“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist | ao3
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
summary: For months, Bucky has looked forward to one thing: seeing his favorite camgirl live. He never expected to find her poolside in a white bikini... or discover that she's been flirting with him all summer long.
word count: <3.7k
warnings: +18 MDNI explicit sexual content, age gap, mutual pining, mutual obsession, voyeurism, mention of m and f masturbating, oral sex, face sitting, dirty talk, infidelity (reader has a boyfriend), porn with a little bit of plot, unprotected p in v. | english is ot my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any grammar mistakes or mistypos.
a/n: This request has been sitting in my inbox for months now (I'm truly sorry for the delay) I had to do a minor adjustment to the original one, since I've never posted my guidelines, but after talking with the lovely person who submitted it we came to this agreement ❤︎ as always a big thank you for my girls @herejustforbuckybarnes and @buckysdecaflove for beta reading.
read in AO3
Bucky's alone in his department, laptop open on the bed, his door locked even though no one's coming over. It's become a routine—every few nights, sometimes more, he finds himself here… waiting.
The notification pops up: StarryKitten is live.
He clicks immediately.
The stream loads, and there she is. No face, she never shows her face—just that perfect body in black lace, the camera angled to show everything from her neck down. She's on her knees on the bed, and even through the screen he can see how her skin would feel under his hands.
"Hi everyone," she says, and her voice—fuck, her voice is what hooked him in the first place. Soft and breathy and just a little teasing. "Missed me?"
The chat explodes. He watches the usernames scroll by, all desperate and pathetic, and then he types his own message.
oldsoul17: Always.
She laughs, and he swears, he can hear the smile in it. "Well, aren't you sweet."
He's been watching for months now. He found her by accident—late night, couldn't sleep, scrolling through sites he probably shouldn't be on. And then there she was. Something about her pulled him in and wouldn't let go. The way she moved, the sounds she made, the little freckle on her left hip that the camera caught sometimes when she shifted positions.
He's spent more money than he cares to admit. Tips, private requests, custom videos. He's become one of her regulars, and she knows it—she calls him out by the username he uses, thanks him specifically.
"I see you there, old soul," she says now, shifting onto her back. "That mean it's going to be a good night."
His hand is already on his belt.
She touches herself slowly, teasingly, and he follows every movement. He's memorized her body at this point—the curve of her waist, the way her hips roll, the little sounds she makes when she's getting close. He knows what she likes, what makes her gasp.
When she comes, he's right there with her, and afterward he sits there in the dark, heart pounding, feeling like a fucking creep.
He doesn't know who she is. Doesn't know her real name, her face, anything beyond what she shows on camera.
It's safer that way.
The July heat is brutal, but your dad's summer house has a pool, and you're taking full advantage. You're stretched out on a lounger in your new bikini—white, high-cut, the kind that shows off your legs and draws the eye.
Bucky's here this weekend. Your dad invited him up, something about work and fishing. You've known him for years—he's been your dad's friend and business associate since you were sixteen—but lately, something's shifted.
The way he looks at you has changed.
You've noticed it over the past few months. The lingering glances, the way his eyes track you when you walk into a room. The way he stands just a little too close, lets his hand rest on your lower back a second too long when he passes behind you.
You've started testing it, wearing shorter dresses, leaning over in front of him to grab something, brushing against him in hallways… just to see.
He always reacts. A sharp inhale, a tightening of his jaw; but he never acts on it.
You're starting to wonder what it would take.
"You want something to drink?" your friend calls from the pool.
"I'm good!" you call back, adjusting your position on the longer. You tug at the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pulling them a little higher, and that's when you feel it.
Someone's staring.
You glance toward the patio, Bucky's standing there, frozen, beer in hand. But he's not looking at your face, his eyes are locked on your hip, on the small exposed stretch of skin where your freckle is visible. His face goes completely still. You watch his throat works as he swallows, his knuckles white around the bottle. His eyes are dark, intense, and when they finally drag up to meet yours, there's something in them that makes your stomach flip.
He looks almost… stricken.
Then he turns abruptly and walks back inside.
You sit there with your pulse racing, wondering what the hell just happened.
The afternoon drags on. Your friends eventually leave, pilling into cars with promises to meet up next week. Your parents head out for their dinner reservation, and Bucky claims he's not feeling well, that he'll just stay back and relax.
"Make yourself at home"your dad says, clapping him on the shoulder.
The door closes. The house goes quiet.
You're in the kitchen, still in your bikini with denim shorts pulled over it, bare feet on the cool tile. You're pouring yourself water when you sense him behind you.
You turn, leaning back against the counter. "Hey. Feeling better?"
Bucky's standing in the doorway, and the way he's looking at you it's different from before.
"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds restrained.
You take a sip of water, watching him over the rim of the glass. "You sure? You left pretty quick earlier."
"Just needed to cool off."
"It is hot," you agree, setting the glass down. You stretch, arching your back slightly, and you don't miss the way his eyes track the movement. "I might go for another swim later."
"You should put more clothes on."
The words come out harder than he probably meant. You tilt your head, playing innocent. "Why?"
"Because—" He stops. "Because your parents will be back soon."
"Not for hours." You push off the counter, taking a few steps toward him. "It's just us."
You watch him fight it. Watch the tension coil in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to hear his breathing change.
"You should go upstairs," he says quietly.
"What if I don't want to?"
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then you do something reckless—you reach up and adjust your bikini top, fingers grazing the tie at your neck, and his eyes follow the movement like he's starving.
"Shit," he mutters under his breath, turning away. "I—I'll be right back."
He disappears down the hall, and you hear a door close. The bathroom.
You bite your lip, because you know exactly what he's doing in there.
Bucky braces his hands on the sink, his head bowed, trying to breathe.
This was insane.
He knows that freckle. He's seen it dozens of times, hundreds, in videos and live streams and photos. Right there, just under the waistband of your left hip.
StarryKitten. You're the girl he's been watching for months, the one he's jerked off to more times than he can count, the one he's tipped thousands of dollars… you've been right here the whole time.
And you had no fucking idea he knows.
He's watched you parade around in those little outfits, leaning over in front of him, brushing up against him. You think you're just teasing your dad's friend. You don't know he's seen everything.
His cock is painfully hard against his jeans. He palms himself through the denim, groaning quietly. He shouldn't. He should get the fuck out of this house, drive back to the city, block your account and never think about this again.
But then he remembers the way you looked at him just now. The way you've stretched, arched your back, adjusted your bikini.
You want him.
Maybe not the way he wants you—you don't know about the months of watching, the obsession, the desperate need—but you want him.
He unbuckles his belt with shaking hands,.
Just once, just to take the edge off. Then he'll get his shit together.
He wraps his hand around himself and the relief is immediate. He braces against the sink with his other hand, eyes closed, and all he can see is you. In that white bikini, in those videos on your knees, on your back, touching yourself while saying his username.
"Fuck," he breathes.
It doesn't take long. He comes hard, biting back a groan, and in the aftermath he just stands there, forehead against the mirror, trying to catch his breath.
This can't happen.
But he knows deep down it's going to.
When Bucky comes back, his hair is damp like he splashed water on his face, and his eyes are darker than before.
"Better?" you ask innocently.
"No."
The honesty in his voice makes you shiver. You're standing in the living room now, the evening light slanting through the windows. The house feels huge and empty, but also full of possibilities.
"Your parents will be back soon," he says again, but it sounds less convincing this time.
"Two hours at least," you take a step closer. "Maybe three."
"You should—" He stops, exhaling roughly. "You don't know what you're doing."
"Don't I?"
You close the distance between you, and you can see him fighting not to back up, not to run. You're close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, to see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"I see the way you look at me," you say softly. "I've seen it for months now."
His hands curl into fists. "You're my best friend's daughter."
"I'm also an adult."
"You have a boyfriend."
"Do you care?"
The question hangs between you. His eyes are locked on yours, and you can see the war happening behind them.
"I should," he says finally. "But no, I don't."
Your heart is pounding. "Then why are you holding back?"
"Because I'm trying to be the responsible one between us."
You reach up and untie your bikini top. It falls away, and his eyes drop immediately, his breathing going ragged.
"There's no need to be responsible here," you whisper.
And that's all it takes. His hands are on you in a second, pulling you against him, and his mouth crashes down on yours. It's not gentle—it's months of build up tension breaking all at once, desperate and overwhelming. You kiss him back just as frantically, fingers tangling in his hair.
"We should go upstairs," you murmur against his lips.
He takes you to your room, and the second the door closes,he's on you again. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your ribcage to cup your breasts. You're pulling at his shirt, desperate, and when it finally comes off you run your hands over his chest, his shoulders.
"I've wanted this for so long," he mutters, backing you toward the bed. "You have no fucking idea."
"Tell me," you breathe.
"Every time you walk into a room, every time you lean over in those little dresses, every time you brush against me—" He groans, his hand sliding into your hair. "I've thought about bending you over and making you mine."
"Do it."
He pushes you back onto the bed, and you land with a gasp. He's over you in a second, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth on your neck.
"Do you know how perfect you are?" He murmurs against your skin. "How fucking gorgeous?"
His hands slide down to your shorts, and he makes quick work of the button and zipper. You lift your hips and he drags them off along with your bikini bottoms, and then you're completely bare beneath him.
"Christ," he breathes, his eyes raking over you. His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, he groans. "You're soaked."
"For you."
"Yeah?" He pushes one finger inside, and you arch into the touch. "All for me? Not for that little boyfriend of yours, huh?"
"Yes—fuck—Bucky—"
"That's it baby, say my name." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and you're already trembling. "Does that little punk makes you feel this good?"
You just can shake your head while he works you with his fingers, his thumb finding your clit, and you're already gasping and writhing beneath him. But before you can get too close, he pulls away.
"Not yet," he says, and there's something wicked in his smile. "I want to taste you first."
He moves down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip—right over that freckle that started all of this. Then he's settling between your thighs and the first touch of his tongue makes you cry out.
He eats you out like a man starving, his hands grip your hips, holding you in place as his tongue works over you, and the sounds he's making—low groans of appreciation, like you're the best thing he's ever tasted—are almost as overwhelming as the sensation itself.
"Bucky—oh my god—"
"That's it," he murmurs against you. "Let me hear you, gorgeous. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
You're already so close, the tension coiling tight in your belly, but then he pulls back. Before you can protest, he's moving up the bed, lying on his back.
"Come here," he says. "I want you to ride my face."
"But I can suffocate you!"
"Get up here, sweetheart, it wasn't a question."
The command in his voice makes you move without thinking. You straddle his chest, thighs shaking, and he grips your hips and pulls you forward until you're positioned right over his mouth.
"Perfect," he breathes, and then he's pulling you down.
The sensation is overwhelming. His tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking and fucking into you, and his hands on your hips are guiding you to grind against him. You're gasping, one hand braced on the headboard, and the other tangled in his hair.
"Fuck—Bucky—that's so good."
He groans against you, the vibration making you jolt, and his grip tightens. He's relentless, working you higher and higher until you're shaking, until you can't hold back anymore.
"I'm gonna—oh god—I'm—"
"Come for me," he growls against you. "Come all over my face, kitten."
The nickname hits you like a shock. Your eyes fly open, but before you can process it, your orgasm crashes over you. You come with a cry, hips rolling against his mouth as he works you through it, licking up everything you give him.
When you finally slump forward, trembling, he eases you off and you collapse next to him on the bed, your chest heaving.
"What—" you start, but your voice won't work. "Did you just—did you call me—"
He sits up, and when you see his face—lips swollen, chin wet—your stomach flips. "StarryKitten," he says, and his voice is pure gravel. "That's you, isn't it?"
Your heart stops. "How did you—"
"This freckle." He reaches out, thumb brushing over the spot on your hip. "I've seen it before, dozens of times, in your videos."
Oh god. "You're oldsoul17," you whisper.
"Yeah," he moves over you again. "I've been watching you for months, baby, touching myself to your videos. Tipping you, messaging you… and the whole time, it was you."
You should be embarrassed. Mortified even, but instead heat floods through you. "Bucky—"
"I've wanted you for so long," he mutters, his fingers rolling your nipple, making you arch into his touch. "Both versions of you. The girl who walks around here in those little dresses, teasing me. And the girl on my screen who makes the sweetest sounds when she comes."
His other hand finds your other breast, and he's playing with both now, watching your face as you writhe beneath him.
"I've watched you touch these," he says. "Watched you pinch and tease yourself. But I've always wanted to be the one doing it."
"Then do it," you breathe.
He leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you cry out. His hand continues working the other, pinching and rolling, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. He switches sides, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, and you're already getting wet again. But you need to touch him too.
You push at his shoulders, and he pulls back, confused. "What—"
"My turn," you say, and push him onto his back.
"Baby—"
"You've watched me," you say, moving down his body. "Now let me show you what I can do in person."
You settle between his thighs, and up close, he's even more impressive. Hard and thick, already leaking. You wrap your hand around him, and the groan he lets out makes you clench.
"You don't have to do this—" he grits out, but his his jerk against your touch.
"I want to," you stroke him slowly, base to tip, and lean down to press a kiss to the head. "I want to taste you."
You take him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue, and his hand immediately tangles in your hair.
"That's it," he mutters. "Just like that."
You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and the sounds he's making are even better than you imagined. Low groans and muttered curses and your name over and over. You work him with your mouth and hand together, finding a rhythm, paying attention to what makes him grip your hair tighter, what makes his thighs tense. You pull off to lick along the underside, tracing the vein, and he nearly comes off the bed.
You take him deeper again, and his control starts to slip. His hips rock up slightly, and you relax your throat, letting him.
"Look at you," he groans, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. "So fucking perfect with your lips wrapped around me. I've imagined this, but nothing compares to the real thing."
You moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse. You can feel him getting close, his cock pulsing against your tongue, and you double your efforts.
"I'm close, you don't have to—"
But you want to. You want to taste him, feel him come apart because of you. You take him as deep as you can and swallow, and that's all it takes.
He comes with a shout, hips jerking, and you take everything he gives you. When you finally pull off, you look up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face is of someone absolutely wrecked.
"Come here," he growls.
You crawl up his body, and he pulls you into a filthy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands are on your breasts again immediately, kneading and teasing, and you're so turned on you're trembling.
"I need you inside me," you whisper against his mouth. "Please, Bucky—"
"Greedy girl," he mutters, but he's already hardening again. "Want more already?"
"Always."
He flips you onto your back, settling between your thighs. His mouth finds your breast again, sucking and biting while his hand works the other. You're writhing beneath him, desperate for more.
"Bucky— fuck—I need—"
"I know, I know sweet girl."
He lines himself up and pushes in slowly and the stretch is perfect and overwhelming. You grip his shoulders, nails digging in, and he groans against your neck.
"You feel incredible," he grits out. "So tight and wet."
He starts to move, slow and deep, and every thrust makes your toes curl. His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep and filthy while he fucks you into the mattress. One hand is braced by your head, but the other finds your breast again, rolling your nipple between his fingers.
"You're so perfect," he mutters against your lips. "My good girl, taking me so well."
"Faster, please—"
He shifts the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You're gasping and moaning and he's talking you through it.
"That's it, baby. Let me hear you. Let me hear those sounds you make. I've heard them through my speakers for months, but this—" He thrusts harder, deeper. "This is so much better."
"Oh god— please—"
"You're close, aren't you? I can feel you getting tighter." He pinches your nipple again, and you cry out. "You gonna come for me, kitten? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl?"
"Yes—yes—Bucky"
"Come on, let me feel this perfect pussy squeeze me."
Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. You cry out, back arching, and he fucks you through it, his rhythm getting rougher, more desperate. The hand on your breast slides down to grip your hip, fingers pressing into that freckle that gave you away.
"You're so fucking perfect when you come." He mutters before burying himself deep and groaning your name as he comes, and the feeling of him spilling inside you sends another wave of pleasure through you.
After, you're tangled together in the sheets, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back. Your breasts are pressed against his chest, still sensitive from all the attention, and every time you shift you feel the pleasant ache.
"Your parents," he says eventually. "They'll be back soon."
"I know."
"This is insane."
"I know."
He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. "I'm not done with you yet."
Your stomach flips. "Good."
"This isn't a one-time thing," he says, and there's something fierce in his voice. "Now that I have you, I'm not letting you go."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you're mine now." His hands slides from your breast down to your hip, over your freckle. "Secret. No one else gets to know. Not your boyfriend, not your parents…"
You should feel guilty. Your boyfriend, your parents, the risk. But all you feel is a thrill running through you.
"Okay," you whisper.
He kisses you again, slower this time. You can feel him hardening against your thigh again.
"Again?"
"I've waited months for this," he says before rolling you onto your back. "I'm not wasting a single second."
And he doesn't.
By the time you hear your parents' car I the driveway two hours later, you've come three more times, and you can barely walk straight. But you both know this is just the beginning.
Tags/Warning: MDNI 18+, biker Bucky, curvy reader, insecure reader, beefy Bucky because we all need him, coworker are shitheads, drinking, angst if you squint, smut in part 2 (oral!fem receiving, missionary, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Buckys got a filthy mouth, fingering, he literally eats you out on the bike alright)
Summary: After a shit night out with coworkers, you catch the eye of a mysterious biker who looks every part of a dirty fantasy.
Note: it’s been forever since I wrote literally anything. I’ve decided to crawl out of my hole and share a little something something as I warm my fingies. I have a mild praise kink so reblog, like it, and comment. Thanks!
Dividers by @uzmacchiato
Perhaps it’s the mystery of the unknown. Being able to see what the body looks like, but not being able to see the face, drives something deep inside your bones to sizzle.
You’ve seen the videos — the girl giving her number to a mysterious biker, posing with them for a picture, kissing the helmet before running away. Each one, you whisper I wanna do that.
If ever given the chance.
But Gods work on mysterious ways…
It’s a buzzing Friday night in New York—bars are packed, taxis flying down the side streets, drunken laughter filling the air, and your feet are throbbing from walking the uneven side walks.
Your coworkers wanted to celebrate someone’s promotion, you don’t even know who, but had agreed anyways because everyone deserves a drink.
The night started fine, honestly, but then took a left turn into fuckthisvile when all your coworkers started making odd jokes.
About you.
The first few were harmless, even you giggled at. They gradually grew harsher. Meaner. Personal.
“It must be hard shopping for your style in your size.” Dani had drunkenly mocked.
“Summers have got to be hard on you.” Tiffany chimed in.
“Oh be nice to her. She just has more to love.” Frank laughed.
You felt your skin crawl and all blood rush to your ears. Your eyes stayed glued to your drink, watching the sweat droplets slide down to your fingers.
You felt mildly insecure already, being a woman with curves, but never thought of yourself as ugly.
Slamming the last of your drink, you didn’t even give them the gratification of seeing your hurt, and grabbed your purse to leave. The liquor burned your throat, momentarily taking the focus from your eyes. You glanced at each of their laughing faces, nodded once and walked away.
The humid night air refreshes your lungs, finally pulling in a deep breath since the jokes started.
Your phone sits waiting in your hand as you go to book an Uber, when loud vrooming sounds fill the street.
Lifting your eyes, you watch as three motorcycles pull up along the curb right outside the bar. The first one is hot red with white strips along the body, and the rider in all black leather but the helmet matches the bike.
The second is blue and red, a single white star on their helmet.
But it’s the middle bike that causes your breath to hitch. All black leather, helmet, and bike. A blood red star on the front.
You can’t help but stare as your breathing becomes deeper, inhaling the fumes from their exhaust. The red bike and the white star are yelling over the middle person, who—even through his helmet—looks over the conversation.
Head tilted slightly, nodding gently to whatever song must be playing in the protective gear, and your heart feels it’s going to drop out your pussy.
You take a step forward and then freeze. He’s huge, big shoulders and arms and hands and you thought you could just waltz right up and do what?
Your brain short circuits before starting back up again as one of the bikes revs loudly. Your glossy eyes focus, and the one you were staring at now has his head turned. Looking directly at you.
Your hands clam up, your throat feels tight, and your eyes widen. His head tilts in question before lifting a finger to motion you over.
You’re frozen, ready to vomit, just as the door behinds you burst open. Your eyes close in prayer when Tiffany and Dani stumble beside you.
“You’re still here? We thought you left!” Dani pokes your arm.
You snatch it out of reach, glaring, “I was getting an uber.”
Frank materializes on the other side of you, “why are you leaving? You know we were just joking! Don’t be so sensitive.” He nudges Tiffany. “Right? We weren’t trying to make fun of you.”
The two girls cackle, stumbling into each other, “yeah!”
You shift your gaze back to the man and suddenly the New York life drowns out.
He’s swinging his leg over the seat, pulling the key out of the ignition, all while keeping his head focused on you. As he approaches, your head slowly tilts back to keep your eyes on where you think his eyes are.
The giggling has stopped, Frank has taken a step back, and big mystery man is leaning down to press the helmet to the side of your face, “Need a ride?”
Your tongue feels like sand paper so all you can do is nod.
He straightens, flips his visor up, and stares piercingly blue eyes into your soul.
Your cheeks heat, your thighs twitch, and you would give your left kidney to see the rest of his face. His voice is like smooth honey, slowly dripping down your spine.
His eyes shift to the three people by you, “You know them?” His left index finger wiggles between them.
You go to answer honestly, then freeze. No, you don’t know these people. They’re just coworkers who are treating you like a street dog. Taking a deep breath, “No. I don’t know them.”
They all start to yell at you, voices stumbling over each other, trying to defend themselves.
Big Man nods once, wraps his arm around your shoulders, “She’s with me.”
You hold onto his leather jacket, willing your heart to calm the fuck down when you realize he’s leading you to his bike. The other two riders are leaning back, staring daggers at the three assholes you walked away from.
Mystery Man climbs on the bike, “I don’t have an extra helmet on me. I wasn’t expecting to pick up a beauty tonight. So here,” and his helmet is sliding up and off his head.
You’ve ascended and are now in heaven. Whatever good you’ve done in your life is paying off right now. Gods have answered your prayers.
He’s hot. Not as in oh he’s hot. No, as in he-could-fuck-you-right-there-on-the-street hot.
Salt and peppered beard, cut jaw and cheekbones, and hair you want to feel tangled in your fingers.
When you don’t take the helmet, a sharp smirk grows on his lips, “You can look at me like that all you want, Sweetheart, but i need you to put this on.”
Your limbs are jelly, hands trembling as you slide the gear over your head. You peer at him through the open visor and can’t stop the giggle crawling out your mouth.
He licks his lower lip, “How’s it fit?”
“A bit big, but feels good.” You wink.
The man groans, “Jesus Christ.”
His hand finds yours as he helps you swing your leg over the bike. You giggle again, “Actually, it’s-“ you give your name.
He turns his head to look back at you, a sparkle in his eye, “Bucky. Now hold on, sweetheart.”
Sirius sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. His bandages still itched, tight and bulky around his wrists, but he left them alone. Across the room, Barty lay on his stomach, his feet kicking lazily in the air as he scribbled furiously in his crayon filled notebook.
“Hey,” Sirius said softly.
Barty didn’t look up. “Hey, hey, hey.”
Sirius hesitated. “They gave me more labels today."
That got Barty’s attention. He turned his head, expression unreadable. “Labels? Like soup cans? Or the kind they stick on your back when you’re not looking?”
“The second one, probably.”
Barty rolled onto his side. “What flavor are you, then?”
“Bipolar. Borderline.” Sirius shrugged. “I’m apparently a human mood swing with abandonment issues.”
Barty stared at him. “That’s a very dramatic soup. Bit spicy.”
Sirius snorted in spite of himself.
“They said I’m emotionally unstable. That I feel too much. That I panic when people leave me. And it’s all true. But it still hurts, hearing it out loud.”
Barty slowly sat up, letting his journal fall shut. “They said I have schizophrenia. Did you know that? Voices, visions, wild things. They think I’m bonkers. I am, probably. But they’re not wrong.”
He leaned forward, oddly serious. “But you? You’re just… a cracked glass. Still sharp. Still beautiful. Just fragile in places.”
Sirius blinked at him. “That’s weirdly poetic.”
“I’m an artist,” Barty said simply, picking up his red crayon again. “All of us are just shattered things trying not to cut each other.”
Sirius lay back on his pillow, exhausted. “I hate how much that makes sense.”
Barty began to draw again, humming softly under his breath. After a while, he said, “I’m glad you’re still here.”
“Me too,” Sirius whispered.
And for a moment, the silence between them was almost comforting.
It was late, the ward quiet except for the irritating buzz of the hallway lights and the occasional soft shuffle of staff rounds. Sirius lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, sleep eluding him again. Barty sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing against the side of his own bed with a crayon, the paper pressed to his knee.
“Your boyfriend came again today,” Barty said quietly.
Sirius turned his head, his voice rough. “Yeah. He did.”
Barty didn’t look up. “He always comes. Brings you coffee. Talks to the nurses. Smiles like it’s not hurting him inside.”
Sirius blinked slowly, throat tight.
“You’re lucky,” Barty said. His voice cracked a little, soft but trembling at the edges. “My boyfriend used to visit. He brought me sweets once. He said he’d wait.”
Sirius didn’t say anything.
“But he doesn’t come anymore.” Barty’s hand stopped moving, the crayon stilled mid-line. “He’s dead. They told me he died.”
There was a long pause.
“I still see him, though,” Barty murmured. “Sometimes he’s in the corner. Sometimes outside the window. I draw him, so I don’t forget.”
He lifted the journal and turned it toward Sirius, revealing a sketch... delicate, almost angelic, of a boy with wild eyes and a soft smile. “His name was Evan.”
Sirius’ heart sank.
“I don’t think he knows he’s dead,” Barty whispered. “I don’t think I do, either. Not really.”
Sirius pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Quietly, he walked across the room and sat beside Barty. He didn’t touch him, didn’t say anything. Just sat with him.
Barty turned another page and began to draw again. This time, he used blue.
“I think Evan would’ve liked your boyfriend,” he said. “Remus seems gentle.”
Sirius closed his eyes. “He is.”
And they sat together in the soft light, one broken soul beside another, while Barty drew the people they missed most in colors they could still see.
They sat there in silence for a little while longer, the soft scratching of Barty’s crayon filling the room.
Sirius glanced at the journal, then at Barty’s profile, pale in the dim light, eyes distant but focused on the page.
He spoke gently. “Do you know how Evan died?”
Barty paused. The crayon stilled in his hand. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something Sirius couldn’t hear. He was quiet for so long that Sirius almost didn’t expect an answer.
Finally, Barty said, “No.” His voice was soft. “I don’t.”
He kept staring at the page. “I think I used to. I think it was loud. Or maybe quiet. Maybe it was both. Maybe I watched. Maybe I didn’t.”
He pressed the crayon to the page again, drawing harder now. “Every time I try to remember, it’s like… someone’s holding a hand over my eyes.”
Sirius’ throat ached.
“I wish I knew,” Barty added, barely audible. “But I think… I think if I did, I might break.”
Sirius reached out, just barely brushing Barty’s shoulder.
“You’re not broken,” he said.
Barty let out a dry, breathless laugh. “Oh, Sirius. I’m so broken. But that’s okay. Evan was too. We were beautiful that way.”
And then he kept drawing, as if the memory might someday come back in red and blue and black lines.
The overhead lights dimmed with a low hum, then cut out completely, leaving the room bathed in the soft, blue glow of the hallway’s night lighting.
Barty didn’t move from the floor. He just kept scratching faintly at the paper, the sound barely audible, like the flutter of moth wings. Eventually, the crayon stilled. He whispered something as he stood, maybe a name, maybe nothing, and rolled onto his bed.
Sirius lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was too dark to see much, but he could still make out the faint outlines, the vent overhead, the seam of the ceiling tiles, the shadow of the window frame across the wall.
gummygunk
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
2087
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
