tries to distract you by finally pressing a finger inside of you and it seems to work for a second, another gasp leaving you as you instinctively clench around the intrusion. He groans, his length throbbing against your back at the thought of being fully inside you instead of just a finger.
“Fuck you’re tight.” He rasps and buries his face in your hair for a few seconds to try and collect himself enough to keep teaching you something, anything at all so he doesn’t keep letting himself think this is something it isn’t. “They’ll have to really get you stretched before anything okay? You need to remember that baby.”
It bothers him so much he can barely focus, the thought of somebody not taking their time with you. He doesn’t want to picture you with another man in general but especially not in a way that hurts you, leaves you too sore the next morning with nobody to take care of you.
He’s so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice your face stiffening at first, body a little tenser against him even though you’re still softly squirming to try and get him to put his finger deeper inside you.
“Jack stop.”
He does so immediately and goes to pull out of you before you’re making a panicked noise and closing your thighs around his hand. He lets you this time, pauses all movements just to wait for whatever it is that you need.
“N-no don’t stop that, god please don’t stop that.” Your voice is breathier now like the thought of him taking his hand away from you makes your chest tighten. “Just… stop talking about anyone else.”
It takes him a few seconds to register that and then his hands moving again, enough for you to relax and spread your legs back open.
You’re both quiet now as he adds another finger, lingering in the weight of your request and what it could mean if anything. He’s half sure you only asked because it was pulling you out of the moment, maybe making you nervous to think about doing this again with actual stakes, but the way you desperately tried to stop him from pulling away lets him pretend it was for another reason.
He’s selfish in the way he touches you now, thick fingers moving in and out of you while you cry and whine, gripping at his forearm whenever it feels like too much. He likes the way your nails dig into his arm when you think you might be close, thighs clenching and shifting when his thumb gently circles your swollen clit and how your lips part in breathy cries of his name.
He especially likes that.
You come with moans of his name filling the room and nobody else’s after you’d specifically asked him to stop mentioning other guys. Jack knows it’s selfish, even a little sick and perverted, but he could probably finish just from hearing that.
He’s throbbing against your back and he’s sure you’d be able to feel it if you were able to focus on anything after coming, body shaking a little as you pant endlessly and fall limb in his hold.
There’s a lot of softness that comes after, kissing the side of your head and being gentle in the way he cleans you up. It’s torture to be between your legs and getting to fully appreciate the sight of you for the first time without be able to touch you more but he doesn’t want to overstimulate you so early on.
He does let himself think about that vividly though, kissing against your thighs and picturing when he’s going to be able to put his mouth on you.
You’re quiet above him, eyes a little tired but still overly soft as you run your fingers through his hair and watch him wipe you down.
Then he’s back ontop of you and kissing you softly, shifting your back so you’re laying back against the pillows and not sitting up. It’s soft and bordering on romantic which makes his chest tighten, hoping you have no plans to leave his bed anytime soon.
“You okay?” He asks quietly against your mouth and he can feel you smiling, still touching his hair with one hand and letting the other drift down to the back of his neck.
“Felt so good.” You whisper back and your voice is a little hoarse from all the whining you’d been doing, nose bumping against his and then rubbing on his stubble for a few seconds. “Can I take a nap here?”
“You can do anything you want.” He says immediately, no hesitation as he gets up to get you one of his shirts and help you get comfortable, jumping at the opportunity to keep you with him just like he wanted.
Jack typically has a hard time sleeping through the night in general so he definitely never naps, needing to be truly past the brink of exhaustion to ever rest.
Yet he finds it to be the most simple thing in the world to crawl into his bed with you after taking off his leg, kissing you for a few more minutes before he’s wrapping you in his arms and tugging you back against his chest. He’s rubbing your stomach softly, hand under the shirt he’s given you, listening intently until he hears your breathing even out and then drifting to sleep right after you.
—
It’s one of the highlights of his decade to get to wake up with you still there, warm and making soft tired noises when you feel him start to stir.
His room is dark now other than the slight illumination coming from the moon outside of his window, casting just enough light for him to be able to watch your eyes flutter open.
You give him a soft sleepy smile and instinctively lean in to give him a kiss.
It’s easy to pretend that you are more than whatever this is when you act like this, mouths moving together sensually as if you have nowhere else you’d want to be.
Jack groans softly when your tongue pushes into his mouth, meeting it eagerly with his own and moving so hes hovering over you. Your hands are on his back, spreading your legs below him to let him slot between them.
He feels like a teenager again from how quickly he gets hard, your soft body under his putting him under some sort of spell. His hips shift and you let out a needy whine, scratching his shoulders lightly like you’re trying to encourage him.
You’re still making out slowly when he starts to thrust down against you, slow rolls of his hips to give you just enough friction to start to get desperate.
You’re tugging at his shirt fabric and he takes only a second to sit up and pull it over his head, back on you immediately and kissing you even more frantically. He’s moving your own shirt up towards your ribs but neither one of you wants to stop long enough to take it off, only able to when you need a quick second to take a breath.
It’s the first time you’ve both been nearly undressed together and he feels the effects of it instantly, your chest pressing against his when he lays back over you. Your skin is soft and hot to the touch, those now familiar soft whines leaving you when he lets his hand knead at your chest again.
“Jack please.” You’re whimpering and he finally stops kissing you in favor of sucking at your neck, bringing those marks from earlier back to the surface. “Can’t you just fuck me?”
He groans at the words and has to tuck his face in your shoulder, still rocking his hips against you even though they stuttered when you said that in that whiny voice of yours.
“Trust me, I want to fuck you so bad I can’t even think.” It leaves his mouth before he can stop it, not wanting to reject you again without making sure you know how badly he wants you.
“Then do it.” You’re begging now and he picks his head up to look at you, eyes wide and a little frustrated like you know he’s going to say no. You gasp when he thrusts down even harder, biting your lip as you stare at each other desperately. “Please Jack? Want you inside me.”
“I can’t baby.” He growls and kisses you to give himself a second to think without you arguing.
You’re quick to forget you were trying to convince him of something because you’re kissing him back deeply, angling your head so his tongue can get further and further inside your mouth.
He has that sick and perverted thought again that he’s coincidentally training you to be the perfect girl for him, kissing in a way he likes and not knowing how else to do it. Jack is selfish and wants everything you do to be for him, wants your body to instinctively move and react how he taught you regardless of who gets you next.
The thought of somebody else makes him want to forget his morals and fuck you like you’re begging him, be the one to take your virginity and fill you up for the first time.
He starts to reason with himself that it would actually be a good thing because Jack would never let himself hurt you in a way you didn’t like, he’d make sure you felt good around him and came so hard you weren’t able to see straight.
There’s nobody else who could fuck you like he could so he’s almost convinced himself that it’s a good idea when your phone rings on the nightstand.
You both stop, you’re completely tense under him and he sighs as he kisses you one more time and rolls off of you.
He lays there on his back as you sit up to grab your phone, screen a little too bright in the dark room and causing you to wince. He stares at your pretty face under the light as you open it up and answer it, not thinking much about the interruption despite the small disappointment he feels.
His hand is on your bare knee and rubbing your skin is soft circles, soothing both you and himself by keeping the contact.
“Hello?” Your voice is as soft and sweet as always, a little confused sounding which makes his eyebrows raise. “Oh Carter.”
Jack tenses up at the sound of a males name leaving your lips, his hand freezing and falling still on your knee. You’re avoiding looking at him as you listen to whoever it is speak on the other line, a deep voice bleeding through the speakers just enough for him to hear but not enough to make out the words.
“Tonight?” Your eyes go to the small digital clock on Jacks side of the bed, having to glance over his body in the process. You meet his eyes just for a second before they’re darting away again and it makes the pit in his stomach grow in understanding. “Of course I didn’t forget. I’ll be ready by nine.”
You’re hanging up after a quiet goodbye and now it’s suffocatingly silent in the room.
You’re still sitting up with your legs crossed under you, avoiding looking at him like you’re not still wearing his shirt and covered in marks he’d given to you. He waits for a minute before he’s sitting up and running a hand over his face, on the opposite side of the bed from you and facing the wall so you can’t see his expression when he finally gets himself to speak.
“You’ve got a date tonight?” He rasps out, trying his best to sound unaffected even though it comes out low and tight.
“I forgot.” You whisper back and you sound further away now, a glance over his shoulder confirms that you’d stood up off the bed and are searching for the shirt you’d shown up in so you can swap out of his. “He’s taking me to some art show downtown.”
Jack stares at you as you move around the room, eyes scanning over your body when you pull his shirt over your head and neatly fold it before putting it on his dresser. It feels really final to watch you change back into your own clothes, turning to meet his eyes and letting out a soft sigh when you see he’s already watching you closely.
He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, doesn’t want to be too obvious that he’s probably about two seconds away from throwing up.
“Carter.” He says simply and now you really stiffen.
You stand there for a few seconds like you’re waiting for something, eyes a little expectant and then full on disappointed when he scoffs and moves to put his leg back on so he can stand up and get out of the room that’s suddenly suffocating.
You leave his apartment and all the warmth goes with you.
He stands in his dark kitchen with regret sitting heavy on his chest, wishing he had stopped you and asked you to stay with him instead.
He isn’t sure if it’s the fear of rejection or his own guilt that stopped him but he knew he couldn’t ask you to do that. You deserved better than him and his baggage, his late hours at work and his dangerous hobbies that he needed to keep himself busy with to not think about the things that sent him spiraling.
He couldn’t imagine forcing you into a life where you had to explain him to your friends and family, ignore the curious and judging looks from his own when they realized just how young you were.
Jack knew you were lonely, it was obvious considering how much time you willingly spent with him and it was bad enough he’d taken advantage of your desperation for connection and nearly slept with you.
He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he stopped you from enjoying your youth, having a fun late night in the city surrounded by artsy people your age and not stuck on his couch watching old reruns because he’s too tired after work to properly take you out.
Jack hates himself for thinking all this and then still obsessively wanting you.
So much so that he purposely lingers near his truck right around the time you’d told your date you’d be ready. In his defense, he did actually need a few things from the corner store, so he sat in the parking lot and waited until he saw you come down.
Your date met you at the entrance of the lobby but didn’t take your purse from you or the jacket you were holding, smiled at you politely but couldn’t be bothered to open the door of his car or even wait for you to get in before he did.
It made Jack sick to his stomach all over again, jaw clenched as he sat in the dark interior of his truck and watched you drive off with some asshole only an hour after he’d had you sleeping next to him, panting under him and begging him to fuck you.
Jack decides right then that it all needs to stop, not just the sex lessons but helping you in general. He can’t be that person for you without wanting more, he’s selfish and possessive over somebody that was never supposed to be his and he knows it’s not fair to you.
So he doesn’t answer any of your texts that night, stays quiet in his living room whenever you knock on his door and waits until he hears you leave for work before he goes to check the mail.
He feels terrible for avoiding you but keeps trying to convince himself it’s in your best interest.
Jack is half asleep when the silent treatment finally breaks.
He’d fallen asleep on his couch accidentally, a beer can too many on the table in front of him and the same movie he’d been watching beforehand starting to roll credits. He should have been in bed sleeping after pulling a double at work but he couldn’t stand being in there lately, tossing and turning and trying to catch the faint scent of you lingering on his pillows.
There was a second of confusion, not sure why he had waken up in the first place, until the sharp knocks on his door made him flinch.
He was standing up on autopilot to open it, wincing at how stiff and sore his leg felt from falling asleep with it still on.
Any thought of his pain was gone the second he opened his door and saw your face, tears on your cheeks and your eyebrows furrowed in frustration.
“I need to talk to you.” You said immediately and he ushered you into his apartment, not necessarily wanting to be in an enclosed space with you but recognizing your tearful voice was far too loud to have a conversation in the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” He said softly and takes a few steps towards you on instinct, cradling your cheek and staring down at you when you nuzzle against his touch. “Why are you crying?”
“Because you’re an asshole.” You seem to remember that you’re mad at him because you step away from his touch, pushing his arm back down to his side and storming further into his apartment.
He stands there completely frozen as you toss your purse onto the chair near the couch, your eyes scanning over the beer cans and the obvious indent of where he’d been sleeping.
Then you’re back to looking at him and he knows what he probably looks like to you. The exhaustion is obvious on his face, clothes a little baggier than normal from a lack of taking care of himself and a constant awkward shifting on his leg to keep pressure off of it.
“Why aren’t you talking to me?” Your voice cracks a little and he deflates, taking a few steps closer again even though he doesn’t think you want him to touch you. “Did I do something wrong?”
“What?” His face faces in disbelief at the idea you could ever do anything wrong in general, especially to him. “Of course you didn’t sweetheart.”
“Then why?” Your words are louder now and they linger in the tense air, face pained as you wait for him to answer.
He sighs and runs a hand over his stubble that desperately needs some maintenance, wishes he had the time to plan out everything he wanted to say to you so he doesn’t accidentally fuck it up more than he already had.
“I just… I can’t do it anymore.” He lets his hands fall to his sides with a loud defeated clap and shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t watch you go out with these idiots knowing they can’t take care of you.”
He hopes what he’s trying to say is an obvious to you as it is to him, not able to bring himself to actually voice the fact that he has feelings for you beyond helping out a neighbor.
“You didn’t stop me.” You sound devastated, head shaking like you don’t believe anything he’s saying to you.
You’re not crying anymore thankfully but you look so hurt and disappointed that it makes him physically ache, moving to grab your arm softly and guide you to sit down on the couch with him.
“I waited for you to stop me and you didn’t.” You continue once you’re sitting beside him, legs pressed together in a small amount of addicting content. “Isn’t it obvious by now that I only want to be with you?”
The words hit him so hard that he doesn’t even have time to process them, eyebrows furrowing as the need for more information pushes him to speak.
“Why would that be obvious? The entire point of this was for you to be ready for other people.”
You look a little embarrassed at his sound logic, staring down at your lap where your hands are fiddling with your fingers. He sighs and takes one of them in his, squeezing it softly until you let your gaze drift back up to his.
“I don’t want other people.” You whisper, staring at him with a small amount of hope in your eyes like you’re just waiting for him to understand. “And I don’t want you to be with anyone else either. I just figured… you wouldn’t cross that line without a good reason.”
Jack thinks it’s a little juvenile of a plan but he also knows you’re not wrong. He would have never touched you without the feeling of helping you out with something, no matter how much he had wanted you since the second you moved in.
That little lie was all he needed to get himself through the shame and guilt, the ability to pretend it was for a greater cause and not because he was sick and desperate for a girl half his age.
“Jack.” You sigh when he doesn’t respond for a few seconds, turning so you can face him better and press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. “Stop thinking.”
“That’s a big ask.” He mumbles back but he gladly turns to give you a real kiss, holding your face in his hand and keeping your mouth against his.
You kiss until you run out of breath, pulling back from him but rubbing your nose against his and letting your small hands grip his forearm desperately.
“Then just be with me for tonight.” You try to reason with him in any way you can, rubbing his arm softly and blinking at him with those big pretty eyes that drive him so crazy.
He stares at you for a moment before he’s standing up off the couch and tugging you along with him, ignoring the little surprised noise you make in favor of lifting you up with his hands on the back of your thighs. You gasp and then giggle softly once he’s got you in the air, arms behind his neck and legs around his middle as he starts to walk you to his room.
“You’re crazy if you think you’re going anywhere after tonight.” He tells you once he gets you settled on his bed, kissing the smile off your face as he climbs over you.
It’s a direct mirror of the other night as you get each other undressed fully this time, kissing the entire time and tasting his tongue deep in your mouth when it starts to get more heated.
“You’re going to be mine.” He says firmly once he’s got you in nothing but your panties, making sure your eyes are locked on his when you hear it. His free hand is all over your body, rubbing from your smooth thigh up to your chest and cupping around your neck for a brief moment while he waits for you to respond. “If I fuck you then you’re mine.”
“I’ve been yours.” You whisper easily, like you didn’t have to put any thought into it.
He falters, hand tightening around your throat on instinct and then releasing the pressure when he sees the way your eyes light up with interest.
“Don’t be nasty baby.” He’s teasing, kissing the corner of your mouth and bringing your leg up so it’s around his waist and he can press himself against you. “Gonna be gentle with you for your first time. You deserve it.”
“I want you to fuck me.” You’re pouting and gripping at him impatiently, running your hand between your bodies to touch his stomach and fidget with the waistband of his boxers. “That’s what I want Jackie.”
“Didn’t ask what you wanted.” He grumbles back, not caring that it comes off a little mean because you whine at the sound of how rough his voice had gotten and he knows you like it.
He’s back to kissing you and it’s filthier than normal, more tongue and spit than anything else.
You’re as vocal as always, whining and begging impatiently when he gets your underwear off and starts to touch you again.
Jack can barely think straight when he’s back inside of you, fingers pushing in easier this time now that you’ve felt the intrusion before and know what to expect. You’re gasping and crying out immediately, unintelligible words that he blocks out in favor of focusing on how you feel when he’s stretches you out.
“Want it so bad.” Your near sob gets through to him and he hisses through clenched teeth at how wrecked you sound already, shushing you softly and kissing your cheeks to try and calm you down.
“I know baby I know.” He’s whispering but you don’t seem to be hearing him, spreading your legs further to try and make space for him to slot back between them instead of using his fingers.
Jack is just as impatient as you but he’s terrified of hurting you too early, although throbbing so hard in his boxers that it’s painful to shift around.
It’s not long before it’s too much prep for both of you and you’re watching him with your chest heaving as he gets himself undressed the rest of the way, leg going on the floor right alongside your underwear that he had slowly pulled down your body before climbing back over you.
Your eyes go down between your bodies where his leg is and he tenses for a second despite knowing you mean well with the concern you have on your face.
“Let me ride you.” You say softly and his chest tightens with that old familiar shame he was still actively working on ridding himself of.
“I can fuck you.” He says gruffly and your eyes flash with regret, pouting a little like you’re worried you’ve hurt his feelings with your thoughtful suggestion. He kisses the expression off your face, a long deep one followed by a few quick pecks to try and ease your mind. “Next time baby.”
He says it both because he knows realistically he has limitations, there will be plenty of nights he’s not able to rail you into his mattress like he wants to, but also because he knows he would die a happy man the second he got to see you bouncing on top of him and desperately trying to get yourself off.
You look like you want to argue but you’re stopped when he’s pushing your legs apart and moving between them, sharp gasp leaving you when you feel his hard length pressing against you finally.
“Fuck Jack.” Your voice is sharp and already a little pained just from the dull sensation of him lining up with your hole, a growl leaving him at the sound of your distress.
“Just relax baby.” He says as softly as he can even though his throat feels tight and raw, kissing you gently to try and get you to calm down enough for him to push in. “You’re too tight sweetheart.”
“I… I can’t.” You let out another sharp cry when he shifts forward, nails digging into his shoulders so deep it makes him wince and lower his head down on your shoulder.
Jack has to use every ounce of self control he can muster to not just fully push himself into you and feel that tight heat he’s getting a taste of, that same sick and selfish part of him that wants you in the first place begging him to just take you already.
Instead he takes a few deep breaths before he’s kissing you with more focus, going back and forth between softly rubbing your side and massaging your inner thigh to try and urge your body to relax and accommodate him.
It’s a torturous ten minutes, especially due to your soft whimpers and the way you cry his name whenever he accidentally moves himself deeper.
Then you’re finally calm enough, bare chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he’d instructed you to take.
“Want you inside Jack.” You’re whining in his ear, clinging to him tightly and almost suffocating him when he immediately takes your queue and pushes in. You tense up again at the brief surge of pain and then let out a satisfied cry when you feel how full you are, clenching around him so ridiculously that he almost needs to pull out to give himself a break despite barely starting.
You’re both too overwhelmed to speak much more once he starts to actually fuck you, deep thrust accompanied by filthy kisses to keep you from waking up the neighbors with how desperately you’re whining for him to keep giving you more.
It’s pure need on both ends, your hips eagerly rocking upwards to try and meet his thrust sloppily while he uses his free hand to roughly push down on your stomach and keep you in place.
“Jackie.” It’s nearly a sob from you now and he can tell you’re close from how much tighter you’d gotten, almost an impossible squeeze for him to keep fucking you through.
He’s grateful you’re so inexperienced because he doesn’t think he’d last long either, not with the way you look as you stare up at him with teary and trusting eyes.
“I know baby you’re doing so good for me.” It’s more of a growl than anything else but he can barely think let alone speak enough to keep encouraging you. “Taking me so well sweetheart.”
“I’m so full Jack.” You whimper and cling to him tighter, nearly pulling him fully down on top of you and knocking him off his balance. “Feels so good.”
You’re stuttering through your sentences and slurring each word, eyes a little dazed in a way that makes him need to squeeze his shut to avoid coming inside you just from that fucked out look you have.
It’s more sweet than heated when you actually do finally reach your peak, holding onto him still and kissing the side of his jaw softly with your face buried in his neck as you squirm and shake your way through your orgasm.
He stays inside of you for as long as he can so you’re not shocked from the sudden feeling of emptiness but you’re squeezing him too tight and he has to pull out as soon as you’re starting to relax. You whimper immediately at the lose and pick your head up to pout at him, eyes panicked like you’re genuinely distressed he didn’t finish inside you.
He shushes you gently and kisses your face over and over, rubbing your side as he lets you fully come back to reality before attempting to clean either of you up or get you dressed.
“Jack.” You’ve got the needy and frustrated tone he loves so much and he knows you’re not dropping it, meeting your eyes with a fond sigh as you glance down at where he’d came instead of inside you.
“Next time.” He promises again and he means it, fully intending to have that conversation with you ahead of time now that he’s got you like this.
Jack isn’t too opposed to the idea of getting you pregnant, not even sure he’s able to with the amount of pills he takes, but he has to push down that thought along with the rest of the sick ones he gets when he looks at your needy eyes.
You smile a little at the loose promise and tuck yourself back into his shoulder, soothing any concern he has about what just happened or how you’re supposed to operate going forward.
He’s undoubtedly the luckiest guy in the world to have you wanting him like this, feeling safe in his arms and desperate for him in the way he’d been for you since the second he laid eyes on you.
Jack was never the type of person to take the duty of taking care of somebody lightly and he doesn’t plan to let you down for even a second, kissing the top of your head softly and letting himself forget about any shame or insecurity just to hold you for awhile longer.
