Summary: The road to Jack's settlement begins, bringing about plenty of obstacles, testing his will and patience, while sparking a connection she doesn't know what to do with.
Warnings (for the entire series): age gap romance, unhealthy relationship dynamics at times, sexual content, descriptions of dead bodies, blood, injuries, murder, death, zombies, mentions, descriptions and insinuations of humans doing the worst possible things (stealing, physical, mental and sexual abuse), big trust issues (with reason), mentions and descriptions of mental health issues (anxiety, depression, grief, panic attacks, PTSD). It's not a light read, be mindful of your triggers and choose what's best for you.
Word count: 10.7k
Pairing: Jack Abbot x female!reader (Set in The Walking Dead universe)
Prologue
Luciscura ~ "Light born from shadows" ("The inner light that grows brighter after enduring dark times, a reminder that even shadows hold wisdom.")
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wooden path creaks under their boots. It is not a road anymore, rather a memory of a trail that no one took care of and elements have worn out, claimed as their own.
Narrow planks stretch along the edge of cracked asphalt, half-swallowed by wet leaves, moss, and weeds that have had years to patiently grow, returning it back into nature it once belonged to. The old highway runs beside them in broken gray strips, buckled where tree roots have pushed through, littered with rusted cars and pale streetlights.
Some of the vehicles still have bodies inside, some are walkers, others just remains strapped into seats by seatbelts no one ever unfastened.
The sky sits low and colorless above them, pressing damp air into Y/N’s lungs. She walks three paces behind Jack; not two, not four, exactly three, because three gives her enough distance to see his hands, the gun at his waist, his well-rounded ass, the line of his shoulders, and the slight hitch in his right leg that becomes more noticeable the further they get from the city. Three paces give her time to react if he turns too quickly, for they give her a clean angle for her knife if necessary. It also keeps her from looking too afraid... or so she hopes.
Every few minutes, he glances back over his shoulder, not long enough to stare, just enough to check on her, weigh her breathing, check the limp she is trying and failing to hide. His eyes flicker down to her injured calf, then back to the path, his lips most often pressed in a thin line beneath the silver-shadowed stubble on his jaw.
They have not spoken much since leaving the mall.
The first stretch had been silent, as they were too close to the city, too close to many broken storefronts and blind windows, to many alleys where the dead could gather and corner them.
Jack had led her through service roads, behind abandoned apartments, through a collapsed fence covered in ivy and old warning signs. He moved like someone who knows which noises matter and which ones can be ignored, rooted in years of experiences she lacks.
Once, he held up a hand and she froze so fast her bad leg nearly buckled. A walker dragged itself across a parking lot twenty yards ahead of them, both legs gone, fingers scraping along the pavement. Jack waited until it passed. He did not waste energy on stopping it.
That unsettled her more than killing it would have.
Mercy is rare now, though she wouldn’t call it mercy. Mercy would be cutting its existence short, but Jack didn’t do that. No…he thought about it for a second, only to put away his knife, choosing not to risk it.
A few hours later, the buildings thinned and asphalt gave way to damp earth and trees with black branches scratching at the sky.
The air changed in the woods, the scent of the dead was replaced by leaf mold, wet bark, mushrooms pushing through decay…natural, almost clean, grounding in a way that feels forbidden these days. It should have brought a sense of calm after everything she had seen so far, but it made her skin crawl instead.
Even now, she’s on edge, waiting for things to go awry, the way they always do. Somewhere deep in the trees, a crow screams. Y/N flinches before she can stop herself, holding her breath afterward, reminded that any loud noises can draw unwanted attention from both the living and the dead.
Jack’s head turns slightly. She glares at the back of his skull, daring him to look at her with pity, to underestimate her, to think of her as a bird with a broken wing needing someone to nurse it back to health.
There's no pity in him, only curiosity he sheds immediately, turning his attention to the road once more. His right leg drags again, barely, but she sees the fraction of hesitation before his foot lands clearly this time. He’s careful with the distribution of his weight. Whatever’s wrong with his leg is not fresh pain. He’s learned to live with it, to survive it, to carry it with an air of arrogance she can’t help but respect.
She studies him for another minute, waiting to see if he says anything himself, trying to keep the silence for as long as possible, but she’s always been too talkative for her own good. Finally, she caves.
“Are you hurt?”
Jack looks back. A wry smile pulls at one side of his mouth, carving a crease into his cheek. It transforms him in a way she resents, because the smile softens him, and with it, Jack becomes less of an ominous stranger, and more a man who knows exactly how much trouble his handsome face has caused in his lifetime.
“Are you worried about me, sweetheart?”
Y/N rolls her eyes so hard it nearly hurts. “I’m worried about how long this trip is going to take if you’re injured.”
His smile lingers, then he stops moving.
The sudden stillness snaps through her nerves. She halts too, fingers twitching near the knife at her hip. Jack turns just enough to face her, one boot still angled toward the path ahead. She asked a question, one he had asked earlier as well. There's no reason to stop, but he stops nonetheless. Part of her is years back in a different forest, watching a man make the same stop under the guise of a conversation, making her heartbeat quicken.
She tells herself Jack isn't the same man, that he deserves the grace of not being measured to lesser beings who had nothing but evil in their rotten hearts, but the wounded part of her cares not for what logic says. The parts of her that were broken and found themselves living in eternal darkness of a winter she nearly died in cannot forget, despite the needs a heart carries.
“Do you need a break?” he asks.
He studies her for a second, then steps aside, letting her catch up properly. It feels worse than him walking ahead, because it means he’s the one concerned now, waiting on her, giving her time to rest even if she didn’t ask for it.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Do you?”
Jack’s eyes drop to her mouth for half a second before he looks away. Not enough to be crude, but it’s enough to be noticed. He wets his lower lip, then shakes his head.
“We have a long walk ahead of us. Breaks only when absolutely necessary if we want to make it before night.”
“Before night,” she echoes.
“That’s usually when it gets dark.”
“I know what night is.”
“Good. We’ve established the facts.”
Her lips press in a thin line, suppressing a smile. She hates that some small, exhausted part of her wants to laugh, to connect with him. Humor is dangerous because it makes people seem less likely to hurt you, and she has learned that monsters can be funny when they want to be. Sometimes they are funniest right before they put their hands on you.
Jack starts walking again.
She follows.
The woods thicken around them. Branches interlock overhead, turning the afternoon dim and greenish-gray. Rain has not started yet, but she can smell it in the air. Her calf throbs with every step, pulsing constantly so much that makes the edges of her vision sharpen and blur in turns. She keeps her face blank, refusing agony’s request to escape, to be seen.
Pain is information, a warning sign to keep close to her chest. Pain tells her what she can still do and how much it will cost, but if she shows how much pain she’s in, it can also be used against her. Weaker she gets, the target on her back grows bigger.
Jack slows without looking back, not enough to insult her, enough that she realizes he knows exactly how much energy she spends on every step.
The irritation that rises in her is immediate, and easier to handle than gratitude. No one does anything out of the goodness of their hearts anymore, and the kinder he acts, the less she trusts it.
“So,” she speaks, because silence gives her thoughts too much space, “your group.”
“Yeah?”
“How many?”
“Enough.”
“Specific.”
“You ask everyone for population data after knowing them half a day?”
“Only strange men who lure me into the woods.”
He gives her an entertained sideways glance. “Lure is a strong word.”
“You did say there’s clean water and food.”
“Fair. That’s practically seduction now.”
She snorts despite herself, then regrets it when his expression warms.
A seed of something tiny and inconvenient slips into the space between them. It’s far from trust or comfort; perhaps it's the awareness that his humor has edges like hers, that his darkness does not hide in corners pretending it’s light. It lives in him comfortably, like an old scar under a sleeve, and she appreciates the honesty of it far too much.
It's easy to get lost in their similarities, comparing the little things until he endears himself to her, but she can't let her defenses fall yet. So, despite the way her heart thunders when his gaze meets hers, she looks away first.
Jack steps over a fallen branch. “Most of us have been together since the outbreak.”
“Since the beginning?”
“Yeah. At least half of us.”
“That’s a long time to keep people together.”
“People like walls, food, and not being dead.”
Raising her brows, she continues, “That’s all?”
“No. But it helps.”
She watches his shoulders as he moves; broad beneath the black T-shirt, steady despite the oddness in his leg. He carries his backpack like it weighs nothing. There is a tension in him that never fully leaves, not even when he jokes. His body is always listening, waiting for the other shoe to drop, much like her.
“Tight-knit, then,” she murmurs.
“Very.”
Her fingers rub absently over the handle of her knife. “And the entry rules?”
Jack does not slow this time. “Don’t worry about that too much.”
The woods seem to quiet as her heart drops and she stops walking. He takes two more steps before realizing she is no longer behind him. Then he turns.
Rain-dark leaves shift under her boots as she plants herself on the path, trying to swallow despite the sudden dryness in her throat.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he replies, careful now, “it’s nothing to worry about before we arrive.”
Her heart gives an ugly kick under her ribs, warning her. “That’s a perfect time to worry.”
A dry chuckle leaves him, but it does not reach his eyes. “Having second thoughts?”
She gulps. The question is simple enough. Her mind begins moving faster than the trees, faster than the distant crows, faster than Jack’s steady gaze.
He is leading her to his people, but he has not told her what the rules are or where exactly they are going. He’s been vague the entire time, purposefully and he says it’s nothing to worry about as if they’re not living in a lawless world that has no safety measures in place for those who trust easily.
He saved her life, yes. He gave her water, slowed down when her leg started betraying her, kept his distance as if he understood coming any closer would spike her anxiety. Kindness is all he's shown her, yet she can't shake the feeling there's more underneath, and that unsettles her.
There are only two possibilities. Either the entry rules are simple, and Jack, for whatever reason, has already decided she fits them. Or the rules are atrocious, and if she fails, they cannot let her leave. Not with the location of their safe place sitting fresh in her head. Not with knowledge of the path, the distance, and the man who brought her. If she had walls, food, medicine, people to protect, she would not let a stranger wander away with a map tucked behind her eyes.
She would be kind about it, maybe, make their death quick, but the death itself would be non-negotiable. Is that what awaits her?
She agreed to follow him, mostly because she knew her leg is slowing her down and it wouldn't be long before it takes her life, either through infection or simply making her an easy target for whatever crosses her path first after she can no longer keep going. However, the broken part of her whispers it was a mistake. Perhaps infection would be kinder than whatever they might do to her.
Y/N looks over her shoulder. The road is no longer visible except in broken flashes through the trees. The mall is hours behind them and the city is an open mouth at her back.
How long until dark? How far until shelter? Could she take off now, lose him in the woods, find some place to hole up before night swallows the trail?
Would he follow?
The hair on the back of her neck prickles.
She turns toward him again and he is inches away. A breath tears out of her in an almost scream, but dies down on the way from her lungs to her throat. The knife is in her hand before thought catches up; muscle memory…Blood memory. Her arm snaps upward, aimed for the soft place beneath his chin.
Jack moves faster as his hand clamps around her wrist, sparking a fierce pain that forces her hand open. The knife drops, hitting the floor with a hollow, echoing clatter that feels deafening in the sudden space between them.
Shaking, her gaze snaps from the fallen weapon up to his eyes, trapped between terror and the suffocating realization of how close she just came to killing him and how easy it is for him to overpower her.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls.
She cannot answer. Her chest heaves, air enters, leaves, does nothing. Her body is on a lockdown, all alarms blaring bright red with heart pounding aimlessly, her skin turns colder as her stomach twists with dread.
Her trapped wrist burns in his grip, and the pressure of his fingers sends panic ripping through her faster than the walkers in the mall ever could, because walkers do not look you in the eye… Jack does.
His hazel eyes are no longer amused. They are sharp, analytical, stripped of all flirtation. He stalks her backward until her spine slams into a tree. Rough bark bites through her jacket, pinning her. Before she can draw a breath, he presses in close, so close she breathes in his heat, overwhelmed by his sheer size and the suffocating realization of his strength; the living force of a man who could overpower her if he chose.
Her free hand curls, nails digging into her palm.
“What,” he repeats, quieter and more dangerous, “do you think you’re doing?”
Her lips part, but nothing comes out. They tremble instead and she hates herself for it. If she has to perish, why must it be in a cowardly way, showing fear in front of her killer, letting him enjoy it?
Jack’s gaze lingers on her shaky lips, and something in his face changes. He does not soften exactly, but she can see the gears turning behind those hazel hues. His grip remains firm, but the anger drains from his eyes by a degree, replaced by a grim awareness that’s heavier than fury.
“If I let you go,” he asks, voice low, “are you going to try to attack me again?”
She shakes her head once, quickly enough to ensure she means it.
“Good.”
His face is close enough that his breath grazes her skin and for once it’s not sour or rotten flesh of a wallker, rather warm, human, faintly minty from something he must have scavenged or chewed during the walk.
“Because I am not trying to hurt you,” he continues. Each word is controlled, measured, held on a tight leash. “But if you pull a knife on me again, you will regret it. Understood?”
She nods.
He releases her immediately. There’s no lingering pressure, no shove, no added punishment hidden inside the movement. He steps back one pace, then another, giving her room to breathe.
Y/N stays against the tree, wrist drawn close to her chest. Her skin still remembers his hand, the place where he held her throbs with her pulse. Her knife lies between them, small and stupid looking on the wet planks.
Jack drags in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring as he visibly reins himself in.
“Why did you do that?” he rasps.
She stares at him, carefully picking her words. She's always so careful with him; it strips more anger from him, turning it to exasperation.
He looks angry, yes, but not at her. Not entirely. The frustration in him is pulled toward some invisible target beyond her shoulder, toward whoever taught her to react like that or whatever made a sudden nearness worse than the dead.
Clenching her jaw, she swallows thickly. “You took me by surprise,” she says through gritted teeth. “I swore to myself no one was ever going to take me by surprise again.”
The words make her sound smaller spoken out loud, hurt in a way that darkens Jack’s expression.
“Someone hurt you before?”
She nods. If she says anything, too much might come out: faces, the blood, begging, the weight of a hand over her mouth, the sounds of men laughing as they take what they want.
Jack’s jaw flexes. He looks away for a second, and she sees it then, the anger sharpening into something colder. This isn’t performative outrage nor dreaded pity. Jack is filled with a quiet, ugly rage aimed at ghosts he has never met.
That frightens her too. Everything does.
Crouching, he picks up her knife by the blade. Slowly, he turns the handle toward her as an offering, a calculated risk he’s willing to take.
“If that’s what you’re worried about,” he says, “don’t be. I…” He pauses, mouth pressing into a thin line, as if he hates what the next words are and he resents needing to say them. “My group doesn’t hurt women.”
She looks at the knife, then at him as her hand trembles when she reaches for it. Jack’s eyes drop to her fingers, then lift again, but he doesn’t mention it. She’s grateful for that small kindness too.
Takeing the weapon, she slides it back into place with more care than necessary.
“Everyone hurts women,” she states. The words leave her before she can soften them.
Jack bites his lower lip, not flirtatiously now, as if keeping something violent behind his teeth. He turns slightly, staring into the trees.
“Not us.”
She does not move. Her back remains pressed against the trunk, bark digging between her shoulder blades, keeping her upright when her legs would rather fold. He says his group does not hurt women, but she knows better than to believe any man’s clean version of himself.
“And what happens if I don’t meet the requirements for your group entry?” she questions. Her voice comes out steadier than she feels and she doesn’t regret it. “I don’t think you’d let an outsider walk away with knowledge of your location.”
Jack turns fully toward her. His head tilts left, just a fraction. “You think we’d kill you?”
She says nothing, allowing him to study her face, letting the silence speak for itself.
A muscle jumps in his cheek. “I won’t let anyone send you away,” he vows, the certainty in his tone making her insides ache.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“Why?”
For the first time since she met him, he does not have an answer ready. His eyes hold hers too long. There is something behind them now, something guarded and possessive and badly hidden beneath reason. It is there for only a second, but she sees it.
She always sees the thing men try to bury. It was a necessary skill to learn.
“I promise you,” he says, softer, “there’s only one thing you’ll need to worry about. And I don’t think it’s impossible to do.”
Her eyebrows knit as she pushes herself away from the tree and takes a cautious step toward him.
His gaze follows every movement.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Jack.”
He folds his arms behind his back, giving her an infuriatingly calm look. “I never do.”
“Must be nice, being that sure of yourself.”
“It has its moments.”
Her eyes narrow.
His mouth twitches, but the humor fades quickly. “You’ll be a good addition to the group,” he says. “They’ll see it, just like I do.”
“Like you do,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“You’ve known me for a few hours.”
“I’ve learned a lot in a few hours.”
“Like what?”
“That you’re stubborn. Suspicious, which is not a bad thing. Good with knives… Bad at accepting help. Injured worse than you admit. Hungry. Tired. Smart enough to be dangerous and scared enough to be unpredictable.”
Her throat closes up at the accuracy of his assessment.
“As long as you haven’t killed anyone,” he adds, almost lightly, “it’ll be fine.”
Her stomach drops so violently she nearly sways and a nervous laugh bursts out of her.
“Yeah,” she says too brightly. “Great.”
Jack watches her. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It sounded like a laugh. Is laughing a crime in your group?”
“Right…a laugh….”
She gives him a smile with no warmth in it. “Lighten up. You really shouldn’t frown so much.”
His eyes do not leave her. For one horrible second, she imagines telling him the truth: that killing someone in the old world made you a murderer, but killing someone now means you get to live to see the next morning. That the first person she killed was not a walker, that she’s killed enough to never feel like her hands are clean, enough that she can hardly look at her own reflection.
But truth is not a coin she spends on strangers, especially when safety is concerned.
So she starts walking. After a moment, Jack follows, or maybe leads. It’s difficult to tell when neither of them trusts the other at their back.
They do not stop.
Jack keeps to his word. No breaks unless absolutely necessary, and apparently necessary means someone bleeding out, bitten, or dead. Her calf becomes a separate creature attached to her body for the sole purpose of tormenting her. The ache deepens, then sharpens, then settles into a grinding pulse that chews through every thought.
The forest goes on and on. Bare branches lace overhead, thin and black against the dark sky streaked with stars that light their way. Autumn has stripped most of the color from the world, leaving behind copper leaves turned slick with rain and mud that sucks at her boots. The temperature drops by degrees so subtle she notices only when her fingers stop bending properly.
Jack slows whenever she does. He pretends not to pace himself for her benefit, which only irritates her to keep walking out of spite.
That lasts until she slips on a patch of wet moss and goes down hard. Her knees hit mud first, then her palms. Pain flashes up her left leg, bright and vicious. For a moment she stays there, breathing through her teeth, hair falling out of her messy bun and around her face.
In front of her, Jack makes a sound. She looks up only to realize he is laughing, not loudly or cruelly, just enough to show he’s entertained.
She glares as he speaks.
“Careful. The ground’s wet.”
Her mouth falls open. “Oh, is it?”
“Thought you might’ve missed that.”
“You are a terrible person.”
“That sounds almost like a compliment coming from you, sweetheart.”
She pushes herself upright with as much dignity as mud allows, which is very little. Jack offers a hand she ignores. He leaves it there another second in case she changes her mind, then lets it drop, something unreadable crossing his features before he turns away.
Good, she tells herself. Better. Do not get used to his hand appearing when you fall.
The first raindrop lands on her cheek an hour later, then the sky opens.
Cold rain pours through the trees, thick and relentless, turning the path slicker beneath their boots. Within minutes, loose strands of her hair are plastered to her neck and her jacket is soaked through. Water seeps beneath her collar, trickles down her spine, slides into her boots. The chill does not just touch her skin, it invades, threads itself between her ribs, sits inside her bones.
Her teeth begin to chatter. She clenches her jaw until it aches. Jack glances back at her and she glares at him in response, before he can say anything.
He adjusts his pace again, matching hers while pretending the change is natural. He could go faster. She sees it in the impatient restraint of his stride, in the way his body angles forward and then checks itself. He is slowing down for her without complaining.
There’s no teasing now. He’s just doing it, without asking for anything in return. That small mercy scrapes against something raw and beaten bloody inside her, a wound she never quite knew how to heal.
The woods darken once rainy clouds fully cover the stars. Shadows thicken between the trees, the path ahead blurs into wet black planks and shifting leaves. Every branch becomes a hand, every stump becomes a crouched figure, every sound is teeth until proven otherwise.
A low groan drifts from somewhere to their left. Y/N stops breathing as Jack’s hand catches hers. The contact is sudden and firm, his palm warm despite the rain. She stiffens, but before she can yank away, he leans close enough for his voice to reach her under the downpour.
“Quiet.”
There is no flirtation in it, no softness, just a command. For once, she obeys without resentment.
Another groan sounds. A walker staggers between the trees twenty feet away, then another behind it. Rain slicks their ruined faces, making the gray rot shine. One has hair plastered over its skull in sparse strings. The other’s lower lip hangs in a torn flap, exposing dark gums and broken teeth. They drift aimlessly at first, drawn by nothing, then pause as if tasting the air.
Jack pulls her slowly backwards, not toward the path, but off it, and into the brush.
Y/N’s pulse turns frantic again, but she keeps her feet careful. Her fingers tighten around his hand before she realizes it. He glances down at the contact, then back at the dead. If he is amused, he hides it well.
The walkers shuffle closer to the trail, heads twitching, mouths closing around the rain. One slips in the mud and falls against a tree, leaving a smear of blackened flesh on the bark. It does not feel pain, does not understand weather, injury, exhaustion. It will keep moving until something destroys the brain or the body rots too far to obey the curse inside it.
Jack waits. Y/N waits with him. Rain drums over leaves. Her breath is trapped painfully in her chest, and her injured leg trembles from the strain of standing still, but she does not shift. She does not make a sound.
At last, the walkers veer away, following some noise deeper in the trees. Only when their groans fade does Jack move and he doesn’t let go of her hand. She tells herself it is because of the dark, because of the rain, because the path is slippery, because if he wanted to hurt her, he already could have.
None of those thoughts help as much as they should. The world becomes rain, mud, Jack’s hand, and the dull silver flash of his hair whenever lightning flickers somewhere behind the clouds. He leads her off the wooden path and through a narrow trail she would never have seen on her own. Branches claw at her sleeves, wet leaves slap her face. The ground dips unexpectedly, and she nearly falls again, but his grip tightens.
“Almost there,” he murmurs.
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“I lied for morale.”
“I have no morale left,” she remarks.
“Then it was for mine.”
Despite the cold, despite the pain, despite the fear sitting behind her ribs like a crouched animal, something in her chest twitches, a sliver of softness that annoys her as soon as it appears.
The cottage appears out of the dark. It’s small, crooked, half-buried in trees. Its roof sags beneath moss and fallen branches, windows boarded from inside except one narrow gap near the door. She would have walked past it in daylight. In this rain, it is a miracle or a trap, or possibly both. Most shelters are.
Jack releases her hand only to draw his knife. He gestures for her to stay back. She does, though every instinct rebels at having her between him and a closed door.
He checks the perimeter first with fast, practiced movements before returning to the door. He listens with one ear close to the wood, then pushes the door open slowly. The hinges complain and they both freeze.
There’s no answering groan, no shuffle, no wet, eager snap of teeth. Jack slips inside. Y/N waits on the porch, knife ready, heart hammering in her throat.
A moment later, his voice comes from within. “Clear.”
She enters. The cottage smells like damp wood, cold ash, and dust. It is a single room with an adjacent bathroom, mostly empty except for a stone fireplace, a few broken chairs, a stack of dusty crates, a small wardrobe and a narrow cot with no mattress. Someone has used the place before, recently enough that the fireplace is arranged with dry kindling beneath a tarp in the corner. Jack’s place, or maybe a stopping point.
Another thing he did not mention.
The door closes behind her while the rain batters the roof. For a few seconds, neither of them speaks. Then Jack sets his backpack down and starts undressing.
Y/N blinks. “What are you doing?”
“Getting dry.”
His jacket comes off first, heavy with water. He hangs it over the back of a broken chair, then reaches for the hem of his black T-shirt.
Her eyebrows shoot up. The shirt peels away from his body with a wet drag of fabric over skin. Her cheeks darken at the sight.
Jack is not merely fit. That would be too polite a word. He is built with the kind of strength that does not come from vanity. Those broad shoulders are broader without clothes, his arms are thick and his chest is defined by labor, adorned with light silver hairs. His stomach is firm, marked by the subtle lines of muscle that shift as he bends toward his pack. His skin is scattered with scars that catch the faint light from the doorway. A pale line cuts across one side of his ribs, another marks his shoulder. There is a small round scar near his upper chest that looks too much like a bullet’s old kiss.
The silver in his hair should make him look older.
It does not, nor does it lessen his beauty. If anything, it makes the rest of him more dangerous somehow. This is a man who has lived long enough to survive more than a few injuries and remained standing…a man who knows exactly what his body can do because it has already done terrible, necessary things.
Y/N’s mouth goes dry.
Jack crouches near the fireplace, bare back to her, and begins arranging the kindling. Muscles move beneath his skin with each practiced motion. His biceps flex when he reaches for the flint. Rainwater tracks down the ridges of his spine before disappearing at the waistband of his jeans.
She looks away, then immediately looks back. If she could look away, it would be far easier to pretend she isn’t attracted to him in every way humanly possible. It would allow her to cling to her fears and hatred for the humans that remains in this world, but he’s disarmingly charming and that is the worst thing he could be right now.
He strikes a spark once, twice and the kindling catches on the third try, flame licking weakly at first, then stronger as he feeds it. Orange light blooms across the room. It paints his shoulders gold, deepens the shadows along his scars, turns the cottage from corpse-cold to something almost livable.
When he glances at her over his shoulder, he finds her standing near the door, arms wrapped tight around herself, soaked through and shaking so hard her teeth chatter audibly. His gaze drops to her trembling fingers, then to the puddle forming around her boots.
“You can take those off,” he says. “I won’t touch you.”
Heat rises into her face despite the cold. “I don’t have a backup,” she replies, voice unsteady. “My backpack isn’t exactly waterproof.”
Jack shrugs one shoulder. The motion shifts firelight across his back. “Like I said, I won’t touch you.” He looks back at the growing flames. “I won’t even turn around the entire night if that makes it better.”
Y/N studies him. His face is angled away now, jaw set, gaze fixed on the fire with almost exaggerated discipline. The offer is meant to comfort her, she’s certain. Instead, it makes her soften and frustrated.
She can still feel his hand around her wrist, his warning at the tree, his anger, but she remembers his immediate release, his palm open around the water bottle, his grip steadying her in the rain. Nothing about him fits into one category, and that is what makes him dangerous. A monster is easier when it looks like one. A good man is easier when the world still has room for goodness. Jack is neither simple nor safe enough for either box.
Her shivering worsens, reminding her pride is not insulation.
“Don’t look,” she mutters.
“I’m not.”
“You better not.”
“I’m fifty, not fifteen.”
“That doesn’t make you blind.”
“No,” he says, a smile hidden in his voice, “just experienced enough not to get myself stabbed over curiosity.”
She pauses, then, despite herself, exhales a soft, breathless laugh. The sound is so small the fire nearly eats it.
Dropping her bag first, then jacket, the fabric hits the floor with a wet slap. Her fingers are clumsy on the buttons of her shirt, numb and stiff, but she manages to peel it off. Her T-shirt underneath is soaked beyond saving. It clings to her skin like a second layer of cold.
She hesitates, glancing at him. Jack remains facing the fire. He’s still. Too still, maybe, but he keeps his word.
Stripping off the shirt, letting her hair down, she stands in only her bra and damp, muddy jeans, arms immediately crossing over her chest. The cold bites harder without the wet fabric’s useless protection. Goosebumps rise along her skin, her teeth knock together.
Jack hears it. Without turning, he gestures toward his spot near the fire.
“You can take my place. It’s closer to the heat.”
She frowns at his back. “What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“That your medical advice?”
“Just trying to help.”
She should let him move, take the warm spot, keep distance, keep her knife within reach, keep every line clearly drawn. Instead, when he starts to shift away, something in her moves before sense can stop it.
Her hand lands on his shoulder. His skin is hot under her palm, solid, alive. It’s been so long since she willfully touched another human being, having no intention hiding behind it.
Jack goes still, so does Y/N.
The contact is a mistake, she knows it instantly. Knows it from the way his muscles tense beneath her fingers, from the way her own breath is caught behind her teeth, from the sudden vicious awareness of how close they are in this tiny room while rain pounds the roof and the dead roam somewhere in the dark beyond the walls.
“Don’t be silly,” she says, quieter than she means to. “Stay. Get warm.”
He does not look at her. His gaze stays fixed on the fire, flames reflected in his eyes.
“Are you sure?” His voice is rougher now. “I don’t mind.”
Something about his restraint, that careful refusal to take advantage of proximity, knocks against all the locked doors inside her. Not hard enough to open them, just enough to remind her they exist.
She should remove her hand. Instead, she lifts her fingers to his chin. The touch is barely there as the tip of her index finger nudges him gently, turning his face toward hers.
Another mistake, bigger, because now he is looking at her fully.
His hazel eyes are darker in the firelight, ringed with exhaustion and something more dangerous than desire because it contains patience. He is close enough that she can smell rain on him, smoke beginning to cling to his skin, and beneath it a clean, woodsy scent that reminds her absurdly of pine needles crushed under boots. They’re close enough that if either of them breathes wrong, their mouths might nearly touch.
Her heart climbs into her throat and sits there, reckless and loud.
Jack’s gaze drops to her lips, only for a moment, then back to her eyes, but he doesn’t move closer.
“Stay with me,” she says quietly, too quietly to be strategic, too honest for it to be safe.
Jack’s face shifts, the sarcasm gone now, all the charm burned down to something bare and watchful. His eyes search hers as if looking for the trap, which is almost funny. Both of them are half-frozen and armed, each wondering which one is the more dangerous animal.
Outside, something groans in the rain. The sound drags itself along the walls.
Y/N’s hand falls from his chin. Jack turns his head toward the door and the spell breaks, but not cleanly. It leaves a residue behind, heat where her fingers touched him, awareness where distance used to be.
Another groan follows, scraping closer now.
Jack rises smoothly. One second he is beside the fire, too close, his eyes still caught on hers. The next, every part of him changes. His spine straightens, his head angles toward the window, his expression hollows out into focus as he’s reaching for his knife.
“Stay behind me,” he murmurs.
This time, she does not argue. She grabs her own blade from where she left it near her bag, bare skin prickling in the firelight, body caught between cold, fear, and the echo of a memory too painful to cling to. Y/N’s fingers close tighter around the knife. Her body is already ahead of her, heart climbing hard against her ribs. The borrowed warmth of the fire is gone from her skin in an instant as fear opens its black umbrella inside her chest.
The dead are outside, the man is inside, and somehow, Y/N is no longer sure which danger will change her more.
Jack lifts one hand in a command without sound.
Stay.
He steps closer to the window, bare feet soundless against the floorboards, knife held low at his side. The firelight plays across his back as he moves, cutting amber over muscles and scars, then losing him to shadow. He approaches the narrow gap between the boards and leans just enough to look out.
The groan comes again, closer this time.
Y/N does not move, not because she is obedient by nature. She is not. Obedience was one of the first things the new world punished out of her. But Jack does not panic, and that gives her something solid to press her own panic against. If there is anything she has learned in the hours since the grocery store, it is that Jack knows how to survive. He understands when to move, when to wait, when to kill, when not to waste the effort.
If he is not alarmed, she refuses to unravel first.
Still, her body does not get the message. Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat, her shoulders pull tight, waiting for the dead to strike.
Jack looks through the window for another few seconds, then lifts his index finger to his mouth.
Quiet.
The gesture should annoy her, but it doesn’t. She gives one small nod.
Outside, the walker passes in front of the cabin. She sees it through the gap. Only pieces at first; a gray hand sliding along the wall, nails torn down to black crescents, a soaked sleeve hanging from an arm too thin to belong to anything alive. Then its face drifts into view, pale and collapsed beneath strings of hair plastered to its skull. Rain runs over its slack mouth, its lips have peeled back enough to expose dark gums and teeth that snap lazily at nothing. One cheek has rotted open, so when its jaw opens, Y/N can see the tendons moving like wet cords.
It doesn’t know they are inside.
Its head sways, cloudy eyes rolling without sight, nose twitching as if the body still believes smell can save it from death. The dead in this world do not hunt with intelligence, they do not plan, they do not hate. That might be the worst part. At least, hate would make them human. This is only hunger, endless and stupid and patient.
The walker bumps against the cabin wall. Y/N’s breath snags. Jack glances back. Their eyes meet across the room. His gaze is steady, calm, practical, asking something of her without words.
Breathe quieter.
She tries. It scrapes her throat raw.
The walker lingers near the wall, groaning into the rain. Its fingertips drag along the wood, leaving streaks of mud and something darker. A second sound rises farther away, another dead voice answering from somewhere among the trees. Then the first walker turns, distracted by its own kind, and begins to stagger away until its outline dissolves into the rain.
Jack waits longer than she expects. He doesn’t relax when the noise fades. He stays by the window, listening, his knife still in his hand, his shoulders lifted with controlled tension. Only when several minutes pass without another sound does he lower the blade.
Slowly, he comes back toward her.
Y/N’s gaze betrays her as it falls to the scar just beneath his left clavicle. The fire makes it clearer now. A small, pale mark set into his skin. It’s not a clean line from a knife, it’s rounder, old, damage that closed over but wasn’t erased. It pulls at her attention with a strange gravity. Definitely a bullet, she concludes and she wonders who put it there. More importantly, she wonders if they survived him.
Jack catches her staring.
Her eyes snap away, but too late. Heat floods her face, climbing up her neck, filling her cheeks with embarrassing warmth that has nothing to do with the fire. She fixes her attention on the floorboards as if they have suddenly become fascinating.
Jack’s mouth shifts as he looks away swiftly as promised. He presses his lips together, but the shape of a small smile still shows, self-satisfied, almost boyish, a smirk he is trying not to let off its leash.
The fact that he is pleased makes her want to throw the knife at him. The fact that she might miss because her hands are shaking makes her want to sit down.
“This cabin is pretty secure,” he whispers, settling near the fire again. “We just have to stay quiet.”
She gives a curt nod. Then she turns her eyes to the flames, because looking at him is apparently making itself into a poor survival strategy.
The fire snaps softly, eating through the kindling, throwing shadows up the cabin walls. It should be enough to warm her, but it’s not. Her body is still soaked; her wet jeans cling to her legs, her bra feels like ice against her skin. Goosebumps pebble across her arms, and every few seconds, a shiver runs through her hard enough to hurt.
Jack notices. He sighs through his nose and stands. Her gaze follows him despite herself.
He crosses to a small wardrobe on the far side of the room. It is tucked half behind a stack of crates, warped from how old it is, one door hanging crooked on a rusted hinge. He moves with his usual careful purpose, but she cannot stop herself from tracking every motion. The anxiety in her skull whispers that his back turned could be a trick, that the cabinet could hold rope, drugs, a second gun, something worse.
She tries to make the watching look casual, but nothing feels casual when a half-naked man with a soldier’s posture is rummaging through a wardrobe in a cabin he never mentioned.
Jack looks inside, and pulls out dark fabric. He turns back and she stiffens.
He approaches slowly, because he knows now that sudden movements have already cost him once. When the fabric touches her shoulders, she nearly jumps out of her skin.
It is only a hoodie, soft from age, dry, faintly dusty. But his fingertips brush the bare skin near her collarbone as he drapes it around her, and the brief contact travels through her like a lit fuse. Her breath falters, her heart kicks painfully, every nerve wakes at once, not knowing whether to reach toward him or scream.
Jack pulls back instantly.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, hands lifting away from her as if burned. “I should have asked. Or warned you.”
“No, no.” She shakes her head too quickly, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. “I’m just jumpy. It’s me -”
“No.”
The word cuts gently, but firmly. Her gaze finds his. That is almost another mistake for his eyes are soft, and not in the way men force softness to seem harmless, and they’re not filled with sympathy or someone pleased with themselves for doing the bare minimum…No. This is rougher around the edges, almost reluctant. It makes him look less like the man who hauled her over shelves and pinned her wrist to keep from being stabbed, and more like someone who knows exactly how a body learns to flinch.
“No, it’s not,” he continues. His voice is low enough not to frighten her. “You can’t help it. This one’s on me. I’ll try to do better.”
Something in her chest tightens so sharply it feels like pain. There are responses to that, clever ones, defensive ones, cruel little jokes she could use to cover the way his words have found a crack in her armor and slipped through like smoke.
None of them come.
She inhales, the breath shallow and unsteady, then nods. “Thank you,” she whispers.
The words feel unfamiliar. Jack’s expression flickers, almost like he wants to say something else. He doesn’t, choosing to return his focus to the fire, giving her his back again with deliberate care.
Y/N wraps the hoodie tighter around herself once she realizes the zipper is broken. It smells like the cabin at first, like dry wood and traces of old dust, but beneath that, something else rises with her warmth; pine, smoke, rain.
Jack.
Her throat bobs. She glances at him from the corner of her eye. He crouches beside the fire and adds another piece of wood with almost no effort, the muscles in his arm shifting as he nudges the log into place. Sparks lift, bright and brief, before vanishing into the chimney’s black mouth. He stares into the flames as though they are telling him something he does not want to hear.
It has been a long time since anyone has acted as if her comfort matters. That thought is dangerous enough to make her hold the hoodie tighter, because she has met men who know how to pretend, men who lower their voices, men who offer food first and ask questions later, men who understand that a woman with no sleep and no safe place to go can be handled better with patience than force.
She cannot trust Jack.
Not yet.
Not because he says the right things. Not because he keeps his back turned. Not because his hands retreat when she flinches. Trust is not a match struck once in the dark. It is consistency; it is earned with repetition, the same choice made again and again when no one is applauding.
Still, the hoodie offers warmth now. That is proof of something, even if she refuses to admit it.
“Are you warmer?” he asks. The gentleness in his tone is so careful it almost hurts to hear.
A small smile appears before she can stop it. It tugs at one side of her mouth, uncertain and unused, as if her face has forgotten the movement and is testing it slowly.
She nods. Then her eyes drop to his bare torso. “Are you?”
Jack looks down at himself like he has forgotten he is shirtless. The absurdity of that almost makes her smile again.
He licks his lips, firelight catching on the faint moisture there. “Don’t worry about me. Get some rest, if you can. I’ll keep watch.”
Her brow furrows. She looks toward the back of the cabin where a thin mattress lies against the wall. It is stained, sagging, and probably smells like mildew. Still, after months of floors, dirt, car seats, and one memorable night curled inside a bathtub with a dresser shoved against the bathroom door, it might as well be luxury.
“I can keep watch,” she starts.
“No.” The word is immediate.
Her eyes narrow.
Jack catches himself, then tries again, less commanding.
“You haven’t slept in a while.” One brow lifts faintly. “You’re starving, cold, dehydrated. I gave you water, but I don’t have anything else to keep you going right now, and we’re still hours away from a steady source of all the things that will be keeping you upright.”
His gaze dips briefly toward her leg. “You’re injured. And you’re stressed with me here, which is fair, but I promise you, I’m just trying to help.”
She watches him. The fire crackles between them, small and bright and too fragile for the conversation around it. Her hands tighten inside the sleeves of the hoodie. They are too long, swallowing her fingers. That makes the garment feel even more like his.
“You got all that from today?”
Jack looks away for a fraction of a second. It is so quick she might have missed it if she were not always searching for the hidden blade beneath the visible one.
Then he nods.
“I’ve got more,” he admits. “But that’s a story for another day. Right now, you need rest.”
More. Of course he has more. This man reads her far too well. It should make her feel seen, and it does, but it also makes her want to hide every exposed thought under her tongue.
Her eyes flicker to the mattress again and dread curls low in her stomach. Sleeping near someone is a kind of surrender. Sleeping near a man is worse. Sleeping near a man she finds attractive, frightening, useful, and impossible to categorize is madness.
Jack follows her gaze. “You’ll be safe,” he says.
Her mouth opens, but no sound comes.
“If you’re worried you’ll be cold,” he adds, “I’ll drag it closer to the fire.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her mind begins its usual frantic inventory of all the ways this could go wrong, angles of attack, distance between the mattress and the door, his knife, her knife, his gun, her injured leg, the walkers outside, the rain, the fact that even if she runs, she may not make it half a mile before collapsing in the mud.
He is right.
She hates that the most.
She is exhausted, starving, barely functioning on instinct and sheer stubbornness. Her body is starting to feel distant from her, like something she is operating through a delay. Her leg throbs so loudly it seems to have its own heartbeat. If she does not rest, she will slow him down tomorrow. If she slows him down too much, she may die before ever seeing the group she is not sure she wants to find.
“Can you bring it closer?” she asks quietly.
The uncertainty in her own voice irritates her. She sounds small, demanding and apologetic at once, as if asking for warmth is an offense.
A gentle smirk appears upon his lips, nothing sharp in it this time. It begins at one corner of his mouth, tugs slowly, then settles into something almost reassuring, like approval he is trying to hide because he knows she will retreat if she sees too much.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”
Standing up, he crosses the room and to the mattress. It doesn’t take him long, as he grabs one side and pulls it across the floor with an ugly scraping sound that makes them both pause and glance toward the door. No answering groan comes from outside. Jack finishes dragging it near the fire, close to his seat but not touching.
Close enough for heat. Far enough for her to pretend this is safe.
“I don’t have pillows or blankets,” he says, almost apologetic.
Y/N looks at the mattress. The fabric is worn, the edges are torn and one corner bears a dark stain she chooses not to investigate.
Compared to the ground, it is paradise.
“I know I don’t look like it,” she mutters, “but I’m not high maintenance.”
Jack chuckles. Actually chuckles.
The sound catches her by surprise. It is low and warm, roughened by fatigue, not polished enough to be charming on purpose. It fills the tiny cabin for a second, startlingly human. His eyes crease at the corners, his mouth opening just slightly before he presses the laugh back down, his teeth sinking in the bottom lip.
Y/N stares before she can stop herself and she wonders what his unrestrained laughter sounds like. The thought arrives so suddenly, so innocently, that it embarrasses her more than staring at his scars did. Worse, she wants to be the one who pulls it out of him one day.
That is how trouble grows roots.
She sits on the mattress, testing it with suspicion as it dips beneath her weight. Then she frowns.
“What if I stain it?”
Jack lowers himself beside the fire, close enough that the light cuts gold across his jaw. “With what?”
“Mud. Blood. Whatever else I’m covered in.”
He leans a little closer, forearms braced on his knees, and his eyes move over her face in a way that feels too attentive to be casual. He’s not leering nor invasive, for it seems more like he is trying to understand the strange little places her fear chooses to live in.
“I’m sure we can find a new one someday,” he says. “Don’t sweat it, okay? Just sleep.”
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she lies down.
Her body reacts before her mind does as a small exhale slips out of her, almost a sigh, almost like surrender. The mattress is thin, uneven, and old, but it receives the weight of her bones instead of punishing them. Pain blooms across her back as soon as she relaxes, and she realizes with bleak surprise that she hurts everywhere. It’s not just her calf, it’s her hips, shoulders, neck, wrists, ribs. It feels as if she jumped from a second-story window and only now has time to regret the landing.
She curls slightly on her side, head angled away from Jack at first. Then, because she is apparently determined to betray herself in stages, she turns enough to study him.
His profile is cut clean by firelight. She notices his nose. It is ridiculous, the detail her brain chooses. There are walkers outside and a strange man inside and her body is one bad decision away from shutting down, but there it is. His nose is strong, the bridge distinct, slightly narrow toward a defined tip that sits evenly above the line of his mouth. It gives his face a severe kind of balance. Combined with the chiseled jaw, the stubble, and the concentrated set of his eyes, it makes him look commanding without trying.
Annoyingly handsome.
No.
Worse.
Compelling.
He rubs his right knee absently, thumb pressing into the side of it like he is trying to shut out an old ache. The earlier hitch in his stride returns to her mind. He had walked for hours on that leg and still slowed for her, still hauled shelves, dragged mattresses, kept watch.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs without looking at her. “Sleep, sweetheart.”
Her face warms again. She pulls her knees toward her chest.
“It’s not that easy to fall asleep.”
Now he looks over. His lips part with quiet amusement, the expression softening the severity of his face by degrees. His eyes dip over the hoodie swallowed around her shoulders, the way she has tucked herself into it like a defensive animal inside a lair.
“Would you like a lullaby?”
She rolls her eyes and pushes herself up onto one elbow. “And if I say yes?”
Jack’s mouth curves, then he winks playfully. “I’d sing for you.”
A snort escapes her. It is inelegant and immediate and not nearly as guarded as she would prefer.
Jack’s brows lift. “I would,” he insists. “It might scar you for life, but I would sing for you.”
“Good to know I can count on you.” The words are dry, but there is no sharpness behind them. It’s progress.
His smile fades into something quieter. The corners of his mouth remain lifted, but his eyes sober, hold hers over the small distance between them.
“I told you before,” he says. “You can count on me. I won’t hurt you. I made you a promise I intend to keep.”
Her throat tightens. Outside, rain taps over the roof in endless fingers. The cabin smells of smoke, damp wood, old fabric, and him. The world beyond the walls is full of teeth, but the world inside is full of a different danger entirely.
“This world is full of broken promises, Jack,” she says. “Don’t blame me for finding it hard to trust yours.”
“I don’t, sweetheart.” His answer comes without hesitation. “I really don’t.”
The softness of it unsettles her more than any sharpness could have. He looks toward the door, then back at her. His jaw clenches once before he speaks again.
“I wish you’d been with me when it all started.”
The words sound strange, too intimate. He seems to realize it at the same time she does, but he does not take them back.
“It wouldn’t have been easy,” he continues, voice rougher. “Nothing was. But you would’ve been a hell of a lot safer than you were out there on your own.”
She swallows as her fingers curl around the edge of his hoodie.
Jack’s gaze lowers to her injured leg. His expression shifts into something almost professional, but not cold. More focused than tender, as if caring is easier for him when it has a task attached.
“We have resources to help with that,” he says. “I’ll fix it, okay?”
She nods, barely. Exhaustion begins to drag at her from below. The fire blurs, then sharpens, then blurs again. Her eyelids feel weighted. Her body, now that it has found warmth and something softer than dirt, is trying to shut down without permission.
“Who were you before all this?” she asks.
Jack stills. The softness in his face retreats, replaced by a haunted look that makes her ache. She could have sworn she saw a flicker of guilt there too.
“A doctor,” he says quietly.
That fits, she realizes. She can imagine him in a white coat and scrubs, barking orders, the way he saw she’s injured before she mentioned any pain, the way his voice changes around fear, firm enough to hold a person together. But it doesn’t explain how skilled he seemed in the mall. She had to learn some skills in this world, but she’s not on his level, not even close.
Then his mouth tightens with restraint, and she realizes he’s not done.
“A soldier,” he adds. The fire pops and he looks down at his hands. “Someone who should’ve died a long time ago.” A humorless breath leaves him. “But I’m still here. For better or worse.”
Y/N watches him through lashes grown heavy. The word soldier sits differently on him than doctor. Doctor sounds like a life he enjoyed, while the soldier sounds like a wound. She does not press. Some things should not be dragged into the light just because she’s curious.
Her eyes close.
Jack notices and says nothing. Just as he seems to think she has drifted off, her voice slips out, soft and tired.
“I’m sure you were a very handsome doctor.”
Jack snorts. The sound is quick, surprised, and unguarded enough to make her want to open her eyes. She opens one.
He is shaking his head, but there is a smile there now, pulling wider than before. It changes his whole face. Not erasing the years exactly, but loosening their grip. The hard lines ease, his eyes brighten with something sly and almost boyish. The silver in his hair catches the firelight, and instead of aging him, it makes him look like a man the world has tried very hard to ruin and failed to make dull.
“Some would say I was charming too,” he says.
Her own smile comes easier this time. It curves slowly, tugging warmth into her cheeks, softening her mouth before she can hide it. The expression feels strange on her face, almost vulnerable from lack of use.
“Cocky, definitely.”
Jack grins at her properly then. A pointed look accompanies it, one brow lifting as if to say she has just proved his case. His grin is lopsided, pleased, and far more dangerous than the smirk. The smirk is armor. The grin is a door left carelessly open for half a second.
Y/N sees the kindness through it. Then it is gone, replaced by the watchful man beside the fire, but the imprint remains.
Doctor makes sense. Soldier explains too much. She would not have guessed that exactly. Cop, maybe, security, someone used to weapons and orders, but a doctor-soldier combination explains the contradiction sitting beside her. Healing and violence, precision and force, a man who knows both how to keep a body alive and how to end one quickly.
It should make him more frightening. Maybe it does. Maybe that is why her next thought feels so clear.
There are two things she knows about Jack.
The first is obvious: she is defenseless against him in every practical sense. If he wants to overpower her, he can. He has the strength, the training, the reach, the experience. Her knife would only matter if he lets it matter. Her bad leg makes running a joke the world would laugh at. He could take whatever he wants from her if he chooses to become the kind of man she fears.
The second thing makes no sense: he will not. She cannot explain it to the restless heart underneath her ribs, cannot justify it with facts, not enough of them and cannot place it neatly beside all the evidence that humans are still the worst thing left walking. But the certainty sits there anyway, quiet and immovable.
Jack will not physically harm her.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Her body believes it before her mind dares to and that is enough for now. Her eyelids lower again. The fire crackles beside her. Rain whispers over the roof. Jack shifts slightly, settling in for his watch, his silhouette steady between her and the door.
Y/N listens to the cabin, to the storm, to Jack’s slow, measured breathing, and then, wrapped in his hoodie and the fragile shelter of his promise, she finally lets go.
I need more information about Clark sucking clit🙏. Will he fall asleep during it?
clark twists and twirls his tongue and lips alllll around the clit, soothing himself like it’s a pacifier for him after a really long drab day at work he just wants to come home and stick his head right between those legs and lick. suckle like it’s his source for milk, like it’s his source of a good serotonin boost to smell and nuzzle and eat out his girlfriend into several earthquake-like orgasms that have her convulsing because he overstimulates her from sucking so hard for so long.
when he calms himself down he settles it down to kitten licks, drool mixing with her wetness all over his face. the slobber is audible the more he licks and sucks. and he absolutely falls asleep while he’s sucking clit. nose bunched in her pussy lips when his tongue dove in to lick her hole clean, breathing her in so deeply, relaxing and completely unwinding. snoring even.
if he wakes up in the middle of the night he isn’t even confused about where he is. just kisses her pussy and suckles her clit some more, leaving it puffy and swollen and red from all the nonstop attention. she’s taken pictures of him asleep between her legs, oblivious yet exactly where he wants to be. she cums again and again and again and he drinks it up like nectar. he cums while he gives head too btw and will fully hump the shit out of the bed while he’s eating. doesn’t care how sloppy his mouth gets, or his boxers, or their sheets. he’s so happy and soothed to be right where he is
you feel a deep affection for the little girl who wanders into the store you work at unaccompanied and a deep vitriol for her seemingly neglectful father. when she is given over to the custody of her uncle, it's easy to see he's way out of his depth. less easy to see how completely obsessed with you he is. ( 9.6k words )
warnings : gun mentions, clear neglect of lena on baz's part, reader has an extremely strained relationship with her father, parental abuse, food insecurity, age gap (reader is twenty eight, pope is thirty-nine), mandatory tag for employee/boss relationship but mostly not really 18+mdni cw smut, reader is a bit of a perv (just a bit!!), female masturbation, voice kink/voyeurism? not sure how to tag it? inappropriate use of a platonic voicemail?
note : back to my roots with a long pope fic this is the first full length fic i've written since valentine's day why did nobody tell me???? i do intend for this to be a multi-part fic but that depends on if anybody reads this so if you like it please consider reblogging/commenting i actually worked so hard on this one and i'm really proud of it so i hope you enjoy!!!!
The craft store on Fern Road has been there ever since you could remember. Nestled between a hair salon and a bakery right in the middle of Main Street, it doesn’t get a whole lot of natural light once you venture past the huge open windows. Surrounded by a U-shape of shelving around all three of the back walls, most of the middle of the store is taken up by display tables or large metal crates of stock. There’s a system, so meticulously organised you could probably recreate it with your eyes closed.
Notebooks go on the left wall; A5 bullet journals on one end and A2 canvas sketchbooks on the other and everything else in between. Planners, calendars, to-dos to stick on the fridge, everything had a place. On the right wall were the art supplies, paint at the back and crayons at the front, organised by skill level, price point and colour. The back wall was for the more novelty items, mostly things that you only buy one or two of. Hot glue guns, easels, even a sewing machine that’s been collecting dust since you were in high school.
It had been there the day you got the job; fourteen years old and itching for something to keep you occupied outside of your house. Mrs. Rayskel had been a lot more involved in the operations of the store back when you had first started as its only other employee, but now she mostly leaves you alone.
The middle sections are the ones most likely to entice a child, you think. Huge metal crates of stuffed animals, short, open cabinets of bracelet making kits and paint by number books. There’s a table right as you walk in that has hundreds of different types of pens in dividers on the outside, the entire area of the surface taken up in thick sheets of paper meant for testing pen types, but really just being a place for kids to draw.
You’re assuming that’s what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. It’s pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you haven’t had anyone come in all day. You don’t mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you don’t have to worry about someone else fucking up your shit), you have your crochet projects to keep you company at the desk. Most of the time you put on a calming playlist of royalty-free music and mind your business until the early evening when you close. Mrs. Rayskel only works weekends now, so you’re in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. You’ve got about two hours until you need to start your sweep (assuming anyone comes in at all), checking the pen caps have been put on, replacing sample paper, rotating stock for visibility, when you spot her.
She’s quite small, can’t be older than seven, sitting on the plush rug by one of the windows. You hire a carpet cleaner every three months to treat the floors here, and you know it hasn’t been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. “Hi.”
You hadn’t heard her come in, and you’re not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You could’ve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk.
“Hi,” she says back, shy. She’s wearing a purple raincoat that seems to have done a very good job of protecting her from the downpour, her dark hair sitting loose around her shoulders. In her hand is a stuffed unicorn toy, and discarded in front of her is a pegasus. “Am I in trouble?”
You frown. “No, of course not. You’re not in trouble.” Where are her parents? You’re not sure if she’s old enough to be in school yet, but it’s close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. It’s not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you haven’t seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. “What’s your name?”
She shrinks in on herself slightly. “I’m not supposed to say.” Right, don’t talk to strangers and all that. That doesn’t help you.
You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. She’s quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. You’re not even sure how long she’s been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes.
You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. “I work here,” you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store.
She likes knowing your name, you can tell. She says it softly, stuttering over one of the syllables, before eventually shuffling in her seat and speaking up again. “I’m Lena.”
Okay, you can work with that. Step one is establish trust, step two is locate her guardians. Step three might be call CPS if you can’t get those two done before you close but the likelihood of that happening is extremely low. You have kids wander in here by themselves all the time, just not usually quite so young.
“Hi Lena,” you say gently. “Can I sit with you?”
She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. “I’m sorry for touching your toys,” she says as you cross your legs.
You couldn’t care less. “That’s okay. Do you want to play?”
Lena perks up, still hesitant. “Can I?”
“Sure!” You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. “Do you want me to play with you?”
That’s what really gets her, like she hadn’t been expecting you to offer your time. “Can we play with the ponies?” When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go.
“We can play whatever you’d like.”
Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. “This one is yours,” she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face.
You accept it seriously. “What’s her name?”
Lena looks at you like you haven’t been paying attention properly. “She doesn’t have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.” She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. “She has to get it back.”
You haven’t played pretend like a little girl since you were one, but it was pretty easy to get back into the swing with Lena. Never just a game, always a full world with rules that spring forth fully formed, buried beneath layers of stories of princesses and ghosts. You remember how it felt to hold all of that in your head all at once, never about good prevailing over evil and instead how it felt to be betrayed, or forgiven, or loved.
You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again.
“Lena.”
Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. “Hi, Daddy.”
Pretty much all bravado you’ve had about tearing Lena’s guardians a new one, simmering and stewing the longer this poor girl sat here with only a stranger for supervision, disappears immediately when you look up at Lena’s dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. You’ve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guy’s left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.
“I thought I told you not to wander off,” he says, uneasy smile on his face. You think you might have read him wrong; not the type of man to yell in front of someone else.
Your metaphorical grip on the little girl in front of you tightens in panic. You had thought this entire time that what you wanted was for Lena’s parents to come and collect her, and of course you don’t want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and they’re worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. “We need to get home.”
Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesn’t recognise him.
This man is clearly her father, or at least another relative. They bear a striking resemblance, the features Lena is still growing into looking sinister and cruel on the older man. You wonder briefly if he’s always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man.
Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. “Okay, daddy.”
She looks at you, the same smile on her face that he’d given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. “Thank you for playing with me.”
You don’t want to let her go - least of all without offering some big act of kindness. You want her to remember you, if she ever needs something to hold onto.
“Do you want that one?” You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. “You can have them both.” You’ll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, you’d give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.
Lena’s dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. “No, that’s okay.” She leaves the pony on the floor. “Thank you for playing with me.”
She’s gone before you can figure out what to say.
You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. You’re not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You don’t know what’s going on between her and her father. There’s a high likelihood that he’s just having a bad day, that he’s usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his daughter.
But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. She’s so small, barely up to your hip. You can’t imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. She’s clever, and articulate, and the story she dreamed up with those two stuffed toys shows that. Her father had a gun on him on a Thursday afternoon, in the middle of Main Street. She’s so little, she can’t comprehend cruelty.
She has to make up evil creatures to process things.
You think about her for a few days after she leaves. You kept both the stuffed animals behind the counter; it felt wrong to put them back on display. Who knows, maybe you could have been reading way too far into it anyway.
——
You never really learned how to shop. It wasn’t really a skill that you thought you’d have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, you’ll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure it’ll come to you any day now.
The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like you’re somewhere more important than in your body. You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for longer than you need to, one hand down by your side holding your basket against your calf, the other hovering over a box you’ve already picked up twice.
$4.49
You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like you’re expecting anything called ‘Cinnamon Raspberry Crunch’ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper.
You put the first box back.
Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You don’t need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But you’ve been thinking about this stupid cereal for days now, since you last came in and passed it on your way out. You could just buy it. You’re almost thirty.
You can’t explain it, can’t verbalise, can’t even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you can’t form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt.
Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny.
You let it ring two full times, trying to control your breathing. You never understood how some people can just take a deep breath before doing something and feel braced for impact. It’s never really worked for you.
“Hi, dad.” Your voice wobbles.
Your father doesn’t bother saying hello on the other side, instead waiting. You think it might have been the amount of time it took you to answer the phone, but you don’t bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. “You took your time.”
You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure there’s no one else around. “I’m at the store.”
“At this hour?” You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. “I suppose you are a busy girl.” You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing.
He doesn’t need you to talk to keep the conversation going. “Making good choices?”
“Yes, dad.” You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. He’d call you sport and drag you places like fishing. “I know.”
“You have a few bad habits,” he says, like he’s spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You don’t think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. “Never quite grown out of them,” he says gently.
You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. “I know.”
There’s that silence again.
“You don’t have to stop,” he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. “I’m trying to help you.”
“I didn’t mean to snap.” It’s been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. “I’m sorry.”
Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while he’s making his mind up. There really is no rhyme or reason to him sometimes, it is left purely up to his whim. Sometimes a mood you think is a good one can sour in an instant. You’ve known him for how long and you just can’t get a read on him.
“Anyway,” he breezes past it. “I called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.”
Your car had died and you’d blown most of your savings on getting it fixed, leaving you short on your electric bill for the month. Your father had been practically a last resort, first spending hours researching all possible public transit routes to see if there was any way you could make it work. You’d given him the money back immediately when you’d been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like you’re disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things.
One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You don’t remember what it was for — just that it had been really important because your dad said it was, and that meant everything had to be right. You remember more of the buildup than the party itself if you’re honest. The air was tight, so quiet that not even the house dared settle. Every day you would take the school bus home and every day you’d drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home.
Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular.
You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You weren’t allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didn’t think you were a messy child but your dad isn’t the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you — that part, at least, had always been made clear.
The night of the party, the house filled up in a way it never had. There had been too many people, all too loud, all of them laughing like your house wasn’t riddled with landmines intentionally set to detonate around your father. You stayed outside, sitting on the stoop, watching the older boys from the neighbourhood ride their bikes up and down the street under the orange glow of the streetlights.
You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your father’s laugh louder than you had ever heard it before. Then a sharp sound, one that you knew could only come from the vase on the dining table being knocked over.
You had known what that meant, even back then. Something small goes wrong and everything else follows. The night would fold in on itself, people would leave too quickly.
You could hear someone inside begin apologising and all you could picture was your father standing there, shoulders tight the way they would always be right before he snapped.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, like it was nothing at all.
You didn’t come inside until you were sure the last person had left; nobody came to make sure you were in bed. You have never been sure of where you stand with him.
So you’re careful when you speak up again. “I did pay you back.”
He hums. “I don’t think so.”
You’ve barely been able to afford gas this month because of the extra money being taken out of your account. Your job is consistent and pays you pretty well but you still work retail
“I did, I transferred it. I’ll check-”
He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. “Okay, calm down. You don’t have to get upset. If you say you did then I’m sure you did.” He clearly doesn’t believe you. You don’t mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that don’t really exist is what spikes your heart rate.
“Dad-”
He doesn’t let you cut him off. “No, I won’t keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, I’d appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.” He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights.
——
You’ve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies — your crocheting, your crafts, your scrolling through social media and seeing which of your high school friends are getting engaged. Spring breaks into summer and you spend the next couple of weeks preparing for the summer rush. The rain settles, giving way to a dry heat that has you grateful your car’s air conditioning hasn’t gone yet.
The store’s air conditioning is fairly reliable and since you’re the only one who works no one ever messes with your settings. The store is kind of a hangout spot for some younger kids who have clearly been set loose for the first time. They come in for the ever-rotating collection of board games, and you become somewhat of an unpaid babysitter.
You don’t mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and you’ve always loved being around children. Most of the time they’re a lot nicer to be around than adults. There’s no small talk, no worrying about filling the silence, or being annoying. Most of the time, the type of kids who want to come into a quiet store and draw or play chutes and ladders for hours, they just like when adults pay attention to them. You hope you can make them feel important, even if it’s just for an afternoon. Education had been something you’d considered going into once you graduated high school but the workload and the student loans and the decisiveness of the whole thing had been too daunting and eventually you’d put it off for so long it didn’t seem worth pursuing anymore.
You keep the two ponies under the counter, kept safe from stock rotations and curious children by your careful hands. You protect them from dust, keep them safe. It feels a bit silly to keep them there, keep them clean and ready. You can’t bear to separate them.
The summer rush comes and goes and with it comes the back to school rush. You end up paying your father back a second time, too busy with work to have the energy to deal with the stress of it. You don’t think he has your address, but you also didn’t think he had it the last time he’d shown up at your place.
It’s perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. You’ve done all the restocking, you’ve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. You’ve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, you’re that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, you’ve finally settled in your comfy chair behind the desk, crochet project on your lap and calming music playing through the speaker connected to your phone.
The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you don’t even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. She’s not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like she’s just considered the idea that you don’t remember her.
You’re sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, you’ve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, you’re probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You don’t have the best memory, it’s not photographic or eidetic or anything, but you remember faces and names. You remember people in your kindergarten class, and adults who showed you kindness, and customers you had completely mundane interactions with. You wonder often what it says about you the memories your brain has decided to latch onto, what has shaped you into who you are. Your preschool teacher scolding you for talking during nap time when you hadn’t been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised she’d wait for your bus before beginning her walk home. One time, you had been maybe seventeen, down by the waterfront after a vicious fight with your father. You don’t recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the water’s edge. He had a bucket filled with seashells, and his grandmother was sitting on the sand helping him decorate a sandcastle with his findings. Eventually she’d stood up, dusting herself off, and told him they had to head home for dinner with his mama. The boy had cried something awful, tears and sobs, begging his grandma to just help him find one more shell. One more, just one more. Is it odd you can recall the moment with perfect clarity, feeling your own heart split in two just at the sound of his upset?
Lena has grown since you last saw her, and if she hadn’t referred to you by name you would’ve thought you’d projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if it’s been five minutes instead of five months.
She’s flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time she’d been in. He’s staring at you when you look away from her, holding the door open for her to come inside and making sure he catches it before it slams. Blue eyes stare straight into you deeper than you think you’ve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesn’t look away at being caught.
He’s thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like you’re doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and you’re completely aware of every single one of your limbs.
“Hi, Lena.” Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. “How are you?”
She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how she’s just started second grade, the friends she’s been making, how hard the classes are. She talks with a level of familiarity about her life the way only a second grader could, like it would never even occur to her that you wouldn’t have anything to compare it to. You discard your crochet project, scooting your chair forward and leaning over on your elbows to make sure she knows you’re giving her all your attention.
Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if he’d expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. You’re not sure if he’s just a starer — some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you — or if he’s watching for something.
You kick off where you’re leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. “I have something for you,” you feel foolish already. Chances are she’s forgotten, or she doesn’t even like horses anymore, or she didn’t even at the time but they were her only option. “People bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.” You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lena’s eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesn’t move towards them.
Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. “Can I, Uncle Pope?”
Lena’s uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like he’s not used to doing it but fond like he can’t help it anyway. “Yeah,” his voice is crackly and quiet. “How much are they?” He looks back to you.
You wonder if he thinks you’re going to quiz him on your eye colour or something. You shake your head, practically tripping over your own actions to get ahead of yourself and skip through the first part of interactions. “No, it’s fine. They’re for her.”
Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesn’t have to be reminded, eyes shining. You get the idea that Pope has heard about the two of them before. He watches her glee, affectionate an albeit untrained smile widening on his face. “Do you want your pen things?”
Her eyes widen to saucers. “I can still have them?” Pope nods and Lena practically shoots off towards the stationery section, leaving the two of you alone. He turns to orient his body towards her instinctively, but he’s standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach.
His hair is thick and unruly, such a rich copper it almost looks brown in the warm lighting of the store. His curls look well loved but less well maintained and you find your mind stumbling forward again; what hair products does he use? Does he like it touched? Does he have anyone there to touch it? What would it feel like?
“She talks about you a lot,” Pope says, sounding like whatever the opposite of conversational is. He speaks like he regrets it retroactively, aching for solitude but subjecting himself to small talk with strangers. “Practically begged me to come here since she has a half day. I told her if she did all of her homework she could get some of those pens.” He mimes using a pen. “Y’know the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?”
You nod. They’re just called scented markers, but you don’t feel the need to correct him. You picture him at a kitchen counter, trying to coax his niece into finishing a reading log with scented markers. You know Lena has a father, a man that she at least called ‘dad’ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isn’t he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? That’s probably unfair, you don’t know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him.
But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you can’t lie to yourself about that.
“She’s a good kid.” You have to assume. She’s lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you don’t know her when it really comes down to it. “Seemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.” You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. “I wanted to do something nice for her.”
Pope looks over at her, taking the caps off the sample markers to smell them, then down at you. You feel real juvenile with your little crochet stars in your lap, you’re planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. He’s clearly older than you by a significant amount, he’s probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lena’s father. Perhaps you’re being unfair, maybe it wasn’t a gun, and maybe he’d just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue.
“You didn’t have to,” he says gruffly, looking down. He doesn’t have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. “Lot to do for someone else’s kid.”
You feel a little bit scolded, shrinking into him. This man clearly cares a lot about his niece, perhaps more than her father, you want him to think you’re good for her. Want him to like you.
You’re sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when he’d been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled.
“I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say cautiously.
He blinks at you. The expressions that he’s shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones he’s given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but he’s really been giving you nothing.
He looks at you for so long you have to be the one to break eye contact. Lena bounces up to the counter, marker pigment around her nose with a pack of scented felt tip pens. “Oh, Lena,” you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. He’s looking down his shoulder at her. “You’ve got pen on your face.”
“Sorry,” she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. “’S’it gone?” She juts her head back to present to you.
You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. “Here,” you pull one out of the package and present it to her. “Do you mind if I wipe it off?”
Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. She’s got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didn’t get that from her dad. She doesn’t look much like Pope at all, and you don’t remember her father’s face with as much clarity as you’ll recall her uncle’s, but you don’t see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her mother’s side but given that Lena is clearly mixed you’d made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers.
“Thank you,” she enunciates, nodding slightly on each word. You wipe away the pigment gently, catching sight of the way Pope watches you out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if you’d been overstepping when you’d brought it up but you’re pretty sure it qualifies now. You finish up, curling the wipe in your hand and sitting back. Lena looks up at Pope with a toothy smile. “All better?”
He nods at her. “Be careful with them. We can’t go to grandma’s if you’ve got pen all over your face.”
He doesn’t have that way about him that people who spend a lot of time around kids usually do. None of the fake niceties in the voice, there’s clear affection there and he’s good with her, but there’s a level of clumsiness there. The love had come naturally but the mannerisms are still forming themselves. Easy and wrought with the deception of labour in the same breath.
He’s holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. “Right.” Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where they’d connected with his. They’re rough, calloused, and they don’t shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change.
“Keep the rest.”
He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct.
“They’re four dollars.”
He stares at you again. “You have a tip jar, don’t you?”
Technically, sure. There’s a jar there that’s labelled for tips, but people rarely leave cash in it. You know his name but you feel wrong saying it. Yours is displayed on the badge you have clipped to your top. You tell him anyway, changing the topic.
Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. “Everyone calls me Pope.”
“Well, Pope,” you say as if you hadn’t collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. “That’s like a two hundred percent tip, so.” You turn the key and the drawer pops out. You tuck the twenty away and hand him back a ten. $5.15 with tax, $4.85 tip. "Happy?” You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than you’ve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success.
Lena tugs on his sleeve. “Are we going to Grandma Smurf’s now? She said I could go in the pool, s’long as I wear sunscreen.”
Pope’s frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. “We can go now. You sure?” Lena nods resolutely.
You watch them go, Lena turning around to wave at you at the door. Pope looks right at you and raises an arm in goodbye. There’s a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent they’re gone but your face is still hot.
You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lena’s uncle Pope. You wish you’d introduced yourself with your surname so he’d been inclined to do the same. He hadn’t given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so you’re not sure exactly why he’s got you all hot and bothered. He’s at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you can’t argue and claim that’s not your type.
He probably wouldn’t have captured your attention so severely if he hadn’t been so good with his niece. It had been something that you’d realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. You’d felt your whole adolescence that you were too young to be an adult. Mrs. Rayskel had hired you two days after you had turned fourteen, so when you woke up one day and realised that you were actually an appropriate age to be working, in your mid twenties. That you’re not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she would’ve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age don’t want to settle down, at least none of the ones you’ve ever met have.
But an older man with a niece he clearly adores? You have to slap yourself in the middle of stirring your pasta to stop yourself from perving on this poor man. You wonder if he’d mind.
——
You spend maybe two weeks having your heart race every time the door to the shop opens, and are rewarded for your diligence when eventually Pope does return, this time without Lena in tow.
You’re actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. You’re mostly hidden behind a shelf so you’re able to pretend you haven’t seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you.
“Oh, hi.” You’re kneeling on the floor restocking the bottom shelf and despite the fact that your skirt ends at your calves you tug it down self-consciously. “Lena’s uncle, Pope, right?”
He nods slowly, so slow it’s like it’s something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know it’s probably because his niece isn’t with him but there’s a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. You’re being ridiculous, he doesn’t give a shit what you’re wearing. He offers a hand and you don’t even think before taking it. His hand is so much bigger than yours, and the vein on his arm bulges as he helps you stand. “Everything okay?”
You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. It’s still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. You’ve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. It’s not any disdain for you or anything you’ve done, he’s just a pensive man.
“What…” he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. “What do you do when you’re not at work?”
You perk up a little bit. There’s no way… he’s not asking you out, right? It’s probably that he wants to know which crafts you engage in, maybe he needs gift ideas for Lena. The answer is embarrassingly sparse, and you definitely paint yourself as a bit of a homebody. “Crochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimes…” you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably won’t after this. “Then errands mostly.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend? Kids?” He asks bluntly.
“Uh… no. Why?”
He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. “Lena’s my brother’s daughter.” You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. “I don’t know how to take care of her, thought this shit was meant to be easier. Thought all the hard parts about parenting were diapers and tantrums and she’s got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.” He lets out a hot rush of air. “’S not like that at all.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling.
You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent — for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her?
“All that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,” he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him there’s a different emotion behind his eyes. You don’t have very much to go off, can’t even name his baseline, but from the fluttering eyelashes and the furrowed brows this looks very much like a man out of his depth finally confiding a fear. “Now I have to look after her. Have to, get to.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how he did it. But I have to work, and she needs someone to watch her after school, and the sign out there says you guys shut before four in the afternoon.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. “You want me to… babysit her?”
Pope seems to realise that this is an odd request. Perhaps not the most appropriate, either. He clears his throat and pulls again at the curls on the nape of his neck. “You can tell me to get lost.”
“No, just…” you feel like if you don’t shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, I’m a random adult you’ve met once, how do I know you’re not insane and won’t just dump her here and run away? “You want me?”
Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. “She likes you.” He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him.
“When would you need me?” As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where you’d need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You can’t quit it for this, definitely not before you’re sure it’ll shake out. “Like after school? I’m usually here until four-ish.”
“She finishes school at three forty-five, it’s only three blocks. You have a car?” You nod. “Good, a license?” You nod again. “If you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.” He points out the window, you’re too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. “If you can, you pick her up from school, bring her back here or to your house or the park or my apartment or wherever. Keep her entertained, make sure she does her homework and eats her veggies. Sometimes I’d need to work late, so she’d need to spend the night with you and you’d have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment that’s fine. School starts at nine but she can go in at eight if you need to be here. Plus weekends. Not every day, and not always that late. I just…” he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. “I can pay you.”
You’d hope so, for all that.
“Lena mentioned her grandma?” You ask gently. “Do you think Lena could stay with her some days?”
He looks at you as if he’s surprised you would bring her up. “No, I don’t want her around my mom.” He sniffs, looking away from you. “If you don’t want to just say it. Don’t have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour — what do you make here?” It’s not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. “Double on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.” He’s almost breathless. “I can pay you.”
What the hell does this man do?
“Pope. It’s a lot to ask,” you say. “I can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I don’t know about nights, but depending on where you live I could maybe swing by in the morning and help her get ready for school, drop her on my way?”
Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. It’s the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesn’t make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile.
“Why don’t I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while I’m not at work?” What Pope and Lena probably need is a nanny, or at least someone who can full time devote themselves to Lena. You have a job that, while it awards you a lot of freedom, is something you couldn’t live without. And while you adore Lena, and you’re sure that’ll only grow with time, you need the money desperately.
Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. “Oh, sorry. I left it on the desk.” Your father has been calling you, upset that you’d fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what it’ll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You haven’t the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers.
“Do you like this job?” He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and you’d practically be chest to chest. “When you were a kid you wanted to be a… craft girl?”
You can’t hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like you’d yelled at him.
“No,” you admit. “This isn’t what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.” You’ve never really told another person that, never had another person to tell. By the time you graduated high school you were lucky if your father noticed you hadn’t been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty he’d looked at you like he’d forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade it’s been since you last saw his face you’d developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings.
Pope’s eyes light up. “See, you’re perfect.” He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. “This is basically like being a teacher.”
You laugh again and this time he doesn’t seem so offended. “Goodbye, Pope.”
This time when he leaves he doesn’t turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. There’s a man there who snickers and punches Pope’s chest when he gets in, but Pope doesn’t even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window.
You look down at your phone. “Pope Cody…” you muse, looking at his contact information. You’re surprised he offered his surname at all, the longer you speak to him the less he seems the type. You smile down at it and startle, caught, at the sound of the bell. Your phone slips from your grasp and you bring up your other hand to catch it before it hits the floor. The app closes in the fuss, and with it goes his unsaved contact information. “Shit.” You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully don’t look like they heard your expletive and put your phone down on the counter. You can only hope that he texts you first, you suppose you’ll find out if he expects you to make the first move.
——
It’s late when your phone rings. So late, you know it’s not Pope. So late you’re going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. You’re not not going to sleep, you’re just not trying very hard. You’re sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache.
It’s your father, he’s the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. You’ll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing you’re awake to ignore him. You’re so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, you’ve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesn’t even catch up to you until it’s almost finished ringing.
Your phone screen goes black again, plunging the room into the sub-darkness that only comes from the whole city being asleep. Then, it lights up again with a text.
Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device.
You have 1 New Voicemail.
Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually they’re unintelligible. Your phone will have taken a transcript as best it can, and you squint at the brightness. It streaks right past your retinas and into the core of your brain, making your headache worse.
Uh hey it’s pope Cody—
You scramble up until you’re on your knees, heart rate spiking. You can’t be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph it’s not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see it’s almost a full minute.
There’s a feeling in your chest you can’t get rid of, can’t deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where it’s resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt you’d been intending on sleeping in and finding your nipple. You toy with it almost distractedly, stuck in limbo of being desperate to rake your eyes over his words and wanting to hear him.
God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps it’s just from the breeze drifting through the open window but you also feel a throb of neediness light up your core. You roll onto your back, clenching your thighs together. This is a line you shouldn’t cross. Sure, it’s late, you’re horny, whatever. But this guy is about to be your boss, you should be able to listen to a voicemail without needing to touch yourself.
He’s such a serious man, you can’t imagine what he’d say if he saw the state of you, shirt lifted just below your breasts, soaking a damp patch into the front of your panties. The only way you’re going to be able to get through the message is going to be to get yourself off first like a teenage boy trying not to get a boner on a first date.
Pope’s also painfully awkward and it really does it for you. From the way he moves, to the faces he makes, to the way he talks. Fuck, the way he talks. You let your phone rest on your chest and your other hand finds its way down underneath your panties.
You haven’t been fucked in a while but you’re way more turned on than you have any right to be. You don’t bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought.
Your fingers aren’t as thick as his, and you can’t help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? He’s pretty assertive, perhaps that would overtake the awkwardness. You let a whine escape your bitten lips into the darkness of your bedroom as you rub your clit.
Fuck this, you reach for the phone blindly, half blinded with the vision of his hand shoving yours out the way. You fumble for the button, but after a little while his voice rings out in your bedroom.
“Uh,” he coughs. “Hey, it’s Pope Cody.” Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you can’t focus on anything but the sound of his voice, already humiliatingly close. His voice is low and the phone quality crackles but it mimics the grooves of his voice well enough you don’t even care. “Look, I know it’s late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I don’t know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.” His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot.
Frustrated with the limitations the fabric is giving, you pull both your hands out and shove your underwear down your legs, letting it slip off your foot and onto the floor of your bedroom. “And you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“Fuck,” you hiss, drawing your fingers from your hole and fucking them back into yourself slowly. He seems like the type of man who would take his time, or maybe that’s just you projecting for slowing down so you don’t cum before he’s even done talking.
“And I’m sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I won’t come by again, if you don’t want. But I want to see you.”
You’re only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. It’s downright sinful the things you want him to do to you.
“I need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about… yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but I’m way in over my head here so… Whatever it is you want to do, I’ll do it. You want more money?”
You bring the hand rubbing your clit up to your mouth to sink your teeth into the back, instead grinding on the palm of the hand you’re using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you don’t have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you don’t need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. “Anything you want. Anything.” You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want.
He says your name, low and deep and you tip into your orgasm, back arching against your sheets and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. They’re clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms.
He’s gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. He’s older than you, and he’s about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you don’t think that would stop him if he wanted you.
“Or if you don’t want or, or you can’t or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I don’t fuckin’ know… Thanks for the help. I’m around, if you want to call me when you’re not asleep. Okay.” He ends the message without a goodbye.
Your eyes are practically glued shut, walls fluttering around your fingers as your breathing slowly returns to normal. How the fuck are you meant to work this job? You can’t even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear.
You don’t remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you must’ve slipped on in a daze. It’s a Saturday, so you don’t have to get up if you don’t really want to. You have chores to do and sleep to catch up on, you can hear the faint sound of rain picking up outside. Perfect circumstances for a day at home, resetting and fixing yourself up on one of your two days off.
Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone.
Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didn’t get your call. I’m free today, I’d love to see you. You chicken out and tack onto the end and Lena! I can come over to your place or we can meet somewhere else?
You barely have time to close your eyes again before your phone is vibrating in your hand, once, then twice. The first message is an address. The second: give me an hour.
You roll back onto your stomach and try to stop yourself from screaming into your pillow.
can you plsss write scott smut between him and the reader who runs with tyler’s crew 😏
Hello new friend! 😊 absolutely!
Bull by the Horns
Pairing: Scott Miller x Storm Chaser!Reader
Word Count: 2.6k
Content: MDNI 18+ asshole!Scott, tornado mention, bickering, fighting as foreplay (it’s Scott bffr), semi-public sex, unprotected p in v (don’t do this, kids), soft dominant!Scott, squirting, he talks her through it, creampie, lmk if I forgot anything!
Synopsis: You accidentally get left behind by the truck after a failed headcount. A StormPar vehicle with an irritated driver comes to your rescue.
A/N: Scorpio, I’m loving this idea! Thank you so much for the ask and the love on my first Scott fic. He got a little soft towards the end idk what happened 😅
Main Masterlist
———
So much for those expensive tracking devices and weather radar. Sometimes Mother Nature is a bitch and shows up when you least expect her. And this afternoon she showed up dressed in her finest - a rogue EF2 tornado accompanied by plentiful hail, thunder, and magnificent lightning. You touch the window of Tyler’s truck, crammed into the backseat of the storm-chasing beast with the rest of the crew.
A convoy of trucks and other off-roading vehicles follow you, trying to get the best photos, videos, data, etc of the small storm. You’re here for the adrenaline rush. Sure, you help Tyler set up the best shots and navigate, but at your core, you’re chasing something that data can’t quantify, and you’re damn thankful for him taking a chance on you and giving you a paid spot on his team.
“There!” You shout. “Go right!” Dust kicks up on the gravel road you’re now barreling down toward the tornado. Tyler yelps out a loud “Yeehaw!” as he chases the storm. “Okay, everyone, make sure you’re rolling in the right direction. It’s a beautiful day!”
You laugh and crack the window, letting the rain hit your face. You aren’t dressed for a chase, but to hell with it. The camp was having a barbeque, and another group was playing music earlier.You threw on your favorite white sundress and boots, figuring you’d be chilling in a fold-out chair among the fireflies for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Then the sky darkened, and your heart skipped a beat at the first rush of cool wind. You didn’t have time to change, so now you’re standing beneath a raging storm with your dress soaked through to the bone as you plant a tripod near the truck for some action shots.
“Good job! That’s gonna be beautiful!” Tyler yells over the storm from the tailgate. “Okay, everyone! Get your shots and then get back in!”
You record some shots of the storm as boatloads of other trucks and vehicles surround you, recording their own images and videos for various news outlets, social media, hobby photography, and data collecting. Those data scientists with StormPar are the worst - so uppity. Especially that one with the-
“Hey!” You shout, watching the horns on the grill of Tyler’s truck swing around and start in the other direction. “Wait!” You scream, sloshing through the mud and waving your arms. The truck doesn’t slow, and you quickly realize they’ve left you behind. The convoy of various vehicles are long gone except for one that drives up to you. The driver’s side window rolls down, “Are you fucking crazy or just stupid?”
“They left me!” You yell, getting more drenched by the second. Scott’s nostrils flare as he pushes the passenger side door open. “Get in.”
You know Scott from various chases - always lurking around the fray before the storm hits. He doesn’t interact with the commonfolk, unless of course he overhears you say something incorrect or offer an opinion he doesn’t agree with. Then he’s all chatter. “Hurry up,” he huffs, offering you his hand to hoist you up into the StormPar truck. You take it and let him haul you inside. His jaw flexes as you immediately soak the seats with your drenched dress.
“Jesus Christ, are you trying to get yourself killed?” He huffs, revving the engine and driving away from the small tornado back toward camp.
“No, asshole,” you huff, starting to shiver from the adrenaline and cold air conditioning blowing in your face. You cross your arms over your chest. “They left me. They always take headcount. I don’t know what happened.”
“Everyone scrambled when that thing whipped east. They must have miscounted,” he says, throwing a blanket from the backseat at you. “If you lot would just stay the fuck home, shit like this wouldn’t happen!”
You huff, but accept the warmth of the blanket. “What makes you guys more worthy of a storm than the rest of us? It’s how I make a living just like you.” The irritation in your voice grows. “At least we’re nice to everyone that comes out. You guys are just stuck-up dicks.”
“We’re tracking the storm to collect data, not to upload a shaky video to fucking YouTube,” he says, jerking the wheel to the left to avoid a spot where the road has washed out. Your body jostles in the seat - you didn’t have a chance to buckle up - and you steady yourself with a hand on Scott’s thigh. You immediately jerk back, muttering “sorry” before sitting back in your seat.
“People love storm chasin’,” you say, more quietly this time.
“Yeah, well, people love building homes where tornadoes don’t hit,” he volleys back. “And Tyler’s whole crew gets in the way of us doing our job.”
“Maybe you’re not good enough at your job then,” you huff, looking out the truck window at the receding storm. The tornado’s long dissolved by now. Mother Nature is done showing off for tonight.
“Always with the smart mouth,” he says through gritted teeth. “Can’t you just admit you’re not clever enough to do what StormPar does? Just a bunch of rednecks with cameras.”
You roll your eyes. “Sorry Mister MIT, I couldn’t afford to go to an Ivy.”
“MIT’s not an Ivy,” he says.
“Well, whatever the fuck it is!” You yell, wanting to get the hell out of the truck already.
Scott slows down to the speed limit and looks over at you. “You’re wound a little tight, aren’t ya? Shouldn’t you be thanking me for saving your sorry ass?”
You turn toward him and pitch your voice up an octave so it’s really bubbly, “Thank you so much for saving my life, Scotty! I don’t know what I’d do without you, big boy.”
“Now say it again, but just the “big boy” part,” he says with a smirk.
“Oh fuck off, perv.”
He laughs as you feel around the floor for your camera, but it’s not there. Didn’t you put it in the truck when you got in? “Fuck!” You yell.
Scott presses the brakes with an irritated, “What?”
“I left my camera back there,” you tell him, knowing he’s about to berate you again for being careless.
“Not my problem, kid,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Not your-? Scott, that camera is worth more than my monthly rent,” you scoff. “I need to go get it.”
“I’m not backtracking for some shitty camera,” he huffs.
“Scott,” you say, like stop.
He says your name in the same tone.
“Please?” You ask through gritted teeth. “Will you drive back so I can get it?”
“What do I get out of it?” He asks, eyeing the way the blanket he threw at you earlier is sliding down your shoulder. You nudge it back up and groan.
“The satisfaction of knowing you were a good person for once in your god damned life,” you say with a forced smile.
He tsks. “That’s not great for the spank bank, darlin’.”
“Scott!” You yell in frustration. “I need that camera. I need to get back to camp. I’m tired and soaking wet!”
“I’m sure you are,” he smirks, slowing down and making a three-point-turn back in the direction of the field.
“You’re sick,” you sigh.
You’re both silent on the quick drive back to the scene of the tornado. You hop out of the truck and run to the field, spotting the tripod quickly. It’s waterproof thankfully, and you cradle it like a baby as you walk back to the truck. You climb in and carefully place it on the floorboards before sitting back in your seat.
“What? No thank you?” Scott asks, drumming out a beat on the steering wheel.
You roll your eyes and look at him. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t take the truck out of park so you look at him with a what the fuck expression.
“Are you gonna listen to me and stay the hell home next time?” He asks.
“Nope.”
“Stubborn.”
“Asshole,” you spit.
“You love it.”
You turn your head at that. “You’re delusional.”
“I love it when you’re mean to me,” he says, biting his lower lip.
“There’s something wrong with you,” you sigh.
“Are you just figuring that out, Raindrop?”
You bristle at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? Seems fitting - you chase storms, love the rain, you’re wet.”
You cross your arms over your chest and wonder where the blanket went.
“Nothing to say to that?” He asks, nudging your bare knee with his.
You ignore him and stare out the window at the cornfield. He laughs - he actually fucking laughs.
“What are you even tryin’ to do?” You finally shout, your voice slipping a bit with Southern twang.
Scott smirks, never letting his guard down. “Trying to get you to loosen up.”
“By what? Gettin’ into my pants? You wanna fuck the redneck storm chaser so you can go back to your stupid fucking Ivy League alumni dinner schmooze fest fuckboy party and tell them you bagged someone that’s not clever enough to work for StormPar? Is that what you’re tryin’ to do?”
“MIT isn’t an Ivy,” he huffs, looking at you. A light blush paints the tops of his cheeks, and you realize that something you said finally got through to him. “And I don’t kiss and tell.”
You snort. “Doubtful.”
“Try me.”
You look up at him again - his blue eyes are serious and searching. It’s no secret that he’s handsome, but he’s always so fucking irritating that you haven’t really given yourself the chance to notice it.
“Scott,” you start. “I-”
“Don’t say anything,” he says.
His knuckles brush your cheek. “I think you’re clever,” he says. “I think you’re smart. I’m just a hothead that can’t see past the numbers and data most of the time.”
Your breath catches in your throat. “And what would you see if you let yourself look past everything?”
“I’d see a woman with a passion for something that my laptop can’t quite capture or calculate. You’re chasing something wild out there, even if you’re reckless and crazy for doing it.”
You feel his breath, minty and cold, across your lips.
You laugh. “What, so I call you out for being a dick and you go all soft on me?”
He shrugs. “You’re feisty. I like that. And your dress is damn near see-through when it’s wet.”
“Ah, there he is,” you nod, but you let him haul you into his lap and press his mouth onto yours. Your butt hits the horn of the truck and you both break apart to laugh. “My dress is going to get you wet.”
“So take that shit off,” he says, already reaching under the hem to haul it over your head. He throws it into the backseat with a wet slap. The damp white cotton of your bra does nothing to hide the way you’re feeling about straddling his lap, and he homes in on it right away. “So stubborn, but look at you.”
“Can you be nice for ten seconds?” You whine as you start to kiss his neck.
He doesn’t reply with words, but by bucking his hips into yours, and suddenly you need him to have less clothes on. You start with the buttons of his crisp white StormPar shirt, working your way down to the buckle of his belt. He reclines the driver’s seat back with a smug smile and puts his hands behind his head.
“What are you doin’?” You ask.
“Enjoying the view,” he says.
“Scott,” you whine again. “Help me.”
“Help you with what?”
“Jesus, Scott - really?”
“Tell me what you want,” he says more seriously. “Use your words, clever girl.”
You groan in irritation. “You’re such a prick.”
“It’s working for you,” he says, nodding down at the wet patch growing in your underwear. You blush as he starts to help you both get completely undressed. By the time you’re both naked his knuckles are brushing at the seam of your pussy, and you grind down on his hand with a moan.
“Take what you need,” he rasps into your ear, letting you ride for a few minutes on his hand alone. Two thick fingers make their way in and curl just right. You gasp his name and feel him twitch between your thighs where he’s hard and heavy. You come around his fingers, and suddenly he’s picking you up and notching himself at your entrance. He leans back and watches you slide down his length with a stifled moan. “Ride me.” It’s a command, not a suggestion.
His hands rest on your hips, fingertips digging in, as you start to rock back and forth on him, getting used to his size. “Fuck, Scott,” you moan, placing your hands on his chest for balance. He starts to meet you thrust for thrust, pushing up into you as you rock forward. One hand on your hip, and the other now toying with your breasts - he leans forward and sucks a nipple into his mouth with a wet pop. Your hands come up around his neck and tug on the ends of his dark hair. He moves one of your hands between your own legs.
“Touch yourself,” he groans. “Play with your needy clit.”
“Scott-”
“Play. With. It,” he says, punctuating each word with a harsh, delicious thrust. You start rubbing yourself in tight circles. “There you go.”
He presses your breasts together and worships them with his mouth - all tongue and teeth, licking and nipping, and “Oh.”
“Don’t stop,” he rasps. “I can feel how close you are.”
“No-”, you start, feeling overstimulated. “I can’t-”
“Oh, yes you can,” he grunts, pulling your hand away and starting the same movements with his own. He holds your hands together in front of your chest with his other hand now, not trusting you to finish the job. “Look at me.”
Your eyes meet his - your vision is hazy, and your lids flutter closed.
“I said look at me,” he grunts as you tighten around him. It’s never felt like this - not this intense, like you could… “Oh, fuck, there you go. Good girl.”
Your inner thighs are wet and you look down at your shaking body with a whine, not totally sure what just happened. Scott cradles your lolling head in his hands and leans forward to kiss your forehead. “You okay?”
You nod and shift your body so you’re leaning forward on him, and he picks up the pace again.
“Guess Raindrop was a good nickname,” he grunts into your ear, biting the lobe.
You let the dig slide, completely fucked out as you hang on to his body. “Scott-”
“I’m close,” he says.
“I’m on the Pill,” you manage to mutter.
“I don’t care,” he rasps, rutting into you with a moan. “‘M never pulling outta you.”
You feel him - wet heat filling your core and you somehow come once more, crying out his name.
You both stay there for a moment, catching your breath and kissing each other while you feel him start to leak out of you.
“I should get up,” you whisper. “I’m a mess.”
“Beautiful mess,” he whispers, helping you off of him. He leans back to grab the blanket from earlier and wraps it around you.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t have much in the truck to clean us up. Why don’t you come to my room when we get back and you can take a shower in something that’s not an RV?” He offers.
“I love the RV,” you say with a laugh.
“You’re going to love a long, hot shower,” he replies. “With me.”
“That’s probably a bad idea,” you say.
“We chase tornadoes for a living, darlin’. Bad ideas are our bread and butter,” he says, taking one of your hands in his. “C’mon, stay with me.”
You’re not sure how he’s gone from offering a shower to offering his bed, but sometimes bad ideas are worth the outcome.
Can’t stop thinking about having a meltdown around Frank Castle, and his only response is to calm you down by tiring you out. Frank just pulls his cock out of his pants and tells you to sit on it, knowing as soon as he’s inside of you, you’ll start to ride him for some relief. “Go on, baby, work yourself out,” he’d tell you as your walls swallow his length. Frank watches you slide up and down intently, making note of how your hiccuped sobs come to a slow stop as you shift your energy into working yourself on Frank’s cock. You almost forget about why you were having a meltdown in the first place.
Frank coos at you, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck and slides his calloused thumb over your warm skin as his mouth falls open. “That’s right, sweetheart. Doin’ so good calming yourself down. You’ve got big feelings for such a little thing, yeah?”
By the time you’ve finished around him, your orgasm is laced in his pubes and has formed a white ring around the base of his cock. You hardly remember what had you so upset in the first place. “I feel better,” you sigh, keeping Frank’s cock tucked tightly inside you, “Really tired— think I need to go to bed.”
“Yeah,” Frank rubs your back softly, his fingers lingering just under the hem of your shirt. “Yeah, baby, I think you were due for some rest about an hour ago.”
I'm going to suck the sweat out of his uniform and sleep with that shit in my mouth. He's gonna try dipping his clothes in apple cider vinegar because I cannot stop but I won't stop even then. I'm going to suckle his luscious teats.
warnings/notes: one more part after this. My kid's haven't been two for a very long time so pretend. Also I didn't write kid speak. Just picture her saying Wobby or whatever. Thank you for all the love for Pt. 1. I think that's it. Enjoy!
The silence stretched between you as Robby stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes moving from your exhausted face to the child in your arms, disbelief contorting his features. He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles whitening as if the hold was the only thing keeping him upright. “What…” He swallowed hard. “What is this?”
You took a deep breath, preparing for the moment you’d imagined countless times over the last two years, though never quite like this. There was no way to soften the blow, so you didn’t bother to try.
“Hello, Michael,” you said quietly, adjusting Lia in your arms. “Meet Amelia, your daughter.”
The color drained from Robby’s face. He stared at the sleeping toddler, gaze tracing her features, taking in every aspect of himself he could see in her. His mouth opened and closed without sound.
“My…” The word came out as a harsh whisper that broke in the middle. “She’s…”
He took an unsteady step forward, then another. His legs visibly trembled as he approached and when he reached the bed, his knees gave way. He sank down onto the mattress, the disturbance causing Amelia to stir but not wake.
“Two years,” he breathed, doing the mental calculation. “She’s two years old. I missed two years.” It wasn’t a question.
You nodded. “Two years and three months.”
When his eyes finally tore away from her face to meet yours, they were full of such raw emotion you had to look away. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, voice suddenly sharp with concern. “Why are you here?”
The shift to worry, the parental concern from a man who’d only known of her existence for thirty seconds, touched something you thought long buried.
“It’s just an ear infection. It flared up and her fever spiked. I couldn’t get it down and she wouldn’t stop crying.” You brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead. “Jack says she’s looking better already.”
Robby’s eyes shifted to the IV line then back to Amelia’s face. His hand hovered in the air between them, uncertain, afraid. “Can I?”
You hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Yes.”
With a gentleness that surprised you, he placed his palm against her forehead. His hand, always large to your eyes, looked enormous against her small face. His touch was light as if she might break under the weight.
“Her fever’s down,” you told him. “It was 102 when we came in.”
He nodded but his attention remained fixed on his daughter. A tear slipped down his cheek, then another. He made no move to wipe them away.
He cleared his throat. “I know why you didn’t tell me. I know exactly why.” His hand moved from her forehead to gently brush her cheek. “The things I said to you, the things I did…I’ve relived them a thousand times. Waking up the next morning and finding your key…” His voice cracked. “I’ve never hated myself more than in that moment.”
You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat. “Why did you say those things?” The words broke as the left your lips, the wound still raw. “All I wanted was to love you.” You paused, then added, “Did you mean them?”
Please don’t tell me you meant them.
His gaze lifted to yours, eyes red-rimmed but steady. “I was drowning. After Adamson died I was drowning in guilt and grief and I was terrified I was going to take you down with me.” His hand moved from Lia to cover yours. “I thought it was better to push you away. I thought if I made you hate me, you’d leave and stop trying to save me. I didn’t deserve it.”
You glanced away and sighed before looking at him again. “Jack told me you’re in therapy. That you go every week.”
Robby nodded. “Almost three years now. You were one of the first things I talked about. My therapist knows your name almost as well as mine.”
His gaze drifted back to his daughter, studying her features with a wonder that made your chest ache. “I’ve missed so much. Her first steps. First words.” He closed his eyes briefly as if to ward off the pain. “Does she talk much?”
“She’s starting to string words together. She can be shy until she gets to know someone but—” You stopped yourself realizing how strange it was to have this conversation with a father meeting his child for the first time. To be telling him about things he should have known.
Robby seemed to sense your discomfort and withdrew his hand from yours. “I have no right to ask anything of you. But please…I want to know her. I want a chance to be her father.” His eyes met yours again, pleading. “I want a chance to know you again, too. If that’s even remotely possible.”
The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable but you had more than just your own heart to protect now.
“Small steps, Robby,” you said firmly. “I need to be careful. Not just for me, but for her. I can’t let her get attached to someone who might decide we’re not worth the effort.”
He flinched slightly at your words but nodded immediately. “I understand. Small steps. Whatever you need, whatever you’re willing to give me. I just want to be in her life, in any way that you’ll allow.”
You studied the face you’d once known better than your own. There were some new wrinkles and more gray in his beard, but the wild, bottomless grief was gone from his eyes. Now there was something deeper there. Something richer, kinder.
“Okay,” you said finally. “We’ll try.”
A smile spread across Robby’s face. Gradual at first, before transforming into something wide and bright. He looked once more at his daughter as if memorizing every feature of her face.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Jack let Robby go over the discharge papers with you. You could tell he was bursting with questions but was biting his tongue. He’d pulled some strings and gotten Amelia’s meds filled so you could just take them home with you. You didn’t want to think about how much this visit was going to cost you.
By the time you were ready to leave, the sky had started to lighten with the approaching dawn. Robby walked beside you, maintaining a careful distance. Amelia slept on your shoulder, her fever reduced and her breathing even. Her little hands were curled into the fabric of your sweater. The weight of her in your arms was familiar, comforting, even if your muscles ached from holding her all night.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked as you stepped outside.
“We walked. It’s not very far.”
Robby stopped abruptly, turning to face you in alarm. “You walked in the middle of the night? With a sick child?”
There was no judgment in his words, only concern. Your chest tightened unexpectedly. When was the last time someone worried about you?
“I had to sell the car,” you explained simply. “And an uber…” You trailed off, not wanting to admit that you couldn’t afford an uber, every bit of your paycheck carefully budgeted. “It was faster to walk,” you said instead.
Understanding dawned in Robby’s eyes, followed quickly by regret. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Let me drive you home then. You’re both exhausted.”
“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, I doubt you have a car seat in your vehicle.”
His face fell. “No, I don’t.” He looked from you to Amelia then to the street. “I could go get one. There’s a—”
“Michael,” you interrupted gently. “It’s fine. We can walk. I’m used to it.”
He hesitated, clearly wanting to argue. “Fine. But I’m walking you home.”
It wasn’t a question but you found yourself nodding anyway. You were too tired to protest and frankly you’d feel safer with Robby beside you.
You set off toward your apartment. The streets were quiet at this hour. Robby matched his pace to yours and you knew it had to be driving him mad, but he said nothing. Neither of you spoke for several blocks.
Robby’s eyes kept drifting to Amelia, stealing glances at her sleeping face nestled against your neck. “She looks like my mom,” he said suddenly, his voice soft. “Around the eyes.”
You huffed a laugh. “Then you must have your mother’s eyes Robinavitch, because those are all you.”
The neighborhood gradually changed as you walked. The well-maintained buildings near the hospital giving way to older structures in various stages of disrepair. Most of the shops were still shuttered. And further down, an empty lot was filled with trash.
He took in the surroundings with careful neutrality, but you caught the tightening around his eyes, the way his shoulders tensed as he scanned the streets.
“It’s not usually this empty,” you said feeling oddly defensive. “There’s a coffee shop around the corner that has decent traffic. And the bodega owner gives Lia cookies when we stop in.”
Robby nodded, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “How long have you lived here?”
“Almost two years. After she was born, we stayed with a friend for a while, but a newborn wears out their welcome quickly I guess.” You didn’t want to think about those days, how all your friendships dissolved when you needed them most.
“Here we are,” you said as you approached a five-story brick building. A few of the windows were patched with duct tape and the front door had been forced open more than once.
Robby took it all in, his face carefully blank. His eyes had always betrayed him, however and you easily saw the concern, the guilt, the desire to rescue you. But he said nothing and you were grateful for the restraint.
“We’re on the third floor. It’s small but it works for us.”
You shifted her weight, her warm breath steady against your neck. “I’ll unblock your number. Jack’s too.”
His smile erased years in an instant. It reminded you of the man you’d first fallen for, before the grief had hallowed him out and anger and self-hatred had seeped in to fill the void. “I’d like that,” he said.
You hesitated, then added. “I’m off on Sundays.”
“Sunday,” he repeated.
You turned toward the entrance, fumbling with your keys before realizing the door was busted. Again. You pushed it open with your hip.
“Goodnight, Michael.”
“Goodnight,” he replied, eyes moving from you to Amelia and back again. “I’ll call you. If that’s okay?”
You nodded, then stepped inside, letting the door close behind you.
The stuffed bear was large, its plush brown body nearly half the size of the child it was intended for. Robby stood awkwardly in the doorway of your apartment three days after your trip to the hospital. The toy was clutched in his hands like some sort of shield. His eyes darted around the small living space, taking everything in. Not that there was much for him to see. Run down furniture, Amelia’s art adorning the walls, worn carpet that was older than you.
“I didn’t know what to bring,” he said. “Jack said stuffed animals are usually a safe bet.”
You let him in with a small smile. “It’s perfect. She’ll love it.”
Lia peeked out from behind your legs, one small hand clutching the leg of your pants, dark eyes wide as they took in the stranger with the bear. Her other thumb was in her mouth, a habit that emerged whenever she felt unsure.
Robby crouched down, bringing himself to Amelia’s eye level, the bear in his hands. “Hi, Amelia,” he said softly. “I brought you a friend. His name is…” He paused, uncertain of what to say.
“Bear,” she said around her thumb, her voice muffled but unmistakable.
He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Bear. Good name.”
He set the stuffed animal on the floor between them. She stared at it then at Robby.
“It’s okay,” you told her. “It’s for you.”
After another moment of deliberation, she darted forward, grabbed the bear by one paw and retreated back behind your legs, dragging her prize with her. Robby’s eyes met yours over her head, hope shining in them.
“This is mommy’s friend Robby,” you told her, placing a hand on her head. “Do you want to say hello?”
Lia shook her head rapidly and you watched Robby deflate a little.
“That’s okay,” he said after clearing his throat. “We’ll get to know each other soon enough.”
“Would you like some coffee?” you offered. “It’s nothing fancy but…”
“Coffee would be great.” He rose to his full height and moved to the couch, sitting at one end, doing his best to look nonthreatening. “Nice place.”
You snorted. “You’re still a bad liar, Michael.”
As you busied yourself with the coffee maker, Amelia gradually emerged from hiding to stare at this new person from a slightly closer vantage point.
Weeks slipped by before you knew it. Each meeting was a small but significant step forward.
Children ran around the playground of the small neighborhood park, shouting in delight. You sat beside Robby on a peeling green bench, watching as Jack pushed Lia on the swings. Her delighted squeals carried across the playground.
“Higher, Jack! Higher!” she demanded, all traces of her earlier shyness with both men had long vanished. Jack obliged, sending the swing arcing through the air while keeping a careful eye on her in the baby swing.
“He’s good with her.” You were still surprised at the ease with which both men had woven her into their lives. Jack especially seemed to know exactly how to make her laugh.
“He had younger siblings,” Robby explained, eyes never leaving his daughter. “Helped raise them while his parents worked.”
You nodded, filing the information away. “As opposed to us, the only children.”
Robby huffed. “Probably why I have no idea what I’m doing.”
You laughed at that. “None of us know what we’re doing. We just make it up as we go along. That’s parenting.”
His hand found yours on the bench, his fingers covering yours. “You seem to be doing just fine.”
The touch was brief, just enough to send warmth spreading through you before he withdrew.
“Chocolate or vanilla?” Robby asked, holding Amelia in his arms as they studied the ice cream display case with equal intensity.
“Both,” she declared, hand pressing against the glass.
Robby hummed. “A woman who knows what she wants. A scoop of each please,” he said to the server.
Your daughter clapped her little hands together and you smiled. After Robby paid for their ice cream and your drink, the three of you settled at a small table outside the shop. The spring afternoon was warm and the ice cream would be melting soon.
Robby took a bite of the treat watching Lia out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, as he went for another bite she huffed. “Robby.”
He hummed as he looked at her. “Yes, Miss Lia?”
“My ice cream.”
“Amelia Marie Robinavitch,” you said, quiet but sharp.
Four identical eyes snapped in your direction.
“Sorry,” a little voice said. “Ice cream please.” She drew out the last word.
Robby nodded absently scooping up a bite of chocolate to feed his daughter who hummed in contentment.
He swallowed hard, eyes moving from you to her and back again. “Robinavitch?”
You suddenly found the top of the table very interesting. “I…um…”
“Take your time, honey,” he said softly as he fed another bite to Lia.
You sighed. “I couldn’t put you on the birth certificate without your permission, but I could give her your name. I figured it would be easier if anything happened to me.” Your fingers traced the rough surface of the table. “I told people how to find you if anything happened. Wrote a letter for you and everything. You can guess why I gave my last name at the hospital.”
His hand wrapped around yours and you looked up in surprise. “Thank you. I didn’t do anything to deserve it, but thank you.”
“Jack! Robby!” Amelia called, her voice carrying across the duck pond where you’d arranged to meet one Sunday afternoon. She broke free from your hand, running toward them with reckless abandon.
Jack swooped down as she reached them, lifting her high into the air as she giggled uncontrollably. Robby stood beside them, a bag of peas in his hand for the ducks. His smile was wide and unguarded as he watched Jack spin Lia around.
When he set her down, she reached for both of their hands, her tiny fingers wrapping around one of each man’s digits. “Ducks,” she announced, tugging them toward the water.
They exchanged a glance over her head full of adoration that had your heart twisting with emotion. There was pride there, and joy, but also something deeper. An acknowledgment of the gift they’d been given.
As you watched them walk toward the pond, your daughter between them, you realized how much had changed in just a few weeks. The careful distance and tentative interactions had given way to something that looked remarkably like family.
“Mommy!” Amelia called over her shoulder. “Ducks.”
You moved forward to join them, feeling lighter than you had in years.
The call came at 6:20 in the morning. You were already running late, trying to coax Amelia into her clothes while simultaneously trying to put on your shoes when your phone buzzed on the counter. Mrs. Patel’s raspy voice on the other end sent a spike of panic through you. “So sorry, dear,” she wheezed, clearly unwell. “This cold has gotten worse. I can’t watch little Amelia today.”
Your stomach dropped. “It’s okay, Mrs. Patel. Please rest.” Your mind raced through possible options as you hung up. The flower shop opened at 7:30 and your boss had been clear about the consequences of another absence.
“Sock!” Amelia demanded, waving a green sock in the air to pair with the purple one already on her foot.
“Good choice,” you replied automatically. She was two. Who cared if her socks matched?
You scrolled through your phone contacts. Your fingers hesitated over Robby’s name but you knew he was working today. Jack should just be finishing his night shift however. You hated to ask, but you didn’t know what else to do.
He answered after two rings. “Abbot.” He sounded alert despite having just worked twelve hours.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry to call. I know you’re getting ready to go home but—” The words tumbled out in a rush of desperation.
“What’s wrong?” he interrupted, concern sharpening his tone.
“Nothings wrong exactly, but my sitter’s sick and I have to be at work in an hour.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said simply, before you could say anything else. “When do you get off?”
“Five,” you said. “But Jack, are you sure? You know how rambunctious she can be.”
“I’ve pulled doubles on no sleep. I think I can handle one toddler.” His smile was evident in his voice. “Get her stuff together. I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up before you could properly thank him. You stood in the middle of your living room, phone in hand, relief washing over you.
“Who that?” Lia asked, now attempting to put her arms through the legs of her pants.
“That was Jack,” you explained as you knelt to help her dress properly. “You’re going to spend some time with him while Mommy goes to work.”
Her little face lit up. “Swing?”
You ran your fingers through her hair. “I don’t know, baby. We’ll have to see.”
Exactly eighteen minutes later a knock came at your door. Jack stood in the hallway still in his scrubs. “Come in,” you told him as you glanced at the clock. “Shouldn’t you still be on shift.”
“Got the tail end covered. Don’t worry about it.” Ameila ran to him and he crouched down catching her in a hug. “Hey, squirt. Looks like you’re stuck with me today.”
“Okay, here’s her bag,” you said handing it over. “And her car seat—”
“Don’t need it,” he cut you off. “Mike and I both had one installed.”
The casual mention made your throat tighten. You looked at Jack, standing in your apartment with your daughter comfortable in his arms, and marveled at how quickly your isolated world had expanded to include these two men.
“Thank you.” The words weren’t enough to convey everything you were feeling but they were all you had.
When you left work at five you were surprised to find Jack’s truck parked along the curb. Stepping over to it, you saw Amelia strapped into her seat in the back and waved at her when she called “Mommy!”
“Hi, baby,” you greeted through the open window with a wide smile then turned to Jack. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“Robby is having Shen come in early to cover for him. We were hoping you both might join us for dinner,” he offered. “If not, I’ll just take you home. Up to you, sweetheart.”
You hesitated briefly but the thought of not having to go home and make a meal was too tempting to pass up. “That sounds great, actually.”
His answering smile was wide and warm. “Well, get in then.”
Once you were settled and buckled in, Jack pulled away from the curb.
“What did you two get up to today?” you asked.
“Swing!” Lia called from the back.
Jack chuckled. “Yes, we spent some time in the swing and we read some books. Then we cuddled on the couch and watched a movie.”
“Sounds like a good day.”
“The best.”
You were still smiling at his quick reply as he pulled into their drive.
It wasn’t the first time you’d been to their home, a comfortable three-bedroom house about ten minutes from the hospital. It had always struck you as the embodiment of stability. Everything was well-maintained, clean and spacious. The furniture was comfortable and the walls were painted something other than the stark white of your apartment walls. Their shelves were filled with photos and books, real art hung on the walls.
What you found this time surprised you. A basket of toys was tucked neatly in the corner of their living room next to a small play kitchen.
Jack followed your gaze. “We might have gone a little overboard at the toy store last week. We wanted her to have options.”
Amelia had headed right to the basket and began pulling out all the toys. Wooden blocks, plastic animals and a toy doctor kit surrounded her. She settled on the rug, immediately absorbed in the toys she’d probably played with all day.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, though your tone lacked conviction. The sight of your daughter playing contently in this warm, safe space made you feel lighter than anything had in a while.
“It makes us happy, makes her happy too,” he said with a shrug. “We’ve set up one of the rooms for her so she has somewhere to nap when she’s here.”
“Thank you again for today.” You watched Lia line up the animals, making sounds for them as she did. “Mrs. Patel has been getting sick more often lately. I’m afraid Amelia is just too much for her.”
Jack rubbed under his chin with the back of his hand. “What are your options?”
You shrugged. “I don’t have many. Daycares, decent daycares I mean, would take too much of my paycheck. I’ll find someone.”
The front door opened and Robby appeared in his scrubs, a grocery bag in each hand. His face broke into a smile at the sight of you and Amelia in the living room as if finding you there was an unexpected gift.
“You’re early,” Jack commented, crossing to take one of the bags. “Thought you’d be another hour yet.”
“Shen showed up earlier than asked. I took advantage.” Robby set his bag on the counter. “I’m going to clean up real fast, I’ll be back.”
He returned in less than ten minutes and immediately crouched next to Amelia who showed him the horse she’d been playing with. “Good choice,” he said seriously. “Horses are very important animals.”
Lia chattered away, explaining something about the horse’s family while Robby listened with complete attention, as if her words were the most fascinating thing he’d heard all day.
When he finally stood and moved toward the kitchen, his eyes met yours, warm and direct. “I wanted to talk to you. Jack said Mrs. Patel was sick today. From what you’ve told me that’s been happening more often.”
You tensed slightly, defensiveness kicking in. “We’re managing.”
“Never said you weren’t, sweetheart,” Robby said gently. “But you don’t have to manage alone anymore.” He glanced at Jack who nodded encouragingly. “One of us can pick her up in the mornings. I can keep her on my days off. When I’m working, we can put her in the hospital daycare.”
You blinked in surprise. “The hospital daycare? Isn’t that just for staff?”
“I am staff,” he pointed out with a smile that crinkled his eyes.
“But the cost—”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” he interrupted firmly. “I’ll take care of it.”
Your first instinct was to refuse. You’d been handling things alone for so long that accepting help felt like admitting defeat. But as you watched Lia playing on the living room floor you realized this wasn’t about your pride. It was about giving your daughter the best possible care, the most stable environment.
“Mommy look!” she called, holding up a toy stethoscope. “I just like Jack and Robby!”
Her joy was infectious and made your decision clear.
You smiled and turned back to Robby. “Okay. Thank you.”
Relief washed over his face. “Thank you,” he countered. “For letting us help. For letting us be part of her life.”
Jack stood at the counter, working on dinner. He cleared his throat drawing the attention of the both of you. “I…We…” He shook his head. “Hell.” He straightened and took a deep breath, looking you directly in the eye. “We’re not trying to push. To ask more of you than you are willing to give, but you are not alone any more. We’re here for both of you. You just have to ask.”
Your throat grew tight and you gave a quick nod, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.
Robby wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed the side of your head. “We mean it. Anything you need. Either of you.”
“Yeah.” The word fell broken from your lips as a tear raced down your cheek. You cleared your throat and swiped it away. “Alright Jack, put me to work. Michael’s on Lia duty.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they answered in unison. Robby wore a wide smile while Jack sported his usual crooked grin.
Yeah, you could get used to this, to having someone in your corner. To having someone help you carry the weight of the world.
warnings/notes: secret baby fic. kid's a toddler. brief mentions of reader's pregnancy. there will be a happy ending to part 3. written to fulfill a request for my 8000 followers celebration. Enjoy!
Screams pierced through the relative quiet of the night shift. Jack Abbot paused reading through his notes, his head tilting toward the sound. 03:30 usually brought drunks or the occasional injury from a bar fight, not wailing babies. Thank goodness for small mercies and all that. He set down his tablet and stepped into the hallway.
He rounded the corner seeking the source of the noise and sucked in a breath.
It was you.
After three years, you were standing there in worn jeans and a rumpled sweater, dark circles under your eyes. But it was the squirming, screaming toddler with a mop of dark hair in your arms that held his attention.
He stilled, one hand gripping the edge of the nurses’ station. His mouth opened, closed then opened again. You didn’t see him, too focused on the child in your arms and the nurse asking you questions.
The shock lasted approximately three seconds before he reasserted control over his reactions. He straightened his scrubs and headed to the board, scanning the most recent entry. Your last name followed by Amelia Age 2F. Chief complaint fever and ear pain.
Jack grabbed a tablet and pulled up the chart. He entered the exam room with practiced calm even if he felt anything but. “Hello,” he said and your head snapped up.
Recognition, surprise and something unreadable flashed across your face in quick succession. You adjusted your hold on your still crying child. “Jack,” you breathed.
He gave you a half smile of acknowledgement, swallowing down all the questions he wanted to ask until he got the little one taken care of. “What’s going on with the babe?”
You swallowed hard. “This is Amelia. I’m pretty sure it’s an ear infection. She was fussy all day. The fever started after dinner. Tylenol’s not helping much.”
Nikki, one of the night shift nurses, glanced over. “Temps 102.2. Mom says she’s been refusing liquids for the past few hours.”
Mom. The word landed like a rock in Jack’s stomach.
He took a deep breath. “Alright, let’s have a look. You can keep hold of her for now. Just sit on the bed with her. I’ll work around you.”
You nodded, climbing onto the paper covered surface with Amelia clinging to you. Jack approached slowly, movements careful as he pulled the stethoscope from around his neck.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I know you’re not feeling good. We’re going to try to help, okay?”
The toddler ignored him completely, burying her face deeper into your neck while she screamed and howled. Jack worked efficiently despite the challenge, listening to her lungs before examining her ears.
“Right ear is definitely infected. The membrane is bulging and bright red.” He glanced up at you. “You said this just started today?”
Your hand smoothed over her back in small circles. “She was maybe a little more tired than usual yesterday but nothing alarming.”
Jack nodded. “We’ll start an IV to get some fluids and antibiotics started. The faster we get ahead of this, the better she’ll feel.” He turned to Nikki. “Can you prep a pediatric IV kit? And we’ll need acetaminophen and ceftriaxone.”
The nurse gathered supplies while Jack pulled on a pair of gloves.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered and Jack wasn’t sure if you were talking to him or Amelia.
“For what?” he asked.
“For showing up like this. Disturbing your shift.”
His eyes met yours. “This is literally my job.”
The nurse returned with a tray of supplies and Jack explained the procedure to you. “We’ll need to place a small IV. It will hurt for a moment but then we can give her something for pain right away.”
You nodded, adjusting your position so you had a better hold on her.
“Talk to her,” he suggested. “Distract her the best you can.”
You began whispering words of reassurance as Jack and the nurse worked in tandem. The needle slid in and Amelia’s wails reached a new, higher pitch. You never stopped your soothing litany even as tears formed in your own eyes.
“Almost done,” Jack said, securing the IV with tape and connecting the line. “There we go. Nikki, let’s push the pain meds first.”
The effect wasn’t immediate but within five minutes, Amelia’s screams began to soften into whimpers. Within ten, her small body went slack against yours as she finally surrendered to sleep.
“Thank god.” Your shoulders relaxed as you pressed your lips to the top of her head.
Jack ducked out once to tell Lena where he’d be if she needed him and check in with his underlings. When he came back, he just stood for a moment and watched the two of you.
“We’ll need to keep her for a bit. Make sure the fever comes down and she’s tolerating the antibiotics.”
You nodded, too tired to argue. “Whatever she needs.”
He hesitated then asked the first question of many cycling through his brain. “Is there someone we can call for you?”
“No. It’s just us.”
Jack slid one of the stools over to the bed, eyes locked on the sleeping toddler in your arms. Now that she was peaceful, the resemblance was unmistakable. Those dark curls, the shape of her face, even the slight furrow between her brows as she slept. Jack had spent enough nights looking at those same features on his boyfriend’s face to recognize them instantly in miniature form. Amelia was Robby’s daughter, no question about it. He only wondered if you’d admit it.
He cleared his throat softly. “She’s two?”
“Yes.” Your fingers gently stroked her hair. The gesture was automatic, the movement of a parent who had spent countless hours soothing their child.
His gaze lifted from Amelia to your face. “The father?”
A shadow crossed your features, but you met his eyes. “You know who her father is, Jack. You knew it as soon as you saw those big brown eyes. She looks just like him.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell him? He has a right to know.”
You arched a brow, your features turning sharp with anger. “Did he tell you why I left?”
The night you disappeared had been a defining moment for Robby, one that Jack had heard about repeatedly. “He said he woke up and you were gone. That you’d blocked his number and he had no idea where you were. He was worried sick. I tried to call only to find you’d blocked me as well.” And god, that had about killed him.
A bitter laugh escaped your lips, though you swallowed the sound when Amelia stirred against your chest. “He’s full of shit.”
Jack blinked, caught off guard by the venom in your voice.
“That night I came home from a shift to find him drunk. Not just a few beers drunk, empty bottle of whiskey drunk. We’d been fighting for weeks. I was exhausted, working a lot of overtime. And you know what he was like then.”
Jack’s brow furrowed. This didn’t align with what Robby had told him but he couldn’t say he was surprised. Robby had been spiraling severely toward the end of your relationship.
“He asked why I even bothered coming home. That I was suffocating him by asking him if he was okay all the time. That I was too needy, wanting to spend all our time together. That I should stop trying to fix him because—” Your voice caught. “Because I wasn’t worth the effort for him to try.”
Jack’s face fell. “Jesus.”
“I packed what was important to me while he passed out on the couch. Left my key on the counter. I made the assumption he didn’t want me around. Wouldn’t you?”
Jack cursed under his breath, eyes dropping to the floor. No wonder you’d disappeared out of all their lives. Fucking Robby.
“I found out about Lia six weeks later,” you added. “I was staying with a friend, trying to figure out what to do next.”
The silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant sounds of the hospital and Amelia’s soft breathing.
“I wasn’t going to expose her to that, Jack. He needed help and he refused to get it.” Your voice hardened. “You don’t get to make him the victim. I was all alone. I would have given anything to not be, but not at the cost of my heart. Or hers.”
His eyes searched your face, searching for lies or uncertainty. He found neither. “Why didn’t you at least tell someone? Anyone?”
“And say what? Hey the guy who told me I wasn’t worth the effort is about to be a father?” You shook your head. “I have no family I could turn to. My friends had been hearing about our problems for months. They bailed when they had to ‘work’ to be my friend.”
Jack winced at that. He remembered Robby from those days. Volatile, angry, drowning in grief. The man had been a walking hurricane destroying everything in his path. Including his relationship with you apparently.
“I thought about calling,” you admitted, voice softer. “So many times. When I was throwing up every morning for weeks. When I went to my first ultrasound alone. When they handed her to me in the delivery room and I had no one to share it with.” Your eyes glistened with unshed tears. “But every time, I remembered the look in his eyes, the things he said.”
“He’s different now,” Jack said.
You lifted a brow. “I’ve heard that before.”
He shook his head once. “No, I mean it. After you left…It broke something in him. Made him realize how far he’d fallen maybe. It was the wake up call he needed.”
You glanced down at Amelia’s sleeping face. “Good for him.” There was no warmth in your voice. “I’m glad he got help. But I made the right choice. I had to protect myself, then I needed to protect her. We’ve managed.”
The way your voice wavered on those last two words said more than you’d probably intended them to. The circles under your eyes, the worn state of your clothes, the fact you were here alone in the middle of the night with a sick child. It all painted a picture of struggle.
“I know what you’re thinking,” you said catching his expression. “Poor single mom, in over her head. But we’re fine. She’s happy and she’s loved. That’s more than I can say for what her life would have been like with him.”
Jack leaned back, taking a deep breath as he absorbed everything you’d told him. The version of events you described matched the Robby from then, the broken, angry doctor who snapped at interns and drowned himself in work to avoid facing his demons. But that wasn’t the man he knew now, the one who brought him coffee at the end of his shifts, who sat with patients’ families delivering difficult news, who attended therapy religiously every Wednesday without fail. Three years could change a person. Jack knew that better than most. But it didn’t erase the pain of the past or the consequences.
He looked at your daughter again, at the tiny hand curled on your chest, at the undeniable evidence of Robby’s genetics in every feature of her face. A child who had never met her father. A father who didn’t know he had a child.
Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why didn’t you call me? Why block me? I would have helped. You have to know that.”
His eyes betrayed his long-standing affection for you, one that predated his current relationship.
You adjusted Amelia’s sleeping form to a more comfortable position. “I wasn’t going to put you in the middle, Jack. I wasn’t going to make you choose. You were his friend first.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to his hands. “There’s something you should know.”
You tilted your head in question.
“I’m with Robby now,” he said. “We’ve been together for almost a year.”
Your eyes widened slightly. He watched your reaction carefully, unsure what he expected, but he found nothing but a sort of resigned understanding.
“He’s been going to therapy. Regular sessions every week. Has been since about two months after you left.” He paused. “He’s different. Not perfect. Still Robby, still stubborn as hell and too blunt for his own good, but he’s better. Healthier. And I know he misses you. We talk about you all the time.”
You looked at him sharply, a flash of something—fear, maybe—crossing your features.
“I won’t tell him,” Jack assured you quickly. “About any of this. That’s not my place.” He gestured toward Amelia. “But you should. If for no other reason than he can help. Financially, if nothing else.”
You looked down at the girl in your arms, uncertainty written in every line of your body.
“If you won’t let him help, let me,” Jack offered simply.
The kindness in his voice broke something in you, tears spilling down your cheeks. Silent at first, then accompanied by a shuddering breath.
“It’s been so hard,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I lost my job when I was pregnant. There were complications and…”
You trailed off and Jack bit the inside of his lip to keep from asking the million things he wanted to know about that. It wasn’t important right now. This was.
“Anyway, I work at this flower shop six days a week. The owner let me bring Lia with me when she was little. The pay’s barely enough for our apartment.” You wiped at your tears with your free hand. “We don’t have a car. I take the bus everywhere which means leaving at least an hour earlier for everything. My neighbor, who’s like eighty, watches Lia when I work but I feel terrible about it because sometimes she’s so energetic. I worry it’s too much for her.”
Jack listened, chest tightening with each new detail. He thought of their spacious home, their comfortable salaries, the stability Robby could have offered you both.
“The last time Lia was sick, I had to miss three days of work. My boss was understanding, but I still only got paid for one. I had to choose between the electricity and the phone bill. I choose the electricity of course, but then my phone got shut off and I missed a call for a better job because they couldn’t reach me.”
Jack moved to sit beside you, careful not to jostle Amelia, and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “I am so sorry you’ve been going through this alone.”
You leaned into him, body trembling slightly. He pulled you closer, feeling your tears dampen his scrub top. He held you while you cried, occasionally pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You were breaking his heart.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured against your hair. “We’ll figure this out.”
When your tears finally subsided, you straightened, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually fall apart like that.”
“Don’t apologize. You’ve been carrying too much for too long.”
You traced the curve of Amelia’s cheek with one finger. “I’ve thought about telling him. So many times. Especially when she started asking about her daddy.” Your voice caught on the word. “I know it’s just a concept to her right now, something she sees on TV, but it hurts. I just tell her he lives far away.”
Jack nodded in understanding. There was no way to explain to a toddler the complications of adult relationships.
“He won’t take her?” Your voice was tight with fear.
His brow furrowed, not immediately understanding. “What do you mean?”
“If I tell him about her, he won’t try to take her from me?”
The realization of what you were asking hit Jack like a punch to his sternum. You weren’t just worried about Robby’s reaction or his potential rejection, you were afraid he might use his resources, his position, to claim custody of the child you’d raised alone.
Jack’s response was immediate and certain. “I won’t let him,” he said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
You looked up at him, brows lifting in surprise.
“I mean it.” His voice was low and steady. “If he tried anything like that, he wouldn’t, but if he did, I’d stop him. You’re her mother. You’ve been there every day of her life. No one’s going to change that.”
The conviction in his voice seemed to reassure you and your shoulders relaxed slightly under the weight of his arm. Jack knew making such a promise placed himself between two people he cared about. But looking at your exhausted face, at the protective way you cradled Amelia, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
“Robby can be impulsive, but not cruel. Not anymore. He wouldn’t hurt you like that. Not now.”
You nodded, considering his words. “He really goes to therapy?”
“Every Wednesday at seven,” Jack confirmed. “He either makes sure he’s off or someone comes in early to cover for him.”
A small, sad smile curved your lips. “I used to beg him to go.”
“I know. He told me. Said it was one of his biggest regrets, not listening to you then.”
You took a deep breath as Amelia shifted in your arms. “Okay. I’ll tell him.”
Jack couldn’t contain the grin that spread across his face, a sudden energy coursing through him. This was right. This was what needed to happen. He sat up straighter, already mentally planning the conversation.
“Good.” He stood up. “I’ll get him in here and you can tell him right now.”
You blinked in surprise. “It’s like four in the morning, Jack.”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “He doesn’t work tomorrow. And I’d say he deserves to be dragged from his bed for this, don’t you?”
You shook your head at his enthusiasm, but there was a hint of amusement in your eyes. It was a good sign.
Jack pulled out his phone and tapped Robby’s contact, putting it to his ear as it began to ring.
On the third ring, the sleep-roughened voice Jack had grown accustomed to hearing answered. “Robinavitch.”
“Hey. Need you to come to the hospital,” Jack said, staring at the far wall, though he was aware of your gaze on him.
There was a rustling sound on the other end of the line. “Is everything okay? Is there an MCI?”
“No, nothing like that. This is more…personal.”
A pause. “I’m going to need more of an explanation that that, baby,” Robby insisted. His voice was a mixture of concern and irritation at being awakened.
Jack’s eyes flicked to you, holding your gaze as he said your name. “She’s here.”
The change in Robby’s voice was instantaneous, sharp attention replacing any lingering tiredness. “What? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Jack said quickly. “But she wants to talk to you.”
There was a long pause followed by Robby saying, “I’ll be right there,” in a quiet voice. The call ended with no goodbyes.
Jack slipped the phone back into his pocket. “He’s on his way.”
You nodded, hands soothing Amelia’s hair in that nervous gesture he’d noticed earlier. Lena appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. “We’ve got a possible appendicitis in three.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said before turning back to you. “I need to get back to work, but I’ll check on you both as soon as I can. Don’t sneak out.”
Your lips twitched. “Lia’s still on an IV, Jack.”
His expression turned sheepish. “Oh, right. Well, good.”
He slipped out of the room, leaving you alone with your daughter. He worked through the patient load, one eye always on the clock.
Fifteen minutes after the call, Robby strode through the ambulance bay doors. He was dressed in hastily thrown on cargos and a rumpled sweatshirt, his dark hair disheveled. His eyes swept the ED until they landed on Jack.
“Where is she?” Robby asked as he approached.
“She’s in South Four.” Jack put a hand on his arm to stop him from walking off. “Before you go in there—”
“Is she hurt? Sick?” The questions tumbled out, concern etched onto Robby’s face.
“She’s fine,” Jack reassured him. “Just…be gentle, okay? She’s been through a lot.”
Confusion flickered across Robby’s face, but he nodded and squeezed Jack’s shoulder briefly before continuing to the room. Jack watched him pause outside the room, hand on the door and take a deep breath. Robby stepped inside and froze in place as his eyes found you and the sleeping toddler in your arms.
jack who expects robby to be shy when he first gets his pants off.
jack who hums, "first time with a man?" with a smug grin into his mouth when he finds himself being kissed against robby's front door, still high off their first date, after far too fuckin' long.
robby who hums back, "no," with the kind of uncertainty that makes jack wonder if it was only once or twice, a fumble in a bar bathroom somewhere, no faces, nothing concrete.
"i'm gonna rock your world," jack murmurs, and robby who just hums and smiles a little, flushed and excited.
jack who expects he'll have to coach robby through every step, to lay himself down and teach him, fondly and lovingly but gently, how to crook his fingers, how far down to work his mouth over jack's dick, where to focus his hand…
and robby who asks, "want to get on your knees for me, brother?" right there in the doorway, tone firm but gentle, soft as always, that easy attending confidence coming to play, and jack's confidence is leaking out of his ears.
jack who quickly finds the world spinning as robby fingers him open expertly, pressing into every right spot, watching his face closely, who murmurs filth that has jack forgetting he ever slept with anyone else.
robby who knows beyond a shadow of a doubt how to please a man, making jack wonder where his best friend has been hiding all this dirty knowledge, how he could bear to look jack in the eye if this is what he knew how to do all that time.
robby who looks not smug, but simply fond and happy as he crawls up to lay beside jack afterwards, pillowing his chin in his hand and kissing jack's cheek. gentle and chaste, like he didn't just rock jack's world.
and jack's concerned he's never going to get it that good from anyone else ever again, until robby's intertwining their fingers and telling him he wants this for life, and jack is privately wondering how soon robby can go again.
their eyes meet, and robby…yeah. maybe he's a little smug.
okay… just a quick munch!robby idea… cw: obv oral (f!), car sex, semi public sex lol / everyone say thank you to @loverwrites for starting the munch!robby agenda
The first time Robby told you about this ‘Robinavitch tradition’ you laughed lightheartedly, thinking nothing of it. You found it endearing and sweet, and in his words: essential.
He explained to you how his grandmother told him to break into new things he bought by doing something he liked with them like playing with his new toys or studying in his new sweatshirt.
But when you came around, the meaning began to change into something… less innocent.
The first time he showed you the tradition was when he bought a new phone and he asked if you’d like to take a selfie with him so the first picture in the new phone would have your memory in it.
Sweet, caring, very romantic. But that night he had you spreading your legs open while you held the phone and recorded him ravishing your cunt with his mouth, sucking on your nerves feverishly.
The second time was when he got his motorcycle and took you for a ride and showed off his skills, only to engulf your pussy with his lips and make your legs shake as he bent you over the seat of the bike. He was ravenous that night, like he had been starving himself for days just for this moment.
You came three times that night.
The tradition changed over time, it wasn’t doing something you liked anymore, it became ‘Robby eating you out until you couldn’t walk’ tradition.
Up to now that he has you bent over the middle console of the new car he got you for your birthday from the backseat, pants already down and his face buried between your thighs, breaking into the vehicle by doing something you both like — in his mind, there is nothing more he loves than feasting on your cunt — while you moan and push your hips back.
The position is… questionable, because he has to bend over just as much as you and keep you up at the same time, but he is not complaining as long as he gets to drink up your juices like a thirsty dog in the middle of the Sahara.
“Ugh, Robby–” you hiccup, pushing your ass back further into his face, enjoying the burn of his beard against your thighs as he shakes his head side to side and clutches your hips for dear life, “I’ll break the console if you stop!”
He doesn’t reply, he can’t even hear your words, and even if he does, he can’t process them because he is too deep into making you come to care about anything else.
“O-oh! ‘M coming, ‘m coming!”
Robby doesn’t let go of you when your orgasm has you trembling and crying out his name, instead, he latches his lips to your clit and sucks on the nerves until you are pushing his head away while whimpering.
“Jesus, Robby, that was–” you turn around and find him sitting back against the seat, beard soaked and hands playing with the flesh of your thighs, a satisfied smile on his face as he stares at your dripping pussy, “You’re fucking crazy.”
“Yeah, and I’ve never been one to sleep on a family tradition,” he says breathlessly, grinning when you roll your eyes at him.
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