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wc: 22.5k
content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, no age gap, reader in her mid to late forties, rivals to lovers, med student flash backs, parental death, suicide, suicidal ideation, cat dad!robby, sabbatical!robby, biker!robby, motorcycle accident (minor injuries), whump, angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, so much domestic fluff, discussions of mental health, complicated parental relationship, like literally so much domesticity it's sickening, robby nicknamed reader bambi back in med school, mostly used in flashbacks, reader has a tattoo
synopsis: michael robinavitch was practically your sworn enemy in med school. your sworn enemy that you'd slept with, regretably, once. then twenty years passed and back in pittsburgh, you see one michael robinavitch on hinge. ever the hopeless romantic, you can't help the curiosity that leads you to match with him. unfortunately for you, he doesn't remember you.
a/n: this one is for all my fellow hopeless romantics. it's so romantic and dramatic it borders on cringe but whatever. i had a ton of fun writing all my deepest romantic and domestic fantasies. welcome to my dream house, i tried to paint it as cozy as possible. <3 -syd
Your favorite part of being called in to the hospital on a Saturday was the peace and quiet of the lab. Doubly so today, because you were called in during the night shift.
Pathology didn't really have "night shifts" or even weekend shifts so the lab was completely empty when you arrived. Immediately, you set up your space, your speaker, pulled out the iced coffee you'd made at home, unscrewing the cap on the Ball jar.
Originally, you'd planned to spend the night on the couch with your tabby cat, Brutus (named in such a way so when he inevitably destroyed your furniture or knocked your favorite mug off the table you could at least find some whimsy in crying "Et tu, Brute?" theatrically), and a movie that you'd heard would make you cry. You'd been meaning to cry for a while now, but hadn't been able to find the time. You supposed you could push it to another night, depending on how long you ended up being in the hospital tonight.
You hummed along to the playlist you'd started on your speaker as you prepared a blood smear from the sample you'd been called in for.
Jack Abbot was the attending on shift in the ED this evening. You had only met him in person once or twice, but you were glad it was him and not Michael. Or, Robby, it seemed he was going by these days. You hadn't yet run into him since being back at PTMC, but you were not eager to reminisce with him, especially since it was becoming more and more clear that he had no recollection of you.
It shouldn't have bothered you so much. It had been two med school rotations and one extremely disappointing hookup when you'd both gotten too drunk after shift. But he had been instrumental in you picking pathology for residency. At the time, the decision had been full of complicated emotions, resentment, a complete misunderstanding of who you were and what you wanted. But now, well, you thought maybe you owed him your gratitude.
Your phone pinged while you were prepping your slides and you eyed it and found it was a notification from Hinge.
From Robby.
You inhaled slowly and looked away as your screen went dark. You had no idea what the fuck you were doing, chatting with Robby on a dating site. You told yourself you just were curious when your thumb tapped the heart on his profile. Middle aged looked really really good on him, you wouldn't deny that, but you still saw the baby faced, skinny rod of a med student when you looked at him. And when he'd first initiated the chat, you realized very quickly he didn't remember you.
You found yourself preening under his attention, how he complimented your photos and your mind through conversations. The both of you established early on that you didn't want to discuss work beyond confirming that you were both doctors working in PTMC. But you repeatedly dodged his attempts to meet up and grab a drink. You weren't sure how long you could keep it all up without admitting that you knew him already. Intimately, even.
You suspected soon enough, he'd get tired of trying to get you to meet up with him and move on to the next thing. But thus far, he'd been persistent, going on weeks now.
But you didn't have time for him right now so you turned your attention back to your slides. Slipping one beneath the microscope, you focused the knobs slowly, letting your world narrow to the blood sample, the blood cells.
This was why you loved your job. How easy it was to slip outside yourself and into whatever sample you were looking at. There was always a clear answer hiding in the shape of the cells, just beneath the surface. There was always a clear path to diagnosis, to treatment, to healing. Everything made perfect sense under the light of a microscope.
And this sample, as always, made perfect sense after just a few minutes. You sighed, "Shit."
You couldn't risk just sending this back via the online portal for whenever the doctor deigned to check the chart next so you picked up the phone. It rang and rang and rang.
You shook your head and put the phone back on the receiver. As quickly as possible, you documented the chart, still trying to get ahold of someone, but no one was picking up the phone. What the fuck was going on down there?
Impatient, you decided to head down yourself after saving your changes in the chart. You walked briskly towards the elevators, rocked on your heels as you waited.
The second the elevator doors opened you were knocked practically on your ass by the noise and the chaos of the ED. It was rare you came down here at all and every time you did it felt like being thrown back to med school rotations. Suddenly you were again the floundering med student constantly being expected to be on the lookout for the daggers of the other students as well as practice medicine efficiently.
But you were an adult now, not the twenty year old naive kid genius walking around on wobbly legs. Pushing your shoulders back, you shook it off and headed for the hub. Luckily, Dr. Abbot was right there.
"Your phones not working down here or something?" You asked without preamble, hands on your hips.
Abbot looked up at you slowly and then over to the phone. You followed his gaze and saw that the phone was lying off the receiver, "Ah, shit, sorry." He put the receiver back on the hook, "What could be so urgent it coaxes path from the comforts of the cave upstairs?"
You smirked, "Your patient has TTP."
He sighed and picked up an iPad, "Fuck," he muttered when he pulled up the chart you'd just updated, "Okay, um," He shook his head, "I don't think we have the resources down here to start TPE."
You frowned, "Okay⌠Admit to ICU, then."
He laughed, "Yeah, right. Good luck getting the charge to agree to admit a patient on a Saturday night."
You bit your lip, and then sighed, "Alright, give me⌠fifteen minutes and I'll be back down here with an apheresis machine, I'll run it."
He raised his eyebrows, "Really? You'd do that?"
You shrugged, "I could run apheresis in my sleep."
Slowly Abbot nodded and smirked at you, "Alright, great. Thank you."
Later, you sat in the hub of the emergency department after setting up the patient for TPE and finally opened your messages from MichaelâRobby, you corrected yourself.
What's my favorite homebody up to this evening? Any way I can convince you to grab a drink?
You stifled a smirk and typed back, I'm on call tonight. Sorry, cowboy.
"Hey," You looked up to see Abbot leaning over the counter to look at you, "Seriously, thank you for staying."
"No problem," You eyed the chaos around you, "Seemed like you guys could use the help."
"Always." He laughed and nodded, "Listen, some of us in the ED are getting together for a poker night next Friday, would you⌠be interested in coming?"
You blinked up at him, unsure of what to make of the offer. Was he flirting or just being nice? You'd heard that Jack Abbot flirted with everyone, so likely he didn't mean anything by it at all. While you were trying to figure it out, your phone pinged again. Robby. You flipped your phone facedown on the workstation desk.
"Why not?" You said and smiled up at him.
"Great," He unlocked his phone and handed it to you, "Here, put your number in and I'll text you the details."
Having entered your information, you returned his phone to him and then he was off. Sighing, you turned back to your phone to open Robby's latest message.
They're working you too hard. I thought path was supposed to be easy?
You rolled your eyes at this, but were unsurprised. For as much as you remembered him complaining about surgeons during your rotations, that they had a superiority complex, he had the same issues. And so had you, once upon a time, but you had grown out of it.
Having a work-life balance doesn't make the whole specialty "easy."
Almost immediately, a reply was on your phone: Sorry, I didn't mean to diminish your specialty. The ED would cease to function without collaboration from path, I know that. And your diagnoses have saved our asses on multiple occasions when we were busy chasing zebras.
Well. That was new. An apology without hesitation that seemed to drip through with humility and sincerity.
Though, it also was not lost on you that he had incentive to be nicer to you in the context of a dating app considering he'd been trying to fuck you for the last few weeks.
Apology accepted, you texted back, I know your true frustration lies with the inability to have your way with me tonight. You stifled a smile after hitting send. It reminded you of being in college, the casual flirtation. You hadn't had time for this sort of thing in med school or residency, doing your best to just survive. Then, when you were finally an attending, you were so burnt out you remembered practically sleep walking through the first couple of years. By the time that was all over, you felt so out of practice you'd mostly isolated yourself until now.
You'd had a few one night stands since creating a Hinge profile, but since you and Robby had begun chatting he had taken up all of your mental space. This irritated you greatly on top of the fact that he didn't seem to remember you.
And here I thought I was doing an excellent job at concealing my desperation.
You huffed a laugh and shook your head, Could you show me just how desperate you are for me?
You fidgeted with your fingers anxiously as you waited for his response, wondering for just a few moments if you had been too brazen, too forwardâThe phone pinged.
You slid open your phone and felt lightheaded as you took in the photo he'd sent you. His fist was wrapped around the considerable length of his very erect cock, dark tufts of hair at the base of his fist. You had both been pretty drunk the time you'd hooked up in the darkness of Robby's messy studio apartment and as he'd had trouble maintaining an erection that night, you'd never gotten a good look at it. Not like this.
There was a lump in your throat and you swallowed hard as another message came through: The photos you sent in that pretty lingerie set will have to do for tonight.
You felt your cheeks heat and blinked the steamy feeling from your eyes. Locking your phone, you placed it face down in front of you and stared off into the distance for a while.
And after a minute or so of this, when your galloping heart slowed and lucid thinking began to ease its way behind your eyes again, you had only a single thought:
Oh, no.
***
An unseasonable heat wave had domed around Pittsburgh the last couple of days and so when Robby headed to Jack's place for poker night that Friday, the sun had gone down, but the residual heat warmed him enough that he didn't need a jacket.
He had been waffling back and forth on whether or not to skip the night all together. The week had been crushing him, slowly, a boulder rolling incremently into a brick wall, an unstoppable force.
There had been a few patients they'd lost that really stuck with him this week. They'd been short on residents which meant he'd had to do a bit more hands on care than usual.
And more and more when he found things growing particularly dark, he'd reach for you. You, with your gorgeous smile and silly cat and constant, almost oppressive optimism.
He'd tease you about it, but really he admired it. How no matter how bleak of a day you had, he had, you'd find a way to turn it on its head.
Sure, you'd had to stage the breast cancer of a woman in her thirties and the news wasn't good, but you'd gotten to hold her hand and tell her about all the ground breaking treatment that was available to her. Sure, you'd cried about her for days later, but she'd sent you a card the next week thanking you for the simple act of holding her hand. Of showing her kindness. And maybe you'd get to see her through to remission as you'd done for countless others.
That was your favorite part, you'd tell him. Diagnosing sucked, but treatment plans and seeing people through to the other side, sliding biopsies under your microscope to see healthy tissue. Remission.
"That's why you're so miserable down there," You'd told him, "You mostly see people on their worst days, you don't get to celebrate with them when they make it to recovery. You don't get to see the returns."
He craved your perspective, wanted desperately to have it himself. But he wasn't sure it was possible for him the way it was for you. With your nine to five and weekends off and time to dateâthough apparently, not time for him.
He had thought at first that you were simply waiting him out, waiting to see if he'd lose interest. You'd been open about the fact that your time on dating apps had largely led you to become disillusioned with the possibility of a real, fulfilling relationship. He felt the same, mostly. The only thing the apps had ever been good for was a night or two to fill the oppressive silence of his house.
But he continued trying with you, which had led to the two of you sexting and him being as open as he could remember being in recent years about how badly he wanted someone. Still, you avoided him.
He'd texted you earlier to see if you were around tonight and you had left him on read, so begrudgingly, he'd be going to poker night instead. Anything other than being alone with his thoughts tonight after they'd lost a woman with eclampsia and her baby.
But when he walked into Jack's living room, a beer in hand, he was stunned to see you sitting on the couch, immersed in conversation with Mckay and Al Hashimi.
Your eyes darted to his and then quickly away, but he saw the way your eyes widened and your chest swelled. You didn't know he was going to be there.
"Hey man, you made it," Jack clapped Robby on the shoulder, "Glad you came."
But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you, "You invited path?"
Jack followed his gaze, "Oh, yeah, she helped us out last weekend with a TTP patient. Figured it was only polite. Honestly, I didn't think she'd come. Why, do you know her?"
With effort, Robby tore his eyes away from you, "Whaâ? Oh, no. No more than you do, you know, the rare occasion path comes down."
Jack narrowed his eyes at Robby, "Right," he said slowly, "Okay. Well, can I interest you in a round of Blackjack?"
Robby chuckled and shook his head, "No thank you, learned my lesson years ago not to play cards with you."
Jack smirked and watched as Robby's gaze flitted back to you, "I think she's too well adjusted for you."
Robby's head whipped back around, a hot flush crawling up his neck, "Excuse me?" He said through nervous laughter.
Jack shrugged, "I'm just saying, she seems like she wouldn't tolerate your bullshit and you'd probably get bored at how⌠normal she is."
Robby blinked at him, "Who said I'm interested?"
Jack rolled his eyes, "Please, don't insult me, brother. The last time I saw you look at a woman like that was the first time you met Heather. And you'll recall she also was unwilling to put up with your bullshit."
He knew Jack was mostly being playful, but it stung nonetheless, the thought that someone else besides himself thought he was incapable of being in a healthy and loving relationship. That no one in their right mind could want to stay with him.
For just a second he was eight years old again wondering if he was such a terrible, rotten son that it'd pushed his mother to end her own lifeâThe thought rushed up against the dam in his brain and just as quickly receded. He wouldn't think about that. Not now. Not here.
He forced a smile for Jack, "You don't need to remind me. I remember."
After a moment Jack squeezed his shoulders, "But what do I know, hm? Go shoot your shot."
Robby rolled his eyes, "You have far too many Gen Z staff on your shift."
But still, Robby wandered over to you eventually, surprised to find that he was a bit nervous, "Is this why you didn't answer my text earlier?" He asked quietly as he sat down.
You turned just a bit towards him, "I didn't think you'd be here, honestly. It doesn't seem like your scene."
He laughed, "Meaning?"
"Meaning it's too⌠jovial," You teased.
He ran a hand over the back of his head, "Well, I'm glad I came. It's nice to finally meet you in person."
You grimaced, "Yeah, we've met before, Michael."
He frowned and turned fully to you, "What're youâ? No we haven't."
You nodded slowly, "We have, yeah. We went to med school together. Did rotations together."
For a moment he paused and tilted his head, turned your name over in his head, "No⌠No, you're too young to have gone to med school with meâ" His eyes caught on your wrist as your fingers tapped lightly against the glass of your beer bottle. A tattoo in looping scroll that read As you wish. With a dagger beneath the words. The feeling of nostalgia almost violently overtook him. There was only one other woman he'd ever met who had that tattoo of a quote from The Princess Bride in that exact spot.
"Bambi?" He asked, sounding almost breathless.
You wrinkled your nose and turned away from him, "I always hated that nickname."
But Robby couldn't tear his eyes off you. There were a million thoughts running through his head as suddenly images flashed behind his eyes, the two of you twenty years younger and constantly at each other's throats, desperate to prove you were better than the other. But the first thought that he blurted out of his mouth was, "You went into pathology?"
You laughed and shook your head, "I knew you didn't mean it when you said you respected my specialtyâ"
"That's not what I meantâ"
"What else could you have meant by the condescension dripping from your tone right now?"
He opened and closed his mouth before hanging his head, "I'm just⌠Surprised, is all. You were⌠a force in the ER. You could have had your pick of any emergency medicine residency in the country, surely."
You stared ahead for a few moments, tightlipped and eyes glossy, "Emergency medicine nearly burned me out just at rotations, I imagine I would have been⌠a shell of myself had I stayed. And at the time, you certainly agreed."
He huffed in indignation, "That is categorically false, I thought you were brilliant."
"Well you sure had a funny way of showing it. Talking over me, talking down to me in front of attendings, basically celebrating every mistake I madeâ"
"Everyone else practically worshiped you. I was just trying to make sure I wasn't overlooked. You know how cutthroat it was down thereâ"
"Exactly," You nodded, "Which is why I'm actually grateful for the way you treated me. It wore me down enough that I knew if I couldn't get through even a rotation or two, there was no way I'd make it through a residency. Not in that environment."
He pressed his lips together and looked down at his hands, "Look, I'm⌠I apologize⌠For how I spoke to you back then, I was a stupid kid, I was just trying to survive as best I knew how. It's not an excuse, I just. I'm sorry."
You didn't seem upset as you looked at him, eyes gently passing over his face. You lifted the beer bottle to your lips and he watched the lights refract off the glass.
"It's fine," You said eventually, "You were far from the only reason I went into path."
"Why didn't you say anything? When weâWhen we started talking? Why didn't you tell me?"
You shrugged, "I thought maybe you'd forgotten me altogether. Or worse, that remembering me would mean you'd no longer be interested."
You carefully avoided looking at him when you said this, but screwed your mouth down to the side as you chewed your cheek.
Robby sat back and took a sip from his own beer, "It seems like I should have been the one to worry about that. Since I was the one who treated you so horribly."
You cleared your throat and turned back towards him. He was struck again by a sense of nostalgia at the intensity in your gaze. He had nicknamed you Bambi all those years ago because of your skittishness, the way that everything seemed to terrify you. Despite how smart you were and how clearly gifted a doctor you would become, you were easily startled and easily overwhelmed by the din of the emergency room. It hadn't been all that uncommon to find you in the ambulance bay after a hard case, slouched on the ground against the wall, hands trembling as they cradled your face.
But it had also been the intensity in your eyes, how every emotion was always so clearly reflected in their glossy pools, that had been the real inspiration behind the nickname. He had never intended it to be cruel, though it appeared that's how you'd interpreted it. It was something he had admired about you, the ease with which you'd connected with your patients because the empathy was so clear on your face. Of course, he had never told you that. Afraid to let on to any perceived weakness around you.
He suspected, though, that you hated the nickname because he had also used it as a weapon against your naivete. He remembered the ways he'd called attention to your age and when the Bambi nickname had spread there had been no way for you to escape it.
Now, though, your eyes were glossy again and he felt bowled over by the way you stared at him, a wistfulness in your expression, "Are you actually sorry or is it just that you think I'm hot now?"
He was so surprised by your question, he gave out a short laugh, "Please, I thought you were hot then, too."
You snorted, "Well, now I know you're lying."
"The nickname Bambi, if nothing else, implies that I found you adorable at the very least."
You rolled your eyes, "Even if I agreed with that assessmentâwhich I don'tâit was very clear from that one time we slept together that you were uninterestedâ"
"Woahâwoahâwoahâ back up. When we slept together?"
You looked at him blankly for a few moments, "Oh my God," You said quickly, seemingly embarrassed as you looked away from him, "You don't remember. It was so bad you don't even remember."
Robby's brain was still working overtime to catch up with you, "Hold onâI would remember sleeping with you."
You stood up from the couch, and he remembered this about youâYou had been spooked, you were about to dart back into the woods, never to be seen again. But he stood at the same time, towering above you, "Don't go," he said quietly, "whatever happened was twenty something years ago, it doesn't mean anythingâ"
"It does to me." You said firmly, "Excuse me," And you forced your way past him.
Robby watched you walk away for a moment, then turned his head to see Jack shaking his head, a slight smirk on his face. A very blatant I told you so if Robby'd ever seen one.
"Shit," Robby muttered under his breath and hung his head.
***
TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO
Michael was being very touchy that evening and overly kind, paying for your drinks and wrapping an arm around you in the booth. It was making you shy. Despite the way he talked to you, at you, over you, there were cases every now and then when you caught him looking at you with what looked like awe or reverence. But just as quickly, it'd dissipate and you'd be left wondering if you'd imagined it.
"Let me walk you home," he said, slurring only a little, his words just slightly stumbling into one another like dominos. He wrapped your jacket around your shoulders as he spoke.
"I'm fine," You smiled at him, "I think you're the one who needs to be walked home."
He held up his hands in mock surrender, a boyish grin on his face, "You got me. I do need to be chaperoned home if you would be so kind."
You rolled your eyes, but secretly you were pleased. You wanted to be his friend, wanted him to respect you so you didn't have to keep having panic attacks alone in the bathroom. You were still very much like a scared little kid in that way, just wanting at least one other person to just see you, truly.
So you allowed Michael to swing his arm around your shoulders as he directed you towards his place. It was just a couple of blocks from the hospital, but when you got to the building, a rundown, brutalist slab of concrete, you frowned, "You live here?"
"Now, don't sound so disgusted, princess," he teased and pulled you along behind him inside the building, "Not all of us have wealthy parents to fund our gorgeous apartments in buildings that have doormen."
You felt your cheeks heat, "That's notâThat's not entirely true." He looked at you dubiously, eyebrows raised, and you furrowed yours, "I pay for my utilities," You grumbled.
He chuckled and ran a hand over his jaw before sliding his key into his door.
"If it's not too revolting to you," He said softly as he pushed the door open, "You're welcome to come inside for a drink."
Something changed in the tone of his voice and as you tried to place it, you saw the way his eyes roved down your body.
You had never had sex with anyone before, had never had the time. You were in college by the time you were fifteen and because you were so young no one really wanted to hang out with you. You didn't get invited to parties or study sessions (unless someone was trying to inadvertently get you to do their homework). Once you got to medical school, you were still only seventeen, still too young for any of your peers to show much interest.
When you turned twenty one, the shift had been subtle. But suddenly, you were being included to go out for drinks. Then people raised their eyebrows less when you said you were in med school. The stares lingered longer and traveled farther.
And now Michael was looking at you like that, too.
Maybe you should've thought it over more, said goodnight and gone straight home. But you were so painfully lonely. You should've hated him for the way he'd treated you, but it only spurred you on. You were used to having to compete for scraps of love from people who seemed to not like you much. Had been doing it since you learned to talk.
So you followed him inside.
It was freezing inside his apartment. So cold, in fact, your breath was beginning to cloud in front of you.
"Jesus Christ, Michael, is your heat broken or something?"
"Uh, no," He said from the kitchen. You heard the sound of glasses and bottles clinking before he reappeared, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other, "Just⌠trying to conserve. But we can turn the heat on for you, princess." He said with a wink.
You sat on his couch with your arms crossed and felt your lip jut out in a pout, "I'm not spoiled, you know. I justâIt's just as cold outside as it is in here. Can't be good for you. Or the pipes."
"Many of us," He said as he poured you each a glass, amber liquid sloshing up the sides, "Had to learn to live without. I didn't grow up in a mansion like you."
You scoffed, "I'm not the sort of rich you think I am, I grew up in the suburbs. My parents still have to work for a living. Yes, it was comfortable, but we're not fucking millionaires. We don't have, like, a fucking second house in the Hamptons."
He nodded, "Still seems pretty rich to me."
You rolled your eyes, "Well, what do your parents do then?"
That insufferable smirk finally fell from his face and for a second you felt vindicated.
"If you must know," He started, staring intently at the liquor in his glass, "I don't know who my father is, never met him. And my mother killed herself when I was eight. I found her swinging from the rafters one day when I got home from school."
You stared at him, stunned, while he knocked back the rest of his whiskey and poured himself another, "My grandparents took me in after that and then when I was sixteen, my grandfather died. When I was twenty, my grandmother joined him. So now it's just me."
He raised his glass, forced smile on his face, "May their memories be a blessing." He said, and tossed back the entirety of his drink in one go.
"Michael," you said softly, reaching for him when he began to pour more whiskey, "I'm sorry, I didn'tâ"
Not unkindly, he pushed your hand away, "You know, I've been thinking that I want people to start calling me Robby."
You frowned, thrown by the change in subject, "What?"
"Yeah, I just, people have trouble with Robinavitch. And Adamson asked me, if he could call me Robby. And IâI really like him and I want him to like me so I thinkâI think I'm just gonna have everyone call me Robby. It sounds friendlier, don't you think? Once I become a doctor? Doctor Robby."
You felt a sort of tenderness towards him now, after he'd revealed so much of himself to you. You had the distinct urge to hold him, cradle him to you, tell him it was all going to be okay.
"I like Michael," You said quietly, "If it's alright with you."
Finally he met your gaze again and his eyes softened just slightly. Slowly, as if afraid to scare you off, he reached a hand out to cup your cheek. When you leaned into his palm, he stroked his thumb against your cheek bone.
"Sure, Bambi. You can still call me Michael."
You couldn't say which of you closed the distance first, just that the next thing you remembered, his warm, wet mouth was on yours.
At first, the kisses were slow and hesitant. You remembered it was you who deepened it, a whine clamoring out of your throat and into his mouth.
Before you knew it, you had climbed into his lap and pushed him down into the couch. You felt him harden against you and it felt instinctual, the way your hips ground down against him, chasing the friction.
"Fuck," he breathed into your mouth, his hand cradling the back of your neck, "This good?"
You nodded fervently, "Do you have a condom?"
He raised his eyebrows, "Are you sure?"
You nodded again and so he pushed his hand between you, pushing his hand into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a foil packet.
You blinked, "Were you⌠planning this?"
"No," He said and teared the packet open with his teeth, "But I like to be prepared just in case."
Rolling your eyes, you pulled back to allow him to push his jeans and boxers down. His cock sprung up between you and you felt your breaths grow shallow as you watched him work the condom on.
Carefully, you hiked your dress up to your hips, hoping he didn't notice the way your hands shook. His eyes stayed on yours as you shifted your underwear to the side and slowly lowered yourself onto him.
"Oh, God." He sighed, sounding just a breathless as you felt at the stretch of him. It burned for just a moment, almost pleasantly, "Look at me," He said and your eyes locked back on his.
You leaned your forehead against his as you slowly moved your hips along the length of him, "Is thisâIs it good?" You asked, your voice small and uncertain.
"Yeah," He said quickly, pushed his mouth up into yours, "So good," he whispered into your mouth.
But less than a minute later, the sensation changed. It was difficult to move against him, in fact, you weren't even sure he was inside you anymore, "Did youâI meanâAre youâsoft?" You could hear your own panic and desperation in your voice as your hips slowed.
A scarlet flush was creeping up his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to avoid your gaze, "Yeah, IâI think so. S'probably whiskey dick." He finally opened his eyes and maybe sensed your impending humiliation, "Heyâheyâit's not you," He cupped your cheeks with both hands, "It's not you, I swear, you're perfect."
He pulled your face down to his again and you allowed yourself to get lost in the taste of him again, "It's me," he murmured between kisses, "I'm fuckin' defective, it's my fault."
"Michaelâ"
"Come up here, sit on my face," He said abruptly.
You raised your eyebrows, "Whâwhat?"
"Please," He said, sounding desperate, "Please, I wanna taste you. Lemme take care of you."
You sighed and hid your face in your hands, "You don't have to, like, make it up to meâ"
"I want to," he said again, "If you do, too. Please."
You couldn't deny that the idea of it had embers of arousal stirring in your belly. You hadn't prepared for the possibility of someone's mouth on you like that, but you didn't want to admit that to him. You didn't want to have to explain the depth of your inexperience lest it kill whatever remained of his desire.
So, you swallowed and moved your way up his body, let him position you, his arms wrapped around your thighs and pulling you to his mouth.
You were immediately overwhelmed by the sensation, gasping and whimpering when he moaned against you, your whole body twitching as it reverberated through your core.
But again, it wasn't long before things slowed, and thenâstopped completely. Blinking, you looked down and saw that Michael had fallen asleep.
No, he couldn't haveâcould he? You leaned in a bit closer, leaning back to fully pull yourself off his face. Oh my God, was that drool on the corner of his mouth?
Mortified, and at a loss for what else to do, you carefully and quietly climbed off him, grabbed your things, and slipped out of his apartment. Heels in hand, you paused outside of his door and exhaled in relief.
You left his apartment feeling even more conflicted about him than before and also feeling a bit dejected. This was the guy who had once tripped you up in a trauma and then said "Don't worry Bambi, it's normal to be a bit wobbly on your legs when you're still just a fawn."
It shouldn't have surprised you at all that he found you unattractive, that obviously he had only allowed you to initiate because you were sat in front of him, willing and able. Like an idiot. Like the naive little kid he had told everyone you were.
You felt stupid and humiliated. And God knew you didn't believe in the fucking patriarchal construct of virginity, but you couldn't deny it made you feel a bit bitter that you had wasted it on Michael Robinavitch. You wouldn't make such an idiotic decision ever again.
He could say a lot about you, but you'd never made the same mistake twice. You didn't intend to start now.
***
Robby watched you through the glass, leaned over Jack's balcony with your arms wrapped around yourself.
This had to be a new record of how quickly he could fuck things up with a potential romantic partner. Once he'd recognized you, he'd felt stupid that he hadn't recognized you immediately when he saw your profile. And maybe there had been some familiarity there, something he'd mistaken for instant attraction and chemistry.
That said, he had wracked his brain and the two of you sleeping together he was near positive had never happened. Or at least, for the life of him, he couldn't remember it. And yes it was true he'd always given you a hard time, but he had also always been enamored by you. Honestly, he'd thought it'd been obvious, especially towards the end of M4.
So he found it hard to believe that he wouldn't remember that. But he also didn't think that you were a liar.
Carefully, he slid the glass door open and stepped outside. The night had cooled significantly since his arrival and as he got closer to you, he saw goosebumps along your arms. You didn't startle when he came up next to you and positioned himself at such an angle as to shield you from the breeze.
"I'm sorry that I don't remember," He said softly after a few moments, "But I'd like you to tell me about it, if you're up for it."
You shook your head, "It's not your fault. It was really horrible, I don't blame you for not remembering."
He groaned, "You know, you could say a lot of shit about me and I wouldn't blink, but hearing I'm bad in bed is a new one for me and I'm not a fan."
You laughed and turned to him, "Oh yeah? You've become something of a casanova in your old age?"
He winced, "Not that old."
You hummed and turned back towards the treeline, "What was it? That made you finally remember me tonight?"
"The Princess Bride tattoo."
You looked at your wrist, "Huh. I would've thought this was one of the things you picked on me for behind my back. Called it childish."
He shook his head, "Nah, The Princess Bride's a classic. I actually always really liked it, thought it was romantic."
You rolled your eyes at that, as if you didn't quite believe him, but didn't comment further. After a moment you sighed, "It was during MS4. We were almost done with our last rotation in the ER and some of the residents invited us out for drinks."
"Oh," Robby said, frowning, "I do remember that. I got really drunk and you walked me back to my apartment."
You nodded, "Right."
"But we didn't⌠I invited you in for a drink andâŚ" He trailed off. He was drawing a blank, "Did you come inside? I just thought⌠You never liked me, I thought for sure you declined. I don't remember anything after that."
You narrowed your eyes at him and then sighed, "Well, you did down something like three fingers of whiskey in quick succession once we got in your apartment so I guess it's possible you blacked out."
"You always made me nervous so it's no surprise I drank so much."
You opened and closed your mouth for a moment, but then shook your head quickly, "Yeah, I guess that was it."
"Then what happened?"
You sighed, "We really don't have to rehash thisâ"
"Please," he pushed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, "I want to know."
You shook your head and then shrugged, "Fine. About a minute after you put it in, I was riding you and you went soft. So then you⌠you asked me to sit on your face instead. Which I did. And a minute or two later you⌠fell asleep."
Robby was silent for a moment as he processed what you'd said. You were deliberately looking away from him, running a hand nervously over the back of your neck.
"Wow," He said finally, "And you still liked my Hinge profile decades later?"
You gave a short laugh, "I was curious if anything had changed, I guess."
He hummed, "A lot has changed, I would say." He ran a finger lightly over the back of your arm and watched as goosebumps spreadâBut you didn't move away, not even when he bent to your ear and said lowly, "I'd like a chance to make it up to you."
You swallowed and then turned to face him, your faces impossibly close, "Have you ever been married, Michael?"
He frowned and pulled away marginally, "Um⌠no? Have you?"
You shook your head and looked off into the distance over his shoulder, wistfully, "I got close, once." You sighed, "Listen, I'm too old to be doing this⌠friends with benefits, situationship, whatever, bullshit. Sex is great, but I have plenty of vibrators that do the job just fine and without the emotional turmoil. So I'm not interested in casual sex. I'm looking for a partner, not a dildo. If you want me you'll have to romance me and mean it."
Robby's eyes roved over your face. Maybe it was your shared memories or the fact that you knew him before he was broken beyond repair, but he felt a tender ache in his chest looking into your eyes. Just as warm and inviting as he remembered.
There were few people these days who could entice him to commit to anything. A real relationship meant having to open himself up to someone else. Allowing them to see the ugliest parts of himself and hope they didn't leave. It usually ended in him lashing out instead so at least he had some semblence of control over the end of the relationship.
Or at least, that was the hypothesis of his last therapist, who he still wasn't entirely sure wasn't full of shit.
But either way, when he thought about pursuing a real, full relationship with you, he didn't feel his usual urge to run. Instead, he felt a curiosity. The need to take you apart, to learn you like he would a medical procedure.
Maybe he wasn't broken after all. Maybe he could have full, healthy relationships like everyone else.
He brought one of his hands up to your neck, watched how you tried to stifle the urge to lean into his touchâGood, you were touch starved, just like himâand his thumb lightly toyed with one of the hoops hanging from your ear.
"'As you wish'." He said softly, a smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward.
"What? You don't believe me?" He tilted his head downward to force eye contact with you, "I've been the one begging you to go on a date with me for weeks."
"A date?" You raised your eyebrows, "They're calling a drink at the bar before taking someone to bed a date now, are they?"
He scoffed, "What, so you want a string quartet and a night out at the ballet?"
You furrowed your brow, "And so what if I did?"
He stared at you for a moment and then chuckled, "Then I'd tell you to wear your favorite dress."
You narrowed your eyes, but then shook your head, "Just dinner would be more than enough."
He nodded, "I can do that. Would you allow me to cook for you?"
You smirked and ran your hands up his forearms, "Sure, but it has to be at my place."
He grinned, ran his thumb back and forth across the skin just below your ear, "Friday night?"
You tilted your head a bit, "You're serious about this?"
"Yeah," He said softly, eyes heavy lidded from both alcohol and desire as he looked into your face, "Are you?"
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as your eyes darted back and forth between his eyes, assessing. You still didn't quite believe him, he could tell. You had always been distrustful, convinced everyone was out to hurt you to a nearly paranoid level. The decades it seemed had done nothing to smooth that over.
But still, you nodded and leaned forward, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek, "See you Friday, Michael."
He watched as you walked back inside, conscious of the heat that pulsed against the skin where your lips had been just moments before.
***
"What do you think, Brutus?" You asked, your cat sidling between your legs as you looked at yourself in your floor length mirror. You had chosen form fitting, but simple clothes. A ribbed black sweater and your favorite pair of jeans. "Do you think he'll like it?"
Brutus trilled and stood up on his hind legs, stretching his front paws against your legs, a very clear request to be picked up. You looked down at him and smirked, "You're gonna get cat hair all over my sweater."
He mewled again, claws gently pricking at your jeans before quickly receding. You sighed, already defeated. You could never say no to him. You bent to scoop him up to your chest, pressing your nose into his face as he immediately began purring, "I know you don't like guests, but you have to be on your best behavior tonight, okay? No knocking glassware over if I'm not paying attention to you," You peppered kisses all over his head, "It's not polite."
The doorbell rang and you quickly lowered Brutus back down, running your hands over your sweater in an attempt to brush off the cat hair.
Sliding across the hardwood in your socked feet, you took one deep breath before pulling your front door open.
There in your doorway stood Michael Robinavitch in a button down and jeans, one hand holding a thermal bag you assumed was full of groceries, the other a bottle of wine.
He grinned when you opened the door, his eyes trailing lazily down your body, giving you a once over before meeting your eyes again.
"Hi," You said and stepped to the side, "Come in."
You watched him take in your home as he walked in, kicking off his shoes by the door without you having to ask.
Without a partner to appease or children you'd spent a lot of time creating a calming, beautiful space just for yourself. It resulted in a lot of warm lighting and soothing colors. Lots of windows and cozy nooks. The kitchen was big and open with huge bay windows looking into your backyard behind the sink. As you padded gently behind Robby, you watched him take stock of the sun setting through those windows.
"This is gorgeous." He said, eyes on the fresh tulips that sat in a vase on the island.
"Thank you," You said, and took the wine bottle from his hand, "It's my favorite place in the whole world."
He smirked as he placed the groceries on the counter, "Now I understand why it's so hard to get you to leave."
You took wine glasses down from your cabinet and opened the wine he'd brought, pouring you each a glass and bringing his over to him as he began unpacking the groceries he'd brought.
"What're you making?"
He pulled out a loaf of Challah bread and offered you a piece as he spread everything else out in front of him, "Um, some salad, roast chicken, and potato kugel."
You hummed, "Where'd you learn that?"
He began prepping the veggies and you watched his hands. You remembered from med school you had always been enamored by watching skilled hands at work, especially in the ED. Watching him now you had that same feeling as the wine began to warm you from the inside out.
"They're my grandma's recipes. She used to make this every Friday for Shabbos dinner."
Your mouth fell open slightly in surprise and immediately, you felt touched, "That's⌠really lovely, Michael. I'm honored that you'd share them with me."
He looked up at you for a moment, smiling, but shrugged his shoulders, "It's the only meal I really know how to cook well because she taught me. I don't do much cooking these days."
You tried not to let his dismissiveness disappoint you, "Do you still⌠I mean, are you observing Shabbos this weekend?"
He shook his head, "No, no, if I was I'd already have broken the rules," He jerked his head towards the bay windows, where the sky was beginning to bruise, "No cooking after sundown. I don't really practice anymore, but I sometimes go to synagogue on High Holidays."
You let a few moments pass in silence before speaking again, "Can I help?"
He shook his head, "No, you just sit there and look pretty."
The two of you made small talk about work, discussing funny patients or over eager med students, until he put his dishes in the oven.
"Do you want to sit on the porch?" You asked as he washed his hands.
"That sounds lovely," He said, drying his hands on your dish towel before following you outside with his glass of wine.
You tucked your legs underneath yourself as you sat on the love seat, the chill of the spring night had you reaching for the throw blanket. But Robby got there first, gently draping it over your legs and then his own lap. You pretended not to be flustered when he pulled your feet into his lap, tenderly kneading his fingers into the arch of your foot as he sipped his wine.
Over the years, you'd brought men to your place many times. You'd even had the occasional relationship that grew to the point of your partner moving into your place, because it was a nonstarter for any partner to suggest you sell your house, something you were always clear about at the start of the relationship. Maybe it would be the reason you never had a lifelong partner, but you had put an enormous amount of work into this house to create a sanctuary of sorts. It was where you were happiest. You had no desire to live anywhere else. You doubted you'd ever love anyone as much as you loved this house.
But Robby being here, it felt different than it had felt with all others. It felt natural to have him here, like this, cooking dinner in your kitchen, sitting on the porch with you while you told him about the study you'd just been awarded a grant to start. After residency, you'd sworn off dating doctors all together. But there was something refreshing about discussing renal cell carcinoma with Robby and him asking follow up questions that were more complex than "what's a renal cell?"
It felt like he fit here with you, like he could slot into your life effortlessly. But you supposed that could just be the forlorn romantic in you desperate for anyone to desire you again.
"Where'd you go for your residency?" Robby asked.
"Chicago," You said, "Northwestern Memorial. What about you?"
"New Orleans. Big Charity Hospital."
You opened and closed your mouth, thinking silently for a few moments. Trying to remember what years the two of you had gone off to residency and when you would have finished. And the realization of when had your stomach slowly sinking. "Wasn't⌠Wasn't Katrina during residency?"
He wasn't looking at you, staring off into the darkness of the trees behind your house. His face was partially lit by the candles you'd brought outside. When he nodded, you couldn't get a good read on his expression, but it suddenly felt very cold around you. As if the ghosts had lowered around his shoulders.
"That must have sucked," You said softly, "I'm sorry."
He cleared his throat and looked down at his wine glass, "It was a long time ago."
One thing that had changed about Robby was his openness. Years ago, in med school, you only needed to get him a single beer deep before he was pouring out his most intimate thoughts. Obviously, the time you'd slept together, that had been the most he'd ever revealed to you. About his parents and grandparents. But even before that, he'd opened up to you about his insecurities as a doctor and even when he was having trouble with significant others.
Now, he seemed to be dismissive of his troubles. Never wanting the focus on him for too long. He used to be what your mother would call a peacock, charming to an almost offensive degree. He was impossible to dislike and had everyone thinking they were his best friend. That had all changed. You could feel the barrier he'd put up between you. What had happened to him between then and now to have changed him so drastically?
Likely, you supposed, it started with Katrina.
Another reason you had decided against going into emergency medicine had been that you knew you were too soft for it. Just the rotations had been so detrimental to your well being. You had thought you loved it while you were in it, but the second you were out of it, you realized you had been in survival mode the entire time. Outside of it, you cried for weeks straight, grieving every person you'd watched die and especially the ones that had died on your watch. The heaviness of that responsibility was too much. A lifetime of it would've broken you.
It would break anyone, you imagined. And as you watched Robby curiously, you realized for the first time since reuniting with him just how haunted he had become. You had thought with his easy charm and smile that he was still the same kid, but he had changed. The years had slowly eroded him, smoothed some edges and sharpened others.
A timer went off a few moments later and Robby flashed you a quick smile, carefully removing your feet from his lap, "You hungry?"
"Starved," You said, allowing him to take your hand and gently pull you to standing.
The food was delicious. You caught Robby staring at you more than once over the candles when you licked your fingers or groaned in pleasure, mischief in his eyes.
You had to fight him to let you do the dishes, insisting it was only fair since he had cooked. He protested for a bit until you sternly repeated that you'd be doing the dishes and since he was a guest here, you demanded he relax on the couch while you cleaned up. Eventually, he gave up, sighing heavily and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, "Thank you," he murmured, sounding bone tired.
When the last dish was loaded in the dish washer, the cookware washed, the counters wiped down, you found Robby nearly fast asleep, stretched out on your couch. Brutus had come out for the first time since he'd arrived and was now hesitantly sniffing at his hand which hung over the edge of the couch.
"What d'you think, Brutus?" You whispered, "Is he good enough to eat?"
A chuckle rumbled deep in Robby's chest and Brutus scampered off, sufficiently frightened by the sudden movement. Robby cracked an eye open to look up at you, reaching with both arms towards you, "C'mere before I eat you."
You hesitated for just a moment before crawling over him, sighing contentedly as his arms wrapped tightly around you, your ear pressed to his chest.
You were reminded again of that one night with him decades ago, you atop him not unlike this, trying to warm yourself with his body in the frigid apartment.
"It's strange," you said softly, "I don't really know you anymore, but I feel like I understand you more now than I did then."
He hummed, "That's funny. You're still just as much a mystery to me as you were twenty years ago."
You lifted your head from his chest so you could see his face and felt his breath fan your cheeks, "I'm an open book, you just have to ask."
"Why pathology?"
You pursed your lips, brow furrowed in thought, "I liked the simplicity of it. That there were rules and structures and always a correct answer. There's always a clear path to and from diagnosis."
He shook his head, "I know you applied to the emergency medicine residency at Big Charity. I was the second choice, they wanted you."
You felt your cheeks heat, "IâIt was so long ago, it doesn't matterâ"
"No, you're right, it doesn't matter anymore," He ran a soothing hand down the back of your head to your neck, "It certainly mattered to me then. I was so pissed off at you those first few weeks of intern year when I found out. I tried calling every emergency medicine department in the country I could think of to find you."
You smirked, "You looked for me?"
He nodded, "Never crossed my mind that you would've gone into a different specialty. And pathology even? I never would have guessed. You were so good in the emergency room. A natural. I bet if I threw you in my ED now you'd do just as good as most of my residents."
You gave a short laugh, "Absolutely not, I don't even remember most of my rotations. Honestly, they were so hard for me I think part of my brain blacked it out."
He narrowed his eyes, "Yeah, they're hard for everyone, it's the emergency department."
You nodded, "I know. And I didn't want the rest of my life to look like that."
"Look like what?"
You opened your mouth for a moment and then sighed, "Like I was struggling to stay afloat in a sea of constant compounding grief."
He shook his head slowly, "I remember those rotations, you helped save a lot of people."
You nodded, "At the expense of my sanity, yeah."
"You don't think it would be worth it?"
You tilted your head slightly, "To martyr myself? Do you?"
He sighed and looked away from you, "I used to think so, yeah."
Robby used to come alive in the emergency department, as you recalled it. You knew he was empathetic and had his own struggles because he'd told you on occasion and because you'd seen it. Maybe he hadn't broken down visibly as often as you, but you recalled finding him at least a couple of times out in the ambulance bay, eyes red rimmed and wet.
But you had never doubted that he would thrive in the emergency room. You had been so busy feeling like an imposter yourself and he had made everything look so easy, it had never crossed your mind that maybe he had been struggling the same as you. He just hid it better, even from himself.
"You've lost a lot," You said softly, "the last twenty years, haven't you? Not just patients."
His eyes floated slowly back to yours and it didn't matter what he said, it was sitting there in his eyes as he looked at you. All the ghosts that haunted him, clawing to get out just behind his eyes. He looked tired. He looked shattered.
After a few moments he brought a hand up to your face, brushed the backs of his knuckles across your cheek, "I don't want to talk about that tonight." When he spoke, his voice hitched just slightly, but you politely acted as if you hadn't noticed.
It was a first date, after all. He didn't need to crack open his chest for you tonight, though part of you wished he would. You had never been one for small talk and you were always all in long before anyone else was. You were used to this, being the one kept at the perimeter, debating whether to ignore the Beware of Dog sign and hop the fence.
But he looked so tired and sad. You could be patient for now. Maybe befriend the dog while you waited, tossing treats through the hole in the fence, whistling gently on the wind.
"Okay," You pushed yourself up so your face was closer to his, "We don't have to talk."
A moment passed, two. Your eyes stared longingly at his mouth until his hand slipped to the back of your neck and pulled you to him, mouths crashing together.
You sighed at the feel of his lips on yours, simultaneously soft and rough from the scratch of his beard. It chafed against your chin, but still you pushed yourself closer, the new, but still somehow familiar taste of him intoxicating.
He still kissed the same, teeth digging desperately into your lower lip, tongue stroking against yours almost sweetly. But it was more refined, somehow. Like he'd perfected the art of kissing over the decades.
You'd had many lovers over the years, but few who would make out with you like this for very long without it quickly escalating. Robby's hands, hot and needy, worked their way beneath your shirt, thumbs stroking just below your breasts. Then, one of his hands slid down until it was on your ass, squeezing and groping over your jeans. It was at this point that he whimpered into your mouth and you felt yourself clench instinctually around nothing at the sound.
It had been a long time since you'd been touched like this and longer since you had enjoyed it this much. Usually, it was other partners that acted impatient, that were already tugging at your pants when you were nowhere near warmed up yet, but now it was you who had started grinding on his thigh, searching for friction. You who was frantically pulling at the buttons on his shirt, trying to get it off. You who was now fumbling for his belt when Robby finally stopped you.
"MmmâHold onâWait." Easily, he secured your wrists in his hands and pinned them to his chest which was rising and falling rapidly as you both attempted to catch your breath.
"Are youâAre you sure? I don't want you to thinkâI'm happy to just end the night like this. I can go home right nowâ"
You pressed your mouth to his again, kissing him deeply before playfully nipping at his lip, "Do I seem unsure to you?" You asked, nudging your nose against his.
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, "No," He said and kissed you again, fervently.
"Do I⌠need to beg you to fuck me?" You asked, sucking lightly on his neck as you spoke, "Because I can do that."
Robby sighed and gripped your ass tighter, "Fuck."
You dragged your center across his thigh, "Not an answer."
His hand gripped the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze, "You would beg for me?"
You weren't exactly thinking straight as you looked at him, wild with want. You would have done anything he asked in that moment, you were sure of it. But still, looking at him now, you were dragged back twenty years to his icy apartment. To the way he'd opened up to you and then swiftly rejected you. He denied it now, chalked it up to alcohol, but somewhere in you was still that dejected girl, begging for any scrap of affection.
It'd been a while since you felt her, small and weak, at the edges of your consciousness. She'd been shortsighted and easy, pan handling for love on the side of the road. You still loathed her, felt she was pathetic. Robby could still pull her out of you. It felt easy to slip into her and her wants. You remembered insisting to yourself after that night with him that you'd never let him that close again.
And yet you found yourself tangled in him yet again. You were different, you assured yourself, lied to yourself. In reality, he already had you wrapped around his fingers. He could break you with a single word, a change of expression.
You pushed all that out of your mind, suffocating it with your mouth on his, his all consuming taste in your mouth, "Is that what you want?"
"I want," He said, hand still firm on your neck, kissing you between his words, "Whatever you want. Just want to make you feel good."
You sighed, "Then take me to bed."
Quickly, he sat up, keeping you in his lap. He kissed up the column of your throat to your earlobe, sending chills down your spine, "Lead the way, sweetheart."
On your bed, he undressed you carefully, taking his time in a way you weren't used to. After the way you'd been talking over texts and swapping photos back and forth, you thought he'd be ravenous. And he was, you could tell from his groans and whimpers, but still, he remained steady and patient.
Once you were topless, both of you kneeling across from each other on the bed, you reached to unbuckle his pants before he could get to yours. Robby had been competitive as you remembered it, but in bed it seemed he was fine with handing over the reins. He watched you with heat in his eyes as you spat in your hand and reached down his pants to fist his cock.
As your hand stroked his shaft down to his balls, his eyes rolled back and he swore. You were on fire watching him, his desire seemingly contagious.
"Please," He whimpered after a minute of so of this, "Please, can I⌠Can I suck on your tits?"
Your belly somersaulted at the thought and immediately you were nodding, scooting closer to him.
As his lips puckered and pulled at your nipple, he was whining more loudly than you were with each stroke of your hand. He muttered praises and pleas into your breasts, heat bubbling up at the sound from your belly to your chest to your neck.
Looking down at his cock in your hand, you noticed the small amount of precum beginning to leak. You leaned down to lick it off, but Robby stopped you before you could.
"NoâWait. Need to take care of you. Please." He was breathless and flushed pink. Needy and desperate to please. You weren't sure that anyone had ever been this desperate to please you.
You gave him a short nod and released him. Immediately, he kissed you, the momentum pushing you flat against the mattress.
As he crawled over you, you opened your eyes to look up at him. There had been times when you were students that he had been vulnerable with you, but that had only been under the heavy influence of alcohol. Mostly, he had been very guarded. And still, earlier this evening you'd sensed the same guard up, though it had been reinforced throughout the decades.
But now he was looking at you with a gentle, almost tender look on his face. Before you could fully digest what that meant, he had leaned back down to kiss along your jaw, rough fingers gently grasping your chin to kiss down your neck.
He kissed all the way down your body, looking up at you occasionally through heavy lids whenever you made a noise he particularly liked.
Down at your waist now, he carefully unbuttoned your jeans and wriggled them down, you lifting up your hips to assist.
In just your panties now, you watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he looked at you, ran his rough hands over your soft thighs, kissing and nipping gently at your hips, "So, so pretty for me." He murmured into your skin.
The man in front of you now so at odds with the boy you had imagined was revolted by you. Now he worshiped your body with lips and tongue and teeth. He kissed you now over the fabric of your panties, slowly and methodically, until you felt the fabric begin to soak, both from his saliva and your arousal.
You whined and tried to lift your hips, but he quickly braces an arm over your thighs, "Michael, please." You whimpered.
He groaned against your cunt, sending shockwaves through your body.
"Sorry, baby," He murmured and began tugging your panties down your hips as well, "You need my mouth on you properly, is that it? Need my tongue inside you?"
You nodded, a burning in your eyes from embarrassment or pure desperation, you weren't sure.
Panties out of the way, he ran a finger down your slick folds to separate them. As he sighed, your eyes rolled back, jaw going slack.
"Gorgeous," he murmured, fingers running slowly and gently around your entrance.
It didn't feel like teasing, but admiring. Your hips jumped when he pressed a chase kiss to your puffy clit. You had barely begun to whine again when he licked, long and slow, from the bottom of your entrance up to circle your clit.
The sensation was dizzying as he continued to repeat the motion, moving faster and applying slightly more pressure each time.
"Okay, sweetheart," He said breathlessly, your juices glistening all over his beard, slowly, he slipped his middle finger inside you, stroking the spot deep inside you that had your abdomen tightening in anticipation, "Think you can finish for me?"
Unable to form coherent words, you writhed against him, whining until he relented and lowered his mouth back down to your clit.
It was over quickly after that, though his tongue kept working you until you lightly tugged at his hair, pulling him off you. He wiped his mouth on the back of his forearm and crawled back up to you, pressing kisses all over your sweaty face.
Without preamble, you reached for his cock with the intention of lining it up with your entrance, but he pulled away, "Not yet." He said mildly, propped up on one elbow as he looked at you, his free hand stroking the backs of his knuckles gently against your cheek, "I'm not done with you yet."
You were still a bit dumb from the aftershocks of your orgasm and you blinked blankly at him, "What?"
"I figure I owe you at least three orgasms before I get to cum, that should wipe the previous horrendous encounter from your memory, no?"
A slow, sleepy smile spread across your face and he traced his thumb across your lips, "It's gonna take a while for me to cum again, never mind twice more."
He nodded, "That's why I'm giving you a break, sweet girl."
Flustered, you looked away from him. Who would have thought one man had the potential to be both your best and worst sex?
***
TWENTY SOMETHING YEARS AGO
Your eyelid was twitching as you sat at central, a phone receiver pressed to your ear as you listened to your mother drone on. As she spoke, your eyes drifted to a fresh blood stain on your white sneakers from the man who'd died maybe an hour or two ago from several gunshot wounds to the chest.
"I hear you, I justâ" You tried and failed to scrub the bloodstain out with a wet wipe from behind the desk. The grueling twelve hour shift had ended something like forty five minutes ago with you crying into your hands in the ambulance bay. You were exhausted. "I just don't think now is the time for this conversationâ"
"Well," Your mother huffed, "Maybe if you ever answered your phone at home we wouldn't need to have this discussion now."
You ground your teeth together, "I appreciate all the support you and dad have given meâ"
"You know, I don't think you do. We clawed our way through law school with no help from our families, started our own firm, saved thousands just so you could be as educated as you wanted without having to struggle like we didâ"
"âAnd I'm immensely grateful for that privilegeâ"
"Then why would you throw it back in our faces by choosing pathology, essentially a glorified lab technicianâ"
"That's not what it is at allâ"
"You should be in neurosurgery."
You had had this argument what felt like a thousand times over the last few weeks when you had first admitted interest in applying to path residencies. Your mother's insistent argument that she knew best and neurosurgery would provide you with the best career and would utilize your strengthsâan excruciating attention to detail and laser-like focusâin a way no other specialty could.
But you disagreed. And what you could never admit to your mother was that your emergency medicine rotations had proven to you that you would crumble under that sort of pressure.
"Hey, Bambi," Michael leaned over your desk, "Get off the phone and glove up, incoming MVA in two minutes."
You gave him an incredulous look, "Our shift ended almost an hour ago."
"OkayâŚ" He said slowly, pulling on a clean pair of gloves, "So you're gonna let me just take this one myself? What if it requires intubation? You're gonna pass up that opportunity? You still haven't done one by yourself."
You were so burnt out and frustrated and once again on the verge of bursting into tears, you didn't have the energy for this, "So, what, you're keeping tabs on my procedure log now?"
He pretended to think about it, furrow between his brow, "Yeah, guess I am."
Neither of you had spoken about the night you'd slept togetherâif you could even call it thatâand Michael had been acting like it never happened. Occasionally he'd reference the night it happened, but always before you went home with him. This was fine with you, it saved you from the embarrassment. Though, sometimes, it had you wondering if maybe you'd somehow hallucinated the entire thing.
"Who are you talking to?" Came your mom's tinny voice in your ear.
You hurriedly said that you had to go and hung up the phone, knowing it would lead to more phone calls later, but you had taken to leaving your phone off the hook when she began calling repeatedly like that. Which was often. It was the only way to ensure you got enough sleep.
Normally, you would jump at any opportunity to try to show up Michael in a trauma, but you were barely holding it together right now. The thought of watching another person die on the table today had you fighting back the instinct to dry heave.
You rested your elbows on the table in front of you and kneaded lightly at your temples, "You can have the MVA, I'm going home."
"That your mom on the phone?" Michael asked, leaning forward and apparently ignoring what you'd just said, "Is she waiting at home for you with a fresh meal and a warm bath?" He taunted, "Bambi needs to be pampered? The ER is too rough for the princess?"
Slowly, you tilted your face up to look at him, "You jealous that I still have a mother who takes care of me, Robinavitch?"
If you weren't as tired, you wouldn't have said it. As it was, your stomach churned when the smile melted off his face. Yes, he had taunted you and teased you and tortured you for most of both MS3 and 4, but you shouldn't have sank to his level. Really, you had sunk below his level, you thought. Even with how cruel he could be, he'd never mocked you when he found you crying out in the ambulance bay. On occasion he'd actually silently stood next to you or offered you a cigarette.
Your relationship was strange as he could be downright abusive in front of attendings or other colleagues, but when it was just the two of you it was like being on hallowed ground. He had only ever been nice to you when it was just the two of you with no one else around to hear. Something you struggled to reconcile. And now you had weaponized one of the only times he had opened up to you.
He shook his head, but otherwise didn't say anything, ducking away from you, "MichaelâWaitâ"
"It's fine, Bambi," He called over his shoulder, "Go home. As you've so astutely pointed out, not all of us have one of those."
Later, after you'd crawled into bed and couldn't sleep despite your exhaustion for the guilt that wracked you, you picked up the phone next to your bed and dialed Michael.
It rang for a while and you thought he might let it go to voicemail, but when he finally picked up his voice was rough with sleep.
"Hello?"
You hesitated, then breathed softly, "Hi."
A moment of silence passed, "Bambi?"
"Yeah."
"It's⌠late."
You sighed, "Yeah, um, sorry. Did I wake you?"
You heard him stifle a yawn, "You did, yeah." Silence again, but for the sound of both your breathing, "Um, did you need something?"
"IâYeah, I, um⌠I couldn't sleep."
"Okay," He drew out the word, long and smooth, "Have you tried⌠Counting sheep?"
You huffed a laugh, "No, IâI can't sleep because I feel horrible about what I said to you earlier. Aboutâabout your mom. I'm so, so sorry, Michael. It was awful andâand it was unacceptable and unprofessional."
He was quiet for a moment, then, "It's alright, Bambi. I've said worse to you. You didn't know aboutâIt was just a lucky shot."
Your mouth fell open slightly, confusion clouding your brain, "What?"
"YouâWhat you said earlier hit a nerve, but you couldn't have known. I'veâI've never spoken about my mother to anyone."
You stared at the popcorn ceiling of your apartment, mouth still agape. Did he not remember?
And you were nothing if not a coward, so you kept quiet. Didn't correct him. The fact was, what you said was so much worse knowing what you knew. And he didn't even know you knew.
"Right," You said, swallowing, "Well either way, it was a really shitty thing for me to say. So I'm sorry."
"I appreciate it and I'm sorry for pushing you earlier."
You exhaled slowly and closed your eyes, "Thank you."
"Think you can sleep now, princess?" Despite the nickname, his tone was playful, almost gentle in your ear. You had the insane thought that you'd like to hear him talk you to sleep.
"Yeah. Goodnight, Michael."
"Goodnight, Bambi."
***
Robby shot up in bed, his skin tacky with sweat and his chest heaving, lungs struggling to fill. Nightmares were common for him, but what was so disorienting this night was that at first, he wasn't sure where he was. The bed sheets were unfamiliar to him where they stuck to his skin. They felt more expensive than what he had at home, reminded him of hotel sheets. The mattress was softer as well.
And then there was the soft sigh the came from the pillow next to him. His eyes followed the noise and he saw you laying beside him, fast asleep. At the sight of you, his panic began to recede just slightly. He was in your bed. Had shared a lovely dinner with you and slept with you and spoke in hushed whispers across pillows until you'd fallen asleep.
When he had nightmares at home, he would often get out of bed, crack open a beer or smoke a cigarette, unable to properly fall back asleep. But looking down at you, he feared he'd wake you if he did that. The last however many hours he'd spent with you had been the most at peace he'd felt in recent memory. Even with the nightmare, he already felt his heart rate slowing, just watching the even rise and fall of your chest.
He sank back down into the mattress and laid his head down on the pillow, his forehead nearly touching yours.
Unable to help himself, he rested his hand against your neck and ran his thumb over your cheekbone. You mewled and then your eyes began to blink open.
"Sorry," He said immediately when your eyes opened into his, "Didn't mean to wake you."
You gave him a sleepy smile and nudged your nose against his, "S'okay⌠It's almost nice to wake up in the middle of the night when there's someone else here."
Lying close to you, he allowed himself to believe that he deserved love like this. That he deserved a life like this. That you could love him and stay despite the ugly parts of him he'd try like hell to keep from you.
He kissed you then, to avoid thinking about all the ways in which he was bound to disappoint you if this continued. And you kissed him back, pulled him closer, your hand at the nape of his neck and he catalogued itâthe feeling of your gentle fingers stroking the back of his head.
"Mmm," You hummed and pulled away from him slightly, your brow furrowed, "Is it raining?"
Sure enough, as both of you stilled, there was the sound of rain tapping against the windows, "Sounds like it."
You grinned at him, "Would you like to drink tea and watch the rain from the porch?"
You seemed already giddy by the idea so he couldn't say no, not that he wanted to. It was so simple, really, the act of watching the rain. But you stood outside wrapped in a throw blanket, your hands warming a mug of tea, and looking out into your yard with awe as the sun started to stretch over the horizon, lighting up the storm clouds from behind.
He wanted to see the world like that. To be enamored by simple pleasures, the way you were.
"You seem so happy," He said into your ear.
You hummed, "I am."
"Is this what it's like being you? In this stunning house? Just a cup of tea while it rains can bring joy?"
You turned slightly in his arms to see his face and he recognized it when you scanned his face: You were trying to gauge if he was making fun of you. Old habits died hard, he supposed.
Seemingly satisfied that he wasn't mocking you, you turned back toward the rain, "It's a lot nicer when there's someone to share it all with."
You said it casually, but he heard the note of sadness in your tone, "You've been alone for a while?" You nodded, "What about family? Your parents?"
You stiffened in his embrace and he almost regretted it. He knew what happened when you got like this, if someone moved too quickly or suddenlyâyou bolted.
But after a moment, you softened, "We don't really talk much anymore."
"Oh," He said softly in surprise, "Sorry, I thoughtâYou always seemed close when we were in school."
"You mistook financial support as love. And even if it was, they promptly cut that off the second I moved to Chicago."
He frowned, "You haven't spoken since residency? Why?" In the silence that followed, he sensed your hesitancy, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"I don't mind," You said softly, "I just haven't thought about it in a while. We have talked since, but sporadically. It's mostly just happy birthday texts now." You sighed heavily, "The short answer is that they wanted me to go into neurosurgery and treated me going into pathology as some personal affront to them. It felt like they only ever saw me as some sort of investment instead of their kid."
Robby had been guilty of assuming that you had it all. After thinking it over more, he'd come to the conclusion the way he treated you had had more to do with jealousy than anything else. You always seemed so put off by talking to your parents, your parents who took care of everything for you. What he would have done to have anyone like that in his corner when he was in his twenties. He felt you were ungrateful.
But now, having done a lot of growing up himself and watching residents with all sorts of parental issues come and go through his ER, he understood that just throwing money at a kid was no way to raise them.
"I'm sorry," He said again and leaned down slightly to kiss the back of your neck, "You deserved better than that."
You turned in his arms to face him, "Do you really believe that? That what I do is just as important as what you do? Or neurosurgery?"
"Yes," He said immediately, "If it was me I might be⌠bored out of my mind, but we need pathologists. The ED needs them, surgery needs them, oncology needs them, hematology needs them, you're absolutely vital to all of us. But that's not what I meant. I meant that you deserved better parents."
Though you had changed over the years, not so skittish and quiet, there were things about you that remained. Your anxious state, bordering on paranoia the way you worried that others would betray you. Your quiet but desperate need of approvalâof love. Your empathy, the way you felt everything so deeply and openly, even when you tried to hide it.
Right now, you were scared. Of him, of his ability to hurt you. He was also scared of his ability to hurt you. Terrified, really.
But still, you swallowed and looked away from him, "Thank you," you said quietly and tugged his arms tighter around you.
Bambiâhis fawnânow stable on your own two feet. It'd be you that would have to keep him steady now, keep him from running.
***
When Robby was at work now, when the shifts got bad, he excused himself for just a moment and closed his eyes. He'd conjure your home in his head, your cat Brutus, the sound of your laugh, watching rain from your covered porch while drinking coffee, waking up to the smell of your shampoo on the pillow, movie nights on your couch, long showers and your hands on his skin.
It had been weeks now since your first date and things had moved quickly. It hadn't been discussed explicitly, but Robby spent most nights at your house now. The simple domesticity of it, of having someone to come home to, had felt nearly life changing. You often asked if he wanted you to stay at his place for a change to which he always turned down.
He loved everything about your place, from the way it always smelt like something delicious, to the fact that Brutus was always there, to just how lived in it felt. Just last weekend the two of you had spent entire days digging up the garden beds so you could start planting vegetables and fruits and herbs. You talked about cucumber salads and fresh baked pies and it all felt so⌠domestic. Mundane. And it was the only place he felt peace.
Today's shift had been horrible. And so after calling time of death on a patient that he'd worked on for far longer than was clinically appropriate, he told Dana he'd be outside for a few minutes. In the ambulance bay, with silent tears streaming down his cheeks, he tried to slow his breathing. In through his nose, out through his mouth.
Closing his eyes, he willed the images of the woman away, of her child. Instead, he pictured you, the sleepy smile on your face when he woke up first in the morning, whispered in your ear that he was going to make pancakes. He pictured you fast asleep on your couch, a paperback abandoned in your hand and Brutus snuggled up on your chest. He pictured you spinning around your backyard in the rain, green rain boots up to your knees and your wild laughter.
As his breathing slowed, the sound of the ambulance bay doors sliding open had him turning his attention to the doors to see Abbot walking toward him.
Silently, Jack stood next to Robby and crossed his arms, "Your girlfriend's down here looking for you."
Robby sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck, "She's not my girlfriend."
"Sorry, your pathologist."
Robby huffed a laugh, "I guess she is sort of my girlfriend."
"Well, you better watch out because I hear all the nurses warning her about your⌠'seven week itch' I think they're calling it."
He shook his head, "She's not the type to listen to rumors."
Jack hummed, "She might start if you keep her waiting much longer."
"Alright, alright," He sighed and pushed himself off the wall, "I'll go find her."
"'Atta boy," Jack said and clapped him over the shoulder, the two of them walking back into the Pitt.
Robby's eyes found you almost immediately, talking to Dana, and you, as if sensing his gaze, looked up to meet his. There was concern all over your face and Robby didn't even have the time to properly wonder if Dana had filled you in about the terrible shift they'd had before you were marching over to him.
You were apparently so intently focused on him, you didn't notice the puddle of water on the floor and before Robby could warn you, you'd slipped.
Your feet went up over your head and your back hit the groundâhard.
Instantly, Robby was there, a hand on your shoulder to stop you as you tried to sit upâ "Hey, don't move, don't move."
"Ow," you groaned and tried to push him out of your way, "I'm fine, Michael."
"Did you hit your head?" His penlight was already out, ready to assess.
You sighed, "I don't know, I don't think so."
"Dana," he called over his shoulder, "What's open?"
"Central 11."
"I just wanna go home," You said softly, "I'm fine, I swear."
But seeing you fall like that after the shift he'd had, he couldn't seem to slow the spiral he was beginning to fall down. What if you had a concussion? A brain bleed? Untreated one could lead to irreparable brain damage and the other, death.
"It'll be quick," He said, "Promise. Just⌠Please, it'll make me feel better."
You tilted your head slightly, doe eyes out in full force. Like you were concerned about him. But you nodded anyway, conceded to him, even when he insisted on a wheelchair to transport you.
When it was just the two of you and he had started your exam, you continued to watch him carefully.
"Did something happen today?" You asked softly, "During shift?"
He hummed in question, gently turning your head this way and that, "What d'you mean?"
"You're being⌠hypervigilant. I'm just wondering if something happened today to trigger that."
The two of you had discussed covid and Adamson. You had been back in Pittsburgh at that point, but at Westbridge. Robby had felt a pang of resentment at first, thinking that you likely hadn't had to be on the front lines like he had.
But then you told him about the autopsies. How there were so many bodies that you, who had built a career off studying cancers and blood, had had to assist with autopsies. You told him how you hadn't really done an autopsy since residency, but now with how many you'd had to do during the pandemic, you could do them with your eyes closed.
"It fucked with me," You'd told him, "I saw those bodies everywhere, even if I wasn't in the hospital. I could smell them no matter how many candles I lit at home. I dreamt about them for weeks after. I cried for months."
And when you'd divulged that, the flood gates had opened for him. He told you everything, from covid to PittFest. When he got choked up, he found himself instinctually reaching for your hand, needing you to anchor him. Without hesitation, you practically pulled him into your lap, cradled his head to your chest and whispered soothing words in his ear.
So then it shouldn't have surprised him that you would catch on so quickly. For being so young when you went through med school, he had assumed upon first meeting you that you'd have no idea about anything. But it had struck him immediately how emotionally intelligent you were, how you had from the very beginning been able to read even the most closed off of patients.
Still, he felt himself recoil at your assessment, "You fell," He said, "I'm just making sure you're alright."
"Well I'm also a doctor and I'm telling you, I'm fine. There's no tenderness at the back of my head, no nausea, no dizzinessâ"
"I'm ordering you a head CT."
Your mouth fell open, indignation in the tug of your lips. After a moment, you scoffed, "I don't want that so please get me the AMA forms to sign, if you don't mind."
He raised his eyebrows and finally met your eyes, "Really?"
"You're exposing me to unnecessary radiation when I have zero symptomsâ"
"You don't remember if you hit your headâ"
"Robby?" He whipped his head around to see Dana in the doorway, "The cops are here, they wanna talk to you about the boy and his mother whoâ"
"Yeah, okay, I'll be there in a minute."
Dana left and he hung his head, braced his hands against his legs, hoping they didn't shake, "I would really appreciate it⌠if you could please stay for a CT."
He felt your gaze even as he avoided it, "Why are the cops here?"
He sighed, "A kid's here with no parental guardian."
There was a pause, then, "What happened to his mother?"
"I really can't talk about this right nowâ"
"Then I'd like the AMA forms, please."
He made an exasperated groan and looked up at you, tried pleading with his eyes, but you stayed firm, expectant, until he sighed, "A woman was brought in today with her ten year old son who'd found her unresponsive in the bathtub when he came home from school today. She'd slashed her own wrists. We couldn't get a pulse back." He ran a hand along the back of his neck, "The kid doesn't have anyone else."
In a moment, you were on your knees in front of him, his hands clasped in yours, "You worked the resuscitation?"
He nodded, and to his surprise salty tears fell onto your clasped hands. Embarrassed, he tried for nonchalant as he spoke, "It's uhâIt's been a long day, but that happened almost first thing this morning. I don't know why I can't shake it."
"Well⌠That's unsurprising." You said slowly, "Considering your childhood."
His entire body stiffened and he pulled away, "What'd you say?"
You opened and closed your mouth, still lowered to the ground in front of him. He watched as you seemed to calculate your misstep too late and then rush to correct, "I just, um, I remember you telling me once that⌠that your parents weren't really⌠present in your life."
Robby shook his head, "I never told you about that."
You bit your lip for a moment and then shrugged, "You told me⌠everything, Michael. The night we slept together in med school. You were very drunk."
He bristled and scoffed, "Right, we got drunk, I told you that my mother killed herself, and then we fucked?"
It seemed absurd. The truth that he was so ashamed of, that he'd held so close to his chest, that he hadn't allowed anyone to know, he had told you. His grandparents had been the only other people to know and when they died they took it with them. He had assumed he would do the same. But here you were, this contradiction to the one fundamental truth he'd had. That no one would ever need to know the ugly truth that the single person on this Earth who was supposed to love him unconditionally had abandoned him with such violent permanence.
You seemed a bit embarrassed at his hostility, lifting yourself back up to your feet again, "Look, you don't have to try to humiliate me just because you don't believe me. I'm sorry I brought it up, I was just trying to let you know that I understand why that case was difficult for you."
"Yeah, well, it's not your fucking place."
He thought he saw you flinch, but just as quickly, you became stoic, "I think it's time for me to go and I'd prefer it if you stayed at your own place tonight."
You left without waiting for him to respond and immediately, the anger left him in a rush, replaced with shame. When he walked back towards central, you were gone, Dana looking at him now with a question in her eyes, "Your girl left in a rush, I thought you were leaving with her?"
He sighed, ran both hands over his face, "Where's the kid?"
"BH1," She said and leaned closer to him, "It's her birthday today and you let her leave here without you?"
Fuck. "It's her birthday?"
Dana nodded, "You don't know your own girl's birthday?"
"She's notâHow do you know it's her birthday?"
"She told me about ten minutes ago."
Unbelievable.
"Well," He said, fingers interlaced at the back of his neck, "I don't think she'll want to spend it with me now."
Dana watched him for a moment, "Tell you what, Baran's still here, I'm sure she wouldn't mind handling the police. You should go. Get her a cake and flowers and apologize. You had a hard day, she'll understand."
You had understood, but he thought you'd likely be heaps and bounds less understanding now.
But hadn't he promised himself, when he first agreed to date you, seriously, that he'd be different this time? That he wouldn't fall back into old habits? That he wouldn't push people away when they got too close?
You already knew the worst of him, apparently. Had known it for decades it seemed and still, you wanted him. And as always, he'd hurt you anyway.
So, he was really prepared to grovel when he finally got to your place, a bouquet of tulips and white bakery box in hand. He knocked gently on the door and waited until he heard the twist of the doorknob, and then saw you. You were in sweats and a tank top and you crossed your arms over your chest when you saw him.
"Hi," he said softly.
"I thought I asked you not to come here tonight."
"I know, and I'll go, I just, Dana mentioned that it was your birthday so I got you a cake and some flowers and I just wanted to say that I'mâI'm really sorry. I just, I've never told⌠anyone about her, or so I thought, and it just caught me off guard. But, I shouldn't have spoken to you that way, you were only trying to help."
You stared at him for a few moments, mouth twisted to the side and bounced on the balls of your feet, "You got me a birthday cake?"
His mouth twitched into a smirk, but he fought it, "Yeah, but I didn't know what sort of cake you like so IâI got you funfetti cake. It reminded me of you."
Now it was you fighting a smirk, "Funfetti cake reminds you of me?"
He nodded, "Yeah, you're bright, colorful, pretty, happyâYou're everything. Funfetti."
You uncrossed your arms and interlocked them behind your back instead, "You can come inside."
Ten minutes later, you both sat on the couch with a slice of cake, "No one's ever gotten me a birthday cake before."
Robby balked, "What?"
You shrugged, "My parents were always too busy to celebrate my birthday. I think they forgot most years. And I didn't have many friends growing up. And then when I got to be an adult I just⌠stopped telling people when my birthday was. To avoid being disappointed."
He felt an ache in his chest for the child he saw in his head, the kid he used to know. How lonely you must've been. "Why'd you tell Dana?"
"One of my students is a bit of a kiss ass and found out it was my birthday from the internet. Got the whole class to sign a card for me. Dana just happened to see it."
He sighed, "I'm really sorry if I contributed to your day being shitty."
You shook your head, "I really don't even think about it much anymore, truly. And anyway, it sounded like you had a much harder day than I did."
"That's not an excuse."
You put your plate on the coffee table and turned your attention fully to Robby, taking his face gently in your hands, "You came here and you apologized," You said softly, "And I've forgiven you. So enough with the self flagellation, hm?" You stroked your thumbs gently over his cheekbones, "And why don't you tell me about the mother that came in today."
Again, he felt the involuntary raise of his hackles at the suggestion that he discuss today. But there was warmth and tenderness in your eyes. Your fingers ran through his hair and scratched at his scalp gently, and his eyes fluttered closed, hackles falling.
And so the words flowed out of him. He recounted the horror and fear that reverberated through him as the woman was rolled in, her son shaking and sobbing at her side. How difficult it was for him to focus on anything other than this boy, this baby, now alone in the world. It was frightening, really, to come face to face with the boy he used to be. How young he was when his mother had passed, something he'd been unable to appreciate at the time.
He'd done a lot of work to forgive her for leaving. Had studied up on suicidality and bipolar depression. In his career he met many people who reminded him of his mother and his empathy had stretched and grown and while he'd thought he'd forgiven her, there was still just a kernel of bitterness deep in his chest.
He had never been confronted with himself, with the child he used to be, until today. How his heart bled for that child. He could recall every memory of that day, every smell, every sound, every touch. The world had fractured and reassembled for that boy today, much like it had for him so many years ago. And he'd had to listen to his colleagues all day, talk about that boy as if he was the one who had died and it pissed him off. That they could so easily written off that kid's future because of a single day, because of the choices his mother had made.
But then came the small, nagging voice at the back of his head, But wasn't it true? Aren't you broken beyond repair? Isn't that the one truth you've been running from all this time?
"You're not broken," You said softly to him when he'd finished speaking, still holding him tightly to you, now with one hand beneath his shirt and running your nails soothingly up and down his back.
You repeated it to him like a mantra until he leaned up, captured your soft, warm mouth with his. And whenever he opened his eyes to look into yours, he knew you didn't believe your own words. Walls that you had begun to deconstruct over the last few weeks were now built back up. Now, barbed wire adorned the walls like vines.
He had the distinct feeling that you'd never allow him to see over the walls again.
***
"Well I heard from Edith who heard from Sam who sometimes has lunch with Dana that Robby's been staying late and picking up more shifts again, since he bought that motorcycle⌠You know what that means."
"The seven week itch has struck again. That motorcycle's a breakup motorcycle if I've ever seen one."
You sighed heavily as you adjusted your microscope, "You guys are not being as quiet as you think you are."
Your students giggled at your admonishment, "Sorry, the drama is just way more fascinating in the Pitt than it is up here."
You were silent after that and their whispers died down, but never completely. You had never paid much attention to rumors around the hospital until you and Robby started seeing each other. The women in the hospital loved gossiping about him. And more and more it ate away at you.
Things hadn't been quite right between you since your birthday. You had forgiven him for how he'd acted, but still there was a cold dread in your stomach that seemed to intensify every time you saw him. You felt yourself overcompensating, looking for reassurance. You had convincingly kept up the illusion of confidence, but now it waned.
You had the feeling he had sussed it out, how desperate you were. Before, for any companionship. Now, specifically, for his. You were frightened by the way your heart squeezed when you woke up to him beside you in the morning. The way he had slipped into your routine so effortlessly. Helping you out in the garden on the weekends. Putting the kettle on at exactly 9PM for tea before bed. Trying all your desserts even after insisting he needed to watch what he ate. Recently, he'd began reading your well-worn, tattered copy of The Princess Bride aloud to you, using character voices that got more and more ridiculous until you were crying with laughter. More and more regularly, he fell asleep on the couch, glasses askew and Brutus on his chest.
It was terrifying how easily he slotted into your life. This was what you'd wanted, what you'd always wanted, had wanted so badly at times you'd forced relationships you knew would never work.
And you kept waiting, day after day, for him to leave and not come back. The day he'd been short with you in the ER, you'd been flung back to an earlier relationship. Remembered in vivid details the ugly fights you'd had.
"You're not listening to me!"
"Maybe I just don't like the sound of your voice."
It didn't matter how he apologized after, the words had burrowed deep in your head. They stuck with you from relationship to relationship and you'd heard similar disdain from Robby that day.
So with all of this, you were already struggling before the rumors and before the motorcycle. You felt him pulling away from you inch by inch and you clung to him harder, certain if you just enticed him the correct way he'd want to stay.
And for a while, you thought it was working, until dinner one day on the porch. The vibrant strawberry sky was beginning to bruise with dusk as you each sat in silent after cleaning your plates.
Then Robby cleared his throat, "You know how I've been fixing up the motorcycle with Duke?"
You nodded. You knew the fact that you were jealous of a sixty year old biker spending time with your boyfriend was not healthy. You were glad he had picked up a hobby outside of the ER, it was good for him. And still, you couldn't help the way dread curdled in your gut every time he spoke about it. What it really felt like was an escape plan. No matter how you tried to convince yourself it wasn't, you couldn't stop the constant spirals. The souring of your mood whenever he stated he was going to Duke's or he couldn't make it tonight because he stayed too late at Duke's so he'd just sleep at his own place. You knew he noticed the shift in energy whenever the motorcycle was brought up, but he never commented on it.
"It's finished," He gave you a wry smile, "It's rideable now, in really good shape."
"Oh," You said, "That's⌠great."
Again, he ignored the uneasiness in your tone. Or maybe he truly was oblivious. Because next he said, "I was thinking about taking some time off from work and doing a cross country ride."
"Oh," You said again, feeling dumb at your sudden lack of vocabulary, "For how long?"
"I don't know," He avoided looking at you as he said, "Three months?"
The pain in your chest was spectacular. Again and again you were reminded of how unlovable you were. You tried so hard and it was never enough, not for your parents, not for friends, not for every other partner who left quickly and quietly. Your eyes burned as you pushed back from the table and picked up your plate, "You don't have to flee across the country to get rid of me, you could just break up with me like a mature, grown man." You said bitterly and walked back inside.
Assumedly shocked at your outburst, it took him a minute before following you back inside, "This is not about us," He said quietly over your shoulder as you dropped the dirty dishes unceremoniously into your sink.
"Frankly, it doesn't matter if it isn't," You said turning to face him, "If you leave for three months our relationship is effectively dead. And you know this."
He scoffed, "Three months is not that longâ"
"Three months is not that long when you've been in a relationship for a decade, it's everything when you've barely even been together that long."
He watched you and slowly shook his head, "It doesn't have to be. You could come with me."
You laughed and pushed past him, "What, and bring Brutus as well? Let my garden wither away? You don't really want me to come, you're just offering out of guilt."
"That's not true, IâI want to be here with you, being with you is the only thing that feels right in my life right now. I don't want to lose that."
"Then why are you running away?" You asked, exasperated and humiliated when tears began to blur your vision.
You were sitting on the couch now and he crouched in front of you, looked at you with his big wet, brown cow eyes. Eyes you adored, crow's feet you wished to sink into, freckles you'd counted and memorized over many nights.
"I feel likeâŚ" He said slowly, "Like⌠if I don't get out of that hospital, of this city soon that I'm a ticking time bomb."
You nodded and sniffed, pushed the heels of your hands into your eyes, "And I feel like if you leave I'm never gonna see you again."
He tilted his head to the side, eyebrow furrowed and watery eyes studying you. You waited and waited for him to say it wasn't true, but he obviously couldn't. Instead he cupped your cheeks in his hands and gently brushed away your tears, "C'mon sweetheart, don't cry. It's okay. I've got you."
Leaning in, he gently kissed your forehead, the tops of your cheeks, your nose, then your mouth, his beard scratching the soft skin of your face. Stifling the cries that attempted to crawl up your throat, you kissed him back fiercely, wondering if it would be the last time you got to do so. He matched your fervor, groaning into your mouth as you deepened the kissâand then his hands were everywhere.
He hoisted you up and around his waist and walked you to the bedroom, a path he knew well at this point, could do it with his eyes closed. He placed you down and then crawled over you, arms bracketing your head as he kissed your lips swollen and raw. The smell of him, the taste of him, had become so comforting to you it was agony to imagine a time when you couldn't have them whenever you wanted. That he would be so far away from you, your house lonely and empty once again. And it was this thought that had you burst promptly into tears.
"WhâWhat's wrong? SweetheartâDo you wanna stop? We can stopâ"
"No, no," You said quickly through hiccuping sobs and opened your eyes into his, "PleaseâPlease don't stop, Michael, pleaseâ"
"Okay," He kissed all over your face again as your sobs began to quiet, "Okay, baby. I'm right hereâ" In response to his words, you pulled him closer until his weight was almost fully on you, "I'm right here." He repeated.
When your tears dried, he slowly undressed you, his kisses painfully tender and eyes that melted you. It took everything in you not to rush him along. The need to have him inside you, to fill you up, felt almost primal. You needed to be close to him, as close as you could be. Soon he'd be gone and all you'd have was the ghost of a feeling.
He leaned his forehead against yours as he slowly pushed inside you, both of you sighing into one another, "So perfect," He murmured and kissed you, "Feel so perfect, baby."
"Please," You kept saying over and over as he pushed himself in and out of you. You weren't quite sure what you were begging for, for him to fuck you? For him to stay? For him to love you?
Pulling out of you, he turned you onto your stomach, positioned your hips until you felt him press into you again, his belly against the small of your back and the cold chain around his neck falling against your shoulders, sending a chill down your spine.
The feel of him inside you was exquisite, like nothing else you'd experienced before. He pushed his hand beneath your belly until his fingers found your swollen clit and this coupled with the way he filled you up was too much, the sensation overwhelming. You were coming before you even had the chance to warn him, unraveling as he moaned and kissed the back of your neck when he felt your walls pulse around him.
The pleasure was so overwhelming and the feel of him so stifling, it was almost involuntary when you blurted out, "I love you, Michael, I love you."
With your face partially obscured by the mattress, you hoped he hadn't heard it. But his hips stuttered for a second and panic seized in your chest untilâ "Oh, God, fuckâ" he came inside you.
His skin stuck to yours as he caught his breath, still inside you as he softened. You laid like that for a while in silence, spooning in your bed. The sun had still cast shadows in your room when you first came in here, but now it was nearly pitch black.
"You're still leaving?" You asked, voice steadier than you felt, unwilling to hope.
He was quiet for long enough that you wondered if he'd fallen asleep. But then came the soft, "Yes," in your ear.
You said nothing else that night. Neither of you spoke about what you'd confessed during sex and when you woke in the morning, he had left. There was no trace of him left in the house. He'd taken his toothbrush, his beard trimmer, his duffel of clothes and other toiletries. All gone.
He left a single t-shirtâby accident or not, you couldn't sayâdraped over your hamper. When you picked it up and brought it to your face, it smelt like him.
You sank to the floor of your closet like a child and cried.
***
Robby saw you everywhere and in everything. He thought about you most mornings when he put on a pair of pants and noticed how they were a bit too snugâHaving regular meals most days at your place had meant he'd put on a few pounds while dating you. He thought about you and Brutus whenever Trinity showed him pictures of her new kittens. Whenever he had a cookie or a slice of blueberry pie, he remembered the sweet buttery smell of your house whenever you were baking.
He missed you with a devotion that felt almost religious, but he never picked up the phone. After having made you cry and then hearing you admit that you were in love with him, he'd been absolutely certain he couldn't have you. He'd thought in the beginning, he'd been able to delude himself that he could have someone like you. That he deserved someone like you, so sweet and gentle and loving. But despite his precautions, you'd still crumbled to dust in his hands.
He was terrified that if he didn't leave he'd repeat his mother's mistakes and leave you even more devastated than you were now.
But when you looked at him and said you didn't think you'd ever see him again, he'd wondered if you'd understood. If you'd understood his fears and instead worried that if he did leave he'd become his mother.
He didn't want to think about that and so as he packed up his gear and clothes and whatever else he thought he might need onto his bike, he tried and failed to stop thinking about you.
As he left town, he rode by your house knowing you'd be at work. He rolled slowly, memorized every detail he could of the house, the only place he'd ever felt at home besides his grandparents' house. In a last minute decision, he pulled out his phone and took a quick photo.
This was when he saw Brutus in the window, watching him, tail swishing back and forth. He'd miss that little rascal, too, even if he had broken his favorite mug. He gave a quick salute to Brutus and then he left before he could change his mind.
For a while, being on the road felt as freeing as he hoped it would. Everyone before he left seemed so worried he was about to kill himself, but honestly, with new air in his lungs, he felt great. For around four hundred miles.
He was a few days into the trip, having only driven something like a hundred miles each day, and closing in on Chicago when the fatigue really began to set in. Every part of his body ached. He had been very careful not to let his mind wander to you since he'd left, but it wandered anyhow. Now he thought of the Epsom salt baths you insisted on whenever he had aches and pains. He wished more than anything that you'd be there in Chicago, waiting by the hot bath, pretending to resist when he coaxed you in with him. You'd sit between his legs, back to his chest as you told him about your day as he gently kneaded your shoulders with his thumbs. You'd talk about the study you were working on. Or, since it was a Saturday, maybe you'd spent time in the garden, pulling weeds as you listened to an audiobook for a new mystery novel.
Robby was so immersed in the fantasy, he didn't register the oncoming headlights until it was already too late. Still, as the car crossed the double yellow line into his lane, on instinct, he jerked the bike away from the oncoming collision.
He was able to avoid the car, but lost control of the bike, skidding off the road and into a guardrail. He felt it when the gravel tore through his pants, then his skin, the weight of his bike pinning him to the ground as he came to a complete stop.
Robby was so used to watching other people die, he thought he knew what it'd be like when his time came. Stupidly, he thought he'd made his peace with his own mortality, his inevitable demise. But in the split second it took for him to see the oncoming headlights and jerk his bike out of the way, he understood immediately and with complete clarity that he didn't want to die.
As he felt his skin being torn up and his leg being crushed, time slowed, and he saw your face. Heard your voice tell him you loved him. The sound of your laugh. The smell of your shampoo.
And just as quickly as it happened, it was over, and the pain exploded throughout his body.
Pain, glorious pain, and as he categorized it all he understood it meant he was alive and he laughed, wildly. The paramedics that showed up afterwards and told him how lucky he was likely thought him insane as he laughed and laughed.
He was alive. He was fucking alive. And the realization filled him with indescribable joy. Logically he knew most of this was due to the adrenaline rush, but he couldn't help but feel like this had to have been some divine intervention. And soon enough, as the adrenaline fled him and the pain meds kicked in, he couldn't stop crying.
The nurses and doctors looked at him with sympathy and one nurse, Angela, asked gently, "Is there anyone we can call?"
The only person he wanted to call right now was you. His bike was totaled and he found he didn't even care. He just wanted to go home. He wanted to play chess on your porch while it rained. He wanted to play hide and seek with Brutus while you giggled from the sofa, watching him. He wanted to let you pick a movie for movie night only to have you unceremoniously fall asleep in his arms less than ten minutes in. He wanted to beg your forgiveness. He wanted to tell you he loved you, was in love with you, like he should have before he left. He wanted to go home.
But he shook his head, wiped his eyes and asked if he could have his phone. He would be waiting a while for imaging on his leg. The thought for sure something was broken and based on what he felt when he went down, he concurred with that opinion. He thought it possible he might even need surgery, though they hadn't said as much yet.
Angela returned with his phone and a smile, repeated as he looked at his cracked screen that she'd be happy to call, but he thanked her and waved her off.
His phone seemed to be working fine and he immediately scrolled over to his photo album where he pulled up photos of you. Photos of the two of you together, you making a silly face at the camera and him with a toothy smile on his face as he looked down at you. Happy.
He felt suddenly very stupid for how he'd handled everything. Wished he'd listened to you when you asked him why he seemed to be sabotaging the one good thing in his life.
The answer was that he didn't think he deserved anything good, least of all, you. He was destined to a miserable life and a miserable death and he had no desire to bring you down with him.
But looking at this photo, it was becoming more and more clear to him that you had changed him. He thought he was destined for tragedy, but you'd rewritten his ending. Only he'd been much too stupid to see it.
Eventually, he worked up the courage to call you, not expecting you to answer. As the phone rang he could picture you in your pajama set, sleepytime tea on your nightstand and Brutus curled up in your lap as you stared at the caller ID with rage in your eyes.
But you surprised him. You picked up after just three rings.
"Hello?" You sounded a bit breathless and a lot confused.
"Hi."
"Michael?" He closed his eyes at the sound of his name, always so sweet from your mouth, "What's wrong? Where are you?"
"Why are you assuming something's wrong?"
"Because I haven't heard from you in weeks," You said bitterly, "And I can hear beeping monitors in the background and I know you're not at work because Abbot told me you left for your sabbatical days ago."
"So you've been asking about me?" He said, teasing lilt to his voice.
You sighed, "Michael, so help me, I will hang up this phoneâ"
"Alright, okay, sorry, sorry, you're right," He ran a hand over his face, "I'm sorryâIâI'm in an emergency room in Chicago and I just wanted to hear your voice."
"Why are you in an emergency room?" He could tell you were fighting to keep your voice level from how slowly you asked the question.
"I totaled the bike," He scratched at his beard, "I was driving too late and I was tired and a car drifted into my lane and I swerved and went into a guardrail."
"Oh my GodâFuckâAre youâAre you alright?"
"Yeah, I have some pretty bad road rash and think maybe my leg's brokenâ" He heard movement on the other end of the phone, "What're you doing?"
"Packing." You said matter of factly, "If I leave now I should get to Chicago by morning."
He felt his eyes burn immediately. That after everything you'd still go to him without hesitation. Again, he felt that pang in his chest, that overwhelming ache that said he didn't deserve you.
"You shouldn't drive this late," Was all he said, swallowing past the lump in his throat.
"Please," You said dismissively, "Do you need anything from your house? I can stop on my way."
"Sweetheart, I'mâI'm so sorry for leaving. You were right, you're the only thing that matters and I thought I didn't deserve itâDeserve you and so I ran away. I'm a coward. And I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'll beg for it anyway. I love you so much and I just want to be with you, if you'll still have me."
There was silence on the other line and then a soft sigh, "You're on so many drugs right now, aren't you?"
"What? NoâWell, yes, but that's not whyâ"
"We can talk about it in a few days when you're not high out of your mind. Do you need anything from your house?" You repeated it like you were talking to a petulant toddler and he felt stupid again. He hadn't considered what this would look like to you. And yes, his accident had forced him to confront what he was actually doing and feeling, but that didn't make it less true. He'd known he loved you long before he left, long before you even said it. He thought he'd likely been a little bit in love with you since med school.
Your caution was understandable, though, so he wouldn't push.
"No," He said finally, "No, thanks. But would you mind sharing your location with me since you insist on driving through the night? Would make me feel better if I can follow along."
"Sure," you said, and he heard the way your voice softened at his concern, "Goodnight, Michael."
For a moment, time seemed to crunch like an accordian and he was back in med school, your voice in his ear in the middle of the night, asking for his forgiveness. He felt a bit fuzzy at the edges.
"Goodnight, Bambi." He murmured and his phone slipped from his hand.
***
Michael was asleep when you got to the hospital and had been admitted to Ortho upstairs for surgery.
Your emotions were all over the place, but seeing him in a hospital bed, a bit bloodied up and hooked up to monitors, you felt your defenses falling. You wanted to be angry with him, but how could you be? When you had been so close to losing him for good?
As you got closer, you noted that he'd let his beard and hair grow out a bit longer since the last you saw him. It made him appear softer. You had been pleased before he left when his cheeks began to fill out a bit having made him eat properly since you began dating. That weight was still there, if not as obvious as before.
The rush of affection that filled you upon seeing him was nearly suffocating.
As you pulled up a chair to his bedside, he began to wake and you smiled at him with watery eyes, "Hi."
He smiled back and reached a hand out for you which you immediately took and brought to your lips.
"I'm sorry," He said immediately, but you dismissed him with a shake of your head.
"What did the doctor say? Why do you need surgery?"
"It's⌠shattered. The bike fell on it, crushed my leg. Have to screw it all back together."
You frowned as he grimaced, "Are you in pain? Let me go get a nurseâ"
You stood to go, but he wrapped a hand around your wrist, "No, no, don't. I asked them to⌠take me off the meds."
You stared at him, mouth agape, "Why would you do something like that?"
"So that I could tell you how in love with you I am with a clear head."
You nearly laughed, "Michael Robinavitch, have you lost your goddamn mind?"
"You said we should wait," He shook his head, "I don't want you to go another second thinking that I don't love you."
Your eyes watered, but you shook your head, "It's gonna take a lot longer than you saying it once for me to trust you again."
"I know that," He grimaced again, "I just wanted to say it now."
You brought a hand to his cheek and scratched lightly along his jaw, "Can I go grab a nurse now if you're done with the dramatics?"
He smirked and nodded and you hid a grin as you stood and walked from the room.
It was a day or two after surgery that Robby was finally cleared to go home with you. On the way home, high on pain meds, Robby read The Princess Bride to you in his silly voices to keep you entertained.
At home, you set him up in bed with strict instructions to Brutus to keep him company while you made him food.
And slowly, the two of you settled back into the usual rhthym. He told you he loved you many times a day. Even when he didn't say it, he'd run his fingers over the tattoo on your wrist, or say something just to make you laugh. He watched you with an expression on his face that you'd never seen before and when you asked if something was wrong, he shook his head, said "Everything's perfect."
As he got back on his feet, you took slow walks to and from the park, fed the birds. Robby even downloaded an app on his phone that could identify the birds by thsid song. His face would light up with joy whenever the app told him a bird he didn't recognize was around.
Life was quiet and peaceful and love found a way to fill every crack and crevice in each of your hearts.
A year later, when Robby's leg had healed entirely, when the only pain was used to predict the rain, was when he asked you.
"Sweetheart?" Your head was in his lap on the sofa, you watching TV while he did a crossword. You hummed in response so he knew you were listening, "I've been thinking and I think it's time I put my house up for sale."
You sat up slowly and looked at him. Your eyes instantly scanning for deception.
Robby was a great roommate. He was pretty handy and so could usually fix most minor wear and tear problems without having to call in an expert. He took care of Brutus and the plants. He loved gardening with you. He never let the chores go too long without being done. Always washed the toilet because he knew it was your least favorite chore.
You had no qualms about living with him. But you always assumed, even though most of you had grown to trust him again, that he'd keep his house as a backup plan. It was realistic, you told yourself. Relationships all had expiration dates.
"Really?"
He nodded, "The last year I've only ever gone home to to make sure nobody's broken in. I've moved everything I use here already. My clothes, my toiletries, my tools, my books, my recordsâeverything's here. It's a waste, don't you think?"
You opened and closed your mouth, ran your fingers absently over the tattoo on your wrist, "What if⌠What if we fight and you want space?"
He shrugged, "I don't think that would happen, but I could always get a hotel for a night. I still have the cabin in the mountains."
You swallowed and looked down at your hands, "If we break up you'll hate me because you sold your house."
You felt the couch shift as he sat up and took your hands, "If we broke up, I could never hate you. Besides, this is my decision. You didn't pressure me into it. I also figured this way it was only fair that I start helping out with the bills here. Now, if me permanently moving in feels like too big of a step to youâ"
"No," You said quickly, "No, I want you to. I love having you here, it's beenâŚ" You shook your head, "It's been the best year of my life."
He smiled and brought your hands up to his lips, "Mine too."
And as the two of you talked over a bottle of wine about the logistics of moving the remainder of his things into your house and calling realtors and what you should do with the extra money (Should you travel? Put it into retirement?) it was like the final piece of your previously shattered heart was glued back into place.
Before Michael, you often wondered if you were too picky. If your standards were too high as your mother loved to tell you and that's why you'd end up a spinster. Alone and bitter, always denied the one thing you wanted and craved most in the world: love and companionship.
But as you and Michael talked late into the night and fell asleep in each other's arms, you knew you'd been right to wait.
You couldn't rush soulmates and you would've waited forever and a day if it meant you got to know love like this. Luckily for you, you'd only had to wait twenty something years for Robby to realize he was in love with you. In the face of forever, it was a blink of an eye. And for that, you'd thank the sun and the moon and all the stars every day for the rest of your life.
another brilliant piece right here!! again, robby's characterization and the depth of bambi?? and reading the way their characters change ever so slightly to be better for each other which is then healing for themselves?? UGH the feeling in this, i've had to stop and think during some points, i could genuinely write an essay on everything i loved about this
pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x bakers daughter!reader
summary: james buchanan barnes has been a thorn in your side ever since you moved to brooklyn when you were eight. you refuse to let your guard down, no matter how much his stupid good looks & incessant flirting tear at your defences
warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, flirty!bucky, stubborn!reader, slow burn, teasing, overuse of 40s slang, lots of dialogue, probs not canon compliant, bucky is a ladies man đââď¸, 'doll' used a lot, reader wears a dress & heels, lil bit o' jealously, bucky is down bad, suggestive content at end, heavy making out, dry humping, not beta read, barely proofread, no use of y/n
word count: 7.8k
authors note: this one's for @phoenix-in-writing and my flirty 40s bucky peeps 𫶠post covid low has me doubting everythingggg, but i managed to birth this baby. i'm fragile so pls be kind. 40s slang meanings: necking - making out; cheesed off - annoyed; bird-dogging - trying to steal someone else's date/romantic partner.
song inspo: beware.. the south london lover boy. - raye
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, letter dividers by @/httpssturns
He's just so charismatic
And he talks as if he's doing road
And he says, "I'm too toxic for you, darling,
but when we kiss, it feels like home"
A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your fatherâshe swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.
A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."
The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.
You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.
"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.
You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.
"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.
The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.
"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."
"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.
James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the leftâhis jaw moving as he chewed on gum.
"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."
You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.
His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."
You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.
"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.
James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."
The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?
"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smallerâsince when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."
"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."
James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his wordsâhe enjoyed this, whatever it was.
"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. âNow, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?â
His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.
His scent wrapped around youâminty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.
"As long as I'm your pest."
All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yoursâyour eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.
You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.
The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.
"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"
James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.
Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.
Fifteen Years Earlier
The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attentionâthe last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood aloneâthey were busy unpacking from the moveâbut the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.
You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your ageâa scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.
Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped backâa harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough groundâsmall stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.
"I-I'mâ" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.
Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassedâno, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.
"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"
The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy'sâJamesâshoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicionâshe was your assailants mother.
"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.
"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to herâŚ" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?
"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.
"I won't forget this, James."
When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.
One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of hisâand yourâbaking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residentsâdespite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then homeâsometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.
It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeriesâlike coffee shopsâhad an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the cornerâit made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.
Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.
"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.
"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.
You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.
Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he justâŚstopped."
"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.
"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with meâthat his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."
A snort slipped out of you before you could stop itâJames, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.
Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.
"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.
"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.
She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"
Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.
You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."
Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"
Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?
"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.
Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.
"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your earsâyour shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.
What the hell was that?
You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.
The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.
"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.
"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.
"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."
"I know."
You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"
He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."
You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feelingâŚunsatisfied."
He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"
"Unwillingly."
He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.
"She was just practice."
Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."
You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."
He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.
He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"
Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.
"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.
"I'm right where I want to be."
His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.
A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.
"Look at the mess you've made, doll."
Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brainâeverything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.
His lips are so pink.
He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.
"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.
His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.
James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touchâa light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.
"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."
He turned on his heel, strolling towards the doorâpinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.
The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied themâstaying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.
Your date was a nice enough guyâthe son of one of your mom's friendsâbut he wasâŚboring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbyeâhell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?
The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your headâuninvitedâall throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.
Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding themâsomething you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shiftedâyou felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.
James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.
"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."
"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heelsâhis gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of timesâsaved for the very rare occasion you had a date.
You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.
You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."
"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."
James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.
You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."
He took a step closer, tilting his head to the sideâhis eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.
"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.
You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.
"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two toâŚwhatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his placeâthe same path James should be taking.
The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring matchâfor what reason, you're not sure of.
You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.
"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.
"Again, it's none of your business."
"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.
You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."
He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.
"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.
"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.
His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"
You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."
James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.
You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."
He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."
You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him againâŚare you?"
Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.
"No, he was boring."
His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.
Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.
"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.
He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.
"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.
You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.
Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentlemanâhis hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.
This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your Jamesâunashamedly flirty butâŚrespectful. And you hated itâhated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.
You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.
"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."
His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.
He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.
He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.
"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt differentâhe sounded concerned, not suggestive.
You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.
"Umâno, they'reâthey went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.
He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."
You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.
"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.
He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.
You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."
His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"
You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.
James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "âŚWhat are you doing?" You dragged out.
"Keeping you safe."
A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that'sâpeople might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.
He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."
"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your templeâwhy must everything be so difficult with him?
"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."
A frustrated breath left you. "âŚFine. But you're sleeping on the couch."
He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."
You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couchâsoft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.
"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.
You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.
"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."
His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."
You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."
You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."
"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."
You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.
The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.
Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.
"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.
You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.
"Did youâŚmake breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.
"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."
You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?
He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantlyâyou weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.
"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.
You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fineâŚyou?
He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."
You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? WhyâŚwhy did you make breakfast?"
He shrugged again. "'Cause."
You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.
You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.
"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverentâcausing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.
You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."
"I mean it when I say it to you."
You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.
"You can go home nowâI'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.
You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.
He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."
Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards himâagainst your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was heâŚnervous?
He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.
God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.
"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"
There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.
"âŚWhat?"
He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."
A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You'reâyou don't mean that."
He took another small step forward. "I do."
You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."
He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."
You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the loungeâneeding to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.
He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.
"Justâlisten to me."
You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"
He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybeâŚmaybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.
You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honestâŚso vulnerable.
"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.
"What?"
"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.
He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.
"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting youâfor causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, butâI was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."
Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.
"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jawâhis thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.
You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "ButâŚDot said, she said there was a special dame."
"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."
You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flickerâtrying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.
"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.
His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
"You've never called me that before."
Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.
His lips moved against yours slowly, languidlyâlike he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like thisânot like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.
He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his headâyour fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tugâthe sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.
"Kissin' you feels like home."
A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.
"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.
"Taste sweet, too."
Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.
"YouâŚyou still owe me forâfor the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.
He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."
He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat downâpulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shouldersâyour fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.
You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.
James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruinedâeyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then foreheadâcovering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.
"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."
Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbotâwhoâs already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence⌠until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! Itâs not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,Â
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. Iâm not a doctor or a nurse. Iâm dyslexic, and English isnât my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT â NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isnât the noise.
Itâs the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like theyâve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow donât throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like itâs your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasnât figured out what time zone itâs supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself youâve handled worse. That youâve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. âERâs through here,â she says. âYou said you worked trauma before, right?â
âYes, maâam,â you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, âDrop the maâam. Youâll make everyone feel old.â
Heat creeps up your neck, âSorry. Habit.â
âYouâll fit in,â she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind herâand the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that heâs been waiting for three hours and heâs going to sue somebody.
Itâs loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didnât realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, âThatâs Dr. Jack Abbot. Heâs on trauma tonight, so youâll probably be with him most of the shift.â
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. Thereâs a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, youâd convinced yourself maybe you simply didnât have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what youâre doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look⌠but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesnât care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to himâJack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. ââŚgood with procedures, just donât let him skip charting, he triesâ Abbot!â
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
Heâs taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
âYou the new one?â he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
âYeah,â you manage. âFirst night.â
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
âJack Abbot.â
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches hisâthe string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he canât see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, âNice to meet you.â
âWelcome to the Pitt,â he says. âTry not to run.â You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, âToo late for that.â
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his armâand you see the ring.Â
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely canât process what youâre looking at. Of course, heâs married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you awayâand thatâs when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone whoâs been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. âHey,â he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, âYou forgot dinner again.â Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, âI was busy.â
âYouâre always busy.â
âOccupational hazard.â
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. Itâs absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already choseâitâs not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, âYou good?â
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like itâs collapsing inward. âYeah,â you say, your voice almost sounds steady. âJust jet lag.â
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do thisâyouâve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like youâre just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didnât just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATERâŚ
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT â NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, itâs already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like theyâre barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbotâs footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when heâs thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when heâs exhausted and trying not to show it. And worseâhe knows you too.
âLifeline!â Ellisâ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. âYou people are never letting that nickname die, are you?â
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. âAbsolutely not.â
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drownedâno pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within secondsârespiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
Youâd guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, âJesus Christ. Sheâs everybodyâs lifeline in here.â
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
âLifeline, Trauma Two,â Lena calls without looking up from the board.
âOn my way.â
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. âYou steal my nurse again?â he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. âYou donât own her, Abbot.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
Thereâs something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
âYou eat yet?â he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. âAre you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?â
âA little of both.â
You huff out a laugh. Because thatâs the problem with Jack. Heâs kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you havenât sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when youâre pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didnât specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bayâbelongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
Youâve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE â NIGHT
Tonightâs MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
âBP seventy over forty,â Ellis says from the monitor. âHeart rate one-forty.â
âBreath sounds diminished on the left,â Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
âAlright, letâs move,â Jack says sharply.
Youâre already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrisonâs pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
âCall OR,â Jack says. âHeâs going upstairs.â
âAlready on it,â you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. Thereâs blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet stillâthat small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows youâll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA â NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. Youâre charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jackâs wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
âOh thank God,â Ellis says dramatically. âAn angel sent from heaven.â
âYou people are unbelievable,â she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. âRespectfully, I would die for you.â
âThatâs deeply concerning,â Lena mutters.
âYouâre just jealous she likes me more.â
âI absolutely am not.â
You canât help laughing softly under your breath. There it is againâ that awful ache in your heart. Because sheâs truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe couldâve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyoneâs coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
âYou must be Lifeline.â
You blink, startled when you realize sheâs suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. âThat obvious, huh?â
âOh, very,â she says easily. âJack talks about you all the time.â
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, âApparently, youâre the only reason this department functions after midnight.â
You laugh weakly. âThat gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.â
âHave you met these people?â she asks quietly, glancing around Central. âIâm pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.â
âThat happened one time,â Shen shouts.
âYou were hallucinating by hour two,â Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isnât that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
Youâre halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smilesâsoft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
âWell,â his wife says immediately, âthere he is.â
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. âYou bribing my staff again?â
âYour staff?â Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. âLifeline and I decided youâre actually the problem in this department.â You blink. âWe did?â
âWe did now.â
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, âThat was fast.â
âSheâs nice,â his wife says simply. Jackâs eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. âYeah,â he says quietly. âShe is.â
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. âSee? I win.â
âYou gang up on me constantly.â
âBecause youâre easy to bully,â you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. âWow. Okay.â
âYou walked into that one,â Ellis says.
âYouâre all terrible people.â
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
Youâre becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA â LATER
The shift slows near dawn as youâre charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
âYou ever think about leaving emergency medicine?â he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. âEvery shift.â
âThatâs healthy.â
âI think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.â
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. âYouâd last six days.â
âRude.â
âYou yelled at a surgeon yesterday.â
âHe was wrong.â You pointed out.
âHe was technically right.â
âHe was spiritually wrong.â
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterwardâthe kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, âHave you met your soulmate yet?â
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, âNope.â
Jack glances sideways at you. âAt all?â You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. âMight just not be in the cards for me.â
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. âI doubt that,â he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
âI mean it,â he continues softly. âWhoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.â
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. âSmooth.â
âIâm serious.â
The worst part isâhe means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
âI hope whoever you loveâŚâ he says quietly, almost like heâs thinking out loud, âloves you back just as much.â
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. âMe too, Jack,â you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
âMe too.â
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT â NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowningâN95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and heâd still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isnât time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when heâs worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driverâDOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You donât know itâs her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jackâs wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.Â
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
âNo,â he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
âNo.â
Lena moves first.
âJackââ
âThatâs my wife.â
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jackâs voice breaking.
Youâve seen grief beforeâyou work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. âJack.â
âNo, let meââ
âJack.â
âSheâs still warmââ
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You canât breatheânobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what heâs seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tightâbefore snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied thereâgone. His face crumples. All thatâs left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyoneâs little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves togetherâto be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. Thatâs the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasnât stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe sheâs still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. âYou should sleep,â you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, âYeah.â
But he doesnât move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, âI didnât even get to say goodbye.â
There it is⌠the unbearable part, because she died instantlyâno final words or closure. She was there one secondâgone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, âIâm so sorry, Jack.â
He nods once because heâs heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure heâs been holding together. Youâve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.Â
âI keep thinking sheâs gonna walk through the door,â he whispers. âI keep forgetting for like⌠five seconds.â
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everythingâdespite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distanceâyou love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he canât sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesnât. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days heâs numb, and some days heâs angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wifeâs age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like heâs trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didnât just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, heâll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, âI donât know who I am without her.â
You nearly shatter at his confession, because itâs proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
âAt work?â you say softly after a moment. âYouâre still Jack.â A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, âVery inspirational speech.â
âIâm serious.â
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, heâs still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye rollâyou take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw thereâsomething stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long momentâsearching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.â Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietlyâ"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jackâat the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT â NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustionâthe kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeatâbut something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then itâs the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, âFuck.â
Youâd been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, youâre almost certain this wouldâve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Stillâit hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that youâve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isnât terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like youâre losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because youâre too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your motherâs worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone youâre fine. Youâre not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation youâd finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too muchâŚthatâs the problem. Youâre aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, Iâm gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you donât hydrate. But then thereâs Jack calling twice⌠then three times.
You donât answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when thereâs suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Thenâyour real name, muffled through the door in a voice youâd recognize half-asleep.
âHey.â
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. âJack?!â
âOh, good,â his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. âYouâre alive.â
âWhat the hell are you doing here?â you hiss through the door. âHow did you even find where I live?â
âLena told me⌠and Dana.â
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. âYou canât be here,â you argue weakly. âYou could get sick.â Jack snorts softly from the hallway, âLifeline, we work in an emergency department.â
âThat is not comforting!â
âAlso,â he continues, ignoring you completely, âis there a reason youâve been ignoring my texts and calls?â
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadnât even realized how many messages you missed.
âJackââ
âOpen the door.â
You blink as you screech, âAre you fucking insane? No.â His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. âLifeline.â
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
âOpen the door.â
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jackâs eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way youâre subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if heâd outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, âI look worse than I feel.â
âThatâs concerning, because you look awful.â
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jackâs eyes narrow behind the face shield, âHow highâs the fever?â
âItâs fine.â
âTemperature.â
âOne-oh-one earlier.â
âAnd oxygen?â
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, âLifeline.â
âNinety-four. Iâve been checking my Apple Watch.â
His jaw tightens, âOkay.â
You step aside reluctantly. âThereâs hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. Iâve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.â
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry youâve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. âSorry,â you mutter. âItâs kind of a disaster.â
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. âIâve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.â That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, âSit down before you fall down.â
âItâs not that bad.â
âYou almost passed out opening the door.â
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. âBecause I know you.â
âYou donât have family here,â he continues quietly. âNo roommates. No neighbors youâre close enough with to help if things go bad.â He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
âYou moved halfway across the world by yourself,â he says. âSo yeah. I came to do a welfare check.â Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. âAm I that unlucky or just that special?â
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, âJust that special.â The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. âHow are you feeling?â
âIâm fine.â
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, âDonât start with me.â You sigh, shoulders slumping. âI feelâŚâ You swallow hard. âHonestly? Like I got hit by a truck.â
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. âMy chest hurts when I cough,â you admit quietly. âAnd Iâm exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.â
Jackâs expression softens instantly to concern. âOkay,â he says gently. âThat sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.â
You laugh weakly, âReassuring.â
âYouâre vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but youâre stable.â His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence youâve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
âYouâre gonna feel miserable for a little while,â he says softly. âBut youâre not dying.â
The ridiculous thing isâyou believe him immediately. Maybe because itâs Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisibleâhaving somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody elseâs home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worldsâyou'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehowâhe likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complainingâsomething in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, itâs more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. Itâs soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help himâthat does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he doesâhe might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something saferâannoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right nowâif you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appearedâyou might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesnât realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he canât see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT â NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the wayâyou became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, itâs three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. Itâs warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then itâs another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something elseâsomething he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.Â
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge itâyou'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE â DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzleâa proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around sevenâexhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain⌠alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disasterâsurge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain⌠and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trimâthe thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably areâyou usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing isâJack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving⌠your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, itâs your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands thereâwatching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long timeâthe thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH â NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were goneâcompletely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"Itâs not that badâ"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jackâ"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jackâ"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonightâtonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegalâat least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautifulâtoo distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realizationânone of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worseâbecause you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"Â
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the yearsâit sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about itâit's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."Â
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
Thereâs no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. Itâs steady and instinctiveâthe contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"Â
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.â Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. Itâs a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floorâJack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long timeâhe knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the clubâtoward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. Itâs practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case⌠well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's allâŚ. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you⌠well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each otherâfar too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOTâS APARTMENT â NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that heâs been doing it a lot when heâs around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, youâre humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
âDonât.â
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."Â
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since itâs late, he offers for you to crash at his place.Â
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcoholâmostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunkâvery drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirtâworn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop youâyou start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortableâlike you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. Thatâs reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, thatâs fucking mortifyingâimmediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of itâor maybe because of itâhe remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantlyâitâs deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even nowâall these years laterâhe still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."Â
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for himânot for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think ofâhe opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuckâthat might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him thereâthe truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slowsâŚ.then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are differentâentirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not toâJack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT â MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly⌠like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack⌠Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."Â
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrestâyou'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, heâs practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remainsâand reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bedâhis actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place whereâYou immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything⌠mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So⌠you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Nowânow he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Stillâseeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, thatâs spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughsâthere it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartmentâhis space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voiceâthe one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for himâthe quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartmentâwearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. Theyâre smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."Â
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like thatâas if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"Butâ"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunatelyâhe's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because youâre a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like itâs inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "Butâ"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "Butâ" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembersâhe doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You canât fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his lifeâpart of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. Thereâs a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quietâthe one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowlyâabsolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartmentâfriends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even nowâyears laterâshe still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isnât overwhelming or frozen in time. Thereâs a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want himâyou've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night⌠the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT â DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heartâyour stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATERâŚ
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT â NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Centralâthereâs no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?â Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."Â
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of youâyou smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
Thatâs bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifelineâ"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happensâJack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenlyâpain flares around his wrist. Itâs sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What theâ"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight towardâYou. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years⌠all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallwayâcompletely unfazedâyou kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA â DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the nextâevery television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
Thereâs an active shooter at PittFestâmass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact⌠before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.â A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.Â
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the stringâyour secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that lookâyou've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jackâ"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jackâ"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his faceâpain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.Â
"Jackâ"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.Â
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. Itâs hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silenceâabsolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I needâ"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell isâ"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and canât look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the roomâan overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA â NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Thenâsomething feels wrong. You don't know why, itâs just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love⌠or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tiredâtired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended momentânobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, bloodâtoo much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. Heâs runningâignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much bloodâso much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehowâsomehowâJack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrifiedâmore terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifelineâ"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to youâonly you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybeâmaybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing⌠Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocolâEverything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knowsâhe knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all thisâafter finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU â DAY
The surgery lasts hoursâtoo many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell youâI love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.Â
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitakerâall of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappearâa chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And nowânow the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with bloodâyour blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.Â
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
Robby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassedâhe's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU â DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throatâsomething foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakinglyâyou manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital roomâyour hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which meansâOh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to moveâa mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is⌠Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.Â
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."Â
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Thenâit's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Stableâthe most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurtsâeverything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contactâhe needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.â
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. Heâs trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.Â
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.Â
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.Â
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.â Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought⌠I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting himâprotecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking upâyou both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you knowâyou've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you canât recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappearsâleaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, itâs entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven yearsâafter all that grief and silence and fearâhe chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first timeâit doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silenceâyou finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldnât for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? Thatâs exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoricâonce I got the plot beats down, I just couldnât stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jackâs wife and that you werenât trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = StringâŚ. Ha ha ha. You are his LineâŚ
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasnât expecting a lot of people to read thisâŚÂ
oh my god i loved everything about this: the exploration of grief, spin on the soulmate au, realistic COVID experiences, AND a filipino!reader?? every aspect hit close to home omg this is just a stunning fic <3
â summary: you start as the new sous chef at the pitt, where working under the intense jack abbot proves almost as thrilling as being beneath him
â pairing: chef!jack abbot x sous-chef!reader
â warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, cursing, power-dynamics, fingering, oral sex, unprotected sex, p in v, cream pie, rough sex, semi public sex, size kink, chef kink, dirty talk, slight choking, jack abbot talks you through it
â word count: 9.4k
â notes: so obviously i listened to the quinn audio and opened a doc. my fingers were on fire (please support them instead of pirating btw) also im not a chef i literally just watch the bear and gordon ramsey ijbol but can I also say this might be the hottest smut iâve ever written LOL
When you step foot into The Pitt, the first thing you notice isnât the fresh scent of lemon and herbs, or the sparkling countertops, itâs the precision with which Jack Abbot runs it. Itâs controlled chaos. Every bang of a pan, crackle of flame, and metal scraping against metal is almost orchestral.Â
And right there in the center, is head chef Jack himself. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his apron splattered with various sauces.Â
âAgain,â He instructed a line cook, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt as he crossed his arms. âIf it doesnât feel right, donât send it. If it doesnât make you feel anything, then you arenât doing it right.âÂ
He didnât hear you slip in through the delivery door, didnât notice you standing there with your coat draped over your arm and bag on your shoulder. Youâre leaning against the stainless steel prep table, watching the girl carefully pipette dollops of sauce on a plate next to a perfectly roasted slice of duck.
âYour spacingâs off,â you say finally, voice calm but carrying easily over the noise. âYouâre crowding the protein. Let it breathe. Itâs the star of the show, the sauce is the supporting act.â
The woman startles, eyes snapping up to you, then immediately over your shoulder like sheâs checking if sheâs about to get in trouble.
âWhat,â he starts, turning sharply, already halfway into irritation, âdid I just say about-â
His eyes land on you, a flicker of confusion on his face about the stranger who was relaxing against his station, as if she belonged there.Â
âWho are you and why are you standing around like you own the place?â He asks gruffly, his hands leaning against the table now. His arm veins protruded as his body weight rested on the limbs.Â
âThe person who does own the place gave me a key,â You hold up the silver key between your fingers, âAnd Iâm Y/n Y/l/n, the new sous-chef.âÂ
âThe one from France?â he asks, stepping closer, wiping his hands on a towel but not breaking eye contact.Â
You give a curt nod, a smirk still gracing your lips. It made it very hard for Jack not to stare at your pursed lips as he sized you up.
âAh, yes,â Ellis chimes in, grinning as she leans against her station, clearly enjoying this far too much. It wasnât often that many people gave Jack shit. âThe prodigal daughter back from studying abroad in France. Here to give this old guy a run for his money?â
âOld?â His voice echoed in the kitchen, making Ellis put her tattooed arms up.Â
âRespectfully.â She whistled, holding her hand out for you to shake.Â
Her grip was firm as she gave you her name, âEllis Parker, Chef de Partie for the French girl.âÂ
You nearly flushed at her warm gaze, dropping her hand as she grabbed her plate, giving you and your new boss time to talk.Â
âAlright,â he says. âLetâs see what Robby thought was worth importing.â
He holds his hand out in front of him, guiding you through the massive kitchen.Â
âCareful,â you murmur. âYou might like it.â
Something in his gaze darkens at that, interest threading through the challenge, but itâs gone just as fast as it appears. Your stuff is put up in a locker, while you throw an apron over your head.Â
The tour is less formal than most restaurants youâve worked in. Thatâs the first thing youâve noticed, just how close-knit everyone seems to be. Which was a stark contrast to most other posh workplaces youâve spent the last few years in.Â
âHead of house, Frank Langdon with his assistant Mel King.â He points through the glass window into the dining room where the tall brunette was wildly explaining something to do with menus to the eager blonde.Â
Youâre on his heels as he walks, keeping up behind him like you were in a moving current.Â
âDana, house manager. She keeps this place running, donât ever piss her off.â He grumbles, and you hear the blonde put the phone down to yell loudly at the man.Â
â-I heard that!âÂ
âAnyways,â he continues, his shoulder pushing open another door for you two to glide through. âSantos and Garcia, our resident bartender and sommelier.âÂ
The younger girl is shoulder to shoulder with the older girl, polishing wine glasses with expert precision. You wave softly to them, trying your best to be polite while Jack is all but dragging you through the restaurant at lightning speed.Â
Youâre back in the kitchen, a guy is on his knees scrubbing at a spot on the floor while the other is rinsing the sink.Â
âWhittaker, our busboy, and Ogilvie his assistant of sorts. I donât really know what he does, he cleans.â Jack pauses watching the boy squint at him before youâre off in the kitchen again.Â
The smell of sugar and vanilla hits your nose as you walk through the pastry kitchen. âSamira Mohan, our Pastry Chef. I donât care what bullshit you saw in France, sheâs better.â He boasts, and you barely catch a glance of the girl as sheâs pulling another rack of pastries out of the oven.Â
âThere are some people Iâm missing,â He huffs, âYou met Ellis, then we have Shen and Crus our other chefs. We have our prep cooks Princess and Perlah, donât tell them anything they gossip.âÂ
He lets out a short laugh as youâre suddenly right back where you started, âMcKay and Javardi are our hosts, Joy and Emma are our veteran waitresses. We love them, Emma does our social media. So if she asks you to make a TikTok, youâll do it because sheâs too sweet to say no to.âÂ
âUnderstood,â You let out a breath, still trying your best to remember all of the names.Â
âYou met Robby and Heather, theyâre hardly here since their daughter was born so that leaves me.â He smiles, rocking on his feet. âJack Abbot.âÂ
âNice to officially meet you,â You nearly laugh, sticking out your hand to shake his. You nearly shiver at the way his large warm hand encompasses yours.Â
He switches in and out of Head Chef mode easily, immediately going into a deep explanation of how they work here. Their processes, what makes it work, and how under no circumstances are you to deviate from the plan. He was a stickler for order, that much was obvious, but you had to be in this line of work.Â
âDid you memorize the menu?âÂ
âOf course.â You nod, thinking back to Robby shoving a binder in your hand upon hiring and telling you to study up. You didnât think youâd actually be tested until Jack started throwing questions at you.Â
âMiso cod,â he says. âWhat finishes it?â
âWhite miso glaze, reduced until it clings,â you answer without hesitation. âCaramelized under high heat, served over a bed of jasmine rice with a ginger-scallion emulsion and pickled shiitake for contrast.â
His eyes flick toward you briefly.
âCitrus?â
You donât miss a beat. âYuzu zest in the emulsion. Bright, but not overpowering.â
He hums, not quite approval, not quite dismissal.
âFilet.â
âDry-aged,â you reply. âPan-seared, basted in brown butter, garlic, and thyme. Rested properly. Served with pommes purĂŠe thatâs more butter than potato and a red wine bordelaise reduced to almost syrup.â
âTemperature.â
âMid-rare,â you scoff. âObviously, anything higher is a crime.â
That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He stops suddenly at the pass, picking up a plate, holding it between you like a test youâre meant to fail. Itâs still steaming, but thereâs not much cooking happening besides prep.Â
A smile quirks up at your lips, thinking of him preparing a dish just to quiz you on. You take the challenge.Â
Itâs a roasted chicken, split and pressed, the skin blistered and golden, glistening under a brush of jus. It sits over a bed of truffle-laced pommes anna, layered thin and crisp at the edges, soft and buttery at the center. Thereâs a swipe of charred leek purĂŠe, dark and smoky, and a scattering of pearl onions lacquered in something sweet and reduced.
He holds it out slightly toward you, pulling a fork out from his pocket.
âRoast chicken,â he says. âWalk me through it.â
You step in closer without hesitation, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his as you lean in.
âAir-dried for at least twenty-four hours,â you start, eyes scanning, picking it apart piece by piece. âHigh heat to render the skin, then finish slower so it stays juicy. Basted in butter, thyme, maybe a little garlic toward the end so it doesnât burn.â
Your finger hovers just above the pommes anna, not touching, just tracing the shape with the fork. You bring it up to your lips, unaware of Jackâs sudden interest in the counter after your tongue swipes against it.
âPotatoes layered with clarified butter, pressed, cooked low and slow, then crisped. Truffle folded in at the end, not during, or it disappears.â
âSauce,â he prompts.
âChicken jus, mounted with butter,â you reply. âReduced enough to coat the back of a spoon, not so much that it turns sticky.â
He nods once, then tilts the plate slightly.
âWhat doesnât belong?â
You hum, twirling the fork around.Â
You lean in just a little more, close enough now that if you shifted even an inch youâd touch him, your voice lowering without you meaning to. The fork stabs one of the pearl onions, you shove it into your mouth, and grimace a little.Â
âTheyâre glazed in balsamic,â you say.
âAnd.â
âItâs too heavy,â you continue, straightening slightly, meeting his eyes again. âYouâve already got richness from the chicken, the butter, the potatoes. The balsamic makes it sweet and acidic in the wrong way. It pulls focus instead of balancing.â
He watches you carefully.
âSweetness is bad?â
âNot if itâs intentional,â you counter. âBut this isnât. Itâs competing, not complementing.â
Then you tilt your head just slightly, a hint of something playful slipping in.
âYouâd be better off with something brighter. Maybe a preserved lemon glaze, or even a light cider reduction. Something that cuts through instead of sitting on top.â
He makes a noise of satisfaction, âMost people wouldâve said the truffle,â he admits.
âThe truffle isnât overdone, itâs a good addition. If itâs in the budget, Iâd put it on the menu, minus the onions.â You smiled crookedly.Â
Heâs trying to hide how impressed he is, as he shuffles around. âWell, try not to slow us down tonight.âÂ
âOh, I donât like it slow.â You purse your lips, âDonât worry about me.âÂ
He has an amused look on his face, âYou are gonna give me a run for my money huh?âÂ
You shrug, âGuess youâll just have to wait and see.âÂ
And you donât make him wait long.
Service hits like a wave and you step into it without hesitation, sliding onto his line as if youâve always belonged there, like the rhythm of this kitchen is something your body already understands. This is where you belong, even when the tickets start stacking. Jack glides through the kitchen like he could do it blindfolded.
You match him without thinking, your hands moving before the words even fully land, reaching for pans, adjusting heat, finishing sauces before he even has the chance to bark out orders.Â
âTwo scallops, one duck, one filet,â he calls.
âScallops walking,â you answer just as quickly, already flipping them, butter foaming, the edges caramelizing into that perfect golden crust. You tilt the pan, baste once, twice, then pull them at exactly the right second, sliding them onto the plate like itâs elementary.Â
Jack tries not to stare, tries to focus on his own job but he finds the way you move mesmerizing. Even when you reach for the wrong item, still gaining your footing here, youâre majestic.Â
âDuck?â he presses.
Youâre already slicing it, the blade gliding clean through, juices held exactly where they should be. âRested,â you say, fanning it out, dragging the cherry reduction into a sharper line, tightening the plating just enough to elevate it without losing its soul.
âYouâre moving fast,â he mutters, more to himself than you.
You donât look up. âI told you, I donât like it slow.â
Thereâs something in the way you say it that makes him pause for half a second too long before snapping back into motion.
The longer the service goes, the clearer it becomes. Youâre not just keeping up with him, youâre anticipating him. Adjusting before he asks, finishing thoughts he hasnât spoken yet, stepping into the exact spaces he leaves open without ever colliding. It isnât chaotic, it isnât competitive in a loud way. Youâre not working against him, youâre not showing out. Itâs a dance.Â
At one point your hands brush when you both reach for the same pan, and neither of you pulls back immediately. He lingers, and you let your fingers dance over his before pulling the pan out from him.Â
When service is over, the place takes a deep breath. Jack pretends he canât smell the sweat clinging to your neck, and the soft scent of your shampoo when you pass him.Â
âIs every night like that?â You ask, your skin still vibrating from the adrenaline rush. successful service.Â
âIf weâre so lucky,â Shen smiles, patting you on the back, âYou were on fire back there.âÂ
âThank you.â You smiled, listening to their compliments while your eyes were on Jack. He gave you a simple nod of encouragement, before he leaned back down to scrub at the oven. You took that to heart, ignoring the weird flutter in your chest at his approval.Â
You roll your shoulders back, trying to shake the adrenaline loose, but itâs still there, buzzing under your ribs, settling somewhere deeper instead of fading.
âCareful,â Ellis calls from across the line, flicking water from a rag in your direction. âYou keep that up, youâre gonna make the rest of us look bad.â
âYou already do that on your own,â you shoot back, not missing a beat.
A few laughs ripple through the room.
âYeah,â She whistles, tossing you a sponge, âYouâre right where you belong.âÂ
You move through cleanup as you worked here for years, not a single night, falling into rhythm beside them, trading small comments, quiet jokes, letting yourself settle into something that feels dangerously close to belonging already.Â
Princess is already whispering something to Perlah that makes them both glance at you and grin, Danaâs voice carries faintly from the front, still managing something even this late, and Shen is already halfway to the espresso machine without needing to ask. He brings you a coffee in a shot glass, a wide smile on his face. âTo surviving your first shift at The Pitt.â
By the end of your first week, the kitchen stops watching you like youâre a baby deer on new legs, and starts moving with you as if youâve always been there. By the end of your second, they start trusting you. And by the end of your first month, there isnât a single person on the line who doesnât adjust when you step in, who doesnât listen when you speak, who doesnât look for you the same way they look for him when something matters.
Service becomes something electric between you and Jack.
You learn his tells, the slight shift in his posture when something is about to go wrong, the way his voice drops when heâs focused, the exact second he expects a plate to land in the pass. And he learns yours too, whether he wants to admit it or not. The way you move faster when youâre challenged, the way you donât wait to be told, the way you fix things before they ever reach him.Â
âToo much salt,â he mutters one night, barely glancing at a pan.
Youâre already beside him, tasting, adjusting, adding a splash of stock and a knob of butter, bringing it back into balance like it was never off.
âBetter,â you say, sliding it back.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, before youâre already back at your station.
âYou donât miss,â he says.
âNeither do you,â you reply, and he pretends it doesnât make his knuckles shake. Heâs too old for a crush, he tells himself. But it doesnât stop the way he looks at you with stars in his eyes every night.Â
Thereâs a push and pull to it, something unspoken but constant. You challenge him in small ways, tightening a plate here, swapping an element there, offering suggestions that are just bold enough to make him pause but never reckless enough to break the integrity of what heâs built.
âLose the microgreens,â you murmur one night, adjusting a dish before it goes out. âTheyâre filler.â
âThey add color.â
âThey add nothing,â you counter, meeting his eyes. âIf you need color, fix the dish, not the garnish. Microgreens are shipped in by the pound to every wanna be Michelin star restaurant in the US. We donât need it.â
He wants to argue, you can see it on his face. Then his brows furrow, and he watches the plate so intensely youâd almost believe it was speaking to him.
Then he pulls them off himself.
âSend it,â he says.
You donât smile, but you feel the way your cheeks burn.Â
You find your place in the quieter moments too.
Samiraâs kitchen is the first space that feels different. Warmer, softer, but no less precise. The scent of caramelizing sugar wraps around you the second you step inside, vanilla and citrus layered over butter and heat. She hands you a spoon without looking.
âTry that.â She orders.Â
You do. A dark chocolate crĂŠmeux, smooth and rich, finished with a hint of sea salt that lingers at the back of your tongue.
âRespectfully,â You start, the spoon still in your mouth, âI think Iâd do anything you asked me to do if you keep making things like that.âÂ
She laughs, a loud one that comes from her throat. âJack was right, I like you.âÂ
You donât press on what she means, because the idea of Jack boasting about you makes something coil in your stomach.Â
Itâs easy to fall into rhythm with the staff. Youâd bum a cigarette off of Santos after long nights, the two of you chain-smoking with Dana in the freezing Pittsburgh weather. Samira would sneak you pastries in exchange for tips you had picked up in France. You brought her in some cookbooks from your time there, and she nearly cried. The next day thereâs a container waiting for you in the breakroom fridge, your name written across the lid in careful script. Chai tiramisu, layered perfectly, the spice warm and unexpected against the bitterness of espresso.Â
Frank and Mel were a joy to be around, you sat with them one day learning the inner workings of the magic they create out front. Your first outing with the crew was one weekend Javardi had convinced all the girls, barring Dana who was always busy, to go out and get drinks one night. Despite the girl's only memo, Shen showed up an hour in and got so drunk that Ellis had to carry him two blocks home.Â
Somewhere in all of it, you find your place.
Not just in the kitchen, not just on the line, but here, in the middle of this strange, chaotic, loyal little family that somehow makes space for you without question.Â
Thatâs why, you think, the first time it cracks makes it hurt a little more than if this were any other job posting.Â
The kitchen is running hot, faster than usual, the kind of night where everything is just slightly off and everyone feels it. Tickets pile, timing tightens, and Jack is sharper than usual, voice cutting a little cleaner, a little colder.
A braised short rib, rich and heavy, sitting over a parsnip purĂŠe with a red wine reduction that leans deep, almost too deep, into itself. Itâs Jack Abbot on a plate, almost.Â
You taste it as it comes up, quick, instinctive, and your brow pulls just slightly. Itâs good, actually, itâs fantastic, but itâs missing something vital to him.Â
A splash of sherry vinegar, just enough to lift it. A touch of orange zest, subtle, brightening the edges without changing the core. You swirl, taste again, and it opens up immediately, the richness balanced, the flavor sharper, more alive.
You plate it and send it without thinking.Â
Jack catches it at the pass, because of course he does.Â
âWhat is this,â he asks, not loud, but dangerous in how controlled it is. Everyone seems to tense, knowing exactly what the inflection in his voice means.Â
You donât hesitate. âShort rib.â
His eyes flick to yours, then back to the plate. He then narrows his eyes at the sauce you have sitting on your station.
âYou changed the sauce.âÂ
Itâs not a question, but you answer anyway. âYes.â
âI didnât ask you to,â he says, voice tightening, the edge finally showing. âYou donât touch my dishes without clearing them first.â
âIt needed it,â you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.
âThatâs not your call,â he snaps, sharper now. âYou think because you worked in France and have all these fancy restaurants under your belt that you get to walk in here and rewrite my menu? Youâve been here a little over a month, donât think youâre more important than you are because Robby wanted a new shiny chef to look good in the media.â
There it is.Â
The version of him everyone else warned you about. The version of him you have yet to see. The one no one had seen since you arrived. Because, Robby thought youâd mellow him out. Inspire him again, lighten the kitchen up.Â
For a second, the kitchen holds its breath. Waiting to see if you crumble, or if you start yelling back.Â
If anything, something in you sharpens right back, your eyes catching the light in amusement.Â
The anger simmering in his chest only burns hotter when he sees your plush lips fighting off a stupid grin.Â
âTaste it,â you say simply.
He scoffs. âThatâs not the point.â
âThen make it the point,â you counter, stepping closer, lowering your voice just enough that itâs not for everyone else anymore. âBecause if youâre going to be mad, you should at least be right.âÂ
His warm eyes are dark, with something you canât quite place.Â
âYou come into my kitchen, and say my dish needs fixing?â He scoffs, both of your faces inching towards each other. The chaos of service still bustles around you, but both of you tune it out. Too fixated on each otherÂ
âI mean no offense,â You start, âBut that dish was supposed to be you on a plate right? It was wrong, it needed a boost, a light in it if you will.âÂ
âDonât try to sound like my therapist,â His voice raises, âThe sauce was fine-âÂ
âI never said it wasnât.â You stressed, âI just made it better. Iâm sorry I didnât tell you, wonât happen again Chef.â
His jaw tightens at that, like the words themselves are a physical thing he has to chew through. For a second it looks like heâs going to refuse just to prove a point, to keep the argument alive on principle alone.
But he doesnât, because heâs a chef first. And much to his chagrin and anger, he trusts you.
Jack snatches the spoon from the pot with more force than necessary, then drags it through the sauce you changed. The motion is sharp, almost aggressive, and when he brings it to his mouth, the entire kitchen somehow gets even quieter.
âItâs good,â he says finally, his voice not coming out as flat as heâd like.Â
Your lips curve before you can stop them.
âChef,â you correct softly, just to press him a little more.
His eyes snap to yours immediately, the irritation running back up his broad shoulders. âItâs good, Chef.âÂ
Jack leans in just slightly, not enough to touch, but enough that the space between you stops feeling safe. His hand grabs your upper arm, to pull you closer or just as an excuse to touch you. He isnât sure which one it is.Â
âYou pull something like that again,â he says quietly, voice rougher now, âand it will be your last day in my kitchen.â
âYes, Chef.â You whisper to him, a little too close to his ear. Your warm breath on his neck makes him shiver, his fingers dropping the grip he had on you.Â
It occurs to you in that moment, that this is foreplay. For both of you.Â
Both of your chests are panting, eyes dark with something neither of you dared to name. This is what every challenge in this kitchen has been. You push him, he pushes back, and you enjoy the rush.Â
He steps back like your presence burns, turning his attention back to the tickets that were piling up.Â
âBack on the line,â he calls, voice louder now, reestablishing control, forcing the kitchen back into motion.
As the rhythm picks back up, Crus passes behind you and bumps your shoulder lightly with his elbow, a grin tugging at his mouth.
âYou poked the beast,â he murmurs, shaking his head like he canât decide if heâs impressed or terrified for you.
You glance at him, calm as ever. âHe survived.â
Crus snorts under his breath. âBarely.â
Across the line, Jack doesnât look back at you again for the rest of the service, but you know he feels it. The coil wound tight between the two of you. What was once just longing stares and brushes of skin, was now a pressure cooker ready to explode all over the kitchen he spent the last few decades building from the ground up.
After that night, nothing really goes back to how it was before.
It doesnât get worse, not exactly, but it changes shape. The kitchen doesnât stop moving, doesnât lose its rhythm, but thereâs something threaded through it now that wasnât there before. A pressure. A quiet awareness that sits under every callout, every pass, every brush of shoulders in tight spaces. People feel it even if they donât say it out loud, even if they pretend they donât see it.Â
Princess and Perlah catch it immediately, and it spreads all the way to the front of the house. Frank catches it in the way Jackâs eyes flick toward the kitchen door whenever youâre not on the line. Mel notices it in how quickly the tickets start moving when youâre working beside him, like the pace shifts just slightly to match the two of you instead of the system. Dana, of course, clocks it immediately and says nothing, which somehow makes it worse.
Santos says it out back one night, smoke curling between her fingers as she watches you lean against the brick wall after service.
âWhatâs going on between you and Jack?â She asks.Â
âWhatâs going on with you and Garcia?â You pirate back, dangling the cigarette between your lips.Â
She ignores your comment, continuing on.Â
âYou two are going to burn this place down with the passion between you two,â she says mildly, like sheâs commenting on the weather.
You just take a drag of your cigarette and exhale slowly.
âWe just both love food, passion makes us run hot, sâall,â you reply.
She hums like he doesnât believe you.
Inside, Jack doesnât say anything either, but he starts noticing everything. The way you stand a little closer than necessary when youâre correcting a dish. The way your hand lingers for half a second too long when you pass him a pan. The way you donât look away first anymore.
Someone texted Robby about it, because of course they did. He gets a call one morning, asking if heâs running off the new chef or if heâs trying to commit an HR violation. Jack hangs up before he gets the chance to start making jokes anymore.Â
Itâs a random Thursday when you slip through the back door like normal, a little earlier, and a lot more dolled up. Your makeup is done, hair is down, and you have on a sweater as compared to your normal work attire. Samira whistles playfully as she walks into the breakroom, complimenting you as you begin to talk between yourselves.Â
Jack hears you but doesnât look up right away.
âYouâre early,â he says, voice low, still facing the stove.
âEmma needs a headshot of me for the website,â you reply, shrugging off your coat and hanging it without slowing down. âShe said she likes to take them in front of the sign. Iâm also filming a few videos with her.â
He hums in acknowledgment, but his attention stays on the braise for the beef, on the way the liquid moves when he tilts the pot slightly, checking consistency, tasting with a spoon without thinking. He looks up at you, and thatâs when everything goes wrong.Â
You look beautiful. Youâve always been beautiful, even bare-faced with a dirty bandana tied around your head, but this? This was different, it was seeing you in another light. The Y/n you were outside of these walls, outside of being the best chef heâd ever met.Â
Jack shifts slightly closer to the burner, adjusting the heat under the pot mindlessly, and thatâs when it happens. He pulls back immediately, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth before he even fully processes it. The side of his hand sizzles against the heat, and everyoneâs heads turn.Â
âYou good, boss?â Crus asks, and you see Shen and Ellis falling into each other hiding their amusement.Â
This is the first time in his career he had burned himself, and it suddenly feels like his world is falling apart in front of him. The clicking of your heels against the floor makes his brow furrow as he wraps his hand in a rag.Â
âJack,â you say, already moving.
He likes the way his name sounds coming from your lips.Â
âIâm fine,â he answers automatically, but itâs too quick, too tight.
You donât argue, just step in beside him, gently but firmly taking his wrist and turning it under the cooler sink before he can insist otherwise. The skin is already red, irritated, not serious but enough to sting, but enough to make him finally go quiet and let you work.
âI said Iâm fine,â he mutters again, though softer now.
âAnd I didnât ask,â you reply, adjusting the water slightly, your touch steady and unhurried as you check the burn properly.
You reach for ointment in the first aid kit without asking, careful as you apply it, your fingers light but precise as you wrap the gauze around his hand. He doesnât pull away, doesnât interrupt, just stands there letting you take control. Something he normally doesn't let happen.Â
âYou distracted me,â he says after a beat, quieter now, like heâs admitting something he doesnât fully like saying out loud.
You glance up at him briefly while tying off the bandage.Â
âI wasnât even doing anything,â you laugh.
That earns a faint exhale from him that almost, almost sounds like a laugh heâs holding back. âExactly,â he replies.
Thereâs a pause then, as your head tilts to the side watching him carefully. âIs it the heels? Because I know theyâre not kitchen standard, but I have an outfit change before service.âÂ
âItâs not the heels,â He breathes out, but then his eyes do rake down your body for a fleeting moment before he meets your eyes again, âMaybe itâs the heels.âÂ
You chuckle again, patting his now bandaged hand softly. âYouâre all set to go.âÂ
âYou must have been a doctor in another life,â He smiles, âI feel better already.âÂ
âHealing hands.â You wiggle your fingers at him playfully, taking a short step back. You go to turn away, but you pause leaning back into his space. âBe careful, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself again watching me walk away.âÂ
With those words youâre off, spinning on your heel and walking into the dining room with an unnecessary added sway in your steps.Â
âJesus,â He grumbles, feeling a flush run up the back of his neck as he indeed did watch you walk away. Ignoring all the alarm bells that were ringing in his head, as he tried his best not to get hard in the middle of prep.Â
Heâs not subtle at all with the way his eyes keep finding yours that night. At one point there was no shame as he stood in front of the pass window, watching Emma direct you and pose while Joy stood there following Emmaâs every polite command.Â
âYou are not slick brother.â Robbyâs voice bellows through the kitchen.
Jack barely reacts, just exhales through his nose like heâs been caught doing something mildly inconvenient rather than completely transparent. He turns his head slightly, watching Robby step into the kitchen like he still owns part of the air in it.
âYouâre here,â Jack says flatly. âAlmost forgot you worked here.â
âYeah, yeah.â He takes the tease, hugging him gently. âIâm observant,â Robby adds, glancing past him straight to you, then back to Jack with a faint smirk. âAnd Iâve been hearing things.â
Jackâs jaw tightens just a fraction. âFrom who?â
âLittle birdies,â Robby says casually, leaning against the edge of the pass like heâs got all the time in the world. âMostly the kind that tells me my head chefâs been acting like he forgot how to breathe around his new sous chef.â
Jack scoffs, immediately turning back to the line like thatâs the end of it. âPeople talk too much.â
âPeople always talk,â Robby replies, watching him carefully now. âWhatâs interesting is that Iâve been here two minutes and I already see it.â
Then, lighter, almost teasing, but not quite. âTheyâre saying sheâs changed you.â
Jack doesnât answer right away, just focuses a little too hard on the clock.
âShe hasnât changed anything,â he says finally.
Robby hums like he doesnât believe him for a second. âSure.â
Service pulls them both back in before anything else can be said, and the kitchen does what it always does, it swallows everything that isnât immediately necessary. Orders fire, pans heat, voices cut across each other in practiced rhythm. Youâre back on the line fully now, moving like youâve always belonged there, correcting, plating, adjusting without hesitation, and Jack tries to stay locked in the way he always does.
But he keeps looking.
He catches himself doing it twice, maybe three times, eyes flicking up without permission, drawn to you like itâs reflex now. Youâre leaning over a station explaining something to Ellis, hair slightly loosened from earlier, even as itâs pulled back, your expression focused and animated in a way that makes the whole room feel a fraction warmer. It annoys him more than it should that he notices how easily people orbit you now.
By the time service winds down, the kitchen is in that slow collapse, energy draining out of it in waves. The clatter softens, the urgency fades, and whatâs left is exhaustion and the quiet satisfaction of getting through it.
Shen is already at the back counter when you finish cleaning your station, pulling shots of espresso with practiced ease, humming under his breath like heâs done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.
âYou look like you need this,â he says, sliding a small glass toward you.
Ice cream first, espresso second, the classic affogato, simple and perfect in a way that feels like a reward for surviving the night.
You take it gratefully, leaning against the counter beside him.
âSaved my life,â you murmur after the first bite.
Shen shrugs like itâs nothing. âYou say that every time.â
âBecause itâs true every time.â
Across the room, Jack is wiping down his station, slower now, watching the kitchen settle back into itself. Or at least pretending to. His eyes flick toward you before he can stop them, landing on the two of you draped across the bar as you belong. The way your faded lipstick still clings to your lips that are wrapped around the spoon.Â
Shen leaves before you do, bidding you a goodnight. No doubt stealing yet another glass bowl from the restaurant. You tell him not to eat and drive, and he flips you off as the door shuts behind him.
You finish your affogato and set the glass down, turning slightly like you feel Jack watching from behind you.Â
âYou two are close,â Jack says, voice level, neutral on the surface but just tight enough underneath to give it away.
Itâs then you realise that you are the only two left. The lights are dim and the room smells of cleaning supplies and that slight metallic smell of polished stainless steel permeates through the air.Â
âHeâs a mess,â You comment, placing the bowl into the sink slowly.Â
He makes a noise of agreement, tossing his rag around his neck.Â
âNot as close as we are, chef,â you say lightly, almost teasing, but steady enough that it lands exactly where you intend it to. âDonât worry, youâre still my favorite.âÂ
âAm I?â He asks, running his hand through his tousled salt and pepper curls.Â
Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip, mischief in your eyes as the only thing that separated you two was the kitchen island. You lean your palms against the cold metal, leaning forward.Â
âOf course you are.âÂ
He pretends he canât see down your thin undershirt now, he finds his fingers itching to touch the exposed skin of your collarbones.Â
âYouâre my sous chef,â he says after a beat, like he needs to remind himself of something solid.
âMm,â you murmur, stepping closer to the island, palms pressing lightly against the edge as you lean in more. âAnd?â
âAnd,â he repeats, but it comes out quieter than he intended, like the word itself has lost some of its authority.
You tilt your head, watching him carefully now, the teasing still there but softened by something more focused, more aware.
âWhite pinot goes best with cod,â you say casually, like youâre talking about nothing important at all.
His brow furrows slightly, thrown off for a second. âWhat?â
You shrug, eyes flicking briefly to his mouth before returning to his gaze like you didnât just do that. âI thought we were just naming the obvious.â
His breath shifts slightly, like heâs trying to steady it without making it obvious, and he pushes off the counter, stepping closer without fully thinking about it until suddenly there isnât really any space left between you and the island doesnât feel like an obstacle anymore, just something your bodies are pressing against from opposite sides.
âThatâs not,â he starts, then stops, jaw tightening as if heâs actively trying to regain control of the situation, of himself. âWe canât just-â
âCanât just what,â you interrupt softly, not moving back, not giving him an inch. âTalk?â
His eyes drop for half a second, as they betray him before he can stop them, and when he realises just how close you both are. Even with the counter digging into both of your hips, it feels like thereâs no space between you two at all.Â
âYouâre pushing it,â he says, but thereâs no real force behind it anymore.
âI think you like it when I do,â you reply, and this time your voice drops with it, something slower threading through the words as you shift just slightly, your nose brushing against his. Your lips hovering over his warm skin, âDonât you?â
He moves, nearly stumbling backwards as he does. Like your touch burned him just as bad as the burner did earlier.Â
You follow him like itâs instinct, like the space he creates is just something youâre meant to fill. He doesnât back up once, he just lets you step across from himÂ
âListen, if Iâm reading this wrong you can tell me.â You say softly, âI wonât be offended.â
His eyes flick to yours, sharp, guarded, but itâs slipping at the edges now.
âYouâre not- fuck,â he replies, but it comes out lower than he intends, less certain than it should be. âThatâs not it.â
You hum faintly, stepping just close enough that the air between you changes again, warmer, tighter, charged in a way that makes the quiet hum of the kitchen feel miles away. The towel around his neck catches your attention, and without asking, you reach for it.
He doesnât stop you,if anything his body shivers anticipating your touch.Â
Your fingers curl around the fabric, not pulling hard just enough to feel the tension in him as you draw him a fraction closer, enough that his breath shifts slightly when you do it. You pull his neck down to your height, meeting his eyes.Â
âThen what is it?â You ask, that teasing jilt in your tone again. The same one you throw out during service that makes his cock twitch in his pants.Â
His hand comes up, hesitates for half a second like heâs still trying to decide whether he should stop this or not, and then it settles at your waist, firm but controlled, pulling you just slightly closer until the space is gone between you two entirely.Â
âYouâre my sous chef,â He repeats, his mouth dry. âYou work under me, itâs a- I donât wanna- take advantage of you-âÂ
âJack,â You coo softly, âIâm a big girl, if anything I wish youâd take advantage of me-âÂ
Thatâs all that it takes for that coil to snap. He leans forward, his hands pulling your hips flesh against his as your lips meet.Â
Itâs frantic, hot, and wet. Your lips are warm against his, teeth nearly gnashing together at the intensity of it. Before you know it, heâs pressing you against the edge of the counter, cornering you there. His hands on your hips grip tighter, before they lift you as if you weigh nothing.Â
You plop down on the metal slab, your lips still chasing each other as his knee knocks your legs open wide for him. You oblige, pliant in his hands as yours are tugging against his curls. He pulls your shirt over your head as if it personally offended him, the fabric falling somewhere near the glasses.Â
You nearly whine when his lips part from yours, but itâs soothed over with a moan when he kisses down your jawline to your neck.
âTell me what you want.â
Your back arches, the ache between your legs growing stronger with each touch.Â
âJust, f-fuck-â You can barely get the words out when his canines bite down into your skin.Â
âDo you like that?â He panted against your neck, his lips alternating between sucking and licking at the supple flesh. He moved down to your tits, kissing the exposed skin.Â
âI want you to tell me how you want it,â He demanded, âBoss me around just like you do every fucking day in this kitchen. Tell me how to touch you, where you want my lips, how slow, how fast, how you like to be fucked..âÂ
Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head at his words, your hands gripping his biceps like a lifeline.Â
âGet these pants off,â You manage to bark out, lifting your hips to give him space to pull your pants to your ankles. The thin fabric separating you from him was damp, a dark patch that had been there since the start of your verbal foreplay earlier during service.Â
âYou are so fucking beautiful.â He whispers, his eyes never once leaving yours even as his lips trail down your body. âIâve thought that from the moment you walked in here, correcting my chefs like you owned the place.âÂ
âYeah?â You panted out, watching his fingers slide your underwear to the side.Â
âAnd thisâŚ.â He breathed out, staring at your wet heat. He used his fingers to spread you open wider for him, a guttural moan leaving his lips. âThis is gonna be the best fucking meal Iâve ever had. Isnât it?âÂ
You canât speak, youâre breathing too hard, anticipation making your skin crawl. But you see the glint in his eyes, the smirk on his face.Â
âYouâre so mouthy during service, whatâs wrong? Hmm?âÂ
âFuck,â You nearly whine, feeling his fingers ghost around everywhere but where you need him the most. âIt is gonna be the last meal if you donât do something-oh.âÂ
Your head falls back against the wall as soon as his tongue makes contact with your clit. Itâs an experimental swipe through your folds, enough to have your fingernails digging into his arms.Â
âI was right,â He moans into you, "Delicious."Â
Jack Abbot was not lying when he said this would be the best meal heâd ever had, because the way his mouth was moving against you youâd think the man had never eaten in his life. Itâs messy, his tongue teasing in and out of your aching hole in between frantic sucks of your clit into his mouth.Â
You were moaning his name like a prayer, jutting your hips up into his nose without even meaning to.Â
âFingers,â You gasped out in need.Â
âYeah?â he hummed, slipping an arm between your legs so he could slip a finger inside of your soaking entrance. âYouâre so wet, baby. What got you like this?âÂ
His finger stretches you out with a delicious burn, youâre already aching for more by the time he curls the digit just right. Itâs like he can read your mind, slipping another deep inside. Theyâre so thick it takes you a moment, before youâre clenching around him.Â
âYou, just you.â Your hands are now gripping the side of the counter, watching him through half-lidded eyes. âBeen thinking of those fingers of yours, every time youâd- oh my god- stick your fucking finger into a sauce. Sucking on it like you knew I was watching.âÂ
âSame way youâd suck on those spoons while looking at me,â He whispered, bringing his mouth back down to your throbbing clit.Â
The sound was just as disgusting as it was the hottest thing youâve ever heard in the world. With each loud squelch of his fingers prying you apart, he was moaning desperately into you. His cock was hard and straining against his slacks.Â
âSâgood,â You praised, shifting your hips a little in his hold, âA little faster, wait- right there- yes, yes,âÂ
He listened intently, waiting to hear that sharp intake of breath and to feel your legs tremble around his head. He wouldnât admit how many nights he went home, fisting his cock in the shower imagining just how youâd sound when you came. How youâd taste, how youâd feel wrapped around him.Â
You could feel your orgasm approaching, and it almost pissed you off how fast you were coming apart around him. No other man had made you feel this way, but with his tongue lapping against you and his fingers curling deep inside right against your g-spot you were cumming with a loud moan.Â
âThere it is,â His voice was slurred and muffled against you.
Your shoulders dropped back, back arching and legs trembling as he didnât change his rhythm once. Your head fell back, mouth parted as his fingers slid through your folds drawing out your orgasm until you couldnât take it anymore.Â
His head was pulled back up by your fingers in his curls, your release was dripping down his chin. His eyes were sparkling as he looked up at you.Â
He brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean like he made a mess eating the most expensive chocolate in the world. Not a drop is wasted, and youâre already clenching around nothing.Â
âRemember,â You start, still trying to catch your breath, âHow you wanted me to tell you how I wanted to be fucked?âÂ
He nods eagerly, slowly rising back up to your eye level.Â
âI told you I donât like it slow.âÂ
He smirks, the crinkles by his eyes deepening as you pull him closer towards you by his belt loops.Â
âGet this off-â
âEager?â He teases, his boxers falling to the floor.Â
âFuck.â You almost laugh, watching his heavy cock fall between his legs. He was veiny, and his tip was red and leaking.Â
âI donât have any condoms-âÂ
You cut him off, eyes still locked on the massive cock that was twitching with neglect. âIâm clean, and I have an IUD.âÂ
Heâs about to ask you another question before you bring your hand down, wrapping gently around his length. He hisses at the touch, warning you to go slow.Â
âSorry, this is just- god the biggest cock Iâve ever seen.âÂ
His chest puffs in pride, watching your thumb swipe a bead of his pre-cum around his sensitive tip. He can barely take it, he needs to be inside of you so bad his legs are practically shaking.Â
âThink you can take it?â He asks, grabbing your thighs to push them up on the counter, as he settles between them.Â
âYes, chef.â You say jokingly, but you feel the way he tenses you see the way his eyes darken. You tilt your head at him, while heâs lining up at your entrance.Â
âYou like that donât you?âÂ
Heâs silent, but huffs as he rubs his tip against your soaked slit.Â
âYou gonna fuck me?â You ask, âPlease Chef-âÂ
Youâre barely able to finish your teasing when he slips inside of you slowly, a gasp gets lodged in your throat. His palm is heavy on your stomach, thumb rubbing small circles into your clit as he inches in.Â
âYouâre okay,â He cooed, âBigggg stretch, almost in baby. Youâre doing so fucking good. F-fitting like a glove, so wet for me.âÂ
You feel so full, almost impossibly full. Each time you think heâs done, he keeps pushing more into your greedy velvety walls. With one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out. His hips meet yours.Â
âFuck.â He moans, leaning his forehead against yours to kiss you gently. âNeed. This. Off.â
Your bra is unclasped with one of his hands, and pushed to the side. His head lowers to catch a nipple into his mouth, he swirls his tongue around the bud before pulling off with a pop.Â
âYou okay, honey?â He asks softly, doing his best to keep you relaxed as your body adjusts to him.Â
You nod lazily, the dull ache turning into searing pleasure after a minute of his tongue expertly sucking at every sensitive spot he could reach.Â
The first thrust has you nearly crying out in bliss, his tip is nudging so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. Heâs slow at first, steady enough to make sure heâs not hurting you and that your cunt is still dripping around him.Â
As soon as he feels your hips rocking against his, he braces his hands on your hips.Â
âMâmember what you said, baby? How you donât like it slow?âÂ
Your jaw goes slack, the moment he thrusts harder, pulling his cock all the way out before slamming back in with fever.Â
Then, heâs everywhere. His lips mouthing at your neck, his cock rearranging your guts, his thumb flicking your clit. Itâs overwhelming, in the best way possible.Â
âIâve been thinking about this ever since you walked in here in those fucking heels,â He admitted in a gasp, already lost in the warm wet of your cunt wrapped around him. âHell, since the first day I met you.â
It was one thing to have a massive cock, it was a completely other thing to know exactly how to use it. And god, did he know how to use it.Â
All control you held onto slipped through your hands, cockdrunk already on him.Â
The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin echoed through the quiet kitchen, alongside the pathetic moans you couldnât stop from slipping through your lips.Â
âSâ fucking big.âÂ
âYouâre taking it so well,â He praises, âFeels sâgood doesn't it baby?â
The moment your nails scratch down his shoulders so hard he winces, he knows heâs angled his hips just right. âThere it is,â he says, under his breath. âThatâs the spot isnât it?â
When you donât answer in coherent words he speaks up again, âCome on, talk to me. Tell me thatâs the spot baby.âÂ
âThatâs the spot,â You cry out, âThatâs the fucking spot, donât stop. Keep fucking me.âÂ
âWouldnât dream of stopping,â He huffs, pulling the hem of his white t-shirt up his torso. The hem finds itself slotted in between his teeth, keeping it out of the way as he jackhammers into you.Â
The sight of his salt and pepper hair, and his abs glistening with sweat is all it takes for the familiar feeling to creep up your spine. And he knows it too.Â
âYouâre gonna cum for me, chef.â He orders, and you feel your cunt pulse around him. âGonna cum all over my cock.â
âY-yes, chef.â Youâre gone, eyes closed and hips thrusting upwards as he pushes you down with his palm on your stomach to keep you still.
âThatâs it,â He grunted, âGive it to me- fuck use this fucking cock.âÂ
You came so hard your ears rang, pleasuring licking up your spine even hotter than before. You can feel yourself creaming around him, each thrust only making your high ride out that much longer.
âShit- youâre squeezing me so fucking tight- Iâm barely gonna last.â He spoke through gritted teeth, his hand cupping the back of your neck harshly while the other ran up and down your side, squeezing the flesh harshly.Â
âW-wanna feel you cum.â You babbled, head lolling to the side, only being held up by his hand. âFuck me full of your cum.â
âYeah?â His brows squinted in concentration, keeping your eyes on you. âWatch me while I cum.âÂ
Tears are filling your waterline as he fucks into you so hard youâre worried the shelving units are going to fall off the walls.Â
Drool is sliding down your chin by the time his hand wraps around your throat, as he groans your name loudly into your neck.Â
His hips stutter as he comes, and you can feel him twitch and release inside of you. The ropes of sticky cum are warm, filling up your cervix with each twitch until youâve milked him dry.Â
âHoly fuck,â He pants, pulling your head into his sweaty chest as the two of you come down.Â
You were both sticky and out of breath, bodies aching from the intensity of it. But still, your brows were furrowed, lost in thought before you spoke up.Â
âWait,â You pant softly, âHave we ever thought about putting a new pasta dish on the menu?âÂ
His brows furrowed, sweat still clung to his top lip. âWhat?âÂ
âI just started thinking of an herb roasted chicken mafaldine pesto pasta, with like sundried tomatoes and shallots,â You rambled, as if his cock still wasnât seated deep inside of your cunt. âWe could top it with parmesan and some lemon, freshly cracked black pepper.â
âYou realize,â He shifted, âIâm literally still inside of you.âÂ
You rolled your eyes, he wasnât wrong. His release was still dripping out of you, coating the inside of your thighs. âYes, you should be proud your dick inspired such a wonderful dish from my brain.âÂ
It was then he realised he was more far gone than he had ever been before.Â
He thinks heâs in love with you.Â
All he could do was shake his head.Â
Thatâs how you ended up staying there late into the night, both of you working to make your impromptu post orgasm dish a reality.Â
âHm, I still think itâs missing something.â He mused, looking at the freshly made pasta dough and steaming chicken that was thrown together on the tasting plates, and you nodded letting him hand-feed you yet another bite.Â
âI think,â You swallowed, âYou should take me home, and we can shower and you can fuck the missing ingredient out of my head. How does that sound?âÂ
The fork was dropped within seconds, practically grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the door. âBut, wait we need to clean up-â
âFuck them, Iâm the boss.â He shrugs, and you find yourself in an endless fit of giggles.Â
summary: You had always heard a weird, mocking voice in the back of your head telling you that the things were going to end just like that between you and Satoru. The Prince and the Pauper. You were destined to eventually drift apart.
Or not?
tags: AU, angst to fluff, breaking and making up, classical disparities, insecurities, gojo is a certified loverboy and a yearner as usual. mdni! eventual smut, p in v sex, soft emotional sex. nobamaki cameo!
MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! PLEASE HAVE YOUR AGE IN YOUR BLOG!
word count: 13.9k
author's note: hi everyone!! this is not the oneshot i wanted to finish in may, but i had some ideas brewing for quite a long time, though the concept is not really original. happy ending won, soooo enjoy and let me know your thoughts! art in the banner by @/yamada_souko. dividers are mine.
Looking back, you realised you had never got it easy for Satoru.
The tale as old as time: the Princess and the Pauper. Or, in your case, the Prince and the Pauper.
And you couldn't put it in a better way.
Satoru Gojo â the Prince of the campus, the heir to the Gojo Enterprises, the man who would get the business world in the palm of his hand, the captain of the university basketball team, whose face was plastered all across the campus, the president of the Alpha Delta Nu, so on and so forth. You got the gist. The crowd parted before him, the Universe shifted itself to accommodate his presence: he walked in every room as if he owned it, which he pretty much did â ruling every place with a charming grin and a quick wit. Guys were wishing to be like him. Girls were dying to be beside him. He barely granted anyone more attention than needed â keeping people at arm's length, except for a couple of his friends. Of course, you didn't belong to them. Not like you desperately wanted to. You were well aware of the hierarchy of the university: people like Satoru Gojo rested at the top, eyeing the crowd down. People like you? Scrambling to get to the middle. If you were lucky enough.
One spring day, you realised that either Satoru Gojo didn't know about those unspoken rules or couldn't care less about them. Because you couldn't come up with a plausible explanation for why he suddenly started pestering you. Or, in his eyes, flirting.
It began rather innocent: him accidentally bumping into you, flashing an apologetic grin; asking for a vacant place at the cafetery at your usual table in the corner, the one where the noise cut down a little and you had a better view on the students â naturally, that place become the center of everyone's attention, because wherever Gojo was, the crowd followed; helping you to get a book from the highest shelves in the library and then crushing your study sessions; waiting for you after the classes just to walk you out to the next campus with an excuse that it was on his way (it didn't. Business majors classes were hold in the corpus 20 minutes away from yours).
At first, you politely declined every single invitation to a frat party or a match. Then you tried to ignore him, but your disinterest would even more pique Gojo's attention. After this, it turned into clipped, gritted-out "no's". You even attempted to talk to his friend, Shoko Ieiri, the girl you shared the Advanced Chemistry class with.
"I don't think there's something I can do," she would murmur, eyes firmly set on some sample through the microscope, when you turned to her as a last resort. The sigh that left your lips was truly desperate. Shoko's gaze softened a tad as she looked up finally, since your presence kept looming over her like a tiny, grumpy cloud. "Satoru can be pretty stubborn, unfortunately. Especially, when he's pretty set on something."
"Yeah," scoffing under your breath, you crossed your arms, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. "Unfortunately for me. Am I another check mark on his to-do list? I just don't get it." The pencil in your hand almost snapped from the strength of your grip.
"Listen, I am not in a position to advice your something or anything," Shoko's lab chair screeched â the sound annoyingly loud in the tense silence of the lab â as she turned to face you fully. The irritation at her words flared up in you, but you forced yourself to listen to her. If not her, then who?! "But you might try to hear him out. He's not that bad of a guy."
Grimacing at her, you turned to return to your own table. "If he's not that bad, he would've taken a hint long ago."
An indifferent shrug was the only response you got.
After talking to Shoko, Gojo's pitiable attempts at "courting" you had weakened severely until coming to a complete halt. You couldn't believe your luck. But what annoyed you even more than Gojo himself was the way you would jump at seeing the familiar spark of frosty white hair in the crowd; the way your heart would do a little flip at the sound of his distant chuckles. The way the loneliness would engulf your usual table in the corner of the cafeteria without his company: you subconsciously craned your neck to see him, for all his persona and the impossible height were impossible to miss, and slumped in your seat, when he didn't happen to stroll in with a familiar effortless grace in his stride. In the quietness of the library, after the countless hours of studying, you could basically hear the grin in his voice as he handed you a couple of blueberry muffins and the bergamot tea from your favourite bakery â you didn't have the slightest idea how he managed to find out your usual order â and tapped on your nose, remarking that you actually should eat.
Somehow, Satoru Gojo annoyed you enough to...like him. Managed to creep under your skin like an itch you couldn't get rid of.
Or⌠didn't want to?
***
One basketball match changed everything.
"Sorry, sorry, ohâ sorry again," you mumbled awkwardly, navigating through the crowd and somehow managing to balance two beer cups on your way to your seats.
"Geez, finally, where have you been?"
Rolling your eyes at Nobara, your bestie slash roommate slash the only person who made your university life not so miserable, you handed her the cup and tried to shout through the cheerladers' voices, the endless roaring of the crowd and the music coming loud from the speakers.
"There was a line!"
"Huh? What?"
"THERE WAS A FUCKING LINE!"
She took a sip from her cup with a satisfied nod and grimaced at you. "Don't scream at me."
Her audacity stole your voice, and you slumped down in your seat, huffing rather indignantly.
"Hey, don't pout. Sorry for that." Nobara lightly elbowed your side and opened a pack of salted peanuts, offering you a truce.
"Can't believe I agreed to go with you," a light grumpiness coloured your voice as you drank from your own cup.
"Aw, that's because I am awesome and you love me so, so much," she chirped gleefully and planted a kiss on your cheek. With her head on your shoulder, Nobara sighed dreamily at the sight of Maki Zenin â the manager of the university's basketball team. "She's so cute, isn't she?"
Meanwhile, Maki gestured widely, screaming something at her phone (not very pleasant as you might assume from your seat) and threw her bag at a guy in front of her. The guy followed her figure with puppy eyes.
Your lips twitched with a barely concealed smile that you hid behind another swig. "An angel, truly."
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"
Her words fell on deaf ears because at that moment, some airy melody rang from the speakers, followed by the joyful voice of the commentators to finally announce the start of the match.
Swallowing nervously, your eyes darted across the court, and the moment your gaze landed on the tall figure with stark white hair, your heart galloped at a racing speed.
"Who are you gawking at, huh?"
Gojo might've really had the eyes on the back of his head â he wasn't called Six Eyes for nothing, some weird sixth sense that you assumed related only to the basketball court â because that very moment he turned around and briefly scanned the audience. His eyes widened in surprise as he spotted you: the bright blue of his gaze and the joyous smile that broke on his face caught you so off guard you nearly dropped the cup. Like he was happy to see you there. Actually happy.
You offered Gojo a shy wave â a subtle move of your fingers â that only made his grin wider. Then, Suguru Geto tapped on his shoulder, and he quickly turned back.
Your hand fell limply to your side.
"Babe, what the hell was that?" Nobara hissed, jerking her chin towards the players gathered around for the last guides from the coach Yaga. "Have you just casually flirted with Satoru Gojo? Don't you hate his lungs?"
The next words came in a breathy voice. "I don't know anymore."
Your knowledge of basketball was rather... limited, but you dutifully roared along with the crowd the moment your university scored yet another point. The people's excitement was contagious, seeping right into you as well and lacing your voice with joy. You booed at the judge when he gave advantages to the rivals, screamed at the top of your lungs and held your breath at the last quarter. Your team went neck-and-neck with the other, and every point was crucial. You could see it in the way the player's uniform was drenched in sweat, their hair stuck to their temples, and laboured breathing. The stakes were too high.
The scorebox showed the fifteen seconds left â mere moments for you and the whole eternity for those at the court. Your eyes drifted to Gojo, as driven to him by some unknown force. His sharp gaze quickly darted from one teammate to another, calculating the last opportunities to score. And then...it found you amidst the sea of spectators. Cheeks flushed, hair a total mess, chest expanding with deep breaths. A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he took you in. Adorable.
But for you, the moment Gojo's gaze landed on you felt completely different â resembling more of a bolt of lightning that sent every nerve in your body on fire. You couldn't hear your own thoughts with the blood pounding at your temples.
Gojo barely tilted his head, nodding towards the basket and mouthed.
"This is for you."
He dodged one guy, then the other with perfect dribbling â you barely saw anyone in their element as much as Gojo was at the basketball court â and finally went for a shot.
Time seemed to stop moving in the gym of the Jujutsu University. The hundreds of eyes watched the ball cutting through the air with an impeccable trajectory.
Until it went through the net without hitting the rim and sealed the win.
You barely released a shuddering breath when Nobara crushed you in a hug, her beer mercilessly spilling on you both, but no one gave a damn. The crowd erupted with an ecstatic cheer and rose to their feet right then and there. The commentators were on the verge of crying, judging by their voices, but your world narrowed to one particular person. Gojo's teammates ruffled his hair, patted his back, and hugged him by the shoulders; someone even put him in a playful headlock, to which he responded with a wide grin.
A tight knot in your chest slowly seemed to loosen a bit.
Gojo found you later, at the party.
You stood a little away from the crowd, watching Nobara laughing with Maki Zenin near the bonfire. The light painted her auburn hair in copper tints every time she tilted her head, and judging by the way Maki's gaze lingered on her form, she noticed that too. A little smile curled your lips at the sight of lovey-doveys.
"Your friend has a crush on Maki, huh?"
Putting a can to your lips, you mumbled absent-mindedly, "She's pretty obvious."
"They both are, actually."
A light brush against your shoulder finally caught your attention. You lazily shifted your gaze, only to gulp at the sudden proximity to Satoru Gojo.
He stood beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, watching the rest of the party unfold with a faint smirk on his face. Standing there, existing, like he wasn't the one who flipped your world upside down a couple of hours earlier.
A forced smile made your cheeks hurt as you tumbled out nervously, hastily wiping your mouth, "I amâ I, I mean, congratulations! You did so great! I don't understand much about basketball, but youâ," your worried your bottom lip for a second before breathing out, "you were magnificent."
At your words, Gojo finally turned around. His grin softened into a gentle smile that showcased a pair of dimples on his pale cheeks. The firelight danced on his hair strands that seemed more ivory tinged now.
"You think so?"
"I do!" A sudden feeling of boldness flooded you as you stepped forward and reached for his arm to show how sincere you were. Or maybe it was just a beer.
Gojo immediately cast his gaze down and slowly wrapped his long fingers around your wrist. You gulped, but didn't look away from his face. The gods clearly spared nothing in sculpting it, otherwise you couldn't explain the sharpness of his jaw, the plumpness of his lips and the prominence of his cheekbones.
No one had a right to be that beautiful. Satoru Gojo wasn't aware of it.
His thumb pressed just a tad against your soft skin to feel an erratic pulse beneath it, but you did not attempt to pull your hand away. On the contrary, it felt strangely...natural.
"I am glad you were there." A gentle murmur hit you harder than expected.
Breath bated, you searched Gojo's face for any hint of the usual theatrics and grandeur until you saw none.
"You are?"
"Yeah".
The words about the last shot were on the tip of your tongue already, but they quickly died at the sight of shimmering blue in his eyes as Gojo finally looked up and released your hand from his grip.
You already missed its warmth.
"Listen, I knew I was a jerk towards you. Crowding and flirting and so on. I know, I know," a self-deprecating chuckle left his lips as the ironic roll of his eyes followed. You watched every expression, soaked it like Gojo was about to disappear again from your life. "I am not proud of this, I admit. I want to apologise to you for this."
You parted your lips to answer, but Gojo cut you off with a slight shake of his head.
"But I am not going to apologise for my feelings," his voice grew stronger, rising from the gentle murmur to the steady tone, eyes boring into you with an unsettling intensity that left you speechless. The people's cheerings fade into the background, and that chilly evening, thick with emotions so deep you couldn't name them, enveloped both of you in its bubble.
"I meant everything. I do like you. I like the way you smile when you finally grasp the concept you've been studying. The way your voice goes all that animated when you talk about the book you were reading. That little sparkle in your eyes when you saw the last cherry pie in the cafeteria...I love it all. And that shot was for you. I really meant it."
"I am gonna ask you just this once, and if you reject me, I will step back and never bother you again. You have my word," the weight of Gojo's promise would almost physically pin you to the ground, if not for the desperation lurking behind his gaze, darting between your eyes and your lips. He forcefully tore it away to glance right into your face. "Will you go out with me?"
You didn't believe what you were about to say. But hey, that day was already weird enough. You offered Gojo a crooked smile. "Yeah."
"Just one date, you won't â ", he blinked in surprise, a light frown crossing his handsome face. "Wait, what?"
You stifled a laugh and nodded, stepping closer, until you felt the hard planes of his chest. "I will go out with you."
A slow, almost dopey in its joy, grin curled Gojo's lips, until a small disbelieving chuckle left him. "You will? Just like that?"
Now you couldn't contain a smile either. "Just like that, Gojo."
A whoop full of happiness cut through the air and the noise of the party that slowly came to its eventual end as Gojo swept you off your feet and twirled you in a bone-crushing embrace. Your laugh was the prettiest sound Gojo had ever heard.
"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear you won't regret it!"
Satoru Gojo kept his promise. And many others he whispered in the dead of the night to you beneath the star-spilt sky. His hand was a steady anchor amidst the stormy life that awaited both of you. His voice offered you peace of mind when the world was a little too harsh for you. His fingers traced reverently the silk of your skin every time he shared a night with you. His gaze was the first you searched for in every crowded room. His arms had become the safest place in the world.
Satoru memorised the way you organised your life, but you were more than happy when he eventually disrupted your usual order. Not because he was doing that on purpose. Rather, since that was Satoru: he was too big for your world, and you didn't want him to shrink himself into someone he wasn't. Dimming Satoru's light was the last thing you wished.
He had learnt by heart the things that even you didn't pay attention to: for example, your toothbrush always had to face the door â Satoru wordlessly turned it the way you preferred; your favourite plant was Zamioculcas that he made sure was always watered visiting you; you usually carried a few packs of wet cat food for the stray babies in your enormous bag â he ordered large boxes, so you wouldn't run out of them; your drink of choice was Margarita that you shared only while hanging with Nobara â Satoru learned on his way to pick you up; you hated the loud harsh sounds, and Satoru was the first one to whisper sweet nothings to you and rub soothing circles against the small of your back until you calm down. In other words, he made your life easier.
You, on the other hand, only added more difficulties to his. Satoru never told you that, not even mentioned in any way that you were somehow different from him. But some things didn't have to be pointed out to catch your eye.
Like his Prada glasses, which cost like your monthly rent or two. Satoru could leave them somewhere without batting an eye. Or the luxurious gifts he would get you out of nowhere just because you barely glanced at something while strolling. That warmed your heart, yes, but the cheque that Satoru couldn't care less about startled you. You stayed in the lab until you almost fainted from fatigue just to finish the project before the deadline to get an extra payment to spend on the gift, since you were adamant that the relationships were about taking and giving in equal measure. Not to mention the one social gathering he invited you to, just off-handedly, before the day it actually happened; you drained your bank account to look presentable by his side, and lived on the instant ramen the entire month after. Maybe if you had accepted Satoru's offer to live together, none of that would have happened, but you learned the hard way to rely only on yourself. Luckily, the iron argument sealed the deal: your tight schedules at the lab and his as a pro basketball player didn't match well.
The Gojo family was another... topic. While no one said anything directly to your face, you noticed the way their brows knitted in confusion for a fleeting second, eyeing you up and down. Sensed the baffled glances and fake, saccharine sweet smiles behind your back, questioning the fact of your presence. No. Your existence. The mere raise of the brow from one of Satoru's distant cousins at the sight of your shoes â the ones you borrowed from Nobara, who got them after the Fashion Week in Paris, albeit last year's Dior collection â had you doubting your entire life.
Complaining had never been on your list, though some thoughts did cross your mind. You made sure not to voice them, stoically listening to all the hushed whispers. Not once did your smile falter in front of them. It was the least you could do for Satoru. You knew he didn't have a lot of joy in standing up for you every single time, so, eventually, the gatherings got shorter, the invitations came rather rarely, and the calls, already small in number, would always leave him in a bad mood. The sound of your name appeared quite frankly between the gritted words and heated yells.
"Don't worry, baby," Satoru's lips always found the crown of your head in the reassuring kiss when you asked him what was going on. The bitterness in his voice poisoned your already tired, insecure mind even more. He was a master at hiding his emotions, but never from you. "I got this."
A strained smile â the corners of your lips lifting just barely â was your usual answer.
"Of course."
Satoru then offered you a quick grin that never reached his eyes. His large hands cradled your face in the gentle, trembling grip, and the faint murmur would twist yet another knife between your ribs. "I love you. I love you so much. You know that, right?"
Leaning into Satoru's palm like a kitten, seeking warmth, you bit inside of your cheek not to cry. Your hand came up to cradle his hand against your cheek just to memorise the way it perfectly engulfed your face.
"I love you."
Not to dwell on the way you voice cracked, akin to ice beneath one's feet, you simply moved forward to capture his lips in a kiss, until all you could taste were tears. Yours, his... Did it matter anymore?
And then, under the pale moonlight coming from the lone crescent peering right into the bedroom of his large penthouse, your gaze drifted unabashedly over Satoru's face, taking in every flutter of the long, snowy eyelashes. Every breath that left his lips. Every faint twitch in his expression, and even every tiny snore. Your finger tenderly traced the bridge of Satoru's nose, making its way to the perfectly sculpted mouth and down to the sharp cut of his collarbones. Committing each pale freckle and beauty mark to memory.
For you knew that night would be your last one.
Satoru loved you, and you loved him. He loved you fiercely, with the force so burning it could rival the Sun itself. It was only fair for you to step back and let him shine. Not to drive another wedge between him and his family. You loved Satoru enough not to burden him with your presence. He should soar up in the sky, not stay chained on the ground by the dead weight of you and waste his time knocking some sense into his parents.
A muffled sob escaped your throat as you pressed a small kiss between his collarbones. The next thing you felt was Satoru's strong arm curling around your waist to pull you against his strong chest. The faint smell of musk still clung to his skin, but you had never revelled in it as you did now.
"Why aren't you asleep, baby? Something's wrong?" Satoru's voice came in a deep, throaty tone that would usually have your toes curling.
The edge of the blade dug deeper into your heart, drawing blood.
"Nothing, love. Just some weird thoughts, that's all."
A boyish grin adorned his face â so handsome even in the middle of the night â as he lightly flicked your forehead.
"Your head will hurt from all the overthinking. Head so tiny, yet so many thoughts. Come here," Satoru let a shuddering yawn and tucked your head under his chin, nuzzling gently against your hair. "Better?"
Biting on your lip, you prayed to all the gods that Satoru wouldn't hear the tremble in your voice. The steady beat of his heart lulled you to sleep, but you knew you wouldn't close an eye that night. "Yes."
"Try to sleep, okay?" Satoru's finger came to play with a lone strand of your hair. The smile in his voice was evident. "And if you don't, just wake me up. We can talk or watch that documentary you mentioned earlier. I mean, did Tyra really not take any accountability?"
You gathered any ounce of your strength not to fall apart right then and there.
"Of course, Toru. Go to sleep now."
He sighed in mock exaggeration. "Always so bossy."
His chest rose steadily under your cheek. His skin felt warm under the weight of your palm. You registered it all subconsciously, clinging to every part of Satoru.
And only when his breath fully evened, you allowed yourself to whisper to the night.
"I love you. And I am so sorry."
***
You sincerely thought you were a nice girlfriend for scheduling your breakup over the weekend. Waited until Satoru finished showering and emerged all smiley and happy from the bathroom. Waited until he recalled all the TikToks he sent to you in the early morning, not even knowing you already had blocked him on all the socials. Waited until he dug in the last breakfast you cooked for him â fluffy pancakes with strawberry jam.
"Babe, this is so delicious," Satoru hummed, pointing a fork at you. "Are you sure you didn't wanna become a chief? I mean, this is the gift from the heavens."
"I think we should break up."
Satoru paused mid-way, mouth still open. He slowly closed it and heaved a hollowed chuckle, chewing on the pancake with more force than necessary. "Very funny, sweets. An excellent joke."
Straightening in the seat, you furrowed your brows in confusion. Weren't you clear enough?
"I said we should break up."
That time, Satoru finally stopped chewing and slowly lifted his gaze at you. The electric blue pierced deep in your soul as he pressed again, "And I said it was an excellent joke."
"Satoru," the movement of your throat was sharp as you fumbled with words. "I am not joking."
The desperate flex of his fingers caught your attention immediately when Satoru curled them into a fist before taking a deep breath. The smile that carved into his lips was as sharp as the knife.
"Care to explain why?"
A thousand thoughts twirled in your mind those days like a restless whirlpool, each of them seemingly worse than the previous: "I don't love you anymore", or "You suffocate me with your love", and the traitorous "I cheated on you."
All of them lie, of course.
So, you settled on offering Satoru the least you could do â the truth.
"We just don't work out, Satoru. It's better to break up before â "your voice was so tiny and fragile, Satoru thought he was hallucinating: his worst nightmare coming to reality, " â things get more serious."
The loud, screeching sound of the chair being pushed away, followed by a self-deprecating, disbelieving laugh, filled the room. You glanced up at Satoru only to find him pacing around like a caged animal. Your words punched him right in the gut.
"We don't 'work out?' Before 'things get too serious', huh? Sweets, that's gotta be a joke. The most shitty, not funny and cruel joke you have ever pulled on me, but okay," he nervously carded his fingers through the white hair, before walking to you. "Tell me this is it. Please."
You cast your gaze down, not able to see the way his eyes frantically searched your face for any hint of a joke and hear the crack in his voice, usually so steady and certain. A rock, a lighthouse in your stormy ocean.
The shake of his hands was violent as they came up to frame your face. You choked on a heavy sob, trembling like a leaf with the tears blurring your eyes so hard you couldn't see anything.
"But we were â, are working just fine. Have I done something wrong? Is it because of me? Just tell me what to do, I swear I'll fix everything!"
"It's not about you, Satoru. Never has been. It's about me."
His white brows furrowed in confusion. "You? What about you? But you are perfect for me," he chuckled almost tenderly â a small sound frayed around the edges â that only ripped your heart out. "You listen to all my stupid jokes, know how many sugar cubes I put in my coffee, and put the curtains down because you know how sensitive my eyes are. You stayed with me at the hospital after the injury and cheered for me the loudest." His voice rose just a tad to coax a smile from you. "You have never told me how to be someone I am not. Always seen me, not the Gojo heir. Not the star player. How can it be about you? No one in the world knows me as well as you do. Like â," his gaze swept across the room like something might've helped him to talk you out, "like your last Christmas gift, huh? That premium card you swore you just stumbled upon in the store, but I knew better how much it â Wait."
Satoru's smile slowly died as the realisation downed at him like a wicked joke of fate. "No, no, no, no. That can't be it. Is that because of money? My status? I told you countless times that it doesn't matter to me! What I have is yours." His voice dipped into the fragile, almost sacred warmth that he reserved only for you. "All I have is yours."
You couldn't do that anymore. Not even in the wildest thoughts did it occur to you that breaking up with Satoru would hurt that badly. It rather resembled a never-ending torture.
He never understood it. Growing up in a family that barely made ends meet. Pouring your blood, sweat and tears into studies to get a tuition fee waiver, because there wasn't any other option for you to get into the university. Scraping by taking double shifts at the cafe. Fighting tooth and nail over the place in the chemistry lab.
And never would.
Pushing Satoru away, you closed your eyes in defeat before forcing yourself to look back at him. He didn't dare to mutter a word, watching your face twist with pain as you shouted.
"It matters to me! It matters to me, Satoru, how fucking inferior I feel next to you!"
Something in his gaze faded away. He didn't recognise his voice when it came in a short, fractured breath, devoid of all strength.
"What?"
A violent sob rattled your frame as you hid your face in your palms. You cried and cried and cried until your chest tightened with pain, and you managed to utter hoarsely. "Every time I get into your home, or every time someone sees me besides you, I want to run and disappear into the cave. Don't you see that, To â Satoru?" No. He wasn't your Toru anymore. "I am like, dunno, a disastrous glob of ink on Monet's painting. A patch of dirt on the Versace gown. A bling-bling amidst Graff's and Harry Winston's. Well, you get it. Something to wipe away or hide in the closet. Someone who doesn't deserve to stand by your side."
"I don't get it," Satoru dragged his hands over his face and shook his head, letting out a humourless laugh. His eyes flashed with a weird gleam. "Did my parents or anyone at that point say something to you? Because if they did, I fucking swear â"
"No one said anything to me, Satoru! It doesn't matter. Because they say it to you â"
"And as I said, I don't care â "
"BUT I DO!" The rise of your voice to a frenzied cry startled both of you. Satoru stared at you with a gaze so desperate that a kiss of the gun would've been more merciful. You fiercely wiped your snotty nose â hell, you must've looked so ugly â and walked over to cup his face. He watched your every move as if you were about to disappear. In a way, you were going to.
"I do not want anyone to say something about me to you. I do not want you to fight with your family over me. I want you to be happy. Do not be torn between me and the world you belonged to."
Satoru wanted to shake you by the shoulders just to knock some sense into your head, scream and shout what a total bullshit your words were, but instead, he got rooted to the spot by your doe eyes. His stomach twisted at your next words.
"You'll meet a beautiful, smart, and kind girl, who wears pearls that cost more than I will ever be able to make, plays Brahms at the family gatherings, and who doesn't turn red in the face, while asked about favourite Japanese modern artists. Well, now I know plenty." You couldn't help but huff a tiny chuckle. Nothing twitched in Satoru's face. "And you will fall in love with her, and your whole family will like her. Everything will be just fine."
Satoru couldn't believe what was happening. Nothing in his life could ever prepare him for the pain that would follow with your leaving him. It didn't feel real. Probably, never would.
He slowly tilted his head down and rested his forehead against yours, whispering, barely audible. Like every word cost him a fortune. "Please, baby, please. I swear on my life, I will do everything. Just don't leave me. I don't â," Satoru's hands slip up your face as well, but you closed your eyes in defeat. Any ounce of strength left in your body evaporated. His arms fell to his sides as he croaked out helplessly. "I don't know who I am without you."
"You are you, Satoru. Always have been and always will be. A brilliant, wonderful, kind boy with a golden heart. And I..I am just me," you pressed your lips in a thin line before forcing a smile. "But I will work on it. As I said, it's all because of me."
"You don't get it." Somehow, Satoru's lifeless whisper hit you harder than any scream would. Because Satoru never raised his voice at you. Even now. There was a hunch to his shoulders that you rarely saw, if ever, as he turned from you and gripped the edge of the table. "I want to marry you. To become your family. But guess that doesn't matter anymore. Before things get too serious, huh?"
The room spun around you as you knitted your brows together, slumping in the nearest chair. Marrying⌠you?
But, on the other hand, it didn't change anything. You were still miles away from each other, standing on opposite sides of the societal hierarchy.
"I am so sorry, Satoru," words clawed up your throat as you shook your head.
Satoru finally turned around, and the dimmed, utterly devastated blue of his gaze tore you apart at the seams. "You are not sorry. If you were, you won't be leaving me now."
You didn't have enough in you to counter this. Words seemed meaningless, slipping like sand through your fingers.
"Please, Satoru. Let us go. It is for the better."
You had never seen an expression that hopeless and defeated on his handsome face.
"Is that what you want?"
"No," you wanted to scream, to shout, to cry out loud. "How can I possibly want to leave you? I have to. For both of us."
The silence stretched thin between you for so long, Satoru sincerely thought you didn't hear him. He stepped forward only to see you giving a short nod, almost cruel in its curtness.
After all, he never denied you everything. Even that. Even if it killed him from the inside.
Standing by the door with your bag, you couldn't help but steal a last glance at him. You parted your lips to say goodbye, but nothing even remotely plausible came to your mind. Satoru sat on the couch, shoulders slumped and gaze fixed on the floor. His name left your lips for the last time.
"Satoru."
His head snapped up as if he had been waiting for it that entire time. Maybe you changed your mind?
"Yes?"
That fragile hope in his tone twisted your insides.
"I love you."
Before he could answer, you slipped out of his apartments. And his life.
***
These months, the four agonising months, marked by Satoru's absence in your life, had sucked. Mildly put.
You sincerely thought you were doing the right thing â well, still were â breaking up, sparing his life from your presence, but it didn't mean it hurt any less. In a way, it was the opposite.
Pushing the love of your life away and then grovelling in the silence of your small apartment after putting on a brave face and assuring everyone that you were okay sucked. Crying yourself to sleep sucked. Feeling your heart breaking to pieces each time your gaze stumbled upon something that instantly reminded you of Satoru â like a photo on the fridge, his note with a smiley, kissy face between the pages of your comfort book and the tome of the manga he was reading â sucked. Walking around the places you used to hang out sucked.
What sucked even more was the fact that Satoru's presence seemed to linger everywhere. His laugh haunted you while you were lounging on the couch. The look of pure happiness on his face was ingrained in your mind while you were walking in a familiar park. And when your eye caught sight of a ball? Didn't even mention it. Perhaps that was your punishment. Now you were subjected to a lifetime of loneliness.
Still, you tried to do the thing you promised Satoru the final time you saw him. Attempted to go out of your shell. Took on some hobbies. Had a lot, a lot of time for self-reflection (given that you were free most of the evenings when you didn't throw yourself into work). And took small steps to discover what made you whole.
What and not who. That realisation sank on you with the force of a tidal wave. Kept you awake in three of the morning. Occupied all your thoughts until you finally, finally, were getting used to it. Still, there was a lot to be done. You only wished for Satoru by your side, though. Were you allowed to think about him, after all?
The revelation, of course, only made your mind drift to Satoru even more. How was he? Was his injury getting better? Did his father officially appoint him as the next CEO?
Gods. You sure had no right to worry about him anymore. Not after breaking both of your hearts. An utterly desperate and lifeless look on his face flashed every time before your eyes when you closed them.
You dragged your feet back from the nearest combini: Friday had finally marked the end of a long, exhausting week (not like you had many left, huh) and you treated yourself with sushi and a bottle of wine. There was nothing you wanted more than to run a bath and put Sex and the City on, rotting under the blanket. It would've been thousands of times better if Satoru were there, but alas...
A few raindrops fell on the asphalt, successfully putting the train of your miserable thoughts to a halt, and you hurried to the entrance of your block. Quickly fishing a pair of keys, you glanced up from your bag as something caught your attention in the periphery, and you got immediately rooted to the spot.
You would recognise the set of those shoulders, now slightly hunched, everywhere. A grey hoodie did nothing to hide his figure. White tufts fell over his forehead under the hood, and something twisted viciously in your chest at the sight. Your fingers twitched with the urge to feel the silk of that hair under your touch.
You took a deep breath, trying to take a rein over your hammering heart, and stepped closer, calling the man out softly. Rather hesitantly.
"Satoru? What are you doing here?"
Satoru went rigid for a moment at your voice. His shoulders tensed even more. Your throat clogged up.
But then he turned around and smiled. A tiny, almost pathetic lift of his lips, and he offered you a small wave. Just like the one you gave him at that basketball match.
"Hi, ba â" Satoru immediately corrected himself, wincing just for a second. His smile wavered, as did your composure. "Hi."
The effort that took you not to drop your things right then and run into his arms was only between you and the gods.
"Hello to you too." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stepped forward. That totally wasn't the way you imagined that meeting would go.
"What are you doing here?" You prompted again, trying not to sound either harsh or desperate. Desperate to hear his voice. See his eyes. Look at his face.
"Just... was going around. Stumbled at your place. You still live here." Satoru lifted one shoulder in a nervous shrug, and his little smile morphed into a quick, uneasy grimace.
You didn't question those stalker-ish tendencies, but the doubt was clearly evident in an arch of your brow, because Satoru instantly raised his hands in surrender.
"No, really. I guess my legs just carried me there. Some memory, you know," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, but then sighed, seeing your suspicion. "Come on, sweets. If I had been stalking you all that time, I would've done it way more discreetly."
That brought you some relief. "Guess you would've."
His Adam's apple bobbed with an effort. "Can we, uhm, talk?"
Something in your guts was telling you had a pretty good sense of the way this talk would go. You weren't sure it was the right time and way.
Casting your gaze down, you worried on your bottom lip before breathing out, "I'm â I'm not sure this is a good idea, Satoru."
"Please", his voice took on a pleading edge. You closed your eyes for a brief moment. "I just want to know how you are. That's all."
He was lying. And he knew you were well aware of it.
But, in the end, wasn't that what you wanted? To see him, at least? Well, here Satoru was.
Thunder roared somewhere in the distance, and you were pretty sure that soon you both would be drenched to the bone.
"Besides, you don't want to get me standing under the rain, do you?" An amusement curled Satoru's lips before he let a humourless chuckle. "Have some mercy on your ex-boyfriend."
That sounded like a slur coming from Satoru. You glared at him. His smile turned even sharper.
Torn between the current state of your... relationship, and the fact that Satoru was standing right in front of you, you completely didn't know what to do. You didn't part your ways that badly. And you had never wanted to be that person who would resent his ex and scowl at every mention of them.
Because that was never true. You loved Satoru. And, judging by the yearning lacing his gaze and the nervous flex of his hands as he awaited your response, he still loved you, too.
After minutes of debating, with the rain intensifying, you finally gave in and nodded towards the entrance.
"Get in."
Satoru's wide smile now resembled more of a child's on Christmas.
"Yes, ma'am."
The weight of Satoru's gaze, burning a hole in your back, felt rather physical. The tension in your kitchen threatened to suffocate you both, while you busied yourself with making tea and a gigantic cup of hot cocoa for Satoru.
You placed the drink in front of him, and Satoru shot you a small, curious grin.
"Whoa, marshmallows."
"Yeah," you still absent-mindedly bought them at the grocery store. Habit. "You know, three years of always getting your marshmallows weren't in vain."
Satoru looked at you as if he seriously considered offering himself as a sacrifice at your altar.
Damn those puppy eyes.
Rubbing your palms up and down your thighs, you cleared your throat and offered an awkward smile. God, you wanted the ground to swallow you. "So, uhm, how have you been, To â Satoru?"
He pressed his lips together and leaned back in his seat, right hand on the back of it, like he was incapable of sitting straight. Well, some things never changed.
Satoru didn't look at you, instead glancing out of the window at the heavy rain, drumming against the windows.
"Not so good."
You immediately dropped your gaze, hugging the cup with sea ââbuckthorn tea. The scorching liquid might've burnt your hands a little, but it was nothing in comparison with the sharp pain in your chest.
Licking your lips, you forced yourself to look up at Satoru. He was still staring at the rain like it held something only visible to him. The muscle in his jaw jumped.
"I am sorry, but â"
Satoru released a long sigh and turned to you. You almost flinched at the sight of his eyes â usually so bright blue, flashing with mirth and charm, now reduced to the lifeless, dull grey. Under the better light, you also noticed the dark bags under Satoru's eyes, the hollow in his cheeks and even the light stubble. You had never seen him like it. Like he aged ten years or more in those months.
That was all because of you, right?
Tears filled your eyes so fast you couldn't even blink them away, when you felt salt on your lips.
You wanted to apologise once again, but then Satoru leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, feverishly running his fingers through the white strands. Were you a little crazy, or even his hair seemed moreâŚashy?
"I am not gonna lie, I have never felt more awful and pathetic and miserable â well, you get it, in my entire fucking life," he waved his hand dismissively, and you closed your eyes just for a fleeting second, because you couldn't afford even a moment of not looking at him. That talk went even worse than you imagined. "But after you left, something hasâŚchanged."
You sat upright and drawled hesitantly, "LikeâŚwhat?"
He huffed a humourless chuckle, and his eyes flashed with a weird, almost malicious glint. Your insides went cold.
"Well, I just told my father that he can suck my dick â"
You slowly covered your face with one hand. That was not good. Very, very bad, actually.
" â if he even for a moment thinks I was going to marry one of the girls he and my grandfather suggested. And then he started threatening to cut my trust fund off, blah blah, blah. Like I've ever given a single fuck about it."
Something in his tone was telling you that wasn't everything that had changed.
Satoru's voice sharpened in a way that could cut even the hardest steel.
"That was okay. Nothing I've heard before. But when he started talking about you," his voice dropped to a whisper and dangerously cracked. You couldn't hear it anymore. "That's where I draw the line. He knows that. Now everyone knows that."
A loud groan left you as you dropped your head in your hands.
"What have you done, Satoru?"
He just rolled his eyes. Harsh and sharp. "What I should have done, obviously. A long time ago. Tell all of them to fuck off."
"Oh â"
"Mildly put," Satoru scratched his head with a mild grimace. "And then got kicked out of the house. Trust fund cut off, obviously."
You couldn't believe what you had just heard. Satoru might've thought that his words would somehow soften you, so you could coo at him or whatever. But never did he expect you to slam your fist against the table and grit throught your teeth.
"Have you fucking lost your mind?"
Satoru blinked in shock, watching you suddenly stand up and turn from him, your hands curled into fists by your sides.
"What?"
Taking a deep breath, you tore your gaze from the windows and threw your hands in the air.
"Are you an idiot?"
Well, that kind of hurt. "I don't understand."
"Satoru." Oh no, he knew that tone. That only meant you were seething with rage. There were no means of escape, especially as you loomed over him. "So let me get it straight. You fought with your entire family, they kicked you out of the house and left you with no money."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"All because of me!?"
Satoru didn't like the way you said "me". As if you were something not even worth mentioning. The dirt beneath his feet.
"Satoru, we are not together! I am not your girlfriend anymore, I am not even in your life! We don't even talk! You can't throw your life away because of me! That's stupid!"
"Well, maybe I am stupid, hasn't it occurred to you?"
"Satoru," your voice trembled on the edge of tears. Why didn't he understand you?! "I am serious. This is serious. This is your life! This is all you haveâ had, especially given you can't damn play with your injury now!"
Satoru didn't answer you. You only saw the way he swallowed with effort, and the look of utter longing on his face told you everything.
You helplessly slumped back in your chair and hid your face in your palms for a small eternity. Satoru didn't dare to interrupt. He just watched you, soaking up every feature as if you were about to kick him out of your apartment forever. That was an option. You were pretty pissed.
He attempted to soothe you, "But there's something good."
You slowly glanced up, and Satoru almost snorted at the look of total disbelief in your eyes. "Such as?"
Satoru quickly stood up and kneeled between your chair, taking your hands in his. Cold as usual. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed your palms with his thumbs. As usual.
"I mean, you said it yourself, sweets. That is all I have known for my whole life. Rich kid, golden youth, spoilt guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, all that stuff. I thought maybe it was it? My chance to find myself, huh? I don't want to be their toy to boss around all because of money."
Something crawled up your skin and twisted sharply in your chest as you breathed out, "What do you mean?"
Was he serious? So you both were doing the same thing all that time?
Satoru squeezed your hand harder and gave you a crooked smile.
"Just been here and there. DoingâŚsome stuff."
You tilted your head in a silent question. He chuckled breathlessly and shook his head.
"Don't laugh, okay? I am teaching some kids basketball at school."
"Oh," your lips curled up in a tender smile as something warm bloomed in your chest. "That's really nice. You like it?"
"Yeah," Satoru's answer was immediate. And for the first time that evening, you saw a familiar spark in his eyes. "Kids can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but they are really cute. Listen to me, call me Gojo-sensei. Kinda gets in your head, you know."
A small snort escaped you, and the wide grin broke on his face. Oh, how he missed that precious sound.
"Where do you live now?"
"Crashing Suguru. He's not particularly happy when I drown my misery in another pint of strawberry ice-cream â "
Your smile slowly disappeared.
" â when he brings in some girl, but I bribe him with dark chocolate. You know he can't live without it."
"That he can," you uttered in a strained voice. Satoru's grin wavered as well, and he hesitantly reached to tuck the lone strand of your hair behind your ear. His hand trembled a little.
"What about you? There are boxes everywhere," he leaned back with a soft murmur, glancing around your apartment with packed staff around. "Moving out?"
Your heart suddenly felt twice its size, thumping violently against your ribs. "Uhm, yeah. Moving out."
"Where?"
Well, that was it. You squirmed in your seat, and Satoru's hand slowly fell to his side. He just waited.
"EhâŚFrance."
He pinched his brows together with a slight frown and repeated incredulously, "You are moving to France?"
Satoru's sharp blue gaze seemed to pierce through you. Unable to meet it, you looked away.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Sighing deeply, you stood up and leaned against a kitchen counter, hugging yourself. Satoru immediately rose to his feet.
"That was a pretty much hard time for me too. Not delving into details, butâŚyeah. I felt like shit. Everyone was dating someone, or building a successful career, or, I don't know, just doing something meaningful," you gestured vaguely and combed your hair with a shaky hand. Satoru just stared at you like a lone, kicked puppy. "While I willingly kept fucking my own life over. Cooped yourself in that place. Left the love of my life."
Something in your face softened at the last words. Satoru forgot how to breathe.
"And that certainly shouldn't beâŚin vain, whatever. I told you I was going to work on myself, and I kind of do. Step by step, but I am going there."
"I still don't understand. I am happy for you, really am, but why are you leaving Japan? What about your mother, your job?"
What about me?
"My department's had its financing cut. My presence is not required anymore, as they said. I am just working the last two weeks, and that's it."
"Oh. I am..I am sorry to hear it."
"As for my mom," you didn't seem to hear Satoru's words at all, staring somewhere past him. "You know, she's never really cared that much about me anyway. She'll survive."
As cruel as your words might've seemed, you were right. Your mother was anâŚinteresting woman indeed.
Satoru desperately cling to anything that could make you stay here like a lifeline.
"What about Nobara?"
Surely, you couldn't leave her. You two had been together from the first time he saw you at the university campus.
"Actually, she was the one who offered me that."
"Huh?!"
"She's recently been promoted at her job to the French edition of their magazine. Fashion weeks, runways, photoshoots⌠You know her, she's been ecstatic about it. So, when she asked me about itâŚI said I would give it a thought. I mean, it will be a nice fresh start, won't it? I don't have anything left here, soâŚwhy not? Gotta take risks, something like that."
Satoru couldn't believe his own ears. That would've been his nightmare coming true, if not for the fact that his worst one already was real. No. He wouldn't let you go that time. That was the stupidest thing he had done in his life, and if he had to begâŚwell.
The worst thing that you seemed pretty confident about it. But looking closely, he saw your hands trembled a little by your side, and your gaze darted nervously around. So, there still was some chance.
He ran his fingers through his hair. The gears seemed to work nonstop in his mind as he glanced around for any clue or sight for support. UntilâŚ
He weakly breathed out, "I am going with you."
Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "You what!?"
Satisfied with your reaction and his genius mind, Satoru smirked lazily, "I am going to France with you."
Did you stare in The Office or something? Was there a hidden camera to look at?
Helplessly blinking, you finally managed to utter, "Excuse me? You going to France? With me?"
"I know, I know what you are thinking. He's crazy, an idiot, proper name, last name, backstory stuff, but hear me out!" Satoru walked to you and squeezed your shoulders, his eyes frantically searching your face for a hint of understanding. You still stared at him as if he had just announced he was going to fly to the Moon, no less. "You broke up with me because, citing "you felt inferior to me," right?
Pressing your lips into a thin line, you gave him a flat look. "Correct."
"But I am not superior in any way to you now! You're discovering yourself, me too, so why don't we do that together? Start everything from scratch? Including," his Adam's apple bobbed with effort as his hands slowly slid down your figure to rest on the dip of your waist. Your skin tingled at the contact. "Including us."
Blood defeaningly roared at your temples, and your heart jumped right into your throat. Wouldn't it be strange and weird? Getting back together after you pushed him away? After breaking both of you?
One of Satoru's hands drifted upwards to cradle your face, while the other pulled your figure closer to him. Your head spun at the sudden proximity. His thumb delicately traced the line of your jaw and settled on the apple of your cheek.
"How is that stupid and weird, if I love you?" Shit, had you been musing aloud? "And you love me."
You parted your lips to answer, but then Satoru tilted his head down just a bit, and it was enough to feel the faintest brush of his lips against yours. With knees slightly trembling, your hand flew up and twisted the fabric of his hoodie for support. Your tongue darted out to lick your lip for a mere second; it was enough for Satoru's gaze to flick there and stare at your mouth as if hypnotised.
"Or you don't?" You almost leaned in for a kiss when he suddenly pulled away, despite being a breath away from devouring you. You gulped and lifted a pleading gaze at him â and not like the look on Satoru's face was any better. A strange kind of bitterness settled in your chest at the shakiness of his voice: he really doubted it. Well, you gave him a good reason to, didn't you?
It baffled you. No. Weirded out in the worst way possible.
So, instead of answering, you simply stood on your tiptoes and pressed your lips against his. A feathery, almost invisible, but it was enough for Satoru to release a groan and kiss your back.
You forgot how to breathe. The room spun around you, and if not for Satoru's hand holding at your waist, you would've collapsed for sure. The familiar sense of heat shot through you as you boldly slid your hand up Satoru's toned shoulder, grazed his undercut â wait, did he actually whimper at that or what â and ran your fingers through the silky white hair. The months of raw longing, poured in that kiss, laced every brush of your tongues, stifled moan and impatient tug with desperate want. Damn, you almost forgot his lips slotting perfectly against yours, his gently nipping at your bottom lip, and his hot, raspy breath fanning over your cheek when you pulled away before delving in again and again.
Blinking away dizziness, you managed to gather your bearings together just to mumble, "Does it count as an answer?"
Satoru's chest rose up and down as if he had just run a marathon, and he slowly shook his hand in response before tilting your chin up. His eyes resembled more of a stormy ocean than a breezy sea, but his hold was as tender as always.
"I love you, Satoru. Still am and always have been. I told you the same when â," you swallowed the lump in your throat, "â when I left you." Voice sinking into a small, almost miserable whisper, you went on, "And I am sorry for that, so damn sorry, you didn't deserve it."
"No, no, no, baby, stop it," now both his hands cradled your face as his gaze gently caressed every twitch in it, every shift, every freckle and mole. "You did what you felt right to. I accepted that, even though it was the hardest thing in my life. Believe me or not, I felt so stupid and shitty and miserable for letting you go, but I had to respect that. I only wish I had noticed you feeling that way sooner," he ended with a small, bitter smile, placing a kiss on the tip of your nose before gently nuzzling it. "Missed you so, so much."
As much as you wanted to lean into Satoru's touch again with no care in the world, you felt the need to apologise for once again, "No, Satoru, but â Maybe if I told you that instead of going away, we wouldn't be apart these months. I am sorry."
"Stop that," his voice cut you off, not firmly but enough to shut you up. "Really, stop. I am not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. And maybe I need that too. Shook me good to realise what things really mattered in life."
A sad sigh left your lips when you remembered what happened between Satoru and his family. Yes, they were jerks, but you never wanted to be the reason for the wedge between them.
"But hey, now we're two psychos together, trying to figure out what to do with their life! Together, right?" Satoru's gaze carefully searched yours, and as you nodded enthusiastically, his face broke into the brightest grin possible. Maybe only rivalling the one he gave you when you agreed to go out with him at that bonfire party.
"Love you, love you, love you," you murmured between kisses, nuzzling against his jaw, eliciting shaky moans. Your hands slid under his hoodie to feel the hot skin under your palms, but the sudden roaring of the thunder made you jump.
"Oh, fuck."
Satoru wanted to tease you at first, but he quickly bit his tongue, remembering that noises like that still scared you. You mindlessly gripped his hoodie tighter, pressing your frame against his for comfort. His hand cradled the back of your head, and he tucked it under his chin, whispering soothing words.
"Maybe you wanna lie down or something?" Whispering into your hair, Satoru pressed his lips against the crown of your head as another tremble shook your body at the particularly frightening sound. His gaze briefly flicked at the sky through the windows. "Yeah, not getting better soon."
Without further ado, you sighed in response and gripped his hand to walk to your bedroom. In every other situation, his hands would've been on you in a second, but not now. Especially given that you had just gotten back together.
Your bedroom hadn't really changed: your favourite stuffed plush bear sat over the sheets, guarding your sleep; a stupid lava lamp that Satoru once gifted you was still on the bedside table, not to mention the horde of houseplants (he sadly noticed the absence of some) at the windowsill. You hadn't packed the bedroom stuff yet, though a couple of boxes obediently waited in the corner.
After all those months, Satoru's presence felt kind of weird in your bedroom, but now, with his hands enveloping you in an embrace, you had never felt happier.
You both stayed up the whole night: gods, you almost forgot how easy it was to talk to Satoru. He told you more about the kids he was teaching, the school, and that he tried to do some modelling photoshoots. It turned out pretty good. "Might be a nice gig," he shrugged nonchalantly, but you noticed his eyes sparkling with mirth.
You filled him in on the work drama, places you visited in your attempts to go out of your shell, hobbies you tried â his eyes widened at the mention of drawing and pottery, and he demanded to see your works the first thing in the morning.
You snorted quietly. "I don't think they are anywhere as good as your photos."
Satoru huffed under his breath and lightly nudged your shoulder. You both lie face to face now, smiling and giggling like a pair of students you once were. You felt as if you were floating in happiness.
"Come on, baby, don't be shy. I am positive they are nice."
"No, Toru, they are not. Believe me, my first flowerpot was disastrous." You turned a bit and waved at the deformed blob of clay, hiding in the corner. Satoru followed your move: his lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of a poor thing.
"UhmâŚwell, it's not that bad." His shoulders shook with a barely suppressed laugh, and you rolled your eyes good-naturedly.
"It's okay, you can laugh."
The laugh he let was truly thunderous, and even you, the mighty creator, couldn't help but laugh alone.
"Babe, I am sorry, it's just looking at me like I have to end its suffering," after some time, Satoru finally wept some tears and breathed out weakly with his hand on his stomach. You both looked at the hopeless blob. "Why do you keep it, anyway?"
Sighing in response, you murmured, "Dunno. I can't bring myself to throw it away."
Satoru just hummed in response and settled back against the pillows. "Will you take it to France?"
Your heart skipped a beat at the mention, and you just shrugged indecisively. The light mood you had slowly evaporated. After some minutes, you rolled back to face Satoru again, only to find him already watching you closely.
"Were you serious?"
He tilted his head in question; his hand came up to brush a hair strand behind your ear. "About what?"
The next words came in a hesitant whisper.
"Moving with me to France."
Satoru's thumb traced your bottom lip before he dropped his arm to the side. Shrugging casually, he lifted a steady gaze on you. "Are you still thinking about moving there?"
You swallowed nervously before nodding. "Yeah."
"Then I was serious too. We're dating again, it's only logical then."
You couldn't fight with that argument.
"Guess it is. I justâŚ," you lifted one shoulder, still doubtful. "Can't believe you do that for me."
And he couldn't believe you questioned it. But instead, Satoru just blinked at you and muttered in the most serious tone possible.
"I told you I was going to marry you. Yes, I still want to. I wasn't joking and trying to hold you back in the heat of the moment â"
You wordlessly glanced at him.
" â okay, I did, but I was serious. And still am. Hell, baby," the mattress dipped under his weight as Satoru scooted closer. "You're the only thing â not a thing, person, I mean, you're the most serious I've ever been about anything and anyone in my life. I swear. Where you go, I follow."
His voice cracked at the last words, and you let a shuddering breath, cupping his face.
"Are you sure? What will your family say? Job? Suguru?"
Satoru lifted a corner of his lips in a small grin, recalling the same arguments he used to talk you out of moving.
"I am pretty sure I can find something there. Isn't this a part of discovering yourself, too? It could be pretty fun. Who knows, maybe I have some secret talent for pastries. Not just eating. Baking! Plus, I know French," he beamed at you like the Sun. You couldn't help but grin back. "It's a little rusty, though."
You both snorted, but then a frown crossed Satoru's face, and his tone turned more serious.
"SuguruâŚhe'll understand. We still will be talking, right? Not as we used to, butâŚhey, now I will have an excuse to send him even more stupid memes."
"I am sure he will be ecstatic about it."
"He won't have any choice, heh. And my familyâŚhonestly? I don't really care. We both said everything we wanted to each other. I do not see any sense in bowing and scraping."
Your face crumpled in a grimace as you recalled that you were one of the reasons that entire thing happened, and hunched your shoulders. "Still sorry about it."
"And I am still saying you shouldn't be."
Minutes passed between you in a relative silence, interrupted only by the car noises and distant humming of the refrigerator as you stared at the ceiling. Finally, you turned to look at Satoru. Moonlight painted his features in an even more breathtaking way, highlighting the sharp jawline and illuminating the blue of his eyes.
"SoâŚwe are really going to France."
Satoru smiled at you â the gentle one he saved only for you â and reached for your hand to interlace your fingers slowly.
"We really are."
***
The morning sun crept through the blinds, bathing a bedroom in a soft, ethereal light, and its beams lazily caressed your face in feathery kisses. As your nose twitched at the sensation, begrudgingly, very begrudgingly, you blinked and reached for your phone. It came to life with a faint buzz; you tried to focus your bleary gaze on the time and sighed in relief as you still had half an hour before the alarm.
A careful attempt to sink back into the sheets didn't go unnoticed by the whole mountain of heat and muscle beside you. Satoru's arm snaked around your waist with an energy too restless for a sleepy man.
"Where are you going to, huh?" His voice, still deep and thick with sleep, felt like a pure sin against your nape. A shudder ran through your body as he gently nuzzled the soft skin there and pressed his lips against the point that shouldn't drive you crazy like it did. "Morning, ma choute."
Amusement curled your tone as you breathed out a chuckle, "Your favourite word, huh?"
Instead of answering, Satoru hummed something unintelligible against the curve of your neck, nosing it, while his lips found your pulse point.
"Can't help it. Not my fault if it fits you perfectly. So sweet," his head went into a dizzy, hazy state at the whiff of your chocolate shower gel and something so uniquely yours. "So soft." The hand that rested leisurely on your belly lazily drifted upwards to cup the tender swell of your breasts. Your breath caught in your throat as you arched into Satoru's touch with a quiet, sleepy moan.
"Ah, SatoruâŚ"
When your voice dipped into that syrupy bedroom voice, laced with so much want, Satoru never could help himself. His hips bucked involuntarily, eliciting a surprised gasp from you, as you felt the throbbing of his length against your backside.
Your hair fanned over a pillow like a halo, catching the bright light, and Satoru's heart skipped a beat. He gently bit down on your pulse point, and as your gasp rose in a tone, he quickly soothed it with a lick of his tongue.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Can't believe you're mine." The heat crept up your body all the way to your cheeks, not only at the way Satoru rolled your nipple between his fingers, palming at the soft skin there, but at the bewilderment in his voice. As if he were actually shocked.
Another moan left your lips as you closed your eyes in the utter pleasure, coursing through your body and tightening your insides into the sweet knot. Subconsiously, you pushed your trembling thighs back against his front, to which Satoru responded with a low hiss.
"You're in a teasing mood today, huh?"
A sharp pang of disappointment shot through your body when his hand left your chest.
"SatoruâŚ"
"Shh, patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait, don't they?" You almost whined at the loss of the contact, but then his hand â god, that hand â wrapped around your throat with a light grip, just enough to turn your face and capture your lips in a lazy, unhurried kiss. He licked at the seam of your mouth, and you immediately opened it, granting Satoru access. Your tongues lazily tangled, exploring each other; you slid your free hand down his toned pecs, sharp abs and wrapped it around the already hard cock. Giving it a few unhurried pumps, you heard Satoru moaning unbashfully against your mouth.
"Oh, fuck, yeah, keep going, love. Just like â, oh, just like that."
You fondled his balls with a sly smirk, to which he responded with a sharp, almost desperate cry, andâŚstopped.
"Hey, baby," the pout was evident in his voice, "That's not fair. Like totally not fair."
With a smirk widening, you turned just a tad to see his half-lidded gaze darkening with lust. "Haven't you just preached to me about patience, Toru?"
Satoru's head hit your shoulder as he let a groan, followed by a disbelieving laugh. "Vixen. You drive me crazy, you know that?"
"Yeah, yeah, yet you're still not inside me." After rolling your eyes impatiently, you finally heard the sheets rustling. Your insides clenched in anticipation.
Laughing quietly, Satoru kissed your shoulder, pulling you closer against his front. His hand slid under your hip, lifting it for better access, and hoisted it over his own. You almost whimpered as the thick head of his cock nudged your already wet entrance.
"Look at tha-a-a-t," the heat flooded your body even more at the cocky tilt in his voice and the way his fingers lightly grazed your folds. "For someone so soaked, you have a pretty big mouth running, ma chĂŠrie."
You attempted to glare at Satoru, but it ended rather poorly with the way your eyes were glazed with desire. Giving you a smirk, not even trying to hide his arrogance and smugness, he hastily fisted his cock and aligned it with your entrance, slowly yet surely filling you up inch by inch.
"F-fuck, you're so tight," Satoru's hot whisper fanned over your jawline as he pressed heated kisses up to your mouth. "So warm, so good, so p-perfect â babe, don't clench me like that, f-for me."
Your lips parted, forming almost a perfect "O" in its shape at the burn of the stretch, and the first loud moan tore from your chest, when Satoru finally gave you a shallow roll of his hips.
"Sa-Satoru, yeahâŚ"
With no hesitation, you reached behind and tugged at the soft white tufts above Satoru's undercut, pressing his head into your nape to seek even more contact until your bodies fused in a messy, unintelligible tangle of limbs, needy touches and wanton moans. His hips built a slow, languid rhythm, moulding your insides into the shape of his cock; each thick vein and ridge of him against your velvet walls made your mind swim in pleasure, so overwhelming it drowned every coherent thought. One of his hands snaked up to squeeze your breasts, eliciting more shaky whimpers from you.
"Love you, love you so fucking much, you don't even, ngh, under-understand, shit, y-yes," Satoru slurred against your cheek after yet another sloppy kiss, his tongue darting to taste the salty skin as you literally cried in ecstasy when he hit that sweet spot inside. You were completely sure he would never let you forget this. His moves gradually lost their rhythm, giving in to a raw, primal desire. A string of desperate whimpers spilt from your lips, and you turned your head to muffle these cries in the pillow.
Wrong move.
Seeing it, Satoru's lips curled into a sharp smirk. He quickly wetted his fingers and dragged them down to press quick, tight circles on your clit, and with all the stimulation, your body jolted in pleasure. Heat, shameless and urgent, built at the base of your spine, coursed through your veins and lit every part on fire. His cock twitched inside you at the way you breathed out his name with such desperation that put all the prayers to shame.
"Give it to me, baby. Be a good girl, yeah? Cum for me."
Your thighs shook violently, which was a telling sign that you were close; he feverishly rutted against yours, rubbing your clit in quick motions, panting against the curve of your neck. His eyes rolled in pleasure as your cunt fluttered around him, coating his shaft in juices, and with a shameless guttural groan, he cummed too.
The sound of your name, spilling from Satoru's lips like it was the only word he knew, brought tears to your eyes. Of love, of longing, or devotion, you weren't even sure.
Satoru was still in you, behind you, wrapping you in his arms and scent, when you awkwardly tried to turn around. He lazily blinked at you â the blue of his eyes resembled the glimmering waves of the Mediterranean Sea, which lapped the shores of the city that had become your home. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you lean in to press a quick, almost chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. They twitched with a soft grin.
"Someone's awfully sweet. Good morning, I guess. Really good, that time. What if â "
Before Satoru finished, your hands framed his face, and you kissed him again, taking your time. He released a quiet, unexpected sigh and melted into it immediately, giving you all the reins. Sweet and soft, your tongue swept over his plump lips and explored his mouth, until you both pulled away to catch your breath. Resting your forehead against his, you muttered quietly.
"I love you."
Satoru didn't answer you right away; instead, he cupped your cheek, his thumb grazed the soft skin under your eyes, and he murmured back.
"I love you more."
You didn't want to delve into the endless fight of who loved whom more, so you just settled against his chest with a soft sigh. Satoru tucked your head under his chin and gently ran his fingers up and down your spine.
"How are you feeling? Wanna cuddle a little or go showering?"
"I wish we could cuddle more, but Nobara and Maki are coming inâŚvery soon, actually."
Satoru stilled for a moment and released a groan, reluctant to let you go and leave that bed, jutting his bottom lip in the biggest pout known to the Universe.
"Is it today? Do we have to go with them, baby?"
"Yes. Toru, we promised them to show the Fine Arts Museum. Maki didn't visit it last time they were in Marseille because it was shut for some renovation. Apparently."
"Geez, I was hoping for a round two. And maybe three in the shower. Besides, we were there with Suguru last summer." His hand slid down to squeeze your butt in the last attempt to persuade you, but you stood your ground. With great effort.
"Satoru, no. We don't see them often. Get up."
Saoru's hand that reached to pinch your side as you hopped off to get to the shower, limply fell to his side. He groaned as his head hit the pillow, but as the sounds of water running filled the space, he enthusiastically got up and padded to the bathroom. He could be prettyâŚconvincing when he wanted to.
Indeed, an hour later, Nobara suspiciously eyed both of you up and down â your hair told her everything she needed to know. Satoru didn't even try to hide a big dopey grin that screamed "I just got laid by the most gorgeous woman in the world". You elbowed him. Hard. His smile got even wider, so you sent him to help Maki with their suitcases.
"You know, I am so happy for you." You gave Nobara a cup of scorching latte, just the way she preferred. Her lips curled into an amusing yet soft grin. "No, really. You both look radiant."
She laughed heartily, nodding in gratitude; however, her gaze was fixed on your front yard. You followed the direction and chuckled as well, seeing Satoru and Maki trying to coax Nobara's cat â a fluffy, totally spoilt Persian named Lady â out of the carrier. She only hissed in response.
"Yeah. Me too. She'sâŚI don't know how to explain it. But I am so happy she agreed to move here. The same is for you, by the way. Provence does wonders for both of you. Even Gojo."
You rested your elbows on the table with a melancholic sigh. Yes, the start of your journey in France was quite turbulent: a total mess with language, documents, fighting with landlords over the rent, and taking up any gigs for moneyâŚIt only helped that you had some of it saved. Endless hours of work, tears and efforts poured into building your new life finally got its fruits: at one of the fashion shows, Nobara introduced you to the famous photographer, who instantly fell in love with your works. And SatoruâŚ
"Phew, finally," the front door opened, revealing beaming Satoru with Lady in his arms, whoâŚpurred in content. Nobara's eyes widened in shock.
"Lady, what? He's a man! Have some dignity!"
"Can't help it if I am that charming," he scratched the kitty under her chin. "Even cats know that."
"That's, unfortunately, true." You squeaked in delight at Maki's tired voice and jumped into her arms. After a few solid minutes of hugging, you finally released her as she begged you to show her the bathroom.
"So, Gojo," Nobara drawled in a voice too casual. Satoru exchanged brief yet pointed glances with you. Lady cracked one eye open and yawned, staring at her catmom. "Do you have, by any chance, some calissons left?"
In Nobara's language, that meant she had been dying to taste them, but she would never admit it to Satoru. "Don't tell him, or his ego would grow even bigger!"
So you just happened to drop that you wanted to have those candies, and of course, Satoru whipped some up: they just waited to be baked. Judging by his cocky smirk, he already figured both of you out.
"Why do you call me Gojo? She's a Gojo too, you know?" The oven beeped a couple of times when Satoru put the tray with callisons inside. Nobara only rolled her eyes and hugged you with a grin.
And Satoru once decided to try his hand at the things that he loved the most in the world (after you, of course): sweets. In particular, pastries. To put it concisely, baking. It took a lot, a lot of time and years of learning in culinary academies under the guidance of chiefs, before he could finally name himself the one.
Marseille greeted you with arms open, the fresh scent of pastries lingering in the air, mesmerising views and the centuries of history ingrained in its walls. You left Paris after you realised it was high time to move forward, and since you mentioned a couple of times that you wanted to live in Provence for some time, Satoru started to look for a home and a place for his own bakery. His own thing. That he built only by himself, with no family barking and ordering him around. He and you. And Satoru could've never been happier for it.
You indeed had never made it easy for him. But now, seeing you laugh with your friends, among the paintings, with the sun casting a soft, almost amber glow on your figure, Satoru realised he would rather have things difficult with you than easy with anyone else. Because you were worth it.
You were worth everything.
Š wiserion. do not modify my work in any way (copying, translating, ai feeding, etc.)
Synopsis. Five times Fushiguro Megumi and his particularly determined elementary class attempt to matchmake the strong, surly divorced Fushiuro Toji with youâtheir pretty elementary school teacher. And the one time it doesnât end in disaster.Â
(Or in other words; the one time Fushiguro Megumi might just become a big brother?!)
Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!teacher!reader, DlLF!Toji, 5 + 1 things, crackfic tbh, Iike MAJORLY, brainrot, sigmas, Megs and co., faiIed matchmaking, Tojiâs a YEARNER, but canât pull, bake sales, cherry bIossoms, SO many references, kids Iearning bad words from Toji (smh), parent-teacher meetings, tension, oraI (m + f), heâs FĂRAL, manhandIing, spĂtting, p taIking, p sIapping, fĂngering, cIit bĂting, GRADING, somewhat roIepIay, heâs MEAN, heâs BIG, biiiig stretches, you grade HIM, cervĂx smooching, sIight banter, cIit pinching, more p sIapping, sIight brĂŠeding, mentions of kids, feeIing for himself, taIking you through it, creampĂes, cĂşmpIay, stuffing you FULL, brief headIocks, implied marathons, getting together, happy endings, pet names, swĂŠaring.
Word count. 15.4k
A/N. And shoutout to Megan THEEEEEE StaIIion for teaching me what rizz was mhm- aIso slightly inspired by my Unckuna fic here <3
FUSHIGURO MEGUMIâS (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHERâPHASE ONE: RIZZ.
ââŚand thatâs the problem.â
Fushiguro Toji canât believe this.
No matter how he looks at itâthis is weird, right?Â
After all, no respectable single father would be hesitant to drop his son off at his elementary classroom- instead lingering by the wide, multi-colored building steps for a few seconds before finally entering like a lamb to the butcherâs. And even worse- no respectable single father would let himself be ruthlessly interrogated by his son over this fact.
And worst of all, reveal - after much intense probing by a nine-year-old - that this was all becauseâŚhe happened to haveâŚa stupid crush on one of the teachers.
âWhich one?â Megumi looks up through jet-black bangs much like his, nose crinkling at the thought of his father having- eugh, feelings.Â
Toji sighs. âDonât mean to push you into your emo phase early, kid, butâŚâ
And then he glances beyond the little oneâs frame.
Right. At. You.
The entrance to Tokyo Jujutsu Elementary opened up to the main hallway; with classrooms upon either side, and doorways spaced between walls that were kaleidoscopes of crafts and schoolbag hooks and polaroids of students over the years. If Toji looked hard enough then heâd even be able to find the polaroid where Megumi was flipping the camera offâheâd learned that one from him, see.
That was an awkward parent-teacher meeting.
But that was also the day he properly met you - beyond just the polite nod and hasty small talk at drop-off and pick-up.Â
With your adorable flowery apron on - courtesy of elementary school policy - and your lips trying very hard not to twitch up into a smileâvery nicely telling Megumi that that wasnât something good kids do.
Toji agreed then. Heâd have agreed with anything you said.
âBut you were the one that taughtââ
Heâd slapped his hand over Megumiâs mouth then.
Youâd let a small laugh slip- and he was a goner.Â
After that meeting, Megumi may have lost something (iPad privileges for a whole month), but Toji gained something: this little ember of attraction that he couldnât shake off no matter how much he tried. Every routine pick-up and drop-off, every bake sale, every little notification that lit up his phoneâyou typing into the parentsâ groupchat about some announcement or the other. And though itâd never be anything too personal, his heart always thundered in his chest as he clicked those notifications open. Is it weird that he set a different tone for your notifications?
The harder he tried to ignore it, the further it kindled.
Until he evidently couldnât even walk inside that damn building without feeling some part of him melt just a littleâŚ
Even now, his skin burns as he watches you.Â
Biting back a laugh as one of your students hugged their guardian goodbye- so hard that both adult and child topple over. And then youâre being grappled into the same embrace, which youâre letting yourself be tugged intoâsoon enough, three more of your students join in. One tucks a wildflower from the garden behind your ear.
Sunlight falls across your face as your head falls back in a laugh - and then youâre leaning forwards and grabbing all of those tiny bodies in a hug.Â
Toji canât help but wonder whether youâd like to be embraced just the same. Toji canât help but wonder whether youâd laugh just like that when youâre picked up and spun around, feet never touching the ground. Toji canât help but wonder why the hell Itadori Yuji was pointing and laughing at him.
âMr. Fushiguroâs dad, your face looks funnyâ!â He squeals. Loud enough for multiple parents to turn and look.
Toji grumbles something underneath his breath and straightens, like the respectable adult - the respectable adult - he is. Cool. Calm. Collected. Mature. âOh yeah? And your hair looks funny, kid.â
Now those same parents were turning to him and glaring.Â
âWhatâ?!â He gruffs out at them, hands raising in surrender. âHe started it.â
Itadori turns to them and smiles an utterly precious, gap-toothed smile.Â
He tells himself that heâs imagining the way they seem to be pulling their kids away from him.
Itadori stops laughing and ruffles his own coral-pink locks. The boy had strong-armed himself to become one of Megumiâs best friends since their first day; and he always has made himself known as the chatterbox of the group. The sweetheart. The trouble-stirrer (one of them, at least). âMy grandpa says itâs um- jeanetic. My father had pink hair, too.â
Toji raises a brow, âOh?â
âYeah! Did you know my uncleâs in prison?â The boy looks squarely up at him and beams. âHe sets things on fire.â
âSame, bud.â
âI eat dirt.â
ââŚwhat the fuck.â Toji whispers underneath his breath- though it mustâve been loud enough for the keenest of eavesdroppers to listen, because before he knows it, a little boy with a face mask and the most atrocious bowl cut Tojiâs seen in his lifeâpulls out a notebook from his backpack and starts furiously scribbling something down.
Assumably the profanity heâd just spoken.
Inumaki Toge, was it?
Now heâs the one stepping away from these damn kids.Â
But before he can get too far, Toji feels a tug on either armâhe looks to his right: Itadori.Â
Attempting to climb up his forearms and biceps like monkey bars.
He looks to his left: Kugisaki.
Looking knowingly between you and him.
âThese partners stink of-â
âWhat was that?â Kugisaki asks.Â
âNothing.â Toji quickly replies. And then there was the other one: Kugisaki Nobara was impossible to miss in a classroom. If not by her chattering that was just as loud as pink-haired Itadoriâs, then by the red, rubber hammer that she seemed to be fond of, smashing it on top of peopleâs heads if they displeased her. He was just in the middle of wondering whether he could be successfully knocked out if she hit him hard enough when-
âWhereâŚare you taking me?â He quickly narrows his eyes- just as soon as the little girl started pulling him by the hand. Towards your classroom. âHeyââ
âOh, câmoooon.â She rolls her eyes in a manner that was far too expert for her age. âHow is the male lead going to get the heroine if they donât even talk?â
âIâm not the main character?â
Itadori - who had by now managed to perch atop his right shoulder like some parrot - whispers uncomfortably in his ear. âHowâs the rizzler going to get the skibidi?â
Toji whirls to him- âBless you?â The fuckâŚ
Megumi follows and nods sagely. Deadpanning. âDadâs not sigma enough for that.â
âNot you, too?!â
âHi?â
The Earth had given way from underneath him. But in reality, it was just your voice breaking through the chaos of the elementary lobbyâItadori had begun gripping onto his shaggy, black bangs for balance now- and Toji was doing all he could to peak through the boyâs cutely chubby fingers.
A breath catching in his chest once he realizes that theyâd walked him all the way over to you.
Apron on. Brows raised. A flower tucked prettily behind your ear. Standing right at the door to your vibrant classroom; you kept a hand on your mouth to stifle your obvious smile. Though nothing could hide the light in your eyes.
And before Tojiâs given the opportunity to wax shitty poetics about it in his mind, youâre nodding at the boy latched onto Tojiâs head. With a smile- âDown now, Yuji. What have I said about climbing people like monkey bars?â
He sighs and removes his hands covering Tojiâs eyes, âTo not climb people like monkey bars.â
âAnd what are you doing right now?â
âClimbing people like monkey bars.âÂ
âDown, please.â
Yes, maâamâŚTojiâs thinking to himself. Snap out of it, man.
It was like a miracle. Itadori Yuji - for however much of a sweetheart he was - was never the type to listen to authority so directlyâyou could tell the kid to not eat glue and heâd chug down the whole bottle. Toji knows. From experience.
But itâs as easy as butter that heâs sliding off the older man now- and soon enough, his small red shoes are hitting the floor. And heâs staring up at Toji with his scarred mouth gaped open.
In fact, everyone was.
âUm, Fushiguro-san? Is everything okay?â Your brows then pinch in concern.
Kugisaki slaps her forehead, and Megumi seems to sink deeper into his bangs. As quickly as the words are registering in his headâheâs shutting his mouth and faintly puffing his broad chest out. Making sure that you see the way his beefy biceps flex as he scratches behind his neck. âYeah- yeah, everythingâs alright. How about you?â
âCanât complain.â You giggle. And when there doesnât seem to be a follow-up question, he flexes even harder. âI see uhâŚyouâve been hitting the gym lately, Fushiguro-san.â
âOh, me?â He has the audacity to look a little shocked. âThatâs cute, doll. But I donât hit the gym.â
âYou must take steroids then.â Itadori pipes up gleefully. âMy uncle takes them, too-â
âIâm all naturalââ
As this subsides, youâre taking control of the chaos like the professional you are. âAlright, oh- look at the time!â Sweeping a glance behind you at the classroom clock, âWeâre almost late for attendance and rehearsal time. Letâs get inside, kids.âÂ
You start ushering some of them inside- and Toji squirms as those balls of energy rush past him. Evidently you were preoccupied with them, but you have enough time to look up at the older man and flash him a smile-
âAnd Iâll see you at pick-up then?â
Faintly, he nods. âUh-huh.â
âGood.â You cock your head up at him, âHope you have fun with the gym then~â
âU-uh-huh.â
He can only watch mutely as you whisk a few students inside and clap your hands to get their attentionâsome of the parents were filtering out and he knows he must look like such a creepâŚbut you were just so astounding. And at least he hadnât completely fucked up that interaction-
âMr. Fushiguroâs dad, sorry for your aura loss.â Itadori pats him comfortingly on his side. There were still some students milling about with their goodbyes.Â
He whirls, âFushiguro Toji doesnât lose aura-â
âBut you did.â Kugisaki nods with her arms crossed. âYou fumbled, Fushiguro-san.â
He turns to his beloved son for reassurance.Â
Megumi looks at Toji blankly. âYou never had aura to me, dad.â
âThatâs it-â
âBut itâs okay.â Kugisaki says, âThe male lead never gets the heroine in the first five minutes. They have to suffer first. You just messed up Phase One.â
He almost feels sorry asking. âAndâŚwhat is Phase One?â
âThe rizz phase.â This time, itâs Itadori that answers. âYou have zero rizz, Mr. Fushiguroâs dad. Butâwe have a plan.â
âA plan?â
Itadori holds up three fingers. âFour more phases before you win Ms. Teacherâs heart!â Not so loudâŚheâs grateful you havenât noticed them yet.Â
Megumi holds up the correct number of fingers. âFour more phases to embarrass yourself, dad.â
What moral support, son.
âI donât knowâŚâÂ
Itadori nods seriously, âTake it this way, Mr. Fushiguroâs dad- thereâs a red button and a blue button in front of you. If you press the red button you die alone like my uncle probably will. If you press the blue button you totally rizz Ms. Teacher up and live happily-ever-after before she divorces you. Which button would you press?â
Neither?! His jaw drops. âWhat the fu-â
âWe just want to matchmake you!â Kugisaki shoves Itadori aside.Â
He eyes the kids warily. Leaving his love life to three elementary schoolers? Has Fushiguro Toji really fallen this far? OhâŚhe really is getting old. âWhatever. I donât a shi- damn.â
And the answer is yes, yes he has.
But then Kugisaki clasps her hands together and beams, âThen in the end youâll be just like Jinu and Rumi from K-pop Demon Hunters!â
And beside himself, Toji cracks a little smile. âYeahâŚyeah, maybe we will.â
âYouâll die in the end and sheâll become a demon!â
ââŚletâs just stick to Phase Two.â
.
.
.
FUSHIGURO MEGUMIâS (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHERâPHASE TWO: SWEET TREATS!
Status: PendingâŚ
Why did he agree to this shit again?
Though it wasnât exactly Valentineâs Day; Fushiguro Toji was lugging a cart âround the candy aisles of Maruetsu supermarket, followed by three children with sticky fingers that just kept on piling even more sweets into the hefty chocolate-filled cart. And more. And more. And more-
And though Toji agrees that there was never a wrong day for chocolate - he was just damn relieved that yesterday had been pay day. These brats didnât even glance at the price before throwing chocolate bars and heart-shaped candies over the cart rim.
Right alongside a bunch of flour, butter, and whatever shit one needed to make cookies.Â
Because yesâFushiguro Toji was apparently the type to make cookies now.Â
Itadori tosses a bunch of Daddy Tonyâs Chocolonely into the cart. âWeâre totally chocolate-mogging everyone in the store right now.â
Why did he agree to this shit again?
Itâd been their idea.
Tokyo Jujutsu Elementaryâs annual talent show was nearing. The decorations were being made. The kids were rehearsing after-school. And Toji didnât care too much about such thingsâthe only reason this had stuck in his mind was because youâd sent a message about it in the group chat. And heâd read that little sentence over and over again until he memorized it.Â
To raise funds for such an endeavour, the elementary was hosting a bake sale; where parents - should they choose to do so - could contribute their own baked goods and little treats and candies that could be sold. The year before, Toji had honestly just sent Megumi off with a bag of chips that Itadori had scoffed down in all of three seconds.Â
Though, in his defense, it wasnât mandatory and he didnât know what the fuck a bake sale was supposed to be.Â
Phase Two of the plan seemingly consisted of emptying out Tojiâs pockets- the three of them had insisted that this bake sale was the perfect opportunity for Toji to make his move on you.
It was simple, reallyâbake cookies for the sale, sell them there, and when it came to you- woo you with a special heart-shaped cookie and ask you out. Simple!Â
Was it obvious that this plan had been concocted by a bunch of nine-year-olds?
Toji sighs.
He glimpses Megumi wandering into the meat section and reaching for ÂĽ50,000 Wagyu-
The next day, after burning the first few batches of cookies and setting fire to his kitchen only twice, Toji found himself crammed into a pretty pink-frilled booth at the official annual bake sale. Equally as pink apron cinched around his waistâand his t-shirt so tight that he catches a few single parents giving him appreciative looks.
Though he wasnât paying attention to that.Â
He was keeping his eyes on you- making your way from booth-to-booth, laughing along with parents and trying out everything your students had to offer.Â
Toji lets out a long, lingering sigh.
He was never going to get over this damn crushâ
Next to him, Megumi and his two best friends were the ones manning the counter and giving out cookies to paying customers. He hates to admit it, but business was booming.Â
âHeyâŚhey, if I pay you in chocolates would you sell this shit again for me?â
Megumi looks up at him blankly. âI want 60% equity and ÂĽ5 for every unit sold.â
Toji drops a cookie he was holding over the counterââM-maybe notâŚâ
And thenâŚand then the most sweet, seraphic sound echoes in his ears- too close for it to be something heâd imagined, too removed from him to be anyone but you. Youâre making the tall man freeze where he was leaned over the counter - and the hairs on the back of his neck riseâŚheâs pausing to listen for you before he knows it.
âOh, let me get that for you.â
Toji hadnât noticed you walk over. Toji hadnât noticed you bending down to pick up the cookie heâd dropped. âO-oh, no you donât need toââ Not before youâre straightening up and holding it out to him with a beautiful smile.Â
âItâs no problem.â You chirp.Â
Mutely, he takes the crumbling cookie from you.
He wanted that cookie badly.
âSoâŚI see business is booming.â You nod down at the three little ones manning the counter, âGood job, sweethearts. How are you today?â
âGood.â Both Megumi and Kugisaki echo.
âMy grandma got hit by a bazooka!â Itadori beams.
Your smile falters, though Tojiâs impressed at how quickly you recover. âWellâŚthatâs certainly a time, isnât it, Yuji? And how are you, Fushiguro-san?â
âO-oh, meâ?â His faze sizzles at being called out so suddenly. And the older man hurries to scratch behind his neckâdid his biceps look good in this apron? âAhâŚchill.â
âChill, hm?â You smirk. Eyeing him, âI dunno- Iâd say itâs a rather hot day today.â
Features scrunching up, Toji leans his head out and looks at the sky. âIs it? Those damn weathermen always lie.â
Megumi smacks his forehead.Â
âNo, I just meantâŚâ Youâre flitting your gaze at the paper-thin fabric of his t-shirt, wrapped around his chiselled limbs so perfectly. Gift-wrapped. And then youâre shaking your head, instead turning to the rows of cookies put on display. âAnyways- any recommendations you guys have for me?â
Toji furrows his brows at the abrupt change in conversation. Beside him, reaching just past his knee, Kugisaki kicks him in the shin and hisses- âThe cookie! The cooooookie! Make a move, male lead!â
âOh. Oh.â Toji startles. Bending down and whispering back, âNow?â
âYes, now!â
âBut-â
âGo.â
âWaitââ
âGo!â
Finally, he holds one calloused palm out at you. Bandaged and slightly aching from baking all day yesterday. âStay here, we made something special for you.â
âOh?â
Toji shuffles around in the box of cookies that theyâd brought with them; packaged away and separated from the rest was one particular cookieâyour favorite flavor, which heâd probed out of the kids. Specifically made in the shape of a heart.
His hands shake a little bit as he turns to you with it.
Scarred lips parting, âThis isâŚâ
âFor me?â You cock your head with a sweet smile.
He nods. âFree of charge.â
âThatâs too sweet, I couldnât possibly-â
âPleaseââ Toji interrupts, fingers weak - barely holding onto the crinkled package - as he holds it out to you. âI insist. For taking care of my son.â
Something changes in your expression, and your fingers twitch closer to his.
The trio watches open-mouthed as your hands close the gap in mid-air beforeâ
âOooooooo, cookie! Fanum tax!âÂ
Before one Todo Aoi leans over the counter and snatches the cookie fast- before everyone could even blink, all of Tojiâs emotions, hopes, pursuits, and dreams find themselves stuffed down the crumb-coated maw of the little boy. Chomped to bits.
Everyone looks at him in stunned silence.
He polishes off the cookie in three bites.
âWhat?â Todo asks as the silence stretches even longer- and he notices the stares around him. âNeeds a little more saltâŚâ
Toji feels like keeling over. âI am going to-â
âHere, Ms.â Megumi picks up one of those cute, floral-decorated cookie packets on the counter and pushes it into your hands. âFree of charge.â
âThank you. IâŚâ You look at Toji as though youâre about to say something moreâbut then a call of your name from across the school field catches your attention. Another teacher was waving you over for something- and with an apologetic smile, youâre bowing your way out of there.
Itadori whistles, âWow, Mr. Fushiguroâs dad. Maybe if you hadnât waited around beinâ a scaredy-cat then Ms. Teacher mightâve gotten the cookies before Todo.âÂ
Immediately Kugisaki gets down from the counter- grabs her rubber hammer, and slams it down on Todoâs head.Â
Then before Toji can feel a rush of pride, she grabs two cookie packets and beckons him to crouch down to her height.
Once he does, she presses both packets to his cheeks and asks seriously. âAnd what are you?â
âA fuckinâ idiot cookie.âÂ
A small gasp.
From the other side of the counter, he hears furious scribbling as someone jots that particular word downâhe doesnât need to look to know that itâs that Inumaki Toge again. Noooooâ! Itâd slipped out accidentally, he promises. Also on the other side of the counter was Todo Aoi who was now eyeing the other cookies enviously- Megumi frowns and starts pulling them away from him.
Itadori turns to Toji and shakes his head as though heâd been the adult in this situation. âItâs a shame, though. Phase Two has also failed - take the L, Mr. Fushiguroâs dad.âÂ
âL.â Kugisaki echoes.
âL.â Todo.
âL.â Somehow Toge.
Megumi nods. âLoser.â
And somehow that hurt the mostâ
He groans.
Todo huffs. âCanât believe you just got framemogged by the TJE class monitor, old man.â
Toji whirls around with a glower. âMugged? Iâve never gotten mugged by anybody-â
âBut since youâre all just begging meââ Todo turns to the bemused others with his arms crossed importantly. â-Iâll teach you the true art of rizzing.â
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FUSHIGURO MEGUMIâS (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHERâPHASE THREE: A DATE.
Status: -84834832849 aura.
A date.
Not one heâd asked you out on, of course.Â
Spring had neared like a reawakening of the Earth; the breeze was warm. The Sun cascaded softly. The birds were twittering. And Fushiguro Toji was losing itâhe had already had enough of making a fucking fool out of himself in front of you.
And now he was about to do it all over again.
Megumiâs elementary school was hosting a picnic with the kids in Ueno Park, in honor of the cherry blossoms beginning to open up.Â
Parents were invited too, of course.Â
And it was inevitable that youâd be there.
Now with that kid Todo - a student a year older than the trio, it seems heâd found himself attached to Itadori though Toji has no idea how that friendship started - onboard for the scheme, Toji was finding himself pulled around like a marionette. This ridiculous scheme to kinda-sorta try and make you fall in love with himâŚ
That he was going along with.
So for the outing, the four had emphasized that Toji wasnât to come unless he was looking his absolute best. Theyâd told him to burn that usual black t-shirt of his - no matter how many times he tried to insist that he had a wardrobe full of identical ones. He wanted Megumi to vouch for him, but the boy had lied.
That traitor.Â
Thus on the Saturday morning itâd been planned; Toji spent a good few hours in front of the mirror.
Tugging back the sleeves on his white cotton sweater- heâd been told that people appreciate forearms more this way. Dousing himself in perfume. Putting on one of those face creams Kugisaki had recommended after asking her guardian. Attempting to tame his shaggy, black bangs. He made sure his biceps were looking good that dayâand stuffed Megumi into his matching sweater as well nâ rushed off to Ueno Park.
He thought he looked pretty good, honestly.
Todo eyes him warily once he arrives, ââŚThatâs the best youâve got?â
âThe hellâs wrong with it?â
âItâs justâŚnot sigma-â
âShut-â
A few parents turn to look at him.
âHe started itâheââ
After certainly no small amount of bickering (and much apologizing from the woman that seemed to be Todoâs guardian), they managed to make it to the picnic area. Where a row of multi-colored checkered blankets were laid out across the green grass like some form of a quiltâMegumi wastes no time before waddling over to where Itadori and Kugisaki were seated with their families.
And before long, the three kids were tugging several blankets closer together and creating a larger one.Â
As Toji sighs and stalks over to themâheâs suddenly stopped by Todo Aoi. Evidently having broken free from his guardian for far, far greater purposes; he holds his hand up and makes Toji freeze. âYou have much to learn, donât you, old man?â
âHaaah?â He balks down at the boy.
âTrue rizzlers donât sit around playing teatime with kidsââ He throws his arm behind at the other three, â-and my beloved brother, Yujiââ They were related?! âTrue rizzlers have to be tall and nonchalant even if theyâre short and chalant.â
Toji eyes him warily. ââŚOkay? And what am I supposed to do?â
âTalk. To. Her.â
âHowââ
âGo there-â Todo stabs a finger in your direction. But Toji didnât need it to know where to look.Â
He sweeps his eyes across the cherry blossom gardens- and his eyes seem to find you as they always do. Even in a garden of the worldâs brightest and rarest flowers, you would be the most beautiful.Â
âBrother eugh, youâre getting that sappy look on your face again- nonchalant. You have to be nonchalant!â Todo exclaims.
You were wearing a summer dress that fluttered around you in the soft breeze- and before he knows it, the little boy was pushing him towards where you were standing.
âW-waitââ
âOh, has Phase Three started already?â Soon enough, Itadoriâs voice is piping up right beside him. And heâs pushing Toji, too.
Then comes Kugisaki. âOoooo they always have a cherry blossom episode! I love those.â
The dark-haired man looks to his son for help, and he pretends not to meet his eye.
Dammit.
âFineâfine.â An unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Tojiâs pushing back against their persisting guidance, and they just wonât have it. Youâre going to notice him being made a fool again. âIâll talk to her. Donât rush meâI said donât-â
âWhy is it that every time thereâs trouble, itâs got something to do with the five of you?âÂ
Too late.
With your hands on your hips, youâre walking over with a playful smile.
Though there was nothing playful about the way his heart thunders-
High-pitched giggles emanate from behind him, and he doesnât have the time to compute before all three sets of small hands - and Megumiâs mildly disappointed stare - vanishes. The kids are running off, leaving the two of you alone, once youâve properly walked up to themâleaving Fushiguro Toji to fend for himself and alsoâŚcollapsing to the ground. Because of the lack of force from behind now, his ass hits the soft grass and youâre trying not to laugh from above.
Pretty hand reaching out, âEverything alright, Fushiguro-san?â
âToji.â He somehow manages to blurt out, taking your hand and getting to his feet. âCall me Toji.â
âOf course.â And then youâre sharing your own first name. He repeats it like a spring breeze.
Then, like the fool he is, Toji stands around admirinâ youâlong enough that the silence stretches a little awkwardly, and youâre starting to shuffle on your feet. He hears a chorus of small groans from somewhere behind him, and quickly amends- âUhhh, do you like walks down cherry blossom paths?â
Youâre raising a brow in faint amusement, âYes?â
âHave you walked down cherry blossom paths?â
âNot this year.â
âWill you walk down cherry blossom paths?â
âFushiguro Toji, are you asking me to walk together?â You bump his shoulder with yours, then loop a hand around arm - he felt like arm candy, but donât save himâToji was exactly where he wanted to be - and start walking between pink-shedding trees. âYou shouldâve just said so. Should we have invited Megumi as well?â
âWhoâs Megumi?â
Your startled laugh echoesâand itâs the most beautiful thing heâs ever heard.
The two of you loop around the pathway and then back again in companionable silence; though questions and confessions constantly bubbled up to Tojiâs throat. Are you having fun? Is his body too warm? Can you hear his heart beating? Do you like the cherry blossoms? Do you know youâre far more beautiful than them?
Why do you glance at him with that knowing smile?Â
What secrets do you hide?
Before he knows it, the two of you have reached the spot where you met once more. And four eager children wait for something to happen- for something to be said.
Toji knows he might not get another opportunityâso as soon as the cherry blossoms are tapering out to more of the green grass, heâs turning to you and stammering. âI-I have something to askâŚâ
âYes?â You smile.
âAnd it might be strange-â
âYes?â
âAnd weird-â
âOh, yes?â
âAnd creepy- donât be afraid to say no if itâs creepy.â
âHuh?â
âButâŚâ He feels the question: would you wanna grab coffee sometime? claw at his throat. Toji knows youâre waiting, anticipatingâand then a cherry blossom flutters down and lands on your crownâmaking you look far too angelic. âWould youâŚhappen to know that Japan is turning footsteps into electricity.â
You balk. âExcuse me?â
Toji whispers to himself faintly. âU-using piezoelectric tilesâŚevery step you take generates a small amount of energy. Millions of stepsâŚtogetherâŚâ
âOkay, old man, letâs get you to bed.â Todoâs - Todo, of all people - is coming to his rescue. Ushering him away, whilst his son hopefully manages to cover for his father with a good excuseâ
âI do not know that man.â Megumi tells you, then leaves.
Youâre left shrugging. AhâŚ
As theyâre walking back to their picnic area, Kugisaki murmurs. âThis is the cherry blossom episode. Next is the episode where you get hit by a truck-â Toji really hopes it is. âGuess thisâll be that sort of unfinished love dramaâŚâ
âMy uncle loves hitting people with trucks.â Itadori beams.Â
Megumi smacks his forehead once more-
Toji narrows his eyes. âYouâre gonna give yourself a concussion if you keep doing that.â
The boy smacks his head even harder. âI hope so.â
Toji mutters to himself. âFuckinâ me too.â
Behind him, he already knows that Inumaki is jotting this somewhere in some bushes.Â
As the picnic continuesâmore and more of Megumiâs friends join their combined blankets. Toji notices you fluttering about, too.
So caught up, in fact, that he doesnât even notice four matchmaking masterminds roping in their schoolmate Yuta into a deep conversation.
Toji sneezes- someone must be talking about him.
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.
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FUSHIGURO MEGUMIâS (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHERâPHASE FOUR: THE MARRIAGE.
Status: Toji, youâre scaring the huzzzzz-
It seems that Fushiguro Toji was getting married.
Though not exactly of his own volition.
And to whom, exactly? Well, that would be none other than youâ
The wedding shall be held in the idyllic venue of Tokyo Jujutsu Elementaryâs sprawling playground; amongst the swings and pieces of chewed-up bubble gum stuck underneath slides. Music shall be provided by the choir team. Snacks are Goldfish crackers and nothing moreâyou wonât want to miss it.Â
Donât bother to RSVP.
Invitations are open to no one, heâs bound to make a fool of himself.
Again.
Toji shouldâve known that something was up the second Megumi told him to come for pick-up a little earlier than usual. Elementary classes ended their day with around fifteen minutes of playtime, before official pick-up commenced.
And though Toji didnât mind coming in earlier - he usually staved his entrance off for the allocated time so Megumi didnât have to play with his dear olâ dad looming over his shoulder.
Something had to be wrong- maybe he was sick? And yetâŚMegumi was the type to never let out even a peep even if he wasâheâd have to be dragged out of class and still try to convince Toji that he was feeling well enough to go back. Heâd never leave hints like that.
Maybe he didnât like playtime anymore? That certainly couldnât be it- playtime always exhilarated Megumi, no matter how much his deadpan son attempted to hide it. He loved his friends. He loved the small rabbit pen that the school had. He especially loved the twin black-and-white wolf spring riders on the playground.
Or maybeâŚmaybe he was getting bullied-
Toji shakes his head clear of that thought immediately.
Heâd no sooner be bullied by his son than have his son be bullied-
In fact, before heâd met Itadori and Kugisaki- Megumi loved the playground forâŚveryâŚdifferent reasons. Heâd pile his âopponentsâ high like a small kid mountain.Â
Toji shudders.Â
So what could it beâ?
Thatâs exactly the thought tumbling âround in his mind as he walks up to that multi-colored painted building. Instead of going up those steps, however, heâs rounding the corner towards the playground on the other side - where he could hear cheers, laughter, and shrieks. Those youngsters touched the air around them with happiness, and it made some part of Tojiâs chest soar to think that his son was one of them.
Thatâs until heâs actually in-view of the playground and spotting you. Right in the middle of the chaos of elementary classes in playtime.Â
At the foot of the slides.
A bundle of weeds in your hands
A paper veil atop your head.
With that kid Yuta from the grade above Megumiâs stood solemnly beside you. An officiant.Â
It looked likeâŚa wedding.
And the space in front of you was empty for your partner.
Ah.
He looks at Megumi who was avoiding his eyes- so this was the planâŚ
Fuck.
He must have made a noise of bafflement- because just then youâre turning and letting a smile splash across your face. You exclaim. âAhhhâthereâs my groom!â
OhâŚoh, he might faint.
Toji feels numb to the small hands that tug on his arm- âCâmon, câmon! Youâre late, Mr. Fushiguroâs dadâ!â And heâs being dragged all the way to the front of the slide, where his bride-to-be was awaiting him, it seemsâŚâAfter this we need time for the divorce-â
âNo, the divorce should happen like four episodes later.â Kugisaki rolls her eyes.
âThere shall be no divorce.â The seven-year-old Yuta speaks above them - out of them all, he seemed to be taking his role the most seriously. And he beckons the happy couple closer to one anotherâfuck, Toji couldnât even meet your eyes.
Standing in front of you, he stuffs his hands into his pocket and keeps his eyes trained on the ground- giving you a brief nod. ââSup?â
âOn second thought, there may be a divorce.â Yuta solemnly declares.
âHey-â Toji sends a glare at the black-haired little boy with the wide eyes, then crosses his beefy arms. âSo are we gettinâ married or not? Chop chop.â
You shake your head fondly, âDonât worry- we cut into rehearsal time for this, it seems.â
âStart the musicâŚâ Kugisaki whispers to MegumiâŚsimply standing on the sidelines and sinking deeper into his bangs with every passing second. âThe musicâ!â
Megumi lets out a sigh beyond his years, and clicks on the classroom speaker they mustâve brought from inside.Â
In mere seconds, Stateside by PinkPantheress with Zara Larsson starts flooding the playground. Kugisaki hums to herself with a smile- âPinkPantheress nâ Zara always makes things better.â
Soon enough Yutaâs reading out of a scribbled notebook in his hands, âWeâre here today to um- something about marriage.â He looks between the two of youââHold hands, please. They always do that in the movies.â
The two of you share a look.
And then you do.
Your fingers are warm nâ perfectly fitted in his - he doesnât have to think to curl his own fingertips around yours. Itâs as if his hands were made for holding yoursâthe thought zips through his body and he wonders why the hell he was getting emotional as though this was a real weddingâŚ
Yuta continues, â-ummm, something about love.â Toji almost jolts. âSomething about caring. Something about taking care of each other when youâre not feeling too good- like my momma always does, heh. She makes this chicken soup that-â
âGet on with itâ!â Kugisaki hisses.
âWait- what sort of chicken soup?!â Itadori pleads.
âThatâs my rizzler! Toji broâ!â Todo cries.
âOh, yeahââ He looks back down at his useless notes. âAnd stay together forever and ever and ever for at least 67 years no matter how far apart you are, or how scared of your feelings.â Yuta looks at Toji pointedly- who did this kid think he was?! âDoes the happy couple have any vows?â
And maybe this was it.
Maybe this was his moment.
Maybe this wasâŚ
Tojiâs scarred lips open. âI-â
Suddenly the speaker playing music explodesânot literally, though for a moment there it did feel like it. The dance-pop song thatâd been playing inexplicably heightens in volume until their ears rung- and Megumi hastens to turn it down.Â
Kugisaki smacks the speakers with her rubber hammer a few times before it stops. Then with nothing to play in the background, she elbows the pink-haired boy in his sideââYuji, hit it!â
âMe?!â Itadori yelps, before noticing everyoneâs gaze upon him. Itâs slowly dawning upon Toji that this might not be the best place for a real confession when Itadori suddenly starts doing some confusing two-step. âYou gotta go and I canâtâŚehh, sorry. UhhhhâŚNepal. I just donât want to say that-â
âPlease.â Megumi drones. âPlease stop.â
He stops.
Mutely, Kugisaki smacks the speaker once more and Stateside blares again.
Toji turns to the officiant- and shakes his head.
Yuta looks at you, âAnd what about you, Ms?â
âOhâmy vow is that youâre all getting extra homework if eeeeevery single one of you doesnât dance to the reception tomorrow.â You look at each and everyone.
Small faces scrunched in glee.
Yuta hisses at Itadori. âTime for the ringsâthe rings!â And the pink-haired boy startles to hand them to him- just a single one plopped onto Tojiâs open palm. It was one of those cheap ring pops; still slightly sticky and encrusted with flecks of strawberry candy from before. The actual candy part of it had been very-obviously eatenâŚ
âSorry.â Itadori still smiles. âI ate it.â
âAnd theâŚother ring?â
âI ate that, too.â He excitedly claims, âPlastic and all!â
âIâŚlove whateverâs wrong with you.â Toji furrows his brows. âBut also what.â
âEnough talkâexchange the rings then vow your undying love!â Kugisaki yells. âThen die!â She turns to some of the other kids looking at her strange- âWhat? I donât mean it like thatâthe dramaâs just better when they die. Where are you going- where are you-â
âScary kid.â Toji comments. âBut sweet. But scary.âÂ
Megumi distances himself from everything.
Before long, Yutaâs announcing that they âexchangeâ rings.Â
You mime putting one on him.
From the sidelines, Todo sobs into Itadoriâs t-shirtâseriously, were they actually related or not?! âMarriagemaxxing alreadyâŚIâm so p-proud of you my rizzlerâŚmy brother in rizzâŚmy sidekickâŚâ
He jerks. âSideââ
Yuta speaks. âAnd do you, Ms. Teacherâtake this auraless man to be your husband?â He can already tell who came up with this officiantâs script- but before he can throw a glance at the trio and Todo, youâre nodding.
âI do.â
Toji feels his heart flutter. He grows warm.
And his fingers are just as tender and sweet as they slip that ring pop onto your left handââThen I announce you married- uh. Smooch?â
âEuuuuuuuugh! Gross-â Megumi wails.
If Toji thought that heâd been warm earlierâthen he wasnât prepared for right now. It feels as though his entire body was on fire from the inside; every vein, every cell, every single part of him that hummed with delight at the notion. That made him blush.
So embarrassingly, as though this was his first-ever crush.
Toji catches your eye- and you give him the briefest of nods.Â
And then heâs leaning inâŚheâs hearing your breath catch- and pressing his lips to the back of your hand - just the lightest of grazes, where the ring pop stood out - before pulling back just as quickly. Nothing indecent. Nothing that would give away anything to youâ
That ringâŚ
It tasted sweet on his lips.
The surrounding kids cheer- loudly. Now it seems that everyone in the playground had joined in on this little actâand thatâs exactly what it was.
Just a little act.
Tojiâs lips quiver with the beginnings of a sentence heâs been aching to say for so long-
And then the school bell rings denoting time for pick-up.
Around you, the kids run to their classrooms and their backpacks - excited to tell their parents about what theyâd just done in the playground. And as the sea of small bodies moves and thrashes against the two of youâŚToji just remains standing. Staring.Â
Something within him still unfinished and unsatisfiedâ
Youâre keeping his gaze for a few more seconds, before finally dropping it and unscrewing the plastic ring from your finger. âI uhâŚsorry about that- and thank you for playing along.â
âYeahâŚâ He faintly says. âYeah, no problem.â
You give him a tight-lipped smile. âAnd if you donât mind, I should probablyâŚâ
You gesture to the parents that had started walking in now, and he jerkily nods. âYeah- yeah, go doâŚthat.â
âYeah, IâŚâ Youâre then holding your hand out to him- nodding at him to keep his palm open. Then dropping the strawberry-scented ring pop into his hand. âGuess the divorce came a little sooner than expected, huh?â
âTwo seconds, thatâs a new record.âÂ
Starting to walk backâyou briefly wave. If he was a cockier man, heâd have called you nervous. âIâll see you at the talent show, ex-husband.â
âHopefully sooner, ex-wife.â
âOh- yes, the upcoming parent-teacher meetings.â
âThatâŚâ Toji murmurs to himself. That too, he supposes.Â
And as he watches you leaveâŚKugisaki is the first to speak up. âNot even a date? Awww man, I hate slowburns.â
He gapes, âI uhâŚâ
âNo, he got scared of his feelingsââ Itadori adds. Toji squirms. âDid you know my uncle says he doesnât have feelings? My grandpa agrees.â
âDad.â Megumi pulls on Tojiâs t-shirt to get his attention.Â
âYes, son?â
And so deadpan, so unexpected- âYou fumbled just like Klay Thompson.â
Dammit, son.
Speedwalking to the school with them. âThe fuck just happened?â
That one he mouths- he mouths. But Inumaki writes that one down fast-
.
.
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FUSHIGURO MEGUMIâS (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHERâPHASE? CURRENTLY ON HOLDâŚ
âSoâŚâ Youâre twiddling your thumbs together on top of the desk, eyes trained on Toji whilst his own dart around the colorful classroom. âMegumiâs such a good kid- honestly thereâs nothing more to say about him.â
Because today was the day of parent-teacher meetings; that half-an-hour where parents sit before you and leaf through crayon drawings and mathematics that made them cringe. Toji himself hadnât been the biggest fan of them when Megumi was youngerâwhy the fuck would kindergarteners need parent-teacher meetings?!
But now that his teacher was youâŚ
At least it gave him something even more to look forward to.
So he sets his elbows on your desk and leans inâevery meeting had been conducted sitting on opposite sides of your teachersâ desk. It was far too much proximity for his poor heart to takeâbut you sure as hell wonât hear him complaining.
Not a single peep.
He glides his roughened fingertips over the pages before him- Megumi was never the type to be cagey about his grades. And either way he did get everything above an 80%.Â
Toji tries not to let the tips of his lips twitch upwards into a smileâespecially as he looked over one of the artworks that Megumi had done: a slightly-smudged drawing of three small figures, one with pink hair, another with a brown bob-cut, and then a portrait of himself.Â
And then two larger figures on either side of them
Toji and yourself.
The prompt had been Megumiâs familyâŚ
âYou should be very proud, yâknow.â Your gentle voice breaks through the quiet air in the classroom.Â
Toji had come slightly after the other parents, as organizing Megumiâs little sleepover at the Itadori household (with Kugisaki and Todo in tow) had been absolute chaos. Today theyâd offered to take the children in because apparently Itadori had gotten some earthworm movies heâd wanted to share. And though Megumi didnât seem particularly excited at the prospect of earthworms, heâd been begging for weeks to have this sleepover.Â
Now. The sunlight dipped beneath the horizon outside, casting the classroom into its warm embraceâlike kindling fire. The light bounced off your features and touched his lips, too. Where things were perpetually encased in day and the hours were hot and lazyâlike the leaping spark from a fireplace.Â
For the first time in a long time, Toji lets himself smile. âYeah. Yeah, I am.â
Youâre nodding with a smile- âHe speaks about you a lot, did you know that?â Once Toji shakes his head, youâre continuing. âAbout how strong you are, about how youâre funnyââ Your nose crinkles, â-but an awful cook.â
âI know.â Something about that felt so knowing. âIt really is a pleasure having Megumi in my class- heâs quiet but I think Yuji and Nobara are slowly bringing him out of his shell. Heâs diligent. Heâs quietly kind. Heâs a sensitive kid, he notices things faster than most.â
âIâm sure he gets that from me.â He smirks.
You hum, staring at the blood-orange sky outside. Thereâs a long pause before you speak againââAnd I think itâs sweet how heâs trying with his friends to set the two of us up.â
Tojiâs jaw drops.
Actually drops.
For a moment heâs speechlesâhell, he thinks he might be speechless till the end of time. Sure, heâd guessed that you mustâve noticed something being offâŚbut he never thought youâd actually realize the two of you are being set upâ!
You catch the look in his eyes- âOh, câmon. You didnât think I wouldnât notice, did you?â
âI uhâŚâ
âThe cookies. The wingmanning. The wedding. The plans-â Stifling a laugh. âElementary schoolers arenât very good at whispering, you know that?â
âDamn.â Toji fists his hands, softly thumping them against the table. âAnd here I thought a bunch of elementary schoolers could fix my love lifeâŚâ
You humâsomething coy in your tone. âWhy donât you fix it yourself?â
And Tojiâs snapping his head up so fast that he thinks he mightâve caught whiplash-
âWould youâŚâ He swallows. He starts off unsurely. ââŚmaybeâŚlike to get coffee sometime-â
âYes.â
Barely waiting till the sentence flies off his tongue before you respond- it makes Toji wonder whether youâve been waiting for this as long as he has.Â
Embarrassment shows in your slightly-frantic movements, as you start picking at the stationary on your desk and smoothing out your clothes. Nervous. It hits him. âI uhâŚyouâre my last meeting of the day, actually. Iâm free to grab some coffee now, if you want?â
Heâs never agreed to anything faster in his life.
Less than twenty minutes later and the two of you have found yourselves in the cute new coffee shop down the road. The faintest memory of sugary goods still etched on your smiling lips, and your cups of drinks warming your handsâthe two of you were sitting and talking at a window booth when the rain had started.
âOh, shitâŚâ You peer outside. âYou were right.â
âHm?â Toji takes a sip of his black coffee.
âThe weathermen always lie.â
More than the panging warmth at the idea that youâd remembered a throwaway comment heâd said- was what youâd followed that sentence up with.
âHey, I know this is out-of-the-blue, butâŚI donât have an umbrella with me, and taxis are costly this time of evening.â You shift in your seat, avoiding his eyes for perhaps the first time since heâs met youââMy apartmentâs close by if youâd wanna maybe grab an umbrella from there? You could even hang around until the rain subsides, if you wantâŚâ
This time, itâs his turn to reply embarrassingly fast. âFuck yeah.â
And so youâd ran.
Youâd ran hot on each otherâs heels as though someone was chasing youâmaybe fear, maybe your inhibitions, maybe the feeling that Fushiguro Toji wanted to kiss you so badly.
So bad.Â
Youâre sploshinâ the five-minute walk it takes to reach your apartment- before youâre both darting inside and closing the door to the world. Just the two of you. On opposite sides of the narrow vestibule connecting the entrance to the living room. To your bedroom.
Toji presses himself against the cream-colored wall and breathes in. heavy.
This entire place carried your sweet, sweet scentâand it was driving him crazy.Â
In front of him, your hands seemed to absent-mindedly reach for the umbrella holder- blindly clasping around one polished handle. âI uhâŚâ
âYou-â
Youâre both attempting to speak at the same timeâthen abruptly stop when the other speaks. You gesture for him to continue, and he does the same for you-
âI just meant- hereâs your umbrella.â
âThanks.â Like a zombie, heâs reaching out and clasping it.Â
This was itâthis was really it.
He was about to leave.
He was about to wake up from this dream.
Before Tojiâs letting the umbrella drop to the floor- and youâre both crashing into one another. Itâs built and builtâand the coil of tension had tightened and tightened before finally snappingâ!
Lips against lips.
Tongues against teeth.
His lips sliding against yours and positively ravishing youâone of his large hands finds purchase on the back of your head. His warm touch. Toji feels the pretty pulse on your neck quicken as he tips your head back and delves his tongue even deeper - memorizing the taste of you to every crevice in his brain.Â
Your essenceâŚhe wants it imbued into him.
Absolutely starving.
He just couldnât get enough of you.
He just couldnât get enough of you.
The two of you are making out sloppily- and the sounds of lips lifting from lips permeates your entire apartment. Punctuated occasionally by the hollow grunts that Toji himself was letting off.Â
Your cunt twitches between your legs - and youâre pressing yourself into Toji even further. Pushing against his toned body. Rolling your hips against the raging, hot erection thatâd found itself home in his pants. Just the sheer size of it- the thickness, the way it throbbed against you was enough to make you let out a soft, simpering nose.
One that heâs gladly swallowing up wholeâgreedily, even. Because thatâs exactly what he was.
A fucking greedy man for everything thatâs to do with you.
And heâs waited for far too long.
In no time, youâre taking him by his larger hand and pulling him to your bedroom. Leaving the umbrella and your reservations behind.Â
Toji lets out a hallowed groan as heâs being pushed back into the bed- the backs of his knees hitting the mahogany bed frame. Your hands flying to the ties of his trousers. Your own knees striking the floorâ
âEasy thereâŚâ Toji brushes one hand down the side of your face- reaching back into your scalp and tightening. âDonât want my girl to get hurt.â
âYour girl?â You grin. âYou havenât even asked me out on a proper date yet.â
âAnd you should be buyinâ me dinner before this. Lecher.â
Youâre huffing as youâre able to tear that wretched fabric off his muscular legs- finally. And your jawâŚdropsâŚ
He was soâŚ
Fucking big.Â
From the moment his achinâ cockâs freed, Toji springs out and seems to pulse even thickerâthe start of his base reminding you of one of those soda cans. Toji reaches down to wrap his other hand âround it, his palm covering some of the dark curls decorating his pelvis, and he seems to look even bigger when framed like this.
Rock-hard. Covered in numerous veins.
They were dappled all across his inches and throb-throb-throbbing- so ravenously hard that Tojiâs length twitched the moment heâs feelinâ the cold bedroom air.Â
And not only was he big, but that curve of his shaft was delicious.
It made you wonder what itâd feel like to have him curve up insideâŚ
Upwards tilted. That crown of his craning up at the ceiling. The pointed end of his cock ended off with his blushinâ mushroom tip- so fat nâ already soaked in his wads of sopping precum. The color of it was the prettiest tannish pink youâve ever seen in your entire lifeâand so you really couldnât help but lean down and press a chaste peck-
The taste of his salted-caramel pre takes over your tastebuds immediately.
âO-ohâŚâ Tojiâs head throws backwards with a gravelly groan. âDonât go teasing me now, doll.â
âYouâre the one thatâs been teasing me this entire time.â You counter. Though youâre looseninâ your jaw and taking him in even further. Inch by solid fucking inch.
Itâs hard to stuff Tojiâs cock all down your throat like you so-badly wanted- he was big. Nâ those zig-zagging veins down his length made you want to lingerâŚmassaging the roof of your mouth with a few semi-gulps that rub his inches on top. Again and again.
Youâre shuttering your eyes and moaning deep into his shaft at the carnal scratch he somehow seemed to soothe.
âAh ahââ Youâre hearing him before youâre feeling him- suddenly, two thick fingertips are pinching your poor nostrils together. Eyelids flapping open to stare up at him.
Toji has the most cocky smile across his beautiful scarred lips as he peers down at you. âNow whatâs this about refusinâ to take me anymore?â He asks you, punctuating the that of his sentence with a thorough nudge of his bulbous tip down your throat. âYou donât wanna take me any further, doll? Or youâŚâ
And another.
Though, this time, it wasnât a nudge at all.
And Tojiâs massive length is pushing apart the wet walls of your throat- and mazing his throbbing cock inside. The noises youâre letting out when you slurp him up are so prettyâ
And the older man uses his second hand to wipe a stray tear off your cheeks, â-canât?â
âMmmâmmmfg.â Choking down both your needy sobs nâ your breaths. Youâre clawing at his thicks- so thick and toned.Â
âWhat? Whaaaat?â He pinches your nose even harder. âWhaâs the matter, teach?â
âYou-â Barely able to mangle out some semblance of coherent syllables - youâre going cross-eyed trying to both take him in deeper, and look at the fingers blocking off your airway. âMmm- ngh.â Whatever mess of a sentence that was meant to be, itâs coming out embarrassingly jumbled.
Embarrassingly so.
And tears are just starting to stream down your cheeks- your cuntâs getting even wetter at his actions and pushing against his toned calf- once he finally lets go. Finally.Â
With a loud pwah! youâre removinâ your swollen lips off of his cock. Feeling for your poor nose thatâs startinâ to stingââSo mean, Toji. I shouldâve bit that dick off.â You joke.
He looks at you with a leer, âWe both know that out of the two of us, youâd be the most disappointed with that.â And it was true- it really was true. But Toji takes it a step further by lazily reaching his calf over and pushing it against your cunt. Dripping wet even through those panties of yours- your pretty dress was hiked up nâ already exposing that sweet puddle thatâd formed in the middle of your underwear.Â
His mouth waters at the sight.Â
âSee what I mean?â Then Toji straightens up and pats the top of his manspread thighs. An invitation.Â
âBut, I havenât evenâŚâ
âSâokay.â He nods at you reassuringly. You didnât have to worry about any of that needing to please shit with him- heâd be the one driving you wild tonight. âI have something even- heh, sweeter in mind.â
And hopefully every night after that.
In a mere few moments, youâre settling yourself on Tojiâs lap. And then heâs attacking your mouth in a mind-numbing kiss, tongue swipinâ between your lips before ultimately sucking on those tastebuds of yours. Sucking. Like candy.Â
He then maneuvers the two of you to then drape you across the sheets; slightly sodden with lust and perspiration. The blankets stick against your clammy skin as Toji presses your hips down on the mattress- âDown, girl.â His fingertips dig into the side of your waist.
âWhatâs that about not teasing?â You pant.
With a low chuckle, Toji presses a peck on the left side of your hipsâthen creeps himself down until his handsome features were huffinâ and puffinâ against your sodden cunt. His own hot breath seemed to reach out to youâcurling, cloooouding, it seemed to stroke down that watery slit of yours. âFushiguro Toji never teases.â
âYouâre teasing right-â
âMâjust waiting for the perfect moment.â And thereâs not a second wasted- before Toji lurches himself nose-deep between your legs and gives your dripping pussy a good lick!
âO-ohâŚâ Your mouth waters at the brazen touch- body jolting just a little. Though if you thought that Toji would let you so much as squirm whilst heâs locked between those thighs of yours, then youâd be sorely mistaken. His fingers dip down the expanse of your legs and clutches you close against his ravenous mawââArenât you going to take off my panties, Toji?â
âDonât be vulgar, doll.â He mutters- just to tease you. âMâgonna eat you through your panties, of course.â
And itâs the only warning youâre getting.
Before Toji latches his puckered lips to your cunt- properly, this time. And his loooooong tongue was lavishinâ across every inch of your pussy he can reach. Through your pantiesâToji gapes his mouth open and laps like a fuckinâ animal at the leaking slit your underwear was stick to, your swollen folds, your utterly needy button.Â
âMmmmpf-â Tojiâs prominent nose pushes apart your pussylips, and heâs feelinâ for that puckered, pretty nub. Already throbbing like youâve been so impatient for him this entire time.
He presses himself closely against your clit for a few secondsâthrob-throb-throb!
Like a ticking time bomb. Heâs driving himself absolutely wild; before snakinâ your panties to the side and thrashing his tongue against your raw cunt. Slurping. Sucking. Everything and anything of you he could find - heâs pushing himself so nose-deep into your pussy that he damn-near canât breatheâand eating you out like an animal. âMmmm, donât you move a s-single inch now.â Toji tightens his hold on your quivering legs. âI havenât even started yet.â
âStarted whatâŚ?â You babble out - your hips were yearning to push off the creaking mattress.
Though all it took was a fraction of his strength to pin you back down, roverinâ his tongue on the slick-glued insides of your folds. Rooooound and round in circles that left your mind dizzy. âHeh- what else dâyou think?â Toji answers. âMâteaching this pussy how to take Fushiguro Toji, that mouth of yours barely could.âÂ
âRude.â
Before you could pipe up anything more witty, heâs spankinâ four fingertips down on your glistening pussy. âSânot rude if itâs true.â
âIâm the teacher here, though.â
âThen maybe Iâm the principal.â He leers- swabbing the fat edge of his tongue into your hole. âGonna grade you and everythingâŚâ
âThatâs fuckinâ cornyââ
âMade your pussy weep, though.â
And just in good time, too- because almost immediately heâs letting that first inch of his tongue fuck inside your cunt. Just the first inch. But it was already enough to make your toes curl nâ your back archâTojiâs wet muscle was just so thiiiiiiick.
Heâs plugginâ up your orifices with a mere few thrusts - the ridged texture of his tastebuds kneading your tight walls. Shovelling you open. Shovelling himself deeper inside. The flickerinâ tip of his tongue laps against some of your most tender areas nâ then pushes up into the sensitive roof of your cunt-Â
âSh-shiiiiitââ Youâre keening out in the prettiest trill heâs ever heard. Toji has the audacity to let out a wet giggle at your dripping core - clenching âround him.
His ears burn at the musical note- and before long, your folds are burning at the searing smack! that heâs planting on top of your cunt. Your head drops down to stare at him in shock.
âThatâs a C- for handling yourself.â He echoes. Two more spanks followâbefore Toji nuzzles your gummy pussy nâ laps his tongue across your clit. âBut an A for pretty moans.â
âI th-think that grading syllabus is a little- ngh! skewed, donât you think?â
Yet another spank.
âNot at all.â
He was merciless. Ruthless.Â
Absolutely impounding you with those slashing, scouring strokes of his - Tojiâs thrusts manage to reach so much deeper than youâd have ever guessed. And when he felt that his tongue was stuffed inside your pretty pussy far ânough, heâs flaring those edges outwards and scraping his tastebuds down the sides of your walls. Stimulating your snug channel sooooo fuckinâ goodâ
âSâthat so?â Toji flutters his long, dark lashes up at you. It takes a second for you to register that you might just have said that last thought out loud.Â
Though youâre merely steeling your expression and nodding-
Heâs plasterinâ his fingertips against your puckered pussy with a chuckle. âCute. But flatteryâs gonna get you nowhere- with all this damn squirming youâre doing, your Câs dropping down to a- haaaah, D.â
Your eyes pop open. âB-butâŚâ
âAnd just think-â Toji continues without a single speck of mercy for you. His tongueâs tunneling and thrusting- faster than your frenzied mind can keep up with. â-that if youâre reacting like this to just my long tongueâŚâ Thrust after thrust after thrustâthe curvaceous inches of his tongue donât leave a single bundle of nerve unprobed. Zig-zagging and swabbing wildly - your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. â-yer gonna fucking run away when it comes to my cock, doll.â
âOhââ Youâre tumbling your hips constantly up to him. Attempting to heighten the friction. âPromise I wonât. Promise-â
âAnd now look at you.â And after all heâs taught youâŚToji grasps his left hand underneath your arching body. Grabbing a nice handful of your ass cheeks- it makes him smile to watch your mouth drop in shock at the lecherous action. âDropped down to a D-.â
A fucking minus.
That earns you several more wet spanks. And then a fucking pinchâright on your clit.Â
And Toji merely trundles, âWhere the fuck does this pretty pussy think sheâs going?â
Crashing his lips intoâŚyours. Quiverinâ your weakened limbs around the back of his neck-Â
Your ankles are weakly latching themselves there- slightly glissading down his glossy strands. It messes up his hair just a little, and Tojiâs soon finding himself smirking against those pussylips.
âTchâŚfine, you get a B for neediness.â
Only a B?!
But perhaps it was better that youâd kept your mouth shut - mostly because you couldnât speak over the primal moans that kept escaping your throat - because then Tojiâs sinking his canines âround your clit and swervinâ his face aaaaaaall around your pussy. Every corner and inch.
Heâs fucking coating his features in a layer of your shimmering slick.
Like a damn medallion.
It clings to him in long, ropey excess.Â
âO-oh my godââ And then your trilling vocals break the very second that heâs intruding your hole once more- this time, with his fingersâŚ
You weave your own hands into Tojiâs sweat-dampened hair and hold on for dear life.Â
âHmmm, a little possessive, huh? Mâbumping that neediness to a- hah, A+...heh.â As a reward, youâre getting his textured lips encasing your sopping clitâjust so desperate and damn-near flinching with how hard you were pulsing between your legs. Needing. Needing.Â
Your breath comes out in stuttered bursts, and it takes everything in you to echo. âA-and what do I have to reach to- mm, get your cock, Toji?â
âI dunno, arenât you the one with a t-teaching degree?â Heâs babbling- before that haziness in his eyes clear up once he realizes what heâs just said. âNo, waitâIâm pretending to beâŚIâm the one gradinâ nowâŚâ
Toji looks down at your pussy as though offended. A spank wasnât enough, heâs properly spitting.Â
âThis pussyâs made me pussydrunk, heeeeh?â He scoffs nâ edges in to suckle on your clitâall while his two bulky fingers were scissoring between your pussylips. âAn A+ for thatâŚâ
Pussydrunk.
Though youâre not doing too well yourself.
Youâre just sizzling from the very insides - even your very vessels seemed to be vibrating with that carnal sort of needy for him. And as Tojiâs slashing strikes with his fingers accelerate, so does that kindling pit of pleasure in your stomach. âI th-think mâclose, TojiâŚâ
âClose?â Tojiâs breath hitches. âClose? And we havenât even finished the grading yetâbuck up, doll, because mânot holding back anymore.â
âTh-that was you holding back?!â
Evidently so.Â
And you can surely attest to thatâin mere moments, heâs adding in a third finger with a lecherous slurp! of his honed inches beinâ all sucked in. Down every single joint. Down to his damn knuckles; youâre feeling those mountainous ridges push up against your sensitive pussy, and Tojiâs three fingers were rovering and reeeeeaching every single spot inside.Â
Claiming them as his.Â
Toji laps up a silken line of slick thatâd dripped from your cunt and down his wristâyou were claiming him as yours, tooâŚâGot a second to hear your grades, doll?â Whilst the desperate pleads start to bubble at your throat- âWonât be givenâ you this cock until you doâŚâ
âThen tell them to meââ You shriek. Haaaauling at the thick tufts of his scalp, âFucking tell them, Toji.â
âWell, manners fuckinâ F.â Toji huffs- but he couldnât fool you. Ohhh, the expression on his face was pure ecstasy as you guided his lapping face around your cunt. âBut manners for this pussyâŚhmmmmâŚB.â
âOnly a fucking B-â
âRoughness: used to be C- but oh, mâthinking itâs now an A.â He comments - the more and more frustrated you become, the more your carnal urges surface. Your grip is searing on his scalp. Your legs are locking around his neck. âDoesnât mean you can go easier on me now, teach.â
âFuh-fuuuuck, Tojiââ
âWetness: A+ of course.â Rolling his eyes as if that should be obvious, âSweetness: A++.â
âFuck-â
âThat mouth of yours? D.â
âFuck you.â
âMâtrying to. And hmmmm, about the way she clenchesâŚâ He ponders- before then directly diverting his round, rotund fingertips to the spot just a few inches into your channel. Heâs already mapped your smallest ridges nâ crevices out by all of these thrusts- and youâre feeling pure white-hot pleasure run down your spine as Toji then rams his dexterous fingers into your fucking g-spot. âThatâs an A+++â
Because of course, youâre keeping him hostage.
Of course, youâre squeezing your velvety walls around him until his joints were turning whiteâand Tojiâs fingers were havinâ a tough time moving back and forth stuffed between those clingy walls of yours.Â
And yetâŚheâs scissoring apart your needy grip and ramminâ into your deepest, most sensitive depths.Â
Again and again and again- âYeahâŚthis pussyâs definitely gonna take me now. Isnât that right, teach?â But the only thing your fried head can urge you into doing is nodding. âThaâs what I thought. Dumbification: A.â Toji cocks his head. âDonâtcha think Iâm being too nice with these grades?â
Shaking your head fervently- through sobs.
âMmmmâŚwell, I think I am.â His canines teasingly grip your clit and draaaaag that swollen nub out. âSâalright doll. After this, you can grade my cock when sâtimeâŚâ
He smirks - still keeping that firm attachment onto your most sensitive place - and you can feel it. You can feel itâ
âAnd you can be as fuh-fuckinâ ruthless as you want.â Tojiâs long fingers then curl inside your cunt for a final time beforeâŚâBecause I know mâgonna be fucking my girl right.â
Before youâre shattering.
Breaking into your highâit first starts with an explosion of pleasure between your legs- before teleporting right up to your fuzzy head. Your thighs were quaking. Your pulse was thundering so loud you could hear it with your own ears- and it felt as though those torrential waves of bliss were just taking you over.
âOhâoh, fuck.â Clawing your hands through Tojiâs hair. The only anchor you had was this- and the tunneling digits that were fingering you to ecstasy- he was hitting at every peak. He was elongating your orgasm more than you ever thought possible. âFuck, fuck, fuck- fuuuuuck, Toji.â
âThaâs right- say my name.â He grunts. Such lecherous slurps! echoing from between those legs of yours as he sucked nâ sucked on your clit simultaneously. âSay my name- say my name. Whoâs making you feel this good?â
âToji.â You hiccup. âY-you, Toji.â
A sudden spank! resounds across all four corners of the room.
Your high crescendos even further than your limits- or at least what youâd assumed them to be.Â
âI was lookinâ for sir, but that works, tooâŚâ Your jaw drops at the boldness of this man.Â
âSir? D-donât think that youâre getting off easy when I- ngh, when I finally ride you stupid.â As the last few pangs of your orgasm shimmer through your body, youâre managing to gather your thoughts better than before. âWhat do you think youâd get anyway?â
Toji pulls off your oversensitive pussy with a loud plap! âAâs across the board.â
âOh, donât be so humble.â
With that said- youâre reaching out and grabbing Toji by the collar. He gets dragged upwardsâthe bed dips as the larger man cages you in with his strong forearms. He leers, âI think you pass, donât you?â You could see that somewhere during makinâ out with your pussy, Toji had tugged down his pants- likely to jerk himself off as he did so.
And his long cock stood aching and rock-hard between his legs.
That round, reddened tip of his seemed to wink up at you as he dribbled out a single bead of precum. Aaaaall the way from the edge of his cockhead, and aaaaaall the way down to his bushy black curls at the base.Â
Your mouth waters.Â
Hands on his body- his fingers tearing through your own fabric. Soon enough youâre naked beneath himâand heâs just as devastatingly bare. Perfectly-aligned abs. Chiselled pecs. Fushiguro Toji had a body that made him look as though he was hand-carved by Hercules himself- it was just so sensual the way his ladder-like core pushed down against yours.
And itâs so difficult to keep a stern face facing him when those bulky biceps of his were flexingâright next to your face.Â
But somehow you manage- you were a professional after all, werenât you?
âIâm serious about what I said on riding you stupid.â Youâre murmuring up at him, âFlip over.â
He smirks, âAnd if I donât?â
Within split-seconds, youâre grabbing a fistful of his hair and watch as his cock twitches at the rough manhandlingâat the way youâre turning the two of you over and straddlinâ his hips. Toji bucks with a groan underneath you, but youâre quicker than that- and youâre clasping a hand around his gulping throat. Sweaty and scorching to the touch .
âAh ah-â You tut. âYou already had your fun. Now itâs time for mineâŚâ
âAye aye, teach.â
âQuiet coyote.â
Toji mimes zipping his lips shutâbut thereâs openinâ back up again almost instantly once he feels your sultry hips swivelling down his cock. You duck a hand underneath yourself to grab his throbbing hilt- and before long, his wet tipâs smushing apart your pussylips. Heâs intruding that hole of yours and bucking up into where you needed him the most.Â
He shovels in a few more inches with an echoing sluuuurp! of your pussy viciously gulping him up.
âWhat did IâŚoh.â Beside yourself, your headâs throwing backwards at the sheer pressure he was creating inside. âWhat did I say about staying still?â
âActuallyâŚyou didnât say anything about that.â That grin of his was infuriatingly handsome. âStill, mmm, cockdrunk?â
âYou wishâŚâ Though that wasnât an outright denial.
It was true that your mind was coiled with fog after your last orgasm; the dopamine still coursing through your body. And the way that Tojiâs thickened, textured length was pushing your walls aside wasnât helpingâit was making you feel sensations so raw and carnal- that salivaâs dripping down one side of your mouth after a mere few semi-thrusts.
Just the bulging edge of Tojiâs tip scourinâ your channel inwards.
âAwww, donât tell me I was right?â He asks you- and it registers as mere distant words. Toji reaches out his right hand and wipes away that splatter of spit - before bringing it up to his own mouth and sucking. What an animal. âCanât grade olâ Tojiâs cock? Or is it- heh, so good that Iâm breaking all the scales?â
âYou fucking-â
âYeah yeah, wish- right?â He scoffs meanly. But honestlyâŚhe might be teasing you but he was completely infatuated with the idea of your smart mouth babbling for him like this.
The way you were twitchinâ with every light graze of his flared tip.
Your insides were getting used to him, and Toji was only stuffing himself even deeper. âRightâŚâ Though of course- Toji himself wasnât doing all too hot. Just a single one of your adhesive-like clenches and he canât help but buckâ
âEasy, eeeeasy- you can take me, my girl.â He grits his teeth. He blinks back the tears in his eyes. Heâs guiding your impatient hips nâ grinding your cunt dooooown onto his pelvis. âFuck- fuck, and how dâyou grade the stretch?â
Your eyes pop open. âThe stretch?â
âMhm- the streeeeetchâyeah?â Tojiâs chest rumbles in delight as he watches your every microexpression and reaction. Even the smallest curlings of your toes. âSuch a big stretch feels good, yeah?â
âMhm- I rate it aâŚâ Your jaw hangs open- as though to purposefully influence your grading, heâs shovelling his length a few more times. Faster. âB.â
And thatâŚwhat the fuck?!
âA fucking what?â That makes Tojiâs maw gape, and his handsome face twist into something of bewilderment. You look at him and you honestly let out a little chuckle - but that seems to only spur his driving hips even further. âOh noooo, doll. Youâre joking.â
âI said what I said.â Biting back. âItâs a B becauseâŚâ Throwing your head back and archingâyouâre gaining more movement in your hips and letting him push inside. â-youâre just not- fuck. Bottoming. Out. Fucking do it alreadyâ!â
His feet plant ever-so-slightly on the ricketing mattress- and that means you were feeling the plushness of his muscular thighs against your back. Those tendons and rippling strength. Thereâs honestly nothing more for you to do but gnaw down on your trembling lower lip in the hopes that those embarrassing noises wonât escape-
Because Toji then glues his hands upon either side of your hips and slams your cunt down onto him.
Itâs such incredible friction. Itâs so many of his winding veins- pushinâ apart your walls and scouring you all overâ
Youâre arching your back into him and gasping- âAâŚâ
âA what?âÂ
âA for your veins.â And that honestly manages to catch him off-guard and make him let out an exhilarated bout of laughter. Being in your presence was like four shots of espressoâfucking you was four shots of vodka. Straight. Heâs dizzy and heâs clamorinâ his numerous inches up your pretty channel, watching as you drip glittering globs of slick all âround him.Â
âOhâŚâ Toji seems to grow even bigger inside you. He grips you as hard as your pussy was clenchinâ him. âKeep going-â
âAnd a- fuck, an A for your paceââ Just perfect. Dizzingly fast; whilst still being steady and balanced enough that you were able to feel his textured length slipping into every spot he needed to slip intoââAnd aâŚa fucking F for your attitude.â
âHeyâŚâ Toji juts his scarred lip out in a mock-attempt at a pout. âDonât imply mâsassy when your pussy speaks like that to me.â
Right on cue, youâre letting out some of the most sinful slurps as your cunt slaps right down onto him. Onto his hefty balls.Â
Tojiâs thick brows raise at the sounds- even he didnât think that your pussy could get this chatty. Mouth falling agape as he watches you drip-drip-driiiip.
Youâre grabbing onto both of Tojiâs sculptured deltoids for balance, increasing your pace as your legs start to grow limp. Perhaps noticing your little struggle, heâs supporting one of your legs with his left handâand thumbing over your clit with his right. âAnd then? What elseâdick got yer tongue?â
âYou fuckinâ wish.â You snipe back.
âYeah.â Toji simply replies. Without a single warning, heâs craning his head up and signalling you to open your mouth- instinctually, your tongue sticks out. Perfect for him to spitâa heaping mess between your lips. âYou looked so pretty with my cock stuffed down your throat, too.â
Grumbling - though it was just for show - yet you swallow. âThat was a B- since you almost missed.â One of your hands reaches up to swipe at the splattered saliva piled on the edge of your mouth.
âOh, no.â With such a loving glint in his eyes, heâs leaning up and kissing the mess heâd just left behind. âThat was totally on purpose, doll.â
âF-filthyâŚâ
âYou know it, teach.â
Both of your bodies were slick with sweat and glissading against one another- Toji himself was especially frenzied with his movement. His thrusts. His battering rams. The way his pointed tip struck the end of your cervixâbottomed-out, and then smeared apart your channel to drag aaaaaaall the way back down. Aaaaaaall the way back in.
And through it all- youâre sputtering out the same ruthless grading of his cock. Red-hot and ruining your insides with every thrust. Pump after pump- âDeepnessâŚB.â
Bruising his tipâs circumference at the very back of your pussy. Dribbling out ribbons of pre.Â
âHmmm, alright a B+.â Pleasure runs through your body the more nâ more Toji grows irritated- because that meant the more he was trying to prove himself. The harder he was fucking you. âAnd the- hah, curve: an A.â
âDamn right.â That, he could most certainly be proud of. That slightly upwards curve of him was the perfect shape to mold your walls- to let his honed tip be the searchlight.
And your sweetest spots were what he was aiming for.
After a few more vulgar strokes, Tojiâs rediscovering and ramming himself into none other than your g-spot. That throbbing bundle of nerves thatâd just kept on and on waiting for him to probe you with his shaftâperhaps a bit too long at thatâŚâWhat took you so long to find that spot again, Toji?â
âTake it easy on meâŚâ He pleads with a slight hint of amusement. âYour pussy was to- mmm, hypnotizing. You canât blame a guy for taking a little timeâŚneedy fuckinâ pussy.â
That last bit was said to himself- underneath his breath, in fact.
And yet, your proximity means that youâre catching onto every single word - and without a split-second of hesitation youâre countering back. âOh? What was thatâŚIâm sorry, maybe I was- hngh, hearing things? Because it just sounded to me like you wanted all your g-grade to plummet to an F?â
His lips part. âYou wouldnâtâŚâ
You peck him on the mouth. âTry. Me.â
And fuuuuuckâitâs clear heâs not expecting the way that sends pangs of excitement coursing through every inch of him. Itâs clear he doesnât know what to fucking do with himself- once he propells his ruddied cockhead to hit against the door to your womb.
And Tojiâs thighs are left shivering at the way your walls immediately rush to embrace him.
Suctioning him.
A ribbon of drool drips slowly from the edge of his mouth, âA-and what do I have to do to make it up?â
âHmmmm?â The fact that you made the Fushiguro Toji stutter so blatantly like thisâŚit was driving you wild. It was making the cockiest smile plaster across your face- he wanted to kiss it away so bad but you were teasingly inching your lips away, making him work for it.Â
He growls and repeats- âWhat do I have to fucking do to get- hah, extra credit? To make up for myâŚâ Tojiâs prominent Adamâs apple bobs. â-mistake.âÂ
âThere now. Was that so hard to- hah, admit?â You coo. âGimme a D.â
âHuh?â Toji gapes. âArenât you the one supposed to be- ngh, giving out the grades?â
âYeah, I know. Iâm just telling you to shut up and fuck me harder with your fat dickââ
âYes, maâam.âÂ
He lightly stirs his hips in semi-circular motions to get the most out of his veiny cock- to make sure that those prized nâ precious vessels were massaging your insides just right. âFuck-â Your entire upper half is shaking from stimulation - âFuck, fuck, fuuuuuckâjust like that.â
âHngh, oh yeah?â Honed canines beared.
âFaster-â And he listens.
âHarder.â And he listens once more.
âFucking-â Youâre it escape you in a trilling tone. â-b-breed meâŚâ
Tojiâs breathless once the words register to him. âYes, maâamâŚâÂ
Pumping up into you - meeting your bouncinâ cadence - like he was angry with you. Like he was trying to shove to your deepest depths nâ then probe his erect cock even further. Like he was trying to meld your bodies into oneâ
He was fucking you in a way that was so animalistic.
And Toji canât help it- fuck, he canât help but throw his head backâit just feels so good. Eyes shuttering. Brows furrowing. His hips unsticking from the now-dampened bedsheets to arch properly up into you-
But thatâs when he feels those familiar fingers âround his throat again.
âAh ah ahââ You tut. Your vision was just a little bleary from all the tears and pleasure clogging up your mind- âAnd who said you could- hah, move, hm? Seems like youâre the one running away, not me. What? Scared mâgonna milk you too hard, Fushiguro Toji?â
He growls. âYou littleâŚâ
âF- for handling yourself.â Remembering just how much heâd teased you earlier for similar reactions just made these words so much sweeter on your tongue. âIn factâŚâ
Toji looks eagerly up at you through his bangs.
To which youâre taking your lazy time changing your sloppy cadence into figure-eights instead. It swerved nâ stirred his pussy around your depths; and made it so that the most sensitive parts of Tojiâs veins - that pinkish line underneath his slit, the frailest of his veins, where his balls rested - were being stimulated. Making him pour out wads of precum into you as though it was a waterfallâ
âSee me after class.â
âFuck yes.â Toji grunts to himself- his hair was flying into his face, and every bit of his skin seemed to be furiously flushed. âFuckâfuck, I need to cum inside you.â
Plap after plap after plap! of his hips hitting yours. âMhmmmââ
âI n-need to fill you up until here-â His thumb briefly detaches from your clit to graze your lower stomach, where your womb was wont to be. âI need to feel it pouring out of you- then fuck it all back in.â And he was pistoning into you like it, too.
âShit, mâclose-â
Hard. Fast. The wads of his sappy precum only get stronger and more frequent - âI n-need toâŚâ
Tojiâs voice hatches into nothingness in his throat, and youâre cooing down at him cutely. âWhatâs thaaaat?â
âNeed you to make me a f-father for a second time.â Toji utters.
And then with a particularly hard press on your heart-shaped, swollen clitâyouâre both tumbling into your highs together. Tumbling into one another as you both hold each other through your strong orgasms - even stronger than the one youâd had prior.
Zaps and twinges of pleasure.Â
Goosebumps dapple across your skin.
Your spine arches into him.Â
Now you have Tojiâs ravenous cock bulging into your walls- his globular tip searchinâ for every sweet spot and pinpointing them using his shape. That only elongated the sparks of your high until it felt never-ending; and dopamine washes over your body and leaves you wracking. Hands clawing down wherever you could latch onto the older man. Your knees squeezing tighter around his waist to milk him through his own euphoria. âYesâyes, just like that.â
âOhâŚoh, look at the way mâdripping out of youâŚâ Tojiâs mouth unfastens. Your cunt had already been bloated around his cock- now with his volumes of cum being webbed up inside, it was almost too much for you to handle.
And Tojiâs orgasm rips through him strongâeven his powerful limbs were wrapped around you as he powered through it. His thumb tremblinâ as he rolled and rolled.
He breathes out hot and heavy when those fingers of his dare to wonderâŚright along where a sheen was spreading along your inner-thighs. Every satiny drop of cum he was pouring out gets slid down your cervix- and then trickles deep inside of you. âSo messy, this pussy oâ mine.â
âYours?â You gasp. Though even that tiny reaction meant you feel his warm wetness splosh! inside you.
âMhmmmââ He nods drunkenly. Left arm wrapping behind you and pulling you to him - resting you against his chest. âBut donât worryâŚthis cock is yours, too.â
You scoff. âThe audacity. Didnât I give this cock an F?â
âYeah, you sure did give me a fuck.â
You decide that the only way to shut up him is to overstimulate him by fuckinâ himâperhaps unfortunately for you, Fushiguro Toji seemed to have had the same idea.
âMmm, now what about the parent-teacher meeting? We already- oh, handed out the grades, didnât we?â Heâs whispering in your ear once heâd somehow manhandled you into a doggy position. Sculpted abs pressed against your spine. Beefy arm wrapped around your throat in a headlockâ
âT-to say what?â Youâd wheezed out.
âThat mânot done fucking this pussy pregnant.â
.
.
.
FUSHIGURO MEGUMIâS (and co.) FIVE-STEP PLAN TO MATCHMAKE HIS FATHER AND HIS TEACHERâPHASE FIVE: đ˛đđđ đđâŚ
Itâs so over.
Today was the day of the talent show; and Fushiguro Megumi had never felt more untalented.Â
And noâŚit wasnât because of any of the other competitionâif he had any idea how these things go, at the end they were going to say that everyone won and everyone gets a prize. This was elementary school, after all. And he was quite grown up.Â
Anywaysâthe point is his, Itadori, and Kugisakiâs magic show had been quite the hit amongst parents especially.
And that wasnât why he was feeling untalented.Â
It wasnât because Todoâs PG-censored version of a Megan Thee Stallion song had been honestlyâŚquite good. It wasnât because Yutaâs puppeteering act had been something thatâd drawn endeared laughter from both kids and parents alike. It wasnât even because of the act that was happening right nowâŚwhere Inumaki was standing alone on center stage with a notebook opened up in his hands. The last act of the night.
The rest of the show had gone swimmingly.
Inumaki was a bit more of the quiet type, but at this moment he speaks into the mic loud and clear.Â
âFor my talent today, I am going to read out vocabulary words taught to me by Fushiguro-san. Thank you Fushiguro-san!â
The audience coos and turns to try and find the aforementioned man.
From his position peaking-in from backstage, Megumi watches his father pale from the first row. And then sink deeper into his seat.
Deeper.
And deeper.
And deeper-
âBud.â
Though the rest of the audience nods in sweet endearment- Tojiâs damn-near jumping out of his seat in surprise. That wasâŚclearly not what he had been expecting.
Not at all.
Inumaki continues.
âCookie.â
And Toji has gathered enough bravery toâŚperhaps properly sit up in his seat. Clapping along with the other parents- looking around to make sure that he wasnât just hearing things. And this was actually what Inumaki was reciting.
âConcussion.â
That one draws some admiring sounds. Such a big word for such a small kidâgood on Fushiguro Toji, right?
He might just be safeâŚ
âAnd divorce.â That one draws mixed reactions- but Inumaki closes his infamous blue notebook, and Toji lets out a sigh of relief - one that was nearly audible backstage.Â
Along with the rest of the parents, he can whole-heartedly start clapping now. Maybe even throw in a cheer or two.
Let the audience know that he was the mastermind behind such academic advancements. Yeah, maybe they should pay him.
But Inumaki wasnât done yet.
âAnd my favorite yetââ Which one was it? Which other important vocabulary word had Toji so graciously bestowed upon this kid? Which other aspect of his life had Toji alleviated by the sharing of precious, precious knowledge? Inumaki firmly grips the mic. âIs fuc-â
Megumi leaps onto stage and snatches the microphone out of Inumakiâs hand before he can complete that specific wordâŚ
But the implication must have been evident either way, because then each set of eyes turns behind to the black-haired man. And glares. Toji flips them off. The applause is more polite than willing now. Then he decides that heâs never showing his face âround here again, heâs never stepping a foot through those damn multi-colored doors if it fucking kills him, heâs neverâ
Just then, youâre stepping onto the stage and graciously taking the mic from Megumi. Heâs so back.
âHello? Is this thing on?â You chuckle into it.Â
And TojiâŚToji knows. He knows he wouldnât mind being thrown a dirty look from every single person he meets- so long as youâre there to spot him out in a crowd. Tugging his son close to youâas you beckon all the other kids on-stage and start your speech.
Itâs mostly thanking those that made it possible; the parents, the staff, and especially the students. Toji isnât quite ashamed to admit that heâd been too busy drowning in your gorgeous tone to even register your wordsâ
Expectedly, you were telling the kids that everyone won - and Principal Yaga had been called on-stage to hand out prizes to every one of the kids. And as Fushiguro Megumi holds his prize - a custom trophy with his name, a certificate, and a bunch of art supplies - heâs suddenly remembering why heâd been feeling so untalented.
It had been a week since Phase Four of the mission to get you and his father together. And it had been a few days since parent-teachers meeting and Toji had come to pick him up the next day, smiling dopily.
Megumiâs sure his fatherâs losing his marbles.Â
And he has the strange, sinking feeling that after tonight- theyâd either forget about the plan or abandon it altogether. Feeling so hopelessâitâs so over.
âHey, FushiguroâŚâ Itadori not-so-successfully whispers to the black-haired boy, ultimately drawing attention from whomever was around the two of you. âFushiguro, isnât that your dad coming up the aisle?â
âAnd why does he have such a big bouquet of flowers?â Kugisaki adds on.
ThoughâŚonce Toji reaches the foot of the stage everything becomes very clear.
Because with a hand coming up to your mouth, and the spotlight shined on you, he lovingly hands you the plush bouquet of roses from below. Roses. Red, red roses.
With a silent thank youâyouâre kissing Toji on the cheek.
Every. Single. One of their jaws drop-
Inumaki starts scribbling something down in his notebook.
Yuta sticks an approving thumbs-up.
Even some of the parents in the audience whisper to one another - most nod approvingly.Â
And Toji catches Megumiâs eye to wink. âWeâll talk later.â He mouths.
Megumi nods mutely- excitement thrums through him so fast that his fists clenchâand Itadori has to clasp onto them. They succeeded? They really, truly succeeded?
His eyes are glimmering as he turns to Itadori and Kugisaki- both nodding excitedly in agreement. They couldnât squeal like they wanted to right now with Yagaâs speech droning on in the background, but afterâŚafter, they had a loooot of questions for the new couple.Â
Together; they loop their arms together in a silent victory.
Theyâre so back.
Though being silent was never something for Todo Aoi.
Yelling.Â
âFushiguro Toji rizzed Ms. Teacher before GTA 6â?!â
synopsis: the thing is, gojo satoru has no intention of marrying someone his clan elders pick for him. thereâs a simple solution, of course! why get married to a stranger when you can whisk your best friend away to las vegas for a weekend and elope?
tags: fluff, smut (oral sex, fingering, riding, unprotected sex, one orgasm denial), mild angst, best friends to lovers, vegas wedding!au. idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption, discussions of arranged marriage, attempts at humour, crack taken seriously, mutual pining.
word count: 7.1k
a/n: the art in the header is by m00__ry on instagram & the fic title is from the 2008 movie of the same name. thank you to @saezzi for beta reading!
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #1 â ARSON.
For the record, none of this is your fault.
Itâs all Satoruâs fault, and youâre pinning all of this solely on him because he gets on your nerves and heâs also a liar. A compulsive liar with no concept of shame or mortification or guilt, because the whole world revolves around his thick head and you, unfortunately, are no exception to this rule. It was a nasty trick, really, coercing you into going on vacation with him.
You shouldâve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. Heâd insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where youâd stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadnât bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.
And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.
Your predicamentâstanding in a parking lot behind a Dennyâs at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearbyâis entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoruâs fault.
âI want a divorce,â you tell him.
âWeâve been married for forty-seven minutes.â
âForty-seven minutes too long.â
âYouâre burning our wedding certificate!â Satoru says. âHow are we supposed to file for divorce if thereâs no proof we even got married?â
âIâll figure it out,â you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. âIâm very resourceful.â
âYouâre committing a crime is what youâre doing,â he says.
âYou committed a crime first.â
âGetting married isnât a crimeââ
âFraud is.â
Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrenceâGojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you werenât currently a married woman in a Dennyâs parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven oâclock in the night.
Satoru had told you it was a vacation. Heâd shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, âCome on. Weâre leaving.â
âLeaving where?â youâd asked.
âSomewhere that isnât here,â was his cryptic reply.
Youâd been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoruâs eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasnât; youâd watched him perfect his act for years, after all.
So, you went. You told yourself it was because youâd never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.
Youâd grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didnât inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and youâve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoruâs fault.
The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, heâd fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, youâd thought. More like the version of him youâd met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.
After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinosâif he wasnât careful, heâd turn into a gambling addict soonâand then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.
Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.
âItâs not fraud,â Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. âWe did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.â
âThere are photos?â
âFrancis had a camera.â
âWhat?â
âI think itâs just something he keeps on him professionally.â
You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly heâd planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his fingerâwrong hand; heâd fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct itâcatches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.
âThatâs it!â you say, snapping your fingers at him. âThatâs our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.â
âNo way,â he says. âIâm taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.â
âWeâre behind a Dennyâs,â you point out.
âI know,â Satoru says. âDennyâs is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. Thereâs a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.â
âThen we canât go there.â
âI called ahead.â
You gape at him. âThree months ago?â
âNo,â he says. âI called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.â
âI wasnât asleep for that longââ
âYeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.â
âI did notâthatâs not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, theââ You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash canââeverything.â
âNot everything. I didnât plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.â
âThatâs your fault by proximity.â
âThatâs not a legal standard.â
âIâm making it one.â
Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isnât expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if youâre being honest.
âCome on,â Satoru says, nodding towards the street. âDinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I wonât stop you.â
âYouâd better not,â you say.
âI said I wonât.â He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. âIâm a man of my word.â
âYouâre really not.â
âIâm a man of some of my word,â he amends.
The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.
âWere you really that confident Iâd say yes?â you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.
âI was⌠hopeful,â Satoru says. Itâs not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years youâve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.
What youâve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. Youâve known this for years. Youâve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until itâs almost invisible. Almost.
âThe elders have been at it for two years,â he says finally, without looking up from the menu. âThe meetings, the candidates. Theyâre all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clanâs interests.â
âYou never told me itâd been going on for that long.â
âDidnât want to make it a thing.â
âSatoruââ
âItâs fine. Itâs justââ He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. âI donât want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.â
âVegas,â you echo.
âYou were the obvious answer,â he says matter-of-factly. âYou already know what youâre getting into with me. You donât have any illusions. Youâyouâre my best friend. There isnât anyone Iâd rather be stuck with.â
âStuck with,â you repeat. âIncredibly romantic.â
âI said what I said.â
The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.
âEr. You fumbled the ring,â you say.
âI was nervous,â he says.
Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcomeânervous!
âWere you,â you say.
âBriefly,â Satoru says, with great dignity. âIt passed.â
âOf course.â
âIt wonât happen again.â
âOf course.â
The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoruâs eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.
âWeâre not arguing about the divorce, by the way,â you tell him.
âWeâll see.â
âSatoru.â
âWeâll see,â he says again pleasantly. Youâre going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but heâs already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and youâre already following.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 â BREAKING AND ENTERING.
The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!
âFuck,â you groan.
âLanguage,â Satoru says. âMaintenance at midnight. Huh. Thatâs strange.â
âThatâs what Iâm focusing on right now, yes, thank you.â
You press your face briefly against the chapel doorâs small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husbandâyou are using that word provisionally under extreme protestâlooking at you like youâre the only fixed point in the room?
âHe might live here,â Satoru says.
âFrancis?â
âSome of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.â
âWeâre not knocking on a manâs door at midnight,â you say.
âItâs nearly one.â
âThat makes it worse!â You step back from the door and look at the sign again. Thereâs a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoruâs already walking towards it. âWhat are you doing?â
âRecon,â Satoru says. âJust looking.â
He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. Thereâs a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.
âNo,â you say.
âThereâs a window.â
âI see that.â
âItâs open!â
It appears to be a casement window on the chapelâs ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.
âThat could be a bathroom window,â you say. âWeâd be breaking and entering.â
âThe windowâs already open,â Satoru says. âTechnically weâd just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.â
âIf we get arrested,â you say, âIâm blaming you entirely.â
âObviously.â
âI will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything thatâs happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.â
âSure. Boost or be boosted?â Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. âIâd say Iâll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think youâd make a better lookout.â
âIâm not being a lookout.â
âYou just saidââ
âIâm coming with you.â
He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amusedâgone before you can fix it in place.
âObviously,â he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.
The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.
âThereâs a whole back operation,â Satoru says, impressed.
âWe need to find the darkroom,â you whisper.
âWhy are you whispering?â
âBecause weâre trespassing.â
âRight, yes,â he says, lowering his voice. âThe darkroom will need ventilation, so itâs probably towards the back.â
âHow do you know anything about darkrooms?â you ask.
âI went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.â He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. âAll clear.â
You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, itâs just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.
âBack roomâs through here,â Satoru says softly; heâs already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.
The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicalsâdeveloper and fixer, mostly. Thereâs a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.
Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.
The first one is mid-ceremony. Youâre both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profileâhead tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why itâs blurry. Youâd both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and youâd bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.
In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while youâre looking at the camera, Satoruâs looking at you. You lookâFrancis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but thereâs also something else, something you would rather not name.
Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way heâs been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.
âWe look like idiots,â Satoru says.
âFrancis was right,â you say. âWe both look surprised.â
âWere you?â he asks.
âYes. Were you?â
âNo,â he says, then adds quietly, âMaybe. Aboutâabout other things.â
In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoruâs full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise youâre holding your breath.
âWe should take them,â Satoru says.
âWe canât just take them,â you say. âTheyâre developing.â
âThey look pretty developed to me.â
âSatoru, theyâre dampââ
âTheyâll dry.â Heâs already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. âFrancis has the negatives. He can print more.â
âYou donât know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, weâre stealing from him.â
âWeâre borrowing from Francis.â Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. âHand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.â
Thereâs a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.
âWe need to leave Francis a note,â you say, âand money. For the printing. Forâeverything.â
âHow much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?â
âWhat?â
âIâm asking genuinely.â
âA lot,â you say. âLeave a lot.â
You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. Weâre sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.
You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.
You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.
âFor the record,â you say, âthis is also your fault.â
âThe chapel was closed,â Satoru says reasonably. âI didnât plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.â
You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, Heâs going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.
âCome on,â you say. âYou said the hotelâs three blocks away.â
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 â VANDALISM.
There is only one bed. Itâs not, on its own, an unusual situation. Youâve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru beforeâfield missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. Youâd use a pillow wall, most of the time.
The difference is that you are currently married to him.
âYou booked a room with one bed?â you ask.
âThey may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married coupleâs names, that we would want,â Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, âthe one bed.â
The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. Thereâs a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.
âDid you request the honeymoon setup?â you say.
âThe woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.â
âThatâs not an answer!â You look around the room, hands on your hips. âWell, thereâs a couch. You can use that.â
Itâs one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.
âIâm not going to sleep on it, but noted,â Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. âWhiskey or gin?â
âWhiskey,â you say. âWe can put a pillow wall down the middle.â
âWeâre married,â he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. âIt seems a bit prudish.â
You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and heâs looking out the window at the city below. Youâve spent enough years watching him, but it doesnât seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.
âI want to see them again,â you announce.
Satoru looks at you. âThe photos?â
You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. Theyâre drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.
âYou shouldâve warned me,â you say quietly.
âAbout which part?â
âAll of it.â You tap the third photographâs edge, gently. âThis.â
Heâs quiet for a moment. âIf Iâd warned you, youâd have said no.â
âYou donât know that.â
âI know you,â he says, not unkindly. âYouâd have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then youâd have spent months being strange about it, and then weâd have gone back to normal, andââ He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. ââŚI didnât want to go back to normal.â
âItâs still a bad idea,â you mumble.
âProbably,â he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. âHasnât stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.â
You do. Thatâs the problem: youâve always known what he means, even when heâs being deliberately oblique about it. Youâve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that youâve also known youâre in love with him for longer than you thought.
You look at the fourth photographâSatoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.
âYou couldâve just said something,â you tell him. âAt any point. Like a normal person.â
âI took you to Las Vegas and married you,â he says. âThatâs me saying something directly.â
His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations youâd been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.
You close the remaining distance. Satoruâs free hand comes up to your face before youâve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it tooâhas been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegasâand heâs kissing you.
He kisses you decisively. Thereâs a certainty to it that shouldnât surprise youâthis is Satoru, who does nothing halfwayâbut it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesnât feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something thatâs been there all along.
When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.
âHi,â Satoru says.
âYouâre still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,â you chide.
âI said hi.â
âHi,â you say.
He smiles; it reaches his eyes. âSo,â he starts.
âDo not say âI told you so.ââ
âI wasnât going to. Probably.â
âInsufferable,â you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.
The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attentionâone knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You donât notice any of it; youâre somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.
You suspect that heâs thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.
âYouâre thinking,â Satoru says against your mouth.
âIâm not.â
âYou are. I can tell. You get this littleââ He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. âHere.â
You stare at him. âI hate that you know that.â
âNo, you donât,â he says. Heâs right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.
He lets you tug at him willinglyâmore than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.
His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while heâs working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.
He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, âMay I?â
âYes, yes, please.â You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. Youâre already wet and needy.
âYouâre so beautiful,â Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him.Â
âSatoru, please,â you say. âI need you.â
He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. âNeed me to what?â
âI need you to, hah, justââ
Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.
âFuck, fuckââ You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesnât stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what heâs doing to you. Heâs always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isnât a playful tease during a mission.
He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.
âSatoru⌠please, Iâmââ
âYouâre what?â he mumbles against your skin. He doesnât wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.
The sensation is overwhelming. Itâs too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.
âRight there,â you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. âRight there, Satoru, donât stop, please donât stop.â
Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesnât just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. âSatoru, what the hellââ
Heâs hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.
âNot yet,â he whispers.
âI hate you,â you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. âI actually hate you so much.â
âLiars donât get to come,â Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh.Â
He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. âI want to feel you,â he murmurs. âI want to feel how tight you are around me.â
Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesnât lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.
âRide me?â he asks.
The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.
âFuck,â he moans. âYouâreâyouâre so tight. I canâtââ
âShut up,â you whisper, though thereâs no heat in it.
You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his faceâthe way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoruâs hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.
âLook at me,â he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. âI love you,â he says.
You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. âIâm going to come,â he says. âLet meââ
You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.
âSo,â he whispers. âShower?â
You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. âAlready?â you say with faux innocence. âI thought youâd want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.â
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 â EMBEZZLEMENT.
Hopefully Satoru didnât mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. Youâd wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacketâs pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.
Itâs for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shopâs location pulled up on your phone.Â
Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. Itâs not quiet, exactlyâitâs never quiet, you suspectâbut itâs quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.
You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoruâs black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.
The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. Itâs a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than youâd previously considered.
You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. Theyâre soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and theyâll tarnish in a week. Youâd noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. Itâs more of a placeholder than anything else.
The thought of replacing them had arrived while youâd lain in Satoruâs arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.
You arenât scared, though youâd expected to be. Youâd expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of whatâs happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.
But when youâd woken up with Satoruâs arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what youâd felt was something almost irritatingly simple: youâd felt like yourself.
The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of youâyour clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combedâand nods pleasantly.
âMorning,â he says. âWhat are you looking for?â
âWedding rings,â you say. âTwo of them, please. Something thatâll last for a long time.â
He nods again. âDo you know the other personâs size?â
You think about Satoruâs handsâthe ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. âI can estimate,â you say.
He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most partâplain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last.Â
âThese,â you tell the man behind the counter.
He nods. You produce Satoruâs black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isnât the cost and youâre sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.
You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached.Â
âHello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speakingââ
âFrancis,â you say, smiling. âI have a favour to ask.â
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 â MARRIAGE.
Francis, it turns out, is delighted. Heâd gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details.Â
You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still goingâslot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stationsâbut the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the nightâs crowd entirely dissolved and the dayâs not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. Itâs a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.
Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.
âMorning,â you say.
âMy credit card,â he says.
âIs fine.â You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. âI needed it for a purchase.â
âWhat kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room atââ he glances at the clock on the nightstandââsix forty-seven in the morning?â
âThe important kind.â You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.
Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesnât say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. âYou stole my credit card,â he says finally, âto buy us wedding rings.â
âI borrowed it,â you say. âTo replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.â
âI liked those rings.â
âThey were tarnishing,â you say. âThereâs more, by the way.â
You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way heâd held the whiskey bottle last night before heâd covered your hand with his.Â
âI thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now youâve stolen my credit card and called Francis.â
âYep.â
He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.
âOkay,â he says.
âOkay?â
âYeah.â Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. âOkay.â
Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. Youâre not entirely sure when he found the timeâitâs been barely two hours since your phone callâbut the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps youâre simply disposed to see it differently today.
Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. âYou came back,â he says.
âWe came back,â you confirm.
Francis looks at the two of youâSatoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short noticeâand grins. âThe rings, did youââ
You produce the white box.
âRight,â Francis says. âRight, yes. Letâsâshall we?â
Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:
You think about the first time, yesterday, and how youâd stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Dennyâs and the small fire in the trash can. Youâd meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.
Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadnât argued because heâd known youâd come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didnât say aloud.
You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the doorâyou can still see them from where youâre standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.
You turn to look back at Satoru. Heâs smiling at you.
Francis clears his throat gently. âShall we begin?â
The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternativesâhe has a small binder with optionsâbut Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoruâs ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.
Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at youâthereâs that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.
Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.
âIâve never had anyone come back,â he tells you. âIn twelve years, youâre the first.â
âWe forgot something the first time,â you say.
Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, âYou may now kiss,â and so you do.
a/n: the real mvp of this fic is francis who was also unironically my favourite person to write. thanks for reading!
Synopsis. Control his jujutsu powers when he first puts it in? Impossible.
Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Kashimo x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, when itâs so good he loses control, ĂnnaproprĂate use of jujutsu, GOJOâS POWERS, rough s, matĂng presses, Getoâs tentacIe curse, true form Sukuna, dp, cervĂx kĂssing, marathons, ratio technique, unlimited void, creampĂes, cĂşmplay, chokĂng, FĂRAL men, dĂşmbifĂcation, exhĂbitĂonism (Higuruma), pet names, swĂŠaring.
A/N. KASHIMO MADE THE CUT YEAHHH-
⥠TOJI FUSHIGURO - P*SSY KlLLER?!
âPlease- ngh, Tojiââ You canât help but trill at the sloppy movements of Tojiâs tongue, swipinâ and slurping itâs way carnally between your slick, dribbling folds.Â
The slimy end of his muscle curves in just right past your entrance and you find yourself sobbing, gushing out the creamy remnants that Toji had pumped you oh-so-full with just mere minutes prior. And heâs parched.Â
Smacking his scarred, puckered lips whilst they stick with his seed like a white gloss, watching you only grow wetter and heâs gaspingââOh.â
Mossy eyes drooping, swollen length spent nâ still aching.Â
Just about the only guttural noise he can make, the only thing he can even register before creeping two calloused hands underneath your boneless thighs. âA-again.â Toji pants out, hypnotized. Manhandling - barely even realizing the superhuman strength heâs using to pliably bend your knees up, up, up to your heaving chest.
âB-but Tojiââ Youâre nervously eying the poor, sagging bedframe. âYou broke the bed-â
âAnd?â
It doesnât matter how many times heâs stretching out your walls to the extreme with his red, hard cock, how many times heâll be eagerly eating your dripping pussy out with all his cum - Toji Fushiguro will always want more.Â
Will always feel the crowned tips of his digits twitching with need already, digging a few blossoming bruises along your cute inner thighs. Letting out a sultry breath of âfuckâ before in a split-second youâre reeling with the whiplash of being shoved down onto your hardwood floors. Â
Off the bed, at his mercy.Â
With Tojiâs big, beefy biceps cushioning the impact to your body, heâs pinning your squirming hips down with his v-line and snarling- âHere-â The curvaceous tip of his shaft so scorching hot and wet where heâs rubbinâ straight down your slit in impatient gyrations, âAgain. Right here.â
âO-on the hngh- floorâ?â
âBedâs broken, doll.â All the explanation that Tojiâs granting you with, hovering so tall and proud between your legs.Â
If he needed only half of his heavenly restriction to shatter your mahogany bed, then he didnât even need a fraction of that to nudge your jittery legs apart. Coating your outer pussy with an opaque glaze of pre, Toji spanks the bulbous underside of his cockhead and grins at the puddle heâs smearing down your thighs.Â
And just that first, squelching smooch from the top of his strawberry shaft to your teary orifice makes the hulking man shiver. Makes him pant.Â
Makes him slouch until you were caged by his meaty chest, draaaagging his caramel-salted lips across your own, âBut Iâm not.â
And then heâs easing in.Â
âSh-shit.â Your numbing legs canât even thrash, canât even move with the full weight of him pressing into you. The stretch of his utterly fat, bulging cock was so much that your spineâs pushing you up against his every ridged ab, gripping onto Tojiâs muscular back for dear life.Â
Easing and easing- more like rummaging. Rough, forceful ruts of his bulging crown thatâs swabbing right âround your hole. Heâs so thick that even the softest, sweetest clench makes Toji throw his perspired head back and hiss with sensitivity.Â
SLAM!
âOh.â The surface beneath you thunders dangerously with the vibrato of his left hand striking down on the floor. Grunting, âDonât tap out-â
Roaming one of his thick thumbs between your legs, Tojiâs further prying apart your sappy folds with a drawn-out sluuuurp to stretch your cunt. Making sure you gulp down each single, barreling inch. âDonât run.â
And that groaned warning was targeted at the way your jittery legs had started to plant down on the floor and push.
Unsure of whether to run or swerve your hips back for more, more, more.Â
Youâre sobbing, the prettiest hitch in your voice that makes his heavy cock jolt. Feeling a fresh few dewdrops of precum sprinkle all the way near your throat. âItâs just s-shooo big, Toooojiââ
Tojiâs hooded eyes dilate until heâs looking feral, such a vulgar grin plastering across his lips once heâs giving you a wild buck at your cries. âOhhhhâ come- hah! come back here, mama.âÂ
Calloused, mean fingertips curl over your gulping throat to haaaul you all the way back down the floor. Swatting your ass against the messily tufted darkness of his happy trail, veins popping up down his arms. He looked so unfairly hot with pearls of sweat twinkling down his temple, greedy gaze half-hidden through his bangs. âNo runninâ.â
You couldnât run away even if you tried.Â
He had you pushed into the sloppiest mating press, scooped up in his arms until all you could feel was his bullying, fattened cock.Â
âMmmâ hngh! Toji, youâre in so d-deep!â And Tojiâs giving a thorough push that has his puckered pink tip lodging all the way into your cervix, the texture of his zig-zagging veins making your knees weak. âS-so full.â
âRiiiight? Again- again.â
And it wasnât just his full cock splitting your insides, youâre hiccuping after each syrupy splosh of his cum pooled within you. Slick strands of seed leaking out of your slit and gluing your thighs together like adhesive-
âNeed it all inside.â Or, at least, it wouldâve if it wasnât for the way that Tojiâs hand lifts briefly off of your throat to smear over that overspilling mess. Drenching the pads of his fingers with a frothing of white he shovels between your gasping mawâ âAgain. Need toâŚâ
Dazed. He trails off, glassy green eyes drifting down to concentrate on your tummy - your womb. Like he could see something you didnât.
Moaning, Tojiâs rugged cadence shifts like lightning to precisely strike your quivering g-spot. Looking down at you with the most lecherous pussydrunken grin whilst you tremble, â-breed you, doll.â
Ah- there.Â
âFuck- fuck fuck fuck- think you already hngh- haveâ!â Youâre whining, flinching at the sudden sizzling somewhere above your head.Â
âNot enough.â
And itâs only then that you realize that Tojiâs simply hoisted his other hand off of the wooden ground to reveal a burning handprint. A crater. âHeh- broke the ngh- floor, too.â
That very same powerful palm clinging on instantly to the side of your hips once Toji curves your gyratinâ tempo to directly match his. Lifting you nearly into midair, heâs using you like some cute, glorified doll to plant hit after hit on your bruising g-spot.Â
Over nâ over, no oneâs ever treated your pussy like this before - like his own personal dartboard, and he was hitting every bullseye. âFuck- i-itâs so muchââ
Slide-slide-sliiiiding the ridge of his mushroomy tip down that splotchy area you loved so much, âNot enough-â And youâre feeling a shockwave run down your spine at the way big, bad Toji Fushiguro sounded on the verge of tears. Breath hitched, tone octaves higher. âMore need- more.â
âP-please-â Youâre strangling out the same set of syllables again and again into his scorched red ear, tangling your fingers across the flexing knots of his deltoids-
And Toji, oh- Tojiâs letting goosebumps line the middle of his broad back at the touch. Immediately snatching your hands with his sap-soaked one, âLike haaa- feelinâ me, huh?âÂ
You could feel the power radiating underneath, could feel his rapid, rabbity heartbeat as he gropes your hands all over him. âF-feel me then. This body.â Punctuated with thrust by thrust, your eyes roll backwards as you feel his spherical circumference bruise deep against your womb. âThis cock.â
From every strong tendon, to his tensed ladder-like abs, to the valley of his shuddering pecsâ your mouth waters at the feeling of his muscles.Â
Even more so when he lazily wraps your fingers around his throat- âChoke me, mama.â
⥠NANAMI KENTO - 7:3 Fuck-nique
âR-roughâŚ?â
And it takes everything in Nanami Kentoâs strong, battle-worn body to keep his voice steady for you, feeling the raw swipe of his blushing tip past your pussylips and already hissing.Â
Parched Adamâs apple bobbing with a few strangled coughs, âMy wife wants itââ His half-lidded gaze locks on your face, your spit-glossed mouth already dropping into a pretty, cockdrunken âohâ as you nod over your shoulder. â-rough.â
In lewd response, your soppy cunt only squelches out a few dollops of glazing slick. Slipping down the sides of Nanamiâs swollen shaft and making his puffy veins glisten in the dim lighting, âYouâre probably stressed after that hah- jujutsu mission today, Kenââ Your fingers start caressing a soft massage into his tense forearms, âYou can take it out on- nghâŚme.â
Oh.
If he hadnât lost his sanity before then he sure has now.Â
And Nanamiâs thick, ravenous fingertips brush your thighs and twitch with primal strength. It only takes a split second - barely even a nanosecond - for him to pick your jittery limbs up and push push push down.
To fold you into the worldâs meanest doggy style while you whine. âMy pretty wife wants it roughâŚâ
The only thing sweeter than his cooing, deep tone was the saccharine kiss heâs planting down on your entrance with his cherry-red tip. â-then youâre gonna get it-â The single nicest thing Nanami gifts before mercilessly pinning your hips down with his weight and siiiiinking in with a primal noise. â-rough, my love.â
âFuck-â Your eyes roll back at the sudden stretch, the pryinâ intrusion of his barreling girth sticking against your walls like a second skin. Stretching nâ stretching. âOh myâ mmm, Kento!â
Nanami swears heâs trying to hold back, he swears heâs trying to keep himself under control when he first puts it in.
But the tiniest glide of his sensitive pink slit across your glossy insides and heâs gnawing down on the inside of his cheek, letting out a sharp gasp. âOh.â Before shoving your arched spine down and rutting-
âOh fuck-â Youâre yelping, feeling the bullying push of his crowned tip brush near your fucking lungs. His bulging shaft swabbing every tiny crevice to mush, âYouâre in so- youâre- hck! Kentooooâ!â
And the only thing you can say is Nanamiâs damn name.
The only thing stringing together in the heaping mess of what used to be your brain as he reaches over with his towering frame. Thighs against shaky thighs, fat cock against your sloped pussy.Â
Pushing and pushing with a few vulgar strokes until you hear faint pops! of your joints. Using his inhuman strength, your husbandâs cradling your hips- the only thing holding you up whilst he hauls over one of his meaty thighs nâ presses down on your lower spine with his knee.Â
Bending you, stretching you.
âShit- shit, mâsorry, darling.â Puffs out his sweltering gust of a gasp against the back of your neck, Nanamiâs grip on you bruising while he tries to steady himself. His sanity.Â
Youâre so soft nâ warm- it feels like heaven, and heâs trying to ease his bulbous tip back for your pussy to get used to. Spraying out a fountain of pre as he pulls outâ and then gyrates down a slow, sensual thrust all the way from his reddened mushroom tip down to about halfway, sweetly. âHate to knock you around- fuck. I canât have you hurt, my love. Forget going rough, relax fâme and Iâll- IâllâŚâ
But you donât relax.
You do the exact opposite - you clench.
And oh- oh, Nanamiâs shattered.Â
He canât even think, canât even remember to breathe before thereâs a sudden surge of tightness in the heady air. Your irises blinking at the millisecond of flashing black and red light- before disappearing all the way into the depths of your skull once Nanami twitches.Â
Like a madman, heâs bashing your poor g-spot dead-on - and the sheer force of it is so strong that youâre feeling your toes curl, vision blurring.Â
His plump, puckered tip wedges right into that sweet spot in your walls, hard enough that it leaves your cunt stinging with a bruise the size of his fat circumference. Once. And then again, in a rough, ragged drill of his toned hips.Â
A bullseye- thrice. A hatrick.Â
âOh- right- there- mmmââ You donât even need to say it, because Nanamiâs striking three direct hits each second, his cadence sloppy. Fast. Hard.Â
âLook at thaaaatââ Croons out a scratchy bass from above, and it takes you a few blinks of your wet lashes to realize that the one talking was your husband. Heâs never sounded this raspy, this ruined. â-youâve got me a-all worked up nâ nowâŚâ
Comically, your pupils are swirlinâ in circles inside of your eyes with each whack! whack! whack!Â
Spittle dangling out like heâd just opened a floodgate the moment thereâs another flash, and then a sizzling drag of his split-ended crown weepily pressing on your g-spot, precisely.
Your bleary gaze adjusts to the flickering bedroom lights as Nanami carries out his sultry pace, gasping. âW-wait did you just- fuck!â And again, the air pressurizes against your skin as heâs drilling into you animalistically. Filthy half-thrusts that leave your g-spot aching, your ass scratched with his tawny happy trail. âKento, did you just use- ngh- black flash?â
âHmmmâ?â
Mewling, âThrice?â
âOh.â Heâs so damn pussydrunk he didnât even realize, didnât even register the cursed energy zapping from the ends of his fingers and down to your restless body.Â
Dazed, Nanami experimentally creeps down his fingertips to give your perky clit a squeezeâ and watches in awe once youâre writhing nâ singing out the cutest whines at the vibrations of jujutsu.Â
Thrice, huh? Without even knowing - just using his powers to reach your most favorite spot like he knew you wanted.Â
Your husband pushes up the drooping metal frames of his glasses and almost wishes he didnât- the sultry sight of your pussy too much for him. All bulging and quivering to oh-so-desperately take his entire barreling size, he canât help but give you a rewarding little smooch of his curvaceous cockhead.Â
Letting the slick syrup of his pre dribble allll out of your folds at the sheer volume, âB-black flashâŚso I did, my love.â That ratio technique coming in way too fucking handy to measure out where your g-spot was, Nanami lays his knee down deeper at the base of your back nâ lets your boneless body sag. âAnd she liked it.â
Deep down into the mattress he was fucking you into, deep down into where he was letting his powers spark with another flash.
âOh- Iâmââ Your mouth gapes haplessly back nâ forth, no sound dragging out because Nanamiâs pounding every ounce of breath from your lungs with a single more thrash into your tenderest area.
A fourth black flash - his record.Â
The black and red light dotting behind your eyelids once his strawberry divot comes hammering against your g-spot and pushing - a slip nâ slide that drags his ridged, veiny shaft down your walls and hitting your spongy cervix with a thwack!Â
Reeling you straight over the edge before youâve even realized whatâs happening.
Eyes clenched, body shiver, maw hanging open upon the torrents of spittle- Youâre throwing your head back and sobbing in carnal bliss as Nanami shifts his body closer.Â
Jujutsu crackling out of him in oodles, it twitches out of his touch and leaves your swollen lips stinging once Nanami cranes over to lap away your goblets of drool with his tongue.Â
âF-four.â He grumbles, low. Almost in disbelief. Almost gone. Letting the slimy curve of his tip probe thoroughly into your exact bundle of nerves, âLetâs break my record, darling.â
⥠GETO SUGURU - Tentacular.
âKehâ so damn messy.â Geto whispers, feeling the soggy wetness of your cunt open âround his bulbous tip. That cherry pink curve piercing its way just past your clamping entrance, âThis is what you wanted- right, gorgeous? ThisâŚâ
And he doesnât finish the tail end of his sentence - he doesnât have to.
Because youâre feeling it, instead. That sudden, slimy tendril slipping over your slick-glossed inner thighs. Kissing just the puffy outer edge of your pussy as Geto sinks in-
âOh- oh!â Youâre gurgling back a moan at the reddish coil of your boyfriendâs tentacle curse, one heâd summoned hours ago and was teasing you with ever since.Â
Letting the pointed tip of one tendril slip nâ slide playfully down your stuffed slit as he stays torturously still, edging you with flicks of pleasure that have you keening. Squirming endlessly, âPuh-please! Wanâ more- Suguru, more.â
âAh ah, gorgeousââ And fuck- Geto Suguru has the audacity to bring the biggest, fattest one of the eight cursed tentacle meanly spanking down on your drivelling slope. Letting a wet thwack! sing out into the heady air while you sob outâ âYou canât be heh- whining like that. Use your big girl words.â
âBut- but-â
But you couldnât - not when Geto was prying you open like this.Â
Not only was his hard, reddened cock massively big, letting his plump girth roam around your glazed insides- heâd managed to slip in one of those cloyingly sticky tentacles, too.
Just the first few inches of its curly tress, spreadinâ your folds apart until Geto could let his girthy cock sink allll the way in. His size was just so damn staggering that youâre finding your head dizzy, the sheer stretch having you tumbling your sweaty scalp back into the futon-
âManners manners.â
For only a split-second, before heâs crawling himself forwards, two of those dextrous tentacles following you to lift your head up. âLook at me when I ngh- put it in.â Hazed amethyst peripheries locked on you, âAnd tell me- haaaa- tell me what you want.â
Mewling each time his rock-hard length and a singular tendril bully inside to push the button of your g-spot. Rubbing it sensually, crowning it with a sleek frosting of buttery pre, âIâ hck! Sugu, Iâ mmm, right there.â
âAwww, my poor girl canât even speak.â Getoâs cooing down at you, tone ragged. Itâs not like he was doing any better- fuck, he really wasnât.
He was just shivering at the warm gushing of your wet cunt, so soft and blissful that he canât even put it in at first without losing control of his powers.Â
The tentacle curse was unplanned. You and that sweet pussy liking it was even more unplanned.Â
And Geto lets his meaty thighs widen with an out-of-control pound that leaves your inner-thighs stinging, heâs holding back his hitched breath. Blinking away the lusty haze in his vision, swabbing your orifice with yet another rut after rut like a madman.
âHehâ and yer legs are s-sooo weak.âÂ
Youâre flinching once two more tentacles coil in rings around both of your jittery legs and leave them hanging over Getoâs broad shoulders, one kissinâ your ankles in place to keep them tightly held.Â
Lips gluing together with saccharine sweet spit, âSh-shit youâre even deeper now.â
Groaning, âAll youâre doing is ngh- drooling. How rude.â His raven lashes come fluttering down at the squelch! your slick cunt lets off once he skims a pale thumb down your middle. Flooding even there.Â
Leaving your teary slit open allll for him to admire while he fucks you like heâs angry. Like heâs trying to make you slobber out even more. âCâmon- hah.â Getoâs big, buff body shudders with something visceral at the bolt of cursed energy running down his spine, âCâmon, letâs show her some of ourâŚngh- manners.â
And it takes you one-two-three thrashes of Getoâs scorching hot tip entering your hole, impaling your pussy nâ hitting right against your g-spot for you to realize that he wasnât talking to you.Â
Not at all.Â
He was talking to the greedy coils of tentacles wrapping further nâ further around your body like you were the cutest lilâ gift. Two toying over the nubs of your nipples with their sultry suction, two more tying your ankles together over Getoâs shoulders.Â
And, hell, Geto was even using one to curl around your pretty throat and help drag you past every recoil of his whacking hips. Just the slightest parting from your gummy cervix was way too much for him to handle, he needed you there to take it all - and he needed it now. Always.Â
But your sobbing cunt? That was all for him- âDirty giiiirlââ for now, that is. The softened end of one tendril sneaks past your saturated pussylips and squeezes- bullies a singular inch through your entrance. âYou want me or that? Tell me- tell me.â
âI- ngh- I want.â The only thing you can do is blubber stupidly as that fat muscle slithers in deep- scouring your dewy wet walls easily for your sweetest spots. Each one.
Pinching and rubbing your pulsating clit, letting his cock dig into your tenderest depths.
So much that youâre almost starting to crawl awayâ
âWhereâre we goinâ, gorgeous?â Geto snickers, an innocent blush spreading all over his handsome face at the adorable sight of you being dragged back down by his tentacles when you start to run.Â
Heâs fucking you - with both. Hard, rough. And after bashing his ruby red tip against your g-spot, Getoâs heading straight for it again with his cursed technique.Â
Choking, hauling, Geto pushes one in between your spit-slippery lips and makes you keen. âTheeeere we go. Open that mouth-â Whining, youâre letting off the most primal splat! of puddled saliva as he grins. Wrenching your unfastened jaw open when you could only babble, âWhat cute hngh- noises. Speak fâme now, smart girl. My biiig fucking cock, orâŚâ
Though, you felt anything but with the fuzzy feeling of your cockdrunk brain right now. Stupidly letting your maw sag to the side as he fills you up doubly, âBoth-â
Geto leans in mockingly close, one of his palms cupping his ear to listen for your sweet sounds. Drawling, âWhatâs thaaat?â
âB-both, Suguruâ!â
Oh- both.
And for just a second you think that Geto has stilled - you think that heâs stopped fucking breathing. Just a low, strangled few pants wrenching from the back of his throat-
Before he snaps his hips and strikes you with an ambushing whack of his bulging crown, followed up by the sluuurping snake of one of his tentacles pushing and pushing. Stretching your pussylips so wiiide with the circumference that you swear you see cartoonish stars floating above his head.
Only to realize that itâs cursed energy, something oh-so-carnal as Geto flicks the slick tip of his tendril in tempo with his sloppy dick. Drilling you double, drilling you until you see double.Â
âAnd nowâŚâ Geto coaxes you into a carnal embrace, sweetly pecking the top of your perspiration-covered head before heâs extending even longer. The thick veins decorating all over his shaft pressing into your sides, his cursed technique throbbing- just waiting.Â
Waiting for that perfect moment to grow even bigger inside of you. And the best bit was he wasnât even fully in control anymore - too pussydrunk to, just by feeling you.
Geto grins at that soft gasping âoh!â you let out once you realize, leaning down to darkly murmur. âLetâs count how many hah- inches before IâŚget even bigger, gorgeous.â
⥠KASHIMO HAJIME - ROSE (TOY)
Kashimo didnât think heâd be here - four hundred years in the modern day and held hostage by your sweet, sweet pussy.
Fuck- he feels himself claw a powerful hand down the side of your smoothly gyrating hips, gliding your swollen pussy further down his cock and heâs bucking-
Greedy. Desperate.Â
His other hand trembles with the weight of your softly buzzing rose toy, lightning sparking between his fingers to make it vrrrrr louder between your legs. Electrified.Â
This was dangerous. Heâs already feeling the cursed energy rush, already making up his mind to gently jostle you off for the greater good- but instead, heâs swiping his cherry-red tip between your folds and pushing.Â
âFuck- fuck.â Words departing in seething hot pants, Kashimo canât help but grit his teeth and reel his slender hips back. Only for the clamping wetness of your walls to make him dizzy, âYou seriously feel like this?â Something high-pitched, in disbelief. âSâthe hah! sweetest lilâ cunt in the world, blossom.â
âNgh- nghhh fuck! HajimeâŚâ Youâre cutely mewling out, the feeling of his thick, bulging cock opening up your snug walls was so addictive. And that burning stretch already had your poor knees weakening along with your sultry bounces.Â
Pap after pap after pap- Kashimo counts each slam of your sexily restless ass cheeks against his pelvis.Â
Feeling his skin already start to redden, heâs grinning. Drinking up everything sloppy slurp ringing from below whenever heâs striking your dewy orifices, âShhh sh sh, little one.â Boring down at you with half-lidded azure eyes so intense, âLet me hear- this fucking- pussy.â
And itâs the first time heâs feeling something like this, the first time heâs mazing his weepy cocktip to glue against the surface of your cervix and feel you squeeze.Â
âFuh-fuck!â He bucks, he pants. Eyes flickering with lightning-
And Kashimo doesnât know whatâs louder - the crack of your nearby bedroom lamp shattering into a zillion pieces, or the way your rose toy notches up until its vibrations are damn near deafening.Â
His power out of control - all leveraged against you and that cute cunt.Â
Whimpering, you back arches oh-so-sinfully once heâs dragging the lecherously suctioning tip just across your clit. Teasing you with the soft suckling of your toy, âH-how hck! I thought the battery would be ngh- dead by now.â
âOh, it isââ Heâs crooning from below you, beryl strands of his bangs plastering to his sweaty forehead as he looks up at you. Kashimoâs grin is just so satisfied once he toys with your perky clit until youâre whining nâ sniffling, âSuch cute lilâ things you hah- have these daysâŚâ
And youâre watching on in confusion when Kashimo keeps giving your teary pussy one kiss from your vibrating rose toy. Another. And another, a sleazy grin spreading all over his face at the way it makes your dewy cervix twitch with each clench.Â
Again nâ again.
âSâtoo bad that-â Before suddenly wrenching that hot pink toy away across your dampened sheets- immediately out of battery without his cursed energy. Unneeded now. And giving your awaiting cunt a good spank of his electrically buzzing fingerpads, â-I can do it even better.â
Heâs right- fuck, heâs more than right.Â
In only a split-second, Kashimo has his probinâ cockhead buried deeply between your damp folds and his fingers pinching your swollen clit. The light jujutsu power on them making your head throw back with a moanâ âO-ohhh fuck! Thaâs cheating, Hajime-â
âShush- what did I ngh- say? Not you-â Purposefully, heâs rudely swatting your cunt more to let the sparks of lightning zap down your spine all the way from your drooling cunt. âThough, I do like when you heh- scream, blossom. But I wanna hear fuuuuckâ her.â
His fingers were like living, moving vibrators - just making your sensitive slit quiver all over with your arousal.Â
Youâre so wet that itâs formulating a cute puddle where you were riding him, thighs twitching when youâre slipping and sliding all down his hungry cock. Your stuffed hole repeatedly letting out the sexiest wet squelches-Â
âOh? Oho? How chatty.â Kashimo snickers from between his clenched snarl, pearly whites spread in such a wiiide grin hearing your pussy this way. Nodding as if he was in conversation, âSâthat soooââÂ
Youâre flinching once his sultry eyes target your own, flattening his feet on the ground to look right into your stare as he mazes his crowned mushroom tip along your walls. Hitting your cervix and making sure to leave a slightly bruised crater for you to feel afterwards, âGuess what this- hah! naughty fuckinâ girl just asked me, little one?â
âWh-what?â You yelp, voice cracking once he twists his thumb on top of your sensitive nub to draw a tiny lightning bolt.Â
âShe wanted meâŚâ Kashimo drawls out, trailing off as the side of his veiny shaft slaps your sweetest spots. Rendering you speechless and shivering at the lightning bolted texture, â-to go even harder.â
And oh, you knew that look on the incarnationâs face.
You knew it- that wild, wide-eyed look of absolute fucking madness before he lurched his hips off of the overworked bedsprings. Making your maw dangle with a shrilling gasp when heâs milking his swollen, red cock on your warm cunt.Â
Kashimo snickers, âCan- can you even imagine?â The prominent cuts of his v-line massaging up into your lower tummy, over nâ over punctuating each syllable. Each breath. âG-going harder.â
âO-oh, fuckââ Youâre squirming restlessly at the way his fingers only seem to buzz even harder with lightning cursed energy. The way it was seeping out of him now, making your overhead lights flicker, making the air turn static.
âWell- I can only- listen to every fucking word she says.â
And maybe itâs the way that the flicks of his cursed energy jolt down your slit even needier, maybe itâs the way heâs roaming his knobbled thumb even further between them to draw a sweet, sweet heart. Plump, pink-colored tip giving your g-spot one of his countless mean hits- this time sending white-hot sparks skittering down your walls. Either sheer brute force or jujutsu - you donât even know before youâre throwing your head back and cumming.Â
Eyes blearing with so many tears, voice wobbly as you call outâ âI-inside.â Gazing down at Kashimoâs slightly wide-eyed, shocked pupils. âCum inside, Hajime.â
And in all his over four hundred years of living, this might be the first time his powers had ever been so out of control.Â
Every single light in your house shatters, the power shuts, Kashimoâs long lashes streak with miniscule flickers of purple lightning as he finally finishes off. In the most unsteady, heavy way.
âOh shit- shit shit shit- this sâall your fault.â Heâs filling you up with so many weighty ropes of cum, letting the lecherous knots slick down your pussy channel and stick to your cervix like an adhesive. âAll your fault all your- ngh!âÂ
Swivellinâ over one of his slender fingertips where your hole was slobbering out in a milky sap, you yelp after each mindless rut of his body. Washboard abs massaging your front, thwacking each driveling ounce leaking out of him.Â
âD-donât even think I can cum anymore.â He trails off, finally realizing the darkness in the room. The way heâd just left every ward in Tokyo without electricity.Â
Kashimoâs sapphire eyes glow as he pummels his sticky wads of seed deeper, buzzing fingers still twitching. Lips curling into a smile the more he toys, the more he makes a mess. Thrusting, âBut thatâs how losers think.â
⥠CHOSO KAMO - Blush blush blush
Choso was so good for you like this- he was so gone.Â
Just the first, most innocent peck of his glittery wet cocktip swipinâ down your slit and heâd found himself cumming. Pretty eyes clenched tight, face burning, rosy lips sagging with aweâ
âIâm ngh- s-sorry, babyââ Heâs babbling, the cutest wobble shivering his wet-sheened lips. With one set of his slender fingers wrapped âround his fat hilt, heâs pushing to let the raw entrance of your cunt swallow up his creamy wads ravenously.
Choso tumbles his head back and moans at the sinful sight, his own dry Adamâs apple bobbing with an overeager swallow. âSorry- made such a mess.â Stirring the entrance of your drenched pussy with the crowned tip of his cockhead, âGonna clean it all up- d-donât you worry about a thing, baby.â
Youâre cooing, running your dominant hand through his sweat-polished locks. âAwwâ sâokay, Cho. Itâs your hah- first time, after all. We can stop now if you-â
âNo.â
And that wasnât just a plea - it was a beg.
Before you know it, Chosoâs pulling your boneless legs over his shoulders. And heâs so strong, dazed eyes boring into yours whilst he effortlessly folds you in half into a mating press that had your ass cheeks lifting off the bed.
Rippling deltoids pushing forwards, his twitching hand angrily pumping his red-hot hilt. âNonono- no.â Choso whispers wetly, his heated breaths fanning your face. âI can do it again- ngh- watch me-â
âBut, baby, if you canât-â
âI will.â And youâve never seen your sweet boyfriend sound so ragged, itâs as if his gentle baritone was holed with rasps and something primal. Chosoâs dazed, mindlessly creeping over one of his other clammy hands to squeeeeze your cheeks rudely together and make you watch. âMâgonna get h-hard again for my baby. I will.â
And itâs only then that youâre seeing - properly seeing.
The way that Chosoâs sexily slashing tattoos grow deeper over his nosebridge, the way his entire body flexes with cursed energy- oh.
Heâs using his powers. And your eyes immediately snap to the way his right hand curls snugger over his bulky base and buzzes with blood manipulation technique.Â
Chosoâs bulbous, red tip was so hard with every ounce of blood rushing between his legs that itâs twitching weepily. Slobbering ribbons of pre frothing over your pussylips and making your cunt gleam with sap.Â
âS-see?â He utters out, guttural. Broad pecs glittering with beads of sweat after every feverish heave, he was working himself overtime. Working himself for you. Spank goes the way that heâs swatting your slit with his veiny shaft, âYou want it like this? Haaaah- got mâself all ngh- needy for you again.â
Your hips buck up impatiently, making Chosoâs bawling divot bump directly against your sloppy hole and watching him whimper. âChoâ want it inside.â Mouth watering, he was just so hot. âEvery inch, promise?â
âP-promise.â Oh, Choso would kneel at your feet and vow an oath if you showed even the slightest inkling that you wanted him to.Â
And his mouth saps over with a fresh bout of drool at the feeling of your dampened cunt letting him in, pushing past your dewy wet folds to give your walls a carnal scrape of his weepy orifice.Â
âPromise- promise, oh- I promise-â Heâs babbling away, chestnut eyes glazing over with tears of primal bliss as heâs rocking his hips into yours. The slimy abrasions of his veins leaving your back arching- Choso wasnât even fully finished with using his blood manipulation, yet.Â
Not even fully done- and yet, heâs just so addicted. Just so greedy with the notion of pounding your pretty pussy like it deserved. Still fisting the sensitive base of his cock, âGonna m-make myself real hard. Gonna make you feel hngh- reeeeal good with my fucking cock, baby.â
âCho- oh- fuck!â Youâre mewling, your own salty tears hitting your lips at the sheer stretch. âY-youâre so big.â
And really, Choso was just so big that his big, bulbous cockhead was pushing into your lungs. Making you feel every inch of his prolonged length inside your hidden nooks nâ crannies - and that lilâ power of his was only making him bigger.Â
Harder.Â
Oh-so-big that you were almost struggling to fit all of him-
Fuck- had you said all that out loud? Chosoâs hooded gaze was frenzied with a low look of panic, the tough lines of his hipbones bashing your inner thighs with his fervor. His ruts.Â
Gulping, âI need it to fit.â And yet, he was bulging and bulging so long and wide inside of you that every motion forwards made you shrill out. Blood manipulation going out of control, flaring his soaked slit up until heâs molding your soft walls to his each precise measurement. âWant it- need it a-aaaaaall the way upâŚâ
Your mouth parches like the fucking Sahara as you watch Choso snakingly guide his free hand along your middle. Drawing a line straight up from the very top of your clit- up, up, up past your womb. Your tits, your collarbones, until heâs levelling his touch over the beginning of your throat. â-here.â
Chuckling to himself - oh, he was going to make that a reality.
And the sudden burst of cursed energy was telling you the same thing, âB-but youâre only getting even mmmâ bigger, baby.â
âAnd youâre only getting s-soooo much fucking wetter.âÂ
Pushing and pushing. He was fucking you as if he would pass out - as if he would die - if he wasnât all shoveled all the way between your plump, puckered pussylips.Â
Chosoâs touch was sizzling with power by now, every area of contact with your skin rubbing your flesh all raw and lewd. He didnât even have to furiously jerk off his long shaft anymore, so engorged with lust that it almost hurt.Â
Out of control.
But it hurt him more to not be all the way inside of you- he puffs out. âT-take a deep breath, babyââ
Still reeling from that probinâ girth of his, your tit heaving tantalizingly as you gasp. âI-itâs fitting, Cho-â
âItâs fitting-â Heâs echoing in utter disbelief, the glittery flaps of his mouth sagging into a perfect oh! when heâs straining to hear that squelch-squelch-squelch of each bloated inch being bullied inside of you. Growing even bigger with delight- and his lecherous cursed energy, Choso lets out a shocked âfuckâ once his rounded ballsack spanks your cunt with a thwack!
Struggling to clamp your glossy walls around his thick circumference, the tightness makes him close his teary eyes with a whimper. Still growing bigger- âBaby- mâI getting ngh- pregnant tonight or are you?â
⥠RYOMEN SUKUNA - King of Doubles
âFuck- fuck.â Sukuna shutters his devilish crimson eyes in an attempt to veer off that embarrassing set of heart-eyes taking over his gaze.Â
Hell, he even shakes his head- he even grits his sharpened canines every time heâs hitting the roof of your pussy with every deep plunge. But it still didnât work, and heâs feeling his mask of cursed energy start cracking, already reaching out and radiating off of him in waves.Â
Rovering each globular end of his shaft along your tenderest, mushiest spots, he groans. âThis is all your fault- and yours.â
âWh-whose?â Youâre blabbing out stupidly, taking a few seconds to actually follow the Kingâs line of sight down to where your cunt was greedily trying to gulp him up. Fuck- youâre realizing with a jolt, he was talking to your pussy.Â
The first time youâre actually letting him lodge both massive, dual lengths inside and itâs driving you wild. Your legs thrash with each sunken inch, needing moreâ âOh- mmmâ sâtoo much, Kuna.â
âToo much- too much?â Sukuna mocks, octaves higher in a derisive tone that really doesnât match yours. Breathes stuttered, tone thick. âIâll show you too much, fucking brat.â
He was on the verge of losing it.Â
And all it takes is a singular bat of your eyes - and suddenly youâre no longer sprawled out all prettily on Sukunaâs royal silk sheets. Youâre being lifted cleanly into midair- legs dangling, gravity drooping, clinging onto his seven-foot frame and at his completely nâ utter mercy.
Two of his clawed hands creep downwards to grope a good handful of your ass cheeks, grinning as you gasp at the change in positions. âLook what yer doing- do you even hah- realize?â
Heâs holding you up like itâs nothing, letting your cute human hands scrape all down his muscular back. Shit, those barely even feel like kitten scratches to him.Â
âNgh- o-oh my god, mmâ s-so big, Kuna. Feel you so deep-â
âThatâs it, easy there-â Sukuna feels the second cursed mouth smeared across his abs drool at the sopping wet squeeeelch your cunt lets off once heâs sinking even deeper. âFilthy fuckinâ pussy- sucking up both.â Letting gravity do its lecherous thing while heâs holding you up without a care in the world- acting as if he wasnât absolutely shattering at the feeling of you taking both his bulging twin cocks for the first time. âEeeeeeasy there, girl- s-stay still and take it.â
Holy shit, did you just make Ryomen Sukuna stutter?
Your head snaps up in shock, looking at him with the prettiest teary gaze. âD-did you just-â
âShut up.â Gasping, fuck- he couldnât lose face like this. And before you know it, the Kingâs pushinâ your gaping maw towards his cushy, shuddering pecs.Â
Letting your mouth slobber a sloppy piling sheen of saliva, two of Sukunaâs arms nestle safely underneath your legs and push you up higher. Rummaging your pussy with a few vulgar strikes that have your pupils circlinâ your eyes-
Determined to fuck you dumb.Â
âShut up and take it a-all up to here now.â Your throat bobs with a swallow once the pointed curve of one of his claws draws a horizontal line halfway across your tummy, nearer to your throat than not. âOtherwise your king will be hah- displeased, little human.â
âW-wanâ it all, Kunaââ Youâre whining, the doughy heels of your feet latching around his broad waist. He was just so monstrously massive that youâre straining to even cling on, crawling up to caress his neck. âI want both- ngh!â
And it wasnât just his aching, swabbing girths that were rummaging your insides uncontrollably- with just the slightest reach to the top of his frame, Sukunaâs second mouth is slithering its slimy tongue tip between your inner thighs.Â
Making sure you feel the rough texture of his tastebuds when heâs swiping it between your teary pussylips and lapping up every inch of you from the outside.Â
âShit-â Heâs moaning out over the sweaty crown of your head, the arched length of his spine shivering with zaps of electricity. Narrowing his gaze downwards, âWh-who told you toâŚâ
And he canât even finish his damn sentence.Â
Not when youâre rocking your hips back into the dampened gape of his cursed maw, letting Sukunaâs split-ended tongue toy the tiniest lecherous circles over the buttony nub of your clit. Spankingâ he swears, âNghh- and who told you to-âÂ
He couldnât even control his damn second mouth anymore.
You taste so damn sweet that he canât help but grow bigger, stretching your slippery walls out to the maximum.Â
Panting, slouching, ears popping with the pressure of cursed technique so strong that the King of Curses himself is struggling to steady the tremble in his meaty thighs. âKeep those h-hands to yerself, brat, unless you nghhh- want me to-â
You gasp- Sukuna wasnât just inflating from the protruding end of his double shafts, he was growing taller. More muscular.Â
Your breath catches in your throat as you watch his jujutsu energy let his true form rip through even more. No longer toning himself down for you, heâs struggling to fight against the powers making him well over eight feet, oh-so-large.Â
âY-you haveâŚâ Youâre muttering, eyes widening as you trace your fingers over the sharp, pointed ends of the horns thatâd just grown from his skull.Â
Horns. He had horns now.Â
More monster than man.
And Sukuna shivers just as soon as your doughy fingerpads scrape near the base, just as sensitive as if you were tickling his aching cocks. âO-ohhhâ youâre ruining me, girl.â Peripherals darkened, trying to reel himself back in. Trying to wield his cursed energy. âYou donât know what youâre haaah- up against. You donât know if you can even take it.â
Almost pleading- and yet, youâd never step down from that.Â
It turns out that his horns were where Sukuna was the most intimately sensitive, âBut I wanâ that, Kunaââ Youâre whining, lower lip jutting with a pout as you grab onto both those long tusking projections.Â
âO-oh.â
Using it - using him to roll your hips back in swivelling gyrations, bludgeoning the spheroid circumference straight into the gooey depths of your pussy. Slamming nâ slamming the thrashing fringe of his tip into your g-spot.Â
Growling, âYou asked for ngh- this, spoiled brat.â He couldnât shift back even if he tried, Sukuna throws his head back with a shiver as his frame chisels further.Â
Now damn nearing nine feet, heâs pushing his deeply barreling lengths into you until your cunts painting the tattoos on his hilts all translucent. âSo youâre gonna- fuuuck- take it.â
Sukunaâs second mouth laps up the glittery sploshes of your arousal as you whine, and you canât help but notice that his canines had grown so sharp. He was so much bigger, stronger, cursed energy stifling you to him until his fat, veiny cock was all you could think about.Â
âAnd then-âÂ
âTh-then?â
So utterly dumb with his vicious pace, heâs planting a striking bash dug into the spongy wetness of your cervix that finally - finally - bottoms him out. Gasping, your eyes flap confusedly open at the feeling of something hotâŚand swollen kissinâ the base of your ass cheeks.Â
What wasâŚoh, fuck.
âThenâŚâ Grinning toothily, Sukuna watches on as youâre swervinâ your cunt back to feel more more more of his aching knot. A knotâ all to plug you up from the inside, fat nâ throbbing. He has to slouch nearly his entire body to whisper in your ear, â-youâre gonna squirt on my knots as thanks, spoiled lilâ human.â
⥠GOJO SATORU - âNext.â
Gojoâs blindfold dangles haphazardly off of your clammy neck as you instantly gape- his rasping baritone sending shivers where it hits the top of your arched back.Â
Scorching a light breeze down your spine where goosebumps pebble, the strongest lays one hand on the right of your ass cheek and pulls out with a squeeelch! That lewd noise making him twitch, making him gaspâ
âOhâŚâ Heâs grumbling out, plump nâ pink mouth sagging into a gaping oh! at the heaps of creamy white cum that dribble from between your pussylips.Â
Itâs making such a mess down his milky upper thighs, a syrupy ringed frothing falling from between your stuffed, driveling cunt. âNext.â Rounded tips of his fingers pushing and pushing it all back in where it belonged. Breath hitching, âNext.â
Fuck- you donât know where it even began.Â
One second your husband was off on one of his usual missions, and the next heâs teleporting back and kneeling at your feet to fuck your sweet, sweet pussy. Mouth already watered because of the sheer saccharine scentâ âFuck me.âÂ
Though, that was hours upon hours - rounds upon rounds ago.
Heâd begged, and right now he was groaning at the plop! of wetness ringing out from your entrance. A free hand curling just around your gasping throat-
âLook.â Gojo utters, something primal seeping into his tone as he sinks in. âLook.â
He doesnât even need to tug on your sweaty crown with tendrils of his cursed energy, Gojoâs choking your tender airway upwards. Making your fluttering, lust-filled eyes stare right into the mirror propped up at the end of your bed.Â
And oh- oh.
The sight that greets you makes your heart race.Â
Gojo Satoru - but not like youâve ever known him.
This was the strongest that curses and sorcerers alike feared- half-opened eyes aglow, skin skittering with pale blue lightning, he looked like heâd just crawled from hell just to drag you down with him. And he was ravenous.Â
The crescent nailmarks curve deeper into your skin, Gojo leaning his own smoky throat closer. âI want you to look at me while I breed you, sweetheart.â
âB-but Toruââ Youâre whining, your teary pupils roaming âround the surface of the mirror. Catching on the way the unbolted pieces of furniture in your bedroom were floating at the sheer pressure of his jujutsu. â-the- ngh- your power-â
He was so out of control as he slipped just a few inches inside, letting that cute strawberry-pink tip of his get swallowed up by your entrance. Youâre clenching and sparks of cursed energy burstâ
âSatoru, the bed!â
Oh, the bed.Â
Gojo was in so deep, losing himself to the soft nâ sweet clench of your cunt so much that even the damn mattress was starting to hover.Â
At your cute shrilling yells, heâs looking around airily as if in a daze. Youâre peering through the half-fogged reflection at the way that his hoarse larynx rips out a tiny, âohâ. Immediately snapping his fingersâ
âFuh-fuck!â It wasnât just the flying furniture that topples - itâs you, too.Â
Straight onto the soaked silken sheets of your shared bed- or, at least, you would have if it wasnât for Gojoâs clasped hand trapping your throat. Holding your woozy head up whilst the rest of your hips sticks to the rickety bedsprings, the weight of him - the weight of his cursed technique - too much for you to handle.Â
âWh-what did you-â Youâre letting out a softly whining gasp at the press of charged atoms near your slick outer pussy.Â
Suddenly, it just felt like your walls stretched so much wider - yearned for his fat, plundering cock so much more. And Gojo can only look down at the mess heâs made with a dopey grin, âUnlimited void, huh?â
Posing it as a question- he didnât even realize.Â
âDidnât mean to oh- mmm yeahââ Letting the dampened ends of his bangs tickle your neck, heâs rubbinâ his curvy cocktip against the gummy roof of your pussy back and forth back and forth back and forth. Deeper. Harder. âOooooâ didnât even mean to hah- do this, my girl.â
Whimpering, your hips buck back greedily in tempo with his once he dips just the tail ends of a free hand past your quivering folds.Â
Eyes widening, breath stuttered- Gojo canât help but hold back his ruined whimper and rut. âOh, sâreally unlimited void.â Sending a splosh of sap to hit the sides of your walls and pool at the very bottom of your womb. âWas an accident butâŚâÂ
Itâs so noisy the way youâre dripping with creamy knots of his cum, all down between your thighs. Squeeelch goes your pretty pussy, and heâs finding himself greedily swallowing.Â
Now he could fit all he wanted into you.Â
Nodding along as if he was in conversation, âIf you ngh- insist, sweetheart.â
âToru- who are youââ
âHer, duh.âÂ
Rolling his hazy azure eyes- and if Gojo was talking sweetly to your pussy, it sure didnât mean that he was pounding into you nicely. âNextâ Repeating like a mantra. âNext.â Drilling away like he was crazed, like he couldnât fight back the urge to reach underneath you and push down on the inflation of cum nâ dick outlining your pretty tummy. âNext next- next.â
Your teeth rattles with the splashing swat of each ribbon after ribbon of thin, wiry cum heâs milking out of himself. Dragging the zig-zagging veins of his shaft repeatedly into your gooey orifices until his overworked divot was sputtering out more seed.Â
He needed this- needed you to be all full to the brim.Â
Just to feel how wet you were with his icy white sap, Gojo pushes his v-line against your hips until youâre keening. Roughly lining the inside of your sweet spots with a precise glide, heâs feeling the insides of your flooded cunt and smiling. âMmmâ youâre about to cum.â
The Gojo Satoru above you was drooling- whimpering.Â
Gaze locked. Cock ravaged.Â
He was fucked out.Â
And so were you- all it takes is one, two, three accurate hammers against the bulbous orb of your g-spot before youâre hitting your high. Whining drunkenly as you finish off, Gojo lets off a syrupy swing of his length to stir your insides before he himself cums. Dry.Â
If you were in any better state of mind youâd have noticed how the lights were now permanently off, how every glass object in your bedroom shatters. In practically every ward in Tokyo, actually.Â
And somewhere in Gojoâs out-of-control, powerful senses heâs registering the sudden spike of cursed energy- surely, the alarm bells were going off for every sorcerer in the area.Â
But ah, heâs the strongest. And the strongest was more focused on you right now.Â
âOh, sweetheart.â You jolt when you feel the burning stare of his Six Eyesâ Gojo snickers. Pushing you down further to cream himself, reverse cursed technique seeps out of him like a second skin when he hears the faint pop! of joints. âItâs gonna be- hahâŚa girl.â
Blinking back the stupid circles your dilated eyes were traveling, youâre still twitching with the euphoric remnants of your high. âA-a girl?âÂ
âMhm.âÂ
It doesnât matter if it makes him shiver like no other- flickers of blue cursed energy shatter across his muscular body as Gojo plants another slurring thrust on your rummaged pussy. Feeling his fattened tip freeze just where his eyes saw your womb to be- âLetâs make it twins.â
⥠HIGURUMA HIROMI - Jailhouse Fuck
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The thrice-repeated slamming of Higurumaâs gavel left you hostage to his rudely probinâ cock, locked in your husbandâs domain and at his mercy ever since youâd decided it was time to put his work aside for a littleâŚrelaxation.Â
He didnât even mean to call on his jujustu- but fuck, if it didnât feel like your pussy was even sweeter when your bodyâs being pressurized with charged atoms of energy.Â
âO-oh, please, Hiromiâ!â Calls out your hoarse throat, head tumbling back stupidly as you buck your hips on top of his toned ones. It just felt so filthy to be riding Higuruma right then nâ there in his office chair. âIt f-feels so good-â
Tugging on the black velvet of his tie, heâs staring up at you through such heady half-lidded eyes. âSâthat so?â
And fuck- youâre noticing the way that his courtroom domain seems to only radiate with even more waves of cursed energy. The way that split-ended circle at the end of his lengthy shaft was pouring out dewy sprinkles of precum, flooding your poor insides.Â
Grunting, Higuruma plants his hand on the side of your ass to hold you still whilst he impales your cunt with a thorough thrust. Dead-on your g-spot- âBullseye.âÂ
âMmmâ r-right there!â
âCan feel you hah- clenchinâ around me so much, sweet angel.â Heâs puffing out as a sigh, circling his hips underneath yours to make his blushing red tip stiiir your insides sensually. âYouâre not lasting long.â
Responding with the cutest pout- oh, how it makes his aching balls tighten even more. âCanât help itââÂ
And here, in his domain, Higuruma was even stronger.Â
The coldness of his matching wedding ring sizzles against the clammy side of your hips, manhandling you with a mere fraction of his strength to ride his cock even sloppier.Â
Higuruma wrestles you up nâ down his veiny shaft like he was trying to milk himself, like he was gliding the pointed end of his dick against your gummy walls with the aim to bruise. âMhm- oh yes, you canât ngh- help it, sugar.â
And though heâs nodding his head along nâ agreeing, thereâs something dark seeping into Higurumaâs deep tone that makes you falter.Â
Something he doesnât have the patience for - something his thoroughly pussydrunken mind canât even stand right now.Â
âAh ah-â With a soft spank near your right ass cheek, he claws down your clammy flesh and makes you slam your hips down. âSoâŚâ Stinging with the ridges of his sculptured pelvis, rubbed all raw with his black happy trail. Glancing somewhere over your shoulder, âDo you think she deserves to cum?â
And fuck- fuck, how could you have forgotten that lilâ part of Higurumaâs domain?
You two had a cursed audience - that massive shikigami your husband called âJudegman.â Looming near the edge of the domain and closely watching as he ruined you on his lengthy cock.Â
Feeling your heart race in embarrassment and something else. âH-Hiro, thatâs ngh- fuck, youâre so mean-â
âNow now, donât make me haaaa- hold you in contempt of the court, angel.â Heâs cutting through your babbling mewls, and shit- you catch that dimple near the corner of his lips as Higuruma grins. âWe haveâŚexhibit evidence here.â
Once more speeding up his relentless cadence, heâs slamming against that goopy g-spot of yours and instantly making you see stars. Your maw falling open with a few glittered beads of saliva that hit his broad pecs with a splatter!Â
Both you and the wooden chair sing out in croaky synchronization with each bucking swerve back where he was drilling up into you. Pummeling you with all his long inches, âPlease- please let me cumââ
âBehave.â
And he wasnât just silencing you - Higuruma was reaching for that sexily dangling tie still around his neck. Slipping the soft fabric over your mouth to wrench it cutely shut, he finds himself pulling back with a snicker at how pretty you looked with your whiny mouth all gagged. âOrder in the court.â
Toying with the perked outer edge of your clit, he gives you a striking whack there right on time with a particularly harsh probe against your g-spot. âHmmâŚI donât think she deserves to ngh- cum.â
Watching as you muffle out a shriling plea-
He only swats your sensitive nub with a rapid spank, âHow about it?â Further dumbifying you with the most lecherous drags of his cock- and despite riding him, it was allll on him now to ruin you. âThink she ngh- deserves it?â
You know the questionâs not directed at you, but youâre still nodding. Lurching yourself closer to where grunts were spilling through Higurumaâs mouth after every push of his barreling thrusts.
So hot and soft inside you that- fuck, even he was weak to the way youâre gazing down at him with the most adorably dazed eyes. Occasionally criss-crossing when his plummy tip kisses your favorite spots, âDo you deserve it, angel?â
You were burning. You were being split apart.Â
And the only thing you can do is give your wailing answerâ strangled through the tie and yet still reaching your husbandâs ears as a constant âyes yes yes yes!â
âSâthat soooâ?â Gruffly, Higuruma lifts the edge of his frigid wedding band to glide down the slope of your pussy. Watching as your creamed pussy quivers and gushes. So sinful. So addictive.Â
And he might be a damn good lawyer- but fuck, was he weak for his wife. And he languidly watches as the golden glint of his ring gets covered in all your translucent slick, âWell-â Looking right in your eyes when heâs bringing it up to his spit-glossed lips to suck. â-the verdict saysâŚâ
You barely even hear what his cursed shikigami says - barely even need to know, because in a split-second Higurumaâs face splits with a snarling, feral grin and he bucks.Â
Smoochinâ your g-spot so hard that it propels you from your edged agony and straight into heaven. Oh- youâd been judged, and youâd been allowed to cum.Â
And Higuruma was making sure that youâre riding it allll out to your heartâs content-
âRide me. Use me.â Heâs groaning, superhuman reflexes carrying your weight easily to swivel his slimy tip inside nâ drag out peak after peak. The driveling gloss of Higurumaâs precum collects all over your g-spot and makes you feel hot all over, your orgasm making your vision flash.Â
Toes curling, your mouth unhinges so wide that that rude tie flops straight into your lap.Â
Lips moving with those next few words of yours before youâre even registering them in your melty mess of a mind. âF-fill me up, please, Hiromi?â
âO-oh.â For perhaps the first time in your marriage, Higuruma opens his mouth and falters. Stoic bass cracking, huffed pants coming out heavy, you feel his domain crackle with a sudden surge of powerful energyâ heâs never been more gone. âI donât have any objection to that, sugar.â
A/N. Heheh first time writing for a four-hundred year old man kinda nervous.
Series Summary: Taking Lena under your wing leads to you developing a relationship with her Uncle Pope. You might be just the thing they've needed to feel like a real family.
Chapter Summary: When you catch a preteen trying to shoplift from the makeup boutique where you work, you step in to stop her from getting in serious trouble. You decide to talk to her uncle, Pope, about it so she learns the lesson an easier way.
Tags/Notes:Â fluff, meet-cute, parent!pope, influencer!reader, femme!reader, lena blackwell, this whole thing is gonna be a pope and lena fix-it fic bc fuck the canon i hate that bitch
Content Warnings: canon-typical topics discussed
Author's Note:Â "oh jay why would you start another series when you have 800 WIPs" because fuck you and fuck me that's why! i just wanna make pope happy and you can't stop me!!!
Word Count: 3.2k
Youâre just finished restocking a new order of some celebrityâs perfume that you find absolutely vile when you see your manager (arguably even more vile) stalking across the store toward a girl, maybe 11 or 12, who definitely just pocketed an expensive lipstick. The maneuver is practiced, clearly, but awkward enough to catch the eyes of devil-incarnate Katie. If her free hand didnât have a stuffed-full reusable shopping bag, she probably wouldâve gotten away with sneaking it into her denim shorts.
As Katie begins to chew the poor kid out, you step in between the two of them with a wide, reassuring smile. âKatie, Iâm so sorry for the misunderstanding. This is one of my friendsâ daughters. I told her she could pick something out while sheâs waiting for her ride and Iâd buy it for her as a present.â Your eyes carefully scan her and you catch a necklace with her name on it. âRight, Lena?â
At a sign that you might actually know her, your managerâs posture eases up. The girl gives you an absolutely adoring look. Almost prayerful, like she sent up a bat signal to be rescued by a pretty girl with a full face of shiny makeup, a swinging babydoll dress, and the tallest chunky pink heels sheâs ever seen with an oversized bow to boot. She swallows hard and lies, âYeah, my uncleâs on his way to get me right now. I was supposed to wait here with her instead of outside.â
She even pulls the same move as you, noticing your name tag, and adds it as an extra detail. Youâre almost impressed with the little shoplifter. Katie huffs, rolls her eyes, and says to the kid, âJust donât go putting things in your pockets if youâre planning on paying for them, alright?â
âYeah, of course, Iâm sorry. Thank you.â Lena then pretends to check her phone and awkwardly announces, âMy uncleâs here to get me now.â
You narrow your eyes at her and call her bluff. âCâmon, Lena, Iâll walk you out so I can say hi to him. Itâs been a while. That okay, Katie? Iâm due for my fifteen, anyway.â
Your manager sighs heavily but nods and waves her hand dismissively before clicking across the store to another customer. With a knowing look, you take the lipstick from Lena, ring it up at the counter, and then hand it back to her. She follows you out of the store and back into the mall, where you cross your arms, lean down closer to make eye contact, and say, âNow, how about you actually call your parents to get you and I talk to them with you?â
âUncle Popeâs my, um, my guardian. I hate that word.â Still, Lena swallows hard and takes her phone out. This time, she dials, putting it on speaker to prove sheâs actually doing it.
A man with a gravelly voice picks up not even halfway through the first ring. âReady for me to get you, Bean?â
She puts on a brave face and tells him, âYeah, all done. Kyra and Kylie got picked up by their mom a few minutes ago.â
On the other end, you hear him slide into a car, gun the loud engine, and peel out. He asks, âYou got new shoes for gym class like I said?â
âYeah, I did.â
âAlright, good. Iâm five minutes away. Just picked up some charcoal for the grill and shit.â Your eyebrows go up to your hairline at how easily he swears. âMeet you at the entrance by the Macyâs?â
âIâll walk over there now. See you soon, Uncle Pope.â
You can hear the softness come through his dark voice as he confirms, âSee you soon, kiddo.â
Once sheâs hung up, you look pointedly at Lena and nod toward the Macyâs. âLetâs go.â
Clearly on the verge of tears, she gives you a wide-eyed begging expression and squeaks out, âAre you gonna get me in trouble?â
âPuppy-dog eyes arenât gonna get you out of this one.â You start walking her toward the exit and nudge, âIâve got a feeling this isnât your first time going for the five-finger discount. Am I right?â
She averts her eyes, staring straight down at her shiny white sneakers, and nods.
âLook,â you sigh, âI was the same way when I was a teenager. I wanted to wear makeup and pretty jewelry and push-up bras, but my dad wouldnât buy any girly stuff for me, so I stole it. Iâd put my makeup on at school in the morning, change my clothes in the bathroom before first period and after last, and wipe off the makeup during the bus ride home. It was a great system until a mall security guard called the real police on me when I got too cocky.â You touch her shoulder briefly so sheâll look you in the eyes. âTrust me: Itâll be better to get in trouble with your uncle than with the cops. Cops really suck.â
She snickers under her breath. âMy uncle says that, too.â
âSmart man,â you chuckle as you lead her through the big two-story department store and out to the curb. Leaning against the wall with her, you ask, âNow tell me honestly: Is your uncle an asshole? Or is he nice? I donât want you to get in too much trouble if he sucks.â
Lena grins and laughs. âHeâs nice. My grandma says heâs too nice to me.â Then, getting somber fast, she tells you, âHeâs kind of weird, though, so go easy on him.â
You hold back your own laugh at her frankness. âWho told you heâs weird?â
She shrugs happily, paying the idea no mind. âHe did. My parents did. My friends did. Even my favorite teacher Miss Margaret says heâs weird. Youâll see.â
And then a massive matte black G-Wagon pulls up to the curb, the windows tinted illegally dark and the whole rig jacked up an extra foot to make it even bigger and more intimidating. The front window rolls down, revealing a handsome guy with dark sunglasses and auburn curls. Taking in the two of you, he yanks the sunglasses off and gives you a cold look before asking Lena, âWhoâs your friend?â
Lena starts to mumble out an introduction on your behalf, but you stand up straight and ask, âAre you Lenaâs uncle?â
âYeah. Call me Pope.â His voice is harsh and protective, âNow who the fuck are you?â
You can tell right away that heâs only brusque because he wants to make sure Lenaâs safe. So youâre simple and honest, âI work at Ocean Beauty, the makeup boutique inside. I caught Lena trying to steal a lipstick. Can we talk for a minute?â
âShit,â he mutters under his breath. He puts the car in park, shoves the door open, and hops out. You canât help noticing the way his biceps strain against his dark short-sleeve button-down and the way his clenched jaw is razor sharp. He shuts the car door so softly, stopping it from making almost any noise, then he opens his arms for Lena to step into. With a sheepish expression, she accepts his warm, tight hug, standing up on her tiptoes as he bends down. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turns back to you and says in a much softer tone, âTell me what happened.â
âI was just working on the floor and saw her trying to get away with the old palm-to-pocket routine. I wouldâve just told her to put it back, but my manager â Katie, sheâs the worst â always calls security on shoplifters and then tells them to call the cops if they repeat-offend. Ownerâs orders, I guess, but sheâs a little too gleeful carrying them out, if you ask me.â As you stop yourself with a nervous laugh, his lips tick up into a smirk. You swallow hard and tell him quickly, âAnyway, I didnât want that to happen. So I thought Iâd come out and tell you directly. Have her learn the lesson the much-less-hard way.â
Pope nods slowly for a moment, eyebrows pinched together. His hazel eyes catch the sun, gold and green hues coming to the forefront. âThanks. Sheâs too young to get in that kind of trouble. Gets good grades, does her chores. Sheâs not like- Sheâs not a bad kid.â Then he turns his attention to Lena. Drops down almost to his knees to look her in the eyes, treating her less like a kid and more like an equal. âWhy would you want to steal, Lena? I gave you plenty of cash. You know you can get whatever you want as long as youâre not hurting anyone.â
âI didnât want to spend too much,â she says softly. Ashamed of herself. You look on in curiosity; youâve never heard a parent talk to their kid like that or vice versa. âGrandma Smurf says that store is for rich kids.â
With his hands on her shoulders, Pope gives her a small smile and presses, âAnd what exactly do you think you are?â
She gives him a bashful giggle; you get the sense theyâve had this debate before. Then she pokes him in the chest and says, âOkay, but I shouldnât be in trouble because you and Dad used to steal all the time. He told me.â
Popeâs face turns cloudy. Like he wishes he could erase her memories â maybe his own, too. âYeah, and you know what happened to both of us, right?â
âDad didnât die because he stole,â she scoffs with an impressive level of teenage angst for how young she is.
âNotâŚdirectly, no.â Then his eyes flicker ever so briefly up to yours before he reminds her, âBut I went to prison for stealing. You remember what I told you about prison, right?â
She gives him a solemn nod and repeats, âThat I never, ever want to go there and youâre never, ever going back.â
âAnd stealing can get you sent to prison,â he explains. âEven at your age, you can go to a special kind of prison for kids. That happened to your Uncle Deran; he stole something, and he went to jail for five months. Thatâs a whole summer vacation and then some.â
Her eyes widen like such a horror had never occurred to her. âI didnât know they had jail for kids.â
âYeah, they do.â Pope explains in a tone that makes it clear heâs dead serious, âIn there, they make you eat vegetables at every single meal, you never get to watch Beat Bobby Flay, and you wouldnât get to take Mr. Snuggles.â
She smacks him on the shoulder, nods toward you, and hisses, âI told you not to mention him in public anymore.â
âSorry, sorry,â he says, suppressing a laugh. Then he tells her, âLook, Bean, prison isnât the only reason you shouldnât take stuff. When you take something, someone else still has to pay for it. Whoever picked out that pretty lipstick and decided to sell it loses money for you to have it. Thatâs less money they have for their own family. Thatâs not very fair, is it?â
âBut Grandma Smurf says-â
âWe donât talk to Grandma Smurf anymore, though, and thatâs a big part of why.â His voice cracks a touch as he says, âGrandma Smurf says lots and lots of stuff that isnât true or good or nice. Trust me, you donât wanna be like her.â
After a minute, Lena nods. She seems genuinely apologetic as she looks up at you. âIâm really sorry. I wonât do it again.â
Your heart breaks â not because of the apology but because you can see all the brokenness that Lenaâs uncle is trying to protect her from. Their family history must be incredibly dark, considering the few snippets heâs given away. You gently touch Lena on the shoulder and tell her, âI forgive you. I can tell you have a good heart and thatâs really important.â
Pope stands up straight again and murmurs, âThank you. I appreciate it.â After another sigh â the sigh of a parent who has no idea what heâs doing; youâve heard it before countless times in the makeup store â he tells Lena, âAnd if you wanna try out makeup, Iâll get you whatever you want, alright? I donât know anything about this stuff, but Iâll figure it out.â
Your ears perk up and you cut in, âIâd be happy to help, if you want. With the makeup. I do some tutorials on TikTok and I could teach you how to get started with some drugstore stuff or-â
âNo, no,â Pope cuts you off with a shake of his head, voice confused at the prospect but gentle and supportive, âshe can get the good stuff. Whatever she wants. But that would be- Lena, would you like that? Would that beâŚhelpful?â
Lena looks at you with huge excited eyes. âYou make TikToks about makeup? Whatâs your account? Can I see?â
A little sheepish, you take your phone from your pocket, open up your TikTok, and show her the page where you create makeup tutorials, lookbooks, and other cute, girly content for nearly half a million followers.
Her eyes get even wider. âHoly shit, you have, like, a billion followers!â
âItâs not that many,â you reply with an unintentional glance at Pope. Itâs weird. This isnât something youâre ever ashamed to talk about â Why should you be hesitant to talk about your success and your passion? â but his presence makes youâŚnervous. You donât think heâs judging you. If anything, heâs studying you especially carefully, checking your every interaction with his niece. But his eyes are intense. Really intense. You feel them creeping over every inch of you, creating a thorough 3D model.
Lena pulls you back to the present by pointing to one of your videos where you have a sparkly, dramatic eye look on. âWoah. Could you show me how to do that?â
âI could show you whatever you wanted to learn,â you confirm, stealing a glance at Pope, âas long as your uncleâs okay with it.â
When Pope meets your eyes, you can see relief settling on his handsome features, turning them softer and sweeter. You realize he must be a single parent. If he had a girlfriend or a wife, this would be her job. âThat would be amazing. Really.â
âOkay, great!â You push your phone in his direction and almost squeal, âGive me your number. Iâll text you my work schedule; you could bring her at the end of my shift so I could help her pick things out and then I could hang out with her a while? My niece is about your age, Lena, and I watch her sometimes for my sister.â
Lena gives Pope a big, shiny smile and tugs on his shirt sleeve while he puts his number into your phone. âPlease, Uncle Pope, that would be so cool.â
He laughs and puts his hands up. âI already said yes, Bean.â Handing your phone back, he offers gently, âWeâll, ah, weâll figure it out, alright?â
You send him a text from your phone â just your name and a pink heart â and reply, âYeah, definitely. I need to get back to my shift, but youâll hear from me after.â
Lena very seriously raises her pinky to you. âPromise?â
You link up. âPromise.â
While you turn around and walk back into the mall, you hear the last few seconds of their interaction. Lena tells him, sounding all bubbly and gossipy, âSheâs really pretty, Pope, you should totally ask her out.â
He laughs as he slings an arm over her shoulder, guiding her around to the front seat of the Mercedes, âLetâs stick to you learning how to do your eyeliner or whatever first, alright?â
âOkay, fine,â she concedes, âbut I still want a new aunt whenever youâre ready and it would be awesome if she also had a bajillion TikTok followers and lots of pretty dresses and stuff.â
âIâm glad your priorities are in order, kiddo.â
After work, you head home to your small but very cute and homey two-bedroom apartment and start up a TikTok live like you do most nights. About a hundred people hop on in the first few minutes as you start your âget unready with meâ routine, phone propped on its stand inside its ring light on your bathroom counter. While you remove your fake eyelashes and begin to wipe off your makeup, you tell them about your day, starting with another bitch-fest about Katie and ending with the story about the adorable shoplifter with the hunky uncle.
âYes, I swear it was a G-Wagon,â you laugh as you try to keep track of the chat while more and more people join. You waggle your eyebrows, one still darkened with product and the other bare. âIâd recognize those sexy headlights anywhere.â
kellyistalking: so uncle biceps is loaded??
callmedana: poke a hole in that condom babe
âJesus!â You laugh as you rinse out your reusable makeup wipe and start to unclip your jewelry. âI literally just met the guy. I think heâs looking for more of a cool babysitter for his niece.â
callmedana: you know we just wanna see you finally get man
dumbforlorde: yeah itâs getting kinda sad
With a mock pout, you pick up your phone to bring them into the kitchen. Setting your phone down on another stand that lives on your kitchen island, you chastise, âYou guys are mean tonight.â
kellyistalking: only because we want you to be happy!!!
https.freckle: yeah ur too pretty and nice to be single all this time you deserve a good man
callmedana: or at least some dick
Before you can respond, your phone dings. âThatâs him, guys,â you laugh, tabbing over to the next app. Then you read off from your messages, ââHowâs Friday afternoon work for you? P.S. Do you really think my car has sexy headlights?ââ
You half-shriek and nearly throw your phone across the room as the chat explodes.
kellyistalking: HEâS WATCHING I REPEAT UNCLE BICEPS IS WATCHING THE STREAM
callmedana: SHOW YOURSELF DADDY
callmedana: SHOW HIM YOUR BOOBS SPARKLE
You read a few more texts from Pope, this time checking them yourself before showing your hand to the whole world. Then you tell the chat, âHis niece pulled up my page. I guess heâs making sure Iâm not a psycho, which is totally fair.â
callmedana: okay okay everyone calm down we have to make a good impression
https.freckle: yeah we have to lock this down for sparkle be cool
Another text lights up your screen while you just about die from laughter. ââWhy do they call you sparkle?â Itâs kind of my whole brand, uncle biceps.â You take a step back from the camera and gesture broadly to your apartment, which is absolutely decked out with glittery elements that throw the evening light around in rainbows and patterns. âI like to be sparkly. Keeps life fun.â When he texts you back this time, you just smile and tell chat, âAlright, everyone, I need to actually make my dinner.â
kellyistalking: we heard that ding!! what did he say???
callmedana: pretty sure that was the ding of wedding bells guys
You shake your head at the screen and grin. âGoodnight, everyone!â
I think I could use some more fun in my life.
Gotta go put Lena to bed. She still likes having story time. Don't tell her I told you.
See you Friday, sparkle.
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly youâre married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until youâre an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your careerâbut can your heart survive the side effects?
⚠࣪ Ë word count: 112kâongoingâupdates weekly (might be later if life happens...)
âËęŠ.á TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS FOR ME
âââ jack abbot
summary: your relationship with jack has always been 50/50: he buys you everything, and you let him. this arrangement, as he calls it, works perfectly - until you start to worry that you may not be the only one who's doing it with. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, mentor!michael robinavitch, baran al-hashimi, samira mohan
contents: friends with benefits, sugar daddy!jack, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort, so much sexual tension cw for mentions of injuries, medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, heavy mentions of smut 18+ (MDNI)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Jack Abbot rushes into the ER with a high-velocity GSW, a close call of his own, and a terribly smart mouth.Â
Splotches of dark crimson stain the camo of heavy-duty tactical gear as he bursts through the double doors of the ambulance bay, squeezing rhythmically at the intubation bag he holds in a bloodied hand. You rush instantly from the work station to meet him halfway without a second thought.
âI thought you were off today,â you tell him, in lieu of a greeting, as you escort him to the nearest open trauma room from the opposite side of the gurney.
âWell, my therapist said I needed a hobby, soâŚâ he quips, with sweat dripping from his greying curls. He manages to flash you a playful look in the midst of all the chaos as you situate the unconscious policeman in the center of the room. âWhat about you, huh? Youâre supposed to be off, tooâ Whatâs your excuse?â
âWell, I had a strange feeling that I might see a pretty man in uniform today,â you shrug, slipping on a pair of gloves. âSo I decided to work a doubleâ See if my wish would come true.â
The corner of Jackâs mouth lifts into a crooked, tight-lipped smile. âWell, if you like this, you should see me as a flight attendantââ
Robby rushes in with Dr. Al-Hashimi just behind him a second later, shattering the playful tension between the two of you with a thousand different questions. Youâre left as the only resident in a sea of attendings and nurses; Dr. Al passes you the reins accordingly. âThis is a learning hospital, right? Time for you to learn how to be the boss, R4.â
âHear that, Abbot?â you joke as the older man migrates inevitably to your side, smelling of blood and sweat and the cologne he always leaves on your pillow. âIâm the boss here.â
âWell, you could try to be a little more humble about it, sweetheart,â he squints and tugs on a disposable PPE gown, which Perlah helps him tie in the back. âLetâs do some skin hooksâ 4 Shiley. Sound good?â
You hiss through your teeth and drag the clear blue sleeves of your own gown over your shoulders, while Robby stands behind you to knot the garment in place. âI donât really like the curve of a Shiley⌠Especially not if weâre about to rush him up to the O.R.â
âI didnât know you were so picky.â
âWell, you should know better than anyone, Dr. Abbot,â you grin. âCut me an ET tube, will you? 6-0?â
âYes, maâamâŚâ the older man nods and holds back his giddy grin until he turns away from you.
Robby grumbles a noise of disgust in the back of his throat in the meanwhile â quickly realizing that the two of you were much easier to stomach when you were working night shifts together, and he only had to see you for half an hour in passing, at most.Â
âJesus Christâ Get a room, you two.â
âWell, technically, this is a room,â Jack quips distantly as he returns to your side with the endotracheal tube in tow. You make room for him at the head of the gurney on instinct, and drape a thin blue cloth over the patientâs neck, centering the aperture over the gushing wound.Â
Robby moves to the opposite side of the bed and pulls the haphazardly placed intubation bag from the manâs mouth with careful hands. âOne without me in it, preferably,â he argues.
âOohâŚâ you lilt. âDonât threaten me with a good time, Dr. Robby.â
âJust focus,â he scolds in a gritty tone of voice.
âYou need to find the second and third tracheal rings,â Dr. Al instructs, sliding between the crowd and motioning to his neck with her gloved pinky. âYouâll be able to feel them with your fingersâ just make the incision through the cricoid cartilage and be careful to avoid hitting the vocal cords, yeah?â
She flashes you a dark, doe-eyed, and distantly unamused look, seemingly immune to the playful banter surrounding her.Â
You nod once, scalpel in hand. âYes, maâam.â
You make the incision while Jack preps the tube. You work together with deft hands and a relative silence, aside from a few procedural directions. For the most part, the two of you communicate without words â you locate the manâs ruptured trachea in a sea of bright red blood while Jack slides the thin tubing to make an airway.
âIâm in,â he blurts after a few tense minutes. âBalloon up.â
The rapid beeping of his dropping SATs begins to even out almost instantly.Â
âIâll sew the tracheal to the skin,â you announce within a sigh of relief. â2-0 silk, please.â
Jack passes you the round of sutures with a proud nod and a quiet smile. âNot too shabby, Doc⌠We make a pretty good team.â
âOr maybe Iâm just really good at telling you what to do, Abbot,â you quip.
âYeah,â he shrugs. âThat, too.â
Robby and Dr. Al take their leave when the chaos dissipates, and Garcia comes down from the O.R. for a consultation. They trade the crowded trauma room for an equally crowded emergency department â slowly filling to the brim, like a pot bound to boil over. But, even still, itâs not nearly as tense as whatever you and Abbot have going on.
âAre they always like that?â the woman wonders aloud, nodding her tied-back curls towards the room behind them.
âYepâŚâ Robby nods with a heavy sigh, rubbing hand sanitizer between his calloused palms. âBut theyâre not usually dayshift, so⌠My philosophy isâ let the night crew deal with it.â
You and Jack decide to follow Robbyâs advice and find a room of your own â on the half-abandoned wing of the eighth floor, where everything smells like dust and time gone by, and the dying overhead lights only work a quarter of the time. Itâs a good enough place to be alone with him, though; it gives you ample time to patch up the wound on his shoulder, and saves Jack the trouble of getting caught with the injury and being forced to fill out a mountain of paperwork accordingly.
He sits on the edge of the hospital bed with his shirt off and his broad arms crossed over his chest. The tendons in his freckled back twitch despite himself when you smooth a fresh bandage over his freshly cleaned scrape.
âDoes it feel okay?â you ask him.
âYepâŚâ he nods once, trying and failing to get a peek of the gauze from over his shoulder. âFine.â
Your concern doesnât waver. Your brows lower with it, in a palpable look of worry that etches across your face. âYouâd tell me if you were, like, in pain, though, right?â
Jack ponders for a moment, lips jutting faintly. âNo, probably not,â he answers, too blunt for his own good.
âWell. At least youâre honestâŚâ
You sigh and turn on the heel of your sneaker to chuck the dirtied napkins and crumpled wrappers into the bin across the room. Jack watches you go with something mischievous glimmering in his gaze.
âBut I am fine, thoughâ If youâre really all that worried about me,â he assures you with a quiet smile. âIâm a little banged up, but⌠Iâll survive.â
âSo I can still come over tonight?â you wonder, half-shy.
Jack nods slowly and tilts his scruffy chin to keep your gaze when you walk the short distance back over to him. âYes, sweetheartâ I still plan on buying you dinner tonight,â he answers in a dry, sarcastic lilt.
Because thatâs usually how it goes nowadays. You keep him company for a night, and he gets you food, pays off your grocery bill, or covers your rent â and then you go to work the next day like none of it ever happened.Â
It didnât always used to be that way, though, this quid pro quo thing that the two of you had struck up over time. Jack bought things for you because he cared about you, because he didnât want you to go hungry or homeless when he knew he had the money to help. It was all a part of his job, he figured, to help his residents out whenever he could. But, somewhere down the line, he became more than just your attending, and a whole lot less than your boyfriend. It was more like a secret, third thing that the two of you never bothered to put a label on.
You frown. âThatâs not why I was asking, smartass.â
âWell, thatâs the arrangement, though, right?â
âCalling it an arrangement makes it sound like Iâm yourâ mail-order bride or something,â you scoff and cross your arms over his chest, following his form with a squinted gaze as he reaches for his discarded shirt. âYou donât have to make it sound so formal, Jack. I know this is fun for you, too.â
âWell, I wouldnât be here if it wasnâtâŚâ he quips with a faint wince as he slides the thin black t-shirt over his head, grimacing at the burn that blooms beneath the bandage as he does so.
âAnd no pressure or anything, obviously, but, uhâŚâ You trail off and swallow hard, struggling to find the courage to continue as your eyes flit everywhere but at the man before you. âMy student loans are about to hit for this month, and Iââ
âI know,â Jack interjects with a polite nod. âI already took care of it.â
You lose your breath almost instantly, for a reason you canât quite name.
ââŚSeriously?â
He scoffs like itâs obvious and rises from the bed, towering several inches over you. âWell, yeah. I told you, sweetheartâ You donât have to worry about that stuff anymore. As per the arrangement...â he croons lowly, with a playful half-smile, before bending softly at the waist to press a fleeting kiss to your lips.
Youâre too busy trying to remember how to breathe to respond.
You struggle to finish the rest of your charting through the thoughts of Jack still plaguing your mind. You donât think youâve been so taken care of before; so seen, so held. Youâre not entirely sure what to do with all of it now â these feelings that youâre harboring for your boss, of which youâre almost certain there is no room for in such an arrangement, as he so lovingly calls it.Â
Because he doesnât take care of you because he loves you. He takes care of you so youâll come over at the end of every night, and remind him what it feels like to be a little less lonely. And even still, you run hopelessly to his side anyway â half-ashamed because you donât even care that heâs using you; half-ashamed because you like it.
âHave you seen Dr. Abbot?â Samira wonders through panted breaths, disrupting your distracted train of thought. She enters your tunnel vision from the opposite side of the desk, and all of a sudden, youâre back in the E.R. The distant droning of constant noise fills your ears when youâre shoved back to reality again. âIâve been trying to find him for, like, ten minutes at this point.â
âUh⌠Noâ Not recently, no,â you stammer.
Her chest deflates with an exhaled breath. âShitâŚâ
Your eyes narrow as they scan over her form, frazzled and sweaty, with dark curls falling out of her claw clip to frame either side of her face. âYou okay? What happened?â
She sighs and leans her elbows on the desk in front of her.
âNothing, I just⌠I shouldâve planned this better,â she murmurs, mostly to herself. She talks with her hands as she rambles, âMy patient doesnât have any insurance. And heâs already in a mountain of medical debt as it is, so I was gonna send him home with some supplies, right? But then I lost him, and I was gonna Uber the stuff to his house, but then Dr. Abbot said heâd pay for it, and⌠Now I canât find either of them, soâŚâ
She trails off with a deep huff.
You forget that itâs your turn to respond, too hung up on the fact that Jack had offered to help her pay. It shouldnât bother you as much as it does, but it hits you like a punch to the stomach all the same. Because you werenât special, Jack was just kind; and youâre only realizing now that this arrangement of yours was never exactly exclusive.
âSorry,â Samira shakes her head. âI know Iâm rambling. Itâs just⌠been a long day.â
You blink rapidly, clearing the haze of hurt from your eyes. âNo, Iâ I totally get it. You should check upstairs. He might be with Hiro in the O.R.â
âThanks,â she says with a smile that doesnât quite reach her eyes, that disappears the second she heads back for the elevator across the room.
You return to your charting when sheâs gone, but forget to do any of it. You lose yourself in the void of the stark white computer screen, instead, while your hurt and distant jealousy scratches at your chest from the inside out.
Robby watches from afar, giving you a few minutes alone, before dismissing himself from the interns and shattering your cynical stream of consciousness. âHowâs the charting coming along?â he asks in lieu of a greeting as he walks to stand at your side.
âGreat,â you deadpan, muffled into the hands holding up your heavy head.
He scoffs out a quiet laugh. âNot to say I told you so, but⌠I did kinda tell you soâŚâ
You turn slowly, peeking at him with one glaring eye as he leans against the desk beside you with his arm crossed over his chest. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â you question in a gritty monotone.
âI told you not to get involved with Abbot,â Robby shrugs. âNot until you were done with your residencyâ âcause you already repeated one year, and if you want that neuro fellowship, you canât have Jack screwing with your head.â
âOh, yeah?â you squint, feigning interest as you slouch back in your chair. âThe same way you screwed with Heatherâs? When you got her pregnant when she was your resident?â
You say it to hurt him, and you can tell that it does, though it doesnât feel as rewarding as you thought it would.
âYeah, actuallyâŚâ Robby nods and scratches at the greying patch in his beard. Thereâs a hurt look swimming in his dark eyes that almost makes you cower when he peers down at you. âLook, kid. I donât care what you and Abbot get up to in your free time. Thatâs not what this is. But Iâve known you since you were an MS3â and I know youâre gonna go off to do great things, because Iâm the one that taught you, right?â
Your frown deepens.
He smiles wider. âI just donât want some relationship getting in your head, thatâs all.â
âWell, itâs not, soâŚâ you trail off with a less than convincing waver in your voice.Â
âReally?â he hums, eyes narrowing in a challenging squint. âHave you checked in with that fellowship you wanted?â
You smack your lips against your teeth. âNot yetâŚâ
âAnd whyâs that?â
âWhen did you become my mom, exactly, Dr. Robby?â you joke and spin in your chair to face him. ââCause it feels a little like youâre reprimanding me hereââ
âI am reprimanding you,â he tells you, only partially joking, before turning at the distant call of his name. He stands to full height again and flashes you a playfully stern look as he walks away. âTake care of it, alright? Or else Iâm grounding you.â
âFor how long?â you call after him.
âHowever long it takes to get your head out of your assââ
Youâre left reeling for the rest of the day, trapped in a merciless cycle of want and unwavering doubt.Â
Jack is not yet close enough, even when heâs all but smothering you in the center of his bed, pressing you into the mussed sheets below with his broad body propped on top of yours. He smells distinctly of sweat, stale cologne, and the steak dinner he took you to after your shift ended.Â
You wrap your arms around his freckled shoulders in a feeble attempt to pull him impossibly closer, careful to avoid the bandage still stuck on his left shoulder blade. You bury your nose in his greying curls while he sprinkles warm, wet kisses along the tendons of your neck, relishing in the salty tang of sweat staining your skin.
But even as he slots himself between your spread thighs, even as he marks his territory in the lovebites he litters on your collarbone, you canât shake the feeling that heâd rather be somewhere else â that thereâs someone else heâs thinking of, someone else heâll call after youâve left for home, someone else heâll take care of when youâre gone.
The train of thought leads you inevitably back to the root of your cynicism, which you struggle to shake out of your mind once the visual has entered it.
âDid you ever find Samira?â you hear yourself ask, shattering the honeyed quiet of his lamplit bedroom.Â
Jackâs head is far too cloudy to hear you properly the first time.Â
He pulls away from you with a quiet smack and sits back on his haunches. Your hands fall to your stomach, clad only in a thin white tank top, while his rest over your bare thighs, propped on either side of his waist. Your cotton panties are the only thing keeping you hidden from him now, and his form-fitting boxers cradle a hardening length that threatens to make your mouth water.
He wears a swirled look of confusion across his scruffy face, along with his spit on his swollen, kissbitten mouth, as he asks, âDid I ever find what?â
âSamira,â you echo, brows raised to your hairline. âShe was looking for you a little bit before we leftâ Said she needed your help paying for something.â
âOh. Yeah,â Jack hums, pale shoulders bouncing in a lazy shrug. âHer patient needed some supplies Ubered to his house, so⌠I took care of it. No big deal.â
He bends down to kiss you again, but freezes with his nose pressed against the bridge of yours when he feels you tense below him. His heavy sigh fans warm across your jaw before he sits back again, features screwed in a faint grimace.
âAnd Iâm realizing now that thatâs probably not the best phrase to use, but⌠I was just helping out a friendâ a patient, actually,â he rambles. âThatâs it.â
Your eyes narrow in a playful squint.Â
âThatâs it?â you echo.
âTrust me, sweetheart,â Jack scoffs and shifts between your thighs, lifting your hips with his wide hands cradling your ass and bending at the waist to press his mouth over the bow in the center of your underwear. âThe only girl getting her student loans paid off by me, is you.â
He leaves another chaste kiss on the cotton of your panties, right over the place where you throb like a heartbeat for him. Your stomach blooms with warmth.
âBecause Iâm special or because you donât have the money to afford anyone else?â you ask.
Jack squints, light eyes glimmering with mischief in the low light. âBecause youâre special and because I donât have the money to afford anyone else. How about that?â
You roll your eyes despite the soft smile hinting at the corners of your mouth. âJust get to work, Dr. Abbot,â you scold in a distant monotone.
âWith pleasure,â he mumbles, right before sliding his fingers through the hem of your underwear, pulling them to the side, and kissing your glittering pussy the way he would your mouth.
The lamplit bedroom swells with panted breaths and the heavy scent of sex.Â
Jack slouches against the headboard, heavy-eyed and wearing a mixture of your cum and spit down to his scruffy chin. His toned chest is coated in a thin layer of hair and glittering sweat. You watch a rogue bead trail down his sternum from where youâre perched on top of him â with the sheets bunched around your hips, and your thighs straddling his waist. Your pussy still clenches with the aftershocks of your orgasm while his spent cock softens slowly inside of you.Â
His calloused hands trail slowly up and down the length of your torso â from your shoulder blades, down to your ribs, over the bend of your waist, and up again. His touch is softer than summer rain, warmer than the cum leaking slowly out of you now.
âDo you think you could write me a letter of recommendation?â you ask, tracing the freckles on his chest with your pointer finger. âYou know, for the neuro fellowship we talked about?â
âWowâŚâ Jack croons drily, brows raised to his hairline. His words slur slightly together as he comes down from the remnants of his high. âNo aftercare, huh? Not even a little pillow talk? Just⌠straight to the point?â
You flash him a playfully stern look from beneath your lashes, lips quirking in a shy smile. ââM just asking a questionâŚâ
âYeah, while Iâm still inside you,â he scoffs a tired laugh. âYou know you donât have to sex with me to get what you wantââ
You frown. âThatâs not what I wasââ
ââYou can just ask.â
âIâm having sex with you because I like it, Jack,â you blurt, very foreignly stern with him, as your eyes harden in a glare. âAnd Iâm asking you for a letter of rec because I respect your opinionââ
âAnd because you donât trust Robby to give you a good one, Iâm assuming?â he quips with an arched brow.
âExactly,â you nod.
Jack laughs. You can feel it rumbling in his chest beneath your palms. âIâll e-mail it to you later. How about that?â
âThereâs no rush,â you assure him. âSeriously. I havenât even applied for it yetââ
âDonât worry about it. I already wrote it.â
He steals the breath from your lungs for the second, third, or hundredth time that day.
âYou already wrote it?â you echo, brows furrowed. âWhen?â
âWhen you told me about it the first time,â he confesses, bouncing a bare shoulder in a lazy shrug. âI knew youâd need a letter of rec eventually, so... I wrote while I had some free time and just⌠waited for you to ask, I guess.â
Your face screws with skepticism. It burns somewhere in your chest, too.Â
Even with him softening inside of you, leaking out of you, you canât help but feel slightly suspicious of his sincerity. You still canât quite believe that he cares about you this much.
ââŚReally?â
âYeah,â he laughs and squeezes gently at your sides. âWhy do you look so shocked? I do care about you outside of⌠all this. You know that, right?â
âI didnâtâŚâ you confess, painfully shy, and lacking the courage to meet his gaze for several long moments. You focus instead on your hands, and the shapes you trace along his chest. âNot until nowâŚâ
âWell, what do I gotta do to prove it to you, huh?â Jack asks within a huff as he rises from his slouched position against the headboard.Â
The mattress creaks softly as his weight shifts. His warm chest presses firmly to yours, smothering your breasts against his heartbeat, as he cradles you to his chest. His glittering eyes dart back and forth between the two of yours as he says, âIâve already given you everything, sweetheartâŚâ
âI donât want everything,â you murmur with a shake of your head, unable to tear your gaze from his attentive one. âI just want you.âÂ
Summary - You are arranged married to the powerful Sylus, sight unseen- and the moment you meet him, the two of you butt heads. He seems so arrogant and self sure, and he sees you as a bratty little Kitten - but that first night changes everything. Your duty is to make heirs, but Sylus gives you the choice - not to be with him for duty, but because you choose to. You both find yourselves interested to learn more and more- but just because it's good, does it mean you're in love?
Warnings- NSFW- This is SO smutty, fluffy, cute and sweet! Arranged marriage trope, a lil bit enemies to lovers, oral (f and m receiving) explicit sex, Sylus calling you Kitten and sweetie bc YES, teasing, asking for consent ofccc, talking you through it, getting 'tied up', cervix kissing, riding Sylus and making him whimper, lil bit of a spit kink hehe - you know there's a breed kink - happy endinggg - oneshot- wc- 11k!
Based on the Arranged Husband Sylus headcanons! Happy birthday to my Aries Dragon <3 Comments/rbs appreciated if you enjoy!
The rustle of silk and the clicking of your heels along the marble floor is the only sound that seems real as you descend the altar steps, as your pounding heartbeat resonates in your ears and drowns out the organs playing in the background. The dress you wore was a pristine white, along with a ruby red brooch that the attendants had pinned on your bodice, and fuck it feels heavy, a weight of the truth.
Youâre about to be his.
Youâre going to belong to him, a stranger. You eye him across the room in a bit of a daze, as eager onlookers study you, as if every step you make is being assessed. You can barely breathe with the pressure, let alone comprehend that you're about to marry a stranger you have only heard rumors of.
Sylus.
His name echoes in your mind, a dark, enigmatic man - some know him as a philanthropist, but rumors are there is much more to him. The dark interior of this grand hall, all reds and blacks and antique, are a stark contrast to the soft, romantic notions usually associated with weddings. You wear white, and itâs even more of a contrast to what is happening around you.
You had dreams of a day where youâd fall in love, you were still young, at least too young to marry in your opinion, youâre twenty four, and that to you is still plenty of time to find love. Though, your work tended to leave you always on assignments, always busy before this, so love was not on your mind. But the choice being taken away from you is hard to swallow.
You didnât have parents to talk to about this, just a guardian whoâd arranged this long ago. You have no clue just what youâre getting into, are the dangerous rumors true, is he ruthless? The leader of a dark, underground crime ring, or are they mere fiction, and heâs the sweet, generous hero of the N109?
This isn't a romance. This is an arrangement. You must do your duty.
Duty, always duty.
As you finally stand before him, endless steps across the elegant hall, your gaze instinctively locks onto the figure before you, and your heart skips just a beat. To say he was handsome was an understatement, the man in front of you is much more. Sylus is breathtaking, a sculpted masterpiece of sharp angles and striking features that youâve never encountered.Â
Heâs insanely tall, towering over you and everyone in this room, silently watching behind their masks, as if this were a masquerade. Sylus is wearing a blood-red suit screams power, and mirrors the color of his ruby eyes, god those eyes, lidded and framed with dark lashes, in contrast to silver locks. Those eyes that seem to pierce through you now, glinting in the dim lights.
His lips part just a bit, full and glossy, as his insane eyes are assessing, judging, dragging them down your face, and across your body, you feel it so vividly- like a fucking caress. God he is beautiful, undeniably so, but a chilling undercurrent of danger radiates from him, causing your fingers to tighten around the bouquet, the mix of black and red roses.
Youâve heard whispers, rumors that paint him as the richest man alive, a titan of industry, and a force to be reckoned with. You knew you were marrying into power, but the reality of it is far more overwhelming than any briefing could have prepared you for, money is one thing, this was quite another, intense power and energy unlike anything youâve ever encountered.
Sylus frowns at you, feigning disinterest, but he loves beautiful things, his manor is full of the finest jewels, rarities from centuries prior, and the finest art. The finest music, anything beautiful was something he collected, and of course he enjoyed a beautiful woman, but nothing quite has prepared him for you and just how stunned youâd have him.
Youâre trembling just a bit as you tilt your head up, the brooch settled right on your intricate bodice, he watches your breasts rise and fall with your nerves, perfect and silken skin, pressed up high from the corset of the gown. Sylus tenses just a bit, he hadnât expected this, this beauty of yours was not exaggerated, no perhaps it was understated.
Your eyes are full of apprehension, of fear, but theyâre gorgeous how they glitter under your lashes, your lips stained with the same ruby red that adorned those roses, as if they themselves had stained them. Your body is perfect in its silhouette, youâre so small compared to him, most people are of course- his neck hurts from constantly having to look down at others with his huge frame.
But this was different.
He has a vivid image of just how easy it would be to pick you up like youâre nothing, to carry you and sit you right on his bed. Your scent, something so familiar yet foreign, fills his nostrils, as intoxicating as your beauty. For a moment he canât even think of just a word to describe you, he planned to complain about the wait, he needed this done with after all, the loss of some of his freedoms.
But he finds it hard to think when youâre right here.
Then you notice it, you see on his shoulder as something lands, drawing your attention in the eerily quiet hall. Perched on his shoulder, a mechanical crow sits, its metallic eyes blinking with what appears to be genuine confusion, a gold coin in its beak.
"What's a crow doing here?" The words escape your lips before you can filter them. It was a genuine question, born out of surprise and a desperate attempt to break the suffocating tension and quiet, but big mistake.
His reaction is immediately full of irritation, his gaze hardens, and you feel the full force of his displeasure. It's clear: you've committed some grave fucking offense.
"Don't dare disrespect Mephisto." He growls, the first words you hear from him, and god if the manâs voice isnât as sexy as it was intimidating, a deep, raspy rumble that sends shivers down your spine.
Is that desire or fear!?
Both!?
You feel the heat in your cheeks now, as others murmur around you, going on about âhow dare you offend your husband like thatâ which just makes you curse internally. The room was filled with those who orchestrated this union, the judging faces all around you. The very room seems to shrink around you, practically suffocating with all these fucking eyes on you, it seems one comment and youâve already offended everyone here.
Including the irritated, arrogant man in front of you, as Sylus himself fixes you with a glare that could melt steel. "Now, on with the wedding. Youâre late."
Late!? You are on time, holy fuck youâd been preened and done up like some stupid damn doll, and he has the audacity to call you late!? You feel it now, the anger and annoyance, because really fuck this, not only has the man got a crow cawing and flapping at you, heâs going to also be a whole dick?
"I am not late! I'm on time!" You stomp your foot just so, as he scoffs, raising a thin silver brow.
âWeâve been waiting, and I hate to be kept waiting.â You roll your eyes, arms crossed under your breasts.
âIâm here now, letâs just get on with it.â
âLets,â comes his bored tone, a dismissive sound met with it that only ignites your irritation at this manâs audacity. He turns to the masked man holding an enormous, faded black book. âOn with it.âÂ
Is that all he had to say?
This man.
The ceremony proceeds in a blur, a fucking whirlwind as you panic now, the crow cawing itâs agreement, and you see Sylus actually smile - at the fucking crow - as if heâs marrying him instead, while the priest's words are an echo. You barely focus when the vows are exchanged, Sylys couldnât look more bored.
The thing was, he didnât seem cruel. Just so bored!
As if this is exciting for you, youâre giving up your entire life. The exchange of your vows feels so empty, just going through the motions, youâre in your head completely, imagining a life with a stranger. One who likes a damn crow better than you already - snapping out of it only with the touch of his hand.
When he touches you for the first time?
Heâs not just annoying, or pompous, or arrogant, he feels good.
Fuck him for that.
He pauses too, the tingles of your hands exchanged, making him tense up, as he struggles to focus, eyeing your little hand being held by his - something feels perfect, it feels natural, like itâs always been there. He pauses completely, Mephitsto is holding the ring in his beak, a black ring of obsidian and rubies, one heâs had for far longer than heâd admit.
Now itâs going on one of your pretty little fingers.
Your eyes met his, they were so full of fire, determination and anger despite how small you are in his comparison, cute like some⌠kitten. An angry kitten who thinks she has claws, but then, you seem to have them, nails filed all pointy and painted blood red, doing erratic things as he thinks of having themâŚ
Why is he thinking this way?
Itâs an arrangement.
Sylus would not be cruel or treat you poorly, but he surely wasnât going to enjoy you, having his choice taken and being forced to just have heirs, as archaic as he himself is. âGonna do it?â You make him glare again with your bratty little question, even as your hand trembles in his.
âTch. Impatient little thing, arenât you?â Your eyes narrow, while he slips the ring onto your finger. The metal feels cold against your skin, fuck it feels heavy, youâre looking at it carefully, eyes now meeting his, the same ruby as your ring and your damn brooch.
Like he owns you - but you guess, he does.
Now, youâre bound to Sylus, forever and that weighs so heavy you can hardly breathe - forever with a stranger. Not for love, no, a contract, with a man you don't know, a man who already seems to dislike you. Fuck, youâre tied to a man with a mechanical crow that wonât stop cawing, while Sylus acts so casual, like nothing even happened, hands in his pockets, bored look on perfect features.
âLetâs go, I guess. Come now.â The dismissive gesture is not met with holding your hand, leading you, no, just a fucking look with eyes that bore through you. âGoing to keep me waiting?â
This man!?
Soon youâre stepping - rather than being romantically carried - over that threshold, right into Syluâs decadent mansion, as imposing as it is beautiful. He does have your luggage, the few important things that youâve brought, handing them to two large masked men, whose eyes are following you behind those masks eerily. âMephistoâ or the mechanical crow, is flying forward.
You swear the crow tells you to fuck off in his own language.
You glare at it, only for it to âcaw, cawâ at you, and Sylusâs perfect, gorgeous face - damn him - to look at you with an arched brow. âThis way, or youâll get lost.â
You follow him, his dress shoes glimmering as they click on his marble floor, looking at your surroundings, draped in elegance, his mansion is impeccable, gothic in fact. You peer around at the choices of black and red everywhere, there are no bright tones aside from bright rubies glinting, and the elegant chandeliers that catch your attention overhead.
Roaring fires crackle and fill it with warmth, something from so long ago, almost homey in an otherwise cold, gloomy manor, the home screams Sylus truly. He snatches up a bottle of red and one glass as the two of you pass his massive banquet hall, you suppose itâs a dining room but is basically a banquet hall. He glances at you, arrogant brow up, you want to smack his pretty face.
âAm I drinking from the bottle?â You earn his smirk.
âYou want some of my wine, then?â
âWhat sort of host are you!?â
âYouâre not a guest. More like a pest.â You scoff as he picks up another glass, with the greatest effort, clearly annoyed by your existence. âCome, then.â
Youâre already tired of following him, passing those large men again, who are laughing softly and whispering at each other. âYou have a mechanical crow and two weirdos living here, huh?â
âWeirdos!? Boss!â One of them says, but Sylus actually laughs softly, god that sound is way too pleasing, shaking his head and continuing to walk with his stupidly long legs, as you try to keep up.
âYouâll get lost if you donât walk faster, sweetie.â His tone is so mocking, so annoying it drives you even more crazy, as you rush through the halls of the elegant manor, footsteps softly echoing.
âI have heels on, you know.â Youâre lifting your dress up, ascending another stupid flight of stairs, trying not to notice just how nice your husbandâs backside was with a flush- did the pants have to be that tight?
âYou can take them off when we get to our chambers.â Finally you both get to a huge wooden double doors, where Sylus opens them with a heavy creak, as you blink in confusion.
âOur chambers? Who has chambers anymore? I⌠ohâŚâ When he reveals the enormous, beautiful room you realize why itâs called that way. Soft red plush rugs over marble floors, a fireplace that he roars to life with a fucking snap - four post bed big enough for several people, black beams with a black thin curtain around them.
You blush as you do focus on that bed, its velvet blood red blankets and silky golden pillows, like something youâd expect in Draculaâs castle.
Was Sylus a vampire?
He looks like one.
Your eyes narrow, studying him then, eyeing the bottle of red. Was it blood?
âYouâre staring, sweetie.â He murmurs, even though his back is turned, and heâs opening the wine bottle with a satisfying pop.
âYou wish.â He chuckles once more, while you take in the rest of the room, sleek sleek dark wood furniture and high ceilings, some mix of ancient and modern that shouldnât make sense, but it does.
âYour stare is intense.â You roll your eyes, leaning against a long side table to ease off each heel carefully, sighing in relief as you do. âI bought you a wardrobe, itâs right in that dresser.â
âA wardrobe? How would you even knowâŚâ
âThink I didnât know about you?â Sylus eyes you now, theyâre glinting, the fire casting shadows of his long, tall figure across the expanse of the room, shadows enveloping you, while you stand there, heat blooming across your cheeks.
âDid they give you all the statistics first?â Your question is full of venom, but for some reason you still scream kitten to his mind.
âGo get in something comfortable, there is a bathroom right there.â He pours two glasses of dark cabernet then, as you tentatively go to the dresser, blushing when you see the top drawer, filled with black lingerie. âSomething wrong?â
âN-no.â
Youâre to have his heirs, thatâs the whole purpose, marrying the heir to her own fortune - though much, much less than Sylusâs - to the richest, most powerful man. To have a family and babies was good for his image, and of course everyone must have pressed him to do this as well, but you wonder then, would he even want to do that with you tonight?
âYou donât have to put them on, there are pajamas in the next drawer over.â You clear your throat just a bit, opening that drawer, seeing black and red silk, running your fingers gently over them, feeling the smooth texture as you peer in the mirror, and catch him eyeing you for a moment.
âYou really like red, huh?â You see his smirk in the reflection, as you take the red silky slip and pull it out, delicate lace running across the neck.
âYou could say so.â
âI um⌠could you unlace me?â Your words shoot through him then, he has never been nervous around anyone, not a man with his power, and as long as he remembers he has always been at ease with women.
You do something quite irritating.
His hand almost cracks his favorite wine glass, while you wait, brushing your hair to one side, and he slowly steps behind you. âKitten, canât even undress, hmm?â
âKitten!?â You glare at him as he tugs on one of the laces, jerking you just a bit with the force, deepening your scowl.
âYouâre an angry little kitten, who thinks her tiny meows are intimidating. HmmâŚâ He further tugs, stepping back a bit as you eye him in the mirror, biting back a gasp when youâre unlaced, and he traces his fingers down your spine. Your tummy clenches, breath catching as he does, body reacting so intensely it makes no sense. âWas too tightly lacedâŚâ
His murmur is met with him touching the criss cross marks left behind, imprinted on your delicate skin, eyeing the goosebumps that rise then, as he imagines everything heâd like to do to you. The urge to kiss your annoying mouth for the first time is almost too strong and vivid, followed by kissing every mark left by your corset. You shiver a bit, and he catches your eyes, his own dilating - almost black.
âSomething wrong? Youâre all unlaced now.â You pull yourself together, blinking rapidly and turning, far, far too close to this man, his hand suspended in the air, exhaling slowly, as you clutch the pajamas tightly to yourself.
âNothing, um, over there?â He nods, when your top slips down just a bit, revealing too much of your breasts, your shoulders, he has to stop himself from touching them, stiffening just a bit.
Though he was furious he was forced into this marriage, he has to admit looking at you all the time was not something heâd dare complain about, even glaring youâre far too pretty. You back away, turning, clutching the dress, giving him far too much of a view of your skin, and he has to clutch that dresser, shutting his eyes as he feels it.
Heâs hard looking at your back.
He curses softly, willing it to go down but nevertheless failing, waking back over to grab his glass of wine and sipping it, letting the rich flavor hit his tongue, shutting his eyes to push back all of the thoughts when you come out. He sees you in it, the red silk slip of material, your nipples pressed against it, as if theyâre begging for his mouth to suck on them.
You stand in front of him, taking the proffered glass, and thatâs when Sylus almost spits out his drink, as you down the little bit in one gulp. âDo you know what vintage that is!?â
âYouâre stupidly rich, itâs fine.â You grab his bottle and pour more, he smacks your hand like youâre some bad child, making you laugh just a bit. âItâs yummy.â
âYouâre supposed to savor it, tch.â You drink this a little slower, tilting your head now.
âWe should get this over with, right?â
âExcuse me!?â His deep voice gets raspy, ruby eyes narrowing while you shrug just a bit, a little wine dripping down your lip, wiping it and wrecking his mind.
âMaking an heir. The sooner we do it, the better, right?â He almost loses it, as you down the glass again.
âThatâs a two hundred dollar gulp, Kitten.â
âHmm, itâs tasty - crow.â You both scowl again, he sets his glass down angrily, and thatâs when you feel that power of his again - intense and beautiful - it makes you pause for a moment, before you set your glass as well, turning. âSo we should get on with it, right?â
âGet on with it!?â He sputters, you are by far the most insolent creature he has ever met.
âYes, I know what we are here for, letâs not pretend with each other, all right?â Youâre shaking even as you speak, when his hand brushes against your arm, and the light hairs raise from the contact, your tummy clenching.
âYouâre cute, Kitten.â
âStop calling me Kitten, Crow.â
âYou know what to do then, hmm?â You nod shyly, when he lifts you suddenly, making you gasp, hoisting you on one fucking arm like youâre nothing, walking you over to his bed now. He tosses you in the middle then, leaned over you, his dress shirt falling gently open, revealing his strong, pale chest, as your heart races.
You canât answer him, not when he laughs at you, so mocking, right in your face, and two of his hands grip your delicate wrists, pushing them over your head. You bite back a whine, you shouldnât be soaking wet already, what the fuck was this man doing to you? You struggle to keep your composure, feeling his thick, hard length pressing under his slacks, making you flush.
He seems to notice his effects, as he leans down too close, heavy weight pressing you further into the soft mattress. âAre you scared, sweetie?â
You manage that glare again, but almost moan when you speak, just barely holding it back. âN-no. Iâm fine, just do it and then let me get some sleep. Iâm tired, you know.â
âAh, I see, you think this would be quick, thatâs cute.â He sighs now, releasing your wrists, leaning on an elbow and slipping his hand down your waist, slipping under your silk shirt, touching all your skin on your waist, humming quietly to himself. He wants to whisper of your beauty, but holds himself back, instead smirking so mockingly at you.
âSylus just-â He slams his lips down on yours then, plush and firm, and your thighs grip his hips, as you sigh into them, your hands gripping his luxe blankets. He delves his tongue inside your parted lips, hot and messy and nothing like youâve ever felt before - making your tummy flip with desire.
âJust what?â He murmurs softly, eyes lit up so bright itâs difficult to even look at, sighing now as he studies your body slowly, thumb brushing your nipple over your soft silk, bringing it to tighten and press harder on the fabric. You cry out before you can stop it, and the sound ends him.
But as badly as he wants to fuck you?
He wonât if itâs not your choice, if itâs to âget it over withâ. Heâll only do this if you beg for it, writhing under him soaking wet, and even then, you have to want it, for more than your situation. He doesnât tell you just yet, because god he is loving toying with you, eyeing you under dark lashes as he unbuttons your shirt, one by one, maintaining his casual stance as he throbs for you.
Fuck his cock twitches when he reveals one of your perfect, pretty breasts, breath ghosting over the sensitive nipple. âWhat are you⌠doing, I- ah!â
Youâre gripping his silken hair before you could think any better, pulling at his roots, while he sucks your nipple into his hot, hungry mouth, making your cunt gush until he can fucking feel it, your heat, even over his clothes. Your back arches, bringing your cunt further against him, he almost shakes with how badly he is filled with the need to take you, barely holding himself in.
âYou seem to enjoy this a lot for wanting to âget it over withâ. Hmm?â You donât acknowledge him, letting go of his hair only to grip it again as he sucks your other nipple into his mouth, hand trailing over your tummy, feeling it tremble under his touch. âSomething wrong, sweetie?â
âNo⌠I just⌠nghâŚâ Heâs brushing his fingers over your hot, slick pussy, groaning out as he does, eyeing you while he balances himself over you.
âAwfully wet for your duty, arenât you?â You glare again, just making Sylus grin, white teeth glinting as he kisses down your body, tasting your sweetness, lapping a trail down the valley between your breasts, kissing lower and lower, his hands now on your waist as your thighs tremble.
âWhat are you doing?â He laughs again, against your skin, making it tickle, youâre getting wetter just from that, your entire body reacting to every soft brush of his lips along your skin.
âI enjoy playing with my food a bit, before I eat my meal.â Your shorts are slid down your thighs now, youâre closing them just a bit as he sees all of you, so intimate you canât make some witty reply.
âA meal?â Your weak little squeak would amuse him if he wasnât staring at the prettiest pussy heâs seen, fuck even itâs like art to him. He thumbs your plump lips apart, watching the slutty little hole pouring wetness out of it, making him groan, inhaling you and sighing. âAre you like sniffing me, just get up here and- oh, oh I-â
Your words are cut off as his tongue slips up your slit then, you cry out at how fucking good it feels, hot eager tongue slipping up and collecting the juices there- then when he tastes you, his nostrils flare, lips glossy from you. His hands grip and press into your thighs, losing the tentative control he has with just how sweet his bride happens to be.
âYou taste so sweet for a bratty little thing.â He smirks, those glossy lips shimmering with you, and you can only blush in response, breaths so fast you feel yourself overheating. âSo quiet suddenly, whereâs all that talk, hmm?â
Your only words are muffled moans as you try to cover your mouth, screaming out when his tongue laps at you again, this time on your clit, moaning as you feel it, sensitive, twitching in response. Suddenly your arms are bound by swirling red energy, thrown over your head, and he chuckles at your expression - eyes already fucked out, mouth open in a gasp.
âWhat is this, your⌠evol?â Youâre not well versed with this sort of thing - youâve only heard things. He chuckles, breath alone making your clit twitch in response, which he avidly stares at now, humming to himself as he spreads you wider.
âIâd like to hear those moans, so I need you to stop covering them. NowâŚâ He drags your ass closer, you feel the lines of his teeth as theyâre against your cunt, and youâre already dangerously close. âHas anyone drank you, kitten?â
âDrank me!? I⌠oh fuck, fuck!â Youâre whining as he teases you, body twisting under his firm hold, his fingers are pressing into the plush of your inner thighs, slurping you up then - yes, drinking you - as if youâre wine heâs downing, except that heâd sip, not devour.
âOh you love it, donât you? Thought you wanted to get it over with, but sheâs soaking wet fâme.â Sylus fucks you with his tongue then, your gummy walls fluttering around his wet muscle, as you feel the very texture inside you, yanking at your own arms and gritting your teeth not to scream.
You fail completely.
Letting go and hoping those two men werenât just - what listening, or that damn crow wasnât somewhere cawing about this - your hoarse cries echo in his enormous, elegant room, mixing with the crackling of that fireplace and Sylusâs loud moans while he sips every bit of you up. His tongue fucks you, long, so long, while he eyes you, red ruby eyes glinting with hunger.
âWhat is⌠you are⌠oh myâŚâ Youâre getting toppled over that goddamn edge now, when his straight, perfect nose bumps your engorged clit, and he curls his tongue up, you canât stop it, your orgasm starts in your tummy, hot and torturous before it spreads through every inch of your body. âSylus!â
Sylus pulls back finally, licking his lips, you flush as you see the mess youâve made of his perfect features, when he grins down at you, psychotically hot, and youâre so disoriented you can barely understand. âAnd do you like fingers buried inside you, sweetie?â He asks, you just bite that lip one more time, nodding.
He shoves two fingers inside you, studying your face like a predator would his fucking prey, groaning as he watches you now, feeling your quivering hole gripping and spasming around his lengthy fingers. Youâre so ready for him itâs ridiculous, imagining him naked- god you can feel those muscles, that cock.
Heâs got you cumming again like itâs nothing for him, like heâs in twenty minutes figured out your body better than you do. Youâre writhing under him, crying from the force of them, of cumming over and over as he watches with pure delight, dying for more, to feel him so deep, but you canât even articulate it.
âSo beautiful like this,â heâs sucking on those fingers, cheeks hollowing, moaning again at your taste, when he lets go of your wrists, and you respond by pressing your nails into his back over his dress shirt, earning his moan. âSharp little claws.â
âFuck, Iâm ready please no more teasing⌠I c-canât take itâŚâ he sighs then, standing and confusing you. He waltzes over to grab wine then, sauntering back to you with a sway of his hips, though you see it - the huge outline of his cock. âSylus, I said Iâm ready.â
âFor your duty, right?â You hadnât even thought of duty, of anything but him then, you try to focus, clearing your throat, when he tilts your chin up, your hair falling back, lidded gaze on him. âNo, Iâll sink my cock inside that pretty cunt when you ask me too, not because you have to.â
God what is this man!?
You just blink as he leans down, fingers gripping your chin, taking the glass of wine and pressing it to his lips. âYouâre⌠wanting me to decide?â
âMmhmm. Open that pretty mouth.â You do as he says, how can you not? And he sips that wine then, humming as he leans over, pouring the wine in your mouth from his, you swallow it down, the action itself causing that ache to build. He pulls back as you look up, wiping a droplet from your lips. âSo you can listen.â
âI⌠huh? You⌠arenât you sleeping in here?â You ask softly, he sighs then, pressing a kiss far too sweet to your forehead.
âI sleep during the day mostly,â is he a vampire!? âBut Iâll lay with you when you want me to as well, not until then. I expect an answer when I get back.â
âWhat, like how long?â You hop up, dressing quickly, and he pauses at the door, looking back at you.
âLess than a week, I had to put the mission on hold for the wedding. When Iâm back, you let me know what you decide - my role as your husband.â
He leaves then, and you feel empty without him, cold even, stumbling over to his expensive, fancy wine, about to gulp it down, then sighing, sipping it instead, looking at the fire still roaring. You pull up a seat, sitting in front of it and watching as the flames lick and snap, thinking of the man youâve just married.
Who is he?
*****
Youâre trying to actually go out, tired of getting lost in Sylusâs mansion a few days later, and you swear heâs cursed it at first, you couldnât find the damn front door for days! His staff makes sure you have everything you need, but youâre alone, nothing but a phone Sylus bought you, with one damn number- his.
He texts you mockingly the next couple days, as you finally get the two men - Luke and Kieran - to escort you out, so you can breathe fresh air, but they just follow you like lost puppies- as Mephisto circles overhead. Every time you look at something theyâre just buying it for you.
âI didnât even-â
âCanât make the boss look bad.â Luke scolds, buying you a pretty bracelet that youâd just touched.
âNot with all these eyes.â Kieran agrees, and you touch a little rose, cursing as he buys that now too. âEveryone knows the boss.â
âCaw!â
âMephisto I didnât ask you!â You scowl at the crow, and it flaps its wings at you, cawing even angrier. You finally get your phone out, video calling the only number, surprised when he actually answers.
âIâm busy, what is it?â He says, and you take in his surroundings, likely some fancy suite as he sits with his gun.
âBusy? Not a way to greet your wife.â He rolls his ruby eyes now.
âMmm, and what does my wife need?â
âTo know why are these two bozos following me everywhere I go and watching me like a hawk, hmm?âÂ
âBozo, whoâs a bozo huh?â Luke crosses his arms then, tilting his head, and Kieran does the same.
âBoss, you need to get your girl under control.â Kieran says.
âCaw!â Mephisto is circling you, as youâre just trying to shop, but no of course now youâre all a spectacle, everyone is whispering about the three - four if you count Mephisto- of you all standing there.
Thatâs Sylusâs wife!
She seems a little angry.
Sheâs yelling at that bird!
Oh fuck everyone.
You sigh as Sylus laughs at you. âYou seem really worked up, do you need anything?â His intentions are clear, and you act as if itâs the sun warming your skin and not his words.
The memories.
His tongue and fingers pushing you to climax over and over, god your tummy clenches just thinking of it. And missing a man you barely fucking know - one that you want to learn, a mystery of a person truly. What was there about him that was making you this way?Â
âWhat I need is to not be babysat by these two, and your crow! Everywhere I go.â Youâre scowling at Sylusâs amused face on the video call, as he sets you down on his desk, raising a brow and pulling out a gun, cleaning it calmly, meticulously, as if everything is peachy. âWhat are you even doing?â
âIâm resting before a mission, sweetie.â
âCleaning your gun is⌠relaxing?â
âMmm, you should try it.â You giggle then, you canât help it, and the sound over the phone along with your pretty face lit by the sun does something to him then, his heart pounding in his chest.
âWould you trust me with a gun?â He shakes his head as he looks down where heâs polishing that barrel, lips quirked up.
âAbsolutely not. Now,â he sets the gun down, picking the phone up and looking directly at you. âYou are my wife, and thatâs why theyâre there - to protect you.â
His wife.
The way he says that does something, as badly as you want to be annoyed- thereâs another part thatâs touched by him, his care, his words, even if itâs overbearing, overprotective. You want to shove it down, the longing for someone you barely know, who overall annoys you with his arrogant attitude, but something just clicks as you meet his eyes on the screen.
âOkay fine, but⌠Mephisto?â
âCaw, caw, caw!â
He laughs genuinely, running a hand through his silvery locks, leaning an elbow on that table as he looks at you. âMephisto is for me to keep an eye on you - ah thereâs that cute little scowl, angry kitten.â
âYou say that like you donât purr.â Your turn to smirk as he glares, then you hang up on him, facing the two angry men now. âLook, I was rude, okay? Iâm sorry.â
They look at each other, then at you, both nodding. Mephisto caws and flaps his black and gold wings, and you hold out your arm for him to land, gently touching one of his gears. âCaw?â
âI was rude to you too. I just⌠itâs a new, stressful situation. Maybe you all could teach me more about him?â
âAbout the boss?â
âWe know all about the boss!â
âCaw!â
Soon the four of you are back home, and youâre in one of Sylusâs room- his music room, it seems, there is an organ that looks like it belongs in beauty and the beast itself, a record player sitting there, you gently push down the fine bronze point, as music fills the room. Itâs slow and beautiful, the sounds from it, your eyes close and itâs as if you feel him there.
Every day youâve tried to explore this mansion, slowly and bit by bit, to reveal more of the mysterious âbossâ and âleaderâ. But moreso, the man that instead of lying with you that night, let you have his room to yourself, pleasured you and asked nothing in return, let you have the choice.
Who was Sylus?
âBoss loves music.â Luke states the obvious, you giggle a bit, turning to look at them now.
âWell I see that. And he loves art, and pretty jewels.â You walk up to the display glasses, where heâs gathering trinkets like some dragon in a cave.
âHe loves beautiful things. Probably why he was so adamant about us watching over you- oof!â Kieran gets elbowed by Luke then, and you shyly look back down at the glass, fingers hovering over, afraid to leave a print.
Did Sylus find you pretty like these jewels?
*****
One week without Sylus, and it seems like the longest week of your life- when what was without him before? You lived without him all of your twenty four years, but you find yourself giggling at his texts, playing silly phone games with him even, as if the two of you have becomeâŚ
What are you?
He sends a âGood Night Kittenâ you send a âGood night Crowâ.
He sent a picture of himself âon accidentâ he says, but you donât believe him at all, apparently he was trying to video call you and it sent - him shirtless, towel slung low over his hips, body glistening. You think heâs trying to thirst trap you - that damn man knows how fine he is and makes no act to appear humble about it. He keeps making little remarks as if you could forget that night.
Kitten seems angry, does she need something?
You find yourself sleeping in his bed alone, touching yourself to the memory of his lips sucking in your clit, humming on it, his long, thick fingers stretching you out. You canât help yourself, every time you try to not think of him, there he is, hovering right over you. You know heâs coming back tomorrow, and you feel like heâll get his answer then, an unequivocal yes.
Sylus walks in quietly that night, just a little early - but heâd be lying if he didnât admit he was dying to see you, to feel you. Fuck, he couldnât stop himself from stroking his cock thinking of you, remembering your sweet taste and how you coated his face with your arousal. God you did things to him, but more than that - he wonders who you are.
The teasing all week on the phone - yes, he meant to send that image - had him even more intrigued, youâre funny and smart - too smart at times. A smart ass, and he would know, he tends to be one himself. Mephistoâs reports along with Luke and Kieran were showing how they were in just a week falling for the lady of Sylusâs manor, and thatâs what you were.
His.
The need to claim you is so fierce, to fucking breed you, but he must let this be your choice, he wants you to come to him. That night his steps are quiet, when he opens the door, expecting you to be asleep, but he hears it then, your whine out, that sexy little moan. He pauses, fingers gripping the brass knob, as he sees the blankets raise just a bit - hears your soft whines.
Fuck, are you touching yourself?
âMnh! Ugh, it wonât work.â You let out a frustrated huff, shoving your blankets down, when you see him.
Shit.
âSylus!? I thought um⌠you were⌠I had a bad dream, is all! Nothing else is going on here!â Youâre panicking, as this man just smirks, shutting the door behind himself casually, taking off his black leather jacket and propping it on the coat stand then, as you shift in his bed.
âOh, is that so? What was the dream about, sweetie?â His soft, husky voice just makes you ache more, as he so casually sits, undoing his laces of his boots.
âUm⌠just a weird one. Do you⌠need help?â You ask then, he pauses, nodding a little, watching you leave his bed now, your shorts so askew it told right on you, youâre wearing a little black top that covered nothing and a pair of black panties, revealing too much of your pretty body.
âI should ask you the same - if you need help.â He murmurs, brushing your hair back when you get on your knees before him, making his mind go wild, while your fingers tug on the thick black laces.
âNeed help with what?â Your innocent question is met with your eyes meeting his, easing his boots down, one by one, placing you right between his thighs, Sylus tilts your chin up then, calloused thumb brushing your lower lip softly.
âSounds like you were having trouble, I could help now that Iâm here.â He smiles as that color hits your skin, as your cheek is hot to his touch, and your shaky hands touch his thighs over his jeans. âShouldnât a good husband help his wife?â
âYou love to tease me, donât you?â Your knees press against the plush rug, as you unbutton his jeans, watching the usually confident man pause, his hands gripping your hair then, at the nape of your neck, while the sound of his zipper echoes off the walls. âSomething wrong, Sylus?â
âWhat do you think youâre playing at?â His voice breaks then, thoughts of you sucking his cock nearly ending him - it was one thing to please, heâs very confident in his abilities to make a woman cum, but seeing you like this would end him.
âMaybe Iâm returning the treatment. Should I leave a week after you cum over and over too?â He glares now, standing, so lanky and tall you hardly reach him on your knees, having to look up at him, towering over you, cock outlined in silky black - begging for you to touch it.
âYou have the brattiest attitude, should we do something about that?â He slips his top off then, and youâre met with that perfect, sculpted physique, tracing your fingers across a sculpted abdominal, watching his head fall back, moaning softly, making your cunt throb around nothing.
âWhat do you have in mind, a lesson?â He canât stop his moan when you tug at his pants, slowly revealing more of him, until he yanks you up, earning your pout. âDo you not want me to?â
âDo I not want you to, what a stupid question, foolish kitten.â You glare again, just becoming more attractive, when he lifts you up, sitting you on his bed now, slipping off your top and moaning softly as your breasts spill out. âI donât want your knees to hurt.â
âOhâŚâ Youâre so touched then, by his thoughtfulness, while he slips off his boxers, revealing himself now - thick, hard and so pretty, reddened tip leaking white pearly precum. You see how big it is, almost intimidating, touching it then with your hand, feeling it burning and so heavy, and eliciting aâŚ
Is that a whimper?
Fascinated you repeat the action, he instead this time moans softly, huskily, eyes darkening as he strokes your hair back gently. âTouch yourself for me, show me what you were doing, hmm?â
You nod, a jerky motion, as he spreads your thighs, and you reach under your panties, finding your soaking wet clit and whining, right when Sylus tugs gently at your chin.
âOpen, Kitten.â
You obey him so easy, where is the feisty little thing he knows? Sheâs in there, but youâre sweet, pliant, shy even, as you open your mouth looking so wanton, and his cock leaks even more, twitching when he finally brushes it on your tongue. Youâre lapping his sweet pre cum up then, tonguing the slit and trembling when your hands falter on your pussy.
âRub circles on that little clit, hmm? Press up a bit. F-fuck⌠youâre doing such a good job, sweetie.â Heâs gripping your hair as you suck him, and you do as he says, feeling your clit tighten up, as youâre ruining your panties, looking up at him under your lashes. âBeautifulâŚâ
Beautiful.
You tremble more as he gazes so intensely down at you, staring at you like youâre the only thing there is, you know you shouldnât think that way - you know heâs probably just enjoying this, but there is something so addictive to his look. To how heâs stroking his cock in and out of your mouth, so easy with his motions, gasping when you suck harder, tongue lolling on the ridge of his tip.
âStill canât cum without me, hmm?â Heâs whispering, but you pull back, strings of saliva dripping from his blushing tip, pulling back your fingers and showing them glistening.
âI can, I just⌠am failing currently.â He shocks you then, climbing onto the bed now, laying on his back. You go to suck him again, when he flips you around, dragging your panties off in one motion, then putting your thighs on either side of his head, your hot eager cunt right on his face. âSylus!â
âHmm, fuck I missed your taste.â Did he say that out loud? Or was it muffled into your perfect cunt? He parts your folds, seeing how wet you are as it drools down him, slipping a finger inside you. âMiss me?â
âJust a bit,â you try to tease, leaning over him now, arms on either side of his thighs for balance, hair falling against his bare thighs, as you lap a line down his cock again, making him groan. âYou miss me?â
âJust a little.â He drags you back down on his face hungrily, licking a filthy line from your clit all the way to your ass, and you almost choke on him as you take him deep in your throat, body shaking over him. âMmm, she sure missed me.â
âShe did.â You admit after pulling up with a suctioned pop, and then your eyes roll back in your skull, as he sucks and hums against your clit. âMâgonna cum!â
âMmm,â heâs just humming quicker, feeling your mouth fail to hardly move, youâre in the throes of cumming all down his handsome face. He urges you then, hands gripping the fat of your ass, pressing you down even further until his face is fucking buried against your cunt.
âS-Sylus!â
His name, you moaned his name.
Youâre trying to press hasty kisses to his hips as you cum so hard you canât think, gushing down his face and drenching him in your arousal, his face, his throat, his fucking lips. He almost cums from just that, feeling you shake and tremble while you blink back your vision, which has gone black from how hard your release rocked you, walls fluttering around nothing, dying for more.
You feel so greedy then, thinking of how badly you want him inside you, stroking his pretty cock gently, as he drinks up all he can. âOh my godâŚâ
âMmm, you got wetter than last time, didnât know that was possible.â Youâre covering your nervous blush against his thigh, as he chuckles softly. âYou donât have to finish, Kitten, I can just do this.â
âSylus, IâŚâ You ease off him with his help, turning and straddling with trembling thighs, making Sylus tense when he feels it, you pressing on his cock, he grabs your waist bruisingly, eyeing you.
âThatâs dangerous, sweetie, I can only hold back so much.â You lean over him now, lips hovering just an inch, gripping his wrists with your little hands, and he smirks up at you. âAre you a big, bad, scary kitten?â
âMaybe I am, and youâre a sweet little crow.â He scowls just a bit, only making you wetter, as you grind on him now, and he immediately loosens your grip, hands flying to your hips as his tip twitches against your slit.
âAre youâŚâ You press him back down, making him huff, blinking up at you as his eyes glow bright fucking red, and youâre cupping his face, thumb tracing a cheek bone.
âSylus, I have your answer.â He swallows then, breathing heavier and heavier, as his hands trail up your spine, then back down, cock leaking all that precum right against you.
âDo you now? Whatâs the answer then, sweetheart?â
You press a kiss on his lips, both of you taste each other, one of his huge hands entangling in your hair, as your bodies move just slightly, casting your silhouettes across the dark walls in the night. âThe answer is yes, I want this Sylus. I want you.â
âOh, sweetieâŚâ He canât stop himself, his emotions he always holds back, when you whisper those words. âNot just because you have to?â
His words break you, tears burning your eyes, as you shake your head. âHow could I not want you?â
Heâs ended then, drowning in your kisses, letting you take control - for this moment, he muses - and reach down as he lifts your hips up, and you rub his tip along your folds, earning the most pornographic and filthy moans, mixing with your soft ones as your head falls back, hair falling like a curtain down your shoulder blades. He watches you, hands holding you up, suspended, eyeing you again.
âStill sure?â You nod eagerly, he exhales at that, pressing you down just a bit, watching your tight little cunt try to suck him up and struggling, so tight he could cum just from his tip sinking in.
âOh my god, sâbig IâŚâ Youâre struggling when he yanks you forward, until youâre resting on his chest, and heâs pulling back, sliding deeper while he watches your every expression, hands slipping down to your ass to grip you.
âIf it hurts, tell me, youâre so tightâŚâ He whispers, and you nod, so touched by his care, before he sinks you half way down, groaning and kissing you now, you kiss him back, hungry, messy, your nails pressing into his shoulders. âOh, fuck feel you, this tight around me? Does she want more?â
âYes, yes, pleaseâŚâ He manages a breathless laugh, lifting you up and dragging you down more of his inches- god how many inches - stuffing you so full while you gush all around him, clinging and trembling.
âPlease, is this what I had to do to make my kitten sweet?â Youâd glare but heâs shoved more of his cock - how much was there god you couldnât take it all - youâre shaking as your cunt stretches to accommodate- the pressure building in your tummy while he caresses your face, brushing your hair behind your ear and exhaling.
God, you feel perfect around him.
âYou tell me when youâre ready to move.â He whispers, you nod, trying to adjust, gasping as you shift your hips and his tip drags on your spot, and he feels those walls just clench around him like a vise, eyes avidly watching your face and just how pretty it is when in pleasure.
âIâm ready, please.â Your throaty whisper destroys him, he picks you up once more, yanking you down his length fully now, you scream out at it, head falling back, your breasts right in his face, he catches a nipple between his sharp teeth. âOh! Sylus mnh!â
âPerfect, youâre perfect.â He canât stop it, the words from spilling, as he pumps up into your cunt now, flats of his feet on the enormous bed, jerking his cock so deep he bottoms out as much as he can in you, tip kissing your cervix.
âAh! Mnh! F-fuck⌠youâre so big.â Youâre sobbing the words out, when he grinds you on him, hugging your body against his, and youâre cupping his face, lips just hovering, noses touching.
âCan you take more in your perfect little cunt?â He groans as you nod, and he fucks up into you harder now, sounds of skin slapping and your soppy cunt echoing, heâs flipped you then, holding one of your thighs up high, eyeing the bulge his cock makes inside you and getting fucking feral.
âSo deep!â You buck off the bed, and he moans now, slowly pulling out, sole of your foot on his chest while he watches your cunt suck him in so greedily, disappearing his huge cock in your body, watching your tummy move. Fuck he was getting ruined at the sight, but when you cry out and jerk and he pauses.
âAre you hurt?â His soft ask is such a delicious contradiction to his commanding presence, huge body tense, as you shake your head, take a breath, letting him sigh in relief as he tilts your chin down now. âLook at me inside you, canât even take all of me, can you?â
One moment sweet, one moment sarcastic and cocky, but you cannot think of anything when you see it too, the way your stomach expands with his cock so deep. All you can do is bite your lip, hands slipping up his obliques, feeling the muscles move as he shoves hard then, it hurts so good, and he notices, repeating it then, over and over again.
âThatâs it, you like that, donât you kitten?â You weakly nod, there are no more words, not when Sylus is pounding your pretty pussy with his huge cock, leaning lower, letting your legs wrap his narrow hips. âYouâre close, arenât you?â
You just nod again, itâs apparently all youâre capable of as this man fucks your brain out. He moans softly when he kisses you, jerking his hips just so, as you fall apart underneath him, orgasm rocking through you, he has to pause, youâre squeezing so fucking hard and pulsing. âAh, S-Sylus - ngh!â
âMilking my cock, already,â heâs losing it with you, fucking you through one orgasm and into another, feeling you gush down him, down your ass, his heavy balls smacking it, then futher- soaking his covers. âFuckâŚâ
He slows his thrusts now, laying on top of you, hand entwining as his eyes drink your pretty face in, you grip him then, struggling to breathe, as his heart races so fast against your breasts, and you both pause. You stare into endless rubies of his eyes, as he squeezes your hand so tightly, the red ropes of energy binding your wrists together even more tightly.
You look at it then, nervously, then back at him, as he stares at the connection. âAre youâŚâ
âItâs not on purpose.â He murmurs, looking as it swirls, and you feel him throb inside you, his tip oozing against your abused cervix. âAnother choice, kitten. I can cum inside your perfect cunt,â he thrusts once more, watching your eyes flutter shut in pleasure. âOr I can pull out, and we wait until you want it.â
Your choice, again.
But you want him inside you, buried to the fucking hilt, opening your eyes and feasting on the man on top of you. âI want you to cum inside me, Sylus.â
Fuck.
He almost busts then, but he pauses, clutching your hand and pressing you deeper into his mattress, taking you over. âYou want me to fill you up, sweetie?â
âPlease,â Sylus moans heavily, kissing you as he fucks into you deep, long strokes, and your hand grips him, the other entangling in his hair as your tongues dance with each other, and he pounds harder and harder. âPlease, please, please- ah!â
âFill you up so much, you wonât be able to walk, kitten.â His eyes flash dangerously as he slams into you one more time, white hot cum pouring from his cock, and when he does, the light red rope glows more, burning hot on each of your wrists as he cries out against your ear, burying his face in your neck. âOh, fuck, f-feel herâŚâ
Youâre a pathetic mess, twitching around him as he coats those walls, trying to catch a breath. He leans up then, the ropes fading, pulling out his cock, you watch as the cum just pours out of your slutty little hole, and he delights in seeing it. A mix of all your arousal and his load is slipping out of you as your hole puckers and quivers, spasming from the aftershocks of him.
âSuch a messy girl, arenât youâŚâ He sighs as he pulls back, toying with his own cum, smirking as your hips jerk.
Is he sweet or an ass!?
Is he both?
He is something else then, when his eyes are so red theyâre shining, and heâs slipping his two fingers up and down you, making your sensitive cunt throb in response, aching from his stretch. âAh-ah, you said you wanted it, you even said please, yet here it is, wasted. That wonât do.â
âWhat do you- ah! F-fuck!â Youâre breathless when he shoves his own cum back in your cunt, smirking down at you, silver hair falling over his brow then. âSensitive mnh!â
âMmm, you donât want to keep it in? That wonât do.â Heâs pouting, slipping more of the cum inside your sore little entrance, enjoying you far too much, youâre covered in a sheen of sweat, face so fucked out, thereâs just a little drool on the corner of your mouth dripping.
Youâre so beautiful.
âBe a good kitten.â
âMean crow, mnh!â You yank his wrist then, taking his hand, and he glares as you put it to your lips now, lapping him off you with a stroke of your tongue, smirking right back at him. âCanât take it?â
âYouâre a brat.â He flips you over then, you gasp at it, slipping two fingers back inside you and pressing up.
âSylus, we justâŚâ
âThink Iâm done with you yet?â
*****
Two weeks later
Sylus cannot stop fucking his new bride- no he needs to fuck her in every room of his mansion, hear her moans and cries, feel her perfect pussy clenching him. He has to make sure every inch of the room has had her arousal dripping down onto it, that he makes sure to have her taste on him constantly. He soaks in you like the sweetest perfume there ever could be.
He left for days again, in his office, and you eagerly came to meet him, kissing him deeply, only to get bent over it, his cock shoved so deep as he lifted up the skirt youâre wearing, his hand on yours over the desk. Breathing heavy in your ear, he canât get enough of you, not even fucking close, reaching under your chin to cup it and tilt your lips to his.
âMiss me, kitten?â He whispers, and you shock him then, arching your ass for more and earning his groan, as you nod.
âI missed you.â Sylus pauses then, hand squeezes yours brutally, his other on your hip, his cock twitching inside you, as the two of you inhale and exhale each other. âDonât stop, please.â
âYou missed me?â He says again, you nod, youâre tired of acting like you donât, like you arenât falling for your husband.
Like he doesnât make you so happy.
Like he doesnât drink you up at every opportunity.
Like you donât love being held in his fucking arms at night.
Like you donât just literally enjoy him - his laugh, his kindness, his humor, god everything about his presence.
Like is a weak word, a wrong wordâŚ
âI missed you too, kitten.â His husky declaration is met with him fucking you harder, deeper, hand choking your throat and squeezing, taking your oxygen as he kisses you, drinking up your cries, busting his hot ropes so deep youâre cumming right with him.
When heâs done he never just leaves, no heâs cleaning you up - lapping his own cum out of your cunt eagerly as youâre spread on his dark wood desk, head falling back while he makes you cum again. He lavishes every inch of your walls as he scoops out the taste of both of you, pulling back and kissing you deeply, saliva dripping so you taste it too.
âFuck, you distracted me. I got you something.â He murmurs then, taking a shaky breath and pulling up his pants, leaving them undone just a bit.Â
âY=you did?â You swipe at your mouth, standing with his help, when he pulls out a black, rectangular velvet box.
âI went to an auction, this belonged to a princess.â Youâre gasping as you see it, glittering diamonds and rubies - almost as beautiful as his eyes.
âSylus you didnât have to do thisâŚâ
âNo, sweetie, I do. Hold up your hair for me, turn around.â You obey his gentle orders, lifting your hair for him, feeling the cold metal hit your collarbones, as he rests the necklace on you. He clasps it now, sending shivers down your spine as his fingers dance across your neck. âLet me see.â
You turn back around and he sighs, looking how beautiful you are, your breasts rising and falling with every breath. He wants to say it - foolish words - that heâs falling, but he is terrified. A man like him, who can annihilate a room of monsters like itâs nothing, a man who is feared has just one weakness.
You.
âItâs beautiful, thank you so much.â You whisper, touching it, seeing how the prismatic gems reflect the soft lights. âI love it.â
âIt looks perfect on your chest.â He tilts your chin up, kissing you then. âGo get ready for dinner, I want you to wear it.
After dinner Sylusâs always perfect - until you - control slips.
Youâre on his lap, as the two of you sip the wine, and you giggle suddenly, the sound that makes his heart always race. âWhat is it, kitten?â
âRemember you spit wine in my mouth?â He blushes then, and you giggle more. âYouâre so cute.â
âCute!? Iâm not cute, thatâs you.â
âMmhmm. What if I do it to you?â He pulls you closer, brushing your hair back gently, as you sip the red wine.
âIâd let you do anything to me.â His words are so soft, so impactful then, your heart hammers as the blood rushes to your ears.
âAnything, hmm? Where's the big bad leader?â Youâre trying to keep it light, teasing, but he lowers his gaze to that necklace, thumbing the delicate skin around it, making you gasp.
âIâm afraid heâs been destroyed by a kitten he loves.â You blink rapidly, the words donât feel real, thereâs no way heâŚ
Does heâŚ
Feel the same way?
Youâre so quiet he looks away, his hand falling. âEndless ammunition I just gave you against me-â
âSylusâŚâ He looks back, and youâre crying then, tears streaming down your cheeks, he falters, swiping at them gently.
âYes?â His words are quiet, careful, you lean in, cupping his face, fingers tracing his sharp jaw.
âI love you too.â He slams his lips on yours, desperate and messy, as he lifts you up, propping you on the table and shoving plates away, you gasp as they clatter down to the floor, eyes wide on him.
âSay that again, kitten. Louder.â Heâs shoving up your dress, eagerly slipping his hand between your thighs, your back arches as his fingers fill you, fingers you missed for days, his lips trailing up your neck, loud, messy kisses.
âI love you, Sylus.â He exhales so shaky, pulling back and gripping your hair at the nape of your neck, fingers entwined as he finds your spot, making you drool on him, while you fall even deeper into his gaze.
âI love you, , you mean, angry little kitten. Ruined me.â
âHey now!â Youâre laughing softly, but itâs cut off by his fingers, and your laugh is turned into a desperate cry. Sylus fucks you right there, uncaring of poor Mephisto flying by, who darts out as quickly as he came, and you soon find yourself in only the necklace, on your hands and knees on his bed.
âMine, mineâŚâ He keeps repeating them like a mantra, pressing his thumbs in the simples of your back. âCanât wait to breed you, god. You want that?â He whispers, bending over you, and slamming so deep, necklace dangling as he hits every spot, hands gripping your hips hard.
âBreed me.â
âWhat do good kittens say?â You glare, just making him closer to cumming, and he pauses, reaching around to press a hand on your tummy. âDo you want all my babies so deep inside you?â
âY-yes. I do.â You bite your lip, and he smirks again. âPlease?â
âGood girl.â
Sylus will give his pretty bride anything she wants - if itâs a mating press where he fucks endless loads of cum inside her, if itâs just holding her in his arms and stroking her hair after a bad day. Heâll give her any snacks sheâs craving when one day sheâs full of his babies, and heâll make sure she stays full of him. Heâll buy her anything that catches her pretty eyes and makes her smile, heâll sing her to sleep.
Heâll do anything for his wife, a wife he fell so in love with - some would say, he became obsessed with her.
With you.
Ahhh I hope you all enjoyed this!! I had way too much fun - I love arranged Marriage tropes and had to do one for Sylus. Happy birthday Lil S! If you'd like more Sylus lmk in the comments or inbox any ideas for our dragon bc I love him<3
author's note: another big thank you for all the support!! my requests are open so please feel free to message and ask for whatever pitt related stuff you'd like to see. if you couldn't tell, i'm in my jack abbot writing era as of rn but i am happy to write other characters, too! this is just a little fun one with no real plot or angst or anything, total fluff to lighten your weekend (and mine) x
pairing: jack abbot x reader (again i know)
word count: 3.9k
warnings: reader is described as being female presenting and is referred to with she/her pronouns, medical inaccuracies as always and the episodes sequence of events are a bit inaccuarate as well, fluff and a self-indulgent sunshiney reader, reader is younger as well, late 20s , episode 9 furry mention lol
songs i listened to while writing: oh, gemini by role model, potion by djo, godlight by noah kahan, true blue by boygenius
description: the pitt's in chaos, there's a very serious cyber attack happening, and apparently, a betting pool about you and one salt and pepper haired attending
This sort of shift made the Pitt feel less like a trauma center and more like some kind of cosmic punishment you were being forced to endure after doing something deeply terrible in a past life.
By midafternoon, the Fourth of July had already delivered everything youâd expected and then some. There were burns, lips split open on pool decks, heat exhaustion, one teenage boy who had somehow managed to launch a firework directly into a lawn chair and then act surprised when the lawn chair bounced back like it had a personal vendetta, and you were also fairly sure youâd witnessed an actual furry in chairs earlier. In fairness, youâd been awake since before sunrise, so there was every chance that part had been a hallucination. The ER was loud enough to distort reality on a normal day. Today it was deafening. The ambulance bay was worse. Every hallway smelled faintly of sweat, antiseptic, and that acrid, post-firework smoke that seemed to settle into the walls no matter how many times the doors opened.
And to top it all off, the hospital computers had gone down in the middle of the rush.
Poor Whitaker had tried his best to take a photo of the board before it died completely, but his lackluster camera skills had left half the names blurry , so the whole department had been forced to rely on Joyânew, terrifyingly competent, photographic-memory Joyâfor every name, room number, and ailment in the goddamn ER. Every few minutes somebody would shout, âJoy, whoâs in Seven?â and sheâd answer without looking up, as if reciting patient lists from memory was a totally normal skill to have.
Dana had taken one look at the frozen screens and said, âYou have got to be kidding me,â with the spiritual exhaustion of a woman who had already given too much of herself to this building. Ten minutes later she was digging out clipboards and paper charts like she had personally prepared for the inevitable downfall of modern technology and had simply been waiting for the right time to shine.
âWhat is that?â you asked, cocking a brow at the massive clunky machine Jessie had pulled from some forgotten corner of the nursesâ station like an artifact from a medical museum.
âThat,â Jack said, pointing at it with all the confidence of a man introducing a beloved childhood pet, âis a fax machine.â
You looked back at your boyfriend, who was leaning against the counter in combat trousers and a black T-shirt, left hand shoved in his pocket, the other loosely gesturing toward the glorified hunk of plastic in front of you. You narrowed your eyes at him, mostly because he had no business still being here. He should have been back at your apartment hours ago, asleep in your bed, not standing in the Pitt after a brutal night shift like his body ran on caffeine and spite alone.
Unfortunately, that just wasnât Jack.
âThatâs how we rolled when I was a resident,â he said, not really to you so much as to the room at large, as if he had been waiting years for a valid excuse to say it.
Joy paused in the middle of rattling off patient names and lifted her head. âWas that in the 1900s?â
You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop a laugh, but it was already too late.
Jack looked at her, entirely unimpressed. âYeah,â he said. âBack when charts were written by candlelight.â
That did it. A snort escaped before you could stop it.
Jack turned his head and looked at you then, amusement tucked into his gaze as he watched you fail spectacularly to hide how entertained you were.
You were absolutely in for it later.
The thing was, you probably deserved it.
You had spent most of the morning being unbearably cheerful, which according to Trinity was "borderline offensive in a disaster scenario". You were three years into residency now, experienced enough that nobody hovereed, junior enough that everyone still barked at you when someone needed to take the blame. And somehow, along the way, you had developed a reputation for smiling through absolute carnage. You were kinda excellent in the er. Fast hands, good instincts, calm voice. You'd discovered early on that people tended to panic less when you looked like you genuinely believe that things could be salvaged. Most of the time, you genuinely did.
So yes, you smiled when you told a six-year-old that his popsicle-blue tongue made him look like a supervillain. You smiled when you promised a drunk college student that no, he wasn't dying, he was just very stupid. And you smiled now, in the middle of a cyber attack and a holiday shitshow, because if you didn't, you might just start screaming and never stop.
"Room Four needs reassessment," Dana called, slapping a chart into your hands as she breezed past. "Room eight's blood pressure has dropped, and if anyone asks me where the paper lab forms are one more time, I'm committing a felony."
"Copy that, boss," you said.
Dana paused just long enough to squint at you. "Y/N, why are you smiling?"
"Morale."
"You're using that voice again, babe."
You glanced over your shoulder at Dana as you started to move towards your next task.
"What voice?"
"The Disney Princess voice," Trinity said flatly.
Joy, without looking up from the board that Al-Hashimi was busy scribbling onto, said, "You do have one."
You gasped. "Et tu, Joy?"
Joy shrugged. "It is effective."
Jack, who had decided that fawning over the fax machine was getting boring, drifted close enough to hear your conversation. He took a pen from his pocket, handing it over to you.
"You forgot this," he said, "for your charts."
You looked down at your hand. It was your favourite pen. The good one with the ink that dried just quick enough. The one you complained about losing every single shift.
Your eyes narrowed. "You stole my pen?"
"You left it in, my um, my truck."
"Oh, shit. Yeah, I did."
Trinity, standing three feet away with all the subtlety of a fire alarm, went very still. She turned slowly to Dennis then, knocking him in the side with her shoulder.
"Huckleberry, write that one down, now."
Room Four held a sunburned dad who'd passed out at a barbecue and cracked his head open on a cooler. You cleaned and re-stitched the wound while explaining every step in your usual warm tone, and by the time you came back out, the nurse's station had only gotten louder. The fax machine had whirred to life and Jessie was in a heated conversation with Dana about toner. Joy was still where you left her, acting as the PTMC's human database.
And Dr Jack Abbot was still there. Stupidly tight black tshirt and all.
He caught your eye from across the station and, because he was incapable of not noticing things about you, lifted a cup from the counter.
A Dunkin iced coffee you had often heard him shitting on Shen for consuming one too many of during the night shift.
You made your way over to him through the chaos, accepting it with a look. "You're extremely attentive for a man who's meant to be unconscious by now."
"You skipped breakfast."
"Okay, Jack, that's not an answer"
"It's the only one you're getting."
You took a sip from the fluorescent orange straw. "Didn't take you for a romantic, Abbot."
Jack's mouth twitched, an almost smile. "Drink it before you get mean."
You blinked up at him. "I do not get mean!"
From two feet away, Santos whispered, âHe knows her blood sugar patterns.â
Whitaker made a tiny distressed noise. âOh my god.â
You turned. âWhat are you two doing?â
âNothing,â Santos said far too quickly.
That was the exact wrong answer. You narrowed your eyes and held out your hand. âSantos.â
She folded her arms. âNo.â
âSantos.â
âItâs literally not a big deal.â
âThen show me.â
Whitaker physically recoiled. Javadi looked almost interested. Princess and Perlah had gone suspiciously quiet at the nursesâ station, which in itself felt like evidence of a crime. Finally, with the theatrical suffering of a woman forced to betray her own art, Santos unfolded a sheet of paper from behind a clipboard and handed it over.
It was, unmistakably, a betting pool.
Your name was on it. So was Jackâs.
Beside a list of times, 2 p.m., 4 p.m., end of shift, by the parking lot, âduring major traumaâ in Javadiâs handwriting, were dollar amounts and initials.
You stared at it for a long second. Then looked up.
âYou people are betting on us?â
Santos lifted one shoulder. âIn our defense, youâve been weirdly public all day.â
âWe have not.â
Jack, traitor that he was, took a sip of coffee and said, âWe have.â
You slowly turned to look at him. âYou knew about this?â
âYes.â
âYou knew.â
âTheyâve been doing it for weeks.â
Your jaw dropped. âWeeks?â
âSix,â Princess said helpfully from the desk.
Perlah smiled sweetly and added something in Tagalog that made Princess snort. You only caught one word, obvious.
You looked back down at the sheet, then at Santos. âThere is a category for accidental hand placement.â
Santos nodded. âThat oneâs popular.â
Whitaker raised a nervous finger. âFor legal reasons I only bet on the after-shift options.â
Javadi adjusted her clipboard. âI weighted mine against environmental stressors. Cyber attacks accelerate impulsive disclosures.â
âThat sentence made me hate you a little,â you said.
âUnderstandable.â
Dana appeared in the middle of all this, took one look at the paper in your hand, and sighed the sigh of a woman who had somehow expected better despite having no reason to.
âHas she found out?â
âYes,â Santos said proudly.
Dana held out her hand. âPay me.â
âWhat?â you said.
âI told them they were all idiots for thinking you two were subtle. By technicality, Iâm owed.â
Money appeared from multiple directions. Perlah slapped a ten into Danaâs palm. Princess handed over a five while muttering, âSabi ko na nga ba.â Whitaker looked betrayed by the universe.
You turned to Jack in outrage. âYou were just going to let this happen?â
Jack looked thoroughly unbothered. âIt doesnât bother me.â
âIt doesnât bother you that the entire ER has us in a spreadsheet?â
âItâs not a spreadsheet,â Joy said from across the room. âItâs handwritten.â
It should have embarrassed you more than it did. It should have made you want to crawl into a supply closet and never come out. Instead, irritatingly, all you could really focus on was the fact that Jack was standing there in the middle of all of it, clipboard under one arm, coffee in hand (did he figure out how to uber eats Dunkin?), the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, and acting like none of this was remotely a problem.
Because, to him, apparently, it wasnât.
Before you could say anything else, Dana barked your name from the trauma side. âBay Two. Pediatric burn. Move.â
You dropped the betting sheet onto the counter and went.
The room sharpened the moment you stepped into it. A little boy, maybe seven, sat on the gurney with tears drying on his cheeks and a nasty burn wrapping up one forearm. His father hovered helplessly at his shoulder, pale and frantic. You softened without even thinking about it.
âHey,â you said, crouching until you were eye level. âIâm Dr. Y/L/N. Whatâs your name?â
The boy sniffed. âEli.â
âHi, Eli. I heard you had a very dramatic run-in with a sparkler.â
A tiny, suspicious smile flickered at the edges of his mouth.
âThat arm looks pretty brave to me,â you went on, gloving up. âMind if I help it out?â
By the time you were halfway through cleaning the burn, Eli was more interested in telling you about his dog than in crying. You talked him through every step, let him pick the colour of his wrap, and told him the whole thing made him look âextremely tough, in a comic-book sort of way.â
Behind you, Jack passed you supplies before you could ask for them. You glanced up once, and the look on his face made something warm settle low in your chest. Not amusement this time. It was a soft look shared between two people who found solitude in little victories like this.
When you were done and Eli had stopped trembling, his father said, voice thick with relief, âThank you.â
You smiled. âHe did all the hard work.â
Out in the hallway again, Jack fell into step beside you.
âYouâre good at that,â he said.
You shrugged, a little embarrassed by direct praise. âKids are honest. If you talk to them like theyâre real people, they usually let you help.â
Jack looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. âStill.â
That was all.
Still.
Somehow, coming from him, it said more than a paragraph from anyone else.
By five, the cyber attack had turned the Pitt into a weird little time capsule. Pages were being run by hand. Orders were shouted across halls. The fax machine had stopped working, started back up again, and stopped once more. Somebody had unearthed an ancient label maker. Everyoneâs handwriting was deteriorating in real time.
At some point, in the middle of trying to squeeze past a gurney and an IV pole in Trauma Three, Jack put both hands on your hips and moved you six inches to the left so he could get through.
It was practical. It was fast. There was a time where it would've gone completely unnoticed.
It was, apparently, now, worth fifteen dollars.
From the station, Santos sucked in a loud breath. âPhysical contact.â
Whitaker slapped money down immediately. âThat counts. That absolutely counts.â
âFor what?â Robby asked, walking past.
âNothing,â six people said at once.
Robby slowed, took in Dana counting bills behind the desk, Princess trying and failing not to laugh, and your face somewhere between horrified and resigned.
Then he looked at Jack. Then at you.
Then he sighed like a man realizing he had somehow become the only adult in a room full of teenagers.
âIâm not asking,â he said, and kept walking.
You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead. âIâm transferring.â
âNo, youâre not,â Dana said.
âCan I at least fake my death?â
âNot on my shift.â
Late in the evening, once the worst of the holiday surge had started to taper and the sky outside had begun to darken into a hazy blue, you found a second alone by the ambulance bay doors. It wasnât exactly quiet, nothing around the Pitt ever really was, but it was quieter than inside. There were fireworks in the distance, all colour and sound and terrible decision-making, and somewhere behind you, somebody was laughing in the break room.
Jack came out a minute later, as if heâd known exactly where youâd gone. He leaned against the railing beside you with all the enthusiasm of a man filing taxes.
âYou pouting out here?â he asked.
You looked at him. âI am processing workplace humiliation.â
âYouâre being dramatic.â
âYou let them build categories, Jack.â
âI didnât build anything.â
âYou encouraged them by existing.â
He huffed softly through his nose, which with him was basically a laugh. For a moment you just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching bursts of red and gold flare over the city skyline. The air smelled like smoke and humidity and summer.
Then you said, because you had to ask it at least once, âYou really donât care that they all know?â
Jack looked at you like the question itself was mildly ridiculous.
âNo.â
âWhy not?â
His gaze settled on your face. âBecause it's youâ
There it was again. That impossible, annoying simplicity of his. Like the answer had been sitting there the whole time and you were the only one making it harder than it needed to be.
You looked down at your shoes, smiling despite yourself. âThatâs disgustingly sincere.â
âDonât ruin it.â
âIâm just saying, for a man who acts like human emotion is a contagious diseaseââ
He turned toward you then, one hand still shoved into his pocket while the other came up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was brief, casual, but it was enough to quiet you.
âI donât hide you,â he said.
Your chest tightened in that warm, uncomfortable, lovely way it always did when he said things too plainly.
âI know,â you said quietly.
âAnd if they want to waste money on something they already figured out, thatâs on them.â
You laughed. âYou are impossible.â
âAccurate.â
The ambulance bay door banged open behind you.
Santosâs voice floated out before the door even fully shut again. âIf either of you kiss out there, Iâm collecting double!â
You closed your eyes. âIâm going to actually kill her.â
âNo, youâre not.â
âMaybe a little.â
âYou like her.â
You sighed. âI know.â
Jackâs mouth twitched, but when he looked back at you there was something more deliberate in it now. More focused. Like heâd made a decision.
âCome on,â he said.
You frowned. âWhere?â
âSomewhere quieter.â
Before you could ask what that meant, he had already pushed off the railing and jerked his head toward the side corridor that led to supply and staff storage. Not romantic. Not scenic. Very on brand. You followed him anyway. The hallway was blessedly empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the muffled chaos of the ER dulled by a heavy swinging door. Jack stopped just past the turn where the corridor bent out of sight from the main floor and looked back at you.
âWell?â you asked.
âWell what?â
âYou dragged me into a creepy side hallway.â
âI walked,â Jack corrected. âYou followed.â
âYou are so aggravating.â
âYeah.â
He said it like he knew exactly how aggravating he was and had no intention of changing.
You folded your arms. âWhat are we doing back here?â
Jack took a slow step closer. âAvoiding Santos.â
âThatâs valid.â
âAnd,â he added, eyeing you with faint amusement, âyou were whining.â
âI was not whining.â
âYou were.â
âI was expressing righteous indignation.â
âYou were pouting.â
You opened your mouth to argue, but the smirk on his face made it impossible to do with any real conviction.
âThatâs very rich coming from a man who came in on his day off because the hospital computers hurt his feelings.â
Jackâs brow lifted. âYou done.â
âNo.â
âShocking.â
He was close enough now that you could smell coffee on his breath, antiseptic clinging to his shirt, the faint smoke from outside caught in the fabric. One of his hands came up and rested lightly at your waist, thumb hooking just enough into the side seam of your scrubs to pull you half a step nearer.
âThat,â you said, very quietly, âis exactly why they have categories.â
âI know.â
âYouâre not helping.â
âIâm not trying to.â
That did something unfair to your stomach.
He looked tired now that you were seeing him up close. The kind of tired that sat under the eyes and in the set of the shoulders. But he was still looking at you like you were the easiest thing in the world to focus on.
âStill embarrassed?â he asked.
âA little.â
He nodded once, almost like he respected that.
Then, because he was apparently feeling especially insufferable, he said, âYouâll live.â
You stared at him. âThatâs your comforting response?â
âWhat do you want, a speech?â
âA tiny bit of tenderness wouldnât kill you.â
Jackâs fingers tightened just slightly at your waist.
âSweetheart,â he said, voice drier now, âI came looking for you, didnât I?â
That shut you up.
Because yes. He had.
He always did.
Your face must have given something away, because his expression softened at the edges even as his tone stayed gruff.
âThere it is,â he murmured. âThat look.â
âWhat look?â
âThe one where you remember Iâm right.â
You narrowed your eyes. âYouâre unbearable.â
âAnd yet.â
âAnd yet,â you muttered.
His other hand came up then, slower this time, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. Not showy. Not performative. Just him.
âYou done being mad at me for not caring?â he asked.
You exhaled softly. âI wasnât mad that you didnât care.â
âNo?â
âNo.â You glanced down, then back up. âI think I was just⌠surprised you were so okay with everybody knowing.â
Jack looked at you for a second like he was trying to figure out how best to answer that without sounding like himself too much.
Then he said, âIâm not ashamed of you.â
Your breath caught a little.
The teasing fell out of the moment all at once.
You looked at him. Really looked at him.
Jack, who hated fuss, hated spectacle, hated giving people more of himself than theyâd earned.
Jack, standing in a half-lit side corridor during a cyber attack after a nightmare holiday shift, telling you as plainly as he knew how that being with you wasnât something he needed hidden.
âThatâsâŚâ You swallowed. âThatâs very unfairly nice.â
âDonât make it weird.â
âYou make everything weird.â
âI make nothing weird. You overthink.â
You gave a soft laugh, because of course that was his answer.
Then he leaned in, just enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours.
âYou done talking?â he asked.
âMaybe.â
âGood.â
The kiss, when it came, was private in the truest sense of it. Not secret. Just not for anybody else. A private thing made real by the fluttering in your stomach.
Warm, slow, and a little tired around the edges in a way that made it better.
Your hand slid up to the back of his neck, fingers catching at the short curls there, while his hand stayed steady at your waist and his thumb traced one absent line against your side through the fabric of your scrubs.
It felt like the whole shift exhaling out of both of you at once.
When he pulled back, just enough to look at you, there was a tiny smugness back in his expression that made you want to bite him.
âWhat?â you whispered.
He brushed his thumb once more along your jaw. âThatâs for me. Not for the floor.â
Your eyebrows went up. âOh, so now youâre territorial?â
Jack snorted softly. âDonât flatter yourself.â
âYou literally dragged me into a hallway.â
âYou were whining.â
âI hate you.â
âNo, you donât.â
You smiled despite yourself. âUnfortunately.â
He leaned in and kissed you again, quicker this time, like punctuation.
From the other side of the swinging door came a muffled shout.
âAre they in there?â
Whitaker.
Then Santos, louder: âI swear to God if theyâre making me lose the parking lot categoryââ
You dropped your forehead to Jackâs shoulder and laughed.
He looked profoundly unimpressed with the entire institution.
âTold you,â he muttered.
âYou are so smug right now.â
âIâm always smug.â
âThat is not true.â
He pulled back just enough to look at you. âSweetheart.â
You laughed harder at that, and he let you, hand still warm at your waist, mouth twitching at the corner.
Outside the side corridor, the Pitt kept moving, fireworks injuries, paper charts, Dana probably extorting more money from your coworkers.
But in here, for one stolen minute, it was just the two of you.
No betting pool. No categories. No audience.
Just Jack, a little grumpy, a little tired, and entirely too pleased with himself.
đŠđŹđşđť đđšđ°đŹđľđŤđş đŤđśđľâđť đ˛đľđśđť You go back to the summer cabin with your lifelong best friend Bucky Barnes and the tension youâve both ignored finally becomes impossible to deny. One charged night changes everything between you, no longer just best friends, but something irrevocably more.
alpha!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader
word count : 17,9k
warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, childhood bestfriends to lovers, somnophilia, stealing intimate items for masturbation, bucky is a pervvv, dddne, guilt-ridden sexual acts, consuming bodily fluids without prior consent, unprotected sex, breeding, knotting, scenting, biting, pheromonal compulsion, heavy guilt and self-hatred while doing the wrong sexual acts, first heat/first rut happening (both late), a/b/o & possessive dynamics, fingering, virginity loss
authorâs note : first of all I just wanna say the BIGGEST thank you for 2k followers like what??? thatâs actually insane!!! please take this fic as a little gift from me to you <3 Iâm beyond grateful for every single one of you. and second of all⌠since centuries of rut kinda blew up (which still feels unreal), I decided to cook up another a/b/o bucky fic đŠđŠ
Old Polaroids still live in the glove compartment of Buckyâs truck, faded edges, corners curling from years of being handled, the plastic sleeves cracked from too many openings and closings.
Thereâs one of you at eight, gap-toothed and grinning wide, perched on his skinny shoulders while he pretends to stagger under your âenormousâ weight, both of you laughing so hard the photo is blurry.
Another from twelve: you braiding his too-long hair on the cabin porch steps, him scowling at the camera but letting you finish, the sun catching the brunette strands that always refused to stay tame.
A blurry one from sixteen: both of you asleep on the attic pull-out couch after a late-night movie marathon, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slung protectively around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His mom took the picture quietly and slipped it into the stack later; neither of you ever mentioned it.
Everyone always said you were inseparable. Best friends. Practically siblings.
They never mentioned how his hand sometimes lingered a second too long when he helped you down from the dock, fingers brushing the back of your knee. They never mentioned how youâd catch yourself staring at the line of his jaw when he laughed, sharp, shadowed, the way it flexed when he was trying not to smile too big.
They never mentioned the quiet nights when the rest of the group had gone to bed and youâd stay up talking until the sky lightened, voices low, knees touching on the porch swing, the silence between sentences heavier than words.
Now youâre both twenty-two, back from sophomore year of college, still virgins, still waiting for that first presentation that everyone else got years ago.
Late bloomers, the doctors called it with clinical shrugs. Lucky, your mom called it with a wink, like it was a gift instead of a delay. You both just called it annoying. Friends had heats and ruts in high school, paired off, moved on. You and Bucky stayed the same, safe, platonic, untouched by the biology that rewrote everyone elseâs lives. Sometimes you wondered if it was a mercy or a curse.
This summer the families are caravanning to the cabin like always, the annual week of lake swims, bonfires and board games. But Bucky texted you last week, casual as ever.
Bucky 9:56am
Hey. Iâll drive you up early. Beat the traffic, set up the attic real quick, snag the good couch spot before anyone else tries to steal it. Just you and me, no rush, no chaos. Sound good?
Everyone thought it was sweet. Typical Bucky, looking out for you.
You didnât tell them how your stomach flipped when you read it.
The truck smells like motor oil, pine air freshener, and him, cedar, faint metal, something warm and smoky underneath that always made your head swim a little when you were close.
Windows down the whole way, old pop-punk blasting from speakers that crackle when the bass hits. You sing off-key on purpose just to make him laugh; he rolls his eyes but belts the chorus louder than you, voice rough from disuse but still carrying every note like muscle memory.
Halfway there the road narrows, trees thickening into proper forest, sunlight dappling the cracked windshield in shifting gold patterns. Itâs sticky, end-of-June hot so the AC is useless and the windows stay wide open. You kick off your sneakers, prop bare feet on the dash. He pretends to hate it, mutters something about fingerprints but never actually tells you to move them. Never has.
The playlist loops to that one song from high school, the one you used to scream-sing in his bedroom until his mom banged on the wall and threatened to unplug the stereo. You grin, unbuckle and before he can finish saying âdonât-â youâre already leaning halfway out the passenger window.
Arms spread like wings, hair whipping wild in the wind, you arch your back into the rush like youâre flying. The loose cropped tank stretches tight across your chest, wind molding it to every curve. No bra, too hot and itâs just Bucky. The hem flips up with a sudden gust, flashing the smooth underside of your breast, the soft curve where skin meets ribcage, glowing in the sun.
âJesus Christ!â Buckyâs voice cracks high, hand shooting out to fist the front of your denim shorts like youâre about to tumble onto the road. âYouâre gonna fall out! Get back in here!â
You laugh, loud and free over the rush of air, swinging your head side to side. âBuck, itâs fine! Just drive! Feels amazing- come on, live a little!â
He canât stop looking.
Knuckles white on the wheel, eyes flicking between the empty backroad and you: arched spine, wind-plastered tank, nipples pebbled from the breeze, that accidental strip of underboob. His throat works hard. Heat floods his face, then surges lower, cock twitching painfully against his zipper, sudden and insistent.
âFuck- okay, okay, just- get in before I crash us both,â he stutters, voice pitching like heâs sixteen again. âYouâre- Jesus, youâre killing me here.â
You duck back inside, cheeks flushed from wind and laughter, shirt falling back down but not before he steals one last glimpse. You flop against the seat, still grinning.
âWhat? Itâs hot. You used to let me do that all the time when we were younger.â
âYeah,â he mutters, shifting in his seat, trying to angle his hips away from view, âwhen you were eighteen and flat as a board.â He swallows hard. âNow youâre⌠youâre not.â
You blink at him, teasing edge softening. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âNothing. Forget it.â He cranks the broken AC to full blast, praying the weak puff of cool air kills the throbbing erection before you notice.
You do notice, the fidgeting, the hand he keeps low on the wheel, the flush crawling up his neck to his ears.
âBuck?â Soft, teasing but gentle. âYou okay?â
âYeah. Fine. Just- roadâs bumpy.â He clears his throat twice. âDonât do that again unless you want me to drive us into a tree.â
You laugh again, crank the music louder, oblivious. Or pretending to be.
He spends the next twenty minutes white-knuckling the wheel, thighs clenched, reciting engine specs and batting averages under his breath to will the hardness away. It only half works.
Every glance sideways shows the faint outline of your nipples through the thin tank, the way your shorts ride high on your thighs, skin still flushed from the wind. And something else, your scent on the breeze, sweet and warm, just starting to bloom like honeysuckle after rain. His own scent sharpens without him noticing, cedar turning darker, smokier, edged with something desperate and metallic.
The cabin appears at the end of the dirt road, quiet and empty, families still hours away. Pine needles crunch under the tires as he parks.
You hop out first, stretch tall, arms overhead. The cropped tank rides up again, another flash of underboob, innocent and devastating in the late-afternoon light. Bucky stays in the driverâs seat an extra minute, head dropped to the wheel, breathing hard through his mouth, willing his body to calm down.
He tells himself itâs nothing. Just the heat. Just old habits. Just the cabin pulling old memories to the surface.
But deep in his gut, something ancient and hungry stirs for the first time, low, insistent, like a door creaking open after years of being locked.
That night the attic room feels smaller than ever. Shared pull-out couch, same as always, same faded quilt, same creak when you shift.
You toss and turn, low-grade fever creeping under your skin, making the sheets feel too heavy, too rough. Bucky lies rigid beside you, pretending to sleep, pretending he doesnât feel the air thickening between you, pretending he doesnât catch the faint, sweet shift in your scent every time you roll closer.
Pretending he doesnât already know whatâs coming.
Because he does.
Heâs felt it building for years, in stolen glances, in the way his pulse jumped when you hugged him goodbye before college, in the hoodie he never gave back because it still smelled like you. Heâs ignored it, buried it, told himself it was nothing.
But tonight, lying inches from you in the dark, the lie feels thinner than the quilt between you.
And something inside him is finally starting to crack.
The morning sun filters through the pine trees outside the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors.
You wake up tangled in the sheets of the pull-out couch, the attic room still dim and stuffy from last nightâs humidity.
Buckyâs side of the bed is already empty, neatly made, like he couldnât sleep either. That low, nagging warmth in your belly lingers, a dull ache thatâs been building since the truck ride yesterday.
You blame it on the travel, the excitement, maybe even the greasy diner food you grabbed on the way up. Definitely not anything else. Not the way Buckyâs scent seemed to cling to the pillows, sharper than usual, making your skin feel too tight.
Downstairs, the cabin is alive with the familiar chaos of family vacation mornings. The coffee maker gurgles on the countrr, filling the air with the rich, bitter aroma of coffee. Bacon sizzles in a pan, popping and spitting grease while Buckyâs mom flips slices with a spatula, humming an old tune under her breath.
Your dad is at the table, newspaper spread wide, grumbling about the stock market even on break. Buckyâs sister, Becca, bounces in from the porch, her ponytail swinging, already in her swimsuit with a towel draped over her shoulders.
âItâs already pushing ninety out there,â Becca announces, grabbing a strip of bacon straight from the pan and dodging her momâs swat. âLake time before lunch? Come on, we canât waste this weather!â
Your mom laughs from the sink, rinsing berries. âIâm in. Just slather on the sunscreen, last year you all burned like lobsters.â
Everyone murmurs agreement, the energy shifting to that easy, vacation buzz. Buckyâs dad claps his hands together. âAlright troops, suits on, towels ready. Letâs make it happen.â
You feel a flush creep up your neck at the thought of changing. Itâs silly, youâve all done this a hundred times but something feels different this year. Maybe itâs college making you more self-conscious, or the way Bucky avoided eye contact last night when you both climbed into the shared bed, muttering ânightâ like it was a chore. You slip into the downstairs bathroom while the others scatter, locking the door with a soft click.
The swimsuit is nothing fancy: a simple navy two-piece from last summerâs clearance rack. High-waisted bottoms that hug your hips comfortably, a triangle top that ties at the neck and back, leaving just enough skin exposed to feel breezy but not exposed.
Youâve worn it to pool parties with college friends, no big deal. But here? With the families? With Bucky? Your reflection in the foggy mirror stares back, cheeks already pink. You tug the strings tighter, adjust the fabric and throw on a loose cover-up before stepping out.
The porch creaks under your flip-flops as you head down to the water, towel slung over your shoulder. The lake sparkles under the high sun, a mirror of blue sky and surrounding pines.
Buckyâs already there, knee-deep in the shallows, fiddling with the dock ladder like itâs the most important task in the world. Heâs in plain black trunks, fitted, riding low on his hips, the kind that show off the V of muscle from years of campus gym sessions. His back is to you at first, shoulders broad and tense, the faint scars from old accidents (or that one time he fell off the roof as a kid) catching the light.
He turns when he hears your footsteps on the gravel path. His gaze flicks over you, quick, almost dismissive then snaps away to the water. Then back. Slower this time, lingering on the hem of your cover-up where it brushes your thighs.
âUh⌠looks good,â he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, the other still gripping the ladder like a lifeline. His voice is rougher than usual, like he swallowed wrong. âI mean- the suit. Itâs⌠new?â
You smile, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest, the way his eyes keep darting back. âNot new. Just havenât worn it here before. You know, college pool parties and stuff.â
He nods, Adamâs apple bobbing. Doesnât meet your eyes fully. âRight. Cool. Yeah, makes sense.â
The awkwardness hangs for a second, thick as the humid air, before Becca cannonballs off the dock with a whoop, splashing everyone and breaking the tension. âLast one inâs a rotten egg!â
The group piles in with shouts and splashes, your parents wading slowly, Buckyâs dad doing an exaggerated belly flop that sends waves rippling. You and Bucky hang back at first, old habits dying hard. You slip off the cover-up, folding it neatly on a rock and wade in together. The water is shockingly cool against your heated skin, goosebumps prickling up your arms as it laps at your calves, then thighs, then waist.
It starts innocent enough, like every summer before. Bucky splashes you first, a light spray across your face. You retaliate with a full palm-skim, drenching his hair. He laughs, real and bright, grabbing your wrists to stop you. âOh, itâs on now!â
You twist free, diving under to escape, and the playfight escalates: him dunking you under when you least expect it, you jumping on his back to pull him down.
At one point, you climb onto his shoulders for an improvised chicken fight against Becca and her boyfriend, your thighs clamped around his neck, his hands steadying your calves. He stumbles on purpose, sending you both toppling in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Underwater, bubbles swirl around you, his body brushing yours in the chaos, chest to your back, his arm looping around your waist to pull you up.
You surface gasping, sides hurting from laughing. âTruce?â you wheeze, treading water close to him, faces inches apart.
âNever,â he says but heâs grinning, that real, boyish smile you havenât seen since high school, water dripping from his lashes. For a moment, itâs just you two, like kids again, the world narrowed to the lake and the sun on your skin.
But then you swim to the dock to climb out, needing a breather. Water streams off you in rivulets, the suit clinging like a second skin, dark fabric plastered transparent in places, nipples pebbled hard from the cold, every curve outlined unmistakably. You haul yourself up onto the warm wood, dripping puddles, and turn to call him over. âCome on, slowpoke! Race you to the cabin?â
Buckyâs still in the water. Staring.
Not subtle at all. Not even pretending anymore. His eyes trace a slow path: the line of your throat where water beads, down to your chest heaving from the swim, over the dip of your stomach, the way the wet bottoms hug your hips and thighs. His jaw flexes, lips parting slightly like heâs forgotten how to breathe. Color creeps up his neck and he dives under fast, disappearing beneath the murky surface as if trying to drown whatever thought just crossed his mind.
You sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling in the water, pretending you didnât notice the heat in his gaze. But your skin prickles with awareness, a flush thatâs not just from the sun blooming across your chest. Whatâs his deal? you think, kicking your feet lazily. Itâs just a swimsuit. Just me.
He surfaces a minute later, hair slicked back dark and wet, breathing harder than the swim warrants. He shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets flying. âSorry,â he calls over, voice strained. âThought I saw a fish or something. Big one.â
You roll your eyes, smirking to hide the butterflies. âSmooth, Barnes. Real smooth.â
The group starts drifting toward lunch, parents complaining about hunger, Becca towing her boyfriend by the hand. âCome on, you two! Foodâs ready!â
You climb up from the dock, grab your towel from the rock and head up the shaded path to dry off. Behind a cluster of trees for a bit of privacy, you peel off the wet top and bottoms, modest enough with everyone else distracted. The air feels good on your bare skin for a second, cooling the persistent warmth in your core. You wrap the towel around yourself snugly and drape the suit over a flat rock in the sun to dry, bottoms folded neatly on top.
Bucky stays in the water longer than anyone, even after the others have toweled off and headed inside. When he finally emerges, heâs shivering despite the heat, arms crossed tight over his chest like heâs holding himself together. Water washes down his torso, catching in the faint trail of hair below his navel. He walks past the rock where your suit dries without looking at it or at least, thatâs what it seems. But you catch the twitch of his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating.
You donât think much of it then. You head inside for lunch, sandwiches and cold lemonade around the big oak table, everyone talking over each other about plans for the afternoon hike or board games if it rains. Bucky joins late, hair still damp, in fresh shorts and a t-shirt that clings a little too much. He sits across from you, quiet, picking at his food. His knee bounces under the table. When your eyes meet, he looks away fast, muttering something about needing more mustard.
Later that afternoon, the cabin quiets down. Parents napping on the porch swing, gentle snores mingling with the hum of cicadas. Becca and her boyfriend head off for a hike, backpacks slung low. Youâre on the hammock out back, book open on your lap but not really reading, your mind keeps replaying the lake, Buckyâs stare, the accidental brushes underwater. That warmth in your belly flares again, insistent now, making you shift uncomfortably.
Thatâs when you hear it: the soft click of the downstairs bathroom door locking.
Inside, Bucky leans back against the sink, the cool porcelain a shock against his overheated skin. His heart slams so hard it echoes in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of shame and want.
Your bikini bottoms are balled tight in his fist, heâd snatched them from the rock when no one was looking, during the chaos of unpacking the cooler for lunch. His palm had brushed the damp fabric, and it was like electricity, heart in his throat the whole time, convinced someone would turn and see.
He shouldnât do this.
He knows he shouldnât.
Heâs done bad things before, stolen your hoodie from the laundry in college, buried his face in it that night until the scent faded. A hair tie from your backpack once, twisted around his wrist like a talisman. But this? This is new territory. Filthier. Wronger.
But the fabric is still damp from the lake, still warm somehow from your body and thereâs that faint trace of something new weaving through it, sweet, slick, almost honeyed. Your scent. Not the full bloom of heat yet but the first tentative leak, the prelude thatâs been teasing him since the truck ride, since last night in the attic when he lay awake listening to your soft breaths.
With shaking hands, he brings the bottoms to his face. Presses them to his nose. Inhales deep, slow, like he can pull you into his lungs.
âFuck,â he whispers, voice cracking on the word. âFuck, Iâm sorry. So goddamn sorry.â
The smell crashes over him like a wave, your skin, fresh lake water, sunscreen and that warm, needy undertone that twists something deep in his gut. His cock throbs instantly, straining painfully against his shorts. He shoves them down just enough with his free hand, wraps his fist around himself, already leaking, already desperate.
He strokes fast, too fast, jerky and guilty, the damp fabric still pressed to his mouth like a gag. âIâm so fucked up,â he breathes against the cloth, words muffled and wrecked. âYouâre right there⌠my best friend⌠and Iâm doing this⌠smelling you like some creep. Iâm sorry, Iâm so fucking sorryâŚâ
His hips jerk forward into his hand. He bites his lip hard to muffle the groan, tasting blood as he comes hard and sudden, spilling over his fist in hot, shameful pulses that leave him shaking. The bikini bottoms stay pressed to his face the whole time, soaking up the ragged sounds of his breathing, the quiet sob that slips out at the end.
When itâs over, he slumps against the wall, chest heaving, legs weak. Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes, blurring the tile floor. What the hell is wrong with me? he thinks, staring at the fabric in his hand like itâs evidence. Sheâs outside reading, trusting me, and Iâm⌠this.
He cleans himself up with wads of toilet paper, hands still trembling. Wipes the bottoms as best he can with a damp cloth from the sink, careful, almost reverent, then unlocks the door and slips quietly back into the house.
The laundry pile is right there in the narrow hallway off the kitchen, a big overflowing basket of beach towels, damp swimsuits, and everyoneâs clothes from the day. No oneâs around; the house is still quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of crickets outside. He glances over his shoulder once, heart hammering then tucks your bikini bottoms underneath a folded beach towel near the bottom of the pile. Careful. Stealthy. Like nothing ever happened.
But as he walks back outside, the clawing shame doesnât fade. He can still taste the faint salt of lake water on his tongue. Still feel the phantom weight of your body against his in the water. Still hear his own broken apologies echoing in his head, meaningless now.
And somewhere under his skin, buried deep but stirring stronger, something darker is waking up, something primal that doesnât care about sorry, about best friends, about right and wrong.
Something that just wants more. And itâs only the first full day at the cabin.
The cabin quiets after dinner in stages, the familiar rhythms of family winding down like a clock ticking toward silence. First the clatter of dishes being stacked in the sink, silverware clinking against plates, the occasional laugh as someone recounts a story from the lake that day.
Then the low murmur of parents saying goodnight on the porch, chairs scraping as they stand, voices fading into the night like echoes. Finally, the creak of floorboards as everyone drifts to their rooms, doors clicking shut one by one, leaving only the hum of crickets and the distant lap of the lake against the shore.
The wind from earlier has died down completely, leaving the air thick and still, heavy with the scent of pine sap and cooling earth. You climb the narrow attic stairs alone, each step feeling heavier than it should, the wood groaning under your weight like itâs protesting the climb.
Your skin feels wrong, too tight, too hot, like someone turned the thermostat up inside your body and forgot to tell you. Sweat beads at the small of your back, even though the night has cooled outside. The low ache from earlier has spread, subtle and unrelenting, low in your belly, between your thighs, a persistent throb that makes every brush of fabric against your skin unbearable, electric.
You tell yourself itâs just the heat of the day lingering, just exhaustion from swimming and laughing and pretending everything is normal. Youâve had off days before, cramps, fevers, the kind that come and go without explanation. This is nothing new. Nothing to worry about.
You change into an old tank top and soft sleep shorts, loose, familiar, the same ones youâve worn in this room every summer since you could remember, faded from too many washes, the hem frayed from years of use.
The pull-out couch is already made up, sheets cool against your fevered skin when you slide in, but the relief is fleeting. You leave the small triangular window cracked, hoping the night air will help, a faint breeze whispering through the screen carrying the scent of water and woods. It doesnât. If anything, it makes the ache sharper, like the coolness is mocking the fire building inside you.
You curl onto your side, knees drawn up, trying to breathe through it. Deep inhales, slow exhales. But each breath pulls in the faint trace of Buckyâs scent from the pillows, cedar and something metallic, lingering from last night. It makes your head swim, the throb between your legs pulse harder. You press your thighs together, bite your lip to stifle a whimper. Just sleep, you think. Itâll be gone in the morning.
Downstairs, Bucky lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary. He rinses the last coffee mug under the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain like itâs the most fascinating thing in the world. Then he wipes the counter twice, once with a sponge, once with a dish towel, scrubbing at invisible spots until his arms ache. Anything to delay going up those stairs. Anything to avoid the attic, the shared bed, you.
He can smell it already, your scent drifting down the stairs like smoke signals, sweet and syrupy, blooming stronger with every passing minute.
Itâs not the full force of heat yet, but itâs close. Close enough that his mouth waters involuntarily, his pulse hammers in his ears, his cock twitches traitorously in his sweatpants, half-hard just from the tease of it.
His own body betrays him too, the rut stirring low in his gut, a restless energy that makes his skin itch, his muscles tense like coiled springs. He grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles ache, staring at his reflection in the dark window above it.
Stay down here, he tells himself, voice a harsh whisper in his mind. Sleep on the couch. Pretend youâre drunk. Pretend you ate something bad. Pretend anything. But his feet move anyway, slow, deliberate, like theyâre not listening to him anymore. Up the stairs. Past the creaky third step heâs known since he was ten. To the attic door.
He pauses with his hand on the knob, ear pressed to the wood. Your breathing is uneven inside, shallow pants, soft whimpers youâre trying to muffle into the pillow. He can hear them. Smell them. Feel them in his bones, like a hook pulling him forward.
He opens the door.
The room is dim, lit only by the moonlight slicing through the triangular window, casting long shadows across the slanted ceiling. Youâre curled on your side, knees drawn up tight, arms wrapped around yourself like youâre trying to hold the heat in or keep it from escaping completely. Your hair sticks to your damp forehead in dark strands. Your scent hits him full force now, rich, needy, unmistakable, wrapping around him like a vise.
You donât look up right away, eyes squeezed shut against another wave of discomfort. âBuck?â Your voice is small, cracked, barely above a whisper.
âYeah.â He closes the door behind him softly. Locks it without thinking, the click echoing too loud in the quiet. âCouldnât sleep downstairs. Couch is lumpy.â
A weak laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. âLiar.â
He crosses the room in three steps, drops to sit on the edge of the mattress. The bed dips under his weight. You flinch at the sudden movement, then relax when you realize itâs him. Always him. His presence alone eases something in you, the ache dulls just a fraction, like his nearness is a balm.
âI can smell it,â he says quietly, no point in pretending anymore. âYour heat. Itâs⌠starting.â
You swallow hard, finally opening your eyes to meet his. Theyâre dark in the low light, pupils blown wide. âI know. I thought- I thought maybe it was just a fever. But itâs not going away. Itâs getting worse.â
He exhales through his nose, shaky and uneven. âMine too.â
Your eyes snap wider, searching his face. âYouâre-?â
âFirst rut.â He laughs once, bitter and self-conscious, running a hand through his hair. âFigures it would hit the same week. Same night. Same fucking attic. Like the universe has a sense of humor.â
Silence stretches between you, thick and electric, charged with everything unsaid over the years. The childhood friendship that never quite stayed innocent. The glances that lingered too long. The way you both always ended up here, in this room, pretending it was just tradition.
You shift slightly, wincing as the movement drags the sheet across your oversensitive skin, sending a fresh spark of need through you. âIt hurts,â you whisper, voice trembling. âNot bad yet, just⌠constant. Like Iâm burning from the inside out. Empty. I donât know how to make it stop.â
He nods, throat working visibly. He knows exactly what you mean, his own body feels like a live wire, every nerve singing with want, every breath pulling more of your scent into his lungs until heâs dizzy with it, until his rut claws at him from the inside, demanding more.
âI⌠I can help,â he says, voice rough around the edges, like the words are being dragged out of him. âWith the scent thing. If you want. It⌠calms it down. A little.â
You hesitate, brows furrowing. âScent thing?â
He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing darker even in the dim light. Awkwardness rolls off him in waves, stammering, avoiding your eyes.
âYeah, uh⌠like, close contact. Nuzzling, or⌠licking the gland. Releases pheromones or something. Makes the heat less⌠frantic.â He pauses, swallowing hard. âI, um, overheard Mom talking to Becca last year. When her boyfriend was here during her heat. She said if things got too much, they could try scenting first. You know, to take the edge off without⌠without going all the way. Said itâs safer, especially for first times.â
The memory flashes through his mind unbidden: him paused outside Beccaâs door last summer, frozen when he heard his momâs voice inside, calm, matter-of-fact, explaining the basics like it was no big deal. âJust scenting, honey. It helps without complicating things.â Becca had groaned in embarrassment; her boyfriend had mumbled something awkward. Bucky had backed away fast, face burning but the idea stuck. Lingered. Especially when he thought about you.
You blink at him, processing. The suggestion hangs there, awkward and intimate, making the air feel even thicker. âOh. I⌠didnât know that was a thing.â Your voice is small, but curious. The ache pulses again, sharper, and you shift uncomfortably. âDoes it really help?â
He nods, still not meeting your eyes fully. âFrom what Iâve heard. Yeah. But only if youâre comfortable. I can⌠I can go back downstairs if-â
âNo.â The word slips out fast, desperate. âStay. Please. I trust you.â
He exhales, relief and tension mixing in his expression. âOkay. Yeah. Okay.â
He moves behind you slowly, careful not to startle, like youâre something fragile he might break. Slides under the sheet, spoons you from behind, chest pressing to your back, arm sliding around your waist, careful not to press too hard, not to let you feel how affected he already is. His nose finds the crook of your neck immediately, right over your scent gland. He inhales deep, greedy, a low rumble starting in his chest before he can stop it, instinctive, alpha-deep.
You sigh, body going liquid against him almost instantly. âThat⌠that feels better already.â
He nuzzles closer, lips brushing skin tentatively. âTell me if itâs too much. Or if I should stop.â
It isnât too much. Itâs exactly what you need.
He licks, slow, tentative at first, just the flat of his tongue over your gland, testing. You whimper, arching back into him without thinking, the sound pulling a groan from his throat.
He does it again, longer this time, wetter, tasting salt and sweetness and you. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush. His hips press forward instinctively, the hard line of his cock nestling against your ass through thin layers of fabric.
You donât pull away. If anything, you press back, a soft moan escaping.
His scent floods the room in response, dark cedar, gunmetal, smoke, sharp and possessive, mingling with yours in a heady mix that makes the air feel drugged. It wraps around you like a blanket, heavy and warm, soothing the fire in your veins. Your eyelids grow heavy almost instantly, the frantic edge of your heat dulling under the weight of his presence. Safe. So safe. Protected.
But itâs not one-sided.
Even as your body melts, your own instincts stir, deep and shy, curious and innocent. You turn your head slowly, nose brushing the side of his jaw, then his neck.
His scent gland is right there, warm and pulsing. You nuzzle it tentatively, awkward and unsure, just mirroring what heâs doing. Your tongue darts out, small, hesitant licks against his skin, tasting cedar and metal and him. Itâs clumsy, inexperienced, your cheeks burning with embarrassment even as you do it.
You pull back a fraction, eyes wide and nervous. âIs⌠is that okay? I just- I thought⌠maybe it works both ways? Like⌠fairness?â
He nods frantically, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. âYeah. Yeah, itâs- more than okay. God. Keep going. Please.â
You do, awkward, innocent little licks along his gland, mirroring his rhythm. Your tongue is shy, tentative but every pass makes him tremble harder, hips jerking against you in tiny, helpless rocks. His scent deepens in response, smokier, more desperate and yours answers, sweetening, blooming brighter.
âFeels⌠weird,â you mumble against his skin, voice small and embarrassed. âGood weird. But I donât- I donât know what Iâm doing.â
âMe neither,â he admits, voice cracking. âNever done this. Never even- never even kissed anyone. Just you. Always you.â
You both blush harder at the confession, two virgins fumbling through instinct, through need, through trust.
He keeps licking your gland, slow and careful. You keep licking his, awkward, innocent, both of you trembling, both of you making soft, embarrassed noises every time your tongues brush skin.
Your eyelids grow heavier. The frantic edge of your heat dulls under the weight of his presence, his scent, his careful touches. Safe. So safe. Protected.
âBuckâŚâ you mumble, already slurring, the world softening at the edges.
âMmm?â He presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck now, teeth grazing but not biting, each one sending little sparks through you. âYou okay? Still good?â
âFeels⌠so goodâŚâ Your words trail off into a sigh. Breathing slows. Deepens.
He keeps going, slow, reverent drags of his tongue, soft purrs vibrating through his chest into your back, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. His hand splays wide over your stomach, thumb brushing just under the hem of your tank in soothing circles. Not groping. Just holding. Claiming in the gentlest way he knows how.
You sigh once more, soft, content, almost a purr of your own and slip under completely. Deep, scent-drunk sleep. The kind only an alphaâs presence can pull an omega into during a first heat.
Bucky freezes mid-lick, tongue still pressed to your skin.
He listens: your breathing even now, slow and peaceful. Completely out. Trusting. Vulnerable.
âOh fuck,â he breathes, the words barely audible. Horror and hunger twist together in his gut, sharp as knives.
He should stop. Pull away. Go sleep on the floor downstairs. Lock himself in the bathroom. Anything to put distance between you.
Instead, his hips rock forward, small, helpless, instinctive. The friction through his sweatpants is torture. Perfect torture. His cock throbs, already leaking, the rut demanding more now that heâs this close, this immersed in your scent.
âBabyâŚâ he whispers against your hair, voice wrecked. âNeed more. Just a little more. PleaseâŚâ
No answer. Of course not.
He whimpers, high, broken, needy, the sound pathetic even to his own ears. Presses his face harder into your neck, mouthing at your gland like he can drink the calm straight from your skin, like he can absorb the trust you gave him and somehow make this okay.
His hand slides lower, trembling, slips under the waistband of your shorts. Finds you soaked, swollen, clit throbbing even in sleep under his fingertips. He bites his own lip until it bleeds, copper tang grounding him for a second.
âJust gonna touch,â he tells your sleeping form, voice shaking with guilt and want. âWonât wake you. Promise. Iâm sorry- Iâm so sorryâŚâ
Fingers circle slow. Slick and careful, petting gently. Your hips twitch once, unconscious little rock and he groans low, wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
âSo wet for me,â he mumbles, words slurred against your skin. âEven when youâre dreaming. Fuck- you want it too, donât you? Say yes. Please just- say yes even if youâre asleep-â
He grinds against you harder now, shallow thrusts through fabric, cock leaking steadily, making a mess of his sweatpants. His fingers speed up, just a little, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he ruts like a desperate teenager, hips snapping with less control.
The guilt is screaming in his head, louder than before. Sheâs asleep. She trusts you. Youâre disgusting. Stop. Stopstopstop- Flashbacks hit him, stealing your hoodie in college, jerking off with it pressed to his face that night; the swimsuit bottoms from today, still damp in his memory; the way heâs always been like this, wanting you in secret, hating himself for it. Best friend. Sheâs your best friend. What kind of monster are you?
But his body doesnât listen. The rut doesnât care about guilt or friendship or years of restraint.
He comes with a choked sob, muffled against your neck, hot pulses soaking the front of his sweatpants, hips jerking hard against you in frantic, uneven thrusts. He shakes through it, whole body trembling, fingers still moving on you until he feels the tiny flutter of your body coming too, soft, dreamy, barely-there orgasm that leaves you sighing and nestling closer even in sleep, like your subconscious knows itâs him and wants more.
He pants against your hair, hot tears stinging his eyes now. Heart hammering like itâs trying to escape his chest.
Slowly, carefully he withdraws his hand. Wipes it on his ruined pants with a grimace. Pulls the blanket higher over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders like that can make up for what heâs done.
You donât stir. Peaceful. Claimed.
He presses the softest kiss to the back of your neck, right over where heâs been licking for what feels like hours, the skin glistening faintly in the moonlight.
âLove you,â he whispers, voice cracked and raw. âSo fucking much. Iâm sorry. Iâll make it right. Somehow.â
He curls tighter around you. Still hard. Still aching, the rut not satisfied with just this. But calmer now, at least for the moment.
You sleep on, safe, claimed by scent, marked in the only way heâll allow himself tonight.
Buckyâs chest heaves in the aftermath, each breath a ragged pull that does nothing to steady him, his heart slamming against his ribs like it's trying to escape the prison of his body. His sweatpants are ruined, sticky, cooling uncomfortably against his thighs but the rut doesn't care about discomfort.
Itâs not done. Not even close. His cock twitches weakly, already stirring again, the alpha instinct roaring back to life with a vengeance that makes his hands shake. He can feel the knot forming at the base, swollen and insistent, even though he hasnât pushed inside you yet. The thought alone sends a fresh wave of shame crashing over him, hot, choking, familiar.
He lies there for what feels like an eternity, arm still draped over your waist, fingers splayed possessively across your stomach. The warmth of your skin seeps through the thin tank, grounding him and torturing him in equal measure.
Get up, he thinks desperately, go splash water on your face, sleep on the goddamn floor downstairs. Lock yourself in the bathroom until morning.
But your scent curls around him like smoke from a dying fire, sweet and cloying, seeping into his pores until his mouth waters again, until his vision blurs at the edges. The alpha in him stirs, primal and unyielding, whispering that this is right, that youâre his to claim, to take, to mark in every way possible. The man in him, the virgin whoâs never even kissed anyone properly, the one whoâs been your best friend since scraped knees and shared secrets, screams back: She's asleep. She's vulnerable. She's your best fucking friend. This isn't you.
Memories flood him unbidden, adding layers to the torment: the first time he realized his feelings weren't just friendly, that summer you turned eighteen and wore that sundress to the bonfire, the fabric fluttering in the breeze; the way heâd excused himself early, locked in the bathroom downstairs, hand around his cock imagining it was you.
Or college last year, when you sent a selfie in a new outfit and heâd saved it, stared at it in the dark until he came with guilt choking him. Small thefts building to this, hoodies, hair ties, now swimsuits. How did I get here? he wonders, tears already pricking at his eyes. When did I become this?
His hand, still trembling from the first release, slides back down, like his body is on autopilot. Between your thighs again, where youâre even wetter now, your body betraying you in sleep, slick pooling from the earlier touches, from his scent blanketing you like a possessive shroud.
The heat is building in you too, he can feel it, the way your inner walls flutter faintly at his proximity, instinct responding to alpha even in dreams. He scoops, fingers dipping shallow at first, collecting the warm, sticky essence that coats you. They come away glistening in the dim light, strands of your arousal stretching between them like liquid silk, sweet and golden like honey.
He stares at his own hand, breath hitching sharp in his throat. The sight is hypnotic, proof of your need, even unconscious, and it breaks something in him. This is real, he thinks. Not a fantasy. Not stolen fabric. You.
âIâm sorry,â he whispers, voice breaking on the words as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, slow and clumsy, like heâs afraid to taste but canât stop himself. The first taste is lightning, sweet, tangy, pure you, like warm honey on his tongue, exploding across his senses.
A broken whine rips from his throat, high and needy, echoing too loud in the quiet room, he clamps his free hand over his mouth to muffle it, eyes squeezing shut. But he doesnât stop. He sucks them deeper, tongue swirling awkwardly, cheeks hollowing as he chases every trace, every drop. âF-Fuck- fuck, you taste like⌠like honey⌠so sweet⌠so good⌠how are you this perfect? Even asleep, youâre dripping for me⌠like⌠like you were made for thisâŚâ
His hips grind forward instinctively, clumsy and desperate, pressing the renewed hardness against your ass. The friction is messy, awkward, his sweatpants bunching, his movements jerky like he doesnât know what heâs doing (because he doesnât).
He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, stares at them again, clean now, but the flavor lingers on his tongue, addictive and haunting. âIâm a monster,â he mutters, tears pricking hot at his eyes, blurring his vision. âTasting you like this. Stealing it while you sleep. You have no idea- god, if you woke up now⌠saw me like this⌠youâd hate meâŚâ
He dips again, deeper this time, fingers curling just inside, scooping more slick with a clumsy, fumbling motion that makes his own breath hitch. Your body clenches faintly around him, unconscious and soft, a tiny ripple that pulls a guttural, embarrassed groan from deep in his chest.
âS-See that? Even dreaming, youâre gripping me⌠pulling me in⌠like you know itâs me⌠like your body wants me to⌠toâŚâ He shoves the fingers back into his mouth, sucking harder, sloppier now, the wet sounds obscene in the silence, echoing off the slanted walls. His free hand fists the sheet beside you, knuckles straining white, nails digging into the fabric like it can anchor him.
âBeen perving on you for years⌠that red swimsuit summer- f-fuck, it rode up every time you moved⌠showed everything⌠jerked off in the shower thinking about peeling it off you⌠tasting you then⌠stole your bottoms today, you know that? Locked myself in the bathroom, buried my face in them like a dog in heat⌠came so hard I saw stars, whispering your name⌠and now- now Iâm here, licking your slick off my fingers, rutting against you like I canât control myself⌠because I canât⌠Iâm disgusting, baby⌠so sorry- love you-hate myself- canât stop- been holding back forever, but the rut⌠itâs breaking meâŚâ
Memories surface, adding depth to the spiral: the time in high school when you cried on his shoulder after a bad date, and heâd held you too tight, inhaling your scent until he was dizzy; the college care package you sent with a note that smelled like your perfume, and heâd kept it under his pillow for weeks. Small sins building to this avalanche. âYou think Iâm the good guy,â he chokes out around his fingers. âThe best friend who protects you. But Iâm not. Iâm this. Always have been.â
His hips rut faster, grinding in earnest now, the earlier mess making everything slick and hot, friction building to a fever pitch that makes his vision tunnel.
Tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks as he licks his fingers clean one last time, savoring the taste like itâs his last meal, like tomorrow everything ends. âYouâd hate me. Wake up and see the creep Iâve always been, the way Iâve watched you, wanted you. But f-fuck- fuck, I need you. Love you so much itâs killing me. Thatâs why, thatâs why Iâm like this. Need to be closer. Need to taste- need to have every part of you before you find out and leave.â
He comes again, sudden and shattering, hips slamming forward with a strangled, sobbing cry muffled into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin but not biting.
Hot pulses flood his pants anew, body convulsing in waves, every muscle locking tight as the release rips through him like wildfire. He shakes like heâs breaking apart, sobs wracking his frame, tears soaking into your hair and the pillow beneath.
When the aftershocks finally go, leaving him hollowed out and trembling, he slumps heavy against you, panting harsh and broken. The guilt crashes in full force now, unfiltered by the rutâs haze, ugly, clawing, leaving him raw and exposed.
âOh god,â he sobs quietly, face buried in your hair, inhaling the clean shampoo scent mixed with your heat like itâs a lifeline. âWhat did I do? What the fuck did I just do? Iâm sorry- Iâm so sorry- how do I fix this?â
Carefully, oh so carefully, like handling something sacred and fragile, he shifts just enough to reach for the corner of the blanket. Dips it between your thighs, wiping you clean with gentle, trembling strokes, his touch feather-light, reverent. He smooths your shorts back into place with utmost care, tucks the sheet around you snugly to keep you warm, brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead with feather-light touches, lingering on your cheek like he can wipe away his sins. His tears fall freely now, silent and hot, dripping onto your shoulder, soaking into the fabric of your tank.
âIâm gonna tell you,â he whispers into your hair, voice thick and wrecked, nose pressed to the spot he scented earlier, the skin still warm and marked by his earlier licks.
âTomorrow. First thing in the morning. Confess everything- the hoodie from college that I never gave back, the swimsuit bottoms I stole today and ruined with my come, the way Iâve wanted you forever, watched you in secret, loved you in ways I shouldnât. This night. All of it- the touching, the tasting, the grinding like a desperate animal. Beg you to forgive me. Or hate me. Kick me out of your life forever. Whatever you need, Iâll take it. I canât keep this secret anymore. Canât keep hurting you like this, pretending Iâm just your friend when Iâm⌠this. Love you too much- too much to lie. Please⌠please donât hate me. But if you do, I deserve it.â
He holds you closer, body curled protectively around yours, as if he can shield you from himself, from the truth waiting in the dawn. The rut simmers low still, a distant hum waiting to reignite with the morning light, but for now, exhaustion pulls at him like an undertow. Sleep creeps in against his will, tears drying stiff on his cheeks, his promises echoing in his mind like fragile vows.
The attic is a furnace of heat and scent, the air so thick it feels like breathing through honey. Bucky had tried to sleep, really tried. Heâd even drifted off for a little while, exhaustion finally pulling him under after the first round of guilt and need burned itself out. But now heâs awake again, jolted back by the insistent, aching throb between his legs, cock hard and heavy against your ass, leaking steadily through the ruined fabric of his sweatpants. His cock is pulsing with every heartbeat, refusing to let him rest.
His arm is still locked around your waist, fingers splayed across your stomach like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go, even in sleep. Every shallow breath you take drags more of your blooming heat into his lungs until heâs dizzy with it all over again. He shifts just slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only makes him groan low in his throat, hips rocking forward on instinct, pressing himself tighter against you.
He still feels like a monster.
But the rut doesnât care about guilt. It only cares about claim.
His hand trembles as it slides down again, hooking the waistband of your sleep shorts with reverent care. He tugs them aside slowly, agonizingly slow so the fabric drags over your hips, cool air kissing newly bared skin. You donât stir. Just sigh, soft and trusting, shifting closer like your body knows exactly whoâs touching you even in sleep. The shorts catch briefly on the curve of your ass; he freezes, heart slamming, fumbles them lower until theyâre bunched at your thighs.
He stares for a long moment, breath hitching at the sight of you: soft, bare, glistening in the moonlight from earlier touches and the steady leak of your heat. His mouth waters. His cock jerks against his stomach.
âIâm sorry,â he breathes, voice cracking as he lines himself up. The tip nudges your entrance, slick, hot, ready. Heâs shaking so badly the head slips once, twice, smearing wetness along your folds. A broken whine tears from his throat, high, helpless, muffled against your shoulder. âIâm so sorry⌠I canât stop⌠canât-â
He presses forward, inch by torturous inch, slow and clumsy, fumbling like heâs never done this before (because he hasnât). Your virgin pussy resists, tight, so impossibly tight, clenching instinctively against the intrusion, pushing back like it doesnât know whether to let him in or keep him out. He gasps, hips stuttering, tears already welling up again.
âF-Fuck- baby, youâre so⌠so tightâŚâ he whimpers, voice small and shaking, almost baby-like in its desperation. âIâm sorry⌠Iâm trying to be gentle⌠I donât wanna hurt you⌠youâre so warm⌠so fucking warm⌠feels like coming home⌠Iâm disgusting⌠shouldnât be doing this⌠shouldnât be taking you while you sleepâŚâ
He pauses, breathing hard against your neck, tears dripping onto your shoulder. His tip is barely inside, your walls fluttering and squeezing, resisting every tiny push. He sniffles, voice cracking even more.
âCâmon, sweet girl⌠itâs just me⌠you know me, baby⌠itâs Bucky⌠just Bucky⌠open up for me, honey⌠please⌠let me in⌠Iâll be so gentle⌠promise⌠youâre so tight⌠so perfect⌠like you were waiting for meâŚâ
He rocks forward again, tiny, careful little movements, coaxing, pleading with your body like itâs a shy thing heâs trying to befriend. Your walls flutter, then slowly, sweetly, start to soften, parting just enough, letting him sink another inch. He whimpers, high and relieved.
âThere you go⌠good girl⌠thatâs it⌠just like that⌠you know me⌠you trust me⌠let Bucky in, baby⌠pleaseâŚâ
Another slow push, your pussy yields a little more, gripping him so tight he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Tears stream down his face now, mixing guilt and awe and overwhelming love.
âSo good⌠so sweet⌠like honey⌠fuck, youâre letting me in⌠youâre so tight⌠so warm⌠feels like home⌠Iâm sorry⌠I love you⌠love you so muchâŚâ
He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, buried to the hilt and nearly blacks out from the sensation. Youâre molten around him, slick dripping down his balls, every tiny shift of your body gripping him like velvet. He stays still for a long moment, panting against your neck, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the guilt clawing at his chest like talons.
Then he moves.
Slow. Clumsy. Deep, dragging strokes that pull whimpers from his own throat with every pass. Heâs whining, high, pathetic little sounds he canât swallow back as he fucks into you with careful, fumbling thrusts, like heâs worshiping something holy and terrified of breaking it.
âCanât stop,â he whispers, voice wrecked and whiny. âCanât- fuck- canât stop. You feel too good. Too right. Iâm sorry⌠Iâm so fucking sorry⌠been wanting this for years⌠watching you, stealing pieces of you⌠hoodie, swimsuit, now this⌠Iâm disgusting⌠pervy little creep⌠but youâre mine⌠feel like mineâŚâ
He angles his hips, awkward at first, fumbling, grinding deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your body flutter even in sleep. A soft, unconscious moan slips from your lips. He freezes, terror and lust warring in his chest then groans when you clench around him again, instinctive and needy.
âSee that?â he mumbles, voice cracking. âEven dreaming youâre pulling me in⌠like you want it⌠want me⌠fuck, Iâm gonna knot you⌠gonna lock inside⌠fill you up⌠mark you as mine⌠Iâm disgusting⌠shouldnât⌠but I need- need it so badâŚâ
The knot begins to swell at the base, thickening with every clumsy thrust, catching at your entrance on the out-stroke, stretching you wider. Heâs whining louder now, high, desperate little sounds he canât swallow back, hips stuttering as the pressure builds to something unbearable.
âGonna knot you,â he gasps against your ear, tears falling faster, soaking your hair and shoulder. âGonna lock inside⌠fill you up⌠make you mine⌠Iâm disgusting⌠shouldnât⌠but I canât stop⌠love you⌠love you so much it hurts⌠need you to be mineâŚâ
One last deep, clumsy thrust.
The knot catches.
Swells.
Locks.
Hot, pulsing fullness stretching you open as it seals inside, tying you together. A broken sob rips from him, half relief, half shame as the first thick spurt of come floods you, wave after wave, so much it leaks out around where youâre stretched tight around him. His whole body convulses, hips jerking in tiny, helpless pulses as he empties inside you, tears streaming freely down his face.
And thatâs when your eyes flutter open.
A soft, dazed sound slips from your lips, half moan, half sigh as awareness returns in hazy pieces: the overwhelming fullness deep inside, the heat of his body wrapped around yours, the rhythmic pulsing of his knot, the wet mess between your thighs, his tears on your skin, the broken way heâs clinging to you.
Your gaze finds his in the moonlight, wide, sleepy, pupils blown with lingering heat-drunk haze, no shock, just soft, instinct-led trust.
âBuckyâŚ?â
He freezes, entire body locking up, knot throbbing helplessly inside you, tears still streaming down his face, voice shattered when he finally speaks.
âIâm sorry,â he chokes out, barely audible, shaking so hard the knot tugs inside you. âIâm so fucking sorry- I couldnât- I shouldnât have- please donât hate me- please- Iâm disgusting- I know Iâm disgusting-â
Your breath hitches, but itâs not fear, itâs need. The heat is still thinking for you, instincts purring in your veins, making everything feel right, warm, necessary.
You reach back slowly, fingers finding the nape of his neck, pulling him closer with sleepy, trusting gentleness.
âShhh,â you whisper, voice thick with sleep and honey-sweet heat. âItâs okay⌠feels so good⌠so full⌠BuckâŚâ
He whimpers, fresh tears soaking your skin as he clings tighter.
You clench around the knot deliberately, slow and sweet, drawing a wrecked, whiny sound from deep in his chest.
âMoreâŚâ you mumble sleepily, voice soft and slurred, pure instinct speaking. âBucky⌠please⌠more⌠feels so warm⌠so right⌠donât stopâŚâ
He buries his face in your neck, shaking harder, sobbing quietly against your skin.
âLove you,â he whispers, over and over, voice raw and broken. âLove you⌠love you⌠thank you⌠Iâm sorry⌠Iâm so sorryâŚâ
You sigh and settle back against him, letting his knot hold you together, mumbling sleepily against his hair.
âMore⌠Buck⌠please⌠feels so full⌠so good⌠keep goingâŚâ
He whimpers again, high, helpless, overwhelmed and rocks gently, tiny movements that make you both sigh in perfect harmony.
Finally crossing the line together, clumsy, guilty, innocent and so in love it hurts.
The knot keeps you locked together for what feels like an eternity, throbbing, pulsing, a steady heartbeat buried deep inside you that matches the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his against your back. The attic has grown still, the earlier frenzy burned down to embers. Outside, the lake laps softly at the shore, a distant, soothing metronome.
Inside, thereâs only the quiet rasp of your breathing, the occasional creak of the old pull-out couch beneath your combined weight, and the faint rustle of sheets whenever one of you shifts. Moonlight has slid across the slanted ceiling, painting long silver stripes over the rumpled quilt and your tangled limbs, his arm banded low across your stomach, your legs entwined with his, bodies fitted together like pieces that have finally found their match.
Buckyâs face is still buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed to the spot just over your scent gland, breathing you in like heâs afraid the scent will disappear if he stops. His tears dried long ago into faint salt tracks on your skin, but he hasnât let go.
Not even an inch.
His breathing is ragged, uneven, aftershocks still rolling through him, guilt and awe warring in his chest like twin storms. Heâs trembling harder now, not just from the bond or the knot, but from something deeper, something primal starting to uncoil inside him, raw and hungry, the alpha side heâs never let out before clawing its way up. It makes his fingers twitch against your skin, makes his hips give tiny, helpless rocks even though heâs trying so hard to stay still.
Youâre both shaking a little: him from the raw vulnerability of what heâs done and the overwhelming relief that you havenât pulled away; you from the lingering fullness, the slow, hazy return to reality after everything that just happened. Youâre still so sweet, so pure, like warm honey in his arms, even after the mess, the tears, the guilt. Your scent is everywhere, soft, golden, comforting and itâs making that new, primal thing inside him growl quietly, wanting to claim, to keep, to never let go.
You clench around the knot once, instinctive, testing the connection and he whines, high and broken, hips jerking involuntarily, tugging the knot tighter inside you. His fingers dig into your hip, not hard, just desperate, like heâs afraid heâll float away if he doesnât hold on.
âF-Fuck- baby, donât-â His voice cracks, raw and wrecked, still so awkward. âDonât do that unless you want me to⌠to lose it again⌠Iâm already- god, Iâm barely holding on⌠Iâve never⌠never felt anything like thisâŚâ
You smile into the dark, small and sleepy, voice still thick with the afterglow, sweet like you always are. âMaybe I do.â
He exhales a shaky laugh against your throat, the sound half sob, half wonder, still so boyish, so unsure. âYouâre gonna kill me. Swear to god, youâre gonna kill me and Iâll die happy⌠Iâve never⌠never even kissed anyone properly before tonight⌠and now⌠now Iâm inside you⌠knotted⌠bonded⌠I donât even know what Iâm doingâŚâ
Silence settles again, comfortable now, softer than anything that came before. His hand slides up your side in slow, reverent strokes, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, like heâs mapping territory heâs only dreamed of touching. Heâs clumsy about it, fingers trembling, hesitating every few inches like heâs scared heâll do it wrong but so gentle, so careful.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant, the words dragged from somewhere deep and carefully guarded.
âDo you remember⌠the summer we were seventeen?â he murmurs, lips brushing your neck as he talks, voice cracking a little. âYou had that stupid crush on Jake from the lake house next door. Came crying to me because he kissed some girl at the bonfire instead of you.â
You huff a soft laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you where youâre joined. âI remember. I was so dramatic. Thought the world was ending. Sat on the dock sobbing into my hoodie sleeves like it was the apocalypse.â
âYou were sitting there, knees up, tears everywhere. I sat next to you for hours. Didnât say much. Just⌠let you lean on me.â His thumb brushes slow circles over your hip bone, grounding himself in the feel of you. âThat was the first time I realized I wanted to be the one kissing you. Not Jake. Me. I hated myself for thinking it. You were crying over some idiot and I was imagining pulling you into my lap, wiping your tears, fixing everything with my mouth. Thought I was the worst friend alive for even picturing it.â
Your breath catches. âYou never told me.â
âCouldnât.â He swallows hard, Adamâs apple bobbing against your shoulder. âEvery summer after that⌠every time you fell asleep on my shoulder during movie nights in the living room, every time you hugged me goodbye before you left for college⌠Iâd go home and jerk off thinking about you. Your laugh. The way your hair smelled after swimming, chlorine and sunscreen and something sweet underneath. That red swimsuit you wore, the way it rode up every time you dove in. The way you looked at me sometimes, like maybe you felt it too, like maybe I wasnât crazy. Iâd come so hard Iâd see stars, whispering your name into my pillow like a prayer, then hate myself for days. Thought I was ruining everything. Thought if you ever found out how much I wanted you, youâd never look at me the same.â
Tears prick your eyes now, hot and sudden. âBuckâŚâ
âI was terrified,â he admits, voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the last word. âTerrified of ruining the friendship. You were the only person who ever really saw me, scraped knees, bad moods, nightmares after my dad yelled too loud, all of it and I couldnât lose that. You were safe. You were home. So I buried it. Deep. Stole pieces of you instead, hoodies left on my floor after movie nights, hair ties from your bag, that swimsuit today. Kept them like secrets. Like proof you were mine even if you didnât know it. Like proof I could have you in some small, fucked-up way without breaking everything.â
He presses a trembling kiss to your scent gland, soft, reverent, like heâs apologizing to it too. âIâm still terrified. Even now. Even with my knot inside you⌠with your slick on my tongue⌠with the bond humming between us. Scared youâll wake up fully tomorrow and realize what a creep Iâve been. That youâll see all the times I watched you too long, all the nights I came thinking about you while you slept in the next room, all the ways Iâve taken pieces of you without asking. Scared youâll leave. And I wouldnât even blame you.â
You turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his jaw, tasting salt from his dried tears. âIâm here,â you whisper, voice steady despite the emotion thickening your throat. âIâm not leaving. Iâve been scared too- scared of saying anything, scared of losing you if I did. But Iâm here. I want this. I want you.â
He lets out a shaky breath, relief and longing mixing in his chest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth and tracing your lips like heâs trying to remember them. Heâs clumsy and hesitant, as if heâs afraid he might ruin the moment.
âCan IâŚ?â His voice cracks, barely audible. âCan I bite you? Make it real? Make you mine forever? I need to feel the bond snap. Need to know itâs forever. If youâll let me.â
Your heart stutters. The question hangs between you, heavy, sacred, irreversible. You feel the knot pulse inside you, feel his heartbeat against your back, feel the raw hope and fear in his voice.
You nod slowly, eyes locked on his in the moonlight, tears shimmering in your own.
âYes.â
He inhales sharply, like the word punched the air out of him. His hand moves to the back of your neck, cradling you gently as he tilts your head to the side, fingers shaking, like heâs terrified of hurting you. His lips brush your scent gland, soft, reverent kisses first, then slow drags of his tongue, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your heat still clinging to you.
âI love you,â he whispers against the spot, voice trembling. âAlways have. Always will. No matter what happens tomorrow. No matter what you decide. I love you.â
He hesitates, nose brushing your skin, breathing shaky. âIs⌠is it gonna hurt?â you ask softly, voice small and nervous, sweet like honey even in your uncertainty. âThe biteâŚ?â
He freezes, eyes wide, suddenly looking so young, so unsure. âI⌠I dunno, baby,â he admits, voice cracking. âIâve never⌠never done this before. I donât wanna hurt you. Youâll tell me if it does, okay? Promise youâll tell me and Iâll stop. I swear.â
You nod, trusting, sweet. âOkay. I trust you.â
He exhales shakily, presses one more soft kiss to your gland, then bites.
Teeth sink in, sharp, claiming, but so careful itâs almost too light at first. He hesitates again, whimpering against your skin, then presses deeper, fumbling, a tiny sob escaping him as he finally sinks in properly. Pain flares bright and hot for a split second, then explodes into white-hot pleasure as the bond snaps fully into place, stronger this time, like a circuit completing, like a key turning all the way in a lock thatâs always belonged to him. The world narrows to the point of contact, to the pulse of his knot inside you, to the way his come keeps filling you in slow, endless waves, to the electric hum of the bond blooming between you, threading through every nerve, every heartbeat.
You come again, soft, rolling, dreamy, clenching around his knot in fluttering pulses that milk him deeper, drawing another broken moan from his throat. Your vision whites out for a moment, pleasure crashing through you in gentle waves, every nerve singing with the new connection, the certainty of him. You feel him everywhere, his heartbeat, his fear, his love, his awe all of it pouring into you through the bond like warm sunlight.
He licks over the freshened mark, slow soothing laps, sealing it with his tongue, his scent, his everything. His hips rock in tiny, helpless movements, riding out the aftershocks with you, knot pulsing in time with your fluttering walls. Heâs whimpering the whole time, soft, needy little sounds, still so cute, still so overwhelmed.
âMine,â he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent, nose pressed to the bite, inhaling deeply like he can draw the bond itself into his lungs.
You reach back, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer until his forehead rests against yours.
âYours,â you breathe, voice soft and sure, sweet like honey even now.
He exhales and curls tighter around you, knot still locked, heart hammering against your back in perfect sync with yours.
The attic is quiet again.
But the silence feels different now.
It feels like home.
The knot finally begins to deflate as the first pale light of dawn creeps through the triangular attic window, turning the room soft gray and gold. Itâs slow, agonizingly slow, each pulse weaker than the last until the thick swell eases enough for Bucky to shift without tugging painfully. You both feel it at the same moment: the sudden, slick release of pressure, the warm gush of his come and your slick leaking out around where heâs still half-buried inside you.
You make a soft, surprised sound, half gasp, half sleepy giggle as the fullness recedes. Bucky freezes, breath catching in his throat like heâs afraid to break the spell, but then his face cracks into a shy, lopsided grin.
âEasy,â he murmurs, voice gravel-rough from hours of whispering confessions and love, but now thereâs a goofy lightness in it. âIâve got you. Just⌠breathe, okay?â
He pulls out carefully, wincing when the last of the knot slips free with a wet, obscene sound that makes both of you flush bright red and immediately dissolve into muffled laughter. More come spills out immediately, hot and messy, soaking your thighs, the sheets, the space between you. The scent hits harder now, thick, unmistakable, a cloud of sex and bonding that fills the tiny attic room like smoke.
You both stare at the mess for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, frozen, then at each other.
âShit,â you whisper, cheeks burning so hot youâre sure theyâre glowing.
âYeah,â he agrees, voice small and cracking with embarrassed giggles. âShit. Thatâs⌠thatâs a lot. Like⌠wow. Did we⌠did we do that?â
Bucky moves first, sitting up on his knees like heâs trying to look responsible, reaching for the edge of the quilt to wipe between your thighs with gentle, hesitant swipes. His hands shake a little, careful not to press too hard on tender skin, but he keeps missing spots because heâs laughing too hard under his breath.
âSorry if itâs- uh- cold. Or sticky. Or⌠everything,â he mumbles, cheeks flaming, ears bright red. âIâm trying to be⌠gentlemanly? I think?â
You bite your lip to keep from laughing harder, the absurdity of it all bubbling up like champagne. âItâs fine. Youâre being very⌠thorough. Like a little nurse.â
He glances up, caught, then ducks his head again, ears practically glowing. âJust- donât want you uncomfortable. Youâre probably sore. I was⌠enthusiastic. Oh god, I said that out loud.â
You snort softly, legs parting shyly, watching his face, focused, reverent, still streaked with dried tears from the night before, hair a total disaster from your fingers. âThatâs one word for it. You were⌠very thorough there too.â
He finishes cleaning you as best he can, then wipes himself down, cock still half-hard and glistening, thighs sticky, before tossing the soiled corner of the blanket aside with a dramatic grimace that makes you both giggle again. The sheets are a wreck, stained, rumpled, reeking of you both but he pulls the top quilt over the worst of it, buys you both a few more minutes of denial.
You sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness between your legs, the dull throb in your neck where the bite pulses like a second heartbeat. The fresh mark is raised, red, already scabbing at the edges, his claim, permanent now. Buckyâs eyes flick to it, then away, but this time thereâs no guilt flash, just a soft dopey smile and a blush that spreads to his chest.
You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek. âHey. Look at me.â
He leans into your touch like a man starved, eyes closing for a second, then opening again with that same silly, lovesick grin. âI did that,â he says, voice small and proud and a little awed. âI⌠I marked you. And you let me.â
âYeah,â you say softly, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. âAnd I wanted it.â
He giggles, high and nervous and so Bucky it makes your heart flip. âYou did. You really did. I kept asking if you were sure and you just kept saying âyes, Bucky... pleaseâ like⌠like I was gonna stop or something. I was so nervous I almost dropped you during it.â
You laugh, soft and happy, leaning forward to bump your forehead against his. âYou didnât drop me. You were perfect. Clumsy, but perfect.â
Downstairs, voices begin to drift up, parents stirring, coffee brewing, the clink of mugs, Beccaâs laugh at something her boyfriend said. Normal morning sounds. Innocent sounds.
Your stomach does a happy little flip instead of dropping.
âTheyâre gonna smell it,â you whisper, but thereâs no panic, just giddy excitement. âThe whole house is gonna reek of- of us. Of sex. Of bonding. Theyâll know. Oh god, theyâll know.â
Buckyâs grin turns mischievous, eyes sparkling. âYeah. They will. And Iâm weirdly okay with it? Like⌠I want them to know youâre mine now. Officially. No more hiding.â
He looks toward the stairs like theyâre an adventure, then back at you, eyes dark, protective but so soft at the same time. âThey donât get to make this weird. Not today. Not when weâre this happy. Youâre mine now. Officially. And Iâm not letting anyone act like itâs something to tease about⌠unless itâs cute teasing. Then maybe.â
Before you can respond, heâs moving, scooping you up in one smooth (but slightly wobbly) motion, arms under your thighs and back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You yelp softly, then dissolve into giggles, hands flying to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.
âBuck- what-â
âShh.â He presses a quick, silly kiss to the tip of your nose, making you giggle harder. âIâm carrying you down. No arguments. Youâre sore. And⌠I donât want anyone getting too close to you right now. Not when you smell like me. Like us. Also I just⌠really like carrying you. Itâs fun.â
The possessiveness in his voice is new, low but undercut with such goofy tenderness it makes your heart flip. You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face against his shoulder as he carries you to the stairs, both of you giggling like idiots every time he almost trips on a step.
Heâs careful, slow steps, avoiding the creaky third one out of habit but every movement jostles you just enough to remind you of the ache between your legs, the way heâs still leaking out of you a little, slick trailing down your inner thigh. You bury your face deeper, laughing against his neck.
âThis is so embarrassing,â you whisper, but youâre grinning so wide it hurts.
âYouâre cute when youâre embarrassed,â he mutters, lips brushing your temple, voice full of that same lovesick wonder. âAnd Iâm allowed to be a little clingy now. Bonded privileges. Also Iâve wanted to do this forever and now I can and itâs awesome.â
You snort against his neck. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYeah,â he says proudly. âBut Iâm your ridiculous.â
When you reach the bottom, the kitchen is already alive.
Your mom at the stove, flipping pancakes. Buckyâs dad pouring coffee. Becca and her boyfriend at the table, mid-conversation about some dumb TikTok. All of them freeze the second you appear in the doorway, Bucky carrying you bridal-style, both of you in rumpled sleep clothes, hair wrecked, skin flushed, the air around you heavy with sex and fresh bonding.
The room goes dead silent.
Beccaâs mug stops halfway to her mouth. Your momâs spatula hovers over the pan. Buckyâs dadâs eyebrows climb toward his hairline so high they nearly disappear into his hair.
No one says a word.
They donât have to. The scent is unmistakable, heat, rut, come, bond, all tangled together in a cloud that fills the kitchen like smoke. Everyone knows exactly what happened upstairs. Everyone knows youâre mated now.
But no one speaks. No teasing. No âso⌠how was it?â No sly grins. No congratulations shouted across the room.
They just⌠look away. Polite. Quiet. Letting the moment belong to you two, not turning it into cabin gossip or family ribbing. Becca suddenly becomes very interested in her coffee. Your mom flips a pancake with exaggerated focus. Buckyâs dad clears his throat once, then busies himself with the sugar bowl.
Itâs a kindness, unspoken but clear: we see it. We know. Weâre not ruining this.
Buckyâs grip tightens on you, but heâs grinning like an idiot, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. He carries you past the table toward the back porch door, glaring over your shoulder at anyone whose gaze lingers even a second too long, but the glare is half-hearted because heâs too blissed-out and giggly to really mean it.
He shoulders the screen door open, steps out onto the porch with you still in his arms. The morning air is cool, lake mist curling over the water, birds calling softly from the pines. Sunlight glints off the ripples, turning everything golden and gentle.
He sets you down gently on the old wooden bench, kneeling in front of you immediately, hands on your knees, eyes level with yours.
The possessive fire dims. Whatâs left is raw, vulnerable Bucky, the boy who sat with you on the dock when you cried, the man who spent years terrified of this exact moment, the one who still canât quite believe youâre letting him stay but now heâs glowing, eyes shining, smile so big itâs almost painful.
âI need to say it properly,â he starts, voice low and rough, but cracking with giggles every few words. âNot in whispers in the dark. Not while Iâm inside you. Right here. Right now. In the daylight, where you can see my face and tell if Iâm lying⌠or if Iâm just a giant dork who canât stop smiling.â
You reach for him, fingers brushing his cheek, thumb catching a lingering tear track but youâre smiling too, wide and silly and so happy it hurts.
âYou already-â
âNo.â He catches your hand, presses it to his lips, kissing each knuckle with exaggerated care, making you laugh. âI need you to hear it. Iâm sorry. For everything. For stealing pieces of you for years, hoodies, hair ties, your swimsuit yesterday. For jerking off to the thought of you when I shouldâve just told you how I felt. For crossing lines last night, even if you said it was okay. For being too scared to say I loved you sooner. For every time I watched you too long, wanted you too much, and hated myself for it. I was a coward. A creep. I donât deserve this- donât deserve you- but Iâm begging anyway. Forgive me. Please. Or donât. But know Iâll spend the rest of my life making it right if you let me. Iâll be better. Iâll be honest. Iâll be yours. Completely. No more hiding.â
Tears shimmer in his eyes again, but heâs still grinning, shaky, real, ridiculous. Heâs shaking just a little like this is the scariest thing heâs ever done, even after last night, but heâs also so happy he can barely sit still.
You slide your hands into his hair, pull him forward until your foreheads touch, noses brushing in that silly, intimate way you used to do as kids when you were making up after a fight.
âIâve wanted you too,â you whisper, voice thick with happy tears. âFor years. Same summers, same movie nights, same goodbyes. I was scared too- scared of losing my best friend if I said anything. Scared you didnât feel it back. Scared Iâd ruin everything by admitting I thought about you when I was alone. That Iâd touch myself thinking about your hands, your laugh, the way you always looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I wanted you too. Always.â
You kiss him pouring everything into it: forgiveness, love, certainty, a little silliness when your noses bump awkwardly and you both huff a laugh against each otherâs mouths.
He melts against you, hands sliding to your waist, holding you like you might vanish. When you pull back, heâs smiling, small, shaky, real, eyes shining with pure, giddy joy.
âMine?â he asks this time, voice soft and hopeful, like a kid asking for the last cookie.
âYours,â you answer, tapping his nose with your finger. âDork.â
He laughs, quiet, relieved, and so full of love it makes your chest ache and stands, pulling you up with him. Wraps an arm around your waist, tucks you against his side like you belong there (because you do).
Together, you step back inside, past the kitchen where everyone still pointedly doesnât look, doesnât speak, just lets you have this. Your mom suddenly remembers she needs more butter. Beccaâs boyfriend becomes fascinated by his phone. Buckyâs dad clears his throat twice and busies himself with the sugar bowl again.
No one ruins the moment.
Itâs yours.
And now everyone knows it, quietly, gently, without a word.
Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you pass the table, voice low enough for only you to hear.
âThink we can sneak back upstairs for round two after breakfast?â
You elbow him lightly, grinning. âBehave. Or Iâll make you do dishes.â
He groans dramatically. âCruel. Youâre cruel to your mate.â
You laugh and lean into him.
The morning continues.
Normal.
Except itâs not.
Itâs better.
Itâs yours.
And youâre both so blissed-out, so giggly, so stupidly in love that nothing else matters.
One year later, the cabin looks exactly the same, same weathered pine siding kissed by a decade of sun and rain, same creaky porch steps that groan under every footfall, same triangular attic window catching the late-afternoon sun like a golden wink.
But everything feels different. The air tastes sweeter, the lake glitters brighter, the summer heat wraps around you softer now that it no longer carries the sharp edge of unspoken want. The bond between you and Bucky hums quietly beneath your skin like a song you both know by heart, steady, warm, always there.
Youâre officially mated. The silver scar of his bite on your neck has faded to a delicate crescent that he still kisses every morning like itâs brand new, like heâs reminding himself you chose this, chose him.
You wear his old hoodies more often than not, and he wears your hair tie on his wrist like a wedding band he never takes off, faded blue elastic stretched thin from constant wear, a tiny, silly token that makes your heart flip every time you see it.
Heâs changed in the best ways. His hair is longer now, dark waves falling just to his chin, curling slightly at the ends when it dries after the lake, framing his face in that effortlessly sexy way that makes your fingers itch to run through it.
The stubble he started growing last winter has settled into a full, neat beard, thick, dark, and perfectly trimmed, rough against your skin in all the right ways. And his body⌠god. Heâs beefier, broader, more solid, shoulders wider from consistent gym time, arms thicker, chest and back carved with muscle that presses against you like he was built to hold you forever. Heâs not just your Bucky anymore. Heâs a man. Your man. And youâre completely obsessed.
This year the families caravanned up together again, cars loaded with coolers, beach towels, and the usual chaos of overlapping voices.
No one bats an eye when you and Bucky disappear for long âwalksâ that last hours, or when he scoops you up piggyback across the yard just because he can, your laughter trailing behind you both like music.
Theyâve had a full year to get used to it: your mom still gets misty-eyed every time she catches sight of the bite mark and murmurs something about âfinally,â Becca teases you mercilessly about âlocking him down before he could escape,â and Buckyâs dad just grunts approvingly, hands him another beer, and says âgood manâ like itâs the highest praise.
The first full day, everyone heads to the lake like always, same routine, same laughter, same sun-warmed dock. Youâre in the same black two-piece from last year, high-waisted bottoms, simple triangle top, except this time Buckyâs eyes donât dart away in guilt. They linger, dark and hungry and proud, tracing every curve like heâs allowed to look now. Allowed to touch. Allowed to claim.
You dive in first, cutting through the cool water like you own it, the shock of it making you laugh when you surface. Bucky follows, powerful strokes closing the distance fast, hair slicked back dark and dripping, beard glistening with lake water. When you reach the dock, heâs already there, waiting, grinning, water dripping from his lashes and the ends of his hair.
âRace you to the buoy?â you challenge, splashing him lightly, droplets catching the sun like diamonds.
He doesnât answer with words. Just lunges.
You squeal as he catches you around the waist underwater, spinning you until your back presses against the dock pilings. The wood is rough against your spine, but his hands are gentle, sliding up your sides, pinning your wrists above your head with one palm while the other cups your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His beard scrapes lightly against your skin when he leans in close, rough, delicious friction that makes you shiver.
âCheater,â you breathe, laughing against his mouth.
âWinner,â he corrects, voice low and rough, then kisses you, deep, slow, breathless. Water laps around you both, cool against heated skin, but the kiss is fire. His tongue slides against yours, lazy and possessive in the way heâs perfected over the last year, like heâs reminding you that this is real now. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his waist, feeling him harden against you through his trunks, his body pressing you firmly to the wood.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, voice husky, âMissed this view last year. You in this suit. Me not allowed to touch. Had to dive under the water like an idiot to hide how hard I was.â
You nip his bottom lip, grinning. âYouâre allowed now.â
His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. âGood thing weâre underwater.â
He kisses you again, harder this time until youâre both gasping, clinging to the dock, the rest of the family too far away to notice (or pretending not to, because theyâve learned). When you finally surface for air, foreheads pressed together, heâs smiling, goofy, boyish, the same smile he gave you when you were kids racing to the buoy, but now itâs edged with something darker, hungrier.
You reach up, fingers threading through his wet hair, tugging lightly. âThis hair is getting ridiculous,â you tease, voice breathy. âYou look like a sexy pirate. And this beardâŚâ You drag your fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough scrape, scratching lightly through the thick scruff. âGod, I love it. Itâs so scratchy. Iâm gonna have beard burn everywhere and Iâm not even mad.â
He groans low in his throat, hips rocking against you once, helpless, leaning into your touch like a puppy getting pets, eyes fluttering shut, beard pressing harder into your palm as you scratch. âFuck- keep doing that,â he mutters, voice wrecked. âYouâre killing me, honey.â
âI am,â you admit, grinning, scratching your nails gently through his beard again, watching him melt. âMakes you look like a man now. All beefy and grown-up. Iâm obsessed. Youâre so hot itâs unfair.â
His eyes flash and he leans in, beard rasping deliciously against your throat as he nips lightly. âCareful what you wish for. Keep scratching like that and weâre not making it back to the cabin.â
That night, the attic room feels different too.
No more pretending. No more guilt. Just you, him, and the quiet hum of the bond between you.
Youâre already in bed when he climbs the stairs, same old pull-out couch, same faded quilt but this time youâre wearing nothing but his t-shirt, legs bare, hair loose over your shoulders. He stops in the doorway, just looking, eyes soft and awed like he still canât believe this is real after a whole year.
You crook a finger, smiling. âCome here, baby.â
He obeys instantly, kicking the door shut, locking it, crawling over you with that slow, predatory grace heâs learned you love, longer hair falling forward, brushing your cheeks as he leans down. The kiss starts soft, then deepens as he settles between your thighs, already hard and ready against you.
âMissed this room,â he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. âMissed you in it. Without the guilt. Without the fear.â
You slide your hands under his shirt, tracing scars and muscle, feeling the bond flare bright at every touch. âNo fear tonight. No guilt. Just us.â
He groans softly when you tug the shirt off him, then helps you out of his. Skin on skin. Heat on heat. The bond sings as he flips you onto your stomach, his body caging you from behind. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, beard scraping deliciously against your skin, making you arch and giggle.
âOn your knees, sweetheart,â he rasps, voice rougher now, that primal edge creeping in. âWanna see you like this.â
You obey, heart racing, thighs trembling, pushing up onto your knees, ass in the air. He groans low, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. âFuck⌠look at you. So pretty for me.â
He slides in from behind, slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch, then deeper, harder, until heâs buried to the hilt. You moan into the pillow, fingers clutching the sheets. He starts thrusting, deep, steady, powerful, his bigger frame rocking you forward with each snap of his hips.
One hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you gasp. The other comes down, sharp, playful smack against your ass. You yelp, surprised, then moan, pushing back against him.
âDidnât know you had it in you,â you breathe, voice shaky with pleasure.
He leans over you, beard scraping your shoulder, voice low and filthy in your ear. âBeen holding back for years, baby. Now I donât have to. Youâre mine. Gonna fuck you like Iâve always wanted to.â
Another smack, lighter, teasing, then his hand soothes the sting, kneading the flesh. Youâre dripping around him, clenching hard, and he growls, pace picking up, harder, deeper, hips snapping against your ass with filthy, wet sounds.
âGod- yes- right there,â you whimper, pushing back to meet every thrust. âHarder, Bucky⌠pleaseâŚâ
He obeys, grunting, primal, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip so hard youâll have marks tomorrow. His beard scrapes your neck as he leans down, biting lightly at your shoulder, not claiming, just possessive.
âFuck- you take me so good,â he rasps. âSo tight⌠so wet⌠all mine.â
You come first, shattering around him, crying out into the pillow, walls fluttering and milking him. He follows seconds later, deep, guttural groan, hips slamming forward one last time as he fills you, knot swelling, locking you together.
He collapses over you, careful not to crush you, both of you panting, sweaty, laughing breathlessly into the sheets.
After the knot eases, he rolls you both to the side, still buried inside, arms wrapped tight around you, nose buried in your hair.
He presses a kiss to the bite mark, gentle, reverent, then nuzzles lower, nosing at your collarbone, your chest, until his lips brush the edge of your breast.
You laugh softly, sleepy. âWhat are you doing?â
âReclaiming every inch,â he murmurs, voice thick with contentment. âGonna mark you everywhere eventually. Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.â
You roll your eyes, fond, fingers carding through his hair, then scratching lightly through his beard. He leans into it like a puppy, eyes fluttering shut, low rumble in his chest, beard pressing harder into your palm.
âGod, I really love this beard,â you whisper, scratching again, watching him melt.
He groans, hips rocking lazily against you once. âKeep scratching like that and weâre not sleeping tonight.â
You grin, wicked. âGood. Because I want you again. And again. And again.â
He kisses you, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes shining with that same lovesick wonder.
âI love you,â he says softly.
âI love you too Buck,â you answer, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
He laughs, quiet, relieved and so full of love it makes your chest ache and curls tighter around you.
The attic is quiet again.
But this time, itâs full of giggles, teasing, and the promise of forever.
The kitchen is its usual beautiful chaos the morning after, pancakes sizzling on the pan, butter melting into golden pools, coffee brewing with that rich, comforting smell that always means home.
Becca and her boyfriend are already in full debate mode over the last blueberry muffin, forks poised like swords, while sunlight pours through the big windows, turning everything warm and golden. The faint scent of lake water still clings to the air from yesterday, mixing with syrup and bacon in the best way.
You and Bucky wander in hand-in-hand, both freshly showered but still glowing like youâve been dipped in honey and sunlight. His hair is still damp, pushed back messily from his face, a few soft waves curling against his neck. The beard is dark and scruffy, framing that strong jaw perfectly, and his shoulders look even broader in the soft morning light, the plain t-shirt clinging just enough to show how much beefier heâs gotten. He looks like a man whoâs been well-loved and is very pleased about it. Youâre in one of his oversized hoodies, sleeves flopped over your hands, legs bare under sleep shorts, hair still a little tangled from his fingers last night.
The second you step through the doorway, the room doesnât exactly go silent, it just⌠pauses. Like everyone collectively holds their breath for half a second, then decides to be extra nice about it.
Your mom glances up from the stove first. Her eyes flick between you two, land on the fresh bite mark peeking above the hoodie collar, and her whole face melts into the softest, knowing smile. She doesnât say anything, just turns back to the pancakes with a tiny, satisfied hum and starts humming an old tune under her breath.
Buckyâs dad lowers his newspaper slowly, takes one look at the pair of you, Buckyâs arm already around your waist, your head tucked against his shoulder and grunts. âTook you long enough.â
Becca snorts so hard she nearly inhales her muffin. She coughs, eyes watering, then points her fork at you both with zero remorse. âOkay, first of all, loud. Like, loud loud. We all heard you last night. Thin attic floorboards, guys. Thin. Attic. Floorboards. I was trying to watch a movie and it sounded like someone was moving furniture up there. Repeatedly.â
Her boyfriend chokes on his coffee, trying (and failing) to hide a grin behind his mug. He coughs into his elbow, shoulders shaking.
Your face flames instantly. Buckyâs ears go bright red, but he doesnât let go of your hand in fact, he squeezes it tighter, thumb rubbing soothing little circles over your knuckles like heâs trying to calm you both down at once.
Becca keeps going, merciless but playful. âI mean, we were all sitting there like âshould we turn the volume up?â and then it was just⌠âoh Bucky- yes Bucky- oh my god Bucky-ââ She does an exaggerated, breathy impression that makes everyone groan in unison.
âBecca!â you squeak, burying your face in Buckyâs shoulder, mortified but already starting to giggle.
Heâs laughing now, quiet, embarrassed but so happy he canât help it. His free arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against his side like heâs shielding you (and maybe showing off a little). âWe⌠uh⌠got carried away,â he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. His beard rasps against your temple when he leans down to whisper, âSorry, honey. Guess we werenât quiet. At all.â
You peek up at him, cheeks still burning, but youâre giggling too. âYou were the loud one,â you whisper back, poking his chest. âAll those growly noises. And the⌠the spanking. I didnât know you had it in you.â
His eyes darken for half a second, before he catches himself and blushes harder. âYou liked it,â he mutters, voice low enough that only you can hear. âDonât lie.â
âI did,â you admit, scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like a big puppy, eyes fluttering shut for a second, a soft, happy rumble vibrating through his chest.
Becca makes a gagging noise. âGross. Youâre both gross. And loud. And gross. But also⌠kinda cute? In a disgusting way.â
Your mom finally turns fully, spatula in hand, eyes twinkling with pure mischief. âSo⌠when can we expect grandpups? Iâm not getting any younger, you know. And after last nightâs⌠enthusiastic performance⌠Iâm thinking it wonât be long.â
Bucky chokes on air. You squeak and hide your face deeper in his hoodie.
âMom!â
Buckyâs dad just chuckles, low and rumbling. âSheâs right. Cabinâs been too quiet. Needs little feet running around again. Maybe a couple of âem, judging by all that racket.â
Becca leans forward, grinning wickedly, but her eyes are soft. âYeah, Buck. You gonna put a pup or three in her this summer? Look at you, long hair, full beard, all beefed up. Youâre basically built for it now. Dad material.â
She pauses, then her voice goes all dreamy and sincere. âI just want a little niece so bad. Iâd braid her hair every morning. Tiny little French braids with ribbons. Teach her how to cannonball off the dock. Dress her up in all my old sundresses. Spoil her rotten. Please? Iâd be the best aunt.â
Buckyâs ears are practically glowing. He clears his throat, arm tightening around you possessively, but thereâs a tiny, shy smile tugging at his lips. âWeâre⌠uh⌠weâre working on it,â he mumbles, then glances at your mom and Becca with a sheepish look. âEventually. When weâre ready.â
Your mom laughs and turns back to the stove. âTake your time. But not too much time. I want to be able to chase them around the yard before my knees give out. And Beccaâs right- sheâd be the most ridiculous aunt. Already planning outfits.â
You bury your face in Buckyâs shoulder again, mortified but laughing so hard your stomach hurts. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, lingering then whispers against your hair, voice full of that same goofy, lovesick wonder:
âWeâll get there, honey. When weâre ready.â
You nod against him, still giggling, fingers scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like always, eyes half-closing, a happy little rumble vibrating through his chest.
âYeah,â you whisper back. âWhen weâre ready.â
Becca fake-gags again. âYou two are disgusting. And cute. Mostly disgusting. But also⌠hurry up with the baby. I need to practice my braiding skills.â
Bucky just grins, wide, shameless, proud and pulls you even closer, beard rasping softly against your cheek as he nuzzles in.
The kitchen fills with chatter again, normal, loud, loving, full of teasing and warmth and the promise of more family, more noise, more little feet someday.
The attic is quiet now, the kind of soft, golden hush that only comes after a long summer day. Moonlight slants through the triangular window, painting silver stripes across the rumpled quilt and your tangled legs.
Youâre sprawled across Buckyâs chest, cheek pressed to warm skin, listening to the steady thump of his heart under your ear. His hair fans out across the pillow like dark silk, still a little damp from the shower and his beard rasps gently against your fingertips as you trace lazy patterns along his jaw.
Heâs got one thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting possessively on your hip, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt youâre wearing.
You shift a little, propping your chin on his sternum so you can look up at him. Heâs already watching you, eyes soft and half-lidded, that quiet, lovesick smile tugging at his mouth.
Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, suddenly shy.
âHey,â you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. âUm⌠what if⌠what if we started trying? Like⌠tonight?â
Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. His thumb freezes on your hip. His scent spikes, sharp, protective, hungry.
âTonight?â he echoes, voice cracking just a little, low rumble vibrating through his chest. His eyes search yours, stunned. âYou mean⌠pups? With me?â
You nod, cheeks burning hotter, but you donât look away. âYeah. Iâve been thinking about it a lot lately. About⌠us. A litter of little ones. Running around, maybe with your eyesâŚâ You give a small, nervous laugh, fingers twisting in his hair. âI just⌠I want that with you. If you do.â
He stares at you for a long beat, something raw and stunned flickering across his face. Then his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so gently it makes your chest ache.
âBaby,â he breathes, voice rough with emotion. âYou have no idea how much I want that. How long Iâve wanted it.â
You smile, shy but bright, and lean down to kiss him, soft at first, sweet. But when you pull back, something shifts. His pupils are blown, breathing uneven, and you can feel him starting to harden under you.
The shyness recedes, replaced by a slow, mischievous heat.
You trace a finger down his chest, over the ridges of his abs. âYou know⌠if it happens, my bodyâs gonna change. A lot.â Your voice drops lower, teasing now. âThese are gonna get so full. Heavy. And⌠leaky.â
Buckyâs breath hitches. His grip on your hip tightens.
âJesus,â he mutters, flush creeping up his neck.
You press on, voice turning huskier. âImagine it⌠me sitting in your lap, shirt off, letting you taste. Letting you wrap that beard around my nipple while I ride you slow. Milk dripping down while youâre still inside me, still trying to put a baby in me.â
His jaw drops. Eyes go wide, dark, stunned. âFuck baby- you canât just-â He swallows hard, voice cracking again. âYou start all sweet and shy and then hit me with that?â
You giggle, the sound low and a little wicked now, and grind down once, feeling how hard heâs gotten. âCanât help it. Thinking about you breeding me⌠getting me all swollen and full⌠it makes me so wet.â
He groans, deep and wrecked, hands flying to your hips to hold you still like heâs trying not to lose it. âYouâre gonna kill me. Sweet one second, filthy the next. How am I supposed to survive you?â
You slide down his body slowly, dragging your tongue along the deep lines of his abs, tasting warm skin and faint salt, following the trail lower. When you reach the waistband of his sweats, you nuzzle the thick bulge there, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over the fabric. You feel him twitch, hear the sharp inhale above you.
âBaby-â His voice is hoarse, hips jerking up just a fraction.
You hum against him, hot breath soaking through, then pull away completely.
Without a word, you roll onto your side, back to him, curling up like youâre ready to sleep. The t-shirt rides up just enough to bare the curve of your hip and the tops of your thighs, quiet invitation, quiet torture.
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
You can practically feel his eyes burning into your back, hear the ragged edge to his breathing.
A beat. Then the mattress dips. His chest presses flush to your spine, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His cock, rock-hard, settles hot against your ass through the sweats.
âYou think you can say all that,â he growls low against your ear, beard scraping your neck, âget me this desperate⌠then just roll over like youâre going to sleep?â
You bite your lip to hide the smile, staying still.
His palm spreads over your stomach, like heâs already picturing it round with his child. âNot happening, sweetheart. You started this fire.â
He rocks forward once, slow, letting you feel every inch. Then his hand slips lower, fingers dipping under the hem of the t-shirt, sliding between your thighs. Youâre soaked, have been since the first shy words left your mouth and he groans when he finds you bare and slick.
âFuck, youâre dripping,â he mutters, voice wrecked. Two thick fingers circle your clit once, twice, then sink inside you slow and deep. You arch back against him with a soft whimper.
âBucky-â
He curls them just right, thumb pressing your clit in lazy circles while his other hand tugs your thigh up and back, opening you for him. âGonna fill you up tonight,â he rasps against your ear. âGonna fuck you slow and deep until it takes. Until youâre carrying my kid.â
The words hit like a spark. You clench around his fingers, moaning softly.
He pulls his hand free just long enough to shove his sweats down, freeing his cock, thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in you.
âTell me you want it,â he breathes, voice trembling with restraint. âTell me you want me to breed you, baby.â
You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. âI want it,â you whisper, voice shaking with need. âWant you inside me. Want you to come deep and stay there until Iâm full. Please, Bucky.â
Thatâs all it takes.
He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch until heâs seated to the hilt. You both groan at the stretch, the perfect fit. He stills for a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard like heâs trying to hold himself together.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His arm bands around your waist, holding you flush while his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit.
âGonna keep you like this all night,â he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. âGonna fuck you full. Gonna watch these get heavy for me. Gonna taste you when they start leaking.â
The filthy promise, combined with the deep grind of his hips, snaps something in you. You push back to meet every thrust, soft moans spilling out as the pleasure builds fast and bright.
He picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the quiet attic. His beard rasps against your neck as he mouths at your scent gland, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
âCome for me,â he growls low. âCome on my cock while I fill you up. Gonna give it to you- gonna breed you right now.â
The words tip you over. You clench hard around him, crying out his name as the orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat, pulsing, pulling him deeper. He follows seconds later with a broken groan, burying himself as far as he can and coming hard, hot pulses flooding you, hips stuttering like he canât stop.
He stays buried deep, knot swelling inside you, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach. His lips brush your shoulder in lazy, sated kisses.
âGonna stay like this a while,â he murmurs, voice soft now, wrecked and tender. âGonna make sure it takes.â
You hum, content, threading your fingers with his over your belly. âGood,â you whisper. âBecause Iâm not letting you go. Ever.â
The attic is quiet again.
But now itâs full, full of ragged breaths slowing to calm, full of the warm, sticky promise between your thighs, full of maybe, someday little feet on the porch.
Summary: When youâre lost in a sub drop spiral after being ghosted, Jackâs the one person who realizes whatâs actually going on â and knows how to fix it.
Tags/Notes: hurt/comfort, getting together, sub drop, established friendship/maybesomethingship, dom!jack, sub!reader, light daddy kink, lots and lots of praise, body worship, inspection kink, fingering (f), oral (f), aftercare/sweetness, this is really just a very very soft bdsm fic establishing a dynamic itâs not anything wild and is very tame, also langdon is mean in this sorry
Content Warnings: Â the sub drop depicted here is very self-hatred/self-punishment focused. there is also a scene where reader and langdon are handling a complicated high stress emergency birth, jack to the rescue, but if thatâs a potential trigger the scene can easily be skipped past. also a major greyâs anatomy season 11/12 spoiler? in case?
Author's Note: this won the weekly â(finish your) wip wednesdayâ poll by a whopping .8% so just know your vote matters more here than in your national elections!
Word Count: 16.5k
Stupid.
Thatâs the only word youâve been able to use to describe yourself for two whole days.
So stupid it hurts.
Youâre gripping the lip of your bathroom sink hard enough to ache just to ground yourself to some semblance of reality as you try to convince yourself not to call off work. This is a stupid reason to call off work. Itâs a stupid thing to be so upset about in the first place. Youâre being stupid, stupid, stupid. You wash your face robotically, scrubbing hard enough to roughen your cheeks until they sting, and wipe your skin harshly with an old towel. Youâre trying to make your face look alive instead of half-dead like itâs been since Friday night.
Digging through your dirty laundry, you find the most acceptable pair of Figs you can, maroon from last Thursday, and tug them on. You didnât do your laundry this weekend. Couldnât. The scrubs barely cover the bruises at the tops of your arms, a fading reminder of when you still had hope for a new dynamic that could give you what you want. Need. If youâre being honest. You imagine in excruciating detail someone at work catching you with bruises. Fuck, is that a hickey above your neckline? Dammit, you told the guy not to do that. Stupid, desperate, useless â and in med school. Good work, Lefty.
Turtleneck it is.
The whole bus ride over â you miss the first one, of course â youâre just trying not to cry. Eyes burning, breaths shallow, little old ladies glancing your way with concern on their faces. You fidget with your sleeves, pick at your hang nails, anything to avoid checking your phone for the billionth time to see if heâs messaged you or returned your calls or done anything but give you the radio silence thatâs had you questioning yourself every second of every day since he left you in your bed.
Pushing into the hospital, you take a few deep breaths and try to let the familiar sterile smell steady you. The clock in the locker room nags at you for being half an hour late. The tears nip at your waterline again and you focus on the deep breaths, giving yourself mental orders to keep your head on straight. Open your locker. Put your bag away. Clip on your badge. Head to the nurseâs station. Plaster on an apologetic smile and beg.
âIâm so sorry Iâm late,â you say as you check in with Dana. âI missed my bus by, like, thirty seconds and-â
âSave it, kid, we need you working ASAP.â
She hands off your clipboard with notes from the day shift and you pore over it as quickly as you can. With embarrassment burning your lungs, you mumble, âRight. Of course. Thank you.â
You turn around â and walk directly into Langdon after not even three steps.
âThereâs my favorite fourth year,â he sighs sharply. âLate and careless; strong start to the night as usual, Lefty.â
âSorry, Dr. Langdon, I just-â
âCan it. Weâve got an MVC five minutes out and I need you to take my patients in six and nine.â
You nod quickly and take a step back from him because you canât breathe all of a sudden. âNo problem. Let me know if you need anything else.â
âFrom you?â He rolls his eyes. âIâm sure I wonât.â
It cuts you deep. Frankâs been sharp with you for years now and usually it slides right off your back; most nights, you can even match him and reach a point where he borders on respecting you. But not tonight. Tonight, you take the charts from him and walk away, meek as a mouse. Your heartâs pounding and your palms are sweaty just from the way he looked at you. Like youâre stupid.
Because you are.
And everyone knows it.
The universe apparently canât even give you one second of pity, though, because the next person you walk into â shoulders bumping too hard â is Dr. Abbot. Unlike Langdon, though, he immediately steps back. âShit, Iâm sorry. Are you okay?â
Oh god. You canât look at Dr. Abbot right now. Sweet, intense, gorgeous Dr. Abbot. His eyes are always too sharp, seeing right through you, with that edge of paternal kindness that makes your knees weak. With your eyes anywhere but his face, you grimace and reply, âAll good. Donât worry.â
I always worry about you. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze and says, âItâs good to see you, ace. Didnât see your check-in on the shift board earlier.â
Your eyebrows pinch together. You miss the first half of the greeting, of course, brushing past anything nice anyone could have to see about you because it couldnât be true. Instead, that familiar coil of guilt wraps tighter around your throat. âFuck, I know, Iâm sorry, it was just a really slow start to the day and I was running for the bus and I missed it by like thirty seconds andâŚâ
As your voice trails off into self-conscious awareness, he presses gently, âAnd?â
Heâs the first person so far who hasnât interrupted you. So you have to stop yourself because what wouldâve come tumbling out would be way too much for the workplace and especially for Dr. Abbot specifically. You force a half-smile. âNothing. Just a hard weekend. But, yâknow, Dr. Langdon asked me to take his patients, so Iâm getting back on the horse.â
He shakes his head. âHand those off to Javadi; weâve got an MVC coming in.â
You hold onto them like a lifeline, though. âDr. Abbot, I, um, I think Iâd like to keep Dr. Langdonâs patients instead. If thatâs okay with you, I mean.â
He studies you for the spare few seconds he has. âAre you sure? Iâm guessing Langdon was just being a dick. We could use you.â
âNo, I- I donât mind.â Before he can prod, you avert your eyes and stammer out, âIâm, um, Iâm kind of still recovering from the weekend. Need to, I dunno, warm up a little, I guess.â
Jack tilts his head at you. Curious. Eyes narrowing. âAlright. Iâll page Javadi.â
Relief floods you.
The last thing you need right now is pressure. A life in your hands.
Precisely why it was stupid of you to take a risk like you did on Friday. You canât act like this in emergency medicine and you know it. You know it but you still decided to be selfish and desperate and pathetic and-
âI can see you overthinking something from here.â Jackâs hand goes to your shoulder and your eyes snap upwards at the interruption to your derailing train of thought. Suddenly his tone lowers and he takes one small step closer to you. You smell his sharp aftershave. Then he says in that perfectly gravelly voice of his, âYou know you can talk to me, right?â
You hear your voice threatening to break as you reply, âOf course. Thank you.â
But he doesnât move his hand. And he doesnât drop his eye contact. Your heart rate starts to pick up because you can see the care in his eyes and itâs too much for you to cope with. You need to be small, invisible, a crack in the wall he walks past without paying attention to. But he goes on, âI mean it, ace. Everyone has their off days, especially in this job. Find me if you need someone to talk to.â
His offer is so human it borders on hysterical. You honestly want to laugh. Off days. This isnât an off day. This isnât a normal med student having a normal slip in their composure. This is your own fault and you just have to get through it. So you try to muster your courage and assure him, âIâm fine.â
âYou donât always have to be,â he murmurs softly. Then the sound of sirens at the nearest bay takes his attention. You donât catch him cursing under his breath as if the incoming trauma is nothing more than a distraction from being able to talk to you first and foremost. Finally his hand leaves your arm and he repeats, âFind me if you need me, okay?â
With your heart pounding against your chest, you nod. âOkay, Dr. Abbot. Thanks.â
And, finally, blessedly, you can escape.
For once, youâre thankful that Langdon was being a dick. Heâs pawned off two incredibly easy cases to you, which means you can breathe and calm down as you check on them. You definitely give too much attention to the nervous, heavily pregnant patient who has nothing wrong with her but needs reassurance. And you listen to every single concern from the man whose wife took a fall and broke her wrist. Sheâs healthy as a horse otherwise, as she repeatedly insists, but thereâs something soothing about helping him eliminate everything from the mental checklist thatâs been driving him crazy with fear for hours on end. You manage to make it all the way to your lunch break without being snatched into any life-or-death situations, hiding in the comfortable shadows of scut and stitches.
Meanwhile, in every quiet moment of supervising the trauma, Jack replays your conversation. Something about your expression felt too familiar to him. The darting of your slightly glassy eyes, stuck on a skipping record going between thoughtlessness and overthinking a million times a second. Too far away but also claustrophobically close. One hand twitching at your side while the other gripped the chart for dear life. Too many contradictions to fit inside your precious, shallow-breathing body.
As soon as both his patients are stabilized and headed up to surgery, Jackâs scanning the ED for your familiar silhouette. Heâs done two full laps before deciding concretely that you arenât with any patients and you arenât handling any traumas. He finds you in one of the breakrooms, standing with the fridge door open and your brows furrowed.
Just to start the conversation, Jack puts on a soft lilt and tries a joke first. âWhitaker forget his leftovers in there again? Youâre mean-mugging the shelves.â
Slowly, robotically, you close the fridge. Still looking at the handle, you reply, âI thought I packed myself a lunch, but I guess I didnât.â
He doesnât miss how absent your voice sounds. Like a glass shattered on the kitchen floor that youâre trying to piece back together without nicking your bare hands.
Thatâs when Jack realizes.
The hesitation in your movements. The foggy way youâre speaking.
Youâre dropping.
Well, more accurately, youâve dropped. Youâre in the middle of it now.
Jackâs been a dom since soon after he left the army. He missed the structure, the protocol, the sense of control. In emergency medicine, heâs always putting out fires that someone else started. When heâs with a sub, he gets to break someone down and build them back up, to make the decisions and get the rewards that come from them, to be the center of someoneâs universe for even a few moments. More importantly, he has someone to care for. That matters more than he wouldâve admitted when he was a cocky 25 at one of the local kink clubs.
Heâd had suspicions about you before. How you puff up your chest at the slightest praise, how you crave rules and rewards in equal measure, how youâre always so hesitant to answer questions about your personal life and especially your dating life. All things that he could write off easily â but, now, with your eyes clearly searching for something you canât find, the details are slotting into place.
With you still frozen in place, Jack takes his own lunchbox from the fridge. Then he touches the small of your back, nods at the nearby table, and tells you firmly, âSit with me. Have half my sandwich and weâll both get something from the vending machine after. The good one on the third floor.â
You stare at him for a second. Gears grind against each other in your mind. Autopilot flicks on. âThatâs okay, Dr. Abbot, I can just- Itâs alright. Iâll order something to the hospital.â
âYou wonât,â he counters. Soft. Certain. Youâre lying to him and he knows it. His expression says you wonât be getting away with that. He pulls out a chair at the table and insists, âSit.â
Itâs uncomplicated. Direct. Clear.
Your current haze has turned even the most mundane tasks into foreign mazes, but Jackâs decisive, simple instruction feels like a map to get out.
So you sit.
He sits with you.
You try to argue again when he cuts the sandwich in half on the diagonal, but a single look from him quiets it. He slides it over on a hospital paper plate and asks, âWhereâs your water bottle?â
Staring at the objectively delicious-looking sandwich â Jack goes all out with fancy bread and farmerâs market fillings â with no semblance of hunger, you tell him, âI left it in my locker. Iâll go and grab it in a minute.â
He shakes his head and stands. âIâll get it now. Does your locker have a lock on it?â
The answer settles heavy in your gut. You whisper, ashamed, âI forgot to put it on this morning.â
Christ, he wants to strangle whoever left you alone like this. He doesnât know whatâs going on in your personal life â if this is a breakup, a hookup, a mistake â but he knows a good partner wouldnât leave someone who looked even a fraction as broken as you look right now. Most of your coworkers are surely assuming this is just âone of those days.â Even Abbot had thought that at first. But now he can see the splinters in your irises. You canât push through this on your own. You need someone else to put you back together.
Not wanting to overstep or push prematurely, he gently touches the top of your head and says, âJust eat. Iâll be right back.â
Jack swears heâs never made the walk to and from the locker room faster. No matter how fast he goes, though, he canât outrun your racing thoughts. When he returns, you havenât touched a bite of the sandwich, just picking apart tiny pieces of the crust. In that moment, he guesses you havenât had a full meal sinceâŚwhenever this started. He saw you at work on Friday, so sometime this weekend. He sits down across from you and hands over your water bottle. âHere. Drink some.â
You take a few small sips of water and mutter a thank you.
Jack doesnât say anything, but the way he looks at the tiny mountain of crumbs youâre creating on your plate bores through your skin. He knows youâre putting off eating. When he lifts his own triangle to his mouth, you do the same, mirroring his movements. You donât want to disappoint him, too. He swallows, you swallow. He takes a swig of water, you take a swig of water. He doesnât push you to talk, least of all to interrogate you about your mood, but his presence anchors you.
Before you know it, youâve actually finished eating. You hadnât felt hungry, but you somehow notice its absence.
Then Jack smiles at you. Sincere and warm. âGood job. Iâm proud of you.â
The words open up a dusty window in your chest. A touch of warmth and light breaks through the mildew and cobwebs. Objectively, you know itâs silly. Proud of you forâŚeating half his food? For doing the absolute bare minimum to keep yourself alive? But thatâs not what your brainâs saying right now. Your mind is begging for more of his soft affirmations. All you can manage is a soft, âThank you.â
Jack watches you incredibly closely from there. Heâs not sure if he should bring it up to you. That he knows. It would seismically shift the dynamic of your relationship. If he plays it wrong â makes you feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid â then youâre never going to see him as anything but a dom and you as a sub, a permanent power imbalance that goes far deeper than mentor and student ever could. Youâll always feel like a weak, pathetic little thing if he doesnât handle your drop correctly.
While he decides whether or not to reveal his hand, he resolves to help you in a way he knows only he can. Sure, you could go to Dana the way you often do when you need something. You can vent to Whitaker or lean on Ellis. But there are ways he can support you that are unique. Thatâs what he tells himself as he scribbles your name in the journal heâs kept for his past subs, writing out his observations about your current state and how he thinks he can address it. He always makes sure to keep himself in order first and foremost. If he brings his best self to you, heâll inherently help more than if he didnât dedicate time to it.
He resolves to guide you as much as he reassures you, to praise you twice as often as he corrects you, to watch out for you and shield you. And heâll make sure you eat, take your breaks, and donât push yourself too hard. Thatâs what you need to get through this. Someone to see you. Someone to care for you. If heâs careful, you wonât even notice the role heâs going to step into until youâre sure on your feet again.
He tells himself it doesnât have to mean anything. That this isnât an admission of the feelings for you that heâs been shoving deep down for â if his drunken confessions to Robby are anything to go by â years. Youâre older than most of the students in your year, more sure, and kinder. Life has made you kind the same way itâs made you vulnerable. He needs that in his life, a compliment to his closed-off brashness. You bring out his ability to be open with patients and softer with his doctors.
So helping you through this certainly isnât about his feelings. Itâs for the good of the night shift and the hospital as a whole, really.
Really.
After another shit day of sleep and half-finished breakfast, youâre more irritated than anything the next night when you clock in. At least youâre on time today, so there arenât any jabs about your arrival â which is good, considering youâre ready to bite the head off anyone who bothers you. You felt it before you even fell asleep this morning, restless and sweaty. Your racing thoughts have stopped pulling you under and now theyâre just pissing you off. Youâre fidgety and annoyed with fingers that flutter absently at your side and a jumpy heart rate that leaps when anything catches you off guard.
While you flip through the charts left by the day shift, Jack strolls into the ED with two boxes of donuts from a shop he knows you like. He breezes past, giving you a warm smile, and takes them straight to the breakroom. Unsurprisingly, a row of ducklings follows him to snag their favorite ones. You donât bother; your stomach still feels more like a twisted fist than something you actually want to put a meal into. Youâd made it through half a bowl of cereal before your shift, which is the best youâve done on your own since Friday.
But, as you start to put together an order of operations for the first half of the shift, Jack approaches you with his hands behind his back. âMorning, ace.â
âEvening, Dr. Abbot,â you reply without looking up.
âJust wanted to make sure I let you know how good of a job you did yesterday with Mrs. Jacobs yesterday. The pregnant patient with anxiety. She filled out a patient satisfaction survey-â which Jack had personally asked her to do â-and you got tens across the board.â
That perks you up slightly. âReally?â
He nods, happy to see you on the verge of smiling, and grabs an iPad from the charging station. You donât notice him setting down a small box so he can handle it. After tabbing through for a minute, he reads off, ââWhen I left, I felt heard, like she actually cared about me as a person. Itâs the most validated Iâve felt by a medical professional in a long time.ââ Jackâs smile is affectionate. Proud. Like heâs really seeing you for who you are. âGreat work. Bedside manner is one of the hardest skills for doctors to master. Keep it up.â
Trying not to let your lip wobble, you near-whisper back, âThank you for telling me. It means a lot to know I didnât screw everything up yesterday.â
Moving his large hand to your arm, he corrects, stern in a way that makes you bite your lower lip inadvertently, âYou didnât screw up anything.â
âBut I didnât help with that car crash and-â
He shakes his head. Something in the way he does it â maybe the tiny scoff under his breath, maybe the way his silver hair catches the light, maybe just the fact that heâs slowing down your inner monologue â makes you shut your mouth to listen to whatever heâs going to say. He gives your arm one more gentle squeeze and tells you seriously, âBeing a good emergency medicine doctor is about more than scrubbing in for complicated, impressive procedures and saving lives with beating hearts in your hand. Your notes were perfect, you cared about your patients, and you showed up. Itâs the beginning of your career; Iâd say thatâs damn good.â
After biting back tears for a minute, you put on a semi-teasing smile and nudge him. âYouâre being awfully nice today, Dr. Abbot. Compliments, donuts.â
âIâm always nice,â he replies, smirking conspiratorially. He nods back towards the breakroom and asks, âWhatâs your go-to?â
Grimacing, you reply, âI usually get a bear claw, actually.â
âIâm glad I remembered correctly.â Jack takes the smaller box heâd set down and opens it to flourish a big, fluffy, thickly-glazed bear claw like a proud magician, holding it out to you with wax paper. âGot one for you special.â
Your irritation at the day so far breaks. When you look up at Jack, itâs with eyes that are innocent and wide. You take the bear claw from him like itâs an engagement ring or something even more precious. A crown jewel. Your voice goes a little breathless as you ask, âYou remembered my favorite pastry?â
He chuckles, âThe gray adds ten years; my mindâs not going on me yet. Maybe I should dye it so people stop assuming Iâm ancient.â
You giggle, âNo, the gray is sexy.â
You only realize youâre saying it when itâs already tumbled out of your mouth. As pink creeps into Jackâs cheeks, you snap your lips shut and avert your eyes. Fuck, youâre so disoriented you actually said it out loud instead of keeping it in that apparently very, very smooth brain of yours. Stupid. The word thatâs been haunting you just keeps on knocking around your psyche. You stammer out, âSorry, Dr. Abbot, that was- Iâm sorry. Iâm still, um, waking up.â
Then he reaches forward and tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger. The gesture is way too intimate for standing in the middle of the ED, but the world has just narrowed in to the two of you and nothing else, so you donât care in the slightest. God, his hazel eyes. Theyâre smoldering with warmth. You want to curl up by his feet. To have him hold you. To rest under his protection. When heâs satisfied at your eye contact, he slowly withdraws his hand and says, low and firm, âDonât apologize. Eat.â
Thereâs no way out of eating the hearty pastry â itâs not like you can put it in your backpack or trash it right in front of him â so, even though your brain is still screaming that you donât deserve to eat by not sending hunger cues, you take a bite. If nothing else, the soft sugary flavor is nice. Jack doesnât move and you can tell itâs a silent order, like when he ate lunch with you yesterday. So you force yourself to take another bite and then another. When you finish it, you lick the sugary glaze from your fingers and Jack prays you donât notice how his eyes are glued to your pretty lips.
After rolling his shoulders, Jack praises, âGood job. We can get going now. Youâre shadowing me today.â Nodding in another direction, he informs you, âWeâre starting off rounds in trauma four.â
He didnât offer you any other options, so you canât go searching for them. The thousand directions your day couldâve gone in fizzle away into one path: Youâre shadowing me today. His clarity is pure relief compared to the chaos of your mind.Â
You follow behind him obediently and start the shift.
Things make more sense when youâre under Jackâs direct supervision instead of Langdonâs or even Danaâs. You feel more like yourself, like you can trust your own hands because you know thereâs a second pair waiting in case you fail. Any time he lets you take the lead on a minor procedure, even something as simple as sutures, he places a hand on your back or your waist or your arm, never holding you too close or too hard to be suspicious. It doesnât melt you; it builds you. Heâs scaffolding.
Youâre just starting to feel like your feet are firm beneath you when all the attendings are pulled into a major trauma, leaving you unmoored without the north star of Jack for you to follow. Youâre taking a rare moment to fill your water bottle and drink it when you hear Langdonâs voice a few rooms down.â
âLefty, get in here!â He sounds seriously urgent, in his gown and gloves, so you jog over right away. Heâs tying on your gown before youâve even gotten a look at the patient. âYouâve done a vaginal delivery before, yeah?â
Gloving up, you nod and confirm, âA handful â supervised.â
He leads you back into the room where a barely-conscious patient with a gnarly head wound is in very, very active labor. Thereâs a lot of blood around her head and neck; you canât tell whatâs wrong. But Langdon focuses you: âOBâs on the way from her house, but I have to focus on getting mom stabilized up here. Sheâs nearly crowning; weâve gotta get the baby out.â
Standard vaginal delivery. You run through the steps mentally, visualizing the ones youâve both observed and assisted. âHow far apart are contractions? Whereâs she at?â
âTwo and a half minutes. Fully effaced and dilated.â He gives you a pointed look as he resumes his work on the patient. âShould be simple.â
âGot it.â You take your position in front of the stirrups, checking over the equipment that a nurse has prepared for you. After checking the fetal vitals and taking a second to compose yourself, you guide the mother through the next contraction. Despite her obvious exhaustion and pain, sheâs able to push and make progress. You smile and praise her louder than Langdonâs gruff grunting, âHead is out. Youâre doing great, mama, just stay focused on your breathing, okay? A couple more contractions and weâll be done and youâll both be on the road to recovery.â
She gives you a woozy nod and half a smile. No matter how hard sheâs fighting it, you can tell sheâs tethered to consciousness by thread thin as floss.
You watch the next contraction wash over her â and the babyâs head doesnât move. His chin tucks forward a little. Shit. His shoulder is stuck behind her pubic bone. Keeping your voice calm, you tell Langdon, âDoctor, I think Iâm seeing shoulder dystocia.â
Distracted at her chest, he replies quickly, âYouâre going to need to deliver the posterior arm.â
The posterior arm. Right. In this position, you arenât even sure which one that is. You havenât done your OB rotation yet. So you offer, âShould I go and get-â
The patient slips out of consciousness before the questionâs out. Langdon curses as the monitors go off. He snaps at you, âJust pull!â
âNo, thatâs-â
Heâs not listening to you.
Heâs not listening to you and the baby canât take a breath yet.
I know thatâs not the right thing to do. Thatâs not the right thing to do. But what the fuck is the right thing to do?
You know the situation requires very specific maneuvers that you just canât do, especially not without someone very heavily guiding and supervising you. âDr. Langdon, I really think we should switch places at the very least. I can handle stabilizing while we wait for the-â
Sweat on his brow, he shouts back, âShut up and let me focus.â
You nod. Try to steady yourself. As careful as you can be, one shaky hand slips to your pager on your waist while the other desperately tries to stay in place. Your mind races. The babyâs face is still nice and pink, not yet going dusky, so you know thereâs time. But that time is ticking by fast.
You know itâs more dangerous for you to try something youâve never been trained in than to find someone else to take over, even if it uses up the sixty seconds you have before things get serious. So you look at the babyâs straining face and whisper, âItâs okay. Just hang on, alright? Dr. Abbotâs gonna come and help you. He always comes when I need him.â
After a deep breath, you try again, more firmly this time, âDr. Langdon, I donât know how to do the McRoberts maneuver by myself and I canât move from this spot without someone else stepping in. I really, really think we need to-â
Langdon slams a hand down on the table where his equipment is laid out. âYou donât need to think anything! Just fucking get it done!â
The door shoves open behind you, cold air rushing into the claustrophobic space. Jack storms in, grabbing his gown and gloves and moving superhero comic book fast. âWhat the hell is going on that Iâm getting an emergency page for a vaginal delivery?â
Langdonâs hands keep working over the patient as he starts to admonish, âSeriously, Lefty? You paged our-â
You manage to find the courage to cut him off, informing Jack as clearly as you can with your heart in your throat, âBabyâs presenting with shoulder dystocia. OB is on the way but I- I need help. I canât do this. I donât know how.â
Jack rapidly scrubs and assesses the situation. Seeing that Langdonâs doing procedures you couldâve handled while other help came, he barks, âLangdon, why the hell havenât you switched with her?â
âBecause I thought your star pupil could handle one goddamn-â
âSheâs a fucking student, Frank!â Jack shouts back and drops down onto his knees next to you. He places his hands over yours, prepping for the maneuver, and says, âYou can let go, ace. Iâve got him now in plenty of time.â You collapse backwards from the relief as the nearest nurse moves in to assist Dr. Abbot. Your heartâs pounding and tears bite at your eyes. In the split second before he gets to work, Jack makes determined eye contact and orders, âGo get some air. You did the right thing. Iâll find you after.â
Itâs another half hour before Jackâs able to go searching for you. On a normal day, he wouldâve expected you to bounce back, take a quick break, and jump to another patient, probably seeking out Shen to get your hands on something interesting from the ambulance bay. But not this week. Definitely not this week. Jack knows a handful of your usual hiding places, so he scouts through them going from the closest to the patient's room out, using his last break of the night for you.
He finds you in a far, seldom-used stairwell, underneath the first set of steps so youâre completely invisible. The only sign of you is quiet sniffling; Jack opens the door quietly so the sound doesnât startle you. Heâs met by your soft, tentative voice carefully peeking out from behind the stairs. âDr. Abbot?â
Following your voice, he tucks into the dusty corner and sighs. Youâre sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes puffy from panicky tears. You havenât stopped crying since you left the delivery; heâs sure of it. âHey, ace.â
âYou shouldnât call me that,â you whisper. âNot when I keep fucking up whenever someone needs to rely on me.â Before Jack can contradict the self-hatred, though, you swallow hard and ask, âHow are the patients? Did the baby- Did you deliver him okay?â
âBabyâs up to the NICU for monitoring, momâs in surgery.â Jack sighs â heavier than youâve ever heard â and tells you, âLangdon shouldnât have put you in a position like that knowing full well youâre a student and not a doctor yet. He wanted to make the dramatic save, not deliver a baby. Selfish prick couldâve cost both their lives for his own goddamn ego. Iâm filing a report.â
You shake your head and pinch your eyes closed. âI shouldâve-â
âShouldâve what? Ripped a babyâs arm off trying a complex delivery? Let him go hypoxic? Risk a maternal hemorrhage?" Jack leans down and offers you his hand, hoping that youâll take it so he can pull you back out of the ocean of doubt. As he helps you off the floor, he urges gently, âYou did exactly the right thing. You questioned the doctor who was giving you bad orders. When it was obvious he wasnât going to listen, you called for help. Langdonâs gonna take it poorly because heâs an ass, but you were perfect. That was a master class in handling yourself well under pressure.â He touches your cheek, just enough to get your attention, and adds, âMakes me even more certain youâre going to be a great doctor.â
You canât even say thank you. Your throatâs too thick with how badly you needed to hear his sweet and true affirmation after Langdon shouting at you and making you second-guess everything youâve been taught. The problem, though, is that your brain keeps pushing back against it. Your lungs are hot and tight as you struggle to even breathe. Jackâs eyes are just too warm, too kind, too lovely for you to possibly deserve. You hang your head and try to focus on breathing as your thoughts move too fast for you to even get a look at them.
Seeing you falling apart beneath the praise, Jack touches your chin to make eye contact. There are a thousand questions on his lips, but ultimately he asks the simplest one: âCan I hug you?â
It hangs for just a moment too long. Jack doubts himself for a split second.
Then you nod. Itâs tiny, meek, hesitant.
But when he wraps his arms around you, strong and steady, you break. The sobs come hard and fast and frantic as a child lost in a store. Youâre weak and small. You ball your fists up in Jackâs shirt and heave out wicked, fast tears so intense they make you want to throw up. Everything shakes like the chase scene in a horror movie. It hurts.
With his arms absolutely locked around you, Jack orders, stern but soft, âMatch your breathing with mine for a minute. In and out. You can do it.â
You keep sobbing and shaking against his chest, but he stays steady. His chest rises and falls. His breaths are warm and slow against your ear. And eventually the rhythm pulls you out of the fear and the doubt and the panic. Your breaths are trembling and hiccuping, but you manage to force them to calm down.
As you begin to come down, Jack rubs your back and murmurs, âGood. Thatâs good.â
âJesus, this is so stupid.â You sniffle, pulling away from him a bit, and swat at your tears like theyâre parasites. He hates how rough you are when you touch your own skin. Heâd never show you anything but softness. You ramble on, âSorry for being so â I donât knowâ ridiculous the last few days. This isnât- I promise Iâll be better. This is- Itâs a temporary thing. I promise.â
Jack takes your face between two hands. Theyâre calloused and experienced but perfectly and completely gentle. He vows, âIâm here for you â even if it isnât.â
Youâre silent for a long time. The only sound is the soft whooshing of the vents in the stairwell, the cinderblock walls insulating all the chaos of the ED. Realizing slowly that Jack is still holding you close, you whimper, âWhy are you being so nice to me?â
Jack almost scoffs. âBecause you deserve it.â
The response is so immediate you have to believe it: âI donât.â
Sensing that this might be his one opportunity, he asks with nothing but sensitivity on his lips, âWho made you think that? You were fine last week; what happened?â
You drag in one more breath that wavers. Shame is heavy in your gut but youâre spilling it out like vomit, unable to hold it all by yourself anymore. âI- I had this date on Friday night and he- We were having a really good time- What I expected. And then I needed- I needed him to stay but he- he left. And I was alone and I know that doesnât make sense and it sounds crazy compared to how Iâve been acting but-â
âIt doesnât sound crazy.â He cups your face in one hand. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek so sweetly it makes your throat tighten up. Heâs treating you like gossamer. âI understand.â
Biting your lower lip, you reply, sound small and alone, âYou donât. Iâm sorry, but you donât.â
Jack takes a step forward, his body pushing yours, so youâre pressed against the wall.
Placing one hand on the side of your head, he rakes you over with a gaze that burns.
In one look, your whole body turns to melting wax and drifting smoke, burned to the bones by how completely and totally dominant he looks in this moment. Itâs not frightening and you can tell heâs not even trying to be as sexy as he is. Which is very, very sexy. His biceps push against his short sleeves and his jawline is tight and youâve only ever caught flickers of this particular darkness in his eyes. Little moments over the years â protecting one of his doctors, advocating for a patient, taking command of a crash â youâve seen a flash of how heâs looking at you right now.
But you never realized what it is.
Then he repeats, âI understand.â
And itâs clear as day after a long night shift.
âIâm here for you, ace, because I understand completely.â He wraps his arms around you one more time, tight and fast, and says, âUntil youâre through this, Iâm here for whatever you need. You can always come find me. Got it?â
The relief that washes through you is nothing short of heavenly. You needed this. Needed someone to know. Even if Jack isnât your dom, he still sees the truth of whatâs happening. Thatâs enough to matter a hell of a lot. You take a breath â no shaking â and give a tiny smile. âThanks, Dr. Abbot.â
âJack,â he corrects gently. âI want you to call me Jack from now on.â
Dr. Abbot â Jack â wipes your tears, leads you through a few more breaths, and then guides you back to the ED and through the rest of your shift. He makes it perfectly clear that, until you feel back to normal, your job is to stick to him like glue, only leaving his line of sight if absolutely necessary. With that order in your mind, the night ends easily. Your charts are immaculate, your notes clear, your sutures straight as an arrow. All because Jack sees you. Every layer of you.
As youâre collecting your backpack from the locker room â you havenât been changing at work this week because of the bruises all over your body â Langdon approaches you. Jack, idling a few paces away as he waits to walk you out, stiffens up as soon as Frankâs shadow eclipses your light.
âIâm sorry about earlier,â he says quietly. Quickly. Like itâs a shameful secret. âI was in over my head, too, and all the attendings were out, so I just- I snapped. Iâm gonna have to do a review and everything so, just, yâknow, first steps. Iâm sorry.â
âThanks, doctor,â you reply, barely above a whisper. âI understand.â
âAlright, good. Weâre cool, then. Great.â He runs a hand through his hair, touches your shoulder, and says, âSee you tomorrow, Lefty.â
You sigh and force a smile. âBye, Dr. Langdon.â
As Langdon heads out, not even able to look at Abbot, Jack nods for you to join him. You fall into step on the way to the staff entrance and he asks, âWhy do they call you that anyway? Youâre right-handed, yeah? Mustâve started on day shift; I never heard the story.â
The familiar embarrassment of the nickname you canât shake warms your neck and chest. Trying not to sound affected by it, you begin, âLangdon started it. As a joke, I guess, not that it- I donât think itâs funny, obviously. Maybe it is and I just- Whatever. At the end of my first handful of shifts with him. I donât think people even remember why anymore. They just hear a nickname and repeat it. Like Crash.â You shrug a bit, grimace, and explain, âLefty. Because I canât do anything right.â
Jack rolls his shoulders and sucks in a sharp breath.
Rage shreds his ribs apart.
He doesnât exactly need more reasons to loathe Langdon â having him stuck in nights the last month has made him seriously debate his âno groveling to Robbyâ rule â but he knows one thing for certain: Nobodyâs calling you that in his ED again. Nobodyâs going to make you feel small. Not while heâs dedicating himself to building you back up.
Out of nowhere, Jack turns on his heel, takes you by the elbow, and says, âCome on, letâs go to the skills lab. Iâll get us food after. Iâm gonna teach you the damn McRoberts maneuver.â
You donât freeze because youâre in Jackâs orbit, once again following your sunshine, but you still ask, âWhat? Why?â
Jack doesnât even have to look at you; you can feel the intensity in his words. The protectiveness. This is personal to him. He growls back, âBecause youâre not fucking stupid.â
By Sunday night, the last shift of your seven on, youâve actually gotten a full nightâs sleep and eaten a breakfast with real protein and carbs. And honestly? Youâre doing it because you know that Jackâs going to glow with pride when you tell him. Stepping off the bus and into the light, you feel most of the way to being a person. Being yourself.
Jackâs waiting at your bus stop.
You hop into his field of vision and laugh. âWhat are you doing here, Jack?â
âThought you could use some company for your walk,â he replies effortlessly. He takes your backpack from your hand and slings it over his own shoulder. âWeatherâs gorgeous and I thought we could use a minute to check in before the day starts.â
You canât contain the grin that comes with Jack going out of his way for you. Heading toward the hospital, you ask, âAnything in particular we need to check in about?â
He starts simple: âHowâd you sleep?â
âPretty good, actually. No nightmares for once.â
Jack nods, making a mental note. âWhat did you have for breakfast?â
âEggs on toast,â you tell him. The way it feels like youâre reporting back to a teacher about finishing your homework helps your brain get itself in order for the day ahead. Wanting your gold star sticker, you tell him, âAnd I packed a big lunch with a couple snacks for my breaks.â
âGood job. Really good job.â He gives you a smile thatâs nothing short of hunky. âI know you wanted to do laundry last night. Any luck there?â
You shake your head meekly. âI was way too tired. I didnât shower before my shift, either.â
âDid you brush your teeth?â
âYeah, and flossed.â
âThatâs enough for today,â he assures gently. Pushing through the staff entrance, he asks, âHave any plans for your week off besides R&R?â
âI think I should probably take it easy,â you admit with a sad little sigh. âI want to catch up on cleaning and get back into my self care routines.â
âThat sounds like a plan. Iâm off, too; we can call when you need accountability.â
You smile and look at your sneakers, thankful that he canât see your heart stammering for more and more of his attention. âPerfect. Thank you.â
He hands your bag over again before you reach the locker room, not wanting to catch any wayward eyes. âItâs no trouble, ace.â
The way he says it, you believe him. He really doesnât mind carving out space in his life to help you, even if it feels silly and stupid and frivolous at times. Heâs too human to let you fall. The two of you put your bags and lunches away. You fall into step behind him as usual, following him like a puppy to the nurseâs station where he goes through handoff with Robby. You listen intently as he gives orders to everyone, catching up on patients and procedures that need to be tended to.
Once the ED starts churning for the night shift, you go to check on one of your patients from yesterday whoâs still admitted. At the same time, Langdonâs approaching you with a fresh chart, his step peppy. âEvening, Lefty, ready to-â
Jackâs bark â from more than ten feet away at the nurseâs station â interrupts him: âLangdon, câmere a second.â Despite cutting him a suspicious look, Frank walks over to Jack at the nurseâs station. You follow slightly behind, curious. Jack was listening to Langdon with borderline military skill, trained in on a conversation far on the periphery just because you were in it. When Langdonâs close, Jack says, short and direct, âI donât want to hear any of that nickname shit anymore. No Crash, no Lefty. No more putting each other down. Jobâs hard enough as it is.â
Langdon laughs and puts on his puppy dog eyes, gazing over at you as if that could help him get off Jackâs shit list when heâs already deep in it. âAw, but Lefty doesnât mind, do you?â
Jack slams his hand on the counter and snaps, âIf I hear you call her that one more time, weâre going to have a serious problem.â
You try to squeak out, âItâs okay.â
When he turns to you, all the anger leaves his face. Thereâs nothing but softness, that desire to help you right at the surface. âItâs not. Itâs really, really not okay with me. Give us a second, ace.â After you scamper away, headed back to your intended patient (suppressing a smile because you know Jack is about to ream Langdon on your behalf), Jack tugs Langdon close by his scrub top. Frankâs never seen his eyes so dark. âDonât say it again. Or youâre gonna be âRighty.ââ
Langdon rolls his eyes to hide his nerves. âAnd whatâs that mean, gramps?â
âYouâll have nothing left when Iâm done with you.â Jack lets go of Langdonâs shirt and shoves the center of his chest. âBetter yet? Stay away from her. Until HRâs reviewed your case from yesterday, I donât want you within six feet of her.â
âI think thatâs a little bit of an overreaction to-â
âYou donât want to see me overreacting,â Jack bites back. His words are gravel to be picked out of an open wound. âDo your job. Thatâs it.â
The shift is a killer. The kind youâve been dreading all week. Itâs non-stop energy. As a med student, you spend the whole night running around from doctor to doctor, nurse to nurse, jumping in wherever they need you and clearing up paperwork and doing all kinds of scut. The flow is intoxicating and stressful at once, both rejuvenating and draining. You feel your adrenaline spike every time the exhaustion threatens.
But, every step of the way, thereâs Jack. Heâs a whirlwind, but heâs always there. A touch to your waist, a quick word of affirmation, maybe just a brief moment of eye contact to ground you. Even when heâs not actually by your side, you hear his voice in your head. Great work, ace. Smooth and steady. You know this. Youâve got this. Somewhere amid the chaos, that voice mingles with your own. You start to actually believe in yourself again. Jackâs been the scaffolding, but youâre still the structure heâs been repairing. Your breaks have been mended, your scars patched. And in the surfing wake of Jackâs healing, youâve remembered that youâre worth something on your own. Even when you lose sight of it, that canât truly be taken from you.
Youâre so deep in the rhythm of the shift that you barely notice the night passing. By the time Dana taps your shoulder to remind you to take your last break, youâre practically glowing because youâre so proud of yourself for getting through emergency after emergency without breaking down. With your Gatorade and granola bar in hand, you peek around for Jack and frown when he isnât in any of the usual spots. Because itâs become commonplace, you shoot him a text: i cant find you anywhere :(
His text back is almost instant. Just enough time to take his phone from his pocket and type. Roof.
Youâre in the elevator within seconds. The ride up feels ten times as long as usual and the final set of stairs to the roof access is even worse.
Jackâs right where you expect. Where he often is this time of night. Watching the sunrise over the city. His silver hair is illuminated by glowing pink and orange, making him positively radiant as he smiles at you. âGood morning, ace.â
You join him by the railing, taking in the sunshine and opening up your granola bar with a smile stained to your lips. âMorning, Jack.â
His eyes trace every line of your face. A tiny smirk plays with his lips as he notices, âYouâre smiling again.â
âIâm happy,â you hum in return. âI did a thoracostomy all by myself. Shen said I was perfect.â
Jack has to bite his cheek to resist the urge to scoop you up and spin you around. Heâs been fighting all week to see that self-assured smile he loves so much. âIâm sure you were. Thatâs my girl.â
Those two words reverberate around your chest, warm and cozy. The two of you stand in comfortable silence for a minute, you finishing off your granola bar and him admiring either you or the city depending on if youâre at risk of catching him staring or not. As you tuck your trash in your pocket, you nibble your lip a moment and then tell him, âItâs been really nice working so closely with you this week, Jack.â
Eyes linked with yours, he assures, âThe feelingâs mutual.â
You want to ask if thatâs the only feeling thatâs mutual.
But you canât bring yourself to. The fear of his rejection is too heavy. After days of coming to rely on his strength, you canât imagine blowing it and losing the foundation youâve built. Anxious all of a sudden, you ask him softly, âYou really donât think itâs kind of, I donât know, pathetic to be so affected by some shitty one-off dom ditching me?â
Jack scoffs and turns toward you properly. âPathetic?â He gives your hand a quick squeeze, shakes his head, and explains, âWhen you open yourself up like that to a partner, itâs sacred. It means everything. Youâre saying, âhey, hereâs all of me,â even if itâs new. For someone â anyone â to take that trust and use it up and then leave without building it back upâŚâ He swallows hard and runs a hand through his curls. You can tell heâs choosing his words carefully. âHonestly, that makes me fucking sick. Youâre not pathetic in the slightest. He is. If you were my- I would never treat my sub like that. Never.â
You wrinkle your nose like a bunny. âSounds like I might need to raise my standards.â
âIf the standard is basic aftercare and courtesy, Iâd definitely agree.â He leans against the railing, tries not to imagine you as his, and asks, âWhere do you even meet a chucklefuck like that?â
âFetLife.â
âFigures.â Jack takes a long pull from his water bottle like itâs a beer. âHe block you on everything right after?â
You cringe and confirm, âMhmm.â
âWhat a dirtbag.âÂ
âMostly Iâm just mad at myself,â you admit sheepishly. âI was being-â at his challenging eyes, you quickly adjust your wording â-irresponsible. I skipped steps that I usually follow. I wasnât as thorough as Iâve been in the past. All just because I really need to be-â
You close your mouth and laugh at yourself. Yeah, as close as you and Jack have gotten this week, he definitely doesnât need to know how that sentence was going to end.
Jack takes a deep breath and sighs it out. No matter what you need from a dom, he knows exactly how heâd give it to you. But this isnât the time nor the place to broach the possibility of that. He just tells you, âWeâve all done shit like that when times are tough. The important thing is bouncing back and learning.â
You giggle at the idea. âYouâve made some reckless kinky decisions?â
âOh, absolutely,â he laughs. âLast one? Summer 2021. Post-pandemic munchies, if you will.â
Your eyes widen. Jackâs being playful with you. ItâsâŚeverything. âSeriously?â
âEnded up hogtied suspended from the ceiling.â He shakes his head at himself again. The way he chuckles is worth drinking down. âI had to use my Alexa to call Robby to get me out. Never gonna live that one down.â
Your brainâs positively tingling. âYouâre a switch?â
âNo,â he confirms, saying it like the ideaâs ridiculous, âbut I like to try things out myself before I have a sub do them. Call it a safety obsession. I donât screw around with unnecessary risk. Submission is a gift; I protect that gift. Treasure it.â
Fuck, thatâs hot.
You want to drop to your knees.
He can taste it in the air.
Into the way-too-thick silence, Jack urges, âSo stop punishing yourself. We all crave that connection and sometimes it gets the better of us. Just keep yourself safe; thatâs all you can do.â Then he opens up his arms and offers, âCâmere.â
Itâs impossible not to slide into the embrace. The morning air nips at your ears but Jackâs warmth counteracts everything. Your hands settle just below his ribs; you can feel the taut muscles beneath his shirt where you fist your fingers in the fabric. He sighs into the hug, deepening it with his breath, and you just breathe together like that for a minute. Maybe two. Maybe five. In, out. Jack, you.
âYouâve done such a good job this week. Itâs so hard to put yourself back together when someone takes advantage of you,â he murmurs against your ear. âIâm so proud of you.â
Sweet and placid as soothing chemicals bristle through your body, a mix of lightness and laughing and desire, you coo against his impossibly broad chest, âThank you, daddy.â
The moment you hear the word tumble from your lips, you stagger away from him like youâve been shot. Anxiety strangles you. All of the calm, earned confidence of the previous moment sloughs off and sheds at your feet, leaving you raw and exposed. âOh god- Oh god I- Iâm so sorry. That wasnât- I donât know why I said that. I was just feeling so safe and- I promise that- Fuck fuck fuck Iâm so-â
âDonât you dare,â he almost snarls, the sudden flare not directed at you but at anything thatâs ever made you believe it. The low rumble of his voice is downright possessive. âDonât you dare call yourself stupid again after all the progress youâve made this week.â
Jack takes your hand and tugs you back to face him. Close. No disgust in his eyes like youâd feared. Tears flood your cheeks and land on your chest, darkening your shirt. Youâre on the verge of hyperventilating now. You canât bear to look at him, the shame too hot and too alive, so he bends down, catches your eyes, wipes your tears. He pulls you into an embrace and kisses your hair, over and over, until you realize heâs not shutting you down but letting you in.
When he feels you shaking from the intensity of your vulnerability, he rests his chin on your head, creating a cocoon with his body, and breathes, âMy sweet, sensitive girl. I hate that youâve had to be so scared and so brave when all you need to thrive is someone to take care of you.â Touching his forehead to yours, he pleads tenderly, âWould you let me take care of you?â
Your heartâs fast-beating in your throat.
The sunâs risen now and the sky is blue.
The sky is blue.
Jackâs pager goes off and he sighs, checking it with furrowed brows. The bubble of the moment pops. Still, he doesnât move. He holds you. Lets the intensity fade naturally. He urges, âI need to get back onto the floor, sweetheart. Would you come home with me so we can talk?â
âI think-â You swallow hard and try to tamp down the butterflies whirling around inside of you at a thousand miles a minute. Deep breath. You bite your lower lip a minute, then smile, then nod. âI think Iâd like that, Jack.â
He kisses your forehead. It lingers a moment. Like heâs breathing you in to fortify himself for the rest of the shift. âWait by my car at the end of your shift.â
Itâs actually Jack who ends up waiting for you, but he doesnât seem to mind as you jog up to his truck with a bashful smile. Sweat clings to your hairline from the last few tasks of the night and your scrubs are rumpled and you know you look like hell, but Jackâs gazing at you like a damn princess on a throne. He wraps you in a quick hug and confirms, âYou still okay with this?â
âCompletely and totally,â you confirm â but your voice shakes a bit. Itâs a mix of nerves and excitement and adoration and so many more things you donât even have words for.
Jack notices. Of course he does. He makes sure nobody can see the two of you around his truck and then leans in, hand going gingerly to the side of your face. âWhat are you thinking?â
âIâm nervous,â you admit, biting your lip for a moment.
Jack touches his thumb to the place where your teeth connect. âWe need to work on that habit.â
Your cheeks warm, especially hot where his hand lingers. âWe?â
He gives you a cute, sly smirk. âI have a funny feeling that Iâm going to be holding you accountable very soon.â Dropping his hand, he walks you around to the passengerâs side, opens the door for you, and then goes back to slide in next to you on the bench seat. Turning over the engine and heading out of the parking lot with his arm slung behind your shoulders, he urges, âTell me what youâre nervous about.â
It takes a minute to recover from the feeling of Jackâs arm hair tickling the back of your neck, so simple and so sexy itâs hard to think straight. When youâve finally accepted that Jack is comfortable with touching you so easily now, you glance at him sideways and reply, âI just like you, honestly. A lot. And I feel like maybe this could be, yâknow, something big. Something good and important and- and real.â
His eyes flick over to yours. His expression manages to be both teasing and warm. âAnd that makes you nervous.â
âYeah.â You stifle the corresponding laugh that threatens. âReally nervous.â
His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your arm, and to your thigh. Even through your scrubs, the touch sparks with electricity. âIâm sure I can fix that in no time.â
Your breath catches in your throat and a nervous laugh makes its way out. âTouching my thigh certainly isnât helping with the nerves.â
âYour nerves arenât a bad thing,â he replies simply. His hand slides toward your inner thigh, pinky brushing the seam. âThat just means you care about how this goes. Youâll feel better the more comfortable you get and youâll get more comfortable when you realize Iâm not going anywhere.â Then, as he pulls off into a lush neighborhood full of old, cozy family homes surrounded by spring blooms, he tells you, almost whispering, âIâm nervous too, if that helps.â
You scoff, torn between wondering which of these expensive houses belongs to Jack and actually paying attention to him. âWhat could you possibly be nervous about? Youâre the hot salt-and-pepper doctor who always swoops in to save the day. Iâve seen enough Greyâs to know where that gets you.â
He eyes you and chuckles. âBrain dead due to a delayed CT scan?â
âI meant more âable to fuck any med student you want,â but Iâm absolutely thrilled to know youâve seen the show.â
As he parks the truck in the driveway of perhaps the cutest storybook house youâve ever seen, he replies modestly, âWell, Iâve never wanted to fuck a student before.â
Giggling so that you donât have to acknowledge the butterflies once again launching into your chest, you tease, âI donât believe you for a second.â
Jack snickers; the idea is so ridiculous to him. âCross my heart.â
He gets out of the truck and then opens your door, offering a hand to help you down the step. When youâre on your feet, he grabs your backpack and shoulders it along with his own. Then he leads you inside the front door, which opens into a living room outfitted in soft fabrics and neutral tones. Youâd pegged Jack for being modern and industrial, lots of leathers and woods, but the reality is far more intimate and endearing.
Like he can read your mind, Jack mutters, âDonât be too impressed; I hired some lady who wore too much turquoise to pick all the stuff out when I bought the place.â
âItâs nice,â you say, really only speaking so that you donât retreat back into your nerves.
He nods toward the nearby couch â plush boucle like a cloud â and says, âSit down; Iâll bring you something to eat and then you can shower.â
âI donât have a change of clothes.â
He sets both your bags on the floor and says, âIâll grab you something of mine to wear.â
Once youâre sitting on the couch, your posture a little too stiff, Jack kneels in front of you. He methodically unties each of your shoes and then slides them off your feet to set by the door where heâs abandoned his. Your heart stutters. Heâs so fucking gentle with you. After pressing a kiss to each of your knees, he stretches himself upwards and instructs, âJust relax for a minute. Iâll be right back.â
As he leaves the living room for the adjacent kitchen, you try to get comfortable. You imagine Jack curled up here with a book or his laptop, walking up the nearby stairs to his bedroom, which has a lofted split-level balcony overlooking the living room. Fuck, his bedroom. Youâre going to find out what Jack Abbotâs bedroom looks like. Does he have a soft mattress or a firm one? Does he sleep on one side or in the center? Does he make his bed before work? Shit, of course he does. Thatâs obvious from, well, everything about him.
Jack returns with two steaming plates of fried rice and orange chicken, already apologizing as he sits by your side. âNot the sexiest meal I couldâve offered, but I didnât think weâd be doing this tonight.â
âLeftover takeout is fucking perfect after tonight,â you assure him, digging in right away. After youâre satisfied by a few bites, you nudge his knee with your own and ask, âDidnât think weâd be doing it tonight or didnât think weâd be doing it at all?â
âTonight,â he replies. Blunt. Immediate. âI didnât want to push you. Or do things too soon. Be too much. But I wasnât going to let you go home thinking youâd made a mistake by calling me-â
âDonât say it,â you blurt out. âItâs too embarrassing.â
âIâm not allowed to say it?â Mischief lights up his eyes and he turns his body properly towards you, setting his plate on the coffee table. Then he says, way too sexy for his own good when heâs being torturously cutesy, âDaddy, daddy, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Hi, daddy. Yes, daddy. I need it, daddy.â
You shriek, hands flying over your face. âJack, please!â
âOooh, I love that one,â he purrs, pouncing on you like a leopard. You lean onto your back as he cages you between his arms. A grin splits your lips open even if youâre way too exposed to meet his eyes. His knee slots between your legs, right against your core, and delight bubbles up in your core. He nips up your neck and teases mercilessly, âPlease, daddy, stop it, daddy, Iâm so embarrassed, daddy, itâs too much, daddy.â
Your face is absolutely burning and you squirm in your skin, covering your silly grin because Jackâs lightness is so delicious you can hardly stand it. âFine, fine! Itâs not embarrassing, you win!â
Finally he relents, letting you breathe in the laughing quiet, and says, âI liked when you called me daddy. A lot. I hope it wasnât for the last time.â
And then youâre kissing him.
You physically canât stop yourself from pulling him down by his scrub top, letting him bracket you with his weight, and crashing your lips into his. Youâll forever remember the way he laughs into that first kiss, bright and vibrant, not shying away from being as silly with you as he is sweet and stern. When you pull back, a little breathless, you insist, âIt definitely wasnât the last time.â
He kisses you again. Slower this time. Tongue gentle but insistent. Hand on your waist, over your stomach, in your hair. Against your lips, he murmurs, âGood girl.â
And you know youâre done for. Youâre soaking wet from thirty seconds of teasing and your mind is a serene summer lake. Heâs got you. Hook. Line. Sinker.
Jack maneuvers himself off of you, shaking his head and laughing under his breath one more time.
The two of you finish eating in a charged but comfortable silence, legs brushing, smiles threatening, everything becoming easy. Your nerves are still beyond present but theyâre hotter now, sharper, more exciting. You donât dread; you want.
After clearing your plates â he insists that you donât need to do anything â Jack offers you his hand and says, âCâmon, sweetheart, letâs go upstairs.â
You take his hand eagerly. Outside of the hospital, you donât have to worry about anything when it comes to Jack. Neither of you ever mentions this being an out-of-bounds relationship, whether because of age or status, because it doesnât matter. Nothing matters but Jackâs hand around yours, leading you up the stairs toward his bedroom suite.
Itâs perfectly neat, which youâd expected, but there are undeniably more signs of Jack here. Itâs his sanctuary. The books on his shelves downstairs are neat and new; the ones in here are dog-eared and leafed through time and time again. Elbow crutches lean against the wall next to the bed. On the nightstand, thereâs a pair of reading glasses, a folded plug-in heating pad, a small black Moleskine notebook, and an old-school analog alarm clock.
Jack opens up the door to the spacious en suite bathroom and the closet before telling you, âHave a shower. Iâll use one of the guest bathrooms.â He throws a wink at you and adds, âFigured youâd like a chance to snoop uninterrupted.â
You scrunch up your face. âOkay, youâre not wrong, and I hate you for that, but what about your shower chair? Pull bars? Donât make things harder for yourself for me.â
âYouâre so considerate,â he sighs affectionately. A little quieter, he adds, âYouâre so fucking special; you have no idea.â After another beat, he goes on, âAll the showers in the house are accessible, though, so don't worry. Lots of other stuff around the place, too â lower table and counters so I can use my chair while I cook, pull-down shelves so I donât have to strain, voice-activated lights so I donât have to move. New construction perks.â
âThatâs awesome,â you say, sounding almost drunk, very distracted by the fact that heâs stripping off his shirt and tossing it in his hamper. Absently, you add, âIâll have to think about what I can do in my apartment to make things easier.â
He smiles to himself again. Considerate. He loves loves loves that about you. Even though he wants to say âjust stay here with me whenever you want,â heâs grateful for your thoughtfulness. Youâll make the perfect little plaything for him, always eager to please. If it were any other day, heâd tease you unrelentingly for how youâre ogling his bare chest, make you list off every pathetic thought youâre having when you see him, but this morning, he has other goals. So he just repeats, âShower. The towels on the rack are clean. Take whatever you want to wear from the closet. Iâll only be a few minutes.â
You nod obediently, feeling yourself slipping into a soft headspace with Jack watching out for you every step of the way. He gives you one more soft kiss before leaving you alone. Since he invited you to, you decide to do just a little snooping. The bathroom is categorically boring. Thereâs supplies for caring for his residual limb, a perfectly organized skincare routine that impresses you, and a medicine cabinet that screams of order. Medication labels facing out â an antidepressant and a blood pressure pill, not particularly surprising â next to a pill case thatâs clearly never experienced a missed dose. Naturally, Jack Abbot is a religious floss pick and mouth wash user.
Showering with Jackâs products is weirdly and wonderfully intimate. Youâre wrapped up in his scent, all woodsy and sharp and masculine, as steam curls around your body like a loverâs touch. The water pressure is amazingly harsh and there are shower heads on both far walls. Itâs built for showering together. God, youâve never met someone who manages to be so hot when he isnât even in the room.
After your shower, itâs time for snooping in the closet. The surface level is boring â how could one man own so many white, gray, black, and navy clothes? â but you find some hidden gems. For example, most of his boxer briefs are patterned. Red hearts, peaches, bumble bees, dinosaurs. Thereâs so many you wonder if he has one of those subscription services for new cute ones every month or something. Heâs also got a collection of old band tour tees. If these are all from concerts, he mustâve spent a few years dirtbagging following bands around. Green Day, Nirvana, Oasis, Blink-182. You tug on a Rage Against the Machine one, worn and soft, and some heather gray boxer briefs.
Once youâre dressed, you discover an entire dresser in his closet dedicated to kink gear, neatly organized and methodically maintained. Ropes in different colors and materials, sets of restraints from cuffs to straps, implements you only recognize from the couple of clubs youâve visited where more experienced people did scenes for everyone. Crops in more than one size, a bamboo paddle full of holes, a many-tailed flogger, a fiberglass cane. An entire range of sensations waiting to be inflicted. A ball gag, a bone bit gag, a ring gag with a large opening. The toy collection is particularly impressive. Dizzying almost. A flight of butt plugs in different sizes alongside small and large beads, different clit-sucking toys, vibrating wands from pocket-sized to plug-in beasts. Your nightstand drawer pales in comparison, even with your blindfold and bunny tail plug at the ready.
Your whole bodyâs tingling with anticipation.
Suddenly Jackâs voice behind you snaps you back into reality. âSnoop to your heartâs content?â
You turn to him, eyes widening when you see him still shirtless, gray sweats slung low, the outline of his soft cock mouthwatering. You give a sheepish smile and admit, âI absolutely did.â
He takes a step closer. Predator to prey. âFind anything you like?â
âMhmm.â
âWant to share with the class?â
You shake your head and giggle, âUh-uh.â
âKeeping your cards close to your chest I see.â He smirks and closes the distance between you, hands going to your waist. Discovering the slope of your hips. His thumbs rub circles along yours sides. His eyes devour you. He runs his fingers lightly beneath the hem of the tee, checking to see which one youâre wearing, and praises, âYou look good in my clothes.â
âYou look good. Period.â Finally, you let yourself touch him. Careful. Your fingertips on his stomach. You can feel the strength of his stomach beneath a soft layer of comfy middle age fat. His chest hair is wispy and silver. Freckles dust his shoulders, sparkling down his chest and arms. You dip down and kiss a few particularly enticing clusters, just needing to taste his skin, clean and yielding. He hisses in a breath when your lips make contact with his collarbones. You feel his abs flex beneath your hands like heâs holding himself back from demolishing you. Lifting your eyes again, you tell him, âYouâre really beautiful, Jack.â
âAnd youâre exceptionally sweet,â he replies. Studying your expression like only he can, Jack checks in, âHow are you feeling? Tired? Nervous?â
You shake your head and nudge up onto your toes so your lips are even with each other. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, give him a soft kiss, and murmur, âHorny.â
As he chuckles â youâre getting addicted to his low raspy laugh â you deepen the kiss and press yourself against him. The warmth of his chest, the safety of his arms. His hands go to your waist and then they part, one going to loop around to your lower back and the other cradling the back of your head. Embracing you. Cradling you. Cherishing you.
You feel his cock hardening against your hip and try not to smile too self-satisfactorially. Honestly, it boosts your ego a bit to know you get him as worked up as he gets you. You reach down to palm him through the sweats with a hungry little moan when you feel how thick he is.
Then Jackâs hand covers yours. When your eyes open in surprise, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers, telling you, âNot today, baby.â
Your eyes water immediately. Your headspace is so vulnerable that rejection feels unbearably heavy, especially from Jack. Blinking back the tears that make you feel pathetic, you manage to whimper out, âYou donât want me?â
Jack shakes his head ardently, seriously, and assures, âI want you, sweetheart. I want you more than anything.â Touch as soft as if he were handling a FabergĂŠ egg, his thumb traces your cheek and his eyes stay on your face. He explains, low, slow, serious, âBut Iâm not going to fuck you today. Right now, you donât need my dick; you need someone to take care of you. I want to be that someone for you from now on.â
Hope and gratitude pools inside you. âFrom now on?â
He smiles at you, so warm itâs like a home-cooked meal in the dead of winter. âThis week Iâve realized I canât go on pretending I donât want you to be mine â and only mine.â
You repeat gently, âYours.â
âMine.â His first finger drags along your jawline. Inspecting. Discovering. âIf youâll have me.â
You give a tiny nod and gently whisper, âI need you. I want you.â
âThen I make the decisions today. I decide what you need from me and when â because you obviously need me to tell you what to do, you silly little thing.â
As you start melting beneath his intense, owning gaze, he positions you in the center of the room. Trying not to squirm under his gaze, you ask, âIf youâre not going to fuck me, what are you going to do?â
Jackâs lips trace the tendons of your neck. The only contact between you. He places feather-soft kisses that make your toes curl. When his lips reach your pulse point, just beneath your ear, he breathes out, âIâm going to worship you.â
âJack, I-â You swallow hard and let out a deeply pathetic high-pitched whine as his breath tickles your rising goosebumps. âI donât even know what to say.â
âThen donât say anything,â he replies easily. You can tell heâs being so sincere and so wanting as he insists, âLet me do all the thinking. Just let go for me. Let me take everything for you. Can you do that?â
Despite your shaking breath, you tell him, âIâll try.â
âThatâll do for now,â he assures, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. Then he steps back and informs you, âIâm going to take a good long look at you now. I want to learn every inch of my new favorite toy. Is that okay?â
âVery okay,â you confirm breathily. The word âtoyâ has sent you through the stratosphere and into the stars. âAnd you donât have to ask permission.â
âI do,â he corrects, eyes roving along your limbs instead of meeting yours. Though you can see the lust plain as day in the pink of his cheeks and the quickening of his breath, his gaze is more scrutinizing than desiring. Clinical. Doctor Jack Abbot. âUntil we establish your safewords and I learn to read you, Iâm always going to ask when I start something new. Youâre in charge here.â
Even though you nod, you definitely donât feel in charge when he starts to examine you like a piece of furniture heâs thinking about buying. First, he takes your shirt off. Itâs borderline unceremonious; the fabric is nothing more than a distraction between him and his possession. Thatâs what you feel like. A possession. His hand-selected treasure to keep and cherish and know. When the air conditioning perks up your nipples, your breaths get heavier and you squirm, shifting your weight eagerly from foot to foot just to get some friction against your clit.
In that gravelly voice of his, he orders,âBe good.â
God, heâs reading your mind.
Then he lifts one of your arms, turning your hand over to expose your pulse, where he places a kiss that embeds itself into your veins and pumps straight to your heart. Then he lifts your arm with one hand and drags the other down your side, tracing the entire length of you from fingertip to hip, stopping only at the waistband of your underwear. When he grazes the side of your breast, not paying attention to the sensitive skin but just skating by, you can literally feel wetness pooling between your legs. Which is new. You usually have to use lube or a hell of a lot of foreplay with a new partner, but you have a feeling that getting you wet isnât going to be an issue for Jack.
And heâs noticed.
Of course he has.
On his way to the other side of your body, he taps your inner thigh and orders, âWiden your stance.â
Once you do, his fingers drag up the damp center of his own gray boxer briefs, darkened with your wetness, eyes locked to your face to memorize every reaction. He bends down to kiss your stomach and then over your hip, tongue writing in cursive along the stretch marks youâve had since puberty. He runs his index finger underneath the waistband of the underwear, still refusing to touch you anywhere that you really crave. He smiles, almost to himself, and coos, âYouâre already being so good for me, baby. Iâm going to have so much fun with you.â
Breathily, you moan, âJack, if youâre not gonna fuck me, you should probably stop turning me on so much.â
His movements still and he gazes back up at you with challenging eyes. âI didnât say I wasnât going to get you off.â
You whimper. Literally whimper.
Jack tugs down the underwear, carefully sliding them down your legs and then helping you step out of them. His hands roam all along your legs, bristling every single hair follicle and goosebump and nerve, the whole time heâs talking. Unrelenting touch. âLook, baby, sometime soon â very fucking soon if I have anything to do with it â weâre going to sit down and have a good long talk. Iâm going to write down all of your limits and commit them to memory and tell you mine. Youâre going to tell me all about your history with doms and vice versa. Youâll tell me every single thing your brain and that pretty little pussy of yours want â no matter how embarrassed that makes you. And Iâm going to use all that information to be the best fucking dom youâve ever had. The kind you actually deserve.â
With your breaths speeding up and shallowing, Jack finally touches your nipples. One thumb on each. So gentle. So fucking stupidly awfully gentle. Barely more than a ghosting breath. Somehow thatâs way sexier than if he shoved you onto the bed and took you as hard and as fast as you know heâs craving. His self control is honey.
Standing up again, Jack rests his hands on your waist, kisses you, and says, âUntil then â until I know everything I need to know â you have to be good and take what Iâll give you. No brattines or begging. Because the most important thing to me is always going to be keeping you safe, princess. Youâre still coming out of some really nasty sub drop; Iâm not going to do anything intense to you right now that might send you back under. And Iâm always intense when Iâm fucking.â His eyes own yours and he goes on, âIâm just gonna get you off enough times to know youâll sleep well in your new daddyâs bed. That sound good to you, sweet girl?â
You nod eagerly, chest rising and falling with lust as he plays with you.
Jack tuts, the sort of sound youâd make at a puppy having an accident. With his dominant fingers teasing gently through your pubic hair, he instructs, âYou have to use your words with me. Youâre gonna figure it out soon enough on your own, but Iâm big on talking. Wanna hear that sweet voice say the filthiest things. Tell me what you want.â
You bite your lower lip until his eyes catch you red-handed. Youâre so desperate for him that youâre stupid all of a sudden â stupid in the best way. Not the âstupidâ youâve been weaponizing against yourself. No, this thoughtlessness is safe and breezy. Itâs anticipation and toes curling and trust. Youâve never had a dom place so much focus on you. Not just tossing you around and calling you names but getting inside of your head and making you viscerally present in the moment. It has you tongue-tied and wide-eyed.
Jack crosses his arms over his chest and insists, âIâll wait as long as it takes. Deep breaths.â
You match your breathing with his for a minute, one thing that always makes you calm down. He notices, slowing his breaths, guiding you without saying a word. When you can finally come up with the words, theyâre so wanting and breathless it honestly surprises you even in your current state: âTouch me, daddy.â
Pure want blows Jackâs pupils wide and dark and all-consuming.
âThereâs my good girl,â he purrs, closing the small distance between your bodies. âOn the bed. Spread your legs and get comfortable. And I mean actually comfortable â donât try to pose yourself for me. I promise youâre always going to look sexiest when youâre not overthinking it. Understood?â
With lust filling your every nook and pore, you sit back on the large, comfortable bedâs silky soft linens and tell him, mustering the confidence you know he wants, âUnderstood.â
He gives you an approving nod â so you get comfortable. You move his many pillows around until youâre fully supported and relaxed. Legs spread. His eyes are locked onto your glistening pussy, so inviting to him it might as well be his drug of choice. He sits in front of you on the bed and breathes, âJesus, your body isâŚfucking perfect. No other way to say it. Iâve imagined this so many times I canât believe youâre even more gorgeous than I pictured.â
âYouâve pictured me naked?â
Unashamed, he grabs rough handfuls of your inner thighs just to watch you gasp and writhe as he answers, âAbsolutely. Iâve spent hours and hours on these thighs alone.â
Jack bends down and drags his teeth over your sensitive flesh. His canines dig in just slightly, clearly testing the waters, learning your sensitivity. He lets up only when you let out a sharp cry, nowhere near your personal limit but enough to discover your first pain threshold.
âAnd your hips,â he croons, kissing one as he grips the other. His hands are so strong and commanding; you canât help imagining how good that exact grip would feel wrapped around your neck while he pounds into you. As his thumbs rub circles into your waist, he sighs, âYou have no idea how many times Iâve imagined bending you over just so I can grab these perfect fucking hips. Look so good even in your damn scrubs.â
Then he finally lets himself gaze at your tits. Heâs looking at your body like youâre a piece of meat. You never understood that phrase until now; Jack Abbot looks like he wants to devour you. Stone-cold serious, he nods and remarks, âThese may be the prettiest nipples Iâve ever seen in my twenty years as a doctor.â
You let out a self-conscious laugh. âThatâs your medical opinion?â
âPurely objective, I assure you,â he replies, wearing that sexy smirk of his. Then he bends down, one palm by your head, and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. The way his eyes flutter shut spikes your confidence like little else ever has. Heâs positively rapturous. He really has been envisioning this moment longer than you wouldâve let yourself dare believe. When he sucks hard, he pinches and rolls the other side between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, your legs snap up to wrap around his hips as you gasp. With a satisfied groan, he lets up and confirms, âYup, the best. Objectively the best.â
Then he gives you a slow, unhurried kiss. His index finger tilts your chin upward and he tells you, voice like a lullaby, âOnly thing better is this pretty face of yours.â His thumb parts your lips, gently brushing the tender places where you bite your lower lip. âIâm going to take the best care of you, princess. Treat you better than you even thought possible.â
You believe him.
You believe him.
In response, you open your lips further and take his thumb into your mouth. When you swirl your tongue around the digit, he fights to suppress a moan. You see it in the flex of his stomach and the setting of his jaw. He admires the shape of your lips wrapped around him, imagining how lovely itâll be to watch them stretch around his cock. Soon, he reminds himself so that he can stay calm. As he withdraws his thumb slowly, he poses, âFuck, youâre gonna take care of me, too, arenât you?â
You nod, all mischievous and coy. âIâm gonna be your new favorite hobby.â
âI donât have a single doubt about it,â he chuckles. Drawing his hand down once more â your neck, your chest, your stomach, your pubic hair â he orders, âNow look me in the eye while I fuck you with my fingers for the first time.â
He knows youâre fucking soaked, so thereâs no question of whether or not you can happily and comfortable take his two fingers sliding into your entrance. As he gradually pushes them inside, you let out a sound that starts as a moan and turns into a squeaky, pathetic little thing that lights Jackâs brain on fire with need. Your eyes start to roll back from finally getting the attention you need, but Jack grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces your face to center. âI said look at me.â
Your doe eyes lock onto his.
He curls his fingers back toward himself, right against your g-spot, and your mouth falls open with pleasure and need. His thumb moves upward to find your clit effortlessly, adding firm pressure. You nearly weep out, âThank you, daddy.â
Jack smiles in earnest. âYouâre welcome, baby. You can relax now. Just enjoy yourself for a while.â
You half-giggle/half-moan, âYes, sir.â
Jack snickers. âMmm. Thatâs what I like to hear, pretty girl.â
Then the time for talking and flirting is over. Jack shifts his weight so he can focus completely on getting you off. He twists his wrist so that you feel the full thickness of his two middle fingers as he works them in and out of you, not so much thrusting as massaging. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand replace his thumb, adding more precise pressure around your clit in methodical circles. You go between watching Jackâs rapt face, locked on your swollen pussy, and closing your eyes, lost in the way his fingers stretch you and please you.
You feel the orgasm building for a hell of a long time before Jack finally lets you fall over the precipice into pleasure. Itâs slow and controlled, the way he works you up, like carefully turning a corkscrew. So when he does finally decide youâre ready to cum â youâre grinding against his hand, moaning and whining, babbling out cute little pleas â itâs champagne. You burst into a million bubbles that run down Jackâs greedy hand and wrist.
The whole time, thereâs his voice. Insistent and low. Good girl, thatâs it, right there, huh? Joining you all the way through. Never letting you get lost. When you open your eyes at the peak, you find his hazels staring back at you. His tousled hair. His freckles. His everything.
When youâve finally simmered through all the aftershocks, you expect Jack to pull back and put you to sleep. But he doesnât. He leans forward and replaces one of his hands with his mouth, tongue effervescent on your over-sensitive clit. You whine out his name and he just grunts into your pussy, making it perfectly clear that he wonât be letting up any time soon. Not until heâs satisfied with how totally blissed out he can get you using nothing but his mouth and hands. Itâs an ego high like no other to have you losing yourself all over his tongue. His high-strung, deeply competent student turned into nothing but babbles and whines like a needy toddler.
With you falling â no, leaping â into that perfectly simple headspace where nothing exists but the bliss between your legs, Jack lets himself get drunk on your taste. Bitter and sweet, creamy and sharp, like a custom cocktail of summertime and holidays. Heâs finding himself dipping in deeper, nose on your clit, tongue deep in your cunt, just chasing the high of you.
He feels a fresh wave of wetness and your pussy fluttering around his fingers and he knows youâre close again. Your moans get deeper and slower. Youâre relaxing into him now â no hiding, no acting, just pure admission of need. He can feel you becoming his as surely as he can feel the muscles of your thighs tightening around his ears and neck. No better accessory than a woman getting off. Jack focuses his tongueâs attention on your clit, staying firm and strong against it, while his fingers speed up and grow more intense. Curling. Insistent. Fuck, his forearms look so good when heâs pumping his hand like this. When he adds a third finger to your hungry cunt, your whole body shudders, back arching, thighs clamping, fingers in Jackâs hair, moans rolling out of your mouth and down your body and straight into Jackâs ears.
You cum again and think that has to be it â youâve never even been together before, for Christâs sake â but Jack doesnât let up. Not completely. His turns his touches slow and light, caressing instead of consuming, but youâre the exact opposite â bucking like a bronco from the overstimulation of him latching onto your swollen, sensitive clit. You whimper out, âToo much, Jack. I- I canât-â
Because itâs new and youâre at where youâre at, Jack listens. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside of you, licks them clean, and moves up the bed. On top of you not, propped on his hands, he plants blooming kisses over your face, your warm cheeks and your sweat-sheen forehead. In between gentle kisses, he asks you, âThink you can do one more for me, baby girl?â
Eyes wide and hazy, you reply, âI- I dunno, daddy. Dunno anything.â
He smirks and runs his thumb across your lower lip, all swollen and cute from biting while you got off. He checks, âThe good kind of âdunno anythingâ or the bad kind?â
âGood kind,â you giggle back, all bashful and sweet as you nudge up to catch another kiss. Then you nuzzle into his shoulder, pulling him down to embrace you and breathing in his scent. âFeel really good, Jackie.â
âJackie,â he repeats with a chuckle. âBeen a hell of a long time since anyone called me that.â
You pull back and look at him with eyes on the verge of watering. âIs that okay?â
He places a firm kiss on your forehead and assures, âHoney, you can call me whatever the hell you want as long as youâre mine. Youâre too good and too cute for me to deny you anything.â
You give him a silly grin. âYeah?â
âAbsolutely.â He turns you both onto your sides and asks, âNow, do you want more or do you want to get ready for bed?â
You shake your head, still buried in the crook of Jackâs shoulder, and murmur, âYou pick.â
âUh-uh,â he tuts. After kissing your temple, he insists, âNot this time. Weâre not skipping any steps here; I canât learn what you need when you need it if you donât know and tell me first.â
You go still for a minute and then look at him with something close to anxiety in your eyes. Jack clocks it: Fear of rejection. âI think Iâm ready to be done and go to bed. Is that okay?â
Jack feels that familiar flicker of protectiveness in his gut. He holds your chin and his expression turns serious. âYou are always allowed to be done. Even when we reach the point where Iâm making all the decisions and youâre just my dumb little slut following orders, youâre safe to tell me whatever you need whenever you need it.â
You poke him in the chest and giggle again, âYouâre whipped already, Dr. Abbot.â
âYeah, I am,â he admits freely. âAll I want is to be yours.â
Jack stands up next to the bed, loops his arms beneath your body, and lifts you like itâs no big deal. You squeal out of a laugh and he smiles back, the perfect mix of silly and strong.Â
He takes you into the en suite bathroom, sits you on the low countertop next to the sink, and orders, âOpen your mouth, sweetheart.â You do so without question and get met with another lovely âgood girlâ that makes your heart dance, more of a waltz than a tango now that youâre coming down. Jackâs brow furrows in concentration like heâs performing a complex procedure as he brushes your teeth, covering each quadrant with military precision. His free hand holds your chin carefully so he can tilt your head based on the teeth heâs cleaning.
Once heâs satisfied with his work, he lifts a cup of water to your lips and says, âSwish and spit.â
Again, you follow his orders. Folding into Jackâs guidance is so natural for you. Itâs easy. And in a life where so many things are so fucking hard, thatâs worth everything. Then he winds floss around his fingers and you sleepily offer, âYou donât have to do all that.â
âIâm going to,â he responds plainly. Opening up your mouth again and getting to work, he says, âI take care of whatâs mine. When youâre with me, you donât have to do anything for yourself unless you want to.â He throws the floss out and kisses the tip of your nose. âI always tend to my pet.â
Synopsis. (!) Two assignments overdue: your law professor and your history professor.
Objective: After teasing them all semester, Professor Higuruma Hiromi and Professor Nanami KentoâŚsnap.Â
Time: At the same time.
Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader x Higuruma Hiromi
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, history professor!Nanami, law professor!Higuruma, college AU, youâre such a TEASE, driving them wiId, theyâre overworked, theyâre older, tutoring, STERN Nanami, fĂngering, rings, p sIapping, p talking, chokĂng, rĂdinâ Higurumaâs nose, oraI (m + âf), pĂşssydrunk Higuruma, manhandIing, dragging, running from it, bĂting, BOTH, fuII neIsons, bIindfolds, guessing, DP, SAME TIME, spĂtting, DĂMBlFICATlON, cervĂx smoochinâ, big stretches, theyâre FĂRAL, creampĂes, cĂşmpIay, slight cĂşmfIation, surprise at the end, pet names, swĂŠaring.
Word count. 13.2k
A/N. You babygirls said you wanted more law professor!Higuruma soâŚI said why not have BOTH?!
He had you next hour.
Professor Nanami Kento - head of the History Department, PhD with Distinction - had you in his next class.
And he wasnât even half as prepared as he should be: the coffee-maker in the staff room had broken down.Â
Goodness knows how many times the blond-haired man has haunted that very station. Slouched over, sighing, sipping on his seventh coffee of the day.Â
And although he could blame it all on the higher-ups and their stingy funding, or perhaps the frat boys of Delta Jujutsu Pi thatâve made it a challenge to sneak insideâhe blames you. He wouldnât even have latched onto such a respite had it not been for the way you made his blood pressure riseâŚin all sorts of ways.
Nanamiâs eyes glaze over, and his hand absent-mindedly drifts between his legs. Perhaps if he got his pent-up energy out firstâŚ
âKento.â A knock at his cubicle. And Nanami jolts his hand away as though it burned-Â
It was Professor Higuruma Hiromi.
The head of the Law Department. Also PhD with Distinction. The man with dark circles and even darker suits, all prim and poised as he waded through the hallways with his stacks of documentsâof course, Nanami was one for suits, as well.Â
They really brought out his broad shoulders- at least, thatâs what you told him.
Another reason why he needs the coffee.
Fuck.Â
Nanami attempts to even out his breathing as he looks up. âHiromi.â
If Higuruma thought anything of Nanamiâs startled reaction, he makes no indication. Instead he holds up a slim file in his hand, âAre you free? Could you help me with looking over this essay?â
âOf course.âÂ
They were the only two in the staff room right now, besides- anything to take his mind off of you.
Nanami adjusts the gold-rimmed glasses on his face before he takes the file from him. Flipping it open to find a jumble of justice and law jargon that his history-inclined brain balks atââI never thought youâd want a history professorâs opinion on an essay aboutâŚâ He squints at the title, â-the scope of judicial power and judicial review. Does this have any names of 14th century shoguns that you need me to check?â
âNo- no.â Higuruma runs a hand down his face, though Nanami gets the impression that it wasnât for him. Rather it was for whatever ravaged at the man inside- making him look up at the ceiling with a hollow sighââMan, I need some coffee today.â
âUnderstandable.â Nanami pushes his glasses up.
âThe machineâs broken, right?â
âRight.â
Higuruma only lets out another sigh that Nanami relates to well.
âIf it helps, Dean Yaga said itâd be fixed by tomorrow.â Nanami attempts- he never was the type of sociable guy some of the other professors were. But he gets the feeling that Higuruma was the same.
He runs a hand down his face one last time- âThatâs too late, I have tutoring this evening withâŚâ And how Nanami Kento related to that, as well. Before he seems to shake himself out of it- somewhat. âItâs alright, could you just check the grammatical and citation stuff for me?â
âOf course.â As Higuruma leans against the partition and waits, the other professor skims through the writing. It wasnât half bad, to be quite honest, and had it been for his own class then he wouldâve given it an Aânone too many mistakes except for the odd careless error. At least it was human-made.Â
After a while of silence, Nanamiâs partway through the conclusion when he asks. âDid you happen to get tired of looking through so many essays?â
âNo, itâs justâŚâ The dark-haired man sighs once more- for about the twelfth time since he came in. â-this student, you know?â
Nanami nodsâhe did know. âTrouble student?â
âNot quite.â He almost gulps.
Nanami narrows his eyes. âDoesnât attend?â
âNo, she attends every class.â
âThen what?â He leans back in his chair, essay forgotten now. âThe legacy kid? The credit-chaser? The class clown that isnât actually funny?â
Higuruma cuts through them all with a fierce shake of his head. âNo, no, and noââ Almost gulping. âItâs just that this student is a littleâŚdistracting.â
The tips of his ears were red.
Instantly, Higuruma looks like he regrets it.
âF-forget I said anything-â
He does.
But Nanami looks squarely at the other man.
âI have a student like that, too.â
The law professor looks at him in wary interest. âOh?â
âMy star student, actually.â Pushing his glasses up, he opens up one of his cabinets and pulls out a thick, paper-stuffed file. And though Nanami Kento does collect his studentsâ work for the semester to review, he never does keep them quite so close - none other than yours.
Higuruma looks through them with slightly widened eyes. âAll hers?â
Nanami nods, âSo diligent that itâs almost distracting.â
Higuruma pulls out an empty chair beside Nanami and sits. Legs spread. Dark eyes thoughtful. âMine, too.â He startsââNever have I had a student ask for so many hours of extra tutoring.â
âMineâs basically set up a tent in my office.â Nanami chuckles- though he canât deny the slight pang it sends down to his cock. âAlways taking on more assignments for extra credit, always answering questions first-â
âAlways first in class and last to leave?â
âExactly.â Nanami agrees. And he leans a hand on his desk as he watches the other man go through those papers - they were some of his most prized possessions, he feared to admit. Words from your heart. Swooping slashes of ink from your hands.
It was a part of you in those papers that Nanami Kento held dear to him- fuck, it was a part of you that sometimes heâd bring up to his greedy nose and sniff. Almost as if he could feel your skin through these very parchments.
It made him so fuckinâ hard.
But Higuruma didnât need to know that.
Though the careful manner in which he handled those papers - how he leaned in just a little to drown in the ink - made him wonderâŚ
âAlways wearing the skimpiest skirt to class?â
And the other man looks up in shock- as though conveying something in his silence. Oh.
He flips the file over to look at the name typed-out on the cover, and it readsâyours. Ultimately, he continuesââA-always sittinâ in the front row with her legs spread just a bit?â
Nanami nods. âAlways leaning over the desk when she has to speak in private.â
Thereâs a slight hardening within Higurumaâs eyes - though not of any unpleasant kind - itâs almost as if something deep and carnal was stirring awake right now. âAlways wearing the prettiest black lace underneath?â
âShe wears baby pink for me.â Nanami canât help but smile.
âFuck.â Higuruma runs a hand down his face again- and if Nanami didnât know any better then he wouldâve sworn that the other professor looked even more weary than when he first came in here. âAnd her panties-â
âMatching set.â Nanami responds without missing a beat - and he knows heâs some olâ pervert for this.Â
He knows he is.Â
But he also knows about the smile thatâd spread across your face the moment youâd realized heâd seen. âBent over too low when picking her pen up one class.â
âFuckingâfuck.â Higuruma sounds agonized.
Nanami leans back in his chair, making it bounce a little bit. With a slightly breathless sigh leaving him, and his cock hardening even more in his pantsâheâs forced to manspread under the table a little more. âSheâs a needy lilâ thing, isnât she?â
âThatâs putting it lightly.â Higurumaâs lips quirk up into a sensual smile - as if he was reminiscing on the memories. âWanting to fuck her professors? Seriously?â
âBelieve sheâs thought of both of us at the same time?â
âDonât even say that-â The law professor looks around, even though there was no one else here. Looking back at the man with somewhat pleading eyes, âI have tutoring with her this evening. If I canât even fucking grade her essay without getting a hard-on then what dâyou think will happen if Iâm thinking of thatâ?â
âOhâŚâ Nanami hums to himself, hands lacing in front of him. The coffee-machine really was broken. â-maybe that wonât be an issue.â
Higuruma glances at him with furrowed brows, âHow so?â
âWhat time is your tutoring with her?â
âYou meanâŚâ
The blond man shrugs coyly- âIâm not implying anythingâŚbut which one of us two do you think is her favorite?â
âAnd people think youâre the gentleman of us two.â Higuruma grumbles but ultimately spits out the time. It seems youâd opted for tuition classes with your law professor in the after-hoursâwhen the offices were snug, and the department was empty. And he feels his cock perk up at the fact- how many times has he raced back home to plunge into a cold bath after your tuition classes? How many times has his shower heard your name whispered? âIâm most definitely the favorite, by the way-â
So lost in his thought, Nanami nearly doesnât catch the sentence. He looks over at Higuruma. âDoes she call you âsirâ, too?â
âShe does.â
âWell, then weâll find out, wonât we?â
.
.
.
The two hottest professors on campus.
Higuruma Hiromi (38) with his sleek-cut suits, his polished shoes, and those sleepy eyes that seemed to stare into the depths of your soul. The depths of your body - exposed underneath him. He was a stern teacher, not afraid to make you do an assignment over and over and over againâŚ(and you gladly would). Higurumaâs justice classes made youâŚwet you had to admit, hearing him bark out simulations of court cases. Orders. Commands.Â
You could practically hear a sigh echo out across the room every time he acted out his attorney days.Â
Every time he banged his gavel down made your knees weak.
It was no wonder that students in the law department tittered nâ scattered any time the ruggedly handsome professor walked past.Â
On the other hand was your history professor.Â
Nanami Kento (31) with his beefier build, his strong arms, his gentle eyesâtwinkling down kindly upon you every time he corrected a mistake. Which - you have to confess - youâve made a few more times than you really had to, just to feel his molten gaze upon you again and again. He often caused your heart (and something else entirely) to flutter at the deep musicality of his voice, managing to make even the most boring of history passages something interesting. Something that swept the class up easily.
Nanami was reputed around campus for being a complete gentleman - never looking down upon someone, never letting them walk in after him, never letting them pay him a compliment without receiving a sweet one back.Â
The dream husband.
The stern and the nice.
Both of them- frat guys hated them.
It hadnât been intentional to join both their classes- honest!Â
But after seeing them on your first day, how could you not commit to maintaining a spotless attendance? You had a sneaking suspicion that the rest of the class behaved in the same manner for much the same reason - though none took it quite as far as you.
The skirts. The extra credit. The bending.
Speaking honestly, you were a teacherâs pet. Through and through.
And the tightness in their pants whenever you left a class told you- they were the best professors. To you, that is.
Which is why youâd been a little less than happy when Professor Higuruma had told you that someone might be joining your weekly tutoring.Â
Invigilated tutoring?Â
What the hell was invigilated tutoring?!
You admit that youâd been forced to hold back a groan of disappointment. Picking such late hours had been a conscious decisionâright up there with those tight pencil skirts that you knew your law professor loved but would never admit to.
Professor Nanami was more the type to like free, flirty pleats that barely reached your thigh - and you loved the way his eyes would follow them behind those glasses of his. Even though he pretended they didnât.
And right now you were wearing a mix of both.
Tight on top, flared at the bottom
Seated opposite his desk - thighs shut, skirt pulled down as low as it would go - more concentrated than youâd ever been during one of these tutoring sessions. Itâs been about half an hour since the start of todayâs tuition. Higurumaâs office was a cosy space, decked out in the most expensive-looking mahogany banisters, and shelves, and a witness box in the far corner.
It gleamed at the lightâdown knowingly at you, almost as if waiting for you to make a move.
But how could you? If there was a potential visitor, then you didnât want to risk Higurumaâs job- as much as you loved teasing your two hot professors, it wouldnât do to get them fired!
So you kept your hands and your skirts to yourself.
And even Higuruma himself had his eyes raised, possibly wondering why you hadnât leaned over his desk or lingered a touch at his shoulder for help.
But oh, how you wanted toâŚ
The professor looks down at his watch, âHeâs late.â
Youâre glancing at the closed door, âMaybe the invigilator isnât coming?â
âOh, he will.â Higuruma crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. âTrust me, he wonât miss this.â
A shiver runs down your spine.
You wondered what made him so sure.
And yet, you edge closer over the desk to him anyways.
Itâs about forty-five minutes into your tutoring session when the door youâve been sneaking glimpses of this entire time- clicks! And a looming figure walks into the room, his figure nearly taking up the whole frame.
Your jaw drops as you realizeâ
Itâs Professor Nanami.
âAh- Kento.â Higuruma beckons him over warmly- and youâre nearly suffering from whiplash from watching the two interact. These two are close?! Professor Nanami had been completely normal during your last class, if just a little more distracted than usual - and what was this? âWeâve been waiting.â
He looks at you as he says this.
âI had to penalize a student for missing a few assignments.â Nanami says smoothly, before bringing up a chair beside you and taking his seat. His movements were fluid and precise - as if he wasnât questioning for a single moment why you were here so late, why you were dressed like that for him, and why you were so damn close.
Youâd been staring into his handsome face for so long that he clears his throat. âContinue.â
âS-sir?â Youâre chirping- and in your peripheral vision, Higuruma shuffles in his chair.
âContinue.â Nanami repeats in a stern tone. You donât think youâve ever heard him sound like thatââJust as you are. I would like to take notes for teaching my own classes.â
âYou heard what he said.â Higuruma nods- and now youâre looking his way to see the most knowing smile on his face. âContinue, angel.â
Your thighs squeeze at the pet name.
Nanami quirks a blond brow and notes something down.
And so youâre ducking back into your workâ
âYour blouse button is undone.âÂ
Slightly gasping, youâre reaching down to fix it-
âNo, donât button it.â He interrupts you with his low tone, gravelly with something you canât pinpoint. Youâre looking up at Nanami to find his gaze unwavering from you already- âI was merely noting it. Nothing to fix.â
âBut-â
âYou unbutton it for my class, too, donât you?â He asks, and youâre unsure what to say-
âAnswer when your teacher speaks to you.â Higurumaâs humming tone echoesâand from the sound of it, he was thoroughly enjoying this. He cocks his head down at you, âOr havenât they taught you that yet?â
âTh-they have.â Youâre squirming in your seat, a slight heat simmering in your stomach. You turn to Nanami, âAnd I do.â
âHm.â With nothing more said- he writes something else down in his notes.
And you think youâre in the clear.
For now.
Itâs barely a few sentences later on your work that Nanami speaks up again-
âYour feet are touching his.â
You pull away-
âYouâve been writing the same sentence over and over.â
Your hand pauses-
âYour thighs are parted more so than before.â
Immediately, youâre smacking them back shut again- you hadnât even realized. And how the hell had Nanami even seen?
And you could practically hear the smug smile in his voice - so unlike everything you know of him - as he continues. âAnd your bra is peeking out.â
âNever seen one before?â You mutter underneath your breath, just about to fix your collar (that youâd very purposefully left open)â
Before Nanamiâs voice cuts through again. âNever seen one of yours in black before, is what.â Even as youâre looking at him in slight sensual shock- he doesnât look up from his papers. âWhat happened to the baby pink you show-off in my class?â
And Higuruma merely leans back and smiles. âBlack is my favorite color, remember?â
âHow could I forget?â The history professor answers.
âThough I myself am curious about this baby pink of yoursâŚâ
And you have nothing else to do but gape- they knew.Â
Oh, how they both knew by now.
And by the looks in their eyes, theyâd been dying for this very moment.
To confront how youâd been toying nâ teasing them all semester through now- enough so that theyâve apparently begun trading secrets about their unruly star student. You knew that Higuruma tended to have his ears grow hot and red any time he bumped into you in the hallway, and that Nanami would loosen his tie as if undressing whenever you wore a particularly scandalous thing to class - but you hadnât known theyâd been pushedâŚto this extent.
And you were glad for it.
So you sighâslouching back in your chair. âSo you both know. What now then? Do I get written up or something?â
But Nanami only looks at you through his glasses. âSit up straight.â
Heâs never uttered a command like that in his entire life during your usual lectures. And when you donât move - merely looking at the blond man with raised brows - Higuruma pipes up. âYou best listen to him now, angel.â
âOh please.â Fluttering your lashes at them both. âAnd whatâre you gonna do about it?â
Higuruma looks at Nanami.
Nanami calmly puts his notes down on the otherâs table, and looks at you.
âWhy-â He pushes his glasses up his handsome nosebridge. â-teach you a lesson, of course.â
âBoth of you?â You could feel the elated giggles bubbling up in your throat- and you could feel the space between your legs start to grow wetter already. Looking between both of themââDo it then.â
And then itâs a blur - you donât know where Higurumaâs lips end and yours begin. Heâs reached over the surface of his desk to kiss you like a starved man- and he groooans into that very kiss like you were the sweetest thing heâs ever tasted. Hand on your cheek.Â
The tips of his canines start nibblinâ on your lower lip- and youâre kissing him back even deeper. âShit-â Higurumaâs husky tone scorches across your face, âShit, Iâve been wanting to do this for so fucking long.â
âMmm, you kiss like husband material.â Youâre giggling into the kiss. Both of your hands end up on his shoulders, and you could feel the shifting of his muscles through his slim suit.Â
âShit- and you talk like trouble.â He echoes out in an almost pained tone- like every second that his lips were away from yours ached.Â
And those plump, pursed lips press against yours once moreâso much sweeter than you would have expected this booming lawyer to kiss. Heâs using the hand on your cheek to tilt down your chin- âMay I?â Before the short nod you give lets him slither his tongue in wetly, lappinâ at your sweetest taste. âShit, youâre really like sugar on my tongue.â
And youâre whining into the fervent kiss, letting it go on for a few more minutes before youâre breaking away with the most lecherous plop! And a thoroughly flushed professor chasing after your lips drunkenly-
âAnd what about youâŚâ Youâre kissing down Higurumaâs sharp jawline, looking at the other man whoâd been sitting quietly this entire time. â-sir? Havenât you wanted to kiss me even once this semester?â
Nanami shivers but he hides it well. Uncrossing his legs and revealing the most rock-hard, aching bulge between his legsââKiss? Perhaps.â
And youâre gulping at the sight.
Higuruma scoffs out a slight burst of laughter. âPerhaps.â
âBut Iâm a gentleman, my love.â Nanami continues, leaning back in that luxurious armchair. He takes off his coat to reveal a pale blue button-up, and beneath that was revealed the most chiselled body youâve ever seen. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and beckons towards you. Manspread. Lap so welcoming. âWhich means Iâve thought of far, far worse.â
Higuruma - with a final sloppy kiss plastered across your mouth - lets you walk over to Nanami.
Which you do on wobbly legs- plopping down unceremoniously on his lap. More than enough space there for you. He wastes no time bending you into shape in his strong arms, flipping you around to face the other man, and spreading your legs wiiiiiiide open-
Riiiiiipâ!
âWhoops.â Nanamiâs thoroughly unapologetic tone gruffs against the shell of your ear. Two of his vein-covered forearms were hooked underneath your elbows, and Nanami looks on boredly at the clean split down your skirtââI always thought youâd look better without these anyway.â
Before heâs spreading your legs even further across his lap. Tearing it even more.
Exposing you for nothing but your tremblinâ legs and those drenched panties. Pretty black in color.Â
So lacy that it was practically nothing.
Higurumaâs eyes widen, âDirty girl.â
Nanami breathes, âNo, thatâs called being a slut.â And shock runs through your body at his words- at Nanami âGentlemanâ Kentoâs words. Before itâs suddenly overtaken by the sudden feeling of him smearinâ aside your panties and stuffinâ his fingers inside.
Those thick crowns dooooown to the golden ring on his middle finger.
They were long and thick. Swirling and swirling the tip of his digit right âround your clit- and when youâre shuddering and unable to take it any longerâhe pulls away and licks off that excess slick with a slurp!
Humming to himself as though it was the greatest delicacy in the world. âOne thing you should know about me, darling, is that just because Iâm gentleman-â And youâd been so caught up in his ragged tone, you didnât even realize that heâd snaked his hand back down between your legs. â-doesnât mean that Iâm not depraved.â
And heâs ending off the sentence not with a full stop- no, but with a sudden shove of his fingertips between your folds. So swollen nâ sweet with slick.
You buck and he lurches his hand out to slap you on top of your pussylips.
âDown, darling.â
âPleaseâŚâ You donât even know what youâre begging for.
But Nanamiâs mouth waters already at the sound of it, and heâs keeping it at bay by pushing nâ pulling on the first ring of muscle at your cunt. âI said down.â
Head throwing back against his collarbone. âOh.â
Fucking you with just the first inches of his fingers- âIt doesnât mean that mânot desperate.â Continuing as though your eyes werenât bulging, as though your legs werenât shaking, as though you werenât arching off of his muscular chest. âIt doesnât mean that mânot ready to debase this pussy like she deserves.â
âY-you meanââ Youâre hiccuping, eyes starting to water at the sheer raw stretch. It was the type that left your pussy burning in the most delicious way - the feeling of having Nanami Kentoâs scourinâ fingertips eager to enter your cunt. â-that whole gentleman thing was just a lie?â
âItâs not.â He responds. Final. His blond strands fall over his forehead as he keeps his eyes locked on your glistening hole, scissoring his fingers at that entrance nâ spreading you even wider. âIâm niceâŚâ
Adding in a third finger before youâre even registering his second.
â-to everyone but this slutty pussy, that is.â
âSh-shitââ Mewling at the top of your lungs, youâre clawing down Nanamiâs strong forearms. They were the perfect thing to hold onto- just about the only thing you could hold onto as he utterly ruined your pussy with short, jerking thrusts.
Bulging the sides of your velvety walls open with his globular tips.
Cold metal ring shocking you.
So thick that he manages to probe into a few of your sensitive spots without even trying. Dragging his flexible fingers across every inch of you.
Scissoring and opening up and scissoringâdeep.
Tears track down your cheeks at the sheer stimulation.
âGo easy on her, Kento.â Higuruma canât help but groan at the sight of your pretty crying face. And soon enough, youâre hearing the metallic clinking of a belt buckle- âDonât want to break our star student, now, do we?â
Nanami purrs against your temple. âMmm, I donât mind.â
âJust remember that sheâs tutoring with me.â
The sound of Higurumaâs belt hitting the polished wooden floorboards is enough to make your eyes startle open- and oh, how youâre so glad it did.
Because then youâre greeted with the sight before you: of Higuruma Hiromi in utter ecstasy. All because of you.
Heâd taken your seat from prior, chair angled perfectly to face the show taking place in front of him.Â
Where Nanami had your legs spread aaaaaall the way as far as they would go - until Nanami could hear your joints threatening to pop - and facing the dark-haired man. His dark eyes glinted as they stared down at your glistening hole, swallowing Nanamiâs rams easily.
Slurps nâ squelches emanating like music.Â
Cunt dripping everywhere over the history teacherâs tight trousers. And the larger that puddle you were forming seemed to grow, the harder Nanamiâs hammerinâ pace seemed to become.Â
You could barely keep your eyes open long enough to see Higuruma tug down his black pants- that throbbing erection of his making an appearance. He wraps his hands around his thickened base and starts tugging, soft grunts leaving his mouth at the rapid pull-pull-pull of his cock. âShit, sheâs so fucking wet- be a little nicer with that pussy oâ hers, would you?â
âHmmmâŚI donât think she deserves it.â And with that said, Nanami plants yet another sodden spank on top of your cunt. Ring grazing your front- âShe hasnât learned her lesson yet, has she?â
That stinging sensation zaps throughout your entire body and makes you buck. âI-I haveââ
Before yet another thwack! of Nanamiâs calloused fingertips follow.
Harder, this time.
âI was talking to this pussy, actually.âÂ
And he doesnât even wait for the primal sting to pass by before openinâ your cunt up and thrusting his fingers inside again. In and out.
Push after push into your gooey depths.
Youâre so sensitive nâ wet by this point that even the slightest movements have you emanating out the loudest sounds. Squelches upon squelchesâevery time heâs hitting a spot deep inside your hole. âMhmmâŚmmmhm.â You could feel Nanamiâs head slightly nodding above your own, as if locked deeply in a conversation with your pussyâs sounds. Just one whine of yours and heâs spankinâ on you once more- âWait your turn, my love. Sheâs talking tâme.â
And Higuruma- ah, Higuruma has the audacity to snicker at the action. âNow thatâs just bullying, Kento.â
âIs it?â Heâs slappinâ down on your pussylips once more. Listening for the sound, âShe says it isnât so.â
Youâre sending a narrowed glare his way that makes the law professor roll his eyes fondly.
âOh, alright alright-â And he half-heartedly waves off at his colleague. âBe a little nicer to my dear student, wonât you?â
âSpoiled brat.â Yet another spank. Nanami sinks his canines into the shell of your ear, and heâs tugginâ and teasingâheâs spreading his legs even further and settling you down. With your back against his rippling chest, he pushes and pushes his greedy fingers inside your pussy. âAnd why do you think you- hah, deserve that, huh? Havenât you been fucking torturing us all semester long now?â
Higuruma groans. âCanât deny that, angel.â His hands fly even faster up and down his cock- ravaged and reddened with need.Â
âMhmmmm.â The blond-haired man agrees, âHavenât you been wearing those slutty skirts expecting to get fucked in them? Havenât you- fuck, havenât you been wearing that damn lingerie hoping weâd take a peak? Arenât I right?â
He waits for your pussy to answer first- and then youâre answering. âI-I mean-â Attempting to.
âHavenât you been bendinâ over and shit just because you wanted to show up in our wildest dreams? To consume our thoughts and make our cocks twitch?â
âWell-â
âAnd we did.â Higuruma pipes up next. He was so needy that he was practically bucking off of his chair, making it creak with movement. Short, jerky thrusts.
âOh, yes we did.â Nanami continues. He leans down to your ear, as if exposing a secret- âIâd look forward to our classes everyday, my love. Iâd have to fuck my fist raw before class- just so I wouldnât fuck you senseless in front of everyone like how you were begging me to.â
Higuruma moans as he thumbs down the line of his flared tip - that pinkish, slippery line. He twitches as though heâs near to cumming already. âMe- me, tooâŚâ
âAnd you still expect me to be a gentleman?â
Youâre restless, opening your mouth to defend yourself andâ
Nanami only leans down and spits a glittery wad of spit between your pursed lips. âDonât talk when the teacherâs talking, darling.âÂ
And your ears pop with pressure-
Heâs hittinâ the plushness of his palm against your pussy with a loud smack! Smearing the curves nâ divots of his fingers dooooooown and up your walls, down and up.
His crown fingertips reach for your deepest innards- and you swear you can feel him stroking your very cervix. Runninâ his frigid ring across your walls.
Drawing a few lines and marking his placement right back there, before he tunnels his digits at a frenzied pace - fingers almost nothing but a pale blur between your legs. His speed is so feverish that it leaves your sheen tricklinâ all down your thighs.
Trickling and trickling andâ
And then you feel Nanami hook his fingers against your g-spot.
The pleasure shoots up your body like a lightning strike, âO-oh my godâright there, Kento.â
âKento? Whoâs Kento?â Nanami doesnât even falter his fingering to answer, cooing in that tone that youâd almost mistake for something sweet. âI think you meant sir-â
âSâfuck.â
âSay it.â He huffs against the side of your face. Teeth almost out for blood- âSay it. Call me âsirâ or you donât get to cum.â
âIââ
âSay it.â Higuruma, to your surprise, echoes from his seat. Where he had his gaze burning into your spread-open pussy nâ his mouth drooling at the vision of youââSay it, angel. I need to see that pretty pussy cum.â Hands rubbing faster and faster-Â
âShe deserves to cum, mhm.â Nanami nods. âBut do you, huh?â
âI-I do.â Youâre nodding up at your desperate professors. One just barely in your line of vision- but his fingers were working up such a storm. His slightly-tanned arms pinning you down, working your pussy open, hitting that target of your g-spot like a cute button. Again and againâ
Blond hair ruffled. Glasses slipping down his sweaty nosebridge.
And then the other one that was just creaminâ his precum down his hands. With his hands on his swollen erection - one of them creating a tunnel for him to fuck his fist, the other flattening over his dribblinâ divot to stop from cumming already.Â
Sleepy eyes half-lidded. His pale thighs shivering as they bucked nâ rutted.
And the vision itself is enough to make you cum- but then again it just felt so good on Nanamiâs hands, and underneath Higurumaâs gaze. So you canât help but let your lips wobble openââP-please let me cum-â Stars bursting behind your vision once Nanami presses down on your clit as well. â-sirs.â
The two older men look at each other.
âSirs?â Higuruma asks, voice breathless with ecstasy.
âShe just begged for both of us.â Nanami grumbles out - though not quite unhappily. It made his cock twitch deep in his pants to have you whimperinâ like this, and he continues. âAlright then, you slutty pussy.â
And it takes only a few more strokes - a few more direct thrashes along your g-spot - for you to hurtle straight into your high.
Itâs so strong that youâre seeing white behind your eyelidsâand your mouth blabbers out an unintelligible combination of both professorsâ names. Toes curling. Sweat beading down your temple.
Nanami holds you down as youâre thrown through wave upon wave of your orgasm, your hips bucking up and down desperately. Riding throughout your bliss- and if that wasnât already enough, he counts underneath his breath to measure how long it takes between your peaks of euphoria. Before hittinâ away at your g-spot just in time with each one.
The sensations that take you over are just incredible.
And your head falls back limply against Nanamiâs shoulder.
Shivering. Almost as if you were in heat- and your pretty pussy gushes out honeyed slick as though to give credit to that statement.
Lavishing Nanamiâs open thighs with all your sapâHiguruma eyes the mess and gulps. âKento, give me a taste of that.â
Nanami scoffs. âIn due time.â
âKento, I need her pussy on my face now.â
Slowly but surely, youâre fluttering your eyes open at the feeling of being shuffled around - only seeing the beautiful, brown eyes of Higuruma Hiromi staring down at you. When did he get so close?
âHiromi?â Youâre blubbering out stupidly, still suffering from the aftershocks of your previous high. Those zapping bursts of electricity made your thighs twitch sensitively- âI mean- sir?â
Higuruma shivers, âYou trained her well, Kento.â
âMhmmmââ Nanami noses down the column of your throat proudly.
âMaybe now itâs time for a reward then, huh?â
Youâre perking up. âYes, please.â
Nanami snickers. âYou spoil her.â
And in almost no time, youâre finding yourself handed off to the law professor - Nanami stands up and gets off of the armchair. While Higuruma takes his place-Â
At least, thatâs what you think is going to happen.
But what ends up happening instead is that Higuruma seats you down on the chair, letting your barely-clothed pussy rub up against the cushion. Something in his eyes gleams at the way youâre squirming, and he speaks to you in a gentle tone. âCan you turn around and hold the headrest fâme, angel? Be a good girl fâme?â
âA-alright?â Confused, youâre just doing what he says. He meant that you had to turn and climb your knees onto the seat, ass turned towards the professors, back slightly arched.
âMmm, good.â Higuruma admires the view. âArch that back just a little more fâme now, alright?â
âLike this?âÂ
And still not sure what he was about to do, you can only follow his commands. It almost feels like a doggy position- and you hold onto the wooden headrest for dear life.
âMhmmm.â
And Nanamiâs the first to mutter to himself, âDonât tell me youâreâŚâ He takes in the sight of you - with your front resting against the backrest of the chair. You have your spine bent, your ass cheeks displayed for them, your cunt not quite on the seatââHiromi, you dirty dog.â
âCouldnât help myself.â Steadily, Higurumaâs kneeling on the floor.Â
Thereâs no warning before he then shoves his face nose-deep into your cunt- straight from behind.Â
Higuruma grabs onto either side of your ass cheeks, his prominent nose curvinâ up the slit of your pussy. Heâs using his grip on you to draaaag you further down onto his faceââMhmmmâspread those legs.â
Heâs muttering.
Heâs spitting- stern lips pursing and letting out a rivulet of saliva.
It strikes vertically down your cunt before Higurumaâs running his fat tongue over it. Smearing around the mess heâs made- but most importantly, smearing around the mess that youâve made.
Youâre whining as Higurumaâs textured tastebuds seem to take over your pussy. All the way from the plumpness of your folds, and then dipping between them to tease your hole- youâre still so sensitive from the massage that Nanamiâs fingers had simmered into you. And youâre trembling your thighs further open, âP-please- fuck-â
âIâm a lawyer so Iâm really good with my tongue, yâknow?â Higuruma pants out, scorching hot against your needy pussy. âBut that means my fees are high, too-â
âA-and what are your fees?â Youâre sobbing out.
âMmmmâŚâ He takes the time to thinkâand by that, you mean that he rovers his mouth over where your clit was throb-throb-throbbing. The law professor takes his sweet time spreadinâ open your pussylips with his tongue, before letting his tongue flop out nâ draaaaaag down your clit-
And his next words are so lecherously muffled. âRide my nose raw, sugar.â
You gasp.
In the background, you can hear a gruff bout of laughter that notably doesnât belong to Higuruma.
You grip onto the headrest of the chair harder than ever- because in a split-second, Higurumaâs thumbinâ your folds open and stuffing your hole all full of his tongue.Â
So loooong and slick- curving right against the roof of your pussy. It makes you jolt to feel his honed, flexible tip zig-zagging its way down your channelâmazing and mazing inside that itâs as though his wet muscle was never-ending.
Higuruma Hiromi was damn ravenous.
He feels your knees start to slip away from him- and he claws his fingers deep into the globes of your ass cheeks to pull you back. Uncaring if youâre whining for mercy- âA-arenât you supposed to be the nice one, sir?â
âSpoiled.â Nanamiâs voice echoes from the distance.
âMmm- keep calling me that, yeah?â Groans wrenching from the back of his throat at the mere sound of that title being said in your pretty voice. How nice it was to make you beg. âAnd noââ
âNo?â
âI am being nice by letting you ride my nose, arenât I?â His head jerks just a little upwards to look at you- and Higuruma can just barely make out the shock on your face. âI know how much youâve wanted to ride it-â
âHiromi-â
âEver since ya fuckinâ met me, huh?â His rough tone vibrates through every vessel of your body- pushed even further by the constant swabbinâ he was doing inside. Swab after swab. âEver since ya first saw me- donât think I didnât see how you stared at me.â
Youâre clawing further up the headrest. âB-but how did you know-â
âOh, angelâŚâ Higuruma almost chuckles. Something dark and depraved- âIf I was wrong then you wouldnât be so fucking wet- I can barely breathe.â
Both of his roughened palms plaster around your thighs. Draaaagging you bodily - as though you were nothing against him - to glue your pussylips to his own lips.
He makes out with your pussy like a man parched.
âAnd I donât need to.â
Your vision blurs with pleasure as Higuruma spreads your folds perfectly apart- and starts ramminâ his tongue into you wildly. Thick and thirsty for the taste of your sweet, sweet juicesâany time that even a mere droplet of your sap starts to drip down your thighs- you can best believe that Higuruma was whipping his head down to slurp it up. âHarder.â
âI-I am-â
âFaster.â
âFuck-â
âRaw, I said raw.â
Practically addicted to it.Â
Heâs pussydrunk in with just a few sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. And you yourself can feel your pupils start to circle inside the whites of your eyes.
Spreading yourself even further on the chair to meet his utterly ravenous mouth-
âDidnât forget about me now, did you?â
Nanami Kento sounds the closest heâs been since he had you on his fingers- which could feel like minutes, hours, days ago by now. It takes you significant effort to blink away the clingy film of tears on your eyes, and youâre opening them to find that he was actuallyâŚstanding right in front of you.
Nanami had rounded the side of the armchair - and if you looked up, there his handsome face was. So now you have your law professor at your behind, and your history professorâs crotch in front of your face. His pants much too tight.Â
His cock thick and throbbing underneath there.
Clasping onto the headrest of the chair, if you raised your head juuuuust a little then youâd be able to mouth over the twitching erection he hid underneath there. âK-Kento?â
Nanami looks down at you through his gold-rimmed glasses. Grinning at your teary expression, âOnly a few minutes with your nice teacher nâ youâve already forgotten your manners, my love?â His hand falls to his formal pants, âGuess we have to go back to lesson one.â
âO-ohâŚâ
Nanami had already unbuckled his belt and lets it drop to the floorâclink! Followed right along with the popping of his buttons, it doesnât take too long before youâre face-to-face with his rock-hard bulge. Achingly hard. Almost painfully hard.
Barely held together by his boxers, he seeps out such volumes of precum that it creates a dark patch on the silken fabric. It glistens just a bit under the dim lighting of the office- something that makes you gulp.
And something that makes Higuruma nudge his tongue even deeper inside of you- shit, you could feel yourself growing more aroused. And he could taste it.
âDid you know she gets sweeter nâ sweeter the wetter she gets?â Higuruma slurs from in-between your legs, latching onto your clit with a loud squelch! âAnd you wonât believe itâŚbut right now she tastes like the tastiest strawberry candy- heh.â
âIs that so?â Nanamiâs nose crinkles as he looks down at you. Heâs admiring that drunken expression on your face for a little bit, before reaching his right hand down and clasping at the back of your head. âFilthy girl.âÂ
You shiver. âC-canât help it-â
âAh ahânot another word out of you.â The blond-haired man continues. His grip tightens- âI expect you not to speak when your professor is speaking-â
Cocking his head just a little, Nanami takes a glance at the famished way that Higuruma was kissinâ between your legs. Gasping. Gulping.
He had his mouth gaped wide open and was dragging it across every inch of your pussy that he could reach- sticking that long tongue of his between your pussylips. Youâre almost sandwiching his tastebuds for a bit before he manages to flicker his tastebuds inside againâthen in and out, in and out, in and out.
Faster than before.
Reeling back out to slap! your pussy with the flat surface of his tongue.
Then probinâ back in again.
Higurumaâs just being so loud-
â-and when this pussy is speaking.â The rest of the history professorâs sentence makes you gasp - brain so muddled that youâd almost forgotten what he was saying. Almost forgotten that he has a firm grip on your sweaty scalpâone that heâd now turned into two hands upon your sweaty scalp.
Tugging your head forwards as if you were nothing but a ragdoll to smush your face against his boiling hot erection.Â
Your jaw falls open and soon enough, youâre salivating all over his clothed cock.Â
Tongue lavishing across the cotton of his boxers- feeling every ridge nâ vein along his shaft.Â
He groans at the feeling of your heated mouth, and his fingers dig into your scalp even deeper. Tugging. Needing. One set of your fingers reach upwards to fumble its hem, and you take Nanamiâs round, reddened tip into his mouth.
Moaning at the large size of him.
Moaning at the salty taste that floods your mouth-
âHey nowâŚâ Higurumaâs choked-up tone echoes from behind. Youâre feeling his tender fingers start to pull your hips back onto his face, â-donât steal my star student away.â
âHave you forgotten that sheâs my star student, too?â
âHer pussyâs on my mouth right now- so whoâs in charge?â
âWell, letâs ask how she feels about itâŚâ Nanamiâs voice trails offâand only too late are you realizing that he isnât talking about your pussy this time. Heâs talking about you- waiting for your answer.
And youâre attempting to muffle out something, letting the globular edge of his cock swirl around your mouth a few times. Around and around. Just the crown of his mushroom tip prods into your every orifice inside- youâre opening your mouth to answer when Nanami jerks his hips forwards.
Fucking his cock deeeeep into your maw.
And with it, whatever words were in your throat, too.Â
âI dunno about that-â Nanami hums down at the chokes nâ strangled gasps youâre letting out, just the barest noises of whatever was able to filter past his swollen shaft. â-but it sounded like a âyou, sirâ to me.â
âDidnât know you were that depraved.â Higuruma spits out. Dark eyes narrowed as heâs grinding you back to him nâ lapping away at your oversensitive pussylips.
âIâm a gentleman, what can I say?â The other professor responds.
As the slurps nâ sucking continues, Nanami looks at you through half-lidded eyes. He admires the way your mouth leaves a glittering glaze of spit from the tip of his cock and doooown to about halfway down his shaftâso cute how you couldnât fit it all. âAnd as Head of your pussy-â Fuck, when did he even assign himself that? Is he pussydrunk already? â-I say you canât cum until youâre fitting my cock aaaaaall the wayâŚâ
The history professorâs left hand lifts off of your scalp. Then dragging down the front of your throat - down, down, down.Â
â-here.â
He points to a spot way past the back of your throat.
He fucks your mouth like heâs agonized every second he isnât reaching for it.
Higuruma growls.
And thereafter itâs almost like a tug-of-war - on one end youâre being hauled forwards by Nanamiâs grip on the back of your head. His hands strong and unwavering, no matter much youâre gasping for air- fuck, the ever-gentlemanly Nanami Kento was gone for the feeling of your mouth tightening around his hot cock.
Rutting those toned hips up into your velvety cavern like an animal-
âJust a little more.â That left hand of his wraps around your throat now, his thumb markinâ at the spots where he can feel his rounded tip probing inside. âJust a liiiiittle more now- about four inches? Heh.â
âMmmââ Your eyes go wide in surprise.
And Nanami responds by pushing his hips even further, nearing the tip of your nose to those curls of blond at his base. âCâmon, câmon.â
And on the other end, Higuruma had his nails digging into the flesh of your thighs. Into the flesh of your ass. His tongue fishing around your insides before he pulls out and starts nibblinâ on your damn clitâ
Heâs thirsty. Depraved.
âNoooo, angel.â Heâs gluing his chin to the front of your pussylips. Head moving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth as the law professor lashes his tongue across. âCome back to me-â
âMmmââ Youâre being pulled off of Nanami Kentoâs reddened, dribblinâ cock with a plop! Just from the sheer pressure of Higuruma manhandling your body from the other side - dragging you all down his handsome face. âFuh-fuck-!â
âWhereâd you think youâre going?â Only for Nanami to barely let you breathe for a split-second before heâs pulling your mouth down his shaft again.
Shovelling a gooooood few inches of his vein-covered cock inside- he marks that spot out on your throat. Even deeper than the last time you had him- âMmm, not bad. Just a few inches- mmm, more.â
âRide my nose.â Higuruma begs from the other end. Breath breezing down your gooey core, it makes your thighs shiver- âRide my nose, I donât care. Ride my nose, ride my noseââÂ
And youâre just so overstimulated from all ends.
From the draaagging of Nanamiâs thumb down the front of your neck, from the sensual touch of Higurumaâs nose being sandwiched between your pussylips, from the pleasure of them both playing with your body. Itâs as if youâre their favorite toy to taste, to fuck - to worship because of the way they were being driven to absolute madness by those carnal sensations.Â
You can only jolt your body back and forth.
Down Nanamiâs cock. Up Higurumaâs ready face.
Riding his nose just like you wanted- âS-soââ Somehow barely managing to gurgle out past the pulsating tip of his cock, âSo close-â
âClose?â Higuruma perks up. âFuh-fuck- I have you, angel.â
âRemember- no cumming until you take it here.â Nanami presses his thumb somewhere near where your voicebox was bulging with the intrusion of his inches. âYouâre not there yet, darlingâŚâ
âBut-â
âPlease let her cum.â But to your surprise, itâs your law professor who is pleading your face.Â
Nanami raises a blond brow, âOh?â
âLet her-â He slurps away on your swollen nub- sensitive and throbbing. Heâs hollowing his cheeks out to get that suctioning sensation, already making your knees feel weak with pleasure. âNeed her to- fuck, want her to cum on my tongue. Let her cum already.â
Nanami thrusts even deeper, âHmmâŚI dunno.â
âIâm the one asking you.â Higuruma grumbles. âLet her cum-â
âMmmpf- please.â And your brows furrow as the pit of bliss in your stomach grows stronger.
âLet her-â The law professor continues, âIâm begging you- fuck, sheâs becoming so sweet. Let her cum-â
Pale brows furrowing. Sweat lines down his temple- âI donâtâŚjust fit-â And heâs scrapinâ his bulbous tip down the roof of your cuntâall the way along to the back of your throat and targeting even further. âIf she takes it until-â
Higurumaâs nose helping your grinds and bounces. âJust let her cum-â
âIf she takes it-â
âFucking let her-â
âG-gonnaââ Itâs the last thing youâre managing to get out before a sudden slam! of Nanamiâs hips shut you up- and before you know it, youâre feeling the carnal scratch of his pubic hair. The feeling of his tawny curls at your skin, the intrusion of his throbbing shaft all the way down your throat.
And his thumb tapping where heâd marked a treasure spot - a spot he was supposed to meet. Nanami doesnât have to say a single thing for Higuruma to bite his sharp canines down on your clit.
And before you know it, youâre bursting into your nth high of the night.Â
Not just your second, but your third, perhaps even your fourth.
Stars burst behind your eyelids, and your moans are nothing but soft crackles at the back of your throat. Higuruma draaaaags you all throughout those waves of bliss, elongating them with the thorough lavishing of his tongue.Â
Probinâ into every sweet spot.
Inside and out.
He digs his fingers into your thighs, now accomplishing his dream of having you ride his nose. Because youâre being made to arch your back nâ bounce your hips lecherously up and across.
Hittinâ those best angles- the peaks of your high absolutely burst through you.Â
And Nanami? Your history professor was enjoying the view - cocking his head to the side and smiling as you shatter on Higurumaâs face. He watches about half your orgasm bate, before starting to fuck his swollen cock back in and out of you. Thrusting.Â
âNow nowââ Nanami murmurs. âYou should be thankful my rubricâs so generous this time.â
You can only look up at him with your teary eyes.
That sight is enough for him to bite down on his lower lip nâ stop himself from cumming. No, he had something more important in his mindâŚ
âThirty seconds to finish up.â He says meanly. âBefore I either drag your pussy off of his face or you have to drag yourself off, mâkay?â
âTch- stingy.â Higuruma keeps lappinâ at you even after your high has passed.Â
And once that thirty seconds of more bliss have passed - just like Nanami said - he grips both hands âround the back of your scalp and wrenches you off of his cock. Off of Higurumaâs mouth. Heâs bending down to spit straight between your lipsâ
âNow, Iâm gonna be nice this one time because you took all of me. Understood?â The history professor states, so firm. âNod if you understand, my love.â
You nod.
âGood.â He then kisses your lips- tasting you, tasting himself. âNowâŚdo you want it from the back or face-to-face? Because mâfucking you filthy either way.â
âFrom- from the back.â You pant out.
And Nanami gives a single, stern nod before he lets you go. âBrace yourself.â
Youâre collapsing back into the chairâsitting your ass down on it this time. Before the law professor suddenly has you in his arms - he supports you in getting off of the armchair and standing up. Now in the middle of his office, youâre stumbling onto your wobbly feet.
Your arms loop around Higurumaâs neck. âHiromiâŚâ
âMmm, I love it when you call me that.â Higuruma kisses you.
âHow unruly.â Both of you snap your heads at the sound of buttons popping- only to find that Nanami was taking off his button-up. And you were right- fuck, you were so right. He was so thoroughly chiselled underneath, almost Herculean in nature.
With the most naturally defined ridges nâ curves of his musclesâhis firm pectorals, his washboard abs, his meaty thighs that make an appearance.
Nanami sheds of all his clothes before he stares down the two of you- âAddressing your professor by name? Clearly going against objectives to get ready? Making me jealous? What an undisciplined class, no need to be standing around.â He looks at you, âIâll be fucking you until you canât stand, anyway.â
A shiver runs down your spineââOh.â
âNow, darling.â
Higuruma lets you waddle away to Nanami- who merely swivels you around and bends you over the edge of his colleagueâs desk. Papers and ink flying everywhere across the office as he does.
Folding you forwards until your head hits the table. Kneeing your legs apart.
Itâs hitting you like a truck - your history professor is about to fuck you against your law professorâs desk.
âStay still.â He gravels in your ear.
Nanamiâs barely letting you take a breath before rubbinâ his bulbous tip down your dripping wet slit from behind. Hand gripping his thick hiltâup and down. Up and down. Up and down. Getting his inches coated in a glaze of your sap, Nanami hums at the feeling of you attempting to contract around him.
âThis naughty girlâs reeeeal needy for me, huh?â Scorching breath heating up your skin, he kisses down your arched spine. âShe says she can take all of me- can you?â
âY-yesââ Youâre sobbing into the polished mahogany. Bucking your hips up, âI want it, sir.â
Youâre jolting as his puckered, pinkish tip smooches at your wet entrance- heâs just so thick that he can plug your hole up easily. Nanamiâs tip throbs against your hole, and he reaches a right hand down to feel your pretty stomach - to feel where heâs going to be hittinâ with his hungry cock.Â
He breathes out airilyââYou want it?â
âYes-â
âSay please.â
âPlease-â
âHmmm?â
âPlease, sir.â
Nanami lurches his hips back, back, backwards- âAs you wish then, teacherâs pet.â
And then youâre being stuffed with an inch or two of him.
And by stuffedâyou were seriously stuffed.Â
Thick and thorough. Almost too big to even fit in - Nanami fills out the orifice of your cunt without even trying. His ruby-red tip just manages to squeeze between your pussylips, before the first ring of muscle at your entrance makes him falter.
And heâs gritting his teeth at the sheer tightness, voice coming out as nothing but a hiss. âFuck- didnât you say that you can take it?â Heâs pressing his left hand down at the base of your spine, leaning his weight in to keep you still. âCome back, my love- class isnât over yet.â
You hadnât even realized youâd been clawing at the desk until now. âS-sirââ
Just that is enough to make Nanamiâs ravaged tip twitch inside of you- spurting out a few more dollops of pre. âYes, darling?â
âI d-donâtââ Fuck- you swear you could feel him grow even harder inside of you at the sight of your teary expression. Staring at your history professor over your shoulder, âI donât know if it even can fit.â
âAwww, my poor baby.â And you should know better than to let Nanami Kento hush your cries, you should know better than to let him lull you.Â
But you canât help but get pulled into his big, strong arms anyway.
âMy poor, poor baby.â And from one corner of the room, you could hear Higurumaâs distant laugh. Although you donât have the time to wonder what it means, because Nanamiâs continuing- âNone of those boys ever taught you how to take a real cock, hm?âÂ
And you can only nod.Â
âNone of those boys have ever fucked you right, hm?â
Nodding once more.
âDonât you worry, darling. If you canât take this oneâŚâ
He presses a chaste peck against your hairline. Letting his soft breath waft over the crown of your head, and his chest ripple with his words, soft.Â
â-mâgonna make it fit.â
And thatâs the last thing youâre hearing before Nanamiâs ramminâ his swollen, aching cock into you like an animal- his furious cockhead burrowing in deep.Â
He manages to shovel just a few more inches inside, before the snugness of your channel acts up once more. Leaving him barely even able to reel his hips backwardsâjust that much of a tight fit thatâs making his eyes roll to the back of his skull.
He shakes.
His groan cracks at the back of his throat. âO-oh.â Both of Nanamiâs hands fly to the sides of your hips, and his fingers fucking shake where he holds you. âOh, yeah.â
âShit-â Youâre flinching at the scalding sensation of his breath. Gusting.
And even that mere shiver- Nanami catches onto it. And itâs only making him clasp your body even tighter, pulling you into himââYouâre really not getting away until we make it fit, my love. Good luck.â
No matter how much his ravenous hips are rutting nâ bucking and trying oh-so-desperately to hammer even more of his inches inside- he can only fuck you in short, needy half-thrusts. The rest of him left to throb wildly behind you, he keeps on stretching and stretching your insides just to fit inside.
Each one of his bucks so desperate. So greedy.
The pointed tip of Nanamiâs cockhead prods away at your innards as though heâs trying to claim every single ounce of space inside you-Â
âHave you forgotten that this is a joint class, Kento?â
Higurumaâs voice is enough to send pulses of adrenaline flowing through your body - and youâre just managing to look around Nanamiâs toned frame. The law professor stands behind the two of you with his arms crossed, clothes mostly on except for his trousers being tugged down.
He held his blushinâ cock in one hand, pumping furiously at the sight of his star student.Â
Nanami himself sighsâthough he doesnât stop his sloppy scouring of your innards for a single second. He looks straight at the other man as he asks- âOh yesâŚwould you like her now or after me, Hiromi?â
âNow.â Higuruma narrows his heady eyes at the two of you. And the blond-haired man slightly growls at his answer, seemingly grappling with the thought of leaving your pretty pussy right about now- âBut donât pull out.â
You feel like youâre experiencing whiplash. âWhat?â
Nanami only raises a sharp brow.
And Higuruma himself canât help but crack a sleazy smirk-
Before you know it, heâs rounding the two of you. Coat off. White button-up flapping open.
He tugs on the smooth, black tie that was hanging haphazardly from his neck- and gestures something indiscernible at the other man.
Though, clearly both professors understood.
Because one second youâre slouched on top of Higurumaâs desk, droolinâ stupidly over some important documents as Nanami Kento pounds you into oblivion - and in the next second, heâs lifting you off of it.
Cleanly off the desk.
One hand wrapped around your waist, the other putting you in a headlock.
He pulls you up as though youâre nothing- and youâre ogling the way his biceps bulge around your throat. Feeling the cushy firmness of his strengthââW-what are you-â
âDâyou know what a standing full nelson is?â Higuruma asks. And for a second you think heâs asking you - maybe this was some strange sort of quiz - but then Nanami nods.
âThought that only happens in fiction? Donât tell me youâre a secret freak, Hiromi?â He scoffs, though he pulls out either way.Â
âAnd look whoâs talkingâŚâ Then Higuruma looks at you and taps his shoulders. âHold on, angel, heâs going to lift you.â
âShitâŚâÂ
As expected, youâre holding onto Higurumaâs broad shoulders for leverage- whilst Nanami bends and loops his hands around your legs. His strong forearms where your knees were.Â
Scooping you up into his arms.
Holding them up.
Holding you up.
Hoverinâ well over six feet in the air.
Yelping, youâre digging your nails into the law professorâs shoulders - but if it hurt, then he doesnâtâ react to the pain. Honestly, you donât even think he could feel it right nowâbecause Higuruma was holding out his tie.
Measuring it against your face-
Tying it around your face like a blindfold.
He knots it at the back of your head, and suddenly the room is curtained in nothing but pure black. You could only hear the gruffness of both menâs chuckles, and Higuruma asking. âEverything alright, angel?â
âOf course, it is.â Nanami mutters- almost to himself. Though he does stretch your legs a little wider, presumably to show to the other manââLook how fucking drenched she is.â
âGood girl.â
âNaughty, you mean.â
âI must beg to differ.â
And youâre arching against Nanamiâs toned front, the plushness of his abs digging against your back. It was the most sensual massage youâve felt in your entire life- âPlease- ngh, whatâs with the blindfold?â
âOh, thatâŚâ Higuruma starts. âGuess.â
âWhat?â
âGuess.â
Brains wracking- âYou arenât going to leave me hanging, are you?â
âNo.â
âIs this a roleplay?â
âNo.â
âA kink thing?â
âWellâŚâ
âA BDSM thing?â
âGuess.â
Youâre feeling helplessness wash over youââB-but, I already did-â
âNo, my love.â Nanamiâs the one to speak up this time. He leans down so that heâs pressing an innocent kiss to the edge of your hairline, âWeâre going to make this slutty pussy guess which one of us sheâs being fucked by.â
Your jaw drops.
And your cunt grows even wetter.
An occasion that the two professors are watching with awe-
Higuruma in particular finds himself breathing outââAnd your time startsâŚnow.â
And then youâre hearing the shuffling of his trousers- right before a sudden proddinâ intrusion starts up at your entrance. It was hot and throbbingâso needy that your teeth are set on edge by the sheer volume of precum that he was emptying out.
Youâre feeling his thick tip start to eeeease in- squeezing in past the tightness of your channel for a bit before pulling back and fucking you ruthlessly in semi-thrusts.
âH-Hiromi?â You guess. Surely, with him being the one that was removing his trousers it must beâŚ
âWrong.â Nanami grins.
And then youâre feeling his cock give you a few vicious pumps before heâs pulling away - leaving you all empty and yearning for more. Your glistening hole clenches a few times around nothing, before a sudden globular tip starts kissinâ your entrance once more.
Youâre bucking back in Nanamiâs arms in an attempt to figure out just who it might be- but the history professor holds onto you firmly. Not a single inch.
Not a single inch less.
Whoever was fucking you takes no more time before swabbinâ his swollen erection inside once more- biting back a groooan at the feeling of your tightening walls.
Itâs the same short, jerky thrusts from before just to fit in.Â
âSir?â Youâre gasping out. But surely, it canât be twice in a rowâŚâNo wait- is it Hiromi this time?â
The cadence of his hips stops abruptly. âCanât get enough of the law, can you?â
Nanami.
And you donât know whether itâs the fact that youâre just feeling your brain melt at the sheer stimulation between your legs, you donât know whether itâs the fact that both handsome men had you sandwiched between their muscular bodiesâit was just driving you wild. Making you stupid.
A line of drool slicks down the side of your mouth, and Nanami doesnât hesitate before leaning in and lickinâ it off. âI should punish you for this.â
âI-Iâoh, fuck.â Whatever words were on the tip of your tongue get swallowed up by the feeling of yet another round, ruddied cockhead pushing inwards. Pulsing. Prying apart your walls. And youâre noticing that this one is slightly slimmer than the last, more pointed, more honed, more of its curvaceous tip that tilts to the left.
It makes you shiver at the feeling of his bawling divot dragging across your walls so perfectly. âIs this- sir-â
âTry again, angel.â
It was a struggle to piece your thoughts together, and Higurumaâs voice is the only thing that makes you realize-
âHiromi.â
âMhmmmââ Before you know it, the other man has one hand dipping between your jittery legs. His fingers easily locate your clit to tug nâ pry like the cutest gummy - how sweet. And heâs timing it to the constant probes of his looooong, smooth cock. âGood girl. A++ for that.â
âYouâre quite the generous grader.â Nanami scoffs. âI would have given that a B.â
âWhat can I say? I do have a soft spot for herâŚâ Higurumaâs cock was slightly lengthier than Nanamiâs, youâre noticing - though not quite as thick. And with less veins that didnât massage your inner orifices as much, but made it soooo much easier for him to slip even deeper.
Especially with this position, he manages to probe his cockhead further past where Nanamiâs thicker one was able to fit.
Reaching almost for your throat with his blushing, frenzied tip- Higuruma gives a final roll over your clit before heâs pulling out. Letting a few ribbons of sap gush down your legs after him-
Ones that are being fucked right back up with a second length.
Thicker. Harder.
Throbbing so much that you swear you can count them all the way at the top of your head- Nanamiâs shaft was next. And heâs lavishing your entrance with so much attentionâdraaaaagging his vein-decorated shaft in and out. In and out. In and out.
âS-so?â He rasps out from behind. Higurumaâs cockhead had mazed open your insides just a bit more, and Nanami struggles not to let his voice tremble. âWhich one of us, darling?â
âY-youââ
That earns you a bite on the shell of your ear. âNo.â
Before heâs pulling back out.
And your breath catches- âWait- I meant sir. Itâs you, sirââ
âToo late for that now.â
âAwww, come now.â Higuruma coos as well. âHow are we supposed to make an example out of our star student if she just keeps makinâ mistakes?â
âI think sheâs gettinâ lazy now, huh?â The other man responds. And now both of their ruddied cockheads were droolinâ all over your entrance- mixing with the sweetened syrup that was already dripping out of you and creating such a mess. âMaybe she doesnât deserve our cocks at all?â
âDonât say thatââ You could feel your law professorâs eyes turn to you. âYou deserve it- hah, donât you, angel?â
Shivering at the feeling of both cocks sandwiching between your pussylips. Now that theyâd both pulled out- itâs as if they were fighting over who can be next. Rubbinâ and teasing. âI doââ Your voice cracks on that last note, âP-please, I do-â
âIâm still not convinced.â
Higuruma continues, âPromise us youâll be a good girl? That youâll listen to what your professors have to say?â
âI will I will-â
âPromise us that no more of that teasinâ stuff in class?â His prominent nose slides down the column of your throat, breathing in your essence. âNone of that bending over?â
âYesââ But you could already hear the question in your throat - and it seems that they could, too.
And it makes Nanami gruffs out. âBecause - forgive us - but you do realize that itâs not just us seeing your littleâŚdisplay, darling?â He spreads open your legs even wider, and Higurumaâs ministrations grow even more frenzied on your clit. Squeezing. Pinching. Flicking.
And youâre restless- âWh-what do you mean?â
âI mean to say that there are others moreâŚundeserving that see those legs of yours, those panties, those tits.â Thereâs a sharp edge to his wordsââThose boys in class canât take their eyes off of you.â
âWe canât either, of course.â Higuruma responds. Squeezing his cock inside- âBut at least that little performance of yours is meant for us, right?â
âDonât like the way they look at you.â Nanamiâs also squeezing his cock inside now - both of them bullying your hole at once. Creating a stretch that makes your vision go white- so much carnal stimulation that your entire body wracks with shakes. âDonât like the way they turn to look. Donât like the way they have to mysteriouslyâŚdisappear into the bathrooms any time you do your little show.â
âGivenâŚwe do the same.â The law professor continuesââBecause fuck- how fuckinâ pretty you look all dressed up in silk. Makes it hard not to cream my pants everytime I see you- but none of those boys have the balls to back that admiration up.â
Giving you a thorough slamâboth of them.
Higurumaâs the one to continue, âBut we do.â
âBecause I rub my cock raw to you, my love.â Nanami ends off, holding you close to him. âNâ none of those boys could ever fuck you like we do.â
âYes, p-pleaseââ And youâre pushed between both of their sculptured fronts. Unable to see them- but you could feel the ridges and curves of their muscles, the way they were both leaning in as though they couldnât get enough of you. âI only wantâŚngh.â
One of your arms wrap around Higurumaâs neck, and the other reaches behind you to attempt to clasp onto Nanamiâs.
âJust want the two of youâŚâ
âHmmmâŚâ Nanamiâs cock twitches at your gooey entrance- âA+â
And then theyâre alternating between fucking youâ
âHiromi.â Youâre gasping at the intrusion of his smoothened tip, the velvety texture of him reaching for so many spots inside you but most importantly- that g-spot.Â
And then heâs pulling back out.
âSir- fuck, Professor Kento.â Nanami swabs his thickened tip inside and hits that precise spot. Although he decides to take it a few steps further this time and dig his rounded tip into the very back of your pussy, bottoming-out. âShit shit shitââ
Thrust after thrust.
Pulling out. Shovelling back in.
Making you guess just which one of your two older professors were takinâ over your pussy right now- it made your head dizzy just trying to keep track. Bounced up and down in their arms.
âHiromi.â
âProfessor Kento.â
âHiromi.â
âHiromi.â
âProfessor Kento.â
âHiromi.â
âProfessor Kento.â
âProfessor Kento.â
âHiromiââ Before your voice shatters at the feeling ofâŚtwo thickened lengths attempting to fit inside. Fighting against the resistance for a few sloppy strokes before theyâre siiiiiiiiiiiinking in- âAnd Professor K-Kento, sirâŚâ The feeling of their large, slick-glazed cocks were just incredible - rubbinâ against your walls and one another. Like nothing earlier.
It was a stretch like youâve never felt before, hittinâ spots that you didnât even know you had.
And both professors held onto your shaking body tight- they shovelled their lengths in and out of you. Two blushinâ cockheads heading for your g-spot, before their slide-slide-sliiiiiding all the way down to end up at your cervix.
Stretching apart your walls.
Making your channel bulge.
Letting the curves of their mushroomy tips drag apart your walls, nâ press into the sweetest spots of your nerves. Both of their heavy ballsacks smack-smack the front of your cunt right on time with their thrusts. Thrust after thrust.
Again and again.
Nanami grunts at the sensation of Higuruma deep inside you, âF-fuckâŚâ
âYou can say that again.â Higuruma himself replies.Â
By now, the jostlinâ about had meant that your blindfold was falling off- and you could see the two men upon either side of you. Shovelling their hot cocks deep inside your pussy, positively ravaging you.
The law professorâs fingers werenât letting up on your clit just yet, either.Â
He quirks his digits just a bit to draw a little heart upon itâand soon enough you find yourself throwing your head back with a moan. âG-gonna-â
âShhhhââ Nanami grins. His ears keenly listen to the noises from between your legs - they were just so much louder now that you had two thickened shafts ramming into you. âThis pussy says sheâs gonna cum soon, darling.â
âY-you little-âÂ
A harsh hammerinâ on your spongy cervix. âPardon, my love?â
âNothingâoh.â Even their thrusting styles were different - Nanami Kento with his thorough, solid slashes as though he was trying to reach your womb every single time. And Higuruma Hiromi with slightly slower, smoother glides of his cock - soothing through the nooks nâ crannies that Nanami had activated first.
It was the perfect combination.
Naughty and nice.
Though not exactly in the way youâd initially thought.
And perhaps this manner was what was making you so desperate to cum again- âPlease-â Gasping. âLet me cumââ
Youâre looking between a grinning Nanami and Higuruma. Dazedly.
âPlease may I-â Choking out in-between the moans and droplets of saliva that were gushing out of you- falling onto Higurumaâs puffed-out chest. â-cum, sirs?â
Both of their rock-hard cocks twitch deep inside of you.
And youâre briefly seeing a silent conversation pass between them-
âGo ahead, angel.â
âCum all over my cock, darling.â
And it might have been minutes, it might have been seconds, it might have been split-seconds later once youâre crashing into your high. The waves of white-hot pleasure taking over you until it felt like your body was burning up.Â
Feverish.
Youâre crying out as you attempt to bounce your lewd hips back into both their shovelling shafts- but theyâve already got you. Theyâre holding onto your perspired body - so limp now with pleasure - and lettinâ their pointed cockheads hit each and every nerve bundle inside.
Pinpointing your g-spot with their lengths.
Targeting it especially through peak after peak.
After peak.
Your cunt trickles with honeyed slick- and it slips between your three bodies to drench Higuruma and Nanamiâs cocks. Their thighs. Their bodies.Â
Making it even louder to thrust into your cuntâyouâre forced to raise your voice just a little just so that they can hear. âSh-shitâŚâ Until eventually youâre feeling so raw on their relentless cocks that youâre unsure whether you want them to elongate those waves of bliss or whether you want to fucking run awayââIt feels so- oh, it feelsâŚâ
âAnd what do we say?â Nanamiâs deep baritone croons out. He doesnât slow down for a single second as he speaks- even though he himself was feeling a little sensitive by this point.
He hits his full ballsack against the front of your cunt and hisses- âCan I have it all insideâŚâ Youâre looking between them with wide, heart-shaped pupils. â-sirs?â
And you shouldâve known what that would do.
You shouldâve known how much that would break them.
Because with only a few final thrusts, both Higuruma and Nanami cum inside you with loud slurps! of your greedy cunt. Gobblinâ up all those white ropes of seed that they were emptying out - sheer volumes that theyâd been holding onto for hours, days, this entire semester.
Nanami furrows his golden brows and presses his face into the crook of your neck. Groaning as he fucks you through his orgasm, âA-and here I was just expecting a thank youâŚâ
âOur girl always was the sweetest.â Higuruma coos.Â
Your history professor rides through his high with his teeth grit, jaw working overtime to keep his noises to a minimum - he wanted to hear your soft gasps and groans even more. Though his body shakes as it keeps on thrumminâ with pleasure.Â
Visceral.
Meanwhile, your law professor let out such husky grunts after each splat! of cum that he emptied out against your womb. He couldnât even handle fucking you properly anymore and his hips kept on stutterinâ through his waves.Â
Cheeks flushed. Gaze locked on you.Â
He didnât want to tear it away.
Both of them are cumming so much that you nearly canât tell whoâs who - with their dollops of heated, syrupy sap. Each divot bawling them out messilyâyou can feel them stick against the end of your pussy, right where your cervix was, before being stirred about by the motions of their cylindrical shafts.Â
Their prominent veins massaginâ your sweetest spots. Their globular cockheads pumping every single droplet inside you.
Every single droplet.
Not a single bead of that ivory cum escapesâbut theyâre both still looking at each other with the same idea.
And youâre seeing yet another silent conversation pass between them that you miss. âOh?â
In almost no time, Higuruma and Nanami have you splayed out on the polished desk - back against its flat surface, legs held high in the air. This time, however, both their faces were between your pussylips and attempting to beat the otherâ
They were lappinâ their dual tongues over your leaking cunt like they were starved.
Nanamiâs hand pressing down on your stomach to make a few more droplets spray out of your hole- Higurumaâs hand flicking over your clit still.
You lean back on your elbows and watch them.
And what a sight it was: both their handsome faces between your legs.
They nudge their noses against the creamy layers on top of your cunt, and swivel the mess around like mad. You could see through your tears the exact moment - the exact moment - that their pinkish tongues meet in the middle.
Where Higurumaâs tastebuds overlap with Nanamiâs as theyâre suckling on your clit- and they both flinch at the sensation before moaningâ
And thatâs before the door clicks.
âOi, why are the lights still on? Donât you know that campus has closed a long time ag-â
You pause.
Nanami pauses.
Higuruma pauses.
And so does Professor Shiu Kong - Head of the Mathematics Department, also PhD with Distinction.Â
His jaw drops as his eyes drift over from the mess of clothes on the floor, to the mess thatâd been made of you. Bite marks all over your throat. The blindfold still around your neck. And even more - you could see the way his hands tighten on his files as his gaze probes deeper, taking in your leaking, lecherous cunt.
No one moves.
Except for Shiu, who steps inside.
Your heart was in your throat.
Getting ready for a berating of some kind- or potentially even worse. Perhaps a suspension, perhaps Nanami and Higuruma would be fired at once-
âSoâŚâ Shiuâs husky voice interrupts your thoughts. â-got room for mathematics?â
A/N. Heheheheh ofc we got room for youuuuuuuuu Shiu <33
