Kass / 32 / / Washington State I believe in magick, faeries, love and freedom. Living in a cottage near the woods I journal with stickers and sometimes paint. I love fanfic, romance books (the darker the better), comics, animals, hockey and aesthetics ππβ€οΈβπ₯ππͺ²ππ
And he calls you honey and sweetheart as he's railing into you. Babygirl and angel. Cradling you like you're fragile but fucking you like you're indestructible.
Content warning; Mentions of prosthetic limbs, shower sex, female readerΒ
Summary; You want Jack to feel comfortable in your space, even if that means making a few home improvementsΒ
He knocked twice, then let himself in with the key you gave him last month, takeout bag in one hand, an easy grin already on his face in anticipation of seeing you.Β
"Hey, I brought, " he stopped in the hallway. The bag crinkled as his grip tightened slightly. He could hear you in the bathroom, the hum of a drill, and a thick air of concentration. He set the food down on the counter then he stopped. Leaning neatly against the arm of your sofa was a brand-new pair of crutches.
They weren't his.
The rubber tips were spotless and they still had the plastic films wrapped around the length. He reached out, running his thumb over the plastic.
"What?"
A mumble floated out of the bathroom, and he followed the sound. The bathroom door stood open with you, kneeling on an old towel spread across the tiles, drill clutched in one hand as you tightened the final screw into a stainless-steel grab bar mounted beside the shower. The room looked like a renovation site. Your toolbox laid open on the floor, surrounded by scattered screws, instruction booklets, a tape measure, and a level. Fine white dust coated the towel beneath your knees, and another streak dusted the front of your jean shorts where you'd wiped your hands without thinking. You leaned back, squinting at the grab bar before holding the level against it.
"Hey." His voice was careful, the ER calm he uses when he doesn't want to spook someone.
You jumped, looking over your shoulder. "Jesus Jack!" The drill nearly slipped out of your grip and you pressed a hand to your chest. "You scared me."
"I wanted to surprise you." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely, eyes tracking over the rails, the seat, even a small rubber mat waiting to be unrolled, then back to you.
"What is all this?"
Your smile became suddenly unsure and you didnβt know what to say.
"There are crutches on your couch." He said, pointing to the living room.
You glanced past him.
"I was wondering where I left them." You joked, and he crossed the small bathroom in two steps, crouched down next to you, and wrapped a hand around the rail, testing the give. Solid. Level. Anchored properly.
"I watched a lot of YouTube videos." You told him and he laughed, but it caught halfway and when he looked at you his eyes were too bright for it to just be amusement.Β
He didnβt say anything else for a moment. Just stayed crouched there next to the rail, one hand still resting on it, like he needed the solid weight of it under his palm to believe it's real.
"Jack?"
"Yeah. Sorry. I'm," he shook his head, huffed a breath out through his nose, and when he looked up at you his eyes were shining in a way that caught you off guard. "Can I sit down a second?"
"Of course."
He didnβt go far, just sank down right there on the closed toilet lid, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them like he was trying to hold onto something.Β
βYou never stay here, you always find an excuse why we should go back to yours instead, and I realised that youβre not comfortable here.β You gestured to your handy work, βbut I want you to feel comfortable. I want you to be able to come back here, and not think.β
He lifted his head looking at you through his lashes.Β
βI know your apartment is easier, but I want it to be easy here too. So after work, if you come here youβll have crutches and you wonβt have to put your leg back on in the night to pee, and I donβt know.β Your voice trailed off, going quiet. You and Jack had only been dating a month or so, and you werenβt sure if you had overstepped.Β
"I've spent years figuring out how to walk into a room and just read it," he said, eyes drifting back to his hands. βYou get good at doing the math so fast nobody even notices you're doing it." He laughed, but it didn't have much air behind it. "I'm good at doing the math." He looked up at you, and there was nothing guarded in his face then, none of the easy charm he wore at work. Just him. "Nobody's ever done the math for me. Everybody loves me, everybody's kind, but it's always me figuring out how to fit into their space. Their apartment. Their life." His jaw worked for a second.Β
Your throat went tight, and you tried to hold back tears. "It's just grab rails."
"It's not." He reached over and took your hand, turning it over like he was checking it for damage, thumb tracing over your knuckles. "It's you looking at your apartment and thinking about my body instead of just my company." His voice cracked slightly on the last word and he pressed his lips together, blinking hard.
"Hey." You slide onto your knees in front of him, hands coming up to his face. "Hey, look at me."
He did, his eyes were wet now, unashamed of it in a way that undid you a little. He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into him, forehead dropping to your shoulder, one hand fisted gently in the back of your shirt like he was anchoring himself the same way he anchored his hand to that rail a minute ago. You felt his body shake.
"I didn't know," he whispered, "how badly I wanted somewhere I didn't have to think."
You rubbed slow circles across his back. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red and cheeks damp.
βYouβve given me the first place, other than my own apartment,β his smile trembled, βthat feels like home.β
Your eyes filled immediately, you cupped his face, kissing him gently, tasting salt and coffee and relief.
By the time you had both wiped your faces and laughed a little at yourselves for crying over grab rails, you migrated to the kitchen. The food was lukewarm but neither of you cared.Β
"So," he said, popping the lid off a container of noodles, "tell me about this YouTube deep-dive.β
"Oh, it was extensive." You hopped up onto the counter, swinging your legs. "I watched probably twelve different videos on stud finders alone. Did you know there's beef in the accessibility-installation community about magnetic versus electronic stud finders?"
He laughed real and warm, the heaviness from a few minutes ago starting to ease off his shoulders. "Is that right?"
"Iβm serious. I have opinions now. Strong ones. And I measured everything,β you held up two fingers, very serious. "Twice. How far out from the wall it needed to sit so it'd actually hold weight and not just look nice. I did not want to be the reason you ended up back in the ER. Can you imagine? Patient's girlfriend attempted home renovation, patient acquired new injury via poorly anchored bar.'" You shook your head. "We would never live it down. Absolutely not happening on my watch."
He grinned around a mouthful of noodles, and for a second he just looked at you like he's still catching up to the fact that you exist and did all this, sitting on your counter joking about stud finders.
"There's more, actually," you added, a little more casual than you felt. "I'm not done. I still need to put up shelving in the shower, lower down, where you can actually reach it without stretching weird. So the shampoo and everything's just right there. I donβt want you having to reach up and over the seat for stuff."
He went quiet again, fork slowing.
"You've really thought about all of this."
"I mean, what's the point of half doing it?" You shrugged, picking at the edge of your own container. "If your shampoo's up on some shelf that's designed for someone who's just standing there, that defeats the whole purpose, right? Might as well not bother."
He sets his fork down, reaches over, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek.
βIt gave me an excuse to buy a drill. And as it turns out, I'm very handy. It's one of my best qualities."
"It's up there," he agreed, voice softer now. "Right up there."
He leaned in and kissed you softly. The kiss lingers a little longer this time, his hand sliding up into your hair, and when you finally pull back you're both a little breathless.
"I'm covered in drywall dust," you murmur against his mouth. "Very unsexy. There's dust in places dust should not be."
"I hadn't noticed." He definitely noticed. His thumb brushed a smudge of it off your cheekbone anyway, gently.
"I should probably shower.β You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "You know. Since I have a brand new, very sturdy, very Jack-approved shower seat just sitting there. Unused. It seems kind of a waste."
He huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to rest against yours. "You're serious."
"Gotta test the workmanship somehow. Quality control."
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, really look, the way he did when he was deciding whether to let himself want something. Whatever he found in your face settled it. He took you by the hips, helping you off the counter.
"Lead the way," he said. "But if that rail so much as wiggles, I'm writing you up."
"Duly noted."
The bathroom air felt cool against your skin as Jack's fingers worked the buttons of your shirt, sliding the fabric off your shoulders while your hands tugged his shirt up and over his head. His pants followed, then yours, until both of you stood bare. He pulled you close for a slow kiss, his hands tracing over every inch of your body.Β
βYouβre so beautiful,β he mumbled into your neck as he planted kisses before biting at your ear and sucking the pain away quickly. His hands left you, and your body felt heavy without him there to hold you up anymore. He slipped into the shower quickly, lowering himself onto the new seat. He settled back, looking up at you with a small smile. "Take it off for me," he said, nodding toward his prosthetic. You joined him, halting for a moment before dropping to your knees.Β
βAre you sure?β You asked, your hands reaching out for him. He ran a hand through your hair, nodding with a content smile on his lips. You slowly eased his leg free and set it aside outside the shower, leaning against the glass door. Jack watched you carefully. You stood and reached for the shower handle, turning the water on, letting the hot spray burst from the showerhead, falling over both of you as steam began to fill the space. His hands found your hips as you stepped closer. "Come here," he murmured. You straddled his lap, Water streamed down your back while his hands stayed at your waist for a moment, steadying you. He reached past you to the ledge, fingers trying to close around the bottle of soap.Β
"Pass me that," he said, voice low over the rush of water. You gripped onto his shoulder, reaching up and handed it over without hesitation. Jack worked the soap between his palms until thick lather coated them. He started at your collarbones, sliding his soapy hands outward across your shoulders, then down your arms in long, firm strokes. The suds left a slick trail as he moved inward again, palms gliding over your chest. His thumbs dragged slow circles around your nipples, pressing just enough to make them tighten under his touch. He kept going, washing lower, hands smoothing over your ribs and stomach before returning upward to cup your breasts fully. Suds slid between his fingers as he squeezed and rubbed, making sure every inch was covered. You shifted on his lap and he continued, soaping down your sides and along the curve of your waist. His hands dipped lower still, gliding over your hips and the tops of your thighs where they rested against him. The soap rinsed away gradually under the spray, leaving your skin warm and clean. Jack leaned in and kissed you again, slow and deep, his freshly washed hands sliding up your back to pull you closer against his chest. Beneath you, his cock began to swell and harden against your folds. You felt the firm length press upward, growing thicker with each passing second as his hands continued their slow path over your skin. The sensation sent a rush of heat through you, and you felt yourself growing slick between your legs, your pussy starting to coat his shaft with your own wetness. Jack's breathing deepened against your neck as he noticed the shift, his soapy palms still moving over your hips while his cock throbbed harder beneath you. His mouth found yours quickly, lips parting as his tongue slid against yours in a deep, hurried kiss. You kissed him back, hands sliding up his chest while his fingers traced along your spine. You reached beneath you guiding his hard cock to your entrance before sinking down onto him. The thick stretch pulled a moan from your throat. Jack groaned, fingers digging into your ass as you started to ride him, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with the sound of running water.
"Fuck, that's it," he breathed. "Just like that. God, you feel so good."
You moved faster, bouncing on his cock while his hips thrust up to meet you, the seat creaking under the force. His thumb found your clit, rubbing circles as pleasure built between you. "Come on, baby," he urged. "Let me feel that pussy squeeze me.β
Your pace quickened, water cascading over your breasts as you bounced on.
βJack,β you mumbled, unable to form a thought with the feeling of his inside you.
"That's my girl," he panted. "Fuck yourself on me. I want to feel you come."
You leaned forward, hands on his shoulders as you ground down, circling your hips. Your orgasm hit hard, your walls clenching around his cock as you cried out. Jack held you through it, thrusting up into your spasming cunt until he followed you over the edge, groaning your name as he pumped you full.
βSo beautiful,β he pushed your wet hair from your face, still buried deep, his forehead pressing to yours while the shower washed away the evidence of your release. His breathing slowed against your neck, one arm still braced to keep you both steady under the spray.
A week later, and your apartment already looks a little different. A pair of Jacks sneakers by the door, kicked off next to yours instead of carried home in a bag. The shower seat always has a permanent film of steam-fog on it most mornings now, evidence it's actually being used instead of just admired. It was Sunday when he brought it up over coffee, casual, like it's not a big deal even though you both know it kind of was.
"Think we would go to the hardware store today, get something for the rugs, keep the edges down. The runner nearly got me on the way in.β He nudges your foot under the table. You look up from your mug, trying not to make too much of it and failing a little anyway. He says it so easily now, nearly got me,Β like it's just a fact of the apartment, like he's allowed to notice the hazards out loud instead of quietly working around them and never mentioning it at all. A few months ago he wouldn't have said anything. He'd have just filed it away, adjusted his own path through the room, and let you go on not knowing. Now he's just telling you. Asking, even. Like this is his space to have opinions about. It makes something in your chest go soft and warm, watching him take up room here, literally, happily, without apologizing for it.
"Yeah?" you say. "You want to go to the hardware store with me?"
"I want the rug fixed before it takes me out." He shrugs, easy, but there's the faintest smile tugging at his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing. "And yeah. I like going places with you. Even the hardware store."
"Even the hardware store," you repeat, standing to rinse your mug, hiding your own smile in the process.
"Especially the hardware store." He catches your hand as you pass him, tugging you back down for a quick kiss. "Turns out I've got a lot of opinions about flooring safety. Didn't know that about myself till recently."
You're still smiling about it twenty minutes later, shoes on, his keys jingling in his hand as he locks up behind you both, and the two of you head out into the Sunday morning together, in no rush at all.
The hardware store is nearly empty and Jack's pushing the cart, his arms braced on the handle while you trail behind with your phone out, scrolling through reviews.
"Ok, this one." You hold up a package of thin white mesh squares. "These had good reviews."
"Those'll work for the bedroom rug, maybe." He takes the package, turns it over, unconvinced. "But that runner in your living room's the real problem. Honestly? I think that one just needs to go. Or get rolled up and put somewhere that isn't the main walking path."
You cross your arms, mock-offended. βIβd like to remind you of how expensive that was.β
"So's an ER copay." He grins softly, but doesn't back down. "I'm not saying throw it out. Put it under the coffee table where it's decorative and I don't have to cross it to get to the kitchen."
"Ok, that's reasonable. What about the bedroom?"
"That one's flatter, no curling, so grippers under it should be fine." He hands you the mesh pack back. "Get the thicker gel ones though, not this mesh stuff. Mesh flattens out in like a month and stops doing anything."
"How do you know that?"
"Same way I know everything about flooring hazards. Bitter, extensive personal research." He says it easily, grabbing you and turning you around with a kiss to your cheek. "We need the gel ones. Aisle's back that way." You backtrack with him, falling into step, cart wheel squeaking. He tosses the gel grippers in the cart, then pauses, glancing sideways at you. He laces his fingers through yours as you head toward the checkout, cart rattling along behind you.
"Wait." You tug his hand, slowing him down before you reach the registers. "Can we go look at lamps before we leave? I've been meaning to get something for the corner by the bookshelf."
He raises an eyebrow, amused. "Is this the part where we spend an hour with you trying to decide which lamp to buy?"
βI just want to look."
"Uh-huh." But he's smiling as he lets himself be pulled along, cart trailing behind.
"Five minutes. I'm timing you."
You don't make it out in five minutes. You end up standing in front of a whole wall of lamps, tilting your head at a warm brass one with a linen shade, while Jack leans against the cart and watches you more than the lamps themselves.
"That one," he says finally, nodding at the brass one. "Goes with the wood on your bookshelf."
"You have opinions about lamps too now?"
"Turns out I have opinions about a lot of things when they're in your apartment." He says it easy, like he's only half joking.
Back at your apartment, grocery bags of grippers are dumped on the counter, you both stand in the living room surveying the runner like it's a crime scene.
"Okay," you say, hands on your hips. "Operation Relocate the Rug." You give the rug a final roll and lug it toward the coffee table, a little breathless. Jack shifts the table out of the way for you to place the rug down.
"There," you say, straightening up, hands on your lower back. "Out of the walking path. Vintage rug preserved. Nobody faceplants."
"Big day for rug fanatics.β
"Huge." You flop down onto the couch next to him, surveying the newly rearranged room, the coffee table pulled a few inches to the left now, more room between it and the armchair, a clear path from the front door to the kitchen without a single obstacle in sight.
Jack's looking at it too, quiet, one hand coming to rest on your knee.
"It's a good room," he says finally. You lean your head on his shoulder, and for a minute you both just sit there in the rearranged quiet, grocery bags still waiting on the counter, the whole apartment slowly turning into something built for both of you.
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