the nanny!

18+ horny paradise

[eau-melancolique]

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ mya 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ | she/her | 18+ minors DNI | BLACK | i am in my 20's and very tentatively writing currently | new to posting on tumblr so pls have some grace!

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the pitt

[rr-after-dark]

Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader

Chapter Two: It's All Fun & Games

Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?

Chapter Summary: While your friends meddle and your nesting urges start, Park keeps finding himself drawn to you as you start to smell better and better.

Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, flirting, sexual tension, silly goofy times, is it even an rrad fic if langdon doesnt catch strays??

Content: canon-typical medical content, medical inaccuracies to an offensive degree i assume

A/N: im actually too lazy to make smau pics for the texts bc these convos are too long uwu

Word Count: 7.3k

santos: Cherry and P*rk are fated mates. Not joking. So we want to find out if he’s actually human or not so they can fuck nasty during her next heat in a month. Bug him for me? Pretty please?

When that text lights up Yolanda Garcia’s phone, a smile that can only be described as Grinch-esque parted her gleeful lips. To speak frankly, she’s beyond delighted to have something to annoy Park about. Ever since she finished her fellowship, annoying Park is an absolute favorite way for her to pass the time between surgeries. Developing new ways to strengthen that hobby is as good a drug as any.

See, Garcia is observant. It’s what drew her to surgery in the first place: She can notice the slightest twitch in a patient and know it’s actually nerve compression that needs surgical treatment. She catches things that other people miss.

So when Dr. Park starts bulking like a middle school wrestler trying to add weight right after she witnesses a suspiciously long hug between him and a certain feisty little omega who is supposedly his fated mate, she clocks it for what it is right away: An alpha preparing to mate while his omega prepares for their heat. It’s cute, honestly. Even when Park’s doing it. Garcia’s never experienced it herself, but the idea of alphas needing to get all big and strong to protect their new mates is downright charming to her.

Especially since Park has told her – and everyone else in surgery – that there’s no chance he’s the kind of guy who’d have a fated mate because that’s only for bleeding hearts who don’t focus on themselves and their careers. There’s a reason it’s significantly less common in high-level professionals, he’d go on and on, ignoring decades of literature showing that those professionals are less likely to find their mates due to denial and self-neglect.

So it’s particularly delightful to be in on the secret of him being not only wrong but wrong in a way that’s going to be deliciously embarrassing when he realizes. After two days of laying in wait, she pounces on the first opportunity to bother him properly.

In the surgeons’ lounge during a rare shared break, Yolanda suspiciously eyes Park as she heats up her early-morning breakfast, asking as if she isn’t freakishly curious and nosy, “Brendon, you hitting the gym more than usual lately?”

Powering through a bowl of pasta the size of Jupiter’s larger moons – for breakfast – Brendon shakes his head and shrugs. “Not really, no. Haven’t had a ton of time lately with all the surgeries I’ve been picking up from the damn Pitt.”

Already plotting how she’s gonna gossip about this downstairs, she presses, “Why have you been going down for so many consults? Dr. Atterman on vacation or something?”

He doesn’t even take a second to think about the answer before saying obliviously, “Guess they’ve had more sports accidents than usual coming in lately.”

“Hm. Weird, I could’ve sworn you picked up a hip dislocation on an elderly woman yesterday. Moved your afternoon surgery back a few hours to do it, I heard.”

Narrowing his eyes, Park asks, “Why do you care, anyway?”

“Just thought you hated going to the Pitt is all,” she lilts, taking her leftovers and plopping down across from him. “Someone down there taking your attention? They’ve got some cute omegas.”

He glares daggers. “Are you getting at something, Garcia?”

“Not at all, Shark,” she replies with a shit-eating grin. “By the way, totally unrelated, that R4 who brought you the teen with the broken knee asked for a consult. From you specifically.”

His head snaps up. With a single spaghetti noodle still falling from the corner of his mouth, he asks with wide eyes, “She did?”

Garcia almost dies laughing then and there. She works hard to memorize the beautifully oblivious look on her meanest coworker’s face before replying with the words Trinity forwarded, “Yeah, she wants you there this afternoon at four while Frankie meets the physio team so you can give them a more in-depth overview on the new structure of his knee.”

“At four?” He takes out his phone and furrows his brow and he flips through pages. “Yeah, I can push my 4:30 surgery to five no problem. Thanks, Garcia.”

She smirks around the lip of her mug. “No problem at all, Shark.”

Park doesn’t wait for the afternoon appointment to see you, though. He can’t. It’s not quite in his consciousness, but there’s a certain edge rolling around just below his skin. A spike in his blood pressure. A goosebump prickle that insists he move and move fast toward the Pitt. As soon as he sees an ortho page from the ED, he snatches it up before Torres or Atterman can get to it, riding down the elevator with restless hands as he secretly hopes it’s from you.

Sure enough, when he pushes into the Pitt, he sees you over an obvious ortho case; Park can see the exposed tibia from across the room. The Pitt is overcrowded from a series of car accidents, so you’re handling major patient care out in the open. That alone has Brendon on edge while he closes the long distance between the elevator and you. There are too many people too close to you, too many smells swirling around that muddy the trail to your side.

As he gets closer, he spots a large alpha by your side. Frank Langdon, who just so happens to be Brendon Park’s absolute least favorite doctor in the entire hospital. Admittedly, until just now his opinion was much more neutral, but Langdon is shouting at you and that has Park’s blood boiling through his skin.

“-and that’s the whole reason we have chain of command in the first place. I’m your superior and you’re expected to defer to me here!”

“You’re only one year ahead of me, Frank, and, much more importantly, I’m right about this one! If we don’t prep for a fasciotomy now, he’s going to lose the leg.”

“And if he doesn’t need it, we risk all kinds of permanent damage that could be avoided by taking a measured approach.”

You stomp your foot and cross your arms. It would be adorable if Park weren’t seeing red at Langdon’s tone. His heart pounds in his ears, which are ringing loud, and all his hairs stand on end like he’s been struck by lightning. He hangs back for a second to see if you can handle it yourself, not wanting to truly lose it on someone right in front of you. He’d hate himself if he scared you. As he tries to calm down his rage, you square up against an alpha like you’re one yourself and insist, loud and clear, “I’m the one who heard his firsthand story when he came in before he lost consciousness, so I actually know much better than you that he-”

Then Lagndon’s scent flares.

Intentionally.

Thick and dark, it pools around the both of you, even perking up the noses of a few nearby nurses and patients. It’s a dirty move to put you in your place – he as an alpha and you an omega, no longer equals with the same training– and it works scarily well. Especially off your suppressants, you’re incredibly vulnerable to his dominance.

You shrink away from Langdon as the burning, acrid smell tightens your throat and makes tears sting at your eyes. You’re dizzy and disoriented and only vaguely register what he’s doing. You take a few steps back until you accidentally stumble into a nearby unoccupied gurney. Trying hard not to cry, you blink fast and stammer, “S-sorry, Dr. Langdon, I’ll- Um. I’ll go and- I can-”

Park surges forward, his hand coming down hard on Langdon’s shoulder. His voice is the polar opposite of Frank’s lazy attempt at dominance; he’s lethal, quiet, intense. “Are you fucking scenting on an omega colleague, Dr. Langdon?”

Frank’s eyes go wide as he realizes he’s been caught red-handed. “I was just trying to-”

“What? Force her into submission?” Park’s chest nearly touches Frank and it honestly looks like he might bite him. The confrontation catches the eyes of a handful of nearby alphas, recognizing the possibility of having to break something up. Park spits, “You’re vile. You’re sexist and you’re useless. How fucking dare you-”

“Dr. Park?” Your timid voice from behind him shakes him from his focus on Langdon. When he turns your way, Park realizes that you’re staring up at him with the softest, brightest adoration he’s ever felt and all the anger simmers out of his body. “I didn’t think you’d come down for a basic fracture and fasciotomy.”

“We’re not doing a fasciotomy,” Langdon groans. “Shark, can you please explain to-”

Park whips around and shoves him in the chest. “Shut up, Frank, seriously, because the only reason I’m not already dragging you to HR by the scruff right now is because I can see an open tibial fracture that needs my attention. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he turns back to you, expression soft and attentive, and says, “Why don’t you walk me through it, cherry? Let’s get this figured out together.”

You swipe the tears from your cheeks, annoyed that they’ve fallen at all, and swallow hard. Voice wobbly, you tell him, “Mr. Perkins was brought in by ambulance after he attempted to fell a tree in his backyard on his own. The tree landed on his leg, leading to an open crush fracture. Bleeding is controlled, vitals are stable, we just have to decide on the right course of treatment.” Your eyes search his face for any signs of judgment, but there aren’t any. So fast that anyone else might miss it, he brushes another tear from your cheek with his thumb, withdrawing it quickly and without drawing attention to it. But it imprints itself on your skin. You go on more confidently, “I think there’s compartment syndrome in the calf, which means that wasting time with any non-surgical treatment is only going to increase the likelihood that he loses the leg altogether.”

Frank cuts in with a real ‘alpha’s club’ vibe, “And I explained to her that this is an open fracture.”

“That doesn’t rule out compartment syndrome, genius,” Park scoffs, flicking him on the forehead. Like Langdon is a kindergartener, Park slowly explains, “It’s more than twice as likely with closed traumas, but this opening isn’t placed correctly to relieve pressure from swelling on the opposite side. The tibia breaks through the shin, so the calf is still under pressure. Did you actually make it through basic anatomy or did you knot your way to a passing grade?”

You glance down at your sneakers and smile to yourself as Langdon awkwardly stumbles through trying to explain himself.

Park cuts him off halfway through and returns his attention to you. “What makes you think compartment syndrome?”

“I triaged Mr. Perkins when he came in. He reported pins and needles as well as difficulty moving the-”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Both of which can be explained by the huge bone sticking out of him.”

“Interrupt her one more time and see how I treat you,” Park growls back without even sparing him a look. He urges you, “Keep going. Paresthesia and partial paralysis are strong indicators for compartment syndrome. What else?”

Feeling much more sure of yourself under his sturdy gaze, you inform him, “The fractured leg appears paler than the other on visual inspection and the pulse is thready at its best, even before we stemmed the bleeding. And, to be totally honest with you, just palpating the limb made me suspicious. I worked on a lot of crush injuries at the VA and I just…I don’t know. I think I have a feel for it.”

Park nods and takes the examination into his own hands, snapping on his gloves and carefully checking over the entire leg from above the open fracture to the ankle below the suspected compartment issues. After a second of thinking, he nods his confirmation. “We need to do an open reduction and internal fixation with fasciotomy to give him the best chance at recovery. Scrub in with me, sweetheart, you need some OR hours before you make a choice about your elective.”

Neither of you notices the nickname as anything out of the ordinary; it just passes between you as naturally as the medicine. You do this tiny little bunny hop as excitement replaces all your negative feelings and Park can’t help smiling. “That would be amazing! Thank you so much for all your help, Dr. Park.”

Langdon mutters something harsh under his breath and Park turns to him. Whips to him, more like. He leans in close so you can’t hear and says, “You’re not off the hook for scenting her, by the way. This time, I’m just gonna report you to HR. Do that shit again?” He taps Langdon on the neck, right on his sensitive mating bite, and says, “I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth. And I’ll enjoy every second.”

After scrubbing out of the surgery, Park lingers with you in the hall, exchanging small talk, long enough that the assisting surgical residents exchange suspicious glances. Park looks at the nearby wall clock and says, “Feels kind of stupid to go back up to my office and do paperwork for ten minutes before I take my lunch.”

To you, that’s an invitation. You squeal, “Come sit in the Pitt lounge with me and my friends! I brought in a bunch of homemade snacks I made last night for everyone to share. You should have some. Pregame for your real lunch?”

Park can’t stop himself from grinning. “You homemade a bunch of snacks? After you worked late last night?”

Immediately leading him on the trek down to the doctors’ lounge, you tell him with a lot of pep in your step, “Nothing too crazy, just some Pinterest recipes I’ve been wanting to follow – candied pecans and these yummy gouda cheese crisps and kettle corn and some whipped ricotta dip with cinnamon pita chips and then, y’know, I brought these dark chocolate truffles to the Pitt’s holiday party last year and Abbot asked me if I’d make them again sometime, so I did that, too. I add a little chili to bring out the richness and they always go over super well.”

Once you stop rambling with an embarrassed laugh, he confirms with a laugh, “But nothing too crazy, right?”

Heat crawls into your cheeks and you bite your lower lip, giving a bashful smile. “Well, I’m kind of, ah, nesting right now, a bit.”

Park swallows thickly. It’s not inappropriate or anything to talk about nesting and even heats with other adults, just a bit more friendly than he would’ve expected you to be with him. It settles way too warmly on his shoulders – especially the knowledge that you’re going to be in heat in a matter of weeks. No wonder he could smell you from across the ED this morning. God, you can smell even more intense than this? He’s going to have to invest in some nose patches.

Breaking the silence before it gets uncomfortably charged with the new knowledge of your upcoming heat, Park bumps you with his elbow – teasing, adorable, heart-stopping – and lilts, “So you’re one of those cooking and baking omegas, huh? Nesting time comes and you hole up in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, I am.” You giggle back, all fluttery because you’re getting his undivided attention without any doctoring involved, “It’s kind of a stereotype, I know, but it’s my favorite. I have a million recipes pinned for when I’m nesting because I become kind of a crazy person. Need to have an alpha around to eat everything in the fridge.”

“And you don’t have one of those.” His eyes cut to yours and your step falters for a second. “An alpha, I mean.”

You shrug and try not to let it affect you too much that he’s essentially asking if you’re available. “Not my own, but Trinity and Garcia are always swinging by to raid my fridge. And, when it’s really bad, sometimes I’ll invite Abbot, too.”

Park rolls his shoulders and tries not to let that bother him too much. He’s always been a firm believer that there’s nothing wrong with alphas and omegas being friends. Definitely not. But he can’t let himself imagine them in your apartment without also imagining himself to soothe the sting. So he not-quite-jokingly asks, “Is that a standing offer for alpha coworkers?”

“Invite only,” you correct with a cheeky smile. “Behave yourself in front of my Pitt friends and maybe you can swing one.”

“Lot of pressure there; Santos hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you! She…” You gesture to stall while you try to think of a nicer word before conceding, “Yeah, she kind of hates you. But you could win her over. Just show her the real you – beyond all that ‘Park the Shark’ lore.”

As you reach the door of the lounge, Park gives you a tender, soft gaze. “You don’t think ‘Park the Shark’ is the real me?”

“No, I don’t.” You poke him in the bicep and tease, “I think you’re secretly a big softie. Plus, I already know you’re a great hugger, Sharkie.”

You push through the door before he can respond. Last time a resident called him that, he buried them in scut work for two weeks. But when you do it, it’s too damn sweet for him to be annoyed by. His eyes float briefly – okay, not that briefly – down to your ass as you flit over to the table where Santos, Whitaker, and Garcia are clearly waiting for you, that delectable spread of snacks laid out on the round table between them.

Trinity stands, pulls you into a hug, and groans, “Thank god, there you are! I’ve been literally dying to eat these all day.”

Park pretends not to notice the way that his gut clenches up watching Santos, then Garcia, then Whitaker hug you right in a row. He doesn’t like smelling their scents mingling with yours. Still, he puts on an awkward smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying hard to act normal.

Garcia notices his presence first and opens her mouth wide in feigned shock. “Cherry, you managed to get Shark to join us for a social gathering? You know he only eats meals with perfectly balanced macros, right?”

Your face falls a bit and you turn to Park. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you into eating if you don’t want-”

“I want,” he says quickly. Then he tells Garcia, “I’m not that worried about macros.”

Yolanda eyes him suspiciously. “What was up with all that pasta this morning, then? Weird choice of breakfast. Seemed a lot like carbo-loading to me. Marathon coming up?”

He shrugs innocently. “I had leftovers.”

She gives a knowing look to Trinity. “Uh-huh.”

Trinity gestures to the two open chairs next to her and insists, “Well, c’mon then, let’s get this party started.”

You plop down next to her, leaving poor Whitaker next to Park, and tell them all, “Park only has a few minutes to snack with us, guys, go easy on him.”

“No, no, I can stay as long as you want me,” he says, shaking his head quickly. “I mean, as long as, ah, y’know whatever.”

Trinity just about chokes trying to contain her laughter, immediately opening her phone to text Yolanda under the table. To have something to do with his hands, Park grabs a plate for himself and makes himself a charcuterie of the snacks, his appetite spiking for reasons definitely unrelated to your rising hormones invading his senses, your bare arm rubbing against his because you had to sit close to cram the chairs around the table.

Whitaker saves the awkwardness of Santos and Park being forced to share space by making a show of eating something and praising you, “This is amazing, by the way. You’ve really got a knack for this stuff.”

“Thank you, Denny,” you beam as you curate your own selection of snacks, maybe a little heavy on the sweets because you’re got a mean craving for something that’ll give you energy with Park so close to you. “Lots of practice over the years.”

But the alphas have no mercy. While nibbling on cheese crisps and texting Trinity, Garcia muses to Park absently, “It’s good that you’re here, actually, because you can settle a debate for us.” Already knowing what she’s getting at, your eyes widen and flick between her and Trinity, who keep sharing conspiratorial glances. “Little argument we’ve all been going back and forth on this past week. There’s this new study about EMPR.”

“What’s that?” Park’s brows knit together and you get lost looking at his baby blues for a second or two. “I only really read about ortho cases.”

“Of course, makes sense,” Garcia replies, suppressing her building smirk. “Well, it’s short for Endocrine-Mediated Pairing Response. The neurochemical syndrome that the whole ‘fated mates’ myth is based on.”

“Not exactly a myth, though, is it?” Glancing at you almost expectantly, he says, “People have been experiencing it forever.”

“Sure, but that’s part of the debate,” Trinity jumps in. “What do you think: Should we be treating it like a disease? Me and Yo think it’s a hormonal abnormality, but the bleeding hearts club thinks it’s just the cutest wittle thing that’s ever happened.”

“Hey!” Whitaker reaches across the table to smack her. “Cherry isn’t a bleeding heart; she’s very practical.”

As your ears burn, Park smiles. Cherry. Your sweetness washes through him. So he says honestly, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Actually, I think it’s kind of beautiful.”

Garcia scoffs, “Beautiful? You think that? What happened to all your ‘I’d never have a fated mate; I’m way too busy and big and butch’ spiels?”

“I never said ‘butch,’ first of all,” he laughs (the first time Whitaker and Santos have ever heard him laugh. “Whether you believe in the whole ‘fate’ aspect or not-” big finger quotes on ‘fate’ “-you can’t deny the reality of the biological phenomenon.” Then, looking directly at you, he explains, “I like the idea that two people, strangers, even, can share a connection so strong that it transcends abstract concepts like feelings and instead exists in their DNA, in the cells that make up their entire body. Of all the billions and billions of people, there are pairs who compliment each other to the point where their biologies call out to one another. Drawing them together without anything ever being spoken.” He drops his eyes and shrugs like your heart is pounding out of your chest next to him. His watch beeps with an urgent page, so he sighs and finishes simply, “Who wouldn’t find that beautiful?”

Breathless and soft, you reply, “That was awfully romantic, Dr. Park.”

“I’m full of surprises.” You swear there’s pink at the apples of his cheeks as Park takes one last bite of food and slides his hand along your upper back, from shoulder to shoulder, grazing your scruff, as he walks away from the table. Giving you a quick wink, he adds, “And you should start calling me Brendon. I’ll see you in a few hours with the Murrays.”

You’re slack-jawed as Trinity rams a happy, celebratory fist into your bicep.

Park breezes down the hall to physio a few hours later, happily following the trail of your scent without realizing he’s doing it. The Murrays haven’t arrived yet, so it’s just you updating notes on your iPad with your expression pinched up in focus. Since that moment a few days ago, whatever it was, he keeps catching himself staring at you for a little too long.

You’re so locked in that he doesn’t want to scare you, so he makes sure to step in loud enough for you to notice his presence before he speaks in a voice that always comes out too harsh, no matter how much he tries to change it. He strides over to you and touches the center of your back. “Hey there, Dr. Cherry, how’s the shift treating you since lunch?”

Your heart stammers when you feel his hand and hear his voice, the tempo picking up even further when it actually settles in your fluttery stomach that he’s called you by your scent. It’s definitely not half as intimate as ‘pup,’ but it’s sweet and kind and not like the Dr. Park you’ve always seen. It’s Brendon. You give him a tentative smile. “Um, it’s been good. Set of twins came up with matching broken arms that I patched up all by myself; you’d be proud.”

“I’m sure I would,” he says urgently. Very urgently. His eyes are locked on the planes of your face  as you go between looking at him and getting your work done. Trying to sound casual, he leans against the nearest wall and says, “Almost the time of year where you can try out your twelve-week clinical elective. Robby’s got his substance use outreach elective and Abbot’s got that palliative care thing.” As you hum an absent reply, he clears his throat just so you’ll look at him and adds, “Y’know, I oversee a critical care surgical lab. You’d be a good fit for that. I think Abbot mentioned that you’re interested in surgery, right?”

When you turn to him this time, you’re glowing. He notices the slightest change in your scent, the tang of cherry and apples mellowing into something sweeter. Lickable. He wants to attach his mouth to your neck and never let go. You bounce a little bit and tell him, “Actually, when I came to PTMC, my whole goal was to find a surgical fellowship. They don’t offer any at the VA, obviously. I’m always so jealous when you come in and get to plan out procedures.”

Park steps closer, breathing in the extra sweetness of your scent until it starts to calm him down. He’d been a little edgy all day and your presence is like a weighted blanket. His voice is airy and warm down your neck as he replies, “I’d love to show you the ropes, help you figure out if you want a surgical fellowship. Stop by my office sometime and we can talk about the details.”

Nibbling your lower lip a second, you meet his eyes and suggest just to see how he’ll respond, “Shouldn’t I be talking to Garcia about emergency surgery?”

“Definitely not,” he says right away. Straightening up his posture, he puffs up his chest and explains, “I know I’m ortho on paper, but I’m also co-chair of the surgical board. Kind of next-in-line for Chief of Surgery, really. So I’m the right person to see about the next steps in your education for sure.”

Your lips part open a bit as you try to come up with a response and he works very, very hard not to stare at your mouth. Is he…preening? That’s new. And it’s adorable. It makes you want to squeal, all the extra hormones bubbling up inside you definitely not helping, but you manage to contain yourself by curling your toes in your sneakers. “I’ll schedule something with your secretary.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do all that,” he says like his heart isn’t racing and his palms aren’t sweating. He reaches into his back pocket for his prescription pad, grabs a pen from your breast pocket (which almost makes you scream), and scribbles his phone number down. Then he tucks it in the front pocket of your scrub and gives your thigh a gentle pat. You’re completely frozen from the series of easy, casual touches that feel more like claims than anything when he tells you, “Text me whenever you want. I’ll carve out the time for you.”

There’s that phrase again. For you. So you reach across the suddenly-too-large space between your bodies and give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Okay, I will.”

Before Park has the time to come up with a response, the physical therapist, Dr. Embry, joins you in the suite, wheeling in Frankie Murray with his parents behind. Park shakes each of their hands and says to Frankie, “It’s good to see you again, kid.”

Mrs. Murray chuckles, “You’re in a much better mood today, Dr. Park.”

He stage-whispers, “Your son’s doctor over there may have given me a very deserved attitude check.” He kneels down and pats Frankie’s shoulder, making serious eye contact. “I’m sorry again for how rude I was before your surgery; I guess I was having a bad day. I promise I’m gonna be right here consulting with Dr. Embry during your whole recovery process. And I’ll be in the stands when you’re back on the track in the fall.”

Frankie grins and checks, “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

You almost black out. As Park goes through the details of Frankie’s knee reconstruction with Dr. Embry, you quickly take out your phone and text the group chat with Trinity, Dennis, and Garcia. He’s being really sweet??? To me and my patient and his family.

You know Garcia’s in surgery, but Trinity’s response pings back right away: one whiff of you and the beast transforms into a prince :))

While Park helps Dr. Embry get equipment set up for the appointment, he tells the family, “Y’know, I went through your doctor’s notes a little more closely. Turns out I went to the same high school as you. Captain of the football team ‘08 and ‘09.”

“Shit, seriously?”

Mrs. Murray swats his head playfully with a pamphlet from downstairs. “Language, Frankie.”

“I did a little track, too, but I sucked,” Park tells him, tone all light and friendly. “More of a linebacker type. All bulk, no speed.”

Listening to the courteous, personal small talk, the physical therapist gives you the most incredulous look you’ve ever seen on a medical professional. You return it.

“And a surgeon’s hands; you’re really the whole package,” Mrs. Murray praises in that saccharine omega tone that turns alphas to butter, her eyes raking over him in a way that makes you want to turn into a linebacker all of a sudden. “Do you have a mate, Dr. Park?”

Park’s eyes flick to you as Frankie groans.

Your heart climbs into your throat.

Park offers a polite, professional smile. “No, I don’t, I’m waiting patiently for the one.”

You bite your lip and stare down at your shoes, heat climbing into your cheeks.

“‘The one,’” Mrs. Murray tuts in return. “That’s such a dated idea, doctor. Let me set you up with my sister and-”

Mr. Murray hisses, “Nancy, we’ve talked about this.”

“Sorry, sorry, I love to meddle,” she laughs, waving it off as you plaster a placid smile on your face to avoid glaring at her. “Let’s focus on Frankie’s appointment, hm? Dr. Embry?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” you interrupt, surprised to hear your voice coming out sharp. You’re never like that with patients’ families. But you can’t help yourself as you turn to Brendon and say, “Dr. Park, I had some questions about your approach on Frankie’s meniscus; would it be alright if we let Dr. Embry take over from here?”

Park tilts his head but nods. He turns to the rest of the room and says, “I’ll see all of you next week, okay? Give my office a call if you have any questions or concerns.”

After they thank him, Park nods toward the wing of offices and you follow him out with your cheeks absolutely on fire. He stops short of his office, though, cornering you in the hall with a teasing smile.

“So…” He crosses his arms over his chest and examines you carefully, trying to understand “...my approach to Frankie’s meniscus?”

“Um, yeah, right.” After thirty solid seconds trying to come up with a way to purposefully misunderstand a basic tendon repair, you admit quietly, unable to even meet his eyes, “Fine, I just didn’t like the way Mrs. Murray was looking at you like a piece of meat.”

Park scoffs. “So you were trying to rescue me from her?”

You cross your arms, too, and tell him with a bratty edge to your voice, “Maybe I was.”

He barks out a laugh and touches your arm sweetly. “I can handle myself, cherry, I promise.”

“Just looking out for my coworker,” you huff, stamping one foot in a way that makes Park’s heart flutter warmly. Your faux-anger is too cute for him to handle. When he starts to break out another teasing smile, you shove his chest and groan, “Drop it. I was just…being a silly omega. Or something. Leave me alone.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” he goes on, taking a step closer to you. Your back hits the wall and he places one giant hand next to your head. His sent flares, warm and spiced, and you’re honestly glad for the wall holding you up. When you look at the muscles straining beneath his tan skin, your knees weaken. You’re already over-producing slick with your body coming off the suppressants and Park’s domineering stance definitely isn’t helping the situation. Voice 100% teasing and unserious, he asks you all low and gravelly, “Do you have a crush on me, doctor?”

You stand on your toes and refuse to shrink, matching his cocky tone to disguise the desire reaching through all your organs. “No, I have a crush on Mr. Murray. I wanted to hide my raging boner for him by coming up with an excuse to get out of there.”

Park raises an eyebrow in amusement. “He your type?”

“Yeah, I like ‘em bald and mated,” you reply seriously.

He leans down, close enough to kiss you, and keeps pushing with that gorgeously teasing tone, “I’ll have to see a hairdresser, then, since I was cursed with a thick head of hair.”

“I’d agree with a thick skull,” you cut back, standing up straighter and breathing in the cinnamon pouring from his neck. “And the mate part? Any cute omegas catch your eye lately?”

He thinks for a second and then offers, “Well, clearly Mrs. Murray is about to be on the market.”

You cheekily reply, “But by the time Mrs. Murray’s single, I’ll already be carrying three little half-sibling pups for Frankie, dummy.”

Then Brendon growls. The sound is low and possessive. It’s the kind of sound an alpha would only make if his mate were in danger or threatened. It rumbles up from his chest, totally subconscious. His eyes darken. His hand goes to your waist. Grabs, really. Not hard, not cruel, just…owning. Desperate, almost. He needs to feel the way your soft flesh yields to his touch. His breaths get heavy and intense. Your body reacts. Undeniably. He feels the temperature of your skin increase beneath his hand in response to him. Then he orders, quiet and stern but still perfectly tender, “Don’t joke about that. Please.”

“Why not?”

“You shouldn’t- You aren’t-” He steps back and tries to get out of the heady cloud of you even though you’re invading his every synapse. With a slow, deliberate swallow, Park says, “We’re joking about a patient’s family. Very unprofessional.”

“Right,” you reply, eyes glassy and voice breathy, “of course.” Then, not quite ready to end the conversation when you have a few minutes before you should be back downstairs, you tell him, “That thing you said to Mrs. Murray? About waiting for the one? She said it was dated, but, um, I wanted to tell you that I liked it. You sounded sweet. And I’m waiting, too.”

His lip twitches up into a smirk. “You are? I figured there was no way a girl like you was single, even if you don’t have a mate yet.”

“A girl like me?” He doesn’t elaborate, just nods like your rarity is so obvious it doesn’t need stating, so you tell him, “I don’t want to waste my time dating around when I know that a time’ll come when an alpha’s going to be certain I belong to them.”

With his heart climbing into his throat, Park asks, “And what’ll they do then? When they’re certain?”

“He’ll just,” you sigh wistfully and shrug, imagining every detail, “pick me up and take me home. He’s gonna fold into my nest with me and keep me safe. Protect me every day. Build me a big house to fill with pups with a yard for them to play in and a kitchen where I can bake everyone their favorite things and-” You stop yourself, give a bashful smile, and quickly add, “I know that’s kind of a lame 1950s idea coming from a modern doctor omega, but-”

“No, not at all,” he assures, taking your hand quickly so you don’t dash out of the conversation like you often do when you get embarrassed. “It’s not lame. It’s nice.”

He can’t bear to say anything else, his throat feeling tight all of a sudden, so he just squeezes your hand and then lets go of it. Then he runs his hand through his hair and says, “I’ve got to go get prepped for surgery. Spine deformity correction. But text me, okay? I want to hear from you about the surgical elective. Or anything else you want. Any time. Text me.”

You try to add confidence to your shaky, adoring smile. “I will. Promise.”

That night, you agonize over what to text Park. Yes, you could absolutely just send him a simple, professional ‘Can I come to your office to talk about the surgical elective Thursday between nine and noon?’ and call it a day. But you want more. You want him. At the very least, you don’t want a text that could end the conversation with a response of ‘Yes.’ Which sends you straight to the group chat.

you: okay how’s this? ‘thanks so much for helping the murrays! when can we meet and talk about my elective?’ denny: i think that’s good!! yoyo: oh my god that’s terrible trin: omegas are fucking useless trin: you should send something slutty you: no i definitely shouldnt you: what should i say instead?? trin: SEND SOMETHING SLUTTY trin: SEND A SLICK PIC you: shut up and let the grownups talk trinity trin: HES YOUR MATE YOU SHOULD WANT HIM TO WANT TO FUCK YOU you: not like literally right now!!! trin: WHY NOT you: BECAUSE yoyo: time’s ticking if you want that sharcock babe you: not you too denny: yeah you guys don’t get it denny: this is about forever not just sex you: that’s what im saying trin: you want to have sex forever tho so whats not clicking yoyo: exactly trin: exactly denny: its always 2 dumb bitches telling each other “exactlyyy” you: okay im done with you guys now byeee goodnight trin: nonono come on cherry trin: just send him anything. he’s your mate trin: the conversation will happen naturally bc hes YOURS thats the whole point you: you really think so? trin: yeah i do yoyo: agreed yoyo: don’t put too much pressure on it denny: just be your nice pretty self :)) you: you’re so cute den ily denny: ໒(＾ᴥ＾)७ you: ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ denny: ૮₍´｡ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ｡`₎ა you: ₍ᐢ ̥  ̞  ̥ᐢ₎ ♥₍ᐢ ̥  ̞  ̥ᐢ₎ trin: stop ill literally pop a cuteness boner trin: lmo (love my omegas) you: im taken yoyo: not if you don’t send something slutty asap you: GOODNIGHT

You toss your phone across your bedroom and pad around your apartment for a while, frustrated and on edge. The first symptom of your placebo pills: Your nesting urge itches underneath your skin, so you can’t quite get comfortable, no matter which part of the apartment you curl up in. As stereotypical as it may be, one of the only things that lessens the urge (when you can’t hoard soft things or get snuggled so hard you’re basically being squished to death) is baking and cooking.

So, just like the night before, you pour yourself a nice heavy glass of wine, change into some slinky pajamas, and head to the kitchen. And you shoot off the first thing you think of to Park, ignoring the advice of your stupid friends in favor of your gut.

you: hi dr. park! i just wanted to say thank you for being so nice today and see when we can get together to talk about the elective you: ps do you like brownies or cookies better you: pps if it’s cookies then what kind is your favorite dr. park: Hi, cherry. It’s easy to be nice to you. I’ll text you my Google calendar and you can pick a time that works for you. dr. park: P.S. I love all baked goods, but I prefer brownies. dr. park: P.P.S. If I were to choose a cookie, it would be classic chocolate chip. Soft, not crispy. you: regarding brownies, fudgy or cakey? dr. park: Fudgy. Middle piece. you: me too!! dr. park: Shit. Who’s going to eat our edge pieces? you: ill bring them to pitt vultures

Nursing a soft smile alongside the wine, you take out the perfect recipe and get to work, turning up some saucy music loud enough to annoy the neighbors you can’t stand. Swaying around and letting yourself feel all the fluttery things you usually can’t on your suppressants, you beat together the eggs and sugar and flour and cocoa, chop up chunks from real gourmet chocolate bars, and butter your favorite pans to accommodate the ridiculous triple batch. You need to drown in sugar and fat to feel normal again.

With the alcohol loosening up your limbs and your hormones loosening up everything else, you snap a quick selfie and send it to Park before you can overthink it alongside ‘nesting like crazy right now and ended up making triple what i thought. ill make sure to save some for you, okay?’ And then you text it to your group chat to satisfy them.

denny: you sent that to park??????? you: do you think it’s too much? trin: OH MY GOD trin: YOU FUCKING WHORE trin: YES!!! YES!!!!! I LOOOOVE THISSSS!!!!! denny: not too much! im just surprised <33 denny: you look super cute yoyo: i’d knot on the spot if an omega sent me that yoyo: licking batter off your fingers?? tiny little silk pjs?? jesus fucking christ cherry youre gonna kill the poor man trin: careful garcia ill get jealous trin: im so proud of you slut denny: are you gonna bring some to work?? trin: NOT THE POINT HUCKLEBERRY trin: but yeah actually you: of course i will <3 love you guys!!

While the brownies are baking, you watch your phone like it’s a nail-biter sport, anxiously checking it every couple of seconds while you half-assedly clean up the kitchen. Brendon’s three dots appear and reappear again and again, making your nudge up and down the screen. You’re stuck staring at your picture, judging your own flirtatious expression and skimpy outfit. It’s the equivalent of him sending you a sweaty gym pic, you figure, not anything particularly scandalous or outright sexy. Although your nipples are definitely perkily poking against the thin slinky fabric of your camisole. As well as some sideboob. And your shorts are pretty damn short, to be fair, and the camisole rises a bit at the bottom to expose an inch of the swell of your belly. Which you think is cute, sure, but it’s certainly not professional.

Your phone vibrates just when you’re about to spiral.

dr. park: Call me. dr. park: Now.

Support me on ko-fi if you'd like!

[loves-alibi]

songbird

pairing: ex-outlaw!michael robinavitch x f!reader x ex-outlaw!jack abbot summary: leaving doc adamson's gang, jack abbot and michael robinavitch thought they were out of trouble. then, a young woman walks into their saloon dressed up like a man and demanding a turn on their piano.

wc: 23.4k warnings: click this link to find them as well as a personal note! a/n: i bet you all didnt expect for me to actually write it (jk jk jk). thank you from the bottom of my heart for 3k! (let's pretend like i hit it today and not a while ago...) please please please take this fic as my gift to you for the occasion! i hope you enjoy because i've been noodling on this since november, and writing it since january lol! <3 <3 <3 thank you again :)

*****

"We have an issue."

"Wonderful," Robby groans. He stretches his neck. He had hoped for a quiet night, one where he wouldn't have to throw his back out kicking out a drunk fella or breaking up a fight. "Where?"

Jack jerks his head down the bar, and that's where Robby sees it.

A woman. Dressed like a man. It's almost comical how much you stick out among the working men in the saloon. If they weren't all so drunk already, they'd be on you like a pack of wolves.

The Foothill Saloon is no place for a thing like you.

Robby sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "The lost little birdie?"

Jack smirks, "Yup."

It's not the first time a woman has come into the saloon. In the year and a half since they opened the joint, Robby and Jack have seen their fair share of women. Some have been scared, lost or beaten women looking for help, and they've been more than happy to offer a bed and a warm meal. When they're just looking for just a drink or some downright trouble, Robby and Jack offer nothing but directions to the door. That is, of course, not including the handful of women working the floor, their low cut blouses drawing even the owners' eyes from time to time.

"Am I handling this or you?" Robby asks.

"Oh, you can handle it," Jack says like he's doing him a favor. "But I'll watch."

You smile when you spot the pair heading down the bar your way. Jack is behind it, but Robby's in front. It's how they operate, always have. Robby has an easier time maneuvering the floor. Plus, where Jack has always had better luck talking up women, men tend to listen to Robby a bit better thanks to his height.

"Evenin', fellas." God, you don't even try to sound like a man. Your voice is like a song, light and sweet over the cacophony of voices in the hall. "Busy night, huh?"

"Go home," Robby says. "We don't serve women here."

To your credit, you don't do anything ridiculous like ask how he knows you're a woman. Though, you do square your shoulders and keep your head held high as you retort, "There's plenty of women here."

Jack scoffs behind the bar. The rag in his hand glides along the edge of a glass in a practiced motion. "They're sporting women."

You shift, and Robby can't help but notice the way you carry yourself. Your posture is impeccable, better than every single woman they have working the floor. You're certainly not a working woman, nor are you a prostitute. You're too naive for that, eyes bright and hopeful as they look out into the crowd.

"I'm not here for trouble, sir," your voice, sweet and out of place, brings Robby back to you. "Just lookin' for a drink."

"Well, that's too bad," Robby cracks his neck. He's already tired of this conversation. "Because we ain't takin' your money."

You smirk, and Robby is struck by how pretty you are. Even in the men's clothes, your hair mussed and pinned in a more masculine fashion, you're undeniably beautiful. Robby has seen plenty of fine women in his day, but there's an unspoken grace to you that piques his curiosity.

"That's alright." Your eyes slide across the saloon. Robby follows your gaze to the piano sat on the raised platform in the corner. There aren't any musicians in this town, beyond the occasional traveling band. It's been many weeks since its ivories have been tickled. "I'll play for it."

Jack snorts behind the bar. You don't pay him any mind.

"I can play the pianoforte mighty well." Your voice oozes confidence. Robby has no doubt that you play well, even if you squirm under his scrutinizing gaze. "You've got nobody on that piano there, and I know all the dance hall songs. I'll play for free if you let me drink—"

A glass slams onto the bar top beside you. It's so loud, even Robby jumps. You both come to stare at Jack, sporting a mean scowl.

"How many times do we have to tell you to get lost," Jack grunts, eyes raking your trembling form. "Now it'd be best if you listened. We don't take no solicitors, 'specially not little girls like you."

"I ain't a solicitor, sir." You clear your throat, straightening. Robby wants to laugh at the show of bravado. You've got gall. Even Jack would give you that. "I'll play for free. I don't need your money."

Jack opens his mouth to speak, but for your sake, Robby steps in, "Why don't you and I continue this conversation outside?"

A few patrons are beginning to notice that something is awry. While they're too drunk to piece it together just yet, a few regulars down at the other end of the bar (probably waiting for Jack to finally serve them) are eyeing the three of you with curiosity.

You don't notice the growing danger you're in, because you say, "I don't feel safe goin' outside with you, sir."

Jack barks out a laugh. It's loud and mean. You look at him with wide eyes. For a moment, Robby thinks to himself, maybe you aren't a birdie, maybe you're a doe, a scared little doe. He cuts a look at Jack, who is already making his way to the other end of the bar. Robby shakes his head, without looking at you, he says, "You'll be safer out there than you are in here, birdie."

His words give you pause. For the first time since you walked in, it seems that you're recognizing the eminent danger that your presence in this saloon puts you in. To add fuel to the fire, the rest of the patrons are finally taking notice. Even the working girls in the corner are whispering to themselves as they gawk.

"Alright," you nod, looking a little green around the gills. "Fine."

He ushers you ahead of him. While your head hangs low, Robby makes sure to keep his chin up. With each leering patron you pass, Robby makes sure to give them his meanest look. The message is clear: messing with you means messing with him.

Robby takes you out back to the small stable. It's only big enough for one horse, which is fine because they only have one horse. It was all the gang could spare when they left, already in shambles from Doc Adamson's death.

Robby grabs his cattleman hat from a hook on the wall. It's dark enough that nobody should give him trouble, but Robby would like to play tonight safe. The last thing he wants is for someone to recognizing him riding at night with a strange woman. After that, he grabs the saddle and starts fixing Orleans up for the ride.

Orleans has been Jack's horse for fifteen years now, stolen one night after his old horse had passed. He was piss drunk when he found him, but managed to make his way back to the camp. It was Robby who found him, and when he asked Jack where the hell he found the steed, Jack slurred something about New Orleans. The only problem is that at the time they were in Kansas.

Robby found the whole thing so funny that he told everyone about it the next morning. The whole time, Jack's face was as red as his hair was at the time. It was Heather, barely twenty at the time, who first called the horse Orleans. Jack grumbled about it, but didn't have the creativity to come up with a better name, so it stuck.

Orleans is a well-tempered horse, though a little skittish with Robby, despite the three years of practice he has riding him. Jack can't ride him anymore, so Robby has picked up on taking care of him. He takes the responsibility very seriously. In a way, Orleans is all they have from their old life. When they left the crew, Jack still recovering from the loss of his leg, Orleans was all they had. Well, they had Dana, but it isn't like she stuck around too long.

You whistle lowly as Robby saddles Orleans up, "That's a beautiful horse, sir."

"Yes, he is." Robby hoists himself up on the horse with a grunt. It's getting harder and harder these days now that he doesn't ride as much. That and the fact that Robby's getting old. Fifty-five is around the corner. His pa didn't make it to this age, and while Robby's grateful for his longevity, he can't help but curse the limits of his aging body.

He envies you, a young, naive thing. You can't be much older than your early twenties, your face soft with youth.

Robby offers his hand, scarred and calloused, to you. You hesitate, your delicate hand hanging just above his, but you don't take it.

"I can walk."

"Come on," Robby says, "Orleans here is an old boy, but he can take two." What Robby doesn't say is that Orleans always hauls two. While him and Jack have taken to riding double on her, Orleans is a trusty boy and never once even whinnied at the inconvenience.

Reluctantly, you place your hand is his. Before he can think too much about how soft your hand is, Robby yanks you up. You yelp, and in a series of what are likely mini-miracles, you don't end up on your ass. Though, you are sitting aside, arms wrapped tight around Robby's waist like you're afraid of getting bucked off.

"What are you doin'?" Robby asks.

"Sitting."

He sighs, "If you dress like a man, you gotta ride like one."

"Like a man?"

"Leg over, sweetheart."

You gulp audibly. Robby would laugh if he weren't so fed up with this entire situation. He should be working the floor tonight, not playing chauffer for some lost little thing. At least you're pretty. That offers at least some consolation.

When you awkwardly lift your leg over to the other side of Orleans, Robby asks, "Now, where do you live?"

"I'll point the way," you mumble, shyly. Robby almost misses the brazen woman you were inside. "Just start riding."

Robby chuckles but starts moving, "Yes, ma'am."

The ride is longer than he anticipated. Not long, but just lengthier than he thought. You've led Robby outside of town, and he's starting to think you're leading him to a whole lot of nowhere. Just when he's about to question your directional skills, Robby spots what looks like fencing.

"We're nearly there," you say.

Finally, the road gives way to a broad clearing. Robby whistles at the sight.

"The saloon ain't no place for a lady." He warns, "Now I better not see you around there ever again, okay?"

"You really must stop calling me a lady," you say.

"That's what you are, ain't you?" The house and estate before him are grand. It's not just a house, but a manor. It would take a five minute ride from the gate to the front door alone. "I've got eyes, girl. This is a lady's home."

You gulp audibly. Robby would be laughing at it if maybe he was still in the saloon, pouring drinks with Jack. But no. He's stuck here way past town with some girl who's too curious for her own good.

Robby observes the sprawling estate before him. The moonlight is dim, but he can make out the basic features of the estate. There's fields of beautiful foliage, the main home and several smaller quarters, a stable, and what looks like a sprawling garden behind the home. It's all along the river. Dully, Robby thinks he recognizes the place.

"Ain't this where that one family lives?"

Your face pinches. You almost look offended as you ask, "Do you mean the Eastons?"

"Yeah, them."

"Yes."

Robby blinks, "Are you an Easton?"

You blink, "No." You shift, "I work for them."

He doesn't buy it. You come into the saloon, offer to pay for drinks and play the piano for free, and then you try to ride aside. Try to tell him you're a servant all you want, but Robby isn't stupid.

Still, he humors you. "Alright," he concedes, slowing Orleans to a stop. "Well, then I suppose this is good night."

"Ah… you're not dropping me off closer to the house?"

Robby turns to look at you. By the look on your face, eyes wide and pleading, you're completely serious. He decides not to yell at you, the poor pampered girl on the back of his horse, and adopts an only slightly sarcastic tone to say, "Well I would, but I don't wanna risk gettin' you in trouble with your steward."

You frown, "My steward?"

"I need a drink," Robby grumbles to himself.

"What was that?"

Ignoring you, he explains, "Your steward? Your boss?"

"Oh. Oh!" You force a laugh, "Yes… yes… my steward. Heh. Thought you said somethin' else."

Silence.

"Are you gonna get off?"

"Oh," you slowly, carefully lower yourself to the ground. It's an unpracticed movement. It looks to Robby like you're used to doing this with one person holding your hand and another stabilizing you at the waist. Hell, maybe there's a third person there just in case.

On the ground, you cross your arms, staring up at Robby with an indignant expression. The corner of his lips quirk upward.

"Well," you shift, tugging at the pants that cling to your curves. "Good night, Mr…"

"Just Robby, is fine."

You nod curtly, "Good night, Mr. Robby."

He opens his mouth to correct you, but all that comes out is a soft laugh. He merely turns Orleans away. When you're out of earshot, he utters, "And good night to you too, little birdie."

*****

Robby tends to be an early riser. Always up before sunrise to feed Orleans, he does make a habit of returning to bed for a few more minutes of peace before his lover wakes.

Jack has always been a night owl. It's a habit from when they spent their time holding up wagons for cash and goods or robbing rich folk blind, but now that they spend their time pouring drinks and serving up grub, Jack's eyes refuse to close for a long while, even when Robby's snoring in his arms. As a result, Jack also sleeps in long past Robby. Often times, Robby will have to rouse him sometime around ten to help prep for lunch service.

This morning, however, Robby wakes face down in a pillow instead of Jack's chest as the mattress shifts beneath him. By the time he manages to peel his eyes open, Jack's already sitting up, shirt already on and buttoned.

"Where are you goin'?" Robby croaks.

"The store," Jack grumbles. "I'm outta cigarettes."

That's enough to wake him up. Robby sits up, blinking languidly in an attempt to wake up. He asks, "Want me to come? We can take Orleans."

Jack shakes his head. He grabs the artificial leg next to the bed and begins to fasten it. "No need," he says. "I'm grown. Don't need help."

"It's muddy out. It'll be better for your leg if—"

"It's always muddy out," Jack stands. He shifts his weight from side to side, when he seems happy with the feel, Jack collects his trousers from the floor. "Sometimes you just have to walk through it."

Jack's sensitive about his leg, has been since he lost it. It was during their last job with the gang, the same one that took Doc Adamson's life. Jack got shot in the middle of his calf. Within hours it was showing sign of infection. They tried to save his leg, but there was no outrunning the infection with the little medical supplies they had left. Plus, Adamson was the only real doctor in the gang. Without him there, nobody really knew what to do other than cut it off.

Jack and Robby only stayed long enough for his leg to heal. Once three months hit, Robby went out to find Jack means of walking that wasn't just the old crutches laying around camp. Robby stole the artificial leg from a man who fought in the Great Rebellion. Though, he fought for the traitors, so Robby didn't feel any guilt when he stuck his gun in his face and demanded that the man hand over his leg.

Despite the artificial limb helping him regain some dignity, the leg is a sore spot. Everything changed that night for him, when he ceased being an outlaw and became simply Jack.

It changed Robby too, having to saw through Jack's flesh and bone, praying that the tourniquet would do its job. Dana shoved a belt in Jack's mouth to stop him from breaking his teeth. Even after loading him up with morphine and whiskey, the pain was just too much. Jack doesn't remember much of the amputation, only the pain. He didn't see the way Robby cried, how he prayed that night, so afraid that Jack would be taken from him before he and Robby could find a better life together.

As he recovered, Robby kept waiting for shit to hit the fan, Jack did, too. Except, it never did. Jack's recovery went well, physically, at least. Mentally, Jack didn't know what was left anymore. Robby was there the entire time, Dana too, but things were different. Things were always going to be different after that.

It's why Jack stays behind the bar most nights. People in town are nice to him, don't make a fuss or stare when he limps down the street, but that isn't to say he's immune to the odd drunken patron of the saloon. When they were still getting the place on its own two feet, it took only two men hassling Jack about his limp for him to resign himself to forever hiding behind the bar.

Robby sighs, "How about I meet you there."

Jack doesn't bother hiding his disdain for Robby's words, pulling a face. He always does this, tries to make Robby back down like he doesn't know the man well enough to know Robby won't. "Fine," he grumbles, pulling his trouser on. "Not like you'd listen to me if I said otherwise…"

Jack's out of the door before Robby is able to rouse himself out of bed. Rubbing his eyes, Robby trudges up the stairs to get dressed. They live in a sizeable quarters attached to the saloon. While they sleep in one, it's got two bedrooms for appearances if a drunkard were to ever go snooping where they shouldn't. Robby keeps all his clothing and personal affects in the one on the second floor.

In the bedroom, Robby takes a glance through the window. It was pouring rain last night, and from the looks of it, it's nowhere near dry out. He sighs, rubbing his face. Jack's leg is going to be screaming mad at him. It's tough with the artificial limb. It doesn't move like it ought to, rubs against Jack's residual limb, and makes the man mighty grumpy (grumpier than he was before he lost his leg, if that's even possible).

Robby quickly heads down and out to the stables. He was already out here before the sun came up to feed Orleans before heading back to bed. The horse chuffs when Robby saddles him up.

"Oh, don't be like that," Robby tuts. "You should be happy to go out."

Robby worries for the old horse. Orleans used to be so active back in the day, before he and Jack settled down. They lived a far more active lifestyle, long stakeouts, running on a job. It was a freer life. For them and Orleans.

Now Robby isn't a horse, but if he was, he'd want that life, not being stuck in a stable with only a small pasture to walk around in. Most of the time Orleans is out, he's dragging along a small wagon with supplies for the saloon.

Come to think of it, the longest walk Orleans has been on this last month without having to lug all that weight was when Robby went to the Easton estate to drop you off. Orleans was thrilled once Robby dropped you off, practically galloping all the way home. Robby had to take the reins to slow him down a few times, lest he fell off of the stallion.

As he fastens the saddle, Robby decides he'll take Orleans for a long ride today during the break between the saloon's lunch and evening hours. Jack would complain, but he's competent enough to handle the cleanup and prep.

"Come on, boy," Robby says as he hoists himself up onto Orleans. As his body yells at him for it, Robby wonders what will happen first, Orleans' death, or Robby's bad back finally catching up to him. "Let's head out."

It's pleasantly cool this morning, the kind that tickles the nose and calms any nerves. Robby takes his time on the short ride to the general store. It seems most folks are taking their time this morning. There's very few people on the street, and most people that are wandering are still rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

Most.

As Robby hops off of Orleans in front of the general store, across the way, a young man in an old leather pinch front stares at him. He looks to be in his early twenties. His build is deceiving, a light frame, but Robby can spot the corded muscles of his arms from yards away. He's handsome in a soft way, the kind of face that girls would sketch in their journals.

The man waves at Robby and begins to cross the street. Robby rolls his eyes as he tethers Orleans to the hitching post.

"Howdy, there!" The man greets. He leans against the porch in front of the general store, a genial smile on his face. "Beautiful morning, isn't it?"

"That it is," Robby says, making no effort to sound interested in the conversation.

"Dennis Whitaker, sir," the young man removes his hat, holding it over his chest as he sticks his hand out. When Robby shakes it, Dennis continues, "Mighty fine horse you have here."

"Thank you," Robby says, "Michael Robinavitch. Call me Robby."

"Good to meet you, Robby," Dennis says, finally dropping his hand from the firm handshake. He steps back, whistling lowly as he takes in the full sight of Orleans. "I must ask, are you interested in studding him? We'd pay you plenty for it."

Pay? Well, shit, if Robby knew all he had to do to get cash was let his horse get frisky, he would have saved himself a lot of trouble. It's a good deal. Too good, maybe.

"'We'?"

"Do you happen to know the Easton family? The ones livin' down by the lake?"

Of course Robby knows the Easton family. Well, knows of the Easton family. A small family— husband, wife, and kid. The wife died at some point after the baby was born. While the Eastons pay just about everyone's bills in town thanks to their mining enterprise, they tend to keep to themselves. But word of mouth travels fast, and Jack and Robby have come to learn plenty about these mysterious folks.

They're not from here— here being America. Easton, at least according to the drunks that frequent the Foothill Saloon, is a fake name, adopted by the husband and wife upon landing on American soil. American or not, doesn't really matter all that much to anybody, especially when the Easton's are the folks who've got the money around here.

Robby and Jack couldn't care less about them. The Eastons don't come into the saloon, but they pay the folks that do. Don't matter if times are tough, so long as people still want to whet their whistle. In fact, the first time Robby saw the family's estate was when he went to drop you off a few weeks ago.

"Yeah," Robby scratches his beard, "I know 'em."

Dennis smiles, "I work their stables, sir, and I think your horse here would make a great stud for one of their mares."

"A stud?"

Dennis chuckles nervously, "A horse that—"

"I know what a stud is," Robby scoffs. "I mean, you want Orleans here to… be a stud?"

"Well, that's for Mr. Easton to decide, but I think he'd be a great fit." Robby nods, and Dennis continues, "Like I said, he'd pay."

"For his come?"

Dennis blushes. He clears his throat, "Yes sir. You should drop by with the stallion if you're interested. Mr. Easton is taking callers all day. Just come on down, I'll tell him to expect you."

Dennis puts the hat back on. Up close, it looks comically large on the man, almost like he needs to grow into it.

"Well then, have a good day, sir." With that, Dennis turns on his heels and leaves.

At the same moment, a door opens behind Robby. He turns to see Jack stepping out of the general store carrying a pack of cigarettes. His gait is uneven, more than usual, and Robby shakes his head. He should have ridden with Robby and Orleans. Jack lights up a smoke before he can even step off of the porch.

"Who's that?" Jack asks. He tucks the rest of the cigarettes in Orleans' saddle bag, eyes following Dennis's retreat.

Robby shrugs, "Some kid who works for the Eastons."

"What'd he want?"

"Wants old Orleans here to stud one of their mares."

Jack's face lights up, he pats Orleans's rear and says, "Hear that, boy? You want a filly to fool around with?" To Robby, he adds, "How much they payin'?"

"If the Eastons," Robby shrugs, "We're probably looking at two, maybe three hundred."

Jack whistles, "Shit, wish someone would pay that much for my spend."

Robby chuckles. He takes a quick look around. There's nobody within earshot, nor is anybody looking their way. Robby leans close to Jack and utters, "You want me to start?"

Jack licks his lips, "Careful."

Robby steps closer, caging Jack between himself and the porch. He leaves a respectable amount of distance, enough that any wandering eyes might just think Robby's trying to intimidate him. Maybe he is.

"I say we have time before we open up shop." Robby jerks his head back in the direction of the saloon, "How'd you like to make a few bucks?"

*****

"Remember the girl a few weeks ago?"

Jack snorts. Of course he remembers you– the naive thing that came stumbling in looking like a fool in slacks and suspenders. He was spitting mad at the sight of you, trying to be confident as you looked him in the eyes. It's a good thing he caught you first. You were a pretty thing, even the men's clothes couldn't hide that. If the wrong drunk found you…

Jack doesn't want to think about that.

"I remember her plenty good," he says.

The Easton estate is even more beautiful and even more sprawling in the daytime. At least, that's what Robby says. To Jack, it looks like any other rich folk's home.

"She works here," Robby says as they ride down the sprawling path to the manor.

"No shit," Jack says.

His hands twitch from their spot on Orleans' rear. Jack tries not to wrap his arms around Robby's waist when they're riding, as much as he wants to. If Robby's riding slow enough, he merely steadies himself either like that or with his legs around Orleans.

God, speaking of his leg, it's aching something fearsome today. Not what's left, but what was there. He feels it most days, tries to scratch his artificial foot or curl his long-gone toes. Some days, it's pain. That's what he woke up to today, before the sun even rose, pain where there ought to be nothing. It drives him mad. Maybe he is mad, trying to move a foot that just isn't there anymore.

"Is everything alright?" Robby asks like reading Jack's mind like one of those traveling psychics.

"Yeah," Jack lies. His gone-limb is burning. "Why?"

"You seem angry at me."

"I'm not angry at you, Michael."

"You sure?"

"You'd know."

That's the end of that. They're too close to the house now to be talking about to be having a lover's squabble.

As they approach the stairs to the porch, a man's voice calls, "Over here, Mr. Robinavitch!"

A young man rounds the corner. It's the same one from the general store. He jogs over, waving enthusiastically at Robby. At the side of the horse, he tips his hat at Jack, "Hello there, sir. I don't believe we've met."

"No we haven't," Jack says. "Jack Abbot."

"Dennis Whitaker. I work the stables here for the Eastons."

"Good work."

"You bet," Dennis agrees.

Robby hops off Orleans. He hovers less than a foot away as Jack begins his descent. It's slow going, always is now. Jack's movements are deliberate, lest he lose his balance. At home, in the privacy of their own small stable, Robby usually helps him down, grabs his hand and holds his waist. Not here, though.

Finally on the ground, Jack shakes Dennis's hand. He's surprised by the strength of the boy's grip.

"I'll take him to the stables. You two can head on inside," Dennis jerks his head towards the house as he grabs a hold of Orleans's reigns. "Emery should let you in."

A pale woman meets them at the front door. Robby gives their names, and she shows them inside. The home is sprawling, but once again, nothing that Jack hasn't seen before. He does, however, make a show of being impressed. Robby does too. The Eastons don't need to know how many mansions they've been in during their lives. Not if they want to stay out of trouble.

The parlor isn't anything fancy. A nice room with some seats. A bookshelf on the far wall. Most of the space is taken up by a grand piano. It seems as though the entire space is angled for listening. They can't be sitting in there for more than twenty seconds before the woman returns with a man in tow. The man dismisses the woman and announces himself as Everett Easton.

"Good evening, gentleman," Everett greets. His voice is accented and smooth.

Everett Easton is not what Jack was expecting. He's a man of average build and height, perhaps even slightly lean, and while his face isn't necessarily kind, his expression isn't cold. Maybe Jack has seen too many of those cartoons in the papers, where the rich man is always a fat bastard with a mean scowl, because he finds himself enjoying this version of Mr. Easton.

Robby offers his hand first for Everett to shake, "Michael Robinavitch, but you can just call me Robby."

Jack steps forward then. It feels as though he barely sticks his hand out before Everett's hand wraps around his. Jack is surprised at the laxity of his grasp.

"Jack Abbot, sir," he greets.

Everett ushers them back into their seats. He takes the sole armchair near the two-seater Jack and Robby have crammed themselves on. While the armchair is perhaps only three feet away, it feels so much further with the piano in the middle sucking the air out of the space.

Everett speaks first, "I cannot say I was expecting two guests."

"Orleans ain't my horse. I just ride 'im," Robby jerks his head at Jack. "If you want to talk studding, Jack's the man to do it."

"And you two are…?" Everett looks between the two of them.

"Business partners," Robby answers coolly. "His sister was my brother's wife."

"God rest his soul," Jack says with the conviction of a man who believes it. "Lucky for me, nobody balances a book like Robby here."

That's the story they spun when they first came to town. A widow and her chaperones. Dana donned the demeanor of a grieving woman, while Jack claimed to be her brother and Robby the brother of her late husband. It wasn't their best cover, but it worked well enough. It's better than them knowing the truth. Three ex outlaws— a woman and two men who are having sex with each other.

"Yes, I believe I recognize you," Everett smiles. It's not exactly warm. "You gentlemen own the tavern, no?"

"Yes sir," Robby says. "Foothill Saloon. Been running it for three years now."

Everett stares at Robby. Jack wants to snap in his face, get the man to look at Jack, too. He usually lets Robby take the lead when it comes to talking the folks on account of his lack of conversational skills, but he can never shake the desire to protect Robby. A conversation is no gunfight, but his nerves don't always seem to agree.

Everett nods, though it doesn't seem like he's listening. "Your name," he says, ignoring Jack as he looks at Robby, "You say your name is Robinavitch."

Jack can feel Robby tense next to him.

Robinavitch, what's that mean?

Son of the rabbi.

Robby told Jack about his name many years ago. It's caused a lot of trouble, especially in the south. After one particular close call, where the wrong men caught word of a Jewish man in town and started circling threats to the point where the gang had to up and leave, Jack asked Robby why he never hides his name. Robby just shrugged.

He kept his name after the incident, but he stopped wearing his Magen David. When Jack asked about it, all he said was he didn't want to risk it. Heather later told Jack that Robby was afraid. He'd been called many things before, been scowled and cursed at, but this was different. It shook him.

Robby wears the Magen David now. It's almost like the old time, where Robby would let it peek through the collar of his shirt, shining right on the swell of his chest. It's the one piece of gold Robby owns that wasn't stolen.

So when Everett's eyes roam Robby's face, then dip to his chest, Jack has to resist the urge to grab Robby's hand. And when Everett asks, "You are a Polack?", Jack has to stop himself from slapping Everett across the face.

He knows what Everett's really asking. He can read between the lines.

Before Jack can divert, Robby opens his mouth, "My daddy was."

"Your mother?"

Robby's mother was a prostitute. She was from the old country, too. But she never made it overseas. Robby was born on the boat over, his mother dying in the process. One night, his father told Robby that he threw her body overboard when the stink got too strong to hide her death.

"My mama was an American, sir," he lies.

"Was?"

"She's dead now. Just like my daddy."

Everett nods, "Unfortunate."

Robby's lips twitch downwards. It's hidden by his beard, subtle enough that only Jack catches it. Jack prays Everett drops it, prays that they won't find trouble in this town just when they're finally getting settled.

First they ask about his family, his heritage. Then it's religion. Robby always says he's a Christian, but the next thing you know, people talk about how they never see Robby at church, not even on Easter or Christmas, and eye him sideways while they do. It may not be the south, but that doesn't mean folks here in Colorado are welcoming Jewish men and women with open arms.

But maybe Everett isn't a Christian himself. Maybe Jack is doing him a great disservice. Everett has already hidden his origins quite well. If it weren't for his accent, Jack wouldn't have guessed that he's an immigrant.

He hopes that's the case.

Jack butts in, finally unable to sit by, "Why don't we talk about the horse, hm?"

Everett raises his eyebrow. For the first time in what feels like hours, he looks at Jack, "Why don't we?"

"Your boy took him to the stables. We could head over and take a look at him if you want."

Everett shakes his head, "No, no. I saw the horse from the window. He'll do just fine."

Robby chuckles, "That's it?"

"That's it," Everett says. "I say five hundred is fair compensation?"

Five hundred dollars? Just to let his horse have a fuck?

"Sir," Jack nearly laughs, "That sounds more than fair."

Everett smiles. For the first time, it feels genuine. "Wonderful. Shall we discuss the logistics? I assume you gentlemen have only the one horse?"

"Yeah," Robby scratches the back of his neck. "I was gonna ask about that—"

Outside of the parlor comes a hushed, though clearly agitated voice. Jack recognizes it as the pale woman from earlier, but there's another voice, another woman. For some reason, this second voice has Jack sitting up.

"Daddy," the second voice calls, "Why is Dennis saying he's gonna stud my— Oh."

It's you. The little birdie from the bar, frozen in fear as you stare at the men occupying the settee. Jack has to stop himself from standing straight up. If the clench of Robby's jaw is any indication, he's suppressing a similar urge.

You're not dressed like a man anymore, far from it. Where slacks once covered your curves now flows a soft, patterned skirt. From where he's sitting, Jack can even see the swell of your breast, how your cleavage spills over the neckline of a dress that looks closer to a morning gown than something a woman should be wearing in polite company.

Jesus. He can hardly believe you were hiding all that in men's clothes.

Robby's the first to speak, and thank goodness he does. Jack's lost recollection of just about every word he's ever known, and by the mortified, terrified look on your face, you're not ready to speak either.

"Howdy," Robby greets. He stands, bowing his head. "I'm Michael, but you can call me Robby. This here's Jack."

"Uh," you look at Everett whose face remains impassive at your intrusion. You clear your throat, turning to Jack and Robby. As you curtsy, you give your name, "It's a pleasure to meet you. Robby. Jack."

"The pleasure's ours," Robby says.

Jack must have waited too long to respond, because his good leg is being kicked before he knows it. Jack stands, but unlike Robby, he approaches you. Before you can step away, Jack has your hand in his, bringing it to his lips as he bows. Your skin is soft against his lips, and Jack can't help but notice the floral scent of your perfume as it tickles his nose.

When Jack straightens, it looks like you're ready to pass out. He tries not to smirk as he says, "It's an honor to finally meet you, Miss Easton."

Everett must not have liked the show before him, because he stands abruptly. Everett grabs you by the shoulders. Robby and Jack pretend not to notice you flinch, nor how your expression seems to grow faraway as your father boasts, "My little girl is most skilled at the pianoforte, aren't you, dear?"

You don't speak, don't move. Your father squeezes your shoulder, hard, and you return to the present. "Yes," you say, "I've been playing since I was a babe." Your father nudges you. Tightly, you offer, "I could play for you, if you'd like."

"Oh," Robby starts. Jack is already shaking his head. "You don't need—"

"She insists."

She most definitely does not insist, because you look ready to blow a gasket as Everett guides you to the grand piano, whose presence is beginning to make far more sense to Jack. A grand piano a the center of the room for the only family of a man who seems to have far too much wealth than he knows what to do with.

You lower yourself slowly. By the look on your face alone, Jack would guess you were being led to the gallows. You clear your throat as your hands hover above the ivory keys. Then, after a deep breath, you play.

The sound is beautiful despite the obvious stiffness in your posture. Jack wonders if this is the very piano you practiced all the dance hall songs on, if you were telling the truth about knowing them. It's quite difficult to imagine you, in your pressed dress and perfectly styled hair with your buttoned-up father, teaching yourself anything that couldn't be played in a concert hall.

At the end of the song, you fold your hands neatly in your lap, eyes averted as Everett leads the men in a measly applause.

"You make a fine pianist, Miss Easton," Robby says. If Everett picks up on the teasing lilt of his voice, he doesn't comment on it.

"Very fine," Jack tacks on. "We ought to have you play in the saloon."

You don't dignify Jack's comment with a response. However, he does feel Robby kick his leg.

"Careful now." Everett's tone is light, but his eyes are nothing but danger, "I'm sure that saloon is no place for a lady."

Jack fights the urge to look at you as he agrees, "No, sir. It is certainly not."

Abruptly, you stand. Your knees knock against the piano, clacking roughly against the wood. "Daddy, may I be excused?"

"Of course."

You scurry to your father's side to give him a kiss on the cheek. Jack stares, frowning at the way you pointedly avoid looking at him and Robby. You don't even bother saying goodbye to them. No, instead you step out of the parlor. Somewhere across the house, a door slams.

"Please excuse her," Everett explains, "She's been agitated as of late."

"Kids," Robby laments like he understands even part of whatever the hell Everett's talking about. It's good enough, because Everett laughs. It sounds at least somewhat genuine.

"Exactly, Mr. Robinavitch. Hopefully her future husband will give her some grace."

"You marrying her off?" Robby asks, frowning.

"Every young woman must be married sooner or later, no?"

From the corner of his eye, Jack spots a figure moving across the window outside. He glances at it, and even in the short moment that he can spot the person moving, he knows it's you.

"If you'll excuse me, my leg's acting up." It's only half a lie. Jack asks, "Mind if I take a walk around the property? Maybe go look at some of your horses?"

"Your leg?" Everett's gaze wanders down Jack's body. He openly scowls as he appraises him.

"My leg," Jack repeats. When Everett raises his eyebrows, Jack chuckles. Most folks in town knows Jack as the man with no leg, but he supposes Everett isn't like most folks. So, Jack pulls up the cuff of his pant leg. "As you can see…"

Everett's eyes grow wide at the sight of Jack's artificial limb, "Ah, I see. May I ask how this came about?"

"The war," Jack says. It's his usual method, just say the war and let everyone fill in the rest.

"Good man," Everett muses. "Please, the stables are past the gardens. Dennis— I believe you met him earlier —should be working. He can show you our little herd."

Jack shows himself out. Stepping onto the porch, Jack takes a deep breath. The fresh air is a blessing on his skin, soft and warm from the turning of summer. Though, he only allows himself to bask in it for a moment before heading in your direction.

It's in the gardens, filled with blooming flowers that tickle his nose, that Jack finds you again. More aptly, he hears you. He leans against an old tree, whose trunk is thick enough to hide him, and waits.

"Dennis, you didn't tell me it was the saloon owners!" Your voice is far more forceful speaking with the stable boy than you were either with your father or Jack and Robby at the saloon. It sounds more familiar, more petulant even.

Jack wonders if you're sweet on the stable boy.

"They are?"

"Yes, Dennis!" Jack hears you scoff. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Well how was I supposed to—" Dennis sighs. Softly, he continues, "I'm sorry. I should'a asked around more."

Jack hums softly. Even if you're not sweet on Dennis, he sure is sweet on you. Deciding he should make himself known before Dennis tries necking with you, Jack steps out from behind the tree. He lets his footsteps grow heavy in his approach.

Before he rounds the corner of the stables, you curse, "Oh damn."

It's not an incriminating scene before Jack, Dennis leaning against the stable wall and you standing out in the sun, yet, Dennis looks ready to hurl at the sight of him.

"Howdy," Jack greets, showing all his teeth.

"Uh, howdy." Dennis stammers, "D-Did you need somethin'?"

You roll your eyes, "Dennis, you can go."

The stable boy frowns, staring at you like you've grown a second head. He opens his mouth to protest, but at the singular raised eyebrow you direct his way, Dennis nods. He smiles tightly, and with one last glace your way, departs.

Just the two of you left, you avoid looking at Jack, grabbing a brush hanging off the wall. There's a handful of horses in the stable, all looking to be of fine breeding. You approach a mare with a striking black coat, the only mare in the stable if Jack's cursory glance is correct. She doesn't react much to your approach, not even when you begin to brush her.

Jack steps closer under the guise of running a hand along the mare's coat. You scowl at him over her back, but Jack can see how worried you are, the way your eyebrows haven't unknit since you spotted him. Jack decides to spare you.

"We won't tell your daddy, if that's what you're worried about," Jack says. "Not worth all the trouble, anyways."

"Sure it ain't."

"I mean it."

You huff, but don't argue. "What are you doing here then?"

"The horses," Jack pats the back of the mare. "Were asked if we could breed them."

Your chin dips, pulling your gaze from Jack. "You make it sound awfully dirty, sir."

He's met lots of girls in his day, women too shy for their own good. It's always been something that bothered him, finding himself put off by their lack of conviction. Somehow, Jack finds your bashfulness fresh, endearing. It's a vulnerability you didn't allow yourself to show in the saloon, but far more intriguing than the fear your father inflicted.

It makes Jack smile. "Isn't it?"

You kick at a rock. It flies a few feet away, shooting up a plume of dust as it leaves the ground and then lands back down. "I suppose."

"You know," Jack leans against the wall of the barn. He tilts his head, trying to get a better look at your face, "You can look at me, girl. I don't bite."

"I know." You still don't lift your eyes.

Maybe he and Robby got it all wrong. Maybe you're not a birdie. You're more a bunny, skittish like one and ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Now, Jack doesn't consider himself mighty dangerous anymore, but maybe to a sweet thing like you, it's easy to look like the big bad wolf.

"We ain't here to tell your daddy."

"I know. You said that."

"We didn't know he's your daddy."

"I know."

"Then why are you so afraid, girl."

"I don't know."

Jack rounds the front of the mare, grabbing the brush out of your hands. It's not like you were using it anyway. Still, you have the gall to look outraged by the action, snatching the brush back and stepping back. "If you're not here to tell on me," you bite, "Then why don't you just show yourself out."

"I don't want to."

Your jaw drops.

Jack gets the impression that you're not often told no. And now, it seems as though you've been told no the two separate times you've seen Jack. This second rejection has you floundering, mouth opening and closing as your face twists from irritation to utter confusion. Instead of arguing more, you start brushing the mare again, this time with a newfound fervor.

Jack dips his head into your line of sight. You scowl, but meet his gaze. His lips twitch, ready to say something else to ruffle your feathers, but the sound of approaching voices stops him. You both turn to

"How long until we get Orleans back?" Robby.

"Shouldn't be long. Juniper— that's Miss Easton's horse —she's almost ready for heat. I'll bring Orleans back after that." Dennis.

Jack licks his lips, "It's your mare?"

You huff, giving up on your mission of grooming the mare— Juniper —entirely. Glaring at Jack, you turn on your heels and leave, brush still firmly clasped in your hand.

"Hello there Miss—"

You cut Robby off with a harsh, "Good day, Mr. Robby."

Dennis is staring at your retreating form with wide eyes. Robby on the other hand, stares at Jack with reproach. "There you are," Robby says flatly.

Dennis quickly saddles their temporary horse up, pointedly avoiding looking at them. Robby tries conversing with him to little avail. Eventually, Dennis bids them adieu.

"So," Robby says as he hoists himself onto the stallion. "Do I want to know why I passed Easton's daughter left lookin' like she saw a ghost?" He offers his hand to Jack, helping him up with practiced ease.

Jack pats Robby's thigh. "No, you do not."

That's enough answer for Robby, who grabs the reigns and sets off towards home.

*****

Jack's wiping down a glass when he sees it, right in the corner of his eyes, sitting pretty and proud with your chin up in the air. He wants to laugh, truly. Had his and Robby's appearance at your home earlier today not scared you off? What gall you had, showing up again in their saloon not only after they kicked you out the first time, but knowing that they could easily snitch on you to your daddy.

Jack grits his teeth and stalks over, "What the hell are you—?"

"Ah, ah!" You smirk at him, "You want to hear what I have to say."

"No I—"

"I know what you are. You and your friend."

Jack flashes his teeth as he growls, "What the hell are you talking about?"

Truthfully, he's not very worried. If you really knew something troublesome about them, say their homosexuality or Robby's religion, you wouldn't be coming down to flaunt it because it would be your daddy who had the information. And if Everett Easton knew their secrets, if he wanted to destroy them with it, they'd already be in deep shit.

"Do you happen to know a man by the name of George Lambson."

George Lambson. Jack turns the name over in his head. He might have heard it before, at some point serving drinks and listening to patrons talk. Hell, he might even be a patron himself.

"Can't say I do," Jack rolls his eyes. He doesn't have time to deal with this. The dirty glasses are starting to pile up, and he only has so much downtime to clean them.

"Hm, interesting," you muse. "He and my daddy are good friends, and, you see, a few years back Mr. Lambson came to visit us and talked about some folks who stole a large, large sum of money from him."

Jack tilts his head, leaning in. He doesn't like the sound of your tone, even, confident, like you already know what's about to happen here. He also doesn’t exactly love the fact that you’re talking about a robbing.

"That's a shame," he says, suppressing a scowl.

"Isn't it. Well, it just so happens that he brought us a copy of some wanted posters, tellin' us to look out if we ever saw the men and women who did it."

Jack's lip twitches. He grits his teeth as you fish papers from the back pocket of your trousers. He grabs the papers before you can set them down on the bar, staring at you for a long moment before allowing himself to look down at the posters. It's striking how much the sketches look like them. With just a little more detail, they could be mistaken for a photograph.

"Don't worry, you can keep those. I've got another set at home."

Jack crumples the papers in his hand, "What do you want?"

You shrug, "I think you know what I want." Then, you turn your head away from the bar. He doesn't have to follow your gaze to know you're looking at the piano.

Jack can't tell if the smirk on his face makes him want to shake you straight or makes him proud. He doesn't know what exactly he expected from you, but it certainly wasn't blackmail.

Jack finds himself laughing. That's what finally wavers your confidence. The self-assured smirk slips, and you gulp loudly. Your voice wavers as you say, "I thought you may be interested."

"You know," Jack licks his lips, eyeing you up and down. He can't help but picture your figure, the one you're hiding with all those clothes. "You're a clever little birdie."

You smile, hopeful in a way that makes Jack's stomach flip, "Is that good?"

"No," he bites. "But it ain't what I expected."

The smile stays on your face as Jack fishes a bottle of whiskey from underneath the bar. The pour he gives you is heavy, but he reasons you've about earned it.

Sliding the glass your way, Jack says, "Go on." He jerks his head to the vacant piano. "Play us a tune."

*****

"What do you reckon she's doing?" Jack asks, slowing his pace as he walks Orleans down the street. They took the horse, to the general store, but Jack decided he'd rather walk back.

Robby shrugs, "No idea."

Your pale dress, tied with a ribbon around the waist, blows pleasantly in the wind as you speak animatedly with the sheriff. Sheriff Franklin is a tall, handsome man. He has a strong jaw and a shock of dark hair that pairs well with his pale skin and blue eyes. He'd be a fine man to marry if were wealthy like you. Then again, maybe not. Jack and Robby haven't associated with him much, too afraid that he'd see through them, ask too many questions that they don't have the right answers for.

Their little songbird, however, seems to be the apple of his eye, completely unafraid to make his acquaintance. You likely have nothing to hide, nothing other than your recent association with two formerly-wanted men.

Despite their best efforts, you've continued to show up at the saloon. Night after night, you grab a drink at the bar from a begrudging Jack and take your spot at the piano. They'd try to find some way to turn you away, scare you off, but the fact of the matter is your music is good for business. It gets more people through the door, and those people tend to stay longer, and when people stay longer they spend more money.

As much as they hate to admit it, they're stuck with you.

"Not about us," Robby decides.

"You sure?"

Robby nods. You wouldn't snitch. Despite the show you put up with Jack a few weeks back with those posters, Robby's gotten the sense that you're fond of the two men. Maybe even in the same way that the stable boy is fond of you. Jack thinks not, but Robby's seen the way you stare at them in the middle of playing, how you dip your head to thank Robby when he drops off another drink and wink at Jack all the way across the establishment, and he's felt the way you press your body against him on all those rides back to the estate.

That's not to say you're not fond of the stable boy still. You talk of Dennis often. Apparently, you two are close, having practically grown together at the estate. Dennis was employed young, as most stable boys are, but when it was time to replace him, you fought your father tooth and nail to keep him around.

"I'm sure." Robby nods, "If they were…" Robby slows to a stop, realizing Jack and Orleans are no longer walking at his side.

Orleans is pulling at the reins in Jack's hands. His head is tilted to the side, pointed towards where you and the sheriff are talking.

"Come on, Orleans," Jack urges. He tugs lightly, trying to redirect the stallion. "Let's go."

"No," Robby nods in your direction. "Let's say hello."

Jack raises an eyebrow, "You sure?"

"It can't hurt."

"But it can kill," Jack mutters as they walk over.

Your eyes widen as you spot them. "Oh," you clear your throat, but you run a hand along Orleans' coat without hesitation. "Hello there. Mr. Robby, Mr. Abbot."

Robby tips his hat, from the corner of his eye he sees Jack nod. "Hello, Miss Easton."

Sheriff Franklin looks somewhat amused at the exchange. "You gentlemen know Miss Easton?"

You answer before Jack or Robby can, "Yes, sir. Their horse bred my Juniper last month. Orleans here took a liking to me." You chuckle nervously, "It seems like he wanted to say hello again."

What you don't mention is that when you ride home every night with Robby, you sneak him sugar cubes that you stuff your pockets with. He yells at you for it, but never stops you when you sneak it to Orleans when you think Robby's not looking. It's worth it so long as it makes you happy.

Except, you're not smiling now. There's a thin sheen of sweat on your brow, and Robby would bet it's not just from the heat. It looks like their birdie is nervous on their behalf. He has to bite back a smile at the thought.

"It's been a while since I've seen him," you lie. "He must miss me."

"Speakin' of," Franklin strikes a match off of his boot, it reflects brilliantly off of the badge on his chest. Up close, Robby would bet that badge is made of real gold, straight from the Easton mines, he reckons. He lights the cigarette between his lips and throws the match to the ground to stomp on, "You best go find Miss Walsh. I bet she's looking for you about now."

"Oh," you blink, looking at Jack and Robby like they would give you permission. You flounder so long that Robby takes pity, smiling tightly at you. "Alright then. Good day Frank, Mr. Robby, Mr. Abbot."

The men each tip their head, and you stumble off. When Franklin isn't looking, Robby steals himself a glance at you. The very streets seem to part when you walk by. The sight makes him chuckle. One night, on the ride home you indulged that you don't make it to town very often, that you don't know many folks. It seems though that even if people around here don't know you, they can sense that your very presence is one of importance as they make room.

Franklin's voice draws him back to the present. "How's that saloon of yours doing?"

It's Jack who answers, spitting his chewing tobacco out onto the dirt street, "Good. You should come by one of these nights."

Sheriff Franklin has never come to the saloon in all the time that they've been operating it. About a year without him ever showing his face, Robby began to ask patrons about it, too drunk to remember his questioning but sober enough to give a good enough answer. As it turns out, the sheriff doesn't drink. Ever. Apparently it landed him in a lot of trouble in his youth.

As expected, Franklin shakes his head, "I'm not much of a drinking man. Plus, someone has to stay with their wits to keep your drunkards out of trouble."

"That so?" Jack asks, though it sounds more like a challenge.

"It keeps me in business."

They all force a laugh at that, like they're all friends. Robby isn't sure whether Franklin actually enjoys their company, or if he just acts friendly on account of his position in town. Robby guesses the latter. When the laughter dies down, a gaping silence sits heavy in the air.

It's Franklin who caves first, "Well, I gotta make my rounds. You gents have a good day."

Jack and Robby bid him adieu before Franklin can change his mind. They make it halfway back to the saloon before either of them speak.

"Frank," Robby scoffs. "Why the hell is she callin' Sheriff Franklin Frank?"

Jack tilts his head, squinting at Robby underneath the brim of his hat.

"What're you lookin' at me for?" Robby bites.

"You sound like you're jealous, Michael."

Robby scowls. "Trust me, I ain't."

Jack makes a face. It looks a lot like the one he pulls when he knows Robby's telling a lie. But he isn't.

"Alright," Jack grabs the reigns, stalking off towards the saloon. "Sure, Michael."

*****

Jack may have over served you tonight. He's surprised it hasn't happened before. It's not like he's ever really kept track. He always figured Robby would be doing it since he was the one always actually talking to you throughout the night, chatting you up whenever he drops off your drinks.

You're leaning against the bar, shirt unbuttoned and giving Jack a glimpse of your decolletage. He tries not to drink up too much of the view, not like this. It's not like he hasn't stolen a glance before. Jack may be old, but he's not blind and he's certainly still a red-blooded man.

He should feel guilty staring at your figure, hidden in men's clothes or on display in your normal wardrobe during the rare occasions that he spots you in town. Jack is in a relationship, after all. Though, it's hard to feel guilty when he sees Robby staring at you too. Even harder when they've been taking their frustrations out on each other.

They haven't fucked like this since the gang. Now, every morning, Jack wakes up with Robby's mouth on his cock, his fingers in his hole, slicking it with the oil they keep in a jar beside the bed. Between lunch and evening service, they stow away in the quarters for another quick fuck. But they don't talk about it, like an unspoken agreement not to discuss the woman who has Robby limping more than Jack these days.

The woman who is currently hanging off of Jack's arm and looking at him with heart-eyes.

Jack just hopes Robby's ready for a second kind of ride tonight.

"Y're so nice, Jack," you coo. Up close, he can smell your perfume, warm and floral. He doesn't allow himself to dwell on why exactly you put on perfume when you're disguising yourself as a man. "Lettin' me play the piano, givin' me drinks, lettin' me relax…"

He wrangles you onto a stool. A mistake, because you nearly fall backwards off of it. Jack has to stand behind you, his front pressed against your back, just to keep you upright. How the hell were you playing the piano like this? He grumbles, "You sure are relaxed…"

Robby's outside, getting Orleans ready for the ride to the estate. How you're going to get from the road to your home, unseen at that, is beyond Jack. All he cares about is how fast Robby can get back here and take you off of Jack's hands.

"I like you an' Robby," your words are over-annunciated as you fight your drunkenness to get them out. "You're nice."

Jack chuckles as you twirl a strand of hair, "You said that."

"Did I?" You bite your lip, leaning your head back to look at him.

"Yeah, birdie, you did."

"Birdie… I like it when you call me that," your tone alone has Jack's head spinning. Robby needs to hurry up before his trousers begin to tent, too. Drunk as you may be, it won't be easy to hide his hard cock, not when you're already pressed against him.

"You do?"

"Mhm," you sigh, blinking up at him. Then, you say, "You're handsome, Jack. Do you know that? Robby, too, but don't tell him I said that."

Fuck. Jack suppresses a groan. It's been a long time since he was with a woman, his late wife, in fact. He's forgotten how enjoyable the feeling of a woman pressing against him feels. As much as he loves Robby, there's something almost irresistible about the soft swell of your ass against him. It takes a great deal of willpower not to let his hands fall to your hips.

"I'm handsome?"

"Mhm. I'd marry you if I could. Him too. Except…" You trail off, pouting, "Oh, never mind."

Jack's never been the best decision maker, so he asks, "Except what?"

He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it certainly isn't, "Well, you and him are homosexuals, ain't you?"

Jack steps away almost as if he was burned. You tumble backwards, but he lets you. Landing on your back with a grunt, you stare at Jack with wide eyes.

"Now what'd you do that for?" You pout at him. Any other time he'd swoon for it.

"What did you say?" Jack asks, voice low and dangerous. His hands are shaking at his side, and it takes a great deal of effort not to drag you out right now.

"I didn't mean nothin' by–"

"No!" Jack barks, "What did you say?"

"I…" You take a shuddering breath. There are tears welling in your eyes. "I asked if you two were… homosexuals."

Jack sees red. He doesn't hesitate to drag you up from the ground, paying little mind to your uneven footing. He drags you around the bar to the back door.

"I better not hear you say nothin' about that, you hear?" Jack's screaming in your face, spit flying and blood raging. It doesn't matter to him that you're beginning to cry, shaking your head and murmuring drunkenly. "Or I swear to God I'll show you exactly why we got those bounty posters."

Jack shoves you outside, and you stumble to the ground. You scramble backwards as best you can with the liquor coursing through your veins. He wants to feel sorry for you, wants to apologize for being so rough with you, but he's being guided by every single fear that he's kept hidden since he first allowed himself to act on his affections for Robby.

At the noise, Robby peeks his head out of the stable, brows furrowed at the sight of you scrambling. Jack grabs you by the collar of your shirt, hoisting you up just so he can push you towards the stables. He probably looks like a mad man, though it's not like he cares much right now.

"What on earth is going on here?" Robby yells. He runs up to Jack, trying to push him off you. As he attempts to pry his hands from you, Jack has to suppress his dormant instincts to sock him in the face. "Jack, stop!"

Robby just manages to strong arm him. If Jack still had his leg, it wouldn't slide, but Robby puts all his weight against Jack, and he's forced to relent unless he wants to fall on his ass. Robby collects you in his arms, cradling the back of your head as you sob into his neck.

You're babbling drunken apologies, explanations that Jack doesn't care enough to listen to. This is more than an argument, more than a drunken question. This is their life. If you were to say a word to the wrong person, people who are already a few questions away from discovering their lifestyle, there's no saying what would happen to them.

"The little birdie," he spits the pet name with venom. "Just asked if we were queer."

Robby tenses. A shadow crosses his face as his gaze slides to you, still clutching him like a lifeline. Unlike Jack, his fear doesn't drive him to violence. Robby lets you cling to him, even as every muscle in his body tenses, eager to push you away.

"Miss Easton," Robby says. His voice is cold, detached. Jack can see you freeze, see the way you hesitantly pull away to look up at Robby. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

"What?"

"I said, I don't see how that's any of your business."

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out beyond a stuttered breath. Your tears have grown silent, flowing freely down your face. Jack turns his head, can't bring himself to look at you and let the ache in his chest grow. Sympathy for you right now would get him nowhere he wants to be.

"Come now, Miss Easton," he hears Robby say. "Let get you home."

As you stumble away with Robby, crying and begging him to forgive you, Jack steps inside to pour himself a drink.

*****

"She get home alright?"

Jack is drunk now, that much is clear just from the way he sways on the stool and the drained bottle of whiskey sitting in front of the man. His artificial limb lays sideways on the ground. Robby wants to pour himself a drink, too, but he knows he'll need to carry Jack to bed. In this state, he'd be lucky to even pick the limb off the ground without falling flat on his face.

"More or less," Robby shrugs, sliding on the stool nearest to Jack. "Said she was sorry."

The ride back was pitiful. You cried the whole way from the saloon, begging Robby to forgive you, saying that you didn't mean anything by your question. You vowed over and over to not tell anybody. Robby believes you, but that doesn't make the knowledge any less dangerous. You could slip up, drunk or otherwise disposed, and Jack and Robby would be in trouble.

Jack snorts, head dropping, "I'm sure she did."

Robby throws an arm over Jack's shoulders. He stands, saying, "Come on, let's get you to bed."

Jack shoves his arm off, grumbling, "Don't wanna…"

"Don't give me that right now," Robby scolds. "You're drunk. You need to sleep it off."

Jack scoffs, waving his hand around, "Just go to your bed."

Your bed. The words shock Robby to his core. They haven't referred to that cold, empty room in the upstairs quarters as Robby's room since they first bought the place. Back then, they were overly cautious, not even allowing themselves to sleep in one bed as though doing it but once would tell the whole town what they were to each other. Though, he isn't surprised that's coming up now.

Jack had spent so long hiding his desires. He was stuck in grief from losing Marisol, his wife, and fear of what it meant– means –to be a homosexual. They were in the gang then, where people were more willing to turn an eye. Parker Ellis, for instance, would often sneak off with women at the saloons, and Jack would swear that he saw her sharing a bedroll with Samira once or twice, but that didn't mean it was welcomed. It was tolerated, especially since the women were cornerstones of the gang, especially after Doc Adamson's passing.

Robby just hopes this doesn't set them back.

"Leave me be," Jack slurs. "I'll get m'self to bed."

Robby scoffs, "Yeah? You and what leg?"

Jack's face twists in anger. If he had his leg on, Robby's sure Jack would throttle him. Though, before he can curse Robby out, he sighs, shoulders slumping as he lets his head fall to the bar. It thunks against the wood, but Jack doesn't acknowledge it. Maybe if he was sober he'd care.

"I hate you."

Robby rolls his eyes, "I know." He gets up off of the stool and sticks his arm under Jack's knees. Luckily, Jack has the mental capacity to sit up, making it easier for Robby to hoist him up and into his hold.

Jack doesn't meet his eyes, instead shoving his face into Robby's chest to avoid his hard stare. Robby sighs, shaking his head as he carries his lover out of the main hall and into the private quarters.

"'M sorry, Michael," Jack's voice is muffled. "I don't hate you."

"I know, darlin'," Robby says softly, setting Jack down over the covers. "Go to bed now."

Jack's eyes are quick to close, lids heavy already with booze and fatigue. Still, Jack manages one last confession, "I don't wanna lose you."

The words make his eyes sting, but Robby refuses to let himself cry. It would only give truth to their fears.

"Don't worry, darlin'. You won't."

*****

People like to complain about lots of things. Jack and Robby have known this since they opened the saloon. Their first customer complained that his beer was too cold, whatever the hell that means. Since then, they've been at the receiving end of countless complaints, all from people who don't have the slightest clue what it takes to run the joint. Not once have they ever thought the complaints were warranted.

Until tonight.

If they got a nickle for every time someone commented about the lack of music this evening, Jack and Robby would be richer than Everett Easton himself. Unlike the usual complaints, Jack and Robby can't even make sly comments to each other behind the customers' backs, talking about how ridiculous their complaints are. They're right. Every single one of them.

There's a you-sized hole in the joint. They trudge through the shift, plastering on friendly faces as Robby clears tables and Jack pours drinks. Every mention of the pianist sends a pang of regret through them. They expected not to see you tonight, or ever again for that matter, but they didn't expect it to sting so much.

Even cleaning up the hall is a miserable chore. Usually, they have you sitting on the bar and swinging your feet like you don't have a care in the world. You always chat their ears off, talking all about what gossip you overheard throughout the evening. Now, Jack and Robby only have each other for company. Miserable company.

Speaking of miserable, Jack's huffing and puffing as he limps around. Robby usually sends Jack to bed when his leg is acting like this, but Jack's been deliberately useless all night. Robby's had to do most of the cleanup work while Jack's been working slowly, pouting the whole time as if it isn't his fault for the silence in the place.

Now, though, it seems Jack's fed up with his duties. As he attempts to clean a spilled beer by the door, Robby spots Jack attempting to make an exit.

"Where the hell are you going?" Robby asks.

"Takin' a piss."

"Well you better come back," Robby calls as Jack steps out of the hall. He raises his voice, "These cups ain't gonna clean themselves!"

Robby sighs. Jack's been like this all day, grumpy as hell and just as avoidant. He won't admit it, but he's missing you, maybe even regretting his choice of words last night.

Robby knows how dangerous it is for someone to know about their sexuality, but even he has to admit that there was no reason for Jack's aggression. It isn't like you haven't trusted them to keep one of your secrets before. Hell, your entire relationship with them, coming into their saloon every night, was a great secret. You've spoken to them before about your fears, that if your father were to ever find out about the arrangement, you would surely be put under lock and key for a long, long time.

There's a mutual trust between you three. At least, there was. Who knows what's left now.

Robby shakes his head. As he's sopping up beer with a rag, he hears the familiar creak of the door shifting on its hinges. Then, footsteps.

"We're closed," he sighs.

No response.

Robby tosses the rag on the table. Unfortunately, it lands on a beer-less spot, soaking the unmarred wood.

"I said, we're–" Robby's voice dies out as he turns around.

It's you.

You're wearing a dress, a very fine one. Likely from one of the big cities, New York or Paris. It's darker in color than the dresses you've worn before, and the neckline is far lower than they're used to seeing on you. It accentuates your figure, drawn tight at the waist. You look far more grown than you do when dressing normally.

When Robby is finally tears his eyes from your figure, he finds your eyes puffy and red, like you've been crying.

"You're here," he says softly, almost convincing himself of it.

"Where's Jack?" You ask.

"I don't think he wants to see you."

"I want to apologize," you sniffle. "And talk."

Robby sighs, slipping behind the bar. Wordlessly, he pours you a drink, sliding it down to the stool you've found a home on. You down it, and he pours another. "He'll be back soon," Robby says. "There's still time to leave."

"You think I don't know that?" You sigh, then add, "Nobody knows. I would never tell anybody your… secret."

"I know," Robby says. Last night, however, he didn't know. He stayed up until sunrise, worried. Even half the day he spent stressed, jumping at shadows and avoiding eye contact with almost everyone in fear that they'd be able to tell his secret. By the time sunset rolled around, and nobody came knocking down their door accusing him and Jack of being homosexuals, Robby figured you had kept your lips sealed. A grace, though it hasn't done much to fix Jack's sour mood.

"He's angry."

You snort, "You think I don't know that?"

No. Robby knows you're smart enough to tell when you're in some trouble. "You don't know how he is when he's angry."

Your gaze hardens, "I think we both know that's a lie, Mr. Robby."

He opens his mouth to speak, to tell you that you're wrong, but all Robby sees is you being dragged by the collar of your shirt, sobbing and babbling for forgiveness. You may not know the depths of Jack's anger, how he shuts down and pushes people away, digs a hole so deep that few are able to drag him out, but you do know the immediate dangers of his temper.

"Right you are," he concedes.

"Where is he?"

"Pissin'."

You hum. "When's he gonna be back?"

Robby shrugs, "Not too long now."

No more words are exchanged. You trace the rim of your glass absentmindedly, looking anywhere but at Robby. It isn't until the rhythmic sound of boots on wood reaches the parlor that you straighten.

Jack stiffens when he sees you, his lip twitching in a way Robby can't read. Robby's afraid Jack's going to yell at you again, drive you out just as he did the night before. Even if it's the smarter thing to do, Robby doesn't know if he can let that happen again, doesn't know if he can sit by and watch Jack break you down like that again.

"Hi, Jack," you say, eyes on your glass.

"Howdy," he says slowly, like he's feeling the word out in his mouth. "You here to talk?"

"Yes, sir."

Jack sucks his teeth. He glances Robby's way, and Robby nods. Jack cocks his head, "Alright then. Talk."

Robby steps back, leaning against the liquor shelves. He's already forgiven you, never really was mad enough to need to find forgiveness. Now's the time for you to talk to Jack. The only reason Robby's staying is really to mediate.

You start simply, "I didn't tell."

"I know," Jack huffs.

"I won't tell." When Jack hesitates to respond, you continue, "I assure you, I will not tell a soul. You're very– very kind, and–" You clear your throat, but when you speak, your voice is shaky and thick with emotions, "You've given me something wonderful, and I'll miss it very much."

"You can keep playing," Jack says exacerbated.

"I can't."

Jack sighs. He rubs a hand down his face, "Yes, you can. I overreacted, and–"

"I'm getting married."

Robby is probably supposed to congratulate you, wish you luck in the marriage, but all he can muster is: "To who?"

Robby wants to ask more. This feels so sudden. Even though Everett spoke of a marriage in your future, you never did. He wonders if you were even a part of this decision. While it's still ultimately up to your father, the thought of you lacking any say in your husband– hell, your future –makes his blood boil.

He can't imagine that Jack's thinking clearly about this news either. Luckily for you and Robby, Jack keeps his mouth shut. The last thing anybody needs is for Jack and that mouth of his to upset you even more.

"Edward Lambson." You sniffle, staring at the glass of amber liquid in your hand. You down the whiskey and continue, "He and his daddy came for dinner. I didn't talk at all, but when Emery served dessert, Edward… he proposed."

"Jesus," Jack hisses.

"I didn't even say yes. Daddy did. Apparently he and George have been talking about this for a while. Edward's gonna marry me, take over the estate when daddy dies."

You were Everett's only child. It was only natural to expect Everett to marry you off. You were the sole heir to the estate. With Edward in the picture, he could guarantee the continuation of the business as well as growth with the inclusion of the Lambson's connections. It's protect the wealth and grow the legacy.

To Robby's surprise, Jack grabs your hand on the bar. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, "I'm sorry."

You let out a shaky breath. Hastily, you wipe away your tears with the back of your hand. "Yeah, me too."

Your face twists. This time, though, it doesn't seem as though you're going to cry. Your eyes find Robby, then Jack. Licking your lips, you ask, "You don't like women none?"

Jack chuckles. Robby eyes him carefully as he leans forward, grabbing your chin. Jealousy churns in his gut, though he finds it's directed towards the both of you. "No, peach," Jack soothes, "We like women just fine."

"Oh," you bite your lip. "You've… you've been with women?"

It's Robby's turn to answer. He leans on the bar, catching your eye. "Plenty," he jerks his head at Jack. "Mr. Abbot here was even married. His wife passed a few years before we got together."

Your brows furrow, "And you've been with plenty of men?"

They look at each other, amused. Robby shakes his head, laughing softly, "Some."

"Each other," you state, confirming what you already know.

"You're a curious little thing, ain't you?" Jack says. His tone is light, but Robby doesn't miss the way your face falls at the comment.

"Just want to know," you grumble.

"Seems like you already know plenty." Jack rounds the bar, he leans against it in front of you. He cuts an imposing figure, and while your body shrinks ever so slightly, you keep your gaze strong. "That we rob and steal, that we're fucking each other—"

"Jack!" Robby scolds.

"What?" Jack smirks, "All I'm sayin' is you're a lot of trouble for one little girl."

"I thought all was forgiven," Robby say through gritted teeth. Jack's anger is greatly misplaced right now. You've barely stopped crying for your marriage confession. Robby would like to continue the night with less tears.

"It is. I’m just teasin'."

"Well then why–?"

You cut Robby off, "Can I get to the point?" The question is sharp, irritated. Jack and Robby still, their attention now focused on you. You sigh, "Can you tell when a woman isn't a virgin?"

For the second time since you walked in, you've stunned Jack and Robby into silence. Maybe it's the admission that you, the mostly buttoned-up Miss Easton, aren't a virgin. Or maybe it's the fact that you're divulging this fact with them.

Jack's the first to speak, "You ain't a virgin?"

It's a reasonable followup to your question. Still, it isn't exactly appropriate. Robby clears his throat, "You don't need to answer that, birdie."

You ignore Robby, "No. I'm not."

"Who fucked you?"

"Jack–"

"Dennis," you state. "I asked him to. It was his first… congress as well."

Despite the situation, Robby feels a sort of vindication. He knows Jack does, too. They've spoken one or twice about Dennis, how they believe there to be something more between you and him. Maybe there's not now, but at a time there certainly was.

"Why?" Jack asks rougly.

"I was scared," you confess. "I didn't know what to expect, if it'd hurt—"

"It shouldn't hurt," Robby blurts. Your head jerks to face him. You stare at Robby, eyes wide in something that resembles fear. "Not if he ain't an idiot. Did it hurt with Dennis?"

"No," you answer quickly, shaking your head. "Goodness no."

Good boy, Robby thinks. Frankly, he didn't expect Dennis to have it in him. Robby's first time had been a mess. It was with a prostitute, and he was too young to know what he was doing. Robby was rough, bucking his hips into her like an idiot, too caught up in pleasure to even try to be gentle. If she had less experience, been a virgin like you– like you were when Dennis had you –he would have hurt the poor woman.

Robby learned since then. It took him an embarrassingly long time, but thanks to partners who weren't afraid to be vocal (and some advice from Jack once he became a married man), pleasing a woman became second nature. By the time he and Heather were together, Robby was far gone from his days of fumbling around.

"I thought you didn't want to get married," Jack says. "Now you're worried about how your husband'll like your pussy?"

"My daddy'll kill Dennis if he knew," you say sternly. "So will Edward."

Right. The entire reason why this whole virginity-talk started.

It's sweet how worried you seem to be for Dennis. Robby would remind you that your husband and father are just as likely to retaliate against you as they are Dennis, but then you add, softer, "They'll kill me, too.”

Robby himself has never had a virgin, but Jack sure has. Marisol hadn't been bedded when she married Jack. Once when he was drunk, Jack told Robby all about their marriage night, how Jack treated her with his mouth for a long while before he even sunk his cock in her. Robby yelled at him, told him how it wasn't polite to talk about his wife like that. Though, Robby's anger was likely more rooted in jealousy than desire to protect Marisol's honor.

Jack sighs, "Pussy is pussy."

Robby kicks his good leg. Jack stumbles forward, catching himself on the bar. He shoots a look at Robby, "What?"

"Be polite," Robby scolds. "She's a lady."

Jack scoffs. He grumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like you're a lady. Louder, he concedes, "No, Miss Easton, a man can't tell when a woman is a virgin. Just act all nervous when you're in bed with him. Act like you ain't done it before."

"Are you sure?" You ask, blinking at Jack with bleary eyes. "That's all?"

"That's all, birdie."

You let out a breath, shoulders sinking in relief. "Thank goodness."

You pick at your nail beds. Robby can see small amounts of blood around the delicate nail. You were likely doing it the entire walk over. It's not a long walk, maybe thirty or so minutes, but it must have been a long time to spend with your thoughts.

Marriage is a big change. You must have known it was coming soon, maybe that's why you ever decided to come into the saloon. Though, Robby has to imagine that having your freedom taken so suddenly from you is greatly disorienting.

"So," Robby clears his throat. "Are we gonna see you around anymore?"

You laugh dryly. Your face melts into something sour as you shrug, "Maybe. Not here, but… I'll see you in town I think."

Your tone betrays you. Neither Jack or Robby need to push to know that you don't even believe that. You'll be in town just as much as any wealthy woman, but there's no world in which you could be seen speaking to Jack or Robby. As it is, they'll have to keep their distance from your future husband, who likely has their faces memorized from those wanted posted made after they robbed his father blind.

"You will," Jack says. "You will, birdie."

You lift your empty glass, wet eyes avoiding them as you hum, "Here's hoping."

*****

Riding you back is almost never quiet. You like to talk or hear Robby tell stories about the gang. He keeps it clean, steering away from the killing and sticking more to the robbing and embarrassing tidbits (usually about Jack). Tonight, though, little is said. Robby tried striking up conversation earlier, telling you about the time he and Doc Adamson had to bail Jack out of jail, but you don't bite. The only thing filling the air is the rhythmic beating of Orleans' hooves on the ground.

The Everett estate comes into view. Robby guides Orleans off the road and to the fence, the spot where he always drops you off. It's a long walk to the house. Robby always wants to stay and make sure you get back in safely, but the risk of someone coming by and noticing him is just too high.

Wordlessly, you lower yourself off of the horse. Like always, Robby tips his hat and turns Orleans around.

After a few paces, he hears your soft call, "Robby?"

He slows Orleans, looking over his shoulder. You're still on the road-side of the fence, and when Orleans stops moving, you step closer, placing your hands on Robby's thigh. His muscles tense under your touch, and Robby has to bite the inside of his cheek not to let the small proximity between your hand and his cock cause trouble.

"What's wrong, birdie?"

"Could I ask you something?"

Robby chuckles, "You and your questions. When are you gonna learn those are bringin' you nothin' but trouble?"

You laugh too, but it's short lived. "Well, can I?"

"Shoot."

"Could you kiss me?"

The question nearly knocks him to the ground.

"I thought you did that with Dennis?"

"His mama always said lips were for prayin', not kissin'," you chuckle. "Plus, I told him I wanted my first kiss to be with my husband."

"Well, birdie, I don't know if you know this, but I ain't your husband."

You sigh. Your eyes are wet, moonlight catching beautifully in the evidence of your grief, "I also wanted a husband I loved, but… I suppose I won't get that either."

Jack and Robby often call you girl. The truth is, you're a woman, more than two decades in age and with a mind to match. Yet, as he looks at you now, Robby is reminded of a girl, timid and melancholic as you stare at him. There are literal stars in your eyes as they reflect the night sky.

Maybe it's the youthful vulnerability or maybe it's the desire he's been hiding for so long that makes him say, "I'll kiss you."

Your lips curl upwards as Robby bends down. His face is level to yours, and his back screams at him for it. Robby doesn't care though. Especially not when your lips part, eyes flickering between his own and his mouth.

"Um," you clear your throat. His lips are right above yours. "I don't know how to–"

Robby takes the lead, pressing his mouth to yours. It's sweet how nervous you are, the little whine that leaves your throat when you finally realize what's happening. Robby keeps it chaste. He figures it'd be best not to scare you with tongue on your first go around.

He can't imagine what you're feeling right now, kissing for the first time. It certainly isn't Robby's first go around, yet he finds his own heart stuttering.

All too quickly, you pull away, not far though. Your forehead rests against his as your chest rises and falls.

"I don't want to marry him," you whisper, only a hair away from his lips. "Please, don't let me marry him."

Robby wonders if this is what he looked like to Heather all those years ago, when she told him that their relationship had to end. She was right, of course. Robby wasn't any good for her. She was a lady, much like you were, and getting caught up with an outlaw would be no good for her. He begged her to come with him, stay with the gang. It was a foolish request, one that surely would have gotten her killed. If not killed, then stuck in a life she wasn't meant for. Heather made her choice, now it was time for Robby to make his.

Against his better judgment, Robby kisses you again. You melt into it, moaning softly. This time, it's Robby who pulls away from it, only to promise you one thing.

"Oh, darlin', don't you worry one bit."

*****

"I kissed her."

Jack jolts upright in bed. "You what?"

Jack would chuck his crutch at Robby's head if it weren't for the fact that he would also kiss you if given the opportunity.

Robby explains, "She asked me to, said she didn't want her first kiss to be with her husband."

"Didn't she—"

"They didn't kiss."

"Well, shit." Fucking without kissing feels a bit… pointless.

Robby starts stripping, unbuttoning his shirt then trousers before sitting on the bed. He slides under the covers and finds Jack's hand in the darkness. Squeezing it, Robby asks, "Are you mad at me?"

Jack should be mad. He knows this. For Christ's sake, Robby practically snuck off to neck with you behind his back. Yet, it somehow feels like the natural progression of what's been building between you three.

"No," he says, and it's the truth. "I'm not, sweetheart."

Robby nods, "I'm sorry. Even if you ain't mad." Robby brings Jack's hand to his lip and kisses it. "I love you."

"I love you too. Now let's sleep. I'm tired as hell."

Jack lays down, but Robby stays in place. Hesitantly, Jack brings himself upright, "What?"

"There's another thing I wanted to talk to you about."

"I don't like your tone."

"Well, I don't think you're gonna like what I have to say."

Jack takes his hand back, swiping it down his face. He's too tired for this.

Robby takes a deep breath, and calmly says, "I promised I'd take care of the husband."

Jack scoffs. "'Take care'?"

"Yes, Jack."

"And how are we supposed to do that? Kill him?"

Robby goes quiet. Jack sighs, "You're ridiculous. Killin' a man when we're supposed to be gone straight…"

"Don't act like you wouldn't do it either."

"'F course I'd do it," he grumbles. "But I ain't got the legs to do it with, and I don't want you goin' out alone and gettin' yourself killed."

Robby goes quiet, but Jack knows better than to think he's won. If there's one thing he knows about Robby, it's that he's stubborn as a mule. So even in his silence, Jack's muscles are tense, waiting for the inevitable.

When it comes, it's spoken softly, like Robby knows the volatility that his words will bring, "Maybe I don't need to do it alone."

*****

The door swings open before Robby can knock.

"Dana," he breathes.

She flexes her jaw back and forth. "Robinavitch," Dana spits. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but…" She sighs, "Come on in."

Robby's been in Dana's home before. He helped her move in. Though, that was the last time he stepped foot in here, a whole three years ago. It hasn't changed much since then. All the furniture is in the same place, though it looks like Dana has done some decorating. If the doilies all over the place are to be believed, Dana's taken up crochet as a hobby.

Better than robbing and killing, he supposes.

"Sit down." Dana grabs two glasses a bottle of whiskey from the cabinets. She pops the bottle open and pours two healthy glasses.

Robby lowers himself down on the couch. "You sound like you don't want me here," he teases.

Dana huffs, "If i didn't want you here, you'd be dead by now."

From the looks of the gun leaning against the wall by her door, Dana isn't joking. It's not like she doesn't know how to use it. Dana was one of the deadliest shots in the gang. Maybe only Cassie had a better eye, but it was Dana who was quickest to a draw. She could down a man before he'd even know he was in trouble. It was her who taught everyone to shoot, even sweet Samira, who shook whenever a gun was in her hand, could hit a can on a log under Dana's guidance.

Dana hands Robby a glass and leans against the far wall of the space. "What do you want, Robby?"

"What, you're not gonna ask how I am? How Jack is?" He swirls the drink, studying the amber liquid just to give him something to do other than look at Dana, who is no doubt glaring daggers at him.

"How are you? How is Jack?"

"Good."

"Good. Now why are you here?"

Robby finally sips the whiskey. It's fine, familiar, the same stuff they stock at the bar. When they get a shipment, Jack always meets with her in town to drop off a bottle. He's always been better dealing with Dana's temperament. Or maybe he was simply less bothered by her quick tongue, less sensitive to the way she spoke her feelings without censor.

"I need your help."

She huffs, "I could'a told you that."

"I'm serious."

"Oh, I know," she downs her whiskey in a single gulp. "How much does it pay?"

"Nothing."

"You're crazy." Dana laughs, harsh and loud. She shakes her head and walks back to the table to refill her glass. "I assume we're stealin' something? Or killin' someone?"

"Killin'." Robby nods, "It'll be quick. Nothing we haven't done before. I just need you to watch while I go in."

Dana makes a face, "You insult me."

"Dana, please?"

"What's with the begging? Has civilization really softened you up?" Dana teases. "I'll do it."

"Good. We'll—"

"As long as you tell me why." Dana's always been as nosy as she is deadly.

"He's betrothed to a woman in town. She ain't happy. She's…" Robby's mind is filled with your face when you told them, filled with tears and terror. It isn't a matter of marriage to you. "Scared."

Dana nods, her gaze growing distant. Robby knows what she's thinking about– the time where she was no different from you. Scared. Alone. But unlike you, Dana didn't have help. Her only option was to run away. It was three years on her own before Dana found Adamson, who took her under his kind wing, taught her not how to be a woman, but an outlaw.

"Well then, count me in," Dana's voice shakes.

"Thank you," Robby says.

Clearing her throat, Dana teases, "Maybe you'll get a nice woman to marry out of this." All semblance of vulnerability is gone. It never stays long with her.

Robby controls his face, tries not to show Dana just how much he likes the sound of that. If he were a wealthy man, if he hadn't devoted his entire heart to Jack, he would make an honest woman of you. Wouldn't hesitate to do it.

Instead of falling down that spiral, Robby raises his glass in the air, "And may you find a nice man to marry just as soon."

Dana smiles. It looks the happiest she's been since Robby walked in. "Oh, I swore off men. They were never good to me."

"Wish I could say the same." Robby sips the drink.

"How is Jack?" Dana asks. This time, she really means the question. "Does he know about your girl?"

"She's our girl," Robby says as though it's the truth. He has to, maybe after so many times he'll believe that he could have you for real. That he could have Jack, too. "He would come if it weren't for the leg."

If that surprises her, Dana doesn't show it. "I see," she sets her glass down on a side table, right on a particularly intricate doily. "Well, why don't you tell me what the plan is?"

Her words send a jolt of excitement down his spine. It's been a long time since Robby has done something like this, Dana too. They're old. They're out of practice. Yet, there's an excitement that comes from a run that can't be found from caffeine or cocaine.

Robby leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "It'd be my pleasure."

*****

News of Edward Lambson's death spreads like fire.

Murder, they say, shot in his own bed.

Nobody would care had it not been for you, the betrothed of the young Lambson. People worry that you're next. After all, the murder of young Edward had been so unusual. Nothing was stolen. Nobody else was hurt. It seems as though the only crime that was intended to occur was the man's death.

Since news of the murder reached town, you've been scarce. Nobody has seen you on the street, and you haven't dropped by the saloon a single night. They figured this would happen, talked it over before Robby and Dana went off. Now it's two weeks since news hit, and they're beginning to worry.

"I heard she's been cryin' for ten days straight," says a man deep in the stew that the Foothill Saloon is serving for lunch today.

His buddy, also indulging in a bowl of stew, harrumphs, "Everett should send her my way. I'll show the girl some comfort."

The men laugh, oblivious to the way Jack scowls at them. Another time, years ago, if Jack had heard them talking about you like that, he'd break their noses. Even if he was free to do so, Jack can't strong-arm like he used to, too out of practice and too unstable on his feet. It's hard not to feel like half the man he used to be, when he can't perform half the acts that made up his livelihood.

Jack can practically hear Robby's voice in his head, scolding him for thinking like that. Plus, he'd also scold him for driving away two of the few customers they've had lately.

Business is slow, has been since the murder. People are scared, staying home more often than not. If a big shot can get murdered like that, than what's to say the normal folks are safe? Plus, without your music drawing folks in and keeping them in, even evening crowds have thinned. It seems the only foot traffic they're getting during lunches are Myrna and the occasional working men.

So when the door to the saloon slams open, every head in the joint turns. That'd make the fifth customer of the day, compared to their usual twenty by now.

Or, maybe it's not a customer, but Sheriff Franklin. As he hangs his hat, Jack tries not to think too much about why the sheriff has finally decided to visit their establishment today of all days. He's just glad Robby's in the back, watching the stew and not present to be under the sheriff's scrutiny.

Myrna, sitting in a corner, lifts her head and cheers, "Mr. Langdon!"

Jack knows Myrna has seen the inside of a cell more times to count. Though, by the friendly wave Franklin gives her, it seems like there isn't bad blood.

Jack hums. Curious.

Franklin makes his way to the bar, sitting at the far end, away from the chattering gentlemen and their soup. He nods at Jack, and the barkeep makes his way down.

"Franklin," Jack leans on the bar in front of him, "What can I do for you? Hungry? Thirsty?"

Franklin shakes his head, "Nah, not today, Jack."

Jack straightens. Trying not to let his nerves show, he asks, "Then how can I help?"

"I got some questions for you," Franklin knocks twice against the counter. "Wanted to know if you could help me."

"'F course." Jack keeps his breathing level if not for nothing but to calm his pounding heart. "Let's hear 'em."

Franklin sucks a breath through his teeth."Well, I was just wondering if you heard any folks talking about the Easton girl— or the Lambson boy for that matter."

"Everyone's talking about them," Jack says. "You'll have to be more specific than that."

"Anything unsavory? Threats or whatnot?"

Jack wants to laugh, though he figures laughing in the face of a very concerned sheriff wouldn't be the smartest move. Instead, he takes the opportunity for what it is. Jack's eyes slide slowly over to the men on the other end of the bar, and for dramatic effect, he furrows his brows, hoping it look something like concern.

Franklin takes the bait, following Jack's gaze. As he spots the men, growing rowdier as they finish their drinks and stew, he nods. "What's with them?"

Jack shakes his head, clicking his tongue in faux-disappointment, "Oh, nothing much. I did hear them talking about Miss Easton though."

"How so?"

"They were saying how they wanted to–" Jack cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. "Well, let's just say it wouldn't be proper to voice it in polite company."

Franklin licks his lips, nodding. He doesn't look at Jack as he gets up from the stool, "Thank you, Mr. Abbot. You let me know now if you hear anything else."

"Will do."

Franklin has always been a kind face in town. People trust him. But when he thinks you to be a threat, Franklin is anything but friendly. As his hands land on the shoulders of the two surly men, they tense. Jack just chuckles, averting his gaze as the sheriff begins asking questions.

Not long after Franklin asks about the men's whereabouts on the average evening, boots clink behind him. Jack doesn't need to turn around to know what looms behind him.

"What's that about?" Robby asks, concerned.

"Wanted to know about the Lambson boy, says he's worried about Miss Easton being targeted," Jack explains. "And these men here were just saying the most unsavory things about the young lady."

"Ah," Robby nods. When Jack turns to look at him, his shoulders drop and a light smirk makes itself known on his lips. "I see. So no trouble?"

"No trouble," Jack confirms.

*****

It's hot as hell.

Summer has moved beyond its peak. Now, nights are far more tolerable. Jack is less likely to push Robby away in the night, complaining about him being too warm and sweaty. Somehow, though, today sees to be the hottest day of the year. It's taken everyone by surprise.

Despite the heat, it seems that everyone else is in better spirits, too. Business is finally starting to pick up. At night, it's almost impossible to navigate from one end of the saloon to the other without bumping shoulders with one person or another. It's just like it was before the young Lambson's death.

Almost.

You still haven't shown your face in town, nor at the saloon. Where their nights used to be filled with the sound of cheerful music, now Jack and Robby are only met with chattering. The only comfort he has is knowing that you're free from that awful marriage. It won't last forever, but for now Dana and Robby may have bought you some freedom.

The door opens with a rush of hot air. Jack's lips curl at the thought of the place getting any more crowded than it is, of any more bodies sitting around to just generate heat. Except, when he looks at who walks through the door, he frowns.

It's Dennis Whitaker. He scurries up to Jack with a pleasant smile. "Howdy, sir," Dennis greets.

"Howdy."

Jack can see why you chose to fuck him. Even if it was truly platonic like you claimed it to be, Dennis is a fine young man. He's handsome in the face, and broad in a way that only comes from hard labor. Jack would go for the man himself if he was younger.

"How's Orleans?" Dennis says. He's fidgeting, hand twitching over the satchel at his side. "He doin' alright?"

"Orleans is fine," Jack says. "How's Juniper?"

Dennis lights up. In the blink of an eye, the satchel bag is open, and Dennis pulls a neatly-folded paper out of it. The paper has a wax seal holding it shut, and Jack recognizes the Easton crest pressed into the wax.

Dennis speaks quickly, "That's why I'm here, sir! Miss Easton gave me this letter to hand you. I believe it's a thank you for… uh… the breeding." Dennis hands the letter to Jack, "I believe it's for Mr. Robby– Mr. Robinavitch as well."

Before Jack can say another word, Dennis turns on his heels and leaves. The clacking of his boots on the floor is hurried, and as he retreats, Dennis looks an awful lot like one of those wind-up toys that an overeager kid twisted too much.

With the slamming of the door (and a new rush of hot air in) Robby peeks his head out from the back. "What was that?" He asks.

"Dennis," Jack says, turning over the paper in his hand. "With a letter from our little birdie."

Robby grabs Jack by the collar. Customers-be-damned, he pulls Jack to the back, away from prying eyes. It's so fast, Jack almost stumbles and falls on his ass.

"Well, go on, read it," Robby waves his hand at the letter.

Jack's always been a better reader than Robby. Robby was taught to read and can do it if he needs to, but he joined the gang young, and never got a formal education. Doc Adamson made sure that Robby had the necessary skills, but even he thought that there were more practical skills for a young outlaw. To him, it was more important for Robby to know how to clean and stitch a wound than to recite Shakespeare.

Maybe Adamson was right. It was Robby's skill that kept Jack alive when he needed to lose his leg.

"Alright, alright." Jack peels the wax off of the letter, unfolding it carefully. Immediately, he's struck by the scent of your floral perfume. You must have sprayed it on the letter before folding it up. Your penmanship is impeccable. Jack reckons you've had plenty of lessons since your youth. He skips over the date and salutation, going straight to the meat of it. "Alright, you ready?"

"Just read the fuckin' letter, Jack."

Jack whistles, but obliges, "I would like to thank you both for your generosity in allowing Orleans to stud Juniper. As you are aware, she is in foal. I hope you would be glad to know that I am keeping Juniper healthy during her gestation. I take her for rides every day around noon, down the river near the estate. Though, in her state Juniper often grows tired, and we must rest near the old willows."

"She isn't subtle, is she?" Robby chuckles. He grabs the letter, squinting at the slanted words, before handing it back to Jack, "Oh, never mind."

Jack keeps reading, "I hope to see you in town one day. I have enjoyed our brief encounters. Until then, I wish you both well." Jack crumples up the paper, shoving it in his trouser pocket.

"That's it?" Robby says, a smile slowly growing on his lips.

"That's it."

"Well then," Robby claps a hand on Jack's shoulder, "You itchin' for a ride tomorrow?"

Jack smirks, "I think I can find the time."

*****

This isn't what you meant to happen.

Juniper is a good horse, always has been. She's a tough one too, hard to spook. It's why your father gifted her to you for your sixteenth birthday. He knew Juniper would protect you, wouldn't buck you off or bolt at the sight of a snake.

Apparently, though, a low flying bird near the old willows was enough to send her rearing.

You didn't expect it, weren't exactly paying attention either. You've found riding her pleasant after meeting Jack and Robby, after Robby kicked you of the habit of only riding aside. Astride is easier, freer. You can ride better, further, faster. And apparently you can get thrown to the ground pretty easily.

Luckily, you don't bump your head. Somehow you went sliding off the back of the mare, with your left ankle catching the brunt of the fall.

That was ten minutes ago, and you haven't been able to weight-bear since. Thankfully, Juniper only reared. The ever-loyal steed stands only a few feet from you, chewing on some overgrown grass near the river bank. If it weren't for the fact that you took the tumble where you're meant to be meeting Jack and Robby, you would be mighty mad at Juniper.

Better being humiliated by the injury than standing the men up, you suppose.

Jack and Robby have already done so much for you. It was a gamble to walk into their saloon, demanding to play their piano, and it was an even greater gamble to walk right back in and tell them you knew of their criminal past. They didn't have to let you stay. They very well could have taken you right back to your father and told him what you were trying to do. Goodness knows you wouldn't have had the courage to tell your father the truth of who they were, what they did.

You wonder if they knew that. If Jack and Robby knew you were nothing more than a coward. At least, at the time you felt you were. Maybe not now. Disagreement comes to you clearer these days.

Acting for yourself has always made you feel a little queasy. The night you kissed Robby, you threw up once he rode away, right in the wild rose bushes along the edge of the estate. Whether it was from you asking him to kiss you or not to let you marry Edward, you don't know.

You knew exactly what you were asking of Robby then. Everybody's heard of Doc Adamson and his gang, the thievery and murders that have followed in their wake. Jack and Robby may not be running with the crew anymore, but you've seen their leftover instincts firsthand. They're dangerous men, not like they ever pretended to be otherwise.

And now, they're going to come upon you with a broken ankle like a fool. That is if they even show up. The letter is a long shot. They may read between the lines and decide to finally hang you up.

You kissed Robby, twice in fact, but it was only an act of kindness. You were scared, lonely, and about to marry a man you've never met. It was only the polite thing to do for him to indulge your wishes. You wonder if he told Jack or kept it a secret. Part of you hopes he told Jack, that it felt real enough to Robby for him to confess to his lover.

If Jack was there, you would have asked the same of him. They know you're sweet on them. Though it's unlikely they see it as anything more than a silly girl's infatuation. You've felt for them since your eyes were first blessed by them. For the sake of protecting your position on the piano bench, you've hidden those feelings. The kiss was a lapse. You were worried and thinking you wouldn't see either of them ever again.

Any dignity you retained from that incident may very well disappear when they spot you here.

They can't see you like this. Not if you ever want a chance of protecting your pride. Hiking your skirt up, you push yourself to your feet. You make it all of three steps before the pain becomes too much and you stumble to the ground. As you wallow in your shame, the familiar sound of a horse's hooves meets your ear. You bite your lip, pulling your skirt to try to cover your hurt ankle. It isn't very effective, nor does it do anything to hide the dirt all over the fine fabric.

You only have time for a few calming breaths before a familiar horse is poking his head into the clearing, bearing two worried riders.

"What the hell happened?" Robby hops off of Orleans, running over to you. He hovers, hands outstretched as he scans your dirtied body for injury. Behind him, you spot Jack slowly lowering himself off of the horse. He looks just as concerned, but less so when you send him a soft smile.

"Juniper got spooked. I fell off, hurt my ankle."

"Which one?" Robby asks, kneeling.

"Left."

Robby doesn't hesitate to grab the offending foot. You whine, and he frowns. Inspecting the swollen flesh, he murmurs, "I'm going to take a look. Move it around. It may hurt, but if it gets too much you let me know."

"You're acting like you're a doctor," you giggle, then hiss as Robby rotates your ankle.

"We are," Jack muses.

"What?"

"Well, Doc Adamson was," Jack says. "Before the gang. He taught us everything he knew."

"Why'd he stop?" Being a doctor feels like a much wiser career choice than running from the law.

"Got caught up with the Irish mob," Robby mutters. You're surprised he's even paying attention enough to answer. He's been focused on your ankle ever since you voiced your discomfort. "Couldn't save the boss's kid. They got pissed, so Doc closed his practice and ran off."

"Shit."

Robby nods, "That's right." He sighs, setting your ankle on the ground. He grabs the hem of your skirt. Before you can ask what he's doing, a loud rip echoes through the clearing. In Robby's hand is a large strip of what used to be your dress.

"Hey!" You yell, "What the hell are you doing?"

Robby starts wrapping the fabric around your ankle, "What does it look like birdie? You went and sprained the damn thing. I'm stabilizing it."

"With my dress," you pout.

"What else was I supposed to use?"

You look at Jack for support, but quickly give up, seeing as he's laughing at the whole ordeal. You roll your eyes, "How about your shirt? Like a gentleman would."

"So your daddy can know you were out galvanizing with a gentleman?" Robby tucks the end of the fabric into one of the several wrapped layers. "So he can know how you invited them to see you unchaperoned?"

"It isn't like that."

"No?" Jack muses. He lowers himself to the ground behind you, tugging you so your back is flush against his firm chest. "That's not what you sent that letter for? Covered in your perfume and telling us exactly where to find you all alone?"

You gape. It's not that they're wrong about your intent, but you never expected them to be so bold as to comment on your implications.

Robby sets your ankle down, but lets his hand linger on it, thumb rubbing the skin of your calf.

"You shouldn't touch me like that," you squeak.

Robby smirks, "Why's that?"

Why? Because it makes you feel like your bones are about to melt out of your skin, like you need to pounce on him and beg him to kiss you again like he did that night, beg him to take you, let you kiss him as he does unlike Dennis did. It makes you feel special. Like he may actually feel for you in the same way you feel for him and Jack.

Jack. Robby's lover.

"Because you're together," you whisper.

Jack chuckles, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. "Now come on, Miss Easton, were you thinking about that when you asked Robby to kiss you?"

"I–"

"I don't think so," Jack says. "And I think it just wouldn't be fair for you to kiss Robby and not me." You try looking at Robby, but Jack clicks his tongue. "Me, sweetheart, not him. He had his turn."

"But–"

"But nothing. Do you want this, birdie?"

Your jaw hangs open. You do. You want this more than anything. Against all logic, against the voice in your head screaming at you about how wrong this all is, you nod.

Jack is a rougher kisser than Robby. Where Robby was cautious, almost to the point of frustration, Jack has no hesitation consuming you. His mouth glides against yours, tongue pushing past your lips before you even know what's happening. It's only when his mouth has been on yours for much too long, when you're certain you're never going to take a breath again, does he pull away.

You pout, "Why'd you stop?"

"Because you look like you're going to pass out, Miss Easton."

You smile, lightheaded, "It'd be worth it."

"And here I was thinking you didn't want to do this."

"Never, Jack."

Robby's hand slides from your ankle up your leg. Your skirt slides up at the motion until it's fully rucked up at your waist and Robby's hand is on your thigh, nudging it apart from the other. The touch makes you tense, a heat growing between your legs where Dennis once entered you years ago.

Robby pulls your drawers down your legs and tosses them aside. He then settles himself between your legs, lowering his face so his mouth is level with your bare pussy.

"What are you doing?" You ask, concerned.

"Dennis didn't do that, hm?" Jack's breath is hot on your neck, "Didn't taste you?"

"N-No," you stutter. "I don't know if this is a good idea."

Robby pauses, mouth hovering inches above your pussy. His breath is hot, more so than the summer air. You resist the urge to clamp your legs shut at the way it tickles your sensitive flesh.

"Why?" Robby asks, frowning. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I," you bite your lip, "I just haven't washed in some time…"

The men laugh, you find your face heating even more than before, if that's somehow possible.

"Don't worry about that," Jack teases. He kisses your cheek softly, "Robby much prefers a little sweat."

You blink, "What does that–?" You cut yourself off with a moan as Robby's mouth touches you. His lips wrap around the most sensitive spot between your legs– the button your friend Trinity once referred to it as –and sucks softly.

"Robby!" You gasp, "Oh, Robby! That's– That's– oh." You moan, eyes fluttering shut as you lean back against Jack.

Pleasure shoots through your body, all coming from the sweet lips between your leg. His beard tickles the flesh of your thighs, rubbing harshly against it in a way that is surprisingly not unpleasant.

Just when you think that his mouth on you is the greatest you could ever feel, a finger, thick and calloused, makes itself known at your entrance. You jerk, gasping as it presses inside. There's little resistance, less than there was when Dennis took you. The finger curls gently in the midst of your wetness, and you cry out.

"You like that, sweetheart?" Jack asks. His hand is on your breast, fondling it with a surprising tenderness. "Want more?"

"M-More?" You don't know how there could be more than this. "There's more?"

Jack chuckles, pinching your hard nipple through the thin fabrics covering your chest, "Robby, I think our girl wants another finger."

Robby laughs, and the vibrations wash through you.

You gasp. "I think…"

"Think what? Think it feels good?" Jack whispers.

All you can do is whimper at his words, combined with the building pressure in your gut. You've heard of it before, from the girls at finishing school. They always spoke of a mysterious peak, one that could only be given to a woman by her husband. But Robby isn't your husband, and neither is Jack.

Husband or not, you want to chase the feeling.

"Yeah, yeah, I can," you nod frantically.

"Good girl," Jack soothes. He adds, louder, "Robby, give Miss Easton another finger. I think she just about deserves it."

A second finger presses against your entrance, stretching the flesh there to what feels like an impossible degree. Robby hums again, and you're suddenly overwhelmed by pleasure.

You lose yourself as you moan, hips bucking and grinding as best they can against Robby's face. You babble frantically, asking for more but also to slow down. Thankfully, Robby doesn't listen to you, keeping on exactly how he was before, with the gentle sucking on your nub and the rhythmic curling of his fingers inside of you.

Eventually, the pleasure subsides. Your eyes flutter shut as you slump back against Jack. Robby thankfully senses that you're done, taking his mouth off of your and gently removing his fingers. As they leave your hole, you whimper.

"You okay?" Robby asks.

You groan, peeling your eyes open.

"You alive?" Jack adds on.

Then, you laugh. "That was incredible."

Behind you, Jack lets out a sigh of relief, "You scared us there, sweetheart. Can't get quiet on us like that."

"I didn't mean to," you turn your head to smile at him. "That was just…"

"A lot?" Robby finishes your thought, sitting up from his spot between your legs. He leaves your skirt rucked up, revealing your twitching pussy to the soft summer air.

“You alright there, Michael?” Jack teases.

“Shut up,” Robby says, hands brushing the front of his trousers where a large dark stain is evident.

“Is that…?” You trail off. You know perfectly well that the dark stain is nothing other than Robby’s spend. Even more heat pools in your gut at the sight. It feels impossibly dirtier than the act Robby just performed, than his face between your legs and licking at you.

Jack whispers, “Yeah, birdie, that’s his spend. Robby let go with his trousers just from how sweet you taste.”

Despite the redness that creeps up his neck, Robby winks at you. He holds your gaze in a heavy stare. On account of the way you’re feeling dizzy, you turn to Jack, “Did… did you?”

Jack chuckles lowly behind you. He pulls you back against him and you feel the hard length of his cock.“No, birdie,” he teases. “I’ve got self-control unlike someone.”

Robby snorts, “Try gettin’ between her legs. See how long you last.”

Jack laughs harder as you bury your face in your hands. You feel his hands on your wrists, tugging them away, but you shake your head. “Your mouth,” you whine, “So dirty.”

Jack kisses your neck, just below your ear. “Trust me, sweetheart, it gets a lot dirtier than that.”

Before you know it, Jack is sliding out from under you, sitting you up and putting you into Robby’s hold. Robby wastes no time in sliding his hand under your skirt, teasing your sensitive nub with delicate caresses. The touch almost distracts you from Jack, who is unfastening his belt and laying down on the ground.

Flat on his back, Jack fishes his hard length out. You gape at the sight. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a cock, and even then, you’ve only seen Dennis’s. Jack is just as long as Dennis, but thicker.

Jack sees your staring and smirks. He pats his lap, “Come on up.”

“What… what are you doing?” You ask. The words come out light, airy as you struggle to voice them with the fingers still circling your button.

“I can’t do the work birdie, not with this leg of mine.”

Your face heats. That's not how you and Dennis did it. He was on top of you, thrusting into you on the ground of the gardens with a hand clamped against his mouth. You had one clamped over yours as well, trying to keep as quiet as possible lest you wake anybody up.

"I don't…" You gulp, "I don't know what to do."

Robby's hand leaves your pussy. As he moves up your body, he murmurs softly, "That's okay, birdie. I'll help you." Robby jerks his head towards Jack. "Just get on top and I'll show you just what you need."

You chuckle nervously, "You sound like you two have done this before."

"Never," Robby whispers. He kisses you softly. "You're the first woman we've shared."

Robby helps you settle on top of Jack. He's erect, length standing proudly, almost inviting you to slide it into your pussy. You hover over him, thighs shaking from the effort despite the support of Robby's hands on your hips.

"You ready?" Robby asks.

"Yes," you whisper, looking at him, "I think so."

"Good," Robby says. He captures your lips in a gentle kiss. When Robby pulls away, you capture his lip with your teeth. "Jack, you ready?"

Jack pumps his length with his hand, "I've been ready, partner."

With his approval, Robby lowers you on Jack's cock. The stretch is more than you anticipated, but nowhere near unpleasant. When you finally seat yourself, hips meeting Jack's, you have to stabilize yourself on his chest as tight moans slip from your tongue.

They talk you through it. Robby tells you how good you're being for them. Jack praises how your pussy clenches around him. It's not long before you're able to pull yourself together, begging Robby to help you.

Robby guides you the whole way, showing you how to properly move yourself on Jack. You're lost in the feeling of riding him, his thick length sliding in and out of your already sensitive pussy. You're unable to stop your moans, not when Jack is grunting sinfully underneath you, too.

Eventually, you feel Robby's grip on your hips loosen. “You got it now, birdie,” Robby says, sliding his hands, one up to your breast and the other between your legs. “Just keep goin’ like that, make yourself feel good.”

“What about Jack?” You pant.

They laugh.

“Don’t you worry about me,” Jack coos. He bends his good leg, planting his foot in the ground to thrust up into you.

Everything’s so sensitive, from your throbbing button being massaged by Robby to the way Jack’s length reaches impossible depths. This is nothing like it was with Dennis. That was tentative, mere fumbling in the dark. Any uncertainty you had that night is gone. With Jack and Robby with you, whispering their gentle encouragements and praises, it's everything you could have ever wanted.

Before you know it, the pressure is back. This time, it's growing much faster than before as you ride Jack's length, Robby's rough finger rubbing against your sensitive nub.

“I think,” you gasp. “I think…” You trail off, moaning softly as Robby kisses you again.

"Good, baby," Robby soothes. He pinches your nipple, tugging it softly ever so often. The hand between your legs picks up in its assault. "Let it come."

It takes only a few more thrusts from Jack, thrusts you barely meet, for pleasure to overtake you again. You can't hold yourself up, and if it wasn't for Robby behind you, you would collapse onto Jack's chest. Instead, he holds you against him, lets you bounce on Jack's length as you moan and writhe in pleasure.

As you come down from the high, you feel Robby's hands on your hips again. He helps you lift yourself off of Jack. Jack grabs his cock quickly, pumping it a few times before spilling over himself. Blearily, you watch his spend ooze out of his tip, painting his hand and length a pearly white.

Robby kisses your cheek, "Just rest now, birdie." He lowers you against Jack's chest, before laying himself down next to the two of you, his head resting on Jack's outstretched arm. "You did so well for us."

"So well," Jack echoes, breathless.

"I–" The word gets caught in your throat, tears stinging your eyes. You let out a shuddering breath. In the silence Jack and Robby grant you, you let your breath catch up to you, following the rise and fall of Jack's chest underneath you. Robby's hand rubs your back the entire time.

Eventually, you manage to say, "Thank you. For everything."

"Oh, birdie," one of them says. You're too tired, too faraway to realize who it is that's speaking, "Thank you."

*****

"Oh, Victoria is smitten by Mateo."

You gasp quietly, slapping a hand on Trinity's leg, "Diaz?"

Trinity bits back her smirk, "Apparently he outgrew that overbite."

You howl in laughter. Trinity is no longer able to hide her amusement either. The sounds of your shared joy receive a few sharp looks from the parents in the room (and even a few of Trinity's siblings), but you pay them no mind.

With her father being one of your owns longest friends in this country, you've known Trinity since you were girls. You practically grew up together and later attended the same finishing school, a fact that your father said is the nail in the coffin of his peace. As much as you and she overwhelm him and her parents for that matter, he's never tried separating you.

"How long do you think until he courts her?" Trinity says.

You snort, "He could propose to her today and that girl would say yes."

"Right you are."

A familiar pale-face makes itself known in the front parlor. Immediately, you and Trinity cry, "Emery!"

Emery has to bite back a smile to retain her professionalism. If your father is displeased, he doesn't voice it. As much as he dislikes your friendships with Emery and Dennis, he's never stepped in or outright denied you the companionship. Little wins, you suppose.

"Mr. Easton," Emery says, amusement evident in her voice. "The final guests have arrived."

You frown, "More guests?" You were only told that the Santos family would be joining you for dinner.

"Yes, yes," your father says as he stands. "Come with me, dear." Then, to the guests, "If you'll excuse us."

"Wonderful," you whisper to Trinity. "Now we can finally eat."

Trinity snorts, elbowing you in the rib as you stand. You follow your father out of the front parlor into the entryway. There you find Emery with two familiar– very familiar –men. Heat floods your face as your knees buckle. For a moment, you think you may faint.

"Mr. Robinavitch. Mr. Abbot," you say, stunned.

There they are, in all their glory. You've never seen them in formal wear, and you're surprised to see how well-tailored their suits are.

Though, perhaps not as surprised as you are by their mere presence.

"Miss Easton," Robby nods at you. He has your hand in his grasp before you can understand what's happening, bringing it up to his lips for a soft kiss. The way he bends at the waist, looking up at you through his lashes, it's too familiar. Suddenly, he's not looking at you from a bent posture, but from between your legs, and his lips are not on your gloved hand, but sucking your sensitive nub.

You feel heat again, this time it pools low in your gut, between your legs.

"Thank you for welcoming us into your home, Mr. Easton," Jack says coolly. Then, Robby drops your hand. Before it can hang too long at your side, like lead almost, Jack picks it up. He kisses it just as Robby did, but doesn't bother to hide the smirk on his lips. "Miss Easton."

Goodness, you hope your father can't see the heat in their gazes. Or yours, for that matter.

"Of course," you say, as though you were the host of the evening.

Your father pauses, but doesn't seem bothered enough by your words to question you. Instead, he says, "You're always welcome. It is but my thanks for the favor of lending us your dear Oklahoma."

"Orleans," Jack corrects.

"Yes, what a wonderful city!" Ignoring the twisted faces of Jack and Robby, your father calls loud enough so the guests in the front parlor can hear, "Shall we dine?"

The procession to the dining room feels a lot more like a funeral march. You're not unhappy, goodness no. You merely feel like your bones are going to jump out of your very skin. Jack and Robby walk behind you the whole way, and you swear you can feel their hands brushing your gloved ones several times along the way.

In the dining room, everyone quickly finds their seat. You stand at the door, watching everyone flit around, calling you're sitting here to another. It's a pleasant chaos. You've always enjoyed your father's dinner parties over that of other families, whose wealth and presence in this country date much further back than yours. Those dinner parties have always felt stuffy, and you've always felt like you were doing something wrong despite your extensive education telling you that you know exactly what you were doing.

Eventually, everyone is sat except for you.

"Dear," your father says softly. It's his voice that makes you realize that every pair of eyes in the room is on you. You pointedly avoid making contact with two of them. "Is everything alright?"

You blink. You avoid looking at the men sitting in the corner, because goodness knows you've looked at them plenty recently. Frustratingly, though, you can't find a single chair at the table for you. A tightness grows in your chest as the heat between your legs makes itself known once more.

It's Jack's voice that cuts the silence. Cool and smug, he voices the last thing you want to hear at this moment, "Miss Easton, I believe this is your seat over here."

Just as Jack said, between him and Robby is an empty seat. The only empty seat at the table. If they're trying not to look too pleased about the seating arrangement, then Jack and Robby are greatly failing.

"Oh," you muster up your best impression of a smile. "Isn't that wonderful?"

The only sound in the room is the clacking of your heels on wood. Before you reach the chair, Robby pushes himself up, making a grand show of pulling your chair out for you. You should say thank you, but all you can muster is a pathetic hum. It goes largely unnoticed in the room, but not entirely.

As he helps you push your chair in, you hear the softest utterance from Robby, his breath cresting the sensitive skin of your neck, "I thought ladies were supposed to say thank you."

Chatter starts up again. Everyone is talking to their seat neighbors, telling stories and exchanging pleasantries. Not you, though. You sit, gripping the arms of your chair. Sweat beads along your forehead. You practice the words it's just the heat in your head in case anybody asks you why you're sweating like a pig.

Then, the men on either side of you shift. You frown, lifting your head to look at Jack, who merely shrugs, then Robby, who smiles. You're opening your mouth to finally speak to them when you feel it– a hand on each of your thighs.

All of a sudden this dining room is looking a lot like a meadow, with the river flowing nearby. Your ankle hurts, a slight throb that should go away with sleep. Most of all, there's a man beneath you fucking up into you– your lover too, you suppose –holds you together.

Someone comes up behind you. As if you're underwater, you hear them ask if you want wine. You're barely able to utter a quiet yes, not when the hands on your thighs begin to stroke softly.

What you do manage to do however, is catch the eyes of Jack, then Robby, and say, "Thank you."

You'll be damned if it isn't just a long night for you.

[blackout-strike]

Tumblr March 2026 Blackouts

So we're all pissed at the new update as we should be and I've been seeing many people proposing blackouts, which is amazing! But all the dates are different and people might get confused at what's happening when, so I just want to organize every blackout (at least that I saw) in one place.

So far I saw six people with dates.

The earliest one, organized by @yourlocalfandomfriendo begins on March 18th and will last 48 hours.

This overlaps with a second proposed blackout by @veejiez for March 19th.

There is also one on the 20th proposed by @daysleftofsecondterm and another one on the same day from 6AM UTC to 6AM UTC on the 21st by @everythingwsnormalhere.

These three days are all very soon so not everyone may see them in time to participate, but if you are able to participate for any or all of these days, I highly encourage you do. Otherwise there are two more blackouts coming up:

The next one after these will be on March 24th as organized by @aroacesafeplaceforall who suggested doing 12 hours.

And the last one, which I personally have a lot of hope for as it's a major day for activity on Tumblr and a blackout then could be especially impactful: April 1st, as proposed by @darkwood-sleddog

There is also a discord set up by @yourlocalfandomfriendo and @aroacesafeplaceforall for anyone interested in joining in!

SO OVERALL, it may sound like a lot, but no one expects everyone to participate to every date here. But PLEASE try to participate in at least one or two of these, even if you feel it may not do much.

Typical strikes, the ones we hear about all the time, win by withholding their labour for consistent periods of time; that's the power people have at work because that's what's exploited.

For blackout strikes, we need to withhold our attention; the resource we own which is exploited through the selling of both advertisements and data.

My comparison of blackout strikes with regular strikes will be for a whole other post, but for the time being, just know that

withholding our attention is our digital bargaining weapon

Tumblr literally lost 63% of its monthly traffic from 2024 to 2025; they are not in a position to play around with those of us still here.

So PLEASE try participating. We cannot let every decent online space get enshittified with no care or consideration for the communities using those spaces.

And where labour strikers risk losing incomes and jobs, all blackout strikers risk is... gaining some of their attention back for a little bit.

[eau-melancolique]

please participate!!! we need to @tumblr @staff that this update is not okay and defeats the purpose of using this app!!!!!

[tajrishgp]

Images of the burial of martyred students in Minab, Iran, by US-Israeli attacks.

[moonyanddaisies]

Before I Let Go

content warning: positive family vibes, brief sexual mentions, tooth rotting fluff, talks of marriage & babies, mentions of pet loss, mentions of food & eating, clark being the best boyfriend ever, no use of y/n, second person, reader is fem presenting and uses she/her pronouns, potential grammatical errors, not edited

word count: 5.5K+

pairing: david!clark kent x black!reader

summary: you finally invite clark to one of your family’s cookouts

author’s note: heyyy… the goal was to have this pushed out during february, but it ended up being a bit longer than anticipated. also it’s rare that i do x readers but i wanted to create a universal, cultural feel so behold me breaking expectations for myself. i hope you guys enjoy and please take care 🩷

“SO, you’re going to step to the right with your left foot, and cross it behind your right—no, Clark your other right. There we go! Clark, you don’t have to be so rigid when you dance. Loosen your hips more.”

“Wha—I’m not rigid!”

“Yes, you are, oh my lord. I refuse to believe you played Danny Zuko in college.”

“‘Cause I didn’t… I told you I played Eugene…”

“Ah, probably ‘cause that was the only role that didn’t involve a high dancing ability.”

“Hey! N-no… only role where they’d let me wear my glasses…”

Clark’s stomach twisted itself in a knot at the thought of meeting your family. Mainly because you spoke so highly of them, your face brightening up, glowing in a pattern with the sun every time you talk about them, finding ways to dip anything about your family in your conversations. You talked about how your parents are just itching to meet him and lightly joked about how your grandparents have been asking for babies at any chance they get making the tips of his ears soak into a pink hue. Or how your younger cousins were begging for someone to play basketball/football with them. Or how your uncles and father were only dying to have a new grilling buddy. Or how your mother and aunts couldn’t stop gawking over his Kryptonian stature whenever you sent photos of you and Clark in the family group chat (‘Oh, he is huge!’ ‘Was he 99th percentile? His poor mother…’ ‘Good luck to your uterus if ya’ll have children.’ ‘Mom!’)

He playfully joked around for a while when he’d be invited to a cookout during the early stages of your relationship, but as your relationship grows, the reality of the invitation settled in and soon he found himself in your apartment trying to learn and encode every important line dance. Heated puffs leave his lips when he accidentally steps on your foot or mixes up his right from his left. He’s perched the tip of the world on his shoulders like it weighed practically nothing, but cramming The Electric Slide, The Wobble, Before I Let Go, The Cupid Shuffle, and so much more within the span of a couple days began to make him more self-conscious of his dancing abilities he hadn’t needed to use since the early years of university. Superman didn’t need to learn to dance to save the world, but for the sake of you, Clark Kent would learn every dance ever created just to make you smile. He spent the most time on Before I Let Go, specifically the version sung by Beyoncé; he liked the way his heart buzzed a bit faster as the lyrics warped around his mind. It was the song that made his dimpled cheeks glisten with sweat the most

The day of the cookout, you suggest that he not eat a lot due to the surplus of food you know your family’s already cooking up, but even with the reminder, the thought of food was placed in the back of his mind as his nerves caught up to him as the morning drawled on by the spools of golden light that morning.

“Okay, weird suggestion,” you began, calling out from your connected bathroom, attaching a gold earring within the hole of your ear, “My family are big Cowboy’s fans, and would automatically give you the stamp of approval if you were to show your support. It’s on the bed if you want to put it on.”

Clark adjusted the leather belt around his waist, situating the rim of his pants against his hips before he poked his head in the bathroom. He watched you for a second, the smell of vanilla and honey hitting his nose, making him wobbly at the knees. The gloss of your ebony curls catching the light that framed your face like you had been freshly kissed by an angel. Your skin looked almost golden like it was found in fresh spring underneath the babbling brook. The cotton t-strap gave his body a gentle squeeze that made his heart softly buzz. He adjusted the rim of his classes before stepping closer in, “And what if I don’t watch a lot of football, nor like the Cowboys?”

A smirk drew upon your glossed lips as you gave yourself one more check in the mirror, “Well then you’re asking for an early death-wish per both sides of my family.”

The drive over to your family home only made his nerves bunch up closer together that almost made his heart crunch and ache. Your fingers buzzed with nostalgia as you could practically feel the sensation of your home. The memories of holidays rushing in, the fresh kisses your mother would delicately place on your face as the world spun like a thread of golden helix. Being small enough where your father could easily toss you over his shoulder as laughter rang out from your lips like church bells. Leaning on your grandmother’s shoulder as she told stories of your mother from when she carried the same youth in your eyes like you once did; stories that you hoped you got to tell your own children. You were caught up in your world a bit that it took you awhile to catch the knob of Clark’s knuckles beginning to flash white through his flesh.

“You okay? You’ve been quiet. Think this is the longest I’ve heard you go without grumbling about the other cars on the road or even taking count of how many drivers make illegal turns,” you question, gently giving him a pat on the knee as you guys stopped at a traffic light.

He swallows a bit; his Adam’s apply bobbing up and down. His grip loosens on the steering wheel, the flash of white dying out as his skin returned back to normal, “Yeah... sorry. I’m just… you know… like—”

“—Nervous?” You finish the word for him, your eyes softening a bit, brows soft with sympathy. From the passenger seat, you reach an arm over and rubbed his back, trying to help to soothe his nerves down. Even though you weren’t a superhuman from an intergalactic universe yourself, you could feel his heart and the labyrinth of his brain shifting into uncharted waters. That bit of comfort on his back worked to be a healing balm, keeping his head above the waters as you were like his lifeboat.

“I’ve faced monsters, stopped falling buildings, stopped trains, have faced the almost the whole world against my case, but yet, meeting your parents seems to be the thing that makes me the most nervous,” he began, gently accelerating the car at the start of the greenlight, “I want them to like me. Accept me as the man that loves their daughter to pieces, so then maybe one day…” he trailed off, his eyes gleaming a bit, pupils growing bigger, giving a quick look to your face, his face flushing softly. You didn’t catch the look he gave to your bare ring finger.

“So then maybe what one day, what?”

He looked back at you for a second, silently cursing himself that he allowed his thoughts to rush out of his mind, breaking through the dam he’d created for himself. He gave you a smile, his cheek dimpling. With a quick squeeze of your thigh, he muttered a quick, never mind.’

You internally frowned at him, swallowing back down the end of his statement, but you didn’t push it, wanting to give him some space. You turned on your phone for a second, texting your mother that you were almost home. You sighed, but smiled anyways at him, “Well, I think they’ll love you for you. Yes, I’m a bit biased in the say, but I wouldn’t call my family intimidating. Yes, they can be a bit much, actually they can be a lot, but they mean well. As long as you’re yourself, trust me, they’ll love you. I’ve not had one bad word to say about you. I mean the only thing I think you should steer clear of is that my mom and aunt – and perhaps my grandmother may smack your bottom. A-All in good fun though, they really mean no harm by it! You could say they also see you as one of the family.”

Clark pressed his lips together, but the slight tug and flutter at his lips gave away the smirk that began to grow as a laugh rang out. Your heart unclenched itself a bit, your own nerves fading away seeing his own fears and nervousness buckle down. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Upon arriving at your childhood home, there was a slight excitement that buzzed in between your fingertips; your excitement grew hearing the low base tune of the speakers in the backyard, the tang of food and spices that reached your nose causing your lips to water. As you bounded up the steps, you turned back to see Clark adjusting the rim of his classes and fiddling with his jersey. His nerves had made a comeback and started to burn at his hands. His hands found themselves comfortable in his pocket for a while before he adjusted them at his sides, before he found his pockets to be the golden spot.

“You still nervous?” You carefully asked him, placing your own hands on his chest, hoping to settle his nerves like you once did in the car.

He replied to you with a lighthearted smile that made his cheeks flush a soft baby pink color and all over again he felt like a fumbling, young boy all over again, clutching a bouquet of flowers close to his chest, feeling his heart run in circles like it had ran loose trying to catch the sun before the moon rose up in the sky.

“I-I… maybe… I don’t know what I’m so afraid of. I truly want to make a good impression. Feels like my hearts gonna beat right out of my chest.” His chest ached as another bundle of nervous laughter bubbled out of his lips. A misty hand ran through his dark curls; a little habit he’d been doing since his high school years.

Your hands moved to his own, giving them a squeeze, the warmth threading through your bones. A kind of sunshine warmth that could perhaps burn away any of the negative feelings that occupied his mind.

“I think your fear shows how much you really care and how much this means to you. Which is ironically sweet in a way. If this really care, don’t try to fight the nerves. Embrace them.”

A dimple indented at his cheek once more, and he shook his head, trying to swallow back that smile anytime he looked at solely you. The full parts of yourself he had found within the mundane things in his life; a world washed in color that he could pinpoint with just the graze of his finger. Your eyes were washed in sunshine, bathing in the pool of gold that spun around like a string of thread. You simply had tugged your heartstrings around his finger.

He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on your lips, the buzz vibrating through his upper chest before it simmered down when he pulled away. He squeezed your bum slightly as you rang the doorbell.

Clark’s chest tightened again, washing him over in a chill, but that warmth pivoted back in when he saw your mother come behind the screen door. You had her eyes from the first glance, and that soft roundness that surrounded your own cheeks and hips. At her roots began the fresh wave of silver that seemed to sliver between her still black hair. The wrinkles around her eyes crinkled in tune with her lips as she opened the door, immediately pulling you into a hug first as she said your name in the same breath as she did when first joined her earth-side. You melted into her fresh honey and vanilla scent — the scent of home. Something that could make your heart ache and yearn more for the comfort of just being home again. The sanctuary where the majority of your childhood was built, where your first steps were taken, first time to ride a bike without the training wheels, where you could finally pronounce the name of your favorite fruits correctly, where you took your first prom pictures with your date and your father couldn’t stop dabbing hits misty eyes with your mom’s handkerchief. You rocked back and forth in the hug, both chuckling as you guys regained your balance again.

She took your face in her hands, thumbs brushing over your cheeks bones as she held you like you were the Earth and you could move the moon and stars for her every night. She was relieved at the roundness in your cheeks down to the fabric of your body, thankful meals had been doing you good. Her hands dabbled a bit at your outfit before her identical eyes found the tall stature next to you.

His glasses had slid to the rim of his nose, reflecting the pinkness that coated his cheeks like dusted rose petals kissed his face like how you left his cheeks with soft kisses from the morning light that dappled through. He gave her a crooked smile, his mind stumbling over the synapses of his brain.

“Uh, H-hi! I’m Clark Kent. It’s really nice to meet—”

His words were cut short, as he grunted. The source coming from your mother who had pulled him into one of her rib crushing hugs. Like yourself, your mother was almost half of Clark’s height, but she made up for it in her strength. Your mother smile deepened, as she squeezed your boyfriend a bit further, before she pulled away, giving him a gentle pat on his cheeks and his bottom.

“Welcome to the family Clark! I’ve heard all about you,” She moved to cradle his face like she had done to you prior. Her hands were warm against his cheeks and almost doughy, like the soft bread his mother would make back home in Smallville. It made his heart melt in a puddle and it took all of his strength and motion not to pick it back up into his chest.

“Wow, she really wasn’t lying about that bone structure,” she noted, massaging the area underneath his jaw before finally letting him go. Her eyes glossed over his tall muscular stature, like his body was carefully sculpted by the gods, “Were you 99th percentile by any chance?”

“Mama!” You exclaimed, your face growing warm as Clark sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, but you managed to relax softly hearing his laugh bubble past the front of his throat. He fixed his glasses, the glass flashing in the light over toward you for a second.

“I-I don’t think so ma’am, but my ma and pa do note that I was a chunky baby to say the least.”

The redness that glowed on your face had settled into a newfound warmth, something that had crawled into your heart, turning the cogs into a soft tune that buzzed throughout your body. The little synapses had connected between your mom and boyfriend. The tsunami of nerves had settled into an ocean pattern that he could map out, tracing with the tips of his finger in a dance. Maybe it was because she looked so much like you and had that identical glimmer in her eye that you carried in yours and it only led him to believe meeting the rest of your family tree would bring a source of joy and comfort.

Upon entering your childhood home, Clark couldn’t help but marvel at your home – he could see where your heart had grown, where your heart had been cultivated and freshly plucked a few times and now he was the one cradling it. The pictures littered on the wall showcased your growth from in your parents arms, all pruned face, until your growth now. As he noted one of the photos on the wall, his eyes caught onto the mass of fluff curled up in the corner on a fleshy pillow. His senses caught on to the soft, pumping heartbeat that pulsated through his ears. From his distinctions he could tell it was an animal heartbeat, specifically one that belonged to an elderly dog.

Clark gently patted your back, the hand sliding down to the curve of your backside. You looked up for a second, lips parted, eyebrows scrunched.

“You okay?” You asked, curving an arm around his waist, your mind softening at his large hand. Your hand soon found the space on top of his.

“Yeah,” He replied, nodding his head, pushing his glasses closer on the bridge of his nose, “Who’s that?”

You saw where his eyes fell, on the little bundle in the corner near the fireplace and your eyes softened a bit like they were in the clouds; just a bit foggy and translucent. A ghost of a smile spread on your lips.

“That’s Bruno.”

You walked a bit closer, footsteps grown softer like the ground had crumpled into sand beneath your feet. You crouched down a bit, running your hand over the mostly silver-grey fur that still felt warm and soft under your touch. You saw the ghostly figure of your middle school self, that too used to run your fingers through his hair that bled with youth and somehow you had convinced yourself then that he would live on forever. He’d seen you grow and your youth bleed through, while you had watched him grow too, with his lethargic walks, the world softening through his eyes and he could only slightly make out the soft murmurs of your voice as they faded into a buzzing tune that could send his tail wagging.

“Hey, buddy,” your voice softly cooed out, trying to be careful with his now delicate body between your hands. Languid actions trickled out of his tail as it seemed like with all the old that rushed through his body. He still would always remember your touch and your sweet scent that tattooed through his nostrils. His eyes opened, the foggy veil casting upon them, but they seemed to sparkle with that boyish puppy youth.

Clark squatted beside you as petted him, no saying much, but his presence was enough and spoke louder than a painting.

“He’s been with us since I’ve been in late elementary early middle school, but I feel like I’ve known him for all my life honestly,” you gave a watery chuckle, the words getting choked up in your throat a bit as his tongue poked out of his mouth permanently since loosing all his teeth, “He’s lost his vision and sight over the years, but we’re trying to ensure that he lives as comfortably as possible until he—you k-know. My mom and dad said maybe he’s waiting until I give them their first set of grandchildren before he crosses over that rainbow bridge.”

Clark hummed slightly, finding that smile on your lips before he mirrored it, letting out his own hand for Bruno to sniff before he damply licked it, ticking the flesh on his open palm. He rubbed his other hand over your shoulder as a sniffed racked your body. You laughed pitifully as a couple tears ran down your cheeks.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” You let out a trembling breath, and you knew that Burno would never hear how crumbled you her; he couldn’t help you pick your heart from right under the ground from where you had spilled it. “I just don’t think I’m ready to let him go yet, even if it means I won’t have any babies to keep him alive.”

“And that’s okay,” Clark replied softly, choosing the string of his words, but he choose them wisely like he was a poet, “I think you’re grieving so much cause you love him so much, and that’s okay. We love so much in this lifetime and we hold space in our hearts for so much. Maybe something could happen between now and perhaps if those babies do find themselves crawling around in a few years, but keep loving him. Maybe focus on the now before we dwell into the future. Okay?”

His fingers grazed underneath the sections where the tears had leaked out, pressing a kiss on the side of your head. He wrapped an arm around your waist, squeezing it gently, feeling the warmth of your body.

You leaned against him for a while, watching Bruno curl back into his spot, his back slowly rising and falling. “No, you’re right. Shit I’m sorry for getting so mushy,” you wiped your eyes with the back of your palms again, finally looking at Clark. He looked softer and thankfully more relaxed, his body more fluid.

“No, don’t apologize for being human,” he softly replied, “I’m here, okay. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

With the music throbbing though the walls of your home, and the smell of food wafting from backyard causing your stomach to let out close to resembling animalistic sounds, your mother led the both of you guys outside to the harmonious sun that warmed your skin and Clark thought you looked absolutely radiant.

“How you gonna be home for almost an hour and not say hi to me, miss ma’am?!”

You knew that voice from anywhere as your brain washed with a flood of memories from childhood. Your father stood near the grill, sweat beading already on his forehead that made his skin look freshly polished. Time had worn on his skin like a mahogany clock, but his eyes had never worn down on his kindness. Your uncles cleared a path for you as you practically barreled toward your father. He gave a hearty laugh as he swung you around and you buried your head in his shoulder. The same pattern you did when you were a little girl and he would come back from work. He smelled like smoke and heartwood, presumably from the grill he’d been at since the sun had mellowed over. He took a good look at you for a second, an identical sparkle in warmth that had carried over in your eyes.

“God, it’s like every time I see you, you get more and more grown up.”

Your nose and eyes crinkled together as you smiled, something Clark had caught notice of when you were really flushed; he noticed how at ease you were around your familial circle, making his own heart soften and swoon. Your father had finally caught on to your boyfriend, he obviously sticking out like a sore thumb.

Clark pushed up his glasses again, shoving his hands in his pockets, as he forged your father with an awkward smile across his features.

“Didn’t know we ordered a piece of white chocolate for today’s menu.”

A bundle of redness gathered around the flush around Clark’s neck, and a strangled sector of laughter bubbled from his throat and thankfully your father joined in, giving him a firm slap on the back before they found a flow with a handshake.

Your eyebrows rose in surprise watching both your father and Clark clasp their handshake to a quick hug. Your swatted him on the backside, lips parted as you chuckled, “I don’t think I taught you that.”

“You didn’t need to,” he replied back sending you a wink. “Your father and I actually met on a Cowboys superfan Facebook page, and he filled me in on everything to know about the Cowboys.”

“So, you could say Mr. White Chocolate and I have already met with each other before you formally introduced us to each other,” your father chimed in, giving Clark another firm pat on the back.

“Nice to know that my boyfriend and father have already met without my acknowledgement.” Sarcasm leaked from your voice as you rolled your eyes and gave Clark a poke in his ribs, causing him to only reply with a swift kiss on your cheek.

As much as you wanted to join the chatter that blossomed between your father and boyfriend that branched out into conversations with your uncles, your aunts, younger cousins, and grandparents could argue that they were more excited to converse with you. In between conversations about your new work, apartment, denying any proposals, the stature and physique of Clark, baby rumors and nostalgic memories from your childhood together, you kept sneaking glances across the yard to see Clark, his nerves loosened as he chatted with your uncles and father at the grill.

You two had finally met back up at the food station – all the food in silver trays laid out neatly along the blue and white checkered table cloth; he piled up food on his third serving of food, lips watering until he saw you again holding a baby close to your chest, softly bouncing them, a hand rubbing the fabric of their back.

“Hey, hon.” His voice had grown a bit softer around the edges. His eyes found yours before they dropped down to the baby in your arms. “Who’s this little one?”

You gave a brief look at the sweet bundle in your arms, her dark hair sprawled with curls, chubby first poking out from her pink blanket. Your smiled warmed with the blush rising on your face, not only from the sun, “This is Deliliah. My older cousin Jackie and her husband had a baby a little over a month ago and I thought the new parents could use a break since they also have a pair of twins running around.” Your eyes saw the plate of food, the macaroni, fried chicken, collars, candied yams, cornbread, white rice, baked chicken, and green beans he managed to pile on his plate, “The food good?”

He flushed a bit, moving the soft tufts of dark hair from his forehead from the sweat that clouded up like dew pearls near his forehead, “Probably some of the best food I’ve had in my life. Next to my ma’s cooking of course.”

You chuckled warmly, patting Delilah on the back as she grunted softly, gently shushing her. “I think she’s getting hungry. I’m going to see if Jackie has a bottle on her so this little miss can eat.”

“Have you got a chance to eat?” He questioned, grabbing himself a case of plastic utensils.

“No,” You breathed out, feeling the gnawing in your stomach only throb louder, “I haven’t seen my aunts in a while, so they wanted to talk my ear off, and then my little cousins wanted to make bracelets, so I’ve found myself quite occupied. I’m starving though. My stomach’s been screaming at me since we’ve gotten here.”

He nodded, setting his plate down for a second before grabbing a new plastic plate and loading up your favorites on it, “Clark, it’s okay I can—”

“—Let me fix you a plate, okay? You go find a seat and I’ll also bring you a cup of some iced tea.”

“With a lemon?”

“With a lemon.”

After Clark had loaded up your plate, you sat at one of the circle tables in the back to catch your breath from all your family members. You cherished them and you felt warm at how accepting they had been of Clark, but between the questions of marriage, future babies, your job, his job, the ribbons, ties, and colorful beads of friendship bracelets, your body needed time to refuel itself. You decided to cradle Delilah a bit longer after her bottle to give Jackie and her husband more of a break.

You watched the scene in front of you, the music thumping (some people had already gotten up to dance) from the couple speakers, your parents were dancing and you were thankful you had grown past the point of your life where you would fluster in embarrassment of them showing affection, but you’ve grown to the age where you loved watching them; loved watching them spread these seeds of their love around. Soon those seeds transferred to you, and you couldn’t help imagining you and Clark’s future. The baby girl in your arms full from her bottle, passed out in your arms brought you closer to that potential future. Your family glistened in the sun – the sun which you still would dance under until it was tucked under the wispy clouds.

“You okay?”

Clark had occupied the seat next to you with another plate. The sun had moved to an amber color that washed over the yard, the string of lights hung around starting to turn on to help illuminate the area around like they were little fireflies of life that pumped around with vigor.

“Yeah. Baby girl just had a full bottle and she’s passed out. Another plate?”

With his mouth full of peach cobbler, he paused before swallowing his food, “Can’t help myself. Never experienced so much flavor all at once.”

“We can take some home if you’d like. To go boxes are in the house,” you suggested, shifting Delilah slightly in your arms.

He hummed slightly, taking another scoop in between his lips. He looked at Delilah, heart growing in size just looking at her from her tiny feet to the soft plush pinkness of her lips. He gently rubbed a finger over her skin and she squirmed a bit to the new source of contact but relaxed under it.

“Everyone’s had really nice things to say about you,” you began, rubbing a finger over the pillowy flesh of Deliliah’s closed fist, your heart growing seeing how her hands where about the same size as Clark’s fingers.

He stopped eating for a second, gazing his attention back on you, “Really?”

You nodded, a grin growing on your lips, “Yeah, nothing but positivity from everyone I’ve talked to. Told you, you had nothing to truly worry about.” Your mind recalled moments seeing Clark help your grandparents walk around, being gentle around the kids, even if they did ask him endless questions about his height, or had you actually been dating a “super famous” basketball player because of his height.

He smiled into his food, a bit hesitant to respond, but by how misty his eyes had grown, you could tell his was overjoyed. Deliliah let out a soft coo and he smiled at her, something in his eyes grew and thankfully you caught on to the pattern of where his mind traveled off to.

He’d never saw this maternal slide of yourself before, but it made him warm to have it unlocked as he saw how cozy and looked against you. Like she was this perfect puzzle piece that was made for you to hold against your chest. It made butterflies flutter throughout him that made him giddy all over.

“You wanna hold her?”

The blue in Clark’s eyes widened and there he was again, that bumbling fool of yours that you loved to death. “R-Really?”

Before you could give him more time to respond, you were already shifting the sleeping Deliliah into his arms, and he quickly adjusted is arms. Deliliah’s eyes scrunched together before they peeled open revealing a soft pair of light brown eyes, that looked almost a golden shade due to the position of the sun. She made a disgruntled noise from her blanket that trickled off her body, exposing her to a light breeze and Clark immediately allowed her to settle in his chest as he murmured to her softly, rubbing her back as her body sunk into his own.

“Hey, you’re okay… little cold, yeah, I know, I know, but you’re okay now. I got ‘ya.”

You had seen multiple sides of Clark that day, watching his nerves and anxious thoughts soon turn into a thin veil and melt away, going in the same flow of a lake. You’d seem him grow closer to your family, be the central of the conversations, the talk on everyone’s lips down from his tall and structured frame to the softness the opposed and followed his rather large build. How mellowed his insides were. His body worked like he was already part of the family, following into a natural rhythm that he always came to trace when his nerves flared up again.

But this side was different.

It was more paternal.

The way Deliliah naturally found the rhythm against his chest, like she had fit perfectly. He kept an arm around your chair as you finished twisting off the remaining strands of a bracelet for your younger cousin who was waiting by your side, bouncing on the balls of her feet, her beads in her hair making a clacking noise.

“Are you almost done, you’re taking foreveeerrrrr.”

You playfully rolled your eyes, twisting off the final ends. “Here you go Mckayla.”

She released a gummy smile, slipping the bracelet over her small wrist. “Thank you!” As she was about to skip away, she caught notice of Clark cradling Deliliah.

“You had a baby!?”

You and Clark poked your heads up at the same time and looked at each other, both flushed. His mouth parted, brain trying to counter the words, but nothing came out. You placed a hand on his knee squeezing it. Before chuckling and leaning back in your chair.

“N-no, no. This is cousin Jackie’s baby girl.”

Mckayla tilted her head, brown eyes darting from you to Clark, “You guys no baby?”

Before you could even respond, Clark shifted Deliliah to his shoulder, patting her back slightly has she hiccupped, “Not yet. But maybe soon someday. We’re hoping.”

You bit your lips, watching how his pupils only grew bigger. Lips creasing into a small smile. He looked at Delilah before his eyes slid to you, looking at your figure up and down. A glow coated his face and it was difficult to tell if it was the gleam from the sweat or honey glow of the sun.  God he was in love with you.

With the young children knocking out and the stacks of to-go boxes stacking, the cookout was to an end slowly and lethargically. You had finally convinced Clark for a line dance or two, and thankfully those dancing lessons had paid off.

Even if you and your family had to teach him how to correctly do the Wobble and might’ve had to stare at your feet for the remainder of the songs but as soon as Beyoncé’s version of Before I Let Go came on, he couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear, dimples full on display, that sparkle in his eye. He didn’t say on physical script and took you in his arms and just danced with you. You couldn’t stop laughing, nor could you care how out of place you two looked, undefining the natural rhythm created by your family around you.

Nothing had mattered so much more in that moment than you. You were truly his everything. In this moment, he didn’t think about duties regarding Superman, the fate of the city, what might lie in the future of you two or the past; even the velvet case that was locked away at your shared apartment in the lock box.

Clark would never let you go.

[eau-melancolique]

sooo cute and relatable!! i love seeing black american culture in fics

[eau-melancolique]

thinking of dark!jack who uses his disability against you…

wc: 1.3k

tags & cw: 18+ MDNI, dddne, obsessive!jack x naive!afab!reader, faking disability pains, dubcon smut?? (jack is rough and reader says it hurts, but also likes it??), rough sex, biting, emotional manipulation, obsessive behaviors, i think that's it but pls tell me if i missed something!, not proofread this is my stream of consciousness...

its starts off innocent enough

you're the sweet little nurse who just transferred to night shift and jack is already smitten with your kind personality and beautiful looks

he’s about 3/4ths through with his double shift he picked up, and his leg is killing him

he’s shifting his weight every few seconds and limping through the halls, trying to power through the last few hours

you can't help but notice his glaringly obvious discomfort and just can't allow yourself to watch him suffer for any longer

“Jack,” your warm voice rings out behind the older man and at first he believes its an acoasm until he turns around and is met with your doe-eyed face.

“Can I show you something in the break room? It’ll only take a minute!”

jack is sure he looks as puzzled as he feels, but he nods in confirmation before limping behind you to the break room.

when you both step into the room, he is greeted with one of the more comfy chairs at a table with another one in front of it and a bottle of vanilla cupcake scented lotion on the table.

“What’s all of this sweetheart?” you shiver at the deep timbre of his voice and Jack has to suppress a smirk.

“I j-just… I noticed that you’ve been having some issues with your leg s-so I just thought maybe I could massage it…? Only if you want me to of course!”

and if Jack’s heart doesn’t just throb in the same rhythm as his aching leg.

“Oh sweetheart, you don’t have to do that for me.” jack pretends to have some semblance of hesitation when in reality he’d love nothing more than to feel your soft hands on his skin.

baby-soft smoothness that has never known hard labor touching the rough skin of what most people find monstrous.

"I want to, Jack" you lean in, smoothing your hand down his sun-spotted arm, “please sit down.”

when you ask in such a honeyed tone, he can’t help but comply.

you sit in front of him and roll up his pants leg, then you gently remove his prosthesis from him. the metal leg is warm from use.

Jack watches as you take the sparkly tube of scented lotion and squirt it on your hands, the smell of artificial cupcake sweetness filling his lungs.

it smells exactly like your everyday aroma (not that that’s something he’s noticed) and it makes his mouth water knowing he’ll smell like you.

you warm the lotion up by rubbing it in your hands before finally beginning to massage where his limb used to be.

jack bites his lip bloody in an effort to hold back the groans that threaten to escape him.

he frantically grasps onto the table to stop himself from shaking and to anyone that comes through that door, the scene would be down right erotic.

"Is this okay?" your voice has dropped to a raspier decibel, and jack can tell that this is turning you on as well.

"Fuck, it's more than okay, sweetheart."

your breath hitches at that and you duck your head down, hyperfocusing on the motions of your hands.

oh, his sweet girl likes to be praised.

after a few more minutes of your soft, supple hands pressing gently into his skin, jack has to stop you before he comes in his scrubs.

for the rest of the shift, you check in on him with soft 'how's your leg doing?' and jack feels like he's won the fucking lottery.

by the end of the night, he asks you on a proper date.

after a few weeks, you're officialy dating and jack has begun to abuse the newfound power of having a disability, not that you've noticed.

for you, you're just overjoyed that he feels comfortable enough to share this side of himself!

so what if you can no longer go to brunch with your friends on the weekend because jack is having phantom pain? of course you'd choose taking care of him!

...or when you have to call out some days when you aren't scheduled together so you can make sure he doesn't slip in the shower. you don't know what you'd do with yourself if he got hurt without you there!

he's also discovered that he likes to play little games with you during sex.

fucking you into the matress, making you shake and sob with every thrust. you're so so close to finishing, heat is flashing all throughout your core until he just... stops

you cry out at the paused stimulation and look up at him with watery eyes.

from this angle, he looks almost god-like.

your god.

"Leg's cramping up, sweet girl," he gives you a pained look and it makes your heart sting to thin he's in pain, little do you know he's dramatizing the hurt.

"i-it's okay! just lay down, baby," you scramble to switch positions with him, sticky arousal leaks out your cunt all over the comforter, "i'll do all the work!"

that's exactly what jack wanted.

he watches as you impale yourself on the thickness of his cock. your brain is already melted into gooey liquid from the hard fucking you were given and it makes you even more cockdrunk than usual.

you let out the sluttliest little mewls as you hump his cock like a mama cat in heat and he can't stop himself from grabbing you roughly to ruin you even more.

he kneads the doughy flesh of your ass, leaving imprints of his hands down to your bones and he pulls you down closer to him before biting the supple skin around your nipple.

"Nnngh! J-Jack!" you can barely open your eyes with the plethora of sensations you're feeling, "th-that hurts!"

he doesn't even try to apologize. he just licks over the bite marks before repeating the process on spit-slick flesh.

you come so hard that you pass out.

jack begins to make it known just how grateful he is for you.

he shares everything with you. from his medication schedule to his pain levels.

it's always accompanied with an 'i don't know what i'd do without you.'

everyone at the hospital is so glad that the two of you are together, thrilled to see how you take care of him so well.

with every praise you receive, jack just feels more and more elated. he chose the right girl. only you could care for him like this.

he makes this well known to you.

"I swear, if something ever happened to you, I wouldn’t make it," he laughs, like it’s a ridiculous thought. only he knows he isn't joking.

on days where you do leave the apartment, jack texts. not constantly, just enough to linger in your mind for the rest of your outing.

Jack: Did you get there okay? Jack: Let me know when you're on your way back. Jack: My leg's acting up a little. Nothing bad. Just thought you should know.

one night, you bring up the idea of physical therapy and getting someone more professional to handle his meds.

rage simmer in his bones but he doesn't let it show. he could never be angry at you.

he tells you how therapists 'treat me like a problem to fix.' how they push him too hard, how broken it makes him feel.

"But you," he says, thumb brushing your wrist, voice low and earnest, "you never make me feel like that."

"You’re the only one who really knows how to help me." you're soft and good and so fucking sweet.

all you can do is nod. he's right, you've seen how others treat him as if he's lesser than for having one less limb.

you cuddle into him, nuzzling your face against his chest.

his prosthetic rests on the wall next to the tv stand and as you stare at it you make a mental note to cancel the plans you had with your friends next week.

you couldn't leave jack.

how would he survive without you?

[eau-melancolique]

Meet Heiress!Reader from my upcoming fic,

She's So Lucky! She's a Star!

all images were found on pinterest and are for aesthetics only. they do not reflect how the reader looks.

Learn more about her under the cut!

LIKES:

۶ৎ animals ۶ৎ expensive pastries ۶ৎ tonka bean scents ۶ৎ intricate lace ۶ৎ glitter, everywhere

DISLIKES:

۶ৎ mean people ۶ৎ matte lipstick ۶ৎ rainy days ۶ৎ gray tones ۶ৎ minimalism

Currently listening to:

۶ৎ Touch My Body - Mariah Carey

[eau-melancolique]

hello anyone who cares to listen! i apologize for being so m.i.a recently, lowk been a bit depressed and school has ONCE AGAIN been kickin my behind (the worst part abt trying to get your bfa is actually having to do the work to get your bfa)

with that being said, i am finally carving out some time in my life to write and i have MANYYYY ideas but i wanna know what yall would prefer to see 🥸

voting under the cut

which fic tickles ur fancy?

She's So Lucky, She's a Star! - jack abbot x heiress!reader

GINGER SHOT - michael robinavitch x yoga instructor!reader

title tbd - michael robinavitch x island guide!reader

Voting ended onFeb 24

all of these ideas have been floating around in my brain for months, but i always had another piece i wanted to complete before then!

ALSO! i promise a sequel to this fic is in the works… hopefully i can finish that near april?? and i do want to work on my samira x reader or frank x reader fics after i finish the ones in the poll

ily guys sm and i hope u didn’t forget abt me 🥸 im gonna try to be more active but i just get overwhelmed very easily lmao

[richeeduvie]

Jack fucks you hard after an argument. It's not even out of anger, necessarily. It's more so a way to get kiddo to shut up, to breed the fight out of you before he says something that makes you cry. To stop the bitter bits from going any further because he doesn't like fighting with you.

He can be rough for rough's sake, pounding your squelching hole with your cheeks smushed between Jack's grip if he's nose to nose with you, or slapping your jiggling ass with a proud force if he's taking you from behind.

But...there's degradation in the form of teases over your pulsing cunt. Teases in the form of degradation when he's fucking you harshly for fun. There's nothing of the sort when he's stuffing your warm, wet, perfect insides like there's no tomorrow, when it's after the two of you fought.

The degradation, no matter how fun, would defeat the point of fucking kiddo quiet in the first place.

...But, Jack will never not take care of you.

You may fold into his sweat and sinews after you've shaken and cried on his cock, playing with the slit of his tip, smiling at him with your cheek smushed into his chest--it's your way of telling him the fight's long forgotten, but he'll never feel like he can ever make anything up to you.

...Yet, the guy tries.

It's after Jack lets you sleep in. Then, he slips off your panties, if you ever managed to put them back on in the first place.

He peppers your thighs with kisses before making way to your cunt.

"Daddy's sorry, kiddo."

You're still asleep as he eyes your lip pouting in a dream. It's the best thing for his cock when you're still asleep.

He kisses every inch of your crotch. He starts at the mound and trails down to the sides of your slit. He can only peck or press a finger into your clit, and the same goes for your labia.

Licking or pinching usually wakes you up earlier than you need to.

If you're not shaved or waxed, Jack likes brushing his nose against your hair. It's what he does before seeing how it fits in your little hole and whether or not it'll clench this time. It's like you're flinching. It's silly. Ridiculous. Adorable.

"Mm. I think I cleaned you up a little too well."

He wishes you would sweat as much as he does, and he always makes the wish when he breaths deeply, nose shoved in your hair and cunt. It'd be him still being selfish with you when he's trying to apologize.

"M'm...Jack? What're doing---"

Jack doesn't perk up, he only goes to start tonguing your hole, lapping in an up and up movement a half-second after your sleepy voice hits his ears. He can use his tongue now. He can be selfish. He can want forgiveness. He can want to make you feel good, good, good.

He tilts his head forward for an easier in as you squeak and moan out high, and it's not a deliberate choice. It's natural in its filth.

"Not Jack, Sleepy."

Jack blinks up at you, rubbing your ankles as you already settle into a c-curved spine and a head thrown back. He places your hands on his curls, practically a demand to fist his curls.

Told you, kiddo. He's selfish when he comes to you.

"...Daddy."

You fist Jack's curls. The pink of his tongue finds your clit with a harsh circle, and a mouth sucking on the rest of you. He almost smiles when he can feel his spit already making way down to your asshole.

"Daddy was thinking, if you're good, we can go shopping, since he was so bad, but only if you're good---"

"Yo-you're being silly--"

Jack pulls on that button of yours before pushing his dripping bottom lip into the bottom of your slit. That shuts you up.

The pop! off you is a wet one.

"Sleepy,"

Jack kisses the inside of your thigh.

"Shut up and let me apologize."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

MOST RECENT FIC // FIC DIRECTORY

[eau-melancolique]

holyjesusfuckhelpme

[cicadasexfest]

❀⋆.ೃ࿔*Chapter 2.5: Interlude❀⋆.ೃ࿔* Sugar Daddy!Michael Robinavitch x Reader

w.c: 1.5k+

summary: You and Robby spend a day together at the mall, which he spends with red cheeks and an eager wallet.

f.c: Robby, as always, is not a fan of the age gap once he's aware others can perceive it lol, a little bit of angst sprinkled with insecurity (?), reader is here for a good time

"Do youuu notice anything different about me today?"

Robby grins.

It's a little game between the two of you. 

You thrive in the small things in your day to day life. Robby gets to hear about them during your calls, but sometimes it was better to just show them to him. Pictures in between messages with their own little captions. 

At that cafe I mentioned last night. The barista messed up my order but I got a free brownie #allgood

Tried the new Chinese place that just opened near my apartment, and the owner gave me like thirty fortune cookies. Sign to eat them all?

There are FLAMINGOS at the park! 🦩

But so far, Robby's most favorite things to take into account were when they had to do with you physically. Mostly, you liked to show off your nails, which you worked on for at least eight hours throughout your day off. Sometimes it was a haircut, though, or something even less obvious like getting your eyebrows threaded (though you insisted neat eyebrows were always noticeable).

Robby was particularly proud of the time he'd complimented your lashes before you could even tell him about the appointment and you'd practically glowed. 

"Uhh..." He gives you a quick look-over, not dissimilar to the way he conducts a diagnosis at the Pitt, except this time he's only trying to figure out if you did something different with your makeup today. Then he notices how you're keeping your hands clasped playfully behind your back and raises his eyebrows a little. "May I see your beautiful nails, honey?"

You squeal, holding them out for him to examine. Crafted with intricate detail, as is the trademark of your salon's work. You're an artist, and though you tend to be shy with Robby with certain compliments, your work is never one of them.

You're proud of what you do and how you do it. 

He guides you to his car with a warm palm on your lower back and opens the passenger door for you.

Robby's got a nice car. A black Audi A4. It's not flashy, no. He wasn't the sort of man to flaunt his wealth. At least not purposely. Even given that it's not the newest model on the market, it's nice. Well loved, but not worn. 

"I keep forgetting you're not a fellow member of the middle class," you tease once you're both buckled. You always had a little quip for his possessions, though they're good-natured. Small teases for the older man. 

"Ohoho, you clearly didn't know me in my twenties," he laughs, ignoring the fact you couldn't have, given that you probably weren't even born yet. "I didn't finish up paying medical school bills until I was very well into my thirties." He gives a small huff. "There were a lot of questionable meals before that, though."

" 'Live like some people won’t so you can live like others can’t', right?" You smirk.

"Something like that," he chuckles. "Not that I'm using any of my money for anything except TV dinners and gas to drive to work these days."

"Not anymore you're not. Where did you say you were taking me again?"

"South Hills Village."

"Oh?"

"What, what's that? 'Oh'? Have you been there before?"

"Mm. Just once, when I went to buy an iMac for my salon. Could've sworn I passed a caviar stand on my way out." Robby snorts.

"I've been there a couple of times," he defends, as if he wasn't on an entirely different tax bracket than you. "It's got an Auntie Anne's, how fancy can it be?"

"There's a Von Maur, Michael. And someone plays the piano while you shop in there! And for your information, Auntie Anne's got those one percent prices, too. I paid seven dollars once for a stale pretzel once." You're pouting, probably mourning the wasted cash. 

"Well, you don't have to worry about it now. It'll be my money being spent on stale pretzels today."

"Can I see your wallet?" 

You're both standing at checkout inside a Barnes & Noble after an hour of browsing and kneeling down to see all the books, which had been hell on Robby's knees. He eyes you curiously but hands it over. You slip the black Amex out of his leather wallet and tap it against the card reader once the humble total of $109.47 loads on to the screen and give him a cheeky, exaggerated wink. "My treat today."

Robby tries to keep the amused look off his face, but he's starting to break. "Oh yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Well, thank you. I've had my eye on"— Robby peers down at the small shopping bag. —"Princess Jellyfish for a while now."

"I'm here to spoil you rotten," you coo.

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head with a grin. 

"I need to make a stop at Victoria's Secret," you tell Robby offhandedly, glancing down at the small list on your hand, paper book bag in the other. When he doesn't reply, his grip on yours now slack, you look up.

Robby's lips are parted, and a pure bright red is coating his face. He almost looked like he was asphyxiating, and maybe he was, because it felt like he suddenly couldn't get any words out of his mouth.

"For panties!" You rush, waving your manicured hands.  As if that were any better. "We don't have to go, I can just come back alone another day-"

"No!" He chokes out and takes a moment to compose himself, letting out a deep breath. "Fuck, no. No, we're, we're both adults. It's fine by me."

"Are you sure?" You ask, biting your lip, and Robby wishes he could just reach out to pull it down with his thumb. It's distracting, and he doesn't feel like dealing with a hard-on in the middle of the fucking food court.

"Michael, you don't have to be in here if you don't wanna be," you tell him for the tenth time after he turns once he spots you looking through the panty bar. "There's literally a Starbucks next door."

"I'm fine right here, sweetheart." Right here being the shelf next to the perfumes, browsing through blinged out key-chains.

Checkout wasn't nearly as humiliating as Robby thought it would be. He keeps a polite smile on his face for the worker, who's got you enraptured with small talk about the upcoming summer merch drop, which you assure her you'll be checking out. It's light, nice talk, but Robby still blushes a little when he's the one to take out his card once the total of $312.29 reads on the machine. 

"Why're you embarrassed?" You giggle once you're walking out of the store and Robby confesses his thoughts. "If anything, wouldn't it have been worse if she'd seen a girl spend three hundred dollars while her boyfriend just watched?"

…He hadn't thought of it that way.

You both ignore the use of the b-word in favor of deciding where you should go for dinner. 

You and Robby have barely been served your drinks when reality slaps him.

"It's sweet your dad still takes you on daddy daughter dates," the server gushes, then chuckles a bit. "I was always jealous when my sister got to go to restaurants with ours as a kid."

Christ, he's really fucking old.

First date I've had with her in a while and someone's already assuming I'm her dad, he sulks. If anything, he was just impressed it hadn't happened earlier already.

After an embarrassing confrontation consisting of you smiling politely and saying Robby wasn't your dad, he was your-

"-boyfriend," you tell the mortified man, who apologizes profusely to the both of you and speed-walks away once he's taken your order with pink cheeks. 

There's that little word again. 

"It doesn't…bother you?"

You're in his car, watching faraway city lights twinkle faintly. You look away to look at him with a smile. You already knew what he was talking about, and always knew what to say, too.

"Why? I mean, I know our age gap is a little noticeable-" a lot, actually, kid "-but it's what I signed up for. And it's not like people are supposed to know about our arrangement, right? That's why you drove half an hour from the city and I'm saying you're my boyfriend to strangers?"

You're a smart girl. His smart, sweet girl who knew what her old man was always thinking and worrying about. Comes with the job, he supposes, then grimaces a little. "That's not-"

"It doesn't bother me, Michael," you say gently. "Maybe it's because we're both new at this, and maybe you keep thinking this is a traditional relationship, but it's not.  And that's fine. Nobody's feelings are getting hurt."

Right. 

The two of you settle into a silence after that. Comfortable for you, maybe, but God, Robby fucking hates when everything is quiet and he's alone in his head. So in an attempt of lighting the dampened mood he created in his head, he clears his throat and speaks again.

"That complimentary pizookie from the server wasn't bad, I guess." 

Even though his eyes on the road, he's sure you're smiling. It was easier to make you smile and laugh than to upset you. Robby wonders why it's nearly the opposite for him.

Maybe it was the years. 

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

a/n: I've gotten a bit discouraged from this series (not going on hiatus!) from all the fandom discourse that's been occurring since the show's started streaming, and also for the fact that I'm actively working on two other fics on AO3. I completely forgot that since Robby was 50 in 2020, I have to incorporate details of COVID-19 into this work, so I'm doing research on how deeply healthcare workers were affected during the time!

tag list:

@hehimpussyenthusiast @clowninavan @gardonromsey @sick2mystmch @kathrinemelissa @rollerdiscotruck @parsleyhound @madprincessinabox @daylightandthedreamer @miramindlesslywriting @thecraziestcrayon @defneedtherapy @amurtan @oosarasotaoo @cowardly-carrot-cowers @inkdippedquills @disassociation-daydreams @mynameisbaby9 @woodxtock @awkward-quokka @volcanicwitchglitch @queenslandlover-93 @flyinglama @bbybels444 @bubblegumworldsthings @kamarimartell @vinceelser @marquiserose @dilflover-3 @crazyunsexycool @isitlonely-blog @theanxietyqueen17 @annabethbolyn @basicasfusername @gaultiano @fanficmonkey5 @cosmosnkaz @marvelcasey05 @zoleea-exultant 

[eau-melancolique]

absolutely love their dynamic (especially flustered robby)

[science-hoes]

hits different

michael robinavitch x reader (primarily)

aaron hotchner x reader

Robby doesn’t know how good he’s got it.

That’s what Dana tells him. That’s what Jack tells him. And none of his residents will say it to his face, but he can see the disappointed judgement in their eyes when you walk away from him, smiling to yourself like a schoolgirl with a crush, while he thinks of the best way to let you down easy.

Your seven weeks were almost up.

And you were amazing. Really, you were. But Robby couldn’t help the feeling in his chest when you start calling him Michael more often or when you look at him like maybe he isn’t all that broken. It’s like a weight in his chest, fluid in his lungs that has to be drained, a tumor that must be resected before it does more damage.

So that was his sign to pull the trigger on what was becoming a lovely relationship, one that Caleb had offhandedly expressed support for. “She’s good for you. Makes you laugh. Doesn’t let you indulge in your self-depreciating tendencies.” Robby would hit him with a fly swatter if he could.

Everything was planned in the back of his head. He’d walk you home after this shift, slowly bring up the topic of “needing to focus on himself” as you apartment building came into view, and viola…he would burn another bridge that was built too close to his heart, where his feelings for you were becoming too big for him to handle.

But those plans disappeared into thin air when an FBI unit showed up to his emergency department in search of an attempted murder victim. More specifically, when you were stitching a minor wound on their unit chief, clearly enamored with his dark hair and his pretty brown eyes and his no nonsense attitude.

At first, Robby tried to ignore it. Who cares if you wanted to flirt with a Quantico suit who looks like he hasn’t smiled in years and has a decent hairlike for his age and doesn’t have crows feet etched around his eyes? Certainly not Robby. But the gossip flourished shortly after Santos overheard the pretty blonde FBI agent whispering to the lanky one with a boyband haircut, “I don’t know the last time I’ve seen Hotch smile.” To which the boyband-haircut FBI agent responded, “Or loosened his shoulders.”

You carefully padded the area around Agent Hotchner’s wound with fresh sterile gauze after tying your last suture, clearing any remnants of blood. “So what does SSA stand for? Super special agent? Secret special agent agent?” You continued light conversation, just for another minute to talk with your tall, dark, and handsome patient.

Hotch chuckled, his eyelids fluttering instinctively when the gauze got too close. Fuck, his eyelashes were pretty, too. “Supervisory special agent.” He replied.

You grinned and pulled out dressing for the stitches. “Oh, that sounds very important.” You hummed.

You knew the man in front of you was an FBI profiler, that if he really didn’t want to play along with your flirty conversation, then he would end it there. But to a man who sold his soul to his job, you were a comfortable break of sunshine through the clouds.

Hotch smiled, not enough for you to call it one, but enough that his nosy team outside had their jaws dropping. Amhad approached them innocently with a pen and notepad, like he was about to interrogate them. “So, what do you think the likelihood of them getting drinks would be?” He asked, like this was definitely not going to influence his wager.

The agent who had already introduced himself as Derek, after Princess conveniently needed something from the top shelf of the supply closet (Jesse was literally standing right next to her), leaned against the high counter of the desk hub. “Honestly? It might happen once we finish up this case.” He admitted.

Amhad scribbled something down on his notepad and nodded. “Does he usually do stuff like that?” He added, hoping to pull more info for his betting board.

Derek laughed, catching the attention of a few nurses and the rest of his team. “‘Stuff like that?’ You mean smiling? Talking?” He questioned, crossing his arms. “We have a pretty strict rule of not profiling each other. But right now…” He trailed off, looking back to the exam room. You were glowing while Hotch commended you for your suture work, holding the mirror just low enough to showcase a rare grin from the man. “I’d say he’s got himself a little crush.”

A little crush.

The words rattled in Robby’s ears as he gripped his iPad so tightly that his thumbs nearly shattered through the screen protector. Dana looked up from her computer monitor just in time to catch the vein threatening to burst across his forehead.

“What’s got ya down, boss?” She asked with feigned ignorance, leaning back in her rolling chair.

Robby peered over his glasses, cutting her an aggravated glance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grumbled.

Dana smirked and threw her arms behind her to prop up her head. She was too pleased with the situation unraveling in front of her. “Oh yeah? You mean you’re not throwing a hissy fit because someone else is playing with your toys?” She baited.

Robby tossed the iPad on the desk next to her. “She’s not a toy.”

“No? Then why are you treating her like one?” Dana spat back.

That hit him square in the chest. He shook his head, like he was trying to convince himself. “I’m not treating her like-“

Dana took the iPad and stood, ready to walk away from this conversation. “Save your breath, Robby. If the girl wants to flirt with a hot detective and get drinks and, I don’t know, fuck around and move to Quantico, then let her. She’d give you the world, but you’re just using her as a stepping stone to your next seven week itch. Let her be with someone that deserves her.”

Robby stood frozen at the desk hub as Dana headed to the next patient’s room. He knew he didn’t deserve you. He knew this fuckass FBI agent would probably treat you like a princess. He knew that he should still let you down easy tonight.

You came out of the exam room, a giddy smile on your face, that quickly faded when you saw Robby staring at you. “What? What’s wrong?” You asked gently, approaching him slowly.

Robby just smiled, ignoring the ache he felt when your smile vanished just from looking at him, and shook his head. “Nothin’. Thanks for handling that.” He deflected, desperately hoping to see you smile again, but for him this time, not that agent with a sharp jaw that isn’t softening with age and-

“No problem, Doctor Robby.” You fake saluted with the tiniest smile before walking away.

Doctor Robby.

Not Michael.

That dagger sank deep and twisted in his lungs. You were pulling away from him. You were realizing exactly what Robby was trying to protect you from. That he’s no good for you. That he’s only going to drag you down deeper and drown you if he stays.

Robby should be grateful that Agent Hotchner has you checking your hair and straightening your scrub top in the bathroom before returning to his exam room. That would make his plan for tonight flow a lot smoother. But suddenly, the reality of losing you, of giving you up, of handing you to another man, had him sick to his stomach.

He didn’t know how, but Robby was going to win you back. He didn’t have a choice.

[eau-melancolique]

both of my #1 dilfs in one fic hello

[rr-after-dark]

"Yours" - Dr. Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.

Tags/Notes: established relationship, groveling and forgiveness, acts of service, nurse!reader, pregnant!reader, getting back together, ft. trinity as a menace and dennis as a cutie

Content: pregnancy, pregnant sex (fingering), shaving scene

A/N: im not good at math <3 sorry i haven't posted in three weeks lmao

Word Count: 14.3k

The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.

On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.

You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.

He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?

You didn’t answer.

You don’t plan to.

The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.

Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”

Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”

His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”

“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”

As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”

Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”

She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”

Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”

“Whatever you say, cap.”

The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.

In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”

She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”

He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”

The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.

—

It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.

You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”

“No worries, gorgeous.”

Your focus snaps.

Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”

Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”

You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”

He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”

You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”

“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”

“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”

Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”

You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”

Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”

Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.

“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”

Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.

Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”

“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”

He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”

“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”

Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”

You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”

It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.

He sends you texts. You don’t reply.

He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.

After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”

“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”

Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”

Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”

“But I’m not your girlfriend.”

“And thank god for that.”

“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”

“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”

“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”

“And you repaid her by leaving.”

Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”

“But she did.”

“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”

“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”

“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”

“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”

“Flatterer.”

“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”

Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”

“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”

At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.

When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”

His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”

Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”

“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”

“Not hostile, just professional.”

“You were definitely hostile.”

Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”

She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”

Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”

“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”

“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”

“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”

Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”

Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”

“At the door.”

Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”

Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”

“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”

Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”

“It’s ten thousand dollars.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”

Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”

You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”

“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”

“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my baby daddy drama.”

“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.

Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”

Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”

Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”

“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”

“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.

She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”

“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”

“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”

“And you’re not forgiving enough.”

You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”

“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”

Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”

With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.

I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life. That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice. But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that. So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that. It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please. I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more. And I promise I love you. Both of you. I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it. Love, Sincerely, Yours, M.

All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.

Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”

Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”

Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”

You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”

Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”

Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”

You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.

In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.

In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.

I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.

Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should let him grovel.”

Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”

“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your baby daddy. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”

“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”

“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”

“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”

You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”

“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”

“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”

“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”

“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”

Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”

“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”

You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”

And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.

Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.

Then.

After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”

“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”

Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”

Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”

Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”

“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”

The world tilts slightly.

Robby’s breath catches in his throat. 

Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?

You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.

You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.

“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”

“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”

You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”

Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”

You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”

His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”

Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”

“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”

“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”

“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”

Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”

“I’ll pick you up at ten.”

You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”

With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”

“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”

Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”

You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.

“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”

You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”

“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”

“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”

‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.

After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”

One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”

You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”

“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”

You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”

His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”

“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”

Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”

You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”

He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m 100% confident.”

“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”

That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”

“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”

Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”

“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”

Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”

“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”

He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”

Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.

Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.

With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.

Noted. Thanks for the tip.

Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.

I’m rooting for you.

If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.

Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.

Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.

“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”

“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”

With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”

Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”

“Kids. Plural.”

He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”

You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”

Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”

You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”

“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”

“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”

“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”

Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”

“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”

Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”

You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”

“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”

“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.

“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”

You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”

He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”

“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”

“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”

You tease, “Sounds horrible.”

“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”

Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”

“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”

“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”

Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.

…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…

After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”

Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”

Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”

“You were just talking to her.”

He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”

She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”

Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”

You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”

He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”

Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”

“I think I can manage that.”

Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.

“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”

You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”

“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”

“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”

“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”

“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”

He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”

“Michael!”

“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”

“I will not hesitate to splash you.”

Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”

Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”

“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”

After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”

His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”

You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”

He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”

And you want to kiss him.

You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”

He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”

You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.

As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”

You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”

Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”

You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”

“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”

You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”

He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”

You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as he confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.

Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”

Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”

Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”

Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”

“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”

Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.

Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.

You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting.  Deferent.

For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.

So you decide.

Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”

His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”

“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”

“What would it be, then?”

He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”

You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.

When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-

Woah, asshole.

Calm down.

He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.

All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”

When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint flutter aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes. 

To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”

Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”

Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.

He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”

“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”

Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”

“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”

“You do?”

There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”

With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”

“See you soon, Michael.”

“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”

When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.

Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.

Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”

He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”

You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”

You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.

As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”

“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”

You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”

When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”

You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”

“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”

“God forbid.”

“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”

“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.

“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”

“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”

Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”

“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”

Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”

You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”

“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Good. As he should.”

Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”

“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”

Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”

“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.

Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”

Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”

You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”

You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”

He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”

The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”

And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.

Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”

You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”

“What? You don’t want a shower?”

“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”

Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”

“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.

Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.

She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”

“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”

“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”

Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”

“We’ll see.”

You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”

“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”

Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”

You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”

Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”

You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”

Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”

You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”

Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”

When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”

He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”

You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”

So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”

Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”

Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.

You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”

Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”

He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.

Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.

From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.

That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.

Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”

Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”

Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”

Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”

Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”

“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”

“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”

As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my ‘baby daddy’ or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”

Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”

“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”

“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”

A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”

“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”

“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”

“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”

“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”

Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.

“Rest of your life, huh?”

“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”

You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”

“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.

Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”

Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.

Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”

Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”

You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”

Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”

You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”

“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”

Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”

As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”

“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”

He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”

“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”

You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t play dirty with me.”

“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”

He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”

“Now who’s playing dirty?”

“I would never.”

Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.

God.

God.

Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.

Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”

“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”

“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”

You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?” 

Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”

He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”

The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.

Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.

And you kiss him.

It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”

Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”

You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”

“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”

“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”

Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”

“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”

He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”

You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”

Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”

“I want a hot tub.”

“Okay.”

“And a soaking tub.”

“Okay.”

“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”

“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”

Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”

Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”

I'm trying out posting this without a taglist to see how it performs! So if you see it, please engage so I can get a sense of whether or not I need to keep my taglists going!

[eau-melancolique]

thinking about langdon and party girl reader hooking up in a club bathroom, its a one night stand that neither of you forget as you disappear from eachothers lives

cut to 3 years later and you’re now sober and decided to go into social work you have been assigned at ptmc and are needed to help for a case in the emergency department

you run into a pair of bright blue eyes that you could recognize from anywhere and learn that you will be working closely beside frank, who is freshly off of his rehab leave, during the case

[eau-melancolique]

ok wait bc now this has me thinking of partygirl!reader x samira mohan where you’re an intern who loves to go out when you’re not on shift

you manage to convice the normally straightedged mohan to join you (and the rest of your coworkers who you always force to club with you) for a night out

imagine getting random guys to buy both of you drinks before hitting the dance floor, where you grind all over her, something she’s never experienced before cue the sexual awakening

ofc you drag her to the bathroom where you finger her before teaching her how to eat you out

the next day at work, she cant look you in the eye without choking on her sentence

im gonna have to write both of these until full length fics now arent i

[ellewantsrevenge]

MASTER LIST OF WAYS TO HELP IN MINNEAPOLIS

(this list is mainly ways non-locals can donate but by extension offers a lot of resources and places to volunteer in the Twin Cities + there are specific ways to donate time under the cut which can be adjusted to your local neighborhood)

full credit to cataloo from r/minnesota [x]

🩵Immigrant support

Immigrant Defense Network – coalition of 90+ groups organizing rapid response and collecting evidence.

Immigrant Law Center of MN – free immigration legal representation to low-income immigrants and refugees.

COPAL – advocacy, organizing, phone hotline. Focus on Latine community.

Minnesota Immigrant Rights Action Committee (MIRAC) – education and protest organizing.

Interfaith Coalition on Immigration – advocacy, aid, events.

Monarca MN – training and phone hotline.

Unidos MN – education, protests, advocacy.

Center for Victims of Torture – advocacy and mental health services for immigrants and refugees.

International Institute of Minnesota – refugee resettlement group that provides support and legal help to vulnerable new-to-country families.

Lutheran Social Service of Minnesota – offers services to refugees, including legal aid to non-citizens.

🩵Food support

If local, food donations are welcome, otherwise monetary donations help these types of orgs source what is most needed

VEAP

Second Harvest Heartland

Every Meal

The Food Group

Meals on Wheels MN

Find a local food shelf

🩵Mutual aid funds & community support

Community Aid Network

Twin Cities Trans Mutual Aid

Leo's Tow (Venmo @leostowingmn) is towing cars back to families if a car is stranded when someone is detained.

🩵More links

MN50501 Mutual Aid Linktree – well-organized list of various Twin Cities groups.

Mplsmutualaid Linktree – many neighborhood and individual GoFundMes listed here.

Mpls.St.Paul Magazine – see Food Drives and Fundraisers.

Stand with Minnesota – extensive list of organizations, mutual aid, and crowdfunding campaigns.

🩵Donate blood

Memorial Blood Center declared a blood emergency on Tuesday, Jan 13. MBC is the blood supplier for both tier 1 trauma hospitals in the metro area (Hennepin County Medical Center and North Memorial Health).

American Red Cross

🩵Donate food or other goods

Mpls.St.Paul Magazine – see Food Drives and Fundraisers.

Volunteer your time (under the cut)

🩵Mutual aid

Reach out to your neighbors – especially if you know they are staying home right now – and ask if they need groceries or toiletry items. Offer to pick up prescriptions, give rides, or shovel their driveway. If you know them well, bring them a treat that you know they'll enjoy. Or just ask them how they're doing and let them know you are there to support.

Connect with any of the orgs above and see if they are looking for volunteers.

Connect with a church or mosque in your area. From u/MuddieMaeSuggins: "I know a lot of regular Redditors are not religious (myself included) but like it or not this is a where a lot of community organizing happens, especially in immigrant communities."

Connect with your local school's admin office and/or their PTA. It's ok to reach out even if you don't have kids at the school. PTAs are organizing mutual aid for school families, safe rides, school observers.

🩵Activism

Find an official protest or other event via Indivisible, 50501, FREE AMERICA, or MIRAC. Students at many high schools are staging walk-outs; if your local school is doing this, reach out to school leadership or the PTA and ask how you can support as a community member.

Join the effort to stop Hilton from housing ICE by booking hotel rooms and then cancelling at the last minute. This action can be done from home! The effort is being organized by Sunrise Movement, who are telling activists to target specific hotels one-by-one. More info: SHUT DOWN HILTON

Find people in your area who are actively monitoring ICE and/or stationing themselves in high-traffic areas and ask how you can help. Check for local FB events where people are organizing and just show up.

At minimum, read the COPAL Handbook before you go out to observe. The DFL, Monarca, and other orgs have been hosting online trainings for constitutional observers (though these fill up quickly).

When you see ICE in action, start recording. Be as loud and as disruptive as possible: honk your horn, set off your car alarm, blow your whistle. Let people know that ICE is in the area. If you see someone being detained, try to get their name and a phone number to call their emergency contact.

If you do not feel comfortable observing ICE in person, there are ways you can support from home. Just ask the people who are organizing in your area. I have social anxiety, and I had never participated in any kind of political action before this past Saturday. If I can do it, you can!

Local organizers are requesting that people who help monitor ICE DO NOT participate in 1-to-1 mutual aid efforts, as these can put the families you are helping at risk.

If you have friends/acquaintances who are sympathetic but not politically active, reach out to them. Show them that they're not alone in feeling helpless. Pick a few low-commitment actions from this list and do them together.

[eau-melancolique]

thinking about langdon and party girl reader hooking up in a club bathroom, its a one night stand that neither of you forget as you disappear from eachothers lives

cut to 3 years later and you’re now sober and decided to go into social work you have been assigned at ptmc and are needed to help for a case in the emergency department

you run into a pair of bright blue eyes that you could recognize from anywhere and learn that you will be working closely beside frank, who is freshly off of his rehab leave, during the case

[danysdaughter]

✰ Sweet Love, All Night Long

pairing | pre-infinity!war!bucky x fem!reader word count | 19.1k words summary | it becomes your responsibility to help the winter soldier heal—not just his body, but the fractured remnants of his mind. what begins as stern guidance slowly grows into something deeper, as you teach him how to be a man again, not a weapon. tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, canon-compliant post–civil war, inspired by Avatar, reader inspired by neytiri, piv sex, unprotected sex, riding, mating press, missionary, desperate touching, body appreciation, emotional sex, breast fixation, lowkey carnal sex, bucky goes primal, creampie, ONE-ARM!BUCKY, fierce!reader, cheeky/playful!reader, shy!reader, angst with comfort, slowburn, lotssss of yearning and longing, mutual pining, bucky healing, emotionally repressed idiots, shuri&t'challa cameos, death of an animal, mythical creatures, wakandan religious and culture practises, meditation, buckys literally whipped, very very emotional aftercare a/n | kms if this flops, deadass

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

MASTERLIST

“…He is a grown man,” you said flatly, arms folded, gold rings catching the light. “Why must I look after him like an orphaned sheep?”

T’Challa exhaled through his nose, pacing slow, as if you were all still discussing this with grace. Shuri, on the other hand, already looked ten seconds from strangling you with her bare hands.

The courtyard was warm with sun, but the three of you had been at it so long the tea had gone cold.

“You’re not looking after him. You’re—”

“—babysitting him,” you cut in. “A man who has killed how many people? But no, let me put aside my entire life and move back to the outskirts so I can make sure he eats his vegetables.”

Shuri’s eyes rolled so hard you thought they might stay back there.

“It is not babysitting. It’s helping him adapt,” she bit back, flicking her fingers in the air like she could swat your sarcasm. “The recovery process is not just about breaking trigger words. He has to be among people. Real people. And you are the only one who will not try to fix him.”

You scoffed, looking between them.

“You two clearly do not value my life. You should say it plainly. You want me to die at the hands of a haunted white man with one arm.”

T’Challa sighed through his nose. “He is not haunted. You are someone who understands silence. Who moves with intention. Who—”

“Who can babysit the winter beast?” you snapped, pushing to your feet. “No. No, this is not fair.”

“You are being dramatic,” Shuri muttered.

“I am being honest,” you bit back, tone sharp but low. “You want me to drag a man out of his nightmares and into the sun like it’s my duty. Why me?”

“Because you can,” came the voice from the stone archway—regal, steady, commanding.

You all turned at once. Queen Ramonda stood framed in gold and violet, hands clasped neatly before her, face composed but clearly unimpressed.

“I could hear your arguing from the throne room, for Bast’s sake,” she said mildly. “Must you bicker like wild dogs every time a request is made?”

All three of you stilled. Like children caught misbehaving.

You spoke first, pointing a hand toward the siblings. “Queen Mother, you must listen to what outrageous things your children are asking of me. They wish to exile me to the outskirts with a half-frozen foreign soldier who wakes with blood on his breath.”

Ramonda gave you that look, the one she’d perfected over years of dealing with all three of you. Calm. Measuring. Ever so slightly amused. “Perhaps the soldier needs someone who will not flinch from the truth. And perhaps you need someone who reminds you the world is larger than your comfort.”

You stared at her, mouth parting, “Once again I say, that is not fair.”

She stepped closer, eyes softening, eyes softening, brushing a hand down your arm. “It would be good for him,” she added gently. “And it would be good for you.”

“Why must everything be good for me when it is inconvenient?”

Ramonda moved her hand, cupping your cheek like she was softening you for the kill.

“He is not the same man they froze,” she said quietly. “We have done much. And we will continue to do more. But he cannot learn peace if he is surrounded only by the memory of war.”

You let out a long, annoyed breath. “So you say, ‘Come do this, come do that. Come leave your bed and your garden and your spirit work to go look after the American white man who—reminder—is an infamous serial killer.’”

There was silence. Then Shuri muttered, “He’s not technically a serial killer, it’s more—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“I’m just saying there is a legal distinction—”

“Shuri.”

“I’m just—”

You lifted a hand, silencing her.

Ramonda pressed a kiss to your cheek, knowing it meant you were already halfway convinced. “Let him learn from someone who still speaks to the land,” she murmured. “Someone who still knows how to listen.”

You didn’t answer, but you sighed loud enough for everyone to hear.

T’Challa smiled. Shuri leaned against the railing, victorious.

You walked away mid-eye-roll, calling over your shoulder, “If he so much as breathes wrong near me, I will send him back to the ancestors myself.”

The first thing he felt was air.

Cool, real air—not the sterile chill of cryo, not the chemical weight of lab filters—but air that moved. That breathed. There was birdsong in it. Dry earth. Smoke from a far-off fire. Something floral he couldn’t name.

Bucky blinked, slow and dry-eyed, the light too warm, too gold. His body felt sluggish, heavy with sleep. He was on something soft. No wires, no restraints. His chest rose unevenly, breath catching against the strangeness of… quiet.

And then he heard them. Giggling. Whispering.

He turned his head—sharp pain blooming at the base of his skull—and found three children crouched beside him, their faces painted with thick lines of white and yellow, watching him like he was some museum piece come to life.

The youngest one leaned closer, nose nearly touching his.

“Who—” His voice cracked like dry leaves.

The kids shrieked with delight and bolted for the doorway in a blur of bare feet and swinging beads. One lingered just long enough to poke his knee before running.

“Nakana! I told you not to touch him!”

The voice snapped across the room like a whip—sharp, feminine, unfamiliar.

Feet on packed earth. Cloth shifting. A figure moved past the curtain of the doorway—tall, confident, annoyed in that particular way adults were when children ran just fast enough to escape consequences. She stepped into the light, brushing the curtain aside with the back of her hand. And he saw you.

Painted wrap slung around your hips. A loose tunic tucked at one side. Earrings glinting like fireflies. You were barefoot, one brow raised like this was the mess you’d been warned about.

Bucky’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t ask how he felt. You just tilted your chin toward the door, where the last light of day was spilling gold across the dirt floor.

“Come watch the sunset,” you said, like it was the only thing worth doing.

Then you turned and walked out—as if he’d follow, like that choice was his to make. And he made it.

The ground felt strange beneath his feet. Coarse, sun-warmed dirt. Fine dust that clung to his soles as he stepped out of the hut, squinting into the light. The doorway yawned behind him like a throat he’d just crawled out of. No fences. No guards. Just wind and open air.

He hadn’t seen the sun in—

He didn’t know.

Ahead of him, a narrow path wound gently uphill, flanked by thatched roofs and smooth clay homes, smoke curling from chimneys, cloth lines dancing between poles. A child darted past with a kite made of paper and string. Somewhere a woman laughed, deep and unbothered. The village breathed in rhythm. It felt… alive.

He turned, slow and aimless, until he spotted her.

You.

At the far edge of the clearing, your back to him, already walking—effortless, upright, that same piece of bright cloth now pulled across your shoulders. Your earrings flashed once in the sun before you passed into shadow.

You didn’t look back.

Others were walking, too—small groups, elderly men, a mother with a sleeping baby slung across her back. All of them moving in the same direction. Toward the slope. Toward the horizon.

Bucky didn’t think. Didn’t ask.

He just followed. Barefoot, steps uneven, like the ground might swallow him if he hesitated. The air was too clean. His body felt foreign—stiff, lighter, missing something. His arm…

He glanced down. Still gone. Just skin and metal and a quiet absence where something used to be.

But you were still moving. Up ahead, you slipped between two trees, and he picked up his pace without meaning to. The wind tugged at your top. Your hands stayed loose at your sides, steady, sure.

You heard his footsteps before he spoke—uneven, a little slow, like he hadn’t used his legs in months. (He hadn’t.)

The slope had leveled out by the time he reached you. You were already seated on the flat rock at the ridge, legs folded beneath you, elbows resting on your knees. The view stretched wide below, the village glowing in the last of the sun, children chasing goats through the paths, smoke rising from cooking fires.

He hovered a few feet behind you, hesitant.

“Where... am I?” His voice was scratchy, like rusted hinges. You didn’t turn.

“A village on the outskirts of Wakanda,” you said simply.

There was a pause. He stepped a little closer, slow and careful. “How long was I out?”

“Six months.”

“Six—?” He let out a quiet breath, and you heard him shift his weight like the number knocked something loose in his ribs. “And the Avengers?”

You lifted a shoulder. “I don’t keep up with Western affairs.”

Another pause. He didn’t take offense. You weren’t offering any. “Right,” he muttered. “’Course.”

The wind picked up slightly, carrying the smell of stew and sun-warmed stone. You felt him settle into a crouch beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the tension still tucked into his posture—like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs now that they weren’t weapons.

“Can I get your name?” he asked after a moment.

You tilted your head, half-glancing at him, not quite meeting his eyes. You said it clear and even, shaped by your tongue the way it was meant to be. No pause. No simplification. You didn’t shrink it down for him.

He winced. “Could you—sorry—can you say that again?”

You sighed, “Listen closely this time.”

And you said it slower, more deliberate, each syllable resting in the air between you like a stone placed carefully on sacred ground.

He nodded, repeating it under his breath, not quite right—but trying.

You didn’t correct him. The two of you just watched as the sun dipped low behind the hills, casting the sky in molten gold, when the rest of the villagers began to arrive—a slow trickle of movement from behind, soft chatter and rustling feet.

Children in linen wraps. Old men with carved walking sticks. Women with bowls of roasted groundnuts, passing them between gentle hands. They settled across the slope in small clusters, all facing west, as if the sun itself had summoned them.

It did this time every month.

You scooted slightly to one side on the flat stone, patting the space beside you without looking at him.

“Sit.”

Bucky hesitated only a moment before lowering himself beside you, still stiff, still quiet, the kind of quiet that held years in its throat. You didn’t watch him. Just kept your gaze on the fading orange sky.

“You were taken out of cryostasis a few days ago,” you said, voice even. “Your body was... overwhelmed. Princess Shuri gave you a sedative to keep the transition gentle. Let your muscles wake slowly. Let your heart catch up.”

He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. Listening.

“You’ve been asleep for three days. Not unconscious—just... resting. Floating.”

Another pause.

“Once a month, we will go into the city. Shuri is still working to untangle what they did to you. She wants to... what did she call it...” You squinted slightly, mimicking Shuri’s tone. “Rewire the synaptic trauma. Remove the trigger pathways.”

Bucky blinked slowly. “So... you’re here to babysit me.”

You didn’t smile, but something near it tugged at your mouth.

“Do not say that in front of King T’Challa. I said the same thing and he got very defensive.”

That got a sound out of him—a small huff. Almost a suprised laugh, if you squinted at it hard enough.

The sky shifted deeper into indigo, casting long shadows across the rocks. The villagers behind you fell quiet. It always did when the last light left the ridge.

You glanced at him then, properly.

He looked... tired. Older than the last time you'd seen him—which, technically, was when he was still asleep in Shuri’s lab. But now, in the open air, the hollows beneath his eyes spoke more clearly.

“You are safe here, Sargeant Barnes,” you said, steady. Not soft, not firm. Just true. “The outside world will not touch you while you are in Wakanda.”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his gaze on the horizon, jaw tight. “It’s James,” he said, low. “But most people call me… Bucky.”

You nodded once, tucking the name into your chest like a small seed.

“Alright then, Bucky.”

Neither of you spoke again.

The sun disappeared, and the sky gave way to stars.

The spot was quiet—further out than most dared to walk alone. You liked that about it.

You sat beneath the same tree every morning, where the grass grew uneven and the air stayed cooler longer. The village lay behind you, just out of sight, and in the distance, birds called to one another in a rhythm older than memory.

He was supposed to be meditating.

You cracked one eye open.

He wasn’t.

The soldier sat across from you, legs folded, posture tight like someone was going to shoot at him any second. His expression was too still, jaw too tense. Eyes closed, yes—but not in the way they should be. Not present. Not breathing. Not with you.

You could see the truth in his mouth. A kind of practiced stillness—the kind you learned when the only time you closed your eyes was to pretend you were human. You exhaled through your nose and let the quiet drag a little longer.

Then, plainly, “You are faking.”

His eyes opened—guilty, but not surprised, “What?”

“You are faking,” you repeated, sharper now. “You are not in your body. You are just... sitting there, pretending.”

He rubbed his hand down his face—his only hand—and gave you a tired shrug, “I don’t see how this helps. I’m not exactly a breathe deeply and find your center kind of guy.”

You stared at him. “You don’t have to believe in anything,” you said. “It is not magic. It is awareness.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Your nervous system is still reacting to things that aren’t there. Your heart still jumps like someone else owns it. Your mind doesn’t know your body’s awake yet. That is what meditation is for.”

“I’m just—” he started, then stopped. “It feels pointless.”

“It is not,” you said, firmer now. “Because if you ever want to get those demon words out of your head, if you want Shuri to rewire the damage, you have to give her something to work with. Your brain is still running Hydra’s script, and if you’re not even willing to sit with your breath, how do you expect to undo any of it?”

His mouth opened slightly. Nothing came out.

“I cannot help you,” you said, quieter now, “if you don’t want to be helped.”

You looked away, letting your hands settle back into your lap. He was quiet for a while—long enough for the wind to shift, pulling a few dry leaves across the packed earth between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Uncertain. “Can we try again?”

You looked at him—properly this time.

His eyes weren’t guarded now. No walls. Just tiredness. Willingness, maybe. Something softer.

You gave him a long, unreadable look, then nodded once. “Alright.” You closed your eyes, slowly, and this time... you felt him do the same.

No pretending. Just breath.

He wasn’t sure when it changed.

At first, it was just meditation. Eyes closed, back straight, breathing in rhythms he didn’t believe in. But then it became more.

Sweeping the dirt path that led down to the well. Carrying baskets of grain. Hauling stones for someone’s new roof. Lifting crates with his one arm while the villagers watched in quiet silence, like they couldn’t decide if he was a guest or a tool.

You never told him it was for his benefit. You just handed him the rope and pointed. “Pull,” you’d said, tossing a bundle of dried grass at his chest one morning. “You are not made of glass.”

You never coddled him. Never flinched around him. You didn’t offer long-winded speeches or hold his hand through the work. Mostly, you barked instructions and walked away.

He liked that. More than he wanted to admit.

You snapped at him when he did something wrong—called him slow, unobservant, unfocused. Two days ago, he dropped one of the ceramic bowls from the communal kitchen, and you’d stared at him for five seconds before muttering, “Ignorant child.”

And then walked off.

He almost smiled. He hadn’t been called that in decades. Maybe ever.

But hey—at least it was better than being pitied. Better than being looked at like he was something shattered and fragile, waiting to cut whoever came too close.

You didn’t look at him like that. You looked at him like a chore. Like a reluctant task assigned to you by fate and family. And strangely, that made him try harder.

You didn’t ask about his past. You didn’t hover when he had nightmares. You didn’t whisper to the other villagers behind his back—or if you did, you never did it where he could hear.

What you did do was offer him work. Direction. Stillness. A quiet place to sit when the tremor in his fingers wouldn’t stop. And somehow, that mattered more than anything anyone had said in years.

He wasn’t sure what they were celebrating this time.

From inside his hut, the sound bled in slowly—the steady pulse of drums, laughter rising and falling like a tide, children yelling each other’s names across the courtyard. Someone sang near the firepit. A voice he didn’t recognize. Several hands clapping along, rhythm sharp and fast.

It wasn’t unpleasant. Just... too much.

He sat on the edge of his mat for a while, trying to breathe through the heat that settled behind his ribs. It wasn’t panic, not really. But it wasn’t comfort either. His skin felt too tight. The air too loud. His thoughts too sharp around the edges.

Eventually, he pushed to his feet and stepped outside.

The sky was dark—stars blinking through the smoke trails drifting from the fire. Lanterns hung from the wooden beams, casting soft yellow light across the center of the village, where people were gathered in loose clusters. Dancing. Eating. Singing. Moving like their bodies belonged to the moment.

And there you were—almost dead center.

Bright cloth wrapped around your waist. Dozens of tiny golden hoops hanging from your ears. Your hands clapped in time with the drumbeat, your mouth moving with the lyrics of a song he didn’t know. You weren’t the loudest or the most noticeable—but the way people naturally made room around you told him everything.

He crossed the space slowly, cutting through laughter and firelight, until he was just close enough to speak without being overheard.

“Think I’m gonna go for a walk,” he muttered, voice low, almost under his breath.

You didn’t turn your head. Didn’t stop clapping. Didn’t even miss a beat. “I am not your keeper,” you said easily. Not unkind. Just matter-of-fact.

He huffed softly—the closest thing he ever got to a laugh—and gave a small nod you probably didn’t see. And then he turned, slipping past the edge of the celebration like smoke, heading off into the night.

He didn’t know how far he ended up walking.

The ground changed gradually beneath him—the soft packed dirt near the village giving way to stretches of dry veld, low grass brushing against his ankles, warm and clean underfoot. The sky above was still wide, scattered with stars, but out here, the air tasted different. Earthier. Older.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, letting his shoulders drop for the first time all day. He kept walking. No path. Just instinct.

The veld slowly thickened—shrubs first, then low trees, then taller ones that curved toward the moonlight like they were reaching for something. The sounds changed too. The distant hum of the village faded behind him, replaced by the rustle of leaves, the call of some bird he didn’t recognize, the chirping of something small and fast darting through underbrush.

And beneath it all, steady and sure, the sound of running water. He moved toward it.

Every now and then, he’d slow—not because he was tired, but because something would catch his eye. A strange patterned insect climbing a tree trunk. A glowing flower the size of his hand. A lizard with golden eyes that watched him like it understood something he didn’t.

He didn’t touch anything. Just looked. It was quiet here. But not empty.

When he reached the water, it was shallower than he expected—a smooth stream cutting through the trees, tumbling over dark stone in gentle cascades. He crouched down by the edge, dipping his fingers into it. Cool. Clean. Real.

He sat there a while. Just listening. Not thinking. Not fighting anything. Just… being. No boots. No guns. No Winter Soldier. Just him, the wind, the pulse of water moving like a second heartbeat through the dark.

He didn’t hear it until it was too close.

At first, just the shuffle of leaves, the breaking of a branch—then the low, guttural snort that made every muscle in his body lock.

Bucky stood slowly, rising from the streambank, eyes scanning the trees. The light was dim out here, moonlight filtering through thick canopy, casting long shadows over the underbrush.

Another snort. Then another.

He turned.

A warthog stepped out of the trees—broad and low, tusks curling like ivory hooks. It stared at him, twitching its head slightly. Then another emerged beside it. And then two more. Snorting, circling. The ground vibrated faintly beneath their feet.

Shit.

He backed up a step.

One of them growled—an ugly, wheezing sound—and lunged.

Bucky reacted instantly, sidestepping as it charged past, kicking a loose stone at its flank. Another came from the side. He ducked, moving fast, breath short, arm raised.

He didn’t have his left arm. No weapon. No metal. Just instinct.

They weren’t mindless—they were testing him. Flanking. The kind of animals that learned how to bring down bigger things.

He moved toward the stream again, keeping it at his back, trying to funnel them. He landed a solid kick against one’s shoulder, stumbled, pivoted—

And then the big one came. It was almost silent, massive, barreling through the trees like it had been waiting for its moment. Bucky turned too slow.

The impact knocked the breath from his chest, sent him crashing backward into the dirt. His head hit the ground hard enough to blur his vision. He grunted, legs kicking, trying to push it off—its tusk caught his side, not piercing, but grinding hard into his ribs.

Then—

THWIP.

A sound cracked the air. The warthog stilled. Another second passed before it collapsed sideways, heavy and limp. Blood pooled quick and dark beneath its belly.

The others froze. And then, as if obeying some silent command, they scattered. Back into the underbrush. Vanished like ghosts.

Bucky lay there on his back, blinking up at the canopy, breathing hard. Then he turned his head.

You stood between the trees, bow still half-lowered, another arrow notched loosely between your fingers. The celebration wrap still clung to your waist. Your hair was mussed, cheeks flushed like you’d run here fast.

Bucky blinked up, dazed, ribs aching.

You didn’t rush toward him. You didn’t say anything. You just stood there, framed by the trees, breathing a little hard.

He looked back at you. Mud on his back. Shirt torn at the shoulder. Dirt on his face. One arm pressed to the ground.

And the two of you just... stared at each other.

His breathing hadn’t even steadied yet. He was still flat on his back, arm aching, ribs sore, heart drumming uneven against his spine. The warthog’s body slumped a few feet from him, blood pooling from its flank where your arrow had pierced through clean.

He looked at you again, still standing just beyond it. “Thanks,” he managed, voice rough.

You turned your head sharply toward him. “Don’t thank me.”

The words came fast. Not cruel, but firm. Your jaw was tight. “Do not thank me for this.”

You pointed to the dead creature between you, with weight, like you needed him to see it. To really look. “This is sad,” you said, kneeling slowly beside it. “Very sad only.”

He pushed himself upright, wincing a little as he leaned on his arm, dirt still stuck to the side of his face. “What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Let it maul me to death?”

You didn’t look at him right away. Your hands moved quietly, efficiently—fingers brushing through the coarse bristles of the warthog’s fur, your other hand gripping the arrow still lodged in its side.

You pulled it out in one motion. Clean. No hesitation. “Would you not protect your home,” you said softly, still not meeting his eyes, “if a stranger wandered in?”

He blinked, saying nothing.

“He wasn’t evil. He was defending what he knew.”

You laid your palm flat against the animal’s neck, eyes lowered. “We are not like your western people,” you said. “We do not kill for fun. Or pride. Or sport. All life has value in Wakanda.”

There was no judgment in your voice. Just truth. Plain and unmoving.

You lowered your head slightly and whispered something low under your breath—a few words in Xhosa, voice soft and unhurried, almost like a lullaby. A parting gesture.

Bucky watched you, lips pressed together, jaw tense with something that wasn’t quite shame, but lived near it.

You finally glanced at him—your eyes skimming his shoulder, then down his arm. The fabric was torn just above his bicep, and there, beneath the edge, blood. Not much. But enough to pull your mouth into a thin, unimpressed line.

You didn’t sigh. You didn’t roll your eyes. You just reached down, placed your palm gently over the warthog’s neck once more, a slow farewell, then stood.

“Come,” you said simply, brushing your fingers against your thigh to clear the dirt. “Let me help you.”

He didn’t argue. He rose behind you without a word, steps a little slower now, and fell in step as you turned back toward the path. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The trees closed behind you like a curtain, muting the sounds of the forest—leaving only the soft rhythm of your feet in the grass, his breathing just behind yours, and the hum of crickets filling in the spaces where conversation might’ve gone.

By the time the village came back into view, the celebration had mostly fizzled out.

The fire still smoldered low in the pit, casting orange light across scattered baskets and half-finished plates. A few villagers moved quietly between the homes, collecting things in tired silence. Someone’s laughter drifted faintly from behind one of the larger huts, but even that was subdued. The pulse of the night had passed.

You didn’t slow as you reached the center, only shifted your path slightly—guiding him past his own hut, toward yours.

He followed.

You held the beaded curtain aside as you stepped through. The interior was warm, dimly lit by candles spread out. Neatly arranged baskets lined the shelves, bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling in fragrant clusters. There were folded cloths stacked in a corner. A clay bowl of water sat near a wooden stool.

You crossed the space, already moving with purpose. “Sit.”

He did.

The cloth was warm now—soaked in water and crushed herbs—when you pressed it to the scrape on his upper arm. Not deep, but messy. You didn’t flinch when he winced. Just kept working.

The paste came next—a thick mixture, greenish-brown, smelling faintly of aloe and dried mint. You scooped a bit with your fingers and began to smooth it over the broken skin, slow and deliberate.

He watched you. Didn’t speak at first. But then, softly, without looking up, “I’m sorry. For the warthog.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers paused just slightly before you pressed a little more paste into the wound, careful. “It is finished now,” you said after a breath. “In the past.”

You met his eyes, steady but not sharp. “And… I doubt T’Challa would be pleased if you got killed under my care.”

That earned a small huff from him. You almost smiled. Almost. You set the bowl down.

“Still,” he said, quieter now, “you’ve done a lot. I haven’t exactly given back the same.”

You tilted your head, watching him.

His face was serious. Not guilty—not exactly. Just... honest. And unsure. Like he wasn’t used to naming these things out loud.

You wiped your fingers on a cloth, then folded it neatly. “I don’t need much,” you said. “You try. That is enough.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure how to respond.

You didn’t wait for one. You stood and moved to rinse your hands at the small bowl near the corner, shoulders relaxing slightly now that the adrenaline had passed. The room smelled like ash and herb oil, and you could feel the weight of the day starting to settle into your back.

The lab always smelled faintly metallic—polished, too clean, like it had never seen real dirt in its life.

Bucky sat on the edge of the diagnostic table while Shuri adjusted something near his temple, wires trailing from a slim headset and disappearing into the projection panel above him. His shirt was off. The room was cool. The back of his neck itched.

You were standing at the foot of the table, arms crossed, watching everything with narrowed eyes like you were trying to make sense of it through sheer observation alone.

A holographic projection hovered above him—a soft blue outline of his brain lit up in faint pulses, scattered red flickers trailing across certain regions.

“What does that do?” you asked, pointing at a blinking node near the center.

“It maps neural response patterns,” Shuri said, without looking up.

“But why is it glowing like that?”

“Because it is active.”

“What kind of activity?”

Shuri exhaled—not exasperated yet, but on the edge.

“It just is, alright? Can you please not do this right now—”

“Do what?” you asked. “Ask questions? I thought this was a lab. Are you not supposed to love curiosity?”

“I love informed curiosity,” Shuri muttered, moving to the display console. “You are just pointing at things and saying ‘what’s that?’ like a child.”

“If you were really that smart,” you said under your breath, “you’d be able to focus through a few questions.”

That did it.

“You are distracting me.”

“Then maybe you should be better at multitasking.”

“Maybe you should go sit down.”

“Maybe you should say please.”

Bucky lay back against the table, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t laughing—not really—but there was something easy about the way he exhaled. Something lighter.

He’d never seen you like this.

Not still. Not sharp. But familiar in a way he didn’t expect. Comfortable enough to annoy someone. To be annoying. There was a rhythm to it—not harsh, not for show.

Shuri flicked through a few data fields, ignoring you now. You were muttering under your breath about how you’d name the next hologram just to bother her.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she asked.

“This is my better thing,” you said. “Watching you stress about brainwaves.”

You watched the blue projection pulse gently above Bucky’s head, those same red flickers darting across the map of his mind like warning signs. You didn’t understand all of it—the readings, the frequencies, the cortical tracking—but you understood what mattered. The shape of a wound. The parts that still lit up when they shouldn’t.

“When can you take them out?” you asked, eyes still on the light.

Shuri didn’t look up from the console.

“Take what out?”

“The demon words.”

That earned you a slow, deliberate blink from across the table. “They are called trigger words,” she said, enunciating each syllable like you were hard of hearing. “And you know that. Don’t act brand new.”

You rolled your eyes. “Demon words sounds more accurate.”

“That’s not how science works.”

“That’s not how trauma works either.”

Shuri gave you a flat look, but didn’t argue.

Behind you, Bucky shifted slightly on the table, adjusting the way his head rested against the padding. You hadn’t noticed how you’d leaned in—just a little closer to where he lay. Not hovering, not touching. Just there. Like your body had moved on its own. Like you were with him now, instead of just watching from a distance.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He just noticed.

The faint change in your voice when you asked the question. The crease between your brows when Shuri answered. The way your elbow nearly brushed the edge of the table now, when ten minutes ago, you were standing by the console.

Shuri sighed and ran a hand down her face.

“It’s been two months,” she said. “These things take time. I cannot erase conditioned trauma with a switch. I’m working on a way to reroute the neural spikes when the words are spoken, but his system is still adapting to being stable.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing the answer. You didn’t press further. You just looked back up at the display—not with confusion, but with focus. Like you were trying to memorize something that couldn’t be learned in words.

The lab went quiet again, save for the soft hum of the monitors and the occasional clack of Shuri’s fingers across the console.

A Few Weeks Later

The river water was warm beneath your hands. You wrung out the cloth and snapped it once, sharp, before folding it over your knee to scrub the next piece.

The women around you moved with easy rhythm—buckets sloshing, fabric slapping stone, idle conversation drifting between them in patches. One of the elders was humming, her voice low and tuneless, but steady. A child ran past the edge of the clearing barefoot, laughing at nothing.

You dipped your hands into the basin again, reached for another wrap, and glanced up without thinking.

He was further down the slope, maybe twenty or thirty steps away, near the bend in the river where the trees curved in tighter and the bank dipped. Not with the other men hauling baskets of cassava or arguing about whose turn it was to carry the grain. Just... there. A little separate. Like always.

He had one of the wide clay basins hoisted against his hip, arm hooked under it to steady the weight as he moved slowly across the uneven ground. One-armed. Careful. Determined. His shirt clung damp to his back, sweat darkening the fabric between his shoulder blades. His jaw was tight with focus, but not frustrated—just focused.

You didn’t mean to keep watching. But you did. Just for a second.

There was something about the way he moved now—less guarded than before. Still cautious, still scanning his surroundings like it was habit, but not shrinking from it. He wasn’t waiting for approval. He was just working. Sweating. Trying.

He looked up mid-step—maybe sensing your eyes on him—and met your gaze before you could shift it away.

It wasn’t a long look. No lingering. Just a beat. A pause. His expression didn’t change. Yours didn’t either. Then you looked back down, hands moving automatically over the fabric in your lap.

You didn’t smile. You just kept scrubbing.

But you were still thinking about it long after he passed out of your eyeline.

The air had cooled, but the stone beneath you was still warm.

You sat across from him again, legs folded, palms resting against your knees. The same tree overhead. The same quiet rhythm of crickets starting up for the night. The wind carried the faint smell of cooked grains and herbs from someone’s home nearby. A dog barked once. Then quiet again.

He had his eyes closed. Jaw relaxed. Shoulders looser than they used to be. Not completely still, but close. “The kids,” he said quietly, breaking the silence, “they keep calling me something.”

Your eyes stayed closed, but a faint crease touched your brow. “What do they say?”

“It's hard to say,” he murmured, a little sheepish. “It starts with... an 'N'? Ends with something like ‘lope’?”

You opened your eyes slowly. “Ingcuka emhlophe.”

He looked over at you, “What does it mean?”

“White wolf.”

He was quiet a second. Then, “Why?”

You shifted slightly, your fingertips brushing against the ground beside you as you spoke. “Because that is how they see you.”

He turned his head toward you more fully now, just enough to really listen.

“You are not a monster here,” you said, voice calm. “You are a wounded predator. One who was forced to kill. One who now needs healing. And structure.”

You let the words settle. Gave them space. “And,” you added, “because you are not one of us.”

His eyes dropped at that. Not sharply. Just a quiet motion—a flicker downward, like he’d already known, but it didn't mean he liked hearing it said aloud.

But you weren’t finished. You turned toward him more fully now, arms still resting loosely across your lap. “That does not mean you are alone,” you said. Softer. Measured. “You may not be of us. But you are ours to protect.”

His gaze lifted again, meeting yours.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t mean it as a comfort. Or a promise. It was just the truth. Offered, plainly. Without condition.

He didn’t respond right away. Just blinked once, slow. And let his shoulders drop a little more.

The silence had stretched comfortably now, not heavy but full. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once, low and rhythmic.

Bucky shifted where he sat, thumb tracing over the inside of his palm—a nervous habit you’d started to recognize when he was thinking about how to say something.

“They, uh…” he cleared his throat slightly. “The villagers. Some of them call you something too.”

You looked over at him, but didn’t interrupt.

“I… don’t know how to pronounce it.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Ooh—moy… ya?”

You blinked once, then ducked your head—not fast, but quiet, like you were hiding a smile before it got too visible.

For a second, Bucky wondered if you looked… shy? Not embarrassed. Just unguarded in a way he hadn’t seen before.

“Umoya,” you said, gently. “Almost.”

He watched you, carefully. “What does it mean?”

Your fingers brushed a leaf off your knee. You weren’t looking directly at him now, but your voice softened a little when you spoke.

“Windsister.”

The word sat in the space between you, light and deliberate.

“Why do they call you that?” he asked.

You glanced at him, smiling—a small, close-lipped smile. One that felt like it came from a private place. “I’ll tell you that in time.”

He didn’t push it. Instead, after a beat… “Will you teach me?”

“Teach you what?”

“Your language,” he said. “Xhosa.”

Except he said it wrong—"Kosa," too flat, no shape to it. You smiled again—this time openly—and shook your head a little. “Not ‘kosa.’ It’s Xhosa.” You made the click sound with ease, like it belonged to you. Which it did.

He tried to mimic it, but it came out awkward and slightly too sharp.

You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. “Better,” you said, almost kindly. “But not quite.”

“You’ll teach me,” he said again, like he meant it this time.

You tilted your head, thoughtful, but still smiling. “If you keep trying,” you said, “then yes.”

And then you both went quiet again—but it wasn’t like before. It was lighter now. Settled.

The stars overhead said nothing. But something between you had already shifted

He woke up with the taste of metal in his mouth.

His chest heaved once, twice—sharp, uneven. Like he’d surfaced too fast and the air hadn’t caught up yet. The room was dark, his mat damp beneath his back. The blanket stuck to him, sweat down his spine. His fingers dug into the fabric at his side.

The dream was already slipping.

Just flashes now—hands holding him down, voices in languages he didn’t speak, the jolt in his skull as something snapped in place. A cold room. A number instead of a name. Commands like teeth.

He sat up slowly, pressing his palm to the center of his chest, counting each inhale until the tightness started to loosen. His mouth stayed closed. No sound came out. The kind of panic that was practiced—not new, not rare, just managed.

The hut was still. The village beyond it quieter than usual. Even the dogs weren’t barking.

He stood, movements automatic. No shoes. No wrap over his shoulders. Just stepped outside into the cool night air, his arm curled close to his body like it still expected the other to be there. His breath steamed slightly, fading quick.

He didn’t think about where he was going. His feet knew before he did.

Past the firepit, long since burned out. Past the old tree with the hollow near its roots. Through the side path where the lanterns weren’t lit. The gravel shifted beneath him, cool under his soles. The beaded curtains on the doorway ahead barely moved in the breeze.

Your hut. The one with the low-burning lamp always left on near the far wall. The one that smelled like sage and something citrusy he hadn’t placed yet.

He didn’t pause.

Just stood outside for a beat, the beads brushing faintly against his chest as he breathed once—then lifted his hand to gently part them.

Inside, it was quiet. He knew you weren’t awake. But that wasn’t why he came.

The beaded curtain fell shut behind him with a soft rattle, barely louder than the candle burning low in the corner—its flame guttering in the draft, casting a faint, trembling glow across the walls. The room smelled familiar now. Like oil and wood smoke.

You were lying on your side, one arm curled beneath your cheek, your breathing slow and even. A woven blanket rested low on your hips, the edge of your shawl slipping slightly off your shoulder. Your face was relaxed in sleep in a way he hadn’t seen while you were awake.

Bucky hovered near the doorway for a beat too long. His breath still hadn’t fully leveled out. Sweat clung to his chest, cooled now, uncomfortable. He hadn’t brought anything with him—not a cloth, not even his sandals.

He should’ve left. He almost did.

But his legs carried him forward, slow and quiet. He lowered himself down beside where you lay, not close enough to wake you, but close enough to feel your warmth off the floor. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, not at first. Just let the silence hold him.

You stirred before he realized you were awake. Not startled—not fully. Your eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep, brow creasing faintly as you took in the shape beside you.

Him.

Your gaze moved over his face. His chest. His breathing. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t ask why he was there. You just saw him—flushed, sweaty, jaw tight like he hadn’t fully come down from whatever it was that woke him.

Your hand moved before you spoke. You reached out, resting your fingers gently against his upper arm. Your palm didn’t press or grip. It just touched, soft and grounding, like you were reminding him where he was.

You moved without saying a word, the beads at the entrance rustling faintly as a breeze crept in behind you. The candle in the corner had nearly drowned in its own wax, flickering low and dying out just as you lit another.

Bucky stayed crouched, watching as you crossed the room—still quiet, bare feet brushing over the cool mat as you retrieved a small carved bowl from a shelf near the wall. You reached for the small bundle of dried herbs beside it, crumbling some between your fingers.

He caught the scent even before you struck the match, sharp and earthy, almost bitter, like crushed bark and smoke and something floral buried deep.

“Lie down,” you said simply, nodding to the mat you’d been curled on. Your voice wasn’t soft, exactly. It just wasn’t up for debate.

He hesitated.

You glanced at him, already moving to light the herbs. “Where I was,” you added, as if that would help.

And strangely—it did.

He laid back slow, muscles tense, still shirtless. The mat was still warm from where your body had been. His eyes followed as you knelt beside him, with the bowl between your hands, smoke beginning to rise in soft ribbons.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged.

“I’m going to ease you,” you said simply.

He blinked. “Ease me?”

Your brow lifted faintly as you shifted closer, the bowl now resting just beside his chest. “Breathe it in.”

He gave you a look—wary, frozen. “… You tryin’ to get me high?”

That earned him a slow eye-roll, the first of the night. “Do I look like I have time to poison you?”

You reached out and tilted his head gently sideways, your palm warm against the back of his skull as you lowered him slightly toward the smoke. It curled around his face, slow and sweet, sinking into his lungs before he could second-guess it.

He didn’t resist. Didn’t speak again either.

Your thigh was firm beneath his head as you held him steady, a quiet rhythm to the way your thumb absently moved behind his ear. His eyes fluttered, the tension in his chest loosening incrementally with each inhale.

It didn’t feel like getting high. Not quite. But the weight in his limbs was shifting. His breathing evened. The pounding in his skull—that leftover echo from the dream—finally began to fade.

He felt it first in the weight of his limbs. Like gravity had changed its mind about him—pulled him lower, slowed everything down. Bucky blinked slowly as you guided him back, your hand pressing flat against the center of his chest. Not pushing, just steady. Coaxing.

He let himself fall flat.

The bowl still smoked somewhere nearby, but all he could see was you. Leaning over him now, your silhouette catching candlelight in your hair, your palm cupping the side of his face as your fingers moved to his temple in slow, circular strokes.

His eyes fluttered again. Lulled.

Your thumb skimmed along his brow. You were saying something—not to him exactly—a soft murmur in Xhosa that moved like song under your breath. He didn’t know the words, but the cadence alone sunk into him like warmth. A lullaby hummed in a language he didn’t speak.

He swallowed thickly.

You stayed close, your face just above his, eyes downcast in focus as you massaged around the edge of his skull, careful with the ridges of scar near the base of his hairline.

He sighed. Not because he meant to—it just… escaped. “This is nice,” he mumbled, voice heavy with haze.

Your hands didn’t stop moving.

His eyes cracked open again, barely. “…Your hands are warm.”

Still, you said nothing. Just kept tracing his temple, like drawing a map of him you already knew.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “They used to tie me down,” he murmured. “Did you know that?”

The question wasn’t really a question.

He closed his eyes again. “They thought it was easier. When I was screamin’.”

You didn’t flinch. Not once. Instead, your fingers moved to the edge of his jaw. Gentle. Respectful.

“I hated that room,” he said faintly. “Hated how it smelled. Burnt wires and metal. Like blood and cold sweat.”

Another breath. This one caught a little. He didn’t open his eyes. “You’re the only thing that’s smelled… good. In a long time.”

It was so quiet, you almost thought he’d fallen asleep—except his eyes blinked open again, glassy and half-lidded. Staring straight at you.

“They told me I was a weapon. Like I wasn’t supposed to feel anything.”

You didn’t stop touching him.

“They lied,” he whispered.

His head turned into your palm just slightly. Seeking. Grounding.

“They fucking lied.”

You didn’t mean to linger. But something in his voice—low, cracked open, more confession than conversation—held you in place. Your thumb brushed just under the curve of his cheekbone, and you felt it then, the smallest shift in him.

A lean. A sigh. His body loosening under your hands like a knot coming undone thread by thread.

“I know,” you murmured, so softly you weren’t sure if he heard.

But your hand remained at his face, thumb tracing that same quiet path. His skin was warm now—flushed from the herbs, from the still-fading fear.

“You are not that anymore,” you whispered. “You are not theirs. Not here.” Your words felt like breath. Like they were meant to stay close to him.

He didn’t respond at first. Then, slowly—almost unsure—his right hand lifted. Calloused, scarred, rough. He hesitated before his palm settled lightly over yours. Not holding. Just touching. Covering your hand with a kind of care that startled you.

And then… his lashes lifted. And in that moment, the weight of his gaze hit you like a rush of wind—not cold or cutting, but steady. Deep.

Blue. Honest. Exhausted.

He looked at you like he didn’t know how not to.

You swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close you were, how the candles flickered against the curve of his jaw, how your knees were pressed into the woven mat beside his hip. But you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

“I see you,” you said, and it slipped out before you could decide whether or not to say it at all.

His brow twitched—not a frown, not confusion—just a quiet ripple of emotion you didn’t have words for.

“You are not a weapon,” you added, a little firmer this time. “You are not lost. You are here.”

And he was still staring. Not blinking. Not speaking. Just looking at you like maybe—just maybe—he believed you.

Your heart beat quietly in your chest, a gentle rhythm you were sure he could hear.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. His fingers pressed ever so slightly tighter over yours—not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

You didn’t let go. Neither did he.

The curtain rustled before his eyes had even fully opened.

Morning light bled soft through the thatch walls, and there you were—standing in the entrance of his hut, framed by sunlight and fabric still shifting behind you in the breeze. You had a wrapped bundle in your arms, a satchel hanging over one shoulder, and a look on your face that made him blink.

Not your usual expression. Not the pointed sort you wore when telling him to focus or pull his weight or eat slower. No—this was different. You were… trying not to smile.

“You’re awake,” you said, like it wasn’t fully a question. “Good.”

Bucky sat up on one elbow, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. His shirt clung to him slightly—the nights were warmer now. “Didn’t expect visitors this early,” he muttered, voice still hoarse with sleep. “What’s going on?”

You hesitated for a second—a small pause, almost invisible, but he caught it.

“I want to show you something,” you said at last.

Your eyes flicked to the ground for just a heartbeat. You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. He could see the way your fingers fidgeted briefly around the bundle you were carrying, then stilled with intention.

“It is a little far,” you added. “We will be back before nightfall. Pack something light.”

He blinked again. “Where?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just gave a small shrug and tilted your head toward the basin where he kept his things.

“Not telling?” he asked, still trying to gauge you—trying to figure out why you looked half-excited, half-nervous.

Your gaze finally landed on his, steady this time. “It is… something special,” you said simply. And then, just like that, you turned and stepped back into the morning sun.

The curtain swayed behind you, still fluttering when he stood up.

He packed slowly. His mind didn’t race, but it moved—steady and curious. It wasn’t like you to act unsure. Wasn’t like you to seek his company without a task or a lecture or Shuri’s requests behind it. Something about your voice—the soft lilt, the careful pause—sat low in his chest.

Something special.

He tightened the strap on his satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out into the day, where you were waiting at the edge of the path. Arms still full. Eyes on him now, expectant and quiet.

“Ready?” you asked.

He nodded.

It started with open veld; long grass brushing their legs, morning sun angling down warm and full, but the terrain shifted quickly. The trees grew thicker, their shadows stretching over soft ground as you moved ahead, light on your feet, sure in your steps.

Bucky followed, just a few paces behind. His satchel bumped gently against his side. He watched the way the earth darkened and softened the deeper you went—dry clay giving way to rich soil, winding roots and low, knotted branches marking a path that was clearly familiar to you.

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” he asked, stepping over a ridge of rocks.

“No.”

You didn’t even look back when you said it—your voice playful, almost sing-song.

Bucky exhaled a small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Will you ever give me a straight answer?”

You turned your head just enough for him to glimpse your smile. “When I feel like it.”

He shook his head, but kept moving. Your pace wasn’t rushed, but it had that same unbothered ease he’d come to recognize in you—like the wind chose its own path and you simply followed.

Birds chattered high in the trees above. The air smelled green and damp and alive.

“You always do this?” he asked after a beat. “Wake people up at dawn, drag them into the jungle?”

“No,” you said over your shoulder, ducking beneath a low branch with fluid grace. “Just the ones I like.”

That earned a real breath of laughter from him—short, surprised, and involuntary.

And you caught it. You didn’t say anything, but he saw your shoulders shift a little. Not in smugness, but in something softer. Like you were pleased with yourself—with him, even—in a way that wasn’t sharp or teasing. Just light.

He realized then that he liked this version of you. This playful one. This confident, grounded energy without the sharp corners. The way you didn’t explain every step but still made it feel like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be.

And he didn’t even mind not knowing where the hell you were going.

They moved through the underbrush in companionable quiet now—his boots crunching lightly on fallen leaves, your bare feet moving soundlessly over earth you knew like breath.

You brushed aside a low-hanging vine, glancing back at him. “Do you know of Bast?”

Bucky blinked. “Your goddess?”

You smiled. “She is not just a goddess.”

The path curved inward, narrowing between thick trunks and flowering branches. As you walked, your fingers reached out absently to the trees—not brushing them, but acknowledging them, as if they’d notice.

“Bast is…” You took a breath, choosing your words carefully. “She is the protector. The first of us. The one who saw we needed help when the world was chaos. She gave the first king his vision. She gave him the heart-shaped herb. She gave him strength, and clarity. She still gives it.”

He didn’t speak, but you could hear his footfalls behind you—steady, quiet.

“She is not like your god,” you added after a moment. “She does not punish. She does not ask us to kneel.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. You didn’t see it, but you could feel the curiosity from him like heat.

“She is in the land,” you said softly. “In the wind. The soil. The water. She is breath. She is mercy.”

You stepped over a cluster of stones, your voice low but sure. “When a child is born, we whisper her name over their skin. When someone dies, we sing them back into her arms. That is how we know no one is ever truly gone.”

Bucky was quiet for a long stretch. He didn’t say he didn’t believe in that—didn’t scoff or question or turn away. He just kept following, gaze flicking between the trail and you.

You glanced back again, caught the way his face looked softer than usual. Not skeptical. Just… listening. Open in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“Sounds like a lot to believe in,” he said finally, but his voice was gentler than usual.

You shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s simple.”

The terrain shifted as you led him higher—from jungle undergrowth to uneven stone. The trees thinned, and the light changed with it. What had been filtered green was now brighter, sharper, streaking through cracks in the canopy above.

“Careful here,” you said, offering your hand without ceremony as he eyed the ridge ahead.

He took it without hesitation.

The incline wasn’t steep, but the rocks were slick with moss, and his footing was still off sometimes—one arm making balance harder than it should be. You watched the way his boots scraped and slipped, how his jaw tightened when he stumbled. But he didn’t complain. Not once.

You steadied him by the elbow once, and he let you. It wasn’t until the path leveled that he spoke again, a little breathless. “You Wakandans love hiding things on mountains.”

You snorted. “No one hides them. The world just forgets how to look.”

You moved ahead, parting the tall grass with your hands. It gave way to a clearing—and beyond that, the edge of the cliffs. The wind picked up, rolling over your skin in cool waves. “This is where they used to live,” you said quietly. “The Isisa.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he stepped beside you. “What’s that?”

Your lips tugged upward. “Once, they filled the sky.”

You pointed out over the horizon. The view stretched endlessly—ridges layered like waves, sky sweeping wide and untouched.

“They were winged creatures. Huge, the size of a small plane. Sleek like birds, but not quite. They used to fly in flocks above the cliffs, circling during spiritual rites. Watching. Guiding.”

He glanced at you, watching the way you stared out, like you were seeing more than what was there.

“They were Bast’s messengers,” you said. “People believed they carried souls. That when someone passed, an Isisa would come for them, guide them to the next realm.”

Bucky was quiet.

You didn’t look at him when you added, “They were also protectors. They flew during war. During coronations. During births. When Bashenga became king, and the tribes united… they began to disappear. People thought it was because they had done their part.”

He looked up again, scanning the empty blue sky. “And they haven’t been seen since?”

You hesitated, then gave a small smile. “Not exactly.”

He turned to you.

You looked at him then—really looked. The wind caught your hair, moving it gently. There was a softness to your features now, one he hadn’t seen before this day. You took a breath, grounding yourself.

“Most thought they were extinct,” you said, voice quieter. “But some believe they only return when truly needed. When something sacred is reborn.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than it should’ve. You felt it, and pretended not to. You turned your face to the wind instead, eyes closing briefly, before you continued onwards.

The path narrowed into a ledge carved into the cliffside, half-swallowed by roots and vines. You moved with ease, hands brushing the moss-damp bark, ducking under low-hanging branches. He followed carefully behind you, keeping his steps even, his eyes scanning everything.

The wind shifted as you climbed the last steps—stone smoothed by time and ritual. You turned, offering your hand as he reached the final ridge. He took it.

And then he heard it.

A sharp, high-pitched cry split through the air—haunting and strange, like a hunting eagle crossed with a lion’s growl. His whole body locked up, and his hand unconsciously went to his hip like he expected to find a weapon there.

You didn’t flinch. You only smiled softly and turned your head upward.

That’s when he saw it.

Wings spread wide above the trees, slicing through the sunlight. The creature was massive—its wingspan nearly the width of the cliff itself, casting a long shadow as it descended. Its body was sleek and long, somewhere between reptilian and avian, but graceful in a way that didn’t make sense for something that size. The skin shimmered teal when it caught the light, streaked with gold at the edges of its wings and lined with deep, black butterfly-like patterns.

It wasn’t just beautiful. It was divine.

Bucky’s mouth parted slightly. “Shit.”

You didn’t laugh. You just watched her circle above once, then land effortlessly on a thick branch extending from one of the ancient trees—her claws gripping bark, wings tucking in slowly with a low rumble of breath.

She turned her head toward you. Her eyes were wide and amber-gold, intelligent. Knowing.

You stepped forward, head bowed just slightly—not in fear, but something gentler. A quiet greeting. When you turned back to Bucky, your expression had changed. Something softer, more vulnerable.

“This is Za’ta,” you said quietly. “She is… my soul sister.”

Bucky looked at you, then at the creature, then back at you. You weren’t looking for a reaction. You weren’t showing off. If anything, you looked a little shy—bashful in the way your shoulders tilted, how you rubbed your fingers together absently at your side.

He took a step closer, eyes never leaving Za’ta. “Soul sister?” he said, voice low.

You nodded. “She found me when I was a child. I thought she was a dream. No one believed me at first.”

“And now?”

“Now they call her a sign. A reminder that Bast is still watching. That something lost can still return.”

Za’ta gave another low sound in her throat, deep and resonant, like a purr wrapped in thunder. She didn’t seem threatened by him. She only stared. You stepped closer to the base of the tree and reached up, fingers brushing her forelimb with a familiarity that spoke of years. “She is very protective. So don’t be surprised if she does not like you.”

Bucky gave the smallest huff of amusement. “Fair. Most people don’t.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, your hand still resting on Za’ta’s forelimb. “Come,” you said softly. “She won’t hurt you.”

Bucky stood a few feet back, boots pressed into the soft earth just beyond the tree’s wide roots. His gaze flicked between you and the massive creature now crouched along the thick branch above, wings slowly folding in. His shoulders stiffened slightly.

“She looks like she wants to bite my head off,” he muttered.

You smiled at that, a quiet thing. “Only if I ask her to.”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

You extended your hand to him—palm up, open—and held it there.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped closer. The wind tugged at his hair, and his left sleeve—still pinned and folded neatly—brushed his side as he raised his right hand to meet yours. You wrapped your fingers gently around his and guided his palm toward Za’ta’s snout.

Her breathing shifted as she leaned her head forward just slightly. Her nostrils flared as she scented him, and Bucky went still—not frozen, just… alert. Present.

You watched his face, not the moment itself.

His brows were drawn just slightly, lips parted, eyes wide with something more than awe. Wonder, maybe. He was still looking at her like she was something out of a world he hadn’t earned the right to see.

“She’s incredible,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like her before.”

You didn’t look away from him. “I understand what you mean.”

You said it quietly—so quietly it barely rose over the breeze—but he heard it. Your fingers still laced with his. His handwarm in yours.

For a long moment, he didn’t look away from her. And then he did. His eyes dropped down to yours—slow, like gravity had to drag them—and when they landed, you felt it. Something pulled low in your chest. The hush between you suddenly thick.

You didn’t mean to lean in. He didn’t either.

But you did.

The space between you narrowed inch by inch, slowly, without urgency. Like neither of you realized it was happening until it was. His eyes dropped to your mouth for a breath—just a breath—and you felt his hand tighten around yours slightly, like a tether.

Then—

A sharp screech cut through the air, sudden and piercing.

You both flinched back.

Za’ta’s wings rustled as she shifted her weight impatiently, clicking her jaws once and tilting her head between you. Watching. Demanding.

You exhaled a shaky breath and laughed under it—embarrassed, heat prickling behind your ears.

“She… she hates when the attention is not on her,” you said quickly, stepping back and letting go of his hand. “She has always been like this.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He was still watching you. His expression unreadable—but softer than you realised.

You looked anywhere but at him.

And Za’ta huffed again, smug.

The jungle held its breath.

Night clung thick between the trees, but the clearing was cast in amber—the flames from the ritual fire dancing in wide arcs, casting flickers of gold across both your faces. The logs crackled, popped softly. A slow curl of smoke drifted into the canopy, disappearing into the dark.

Bucky sat cross-legged before it, his bare arm resting loosely on his thigh.You stood across from him, wrapped in your ceremonial drape. Quiet. Still. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked on the flames, unmoving. His breath was steady, but shallow. Too even. Like if he let it go, he’d break.

“It is time,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed once against his knee. Finally, his voice came—low and rough. “Are you sure?”

You took a step forward, slow and deliberate. The beads around your ankles chimed gently as you moved through the red light.

“I would not have brought you here if I wasn’t,” you said.

He nodded once, jaw tight. Still didn’t look at you. His voice was quieter the next time. “What if it doesn’t work?”

You watched him, “Then we keep trying.”

“And if it does… if I change—” His throat bobbed. “If I become him again?”

The fire was between you, but only barely. Its warmth licked at your skin. “If it comes to that,” you said gently, “I will stop you.”

He looked up then. His eyes met yours—and you saw it. The fear sitting just behind the surface. The quiet, desperate hope.

You held his gaze. Firm. Steady. “You will not hurt anyone,” you said. “Not tonight. Not here.”

The fire hissed.

Bucky blinked once, then nodded—almost imperceptibly. You saw the way his shoulders drew in, not from shame but from restraint. He wasn’t bracing for failure.

He was bracing for possibility.

You reached into the small carved bowl at your side and pinched a bit of the dark herb Queen Ramonda had prepared—a grounding agent meant to stimulate memory but soften the nervous system. It burned bitter in the flames.

He didn’t flinch.

You closed your eyes for a moment, whispered something under your breath—not for him, but for Bast. Then opened them. You met his gaze again.

The flames painted shadows along his cheekbones, flickering across his skin like something alive, but he didn’t blink. His eyes were fixed on the center of the blaze, shoulders taut, chest rising just a little too fast to be calm.

You took a slow breath, grounding yourself before you spoke.

“Тоска.”

He flinched. Not hard—not visibly—but his body gave a slight jolt, like something deep inside him had twitched on instinct. His eyes didn’t leave the fire, but his jaw clenched.

You continued, voice low but even.

“Ржавый.”

A breath stuttered out of him. You saw it; the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the slight widening of his eyes, like a thread was pulling somewhere in the back of his mind. A place he hated.

“Семнадцать.”

He swallowed thickly. His shoulders rounded in a little tighter, like he was bracing for impact—not physical, but worse. A memory pressing down on him from the inside out.

“Рассвет.”

His breathing hitched again, shallow and audible now. Still no movement. Just his eyes, fixed in the fire, wide and shining.

“Печь.”

A sharp inhale.

“Девять.”

A small tremor in his hand. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t speak.

“Доброкачественный.”

His teeth gritted, muscles in his jaw tight. You could see the glassy sheen now, clinging to his eyes, but he refused to blink. As if even that was too dangerous. Too vulnerable.

“Возвращение домой.”

A flicker. His mouth opened slightly—not to speak, just to breathe. His chest rose in short, sharp pulls. Still, he sat.

“Один.”

The fire popped, as if it had heard. You waited just a second longer. A breath. And then—

“Грузовой вагон.”

It landed like stone dropped in still water.

You watched his face. The glassiness turned to wetness. One tear—not sudden—just… there. Sliding down the side of his face, unbothered by pride. His mouth parted with a sound so small you almost missed it. Not a cry.

A release. A breath he'd been holding for years. You moved then, quietly and carefully, until you were kneeling beside him. You didn’t touch him.

“They’re gone,” you said softly. “The words have no power over you.”

He gave a small nod, barely there, then looked down at his lap. And that’s when it cracked.

A sob escaped—quiet and short, like it had snuck out without permission. His head dropped forward slightly, shoulders hunching. Just… shaking. As if his body didn’t know what to do now that the chains were gone.

His head hung low, his spine curved inward like his body was trying to protect something it no longer knew how to hold. The fire behind you cracked and hissed, but it felt distant now, a heartbeat outside your own.

You sat with your legs tucked beneath you, your hands resting in your lap, eyes fixed on the tremble of his shoulders. You didn’t speak. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t crumble the moment.

Then—quietly, like the words had to be dragged from somewhere inside him—he lifted his head. His eyes were swollen, lashes wet, his nose red, and he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

“…Thank you,” he breathed.

And just like that, your resolve gave out.

You leaned forward without thinking, hands rising to gently cup his face. Your palms were warm against his skin, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes with more gentleness than you meant to show.

He stilled.

His hand stayed in his lap, clenched tight. His left shoulder twitched once against his side, useless, aching. It made him feel unbalanced, almost childlike.

But you didn’t care. You guided his gaze back to yours, close enough that your breaths tangled.

“You are free,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky now. “You hear me, James? You are free.”

His mouth moved like he was going to say something—maybe your name, maybe nothing at all—but no sound came. Just another breath, sharp and broken.

And then he leaned forward. Not rushed, not messy. Just… drawn to you. His forehead came to rest against yours, tentative at first, like he was afraid you’d pull away. But you didn’t. You stayed still, your hands still holding his face, and you let him come to you.

His body trembled against yours as his head dipped, resting against your temple, your hair, your shoulder—wherever he could find something solid.

You didn’t need to speak.

You just stayed with him in the firelight, your hands still cupping his face, while he finally let himself cry.

He couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.

“You’re not gonna tell me where we’re going, are you.”

Your back was to him, but he heard the grin in your breath—light, soft, teasing.

“No.”

The path had narrowed again, the jungle around you thick with dusk. The last hints of sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken threads, but you moved easily, your pace quick and effortless as always. Bucky followed, trailing just behind you—not struggling, just distracted.

Mostly by you.

You were walking a little slower than usual, like you wanted him to catch up, and he did—only to stop again when you turned just slightly and the dying light caught your skin.

He hadn’t said anything yet, but he’d noticed. How your clothes tonight was lighter. Lower on your shoulders. A slit along your hip he was trying very hard not to stare at. Your jewelry caught what little light there was—gold and copper tones that glittered faintly at your throat and wrists. And your scent—

He couldn’t ignore it. It hit him in waves, warm and sharp and soft all at once. Something creamy, but richer. Something smoky and sweet underneath it, like crushed herbs rubbed gently between warm palms.

It made something tighten in his gut before he had a chance to understand why. “You know I don’t like surprises,” he muttered, pushing a low branch aside with his hand.

“You say that,” you hummed, “but you always follow me.”

That made him huff a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. Just enough to admit you were right. He didn’t ask again. He just kept his eyes on the way your bare shoulders caught the last of the gold light, the way your hips shifted gently with each step, how loose your body was—not careless, just… unguarded.

And then he heard it. A low, rushing sound from somewhere ahead. Not wind. Not animals. Something steady. Powerful.

He slowed his steps. “…Is that a—?”

Bucky ducked beneath a cluster of vines, one hand brushing the trunk beside him for balance, his boots sinking slightly into damp moss. The roar of the waterfall grew louder as the trees thinned. The path narrowed again—now more of a ledge than a trail, sloped slightly downward, leading toward the sound.

You turned to him with a small nod, lifting your hand toward the curtain of water ahead. It shimmered silver in the last breath of evening light, a wall of liquid glass pouring down the cliffside like it had been doing so for centuries.

“This way,” you said, voice softer now.

He raised a brow. “Through it?”

You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Trust me.”

He didn’t hesitate.

You stepped first, your hand skimming the rock as you angled your body along the edge of the cliff wall, slipping through the narrow gap between stone and water. Bucky followed, keeping close behind you.

The moment he stepped under the fall’s spray, he sucked in a sharp breath—the water hit cold at first, soaking his shirt instantly, cascading over his shoulders like a slap.

“Shit—”

His foot slipped on the smooth stone, and for a second he flailed, only for your hand to shoot out and grip his wrist—your fingers strong, grounding. You steadied him.

He blinked the water out of his eyes, still hunched slightly as the current pelted his back. You looked up at him, already drenched too, and laughed—not loudly, just a small, surprised sound that slipped out like you hadn’t meant for it to.

He stared for a second before something low in his chest gave—and then he was laughing too. Just a breath. Just once.

You held his arm a second longer than necessary before releasing him gently. “This way,” you said again, tilting your head toward the dark behind the water.

You led him through it—deeper, drier, into a space carved by nature and time. And then he saw it.

The cavern opened gradually, its walls slick and smooth, the ceiling arching high above like a dome. Faintly, impossibly, light glimmered from within the stone itself—streaks of soft violet pulsing through the walls like veins. White engravings—symbols, words, maybe names—had been carved by hand, some so old the edges had worn to nothing.

The sound of the waterfall became muffled here.

Bucky’s voice came quietly, like he couldn’t help it. “What is this place?”

You didn’t look at him at first. You stepped further in, water dripping from your arms, your back straight but your voice gentle.

“A place for prayers,” you said. “To be heard.”

You turned slowly to face him. Your eyes flicked to the glowing walls, then back to his face.

“…And sometimes answered,” you added, a little quieter.

You walked further in, your bare feet silent against the cool stone, stopping near a small rise in the floor where smooth slabs had been arranged in a wide circle—natural, almost like a nest of rock.

Bucky trailed behind you, slowly, eyes adjusting to the cavern’s low light. The pulsing violet veins in the walls gave just enough to see—shadows flickering gently over his face, the damp curve of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

His hand drifted out to trace the symbols nearest him. He didn’t touch them at first—just hovered. Then, slowly, he let his fingers graze the stone. The grooves were faint, worn, but still there. Words in a language he couldn’t read.

“We call this place…” you began, your voice echoing gently off the walls, “Umqolomba wezandi.”

Bucky glanced toward you. You were standing near one of the glowing crests, your hand resting lightly against the rock, like greeting an old friend.

“It means…” you turned toward him, “the cavern of echoes.”

His gaze flicked to the ceiling, then around again—like he was finally beginning to feel what this space was.

“Wakandans believe the walls carry the voices of our ancestors,” you continued. “When someone prays here, the wind returns the sound. Not loud—just… enough. Just a whisper.”

He didn’t speak. You stepped forward slowly, closer now, until your voice dropped slightly. “Some come here to seek guidance. Some to mourn. Others come to whisper things they’re too afraid to say out loud.”

He didn’t take his eyes off you.

The violet glow from the stone etched itself along your cheekbones, catching in the curve of your nose and the line of your collarbone. Your skin shimmered with it—like the cave was pulling its light from you, or maybe the other way around.

Bucky stood a few paces away, one hand still pressed lightly against the wall, fingertips resting on the carved stone.

“Why’d you bring me here?” he asked quietly.

You met his gaze just for a moment—and then turned away, eyes flicking toward the deepest part of the cavern. The faintest smile tugged at your mouth, sad and barely there.

“I thought…” you began, voice low, nearly drowned by the hush of dripping water, “you might like to see one last thing that is special to me.”

He stepped closer, slow and careful. His hand fell to his side. He didn’t rush you. Just stood there.

“One last thing?” he asked, softer this time.

You nodded once. Still not looking at him. “You are free now.”

The words came out smaller than you expected. You swallowed and pressed on, forcing them to be steady.

“Your mind, your body. They belong to you again.” You let out a tight breath, arms folding lightly over your stomach. “You are no longer bound to this place.”

He heard the shift in your voice. Not anger. Not even grief. Just that quiet thing that sits under both—a kind of sadness people don’t name. You kept your eyes forward. “You can go home. To America. To whatever life you have waiting for you.”

A beat passed. And then another. He said nothing.

You finally turned your head, just slightly, your gaze still somewhere near the floor. “You are not a prisoner, James.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then, voice low—not confused, not sudden, just certain.

“…What if I don’t wanna leave?”

That made your breath catch and you looked up. He was watching you. Not the way he looked at the walls, or the fire, or even the sky above the cliffs. He was looking at you.

You averted your gaze when you spoke again—voice lighter now, but not quite free of its ache.

“Well, you are free now,” you said, almost teasing, but not fully. “You can do whatever you want.”

Behind you, Bucky didn’t answer, but you heard the faint shuffle of his boots against the stone—inching closer.

You kept your gaze ahead, eyes following the purple light in the walls like it was safer to look at than him. “You could stay, if you wanted. Here in Wakanda.”

He was closer now—not quite beside you, but you could feel the warmth of him just over your shoulder.

“There is a place for you in the city. Or the village. You have many skills.” You gave a small shrug, hoping it looked casual. “They’d be lucky to have you.”

Your voice dropped slightly. “And if you wanted…” You shifted your hands in front of you, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “You could create a family. Start again.”

You meant it. You did. Even if it scraped something raw inside you.

You exhaled slowly. “Wakanda has the most beautiful women in the world.” You glanced sideways, just enough to see his profile in the low light. “As you’ve seen in our village.”

That came out more bitter than you meant it to. He didn’t call it out. Didn’t acknowledge it it. Just kept his gaze on you, mouth twitching like he was biting back something.

“Amahle sings like a bird,“ you said, voice soft, but flat as you rolled your eyes, “Everyone says her voice could wake Bast herself.”

“... I don’t want Amahle.”

His voice came quiet, close behind your ear. You tried not to react, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. You turned a little more toward the wall, hiding your smile with another breath.

“Mandisa is a good hunter,” you added casually.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little lower now. “She is.”

You turned sharply, brows furrowed, head snapping toward him, a frown growing on your lips.

Bucky was already smirking.

You sighed. “You are trying to be funny.”

“I’m succeeding.”

He looked pleased with himself. His face was relaxed in a way you didn’t see often—that boyish ease creeping through, tugging the lines of his mouth into something crooked and soft.

The smirk faded from his face slowly, but the closeness stayed.

He didn’t step back. Instead, Bucky leaned in—just a little—until his chest nearly brushed yours, the heat of him warming the air between you. You felt it rise, all at once, like your body had only just now realized how close he really was.

His breath touched your cheek. His nose almost grazed yours.

And then, gently, he raised his hand, fingers calloused and careful as they lifted to your jaw. He didn’t rush. Just let the back of his knuckles skim the side of your face first, like asking permission without speaking. When you didn’t flinch, his palm settled softly against your cheek.

You leaned into it. Barely. But you did.

He watched you. Every part of you. The slight part of your lips. The flutter of your lashes. The way your breath caught in your throat when he spoke.

“I know which woman I want,” he said, voice low—not raspy, not strained, just… quiet. Truthful. “But this woman must also choose me.”

The words sat there between you, trembling slightly in the stillness.

And then you smiled. Soft at first. Small. But real.

It bloomed slow, like light warming over your face—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, crinkled the corners, made your lashes lower like you were trying to shield the joy behind them.

And Bucky…

He didn’t breathe for a second.

Because it hit him suddenly—that smile. That it could burn brighter than any fire in this cave. That it made something stir in him, deep and good and maybe desperate.

You tilted your head just slightly into his palm. And your voice came in a murmur—so quiet, it almost disappeared into the echoing stone.

“She already has.”

He didn’t move at first.

Even with your words hanging between you—soft and sure—he stayed still for a breath. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone slowly, once, and you watched the way his eyes dipped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, asking without asking.

And then, finally, he leaned in. Slow. Careful. Like he was still waiting for you to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Your eyes stayed on his, heavy and unblinking. You could feel the way his breath trembled against your lips just before they touched—feather-light, a brush more than a kiss, like the moment itself was scared it would shatter if either of you moved too fast.

The first contact was barely a second.

He pulled back an inch, eyes searching yours again—checking. Not for rejection. For permission to fall apart. And then your fingers found his wrist and you held it there as you leaned forward this time, mouth tilting up to his again.

This kiss was deeper.

His lips pressed more firmly, shaping to yours with growing certainty. Warm. Intentional. His hand cupped your jaw tighter, not possessive, just present—thumb slipping behind your ear as your mouth opened slightly beneath his.

He tasted like breath and earth and the faint hint of herbs still lingering on his tongue. You sighed into him, your lips parting again, more confidently this time—and he met it, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until your noses brushed and your mouths moved like they’d done this before in another life.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. But it was hungry, like something long-denied finally unfolding itself without shame.

You felt the drag of his bottom lip against yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe—only to kiss you again, mouth firmer now, more certain. You answered with a small sound in your throat, something soft and needing, and his hand slipped from your cheek down to your neck, holding you there.

Your lips stayed locked —deep, slow, and consuming. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of it, learn the exact pressure that made you sigh, how long to linger before pulling away and pressing back in.

His dragged his knuckles lightly down the line of your throat. You shivered, not from cold, but from how warm your skin felt under his touch—slick, soft, prepared.

He felt it too. His fingers paused at your collarbone, as though registering something he hadn’t noticed until now—the way your skin gleamed faintly in the purple cave light, the faint shimmer of oil that clung to your shoulder.

He broke the kiss, just barely, lips still brushing yours as he whispered, “You smell really… good.”

You smiled, small and shy, as his hand moved again, trailing along the curve of your shoulder with a gentleness so soft it didn’t need the word.

“Shea butter,” you murmured against his mouth. “And… rose oil.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Thought I was going crazy.”

Your noses bumped again as he kissed you once more—deeper this time, tongue sliding gently against yours. Your lips parted easily, like you’d been waiting for him to stop holding back.

His tongue moved slow—careful, tasting—coaxing yours to meet him with the same rhythm. The heat pulsed low in your belly. You leaned closer, your body drawn to his without needing to think, and you felt his hand skim further down—across the line of your upper chest, fingers splayed. The pads of them gliding over oiled skin, the slip of it making his breath hitch in his throat.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

His hand kept moving—lower now, tracing the inside of your arm, then circling back up to press against the small of your back, guiding you closer into him. The kiss had deepened into something more now—your mouths slow but messier, wetter, tongues sliding in practiced rhythm, breath catching between swallows.

Your body responded in kind—your chest rising, brushing his, your hips tilting slightly, angling into his heat. His hand moved again—back to your neck, then your shoulder—his thumb slipping over your collarbone, down the swell of your chest, just grazing the upper curve of your breast through the fabric.

You broke the kiss gently, your lips lingering against his for a second longer before you pulled back, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

“Let me see you,” you whispered.

His brows twitched slightly, his breath shallow, but he didn’t ask what you meant. He just looked at you—looked through you—for a moment longer, then reached for the hem of his shirt.

The fabric stuck slightly to his skin, damp from the air and the heat between you. He tugged it upward in one slow pull with his hand, careful not to rush, and let it fall behind him with a dull whisper on the stone floor.

You exhaled.

The cave light caught the lines of him—soft purples and muted whites streaking across the planes of his chest, the hard curves of muscle shaped by war and grief. His torso was broad and strong, marred with a constellation of old scars. Some long-faded. Some newer. Some you’d seen before, from a distance when he washed by the river.

But now, they were offered to you. Your hands lifted slowly, sacred without trying to be. You let your fingertips touch his chest first—just a brush, testing. He stayed still.

You dragged your hand up, tracing the faint slash beneath his ribs, then higher, over the long scar that cut across his sternum. His skin was warm. Alive. Steady.

Your other hand joined, smoothing along his chest, rising toward his shoulder—his right—where flesh still met bone. You felt the dip of his collarbone under your thumb. The tension in his neck.

And then you saw it. The left side. The end of it.

The soft, healed edge where the metal used to continue. Now just a metal shoulder, curved and cold where limb had once been. You didn’t hesitate—your hand moved there too, fingers slow, brushing the edge where metal had once been forced into living body.

That’s when he looked away.

He dropped his head slightly, jaw tight. You felt the shift in him, like something pulling back. “I wish…” he said softly, the words caught on something raw. “I wish I could feel you with both hands.”

Your chest ached.

You moved without thinking—both hands rising to cup his face, gently but with certainty. His skin was warm under your palms, scruff along his jaw. You tilted his face back toward you.

“Don’t look away,” you whispered.

His eyes found yours again, guarded but open. Flickering. You held him there.

“This,” you said, your thumb brushing lightly beneath his cheekbone, “is a symbol of your survival. Your strength.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his, letting your hands fall back to his chest—grounded, present.

“I want you,” you said quietly. “Just like this.”

Bucky couldn’t remember how they got to the ground.

One minute, your mouth was on his, your hands mapping his chest with slow adoration, and the next—he was on his back, the cool stone of the cavern floor beneath him, smooth as water-worn bone.

You were in his lap, straddling him, your knees braced on either side of his hips. His hand was on your waist, fingers digging in, not hard—but anchored, like he needed the contact to keep himself tethered to this moment. To you.

Your lips never left his. It was slower before. Gentle. But now—

Now it was need.

You kissed like it had been years. Like it had been denied for lifetimes. His mouth was open against yours, breath ragged, tongue dragging against yours in a rhythm that was no longer careful. Your hands had disappeared somewhere—he couldn’t even tell where—because all he could feel was your body moving against his, your chest brushing his, your thighs tightening every time your hips rolled just right.

His beard scraped against your cheek, your chin, the underside of your jaw as he kissed lower, biting softly at your throat, open-mouthed and warm. You arched into him, your back curving, and his hand followed instinctively—pressing flat along your spine, guiding your body closer until there was nothing left between you but heat.

You smelled like sweat now—like skin, oil, the scent of perfume still clinging to your pulse points. The smell of you dizzying, something earthy and warm and faintly sweet. He wanted it everywhere. On his tongue. In his mouth. On his body.

He grunted something low in his throat and pressed his mouth to your collarbone, his lips dragging over the slick warmth there, tasting the rose oil and salt. His hand moved up, cupping the back of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw as he pulled your mouth back to his.

He needed to feel you everywhere.

Your hips shifted again—slow, grinding, and his cock twitched hard beneath the fabric, trapped between your bodies. You felt it. He knew you did. The noise you made—soft, breathy—went straight to his spine.

His kiss turned rougher—still careful, still wanting to worship you, but there was nothing polite about this now. This was hunger. This was claiming. Your lips swollen, breath catching between gasps and moans. You kissed like you were already ruined. Like the fire you’d started weeks ago had finally reached its burn point.

You broke the kiss first. Not far—only enough to breathe—but he followed you instinctively, chasing your mouth like he wasn’t ready to let it go. His lips brushed yours again and again, searching, impatient.

“Wait,” you whispered.

He stilled, breathing hard, pupils blown wide as he watched you.

Your hand lifted slowly to the knot at the base of your neck—the simple tie holding your wrap in place. The movement was deliberate, almost shy, though your chest was rising fast enough to betray you.

Bucky’s gaze followed every second.

You tugged once.

The fabric loosened.

You tugged again.

And it slipped.

The cloth fell away from your chest and pooled around your waist, leaving you bare to him in the soft purple glow of the cavern. The cool air kissed your skin, but you barely noticed it—not with the way he was staring at you.

He looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Your breasts rose and fell with your ragged breaths, skin shining faintly from oil and warmth. You could see the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand twitched against your hip like he didn’t know where to touch first.

You leaned forward and kissed him again before he could say anything. But his attention had shifted.

His mouth left yours almost immediately, sliding down to your neck, tongue dragging along the damp curve of your skin. He kissed there, slow and messy, lips open, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“Wanna taste you,” he murmured against your throat.

You gave a small nod, barely able to think, and his mouth moved lower. His hand slipped up your side, thumb brushing over the underside of your breast as his lips followed the same path. You felt his breath first, hot and shaky—then his mouth closed around your nipple.

The first pull of his lips made your head fall back.

A soft, unguarded moan slipped out of you as he sucked, gentle at first, then firmer—tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk forward against him.

Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, holding him there as he switched sides, giving the same attention to the other breast. His hand kneaded at your waist, dragging you closer, guiding your body to move against his.

You rolled your hips again—harder this time—grinding down against him. You could feel him beneath you, thick and straining through his pants, and the friction made you gasp.

“My James—”

He groaned at the sound of his name, mouth still on you, and the vibration of it went straight through your body.

Your hands fumbled at the waistband of his pants, his breath hot and shaky against your neck as you kissed him between desperate, half-laughed curses. The sound of fabric dragging against skin filled the cave—wet with sweat, clinging, urgent—as he finally shoved them past his hips with your help.

You sat up just enough to tug them off the rest of the way, tossing them aside. He was already bare beneath, hard and flushed and waiting, the sight of him making your thighs tighten.

The air was thick around you, warm and damp, your bodies gleaming in the violet glow. Your chest was still rising fast, skin slick with oil and heat, and he was staring up at you now—flat on his back, hand firm on your waist like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

His mouth was parted, eyes trailing slowly from your breasts to your stomach to the place between your thighs. Adoring. Devouring. And still, just softer than lust. Like he was seeing a vision he didn’t think he deserved.

You leaned forward again, kissing him once, slow and open-mouthed, before whispering against his lips, “Now we become one.”

And then you reached between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance.

You angled your hips carefully, breath catching when the head of his cock pressed against you—thick and hot and already leaking, your folds slick from want and desire. He groaned beneath you, the sound strained and breathless as your hand stroked him once, then lined him up again.

You held his gaze as you began to sink down. Slow. Stretching.

Your body opened around him inch by inch, the burn sweet and perfect, your walls clenching as he filled you. You gasped, forehead dropping to his, and his hand clamped harder on your waist, thumb digging into the soft dip of your hip as he breathed through it with you.

“Fuck—” he rasped. “So tight—”

You whimpered against his jaw, your thighs shaking as you lowered further, the stretch making your head spin. He was thick, every inch dragging against you, and you could feel the way your body adjusted to take him. Your cunt fluttered as you seated yourself fully.

You stayed still a moment, chests heaving, foreheads pressed and breath shared.

And then you started to move—slow at first, easing into it, your hips rocking gently as you adjusted to the weight of him inside you.

Bucky groaned, the sound guttural and rough, his hand gripping your waist like a lifeline. His eyes were fixed on where your bodies met, the slick drag of you gliding up and down on his cock. He watched with his mouth parted, sweat already clinging to his brow, chest rising fast.

“Shit… you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”

You moaned at the praise, your hands braced on his shoulders as you picked up the rhythm—grinding down, then lifting, riding him slow and deep. Each time you dropped your hips, he hit that perfect spot inside you, and your breath came shorter, messier, your thighs beginning to tremble.

The cave amplified everything—the slap of skin, the wet glide of your cunt around him, your moans echoing off the walls, layered over the low roar of the waterfall beyond. The air felt thick with it, humid and alive.

You rode him harder now—hungrier.

Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your ass smacking against his thighs as you worked yourself over him, chasing every drop of friction. Bucky’s hand dragged from your waist up to your breast, cupping it, thumb brushing your nipple as he thrust up into you from below.

He could only touch what his hand could reach—but he touched you like it mattered. Like he meant it. Palm sliding down your stomach, fingertips trembling as they traced the sheen of oil and sweat, down to your pelvis where he pressed his thumb against your clit and rubbed.

You cried out, head snapping back, the pleasure white-hot.

“Look at you,” he groaned, voice cracking. “So fucking beautiful—riding me like this—”

You leaned down, panting against his jaw as you rode him harder, messier now, the rhythm losing its grace, becoming more primal. Your walls clenched around him, slick dripping down your thighs, the sounds of it loud, obscene, echoing like prayer.

He was too far gone now. The need—no, the craving—to feel more of you, to bury himself deeper, to give in overtook whatever control he’d been holding onto. And even with only one arm, he moved with purpose.

“C’mere—” he rasped, voice wrecked and low, and with a groan of effort, he shifted.

It wasn’t graceful—his balance off, his body strained—but somehow he managed to turn you beneath him, easing your back down onto the stone floor with a grunt and a clumsy half-roll that made both of you gasp-laugh through the haze. His hand braced above your shoulder, his knees sinking between your thighs, body hovering over yours.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he murmured, breath hot against your cheek. “Tighter.”

You obeyed, locking your thighs around his waist—holding him close, keeping him there, right where you wanted him. Right where you both needed this to happen.

And he started to thrust again. Harder now. Deeper.

Each stroke knocked a cry from your throat, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into him like your bones didn’t know how else to respond. His pelvis pressed flush with yours on every pump, the rhythm steady and sharp, and you could feel how deep he was—how full you were—how good he made you feel, even with just one hand and every ounce of concentration funneled into you.

He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, tasting your whines as they broke free, his body slamming into yours faster. When your head fell to the side, he kissed your neck, your shoulder, your jaw—everywhere he could reach, panting between moans, sighing your name into your skin like it was prayer.

And then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His thrusts slowed for a beat.

The cave light shimmered across his face, sweat lining his brow, his chest heaving above yours. You could barely keep your eyes open, pleasure swimming behind your lashes.

But then he said it. Voice thick, barely a whisper.

“Ndiyakubona.”

I see you.

Even through the haze, your mouth broke into a smile—soft and dazed and full of everything your body couldn’t say. And without answering, you pulled him down, crashing your lips to his again, arms around his shoulders as your hips lifted to meet each thrust as it turned rougher.

Unrelenting.

It was no longer slow or sensual—it was instinct. The slap of his hips against your thighs echoed through the cavern, the air thick with sweat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of your cunt clenching around him with every punishing stroke.

He adjusted his stance, gritting his teeth, and shifted you up—pressing your knees toward your chest, his hand gripping the back of your thigh, holding it open as he fucked into you deeper. Your body arched under him, your head thrown back, mouth open, moaning without shame.

This was carnal now. Primal.

You were folded beneath him, trapped in a mating press, your legs shaking around his waist, your hands clutching uselessly at the slick stone floor as he drove into you like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

He was panting—loud and sharp, every muscle tight—but his eyes never left you. He was watching. Watching your face, your mouth, the way your brows twisted, the way your back arched higher with each thrust, like you were caught somewhere between ruin and salvation.

“Finish for me,” he grunted. “Let me feel it. Let me—fuck—let me feel you.”

You whimpered, your voice breaking with each slap of his hips, the pleasure unbearable. And then it happened.

You cried out, legs clamping around his waist, your body locking up as the orgasm crashed through you—white-hot, full-body, helpless. Your walls clenched around him so tight it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Bucky felt it.

Felt you milk him, tighten around his cock like your body was made to take him. His head dropped forward, his mouth falling open in something like awe.

“Holy fuck—”

He stared at you, wild-eyed, stunned, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

You were still cumming—still gasping—your thighs trembling around him, your cunt pulsing as aftershocks rippled through your belly.

And Bucky had never felt anything like it.

Not in his entire life. Your pleasure, his name on your lips, your body spasming beneath him, because of him—

He was close. So close.

You were still panting, your body limp beneath him, your skin slick and glowing under the cavern’s low purple light—but he didn’t stop.

Bucky kept thrusting—slower now, but deep, deliberate, like he was chasing something he was scared to catch. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, holding you steady, your cunt still fluttering around him, soaking and spent.

“Fuck—” he groaned, voice cracking. “I’m close—”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, lips parted, skin flushed.

And he leaned down. Pressed his mouth to yours—soft at first, desperate beneath the tenderness—and kissed you through it.

Then he broke away just enough to breathe.

He thrust once.

Twice.

And on the third—he came.

With a broken sound in his throat, he drove into you, hips jerking as his release tore through him. He spilled deep inside you, thick and hot, his whole body shuddering from the force of it. His thighs trembled, his jaw slackened, and he dropped his head forward, forehead pressed to yours as he tried to catch his breath.

His arm shook beneath him, struggling to hold his weight, but he stayed there—inside you, skin pressed to skin, sweat dripping from his temple to your cheek.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You kept your eyes open, watching him through the haze—not touching, not speaking. Just watching. The way his lashes stayed low, the small twitch of his jaw, the slight wince in his expression as the high began to ebb.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

He looked down at you, lips slightly parted, his chest heaving above yours. The expression on his face wasn’t something he could name—not yet. Not exactly. But it looked a lot like being broken open in the gentlest way.

He swallowed hard.

“…Shit,” he muttered, voice low and rough. Not ashamed. Just overwhelmed.

He was still inside you. Still hard, still twitching faintly from the aftershocks.

But even in that fog, he shifted—careful not to collapse onto you. He slid out of you with a low groan, drawing a quiet whimper from your throat at the loss, and moved onto his back beside you, his chest rising and falling in heavy waves.

You both stared up at the cavern ceiling for a few long moments. The stone above glowed softly, the walls still humming faint with the pulse of the violet veins.

Neither of you spoke.

And then—after maybe two breaths too long—he reached for you.

His arm came up and around your back. He pulled you into him, not forcefully, but fully—pressing your bare body against his chest like he couldn’t bear to let the space grow cold between you.

You folded into him easily, instinctively. Your head rested just below his jaw. His lips found your forehead.

And then—as if pulled—your mouth tilted up, found his again. Slower now. Softer. Still open-mouthed, still wet, but no longer frantic.

Your lips finally parted again, not out of need, but because you both simply ran out of air.

The kiss faded into stillness. Your forehead stayed against his, your fingers still resting on his chest, tracing absentminded shapes into the skin just above his heart. You could still feel it beating—slower now, steadier. But still there. Still real.

His hand smoothed along your back, dragging a lazy line down your spine like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

You didn’t either.

Until finally, he murmured—barely audible, but firm,

“…Thank you.”

You blinked. You pulled back a little, just enough to see his face. His eyes were still on you. Heavy-lidded.

“For what?” you asked, soft.

A pause.

Then he said it—slowly, like every syllable cost something.

“For saving me.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“I didn’t save you,” you said eventually, after a beat. “I only helped—”

“No,” he cut in, quiet but certain. “You saved me.”

Your brows pulled slightly.

He exhaled through his nose. Not out of frustration—just trying to find the right words. Words he wasn’t used to saying.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever… feel like a person again,” he said, his voice rasped with fatigue, but not hesitation. “Not after what they did to me. Not after all the decades that I was just a… a thing.”

He looked at you again. “And then I came here. And I met you.”

Your expression softened, almost imperceptibly, but you didn’t interrupt. You let him speak.

“You didn’t flinch when you saw me,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Didn’t look at me like I was some... broken weapon. You just looked. And listened. And existed.”

He paused again.

“I haven’t been able to breathe in years,” he whispered. “Not without waiting for the trigger to pull again. Not without thinking someone’s gonna drag me back into something. But here… with you…”

His fingers flexed faintly against your back.

“I can finally fucking breathe.”

You blinked slowly. Your heart pulled so tight it hurt.

He didn’t need to say I love you. This was deeper than that. He still wasn’t looking at you directly now—not all the way. Just barely off, like it was too much.

And when you finally spoke again, it wasn’t to dismiss his words or soften them. You just said, simply,

“…You saved yourself.”

His eyes flicked back to yours. Still wide open. Still raw.

“I was just there to hold the net,” you said. “You did the climbing.”

You didn’t know how long you stayed there.

The rhythm of your breathing had synced again, like the hush between waves. The cavern, once echoing with gasps and desperate cries, was still now. A sacred hush laid over everything—water still falling outside, glowing rock pulsing soft violet all around you, but inside, it was just the two of you.

He was still staring at you.

You were still staring back.

At some point, you had propped yourself slightly onto your elbow, the cool of the stone under your skin grounding you as your other hand tangled with his. His thumb brushed yours absently, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And then he spoke. Quiet. Uncertain.

“Maybe…” he began, the rasp still clinging to the back of his throat. “…maybe I had to go through all of it. The war. Hydra. All of it.”

You blinked slowly.

He swallowed.

“Maybe I had to lose everything so I could find you.”

His voice wasn’t smooth. It cracked halfway through. But he didn’t look away this time. Not when he said it.

Your chest tightened—too full, too much. Your heart hurt with it. In the most devastating way.

Your fingers lifted to his cheek, brushing the hair back that had fallen near his brow. His eyes closed under your touch—not from shame. Just from… feeling.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your voice almost a whisper.

“You did not deserve what they did to you,” you murmured. “Not any of it.”

His jaw clenched slightly.

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“But you survived. You endured.”

You kissed his temple.

“And if the path led you to me…” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes again.

“…Then I am grateful for every step you took.”

a/n | if you’ve made it this far, well damn, what did you think?

Okay so obviously i made up the Isisa based on the Ikran to make our girl extra special. and is based on Neytiri’s first Ikran, Seze:

I literally have a full on fic in my head of our girl being present in Black Panther's plot and Infinity War, but lets just put it in my back pocket for now. The warthog and cave scene are directly taken from Avatar, when Neytiri first met and saved Jake; and their bonding and mating scene. I still wanted to have more fluffy scenes before she became soft with bucky, with him watching her when she’s soft and playful with others, like during a baptism celebration, or more scenes with Za’ta she’s supposed to give off this:

andddd also realised there wasn’t that many wakandan!reader fics, wonder why…

people can write and imagine themselves as russian assassins, goddesses and literal aliens… but never as an indigenous girlie, smh

[eau-melancolique]

literally some of the most beautiful imagery ive ever read. more ppl need to write wakandan!reader