nothing hurts like you do

like the way you say “i love you” 19 ⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

[abbotverse]

THE PITT - SMAU

pairings; jack abbot x fem!reader, mel x langdon, robby x whitaker, maybe more tbd...♡

basic info; reader started the same time as whitaker, santos and javadi. reader eventually switched to night shift, where she gets closer to jack abbot. i don't know much about medicine, so there will be inaccuracies on that front, LOL. this first chapter is just a little started chapter, we'll get down to business soon!

ps. they also have a groupchat with mel in it, she just asked not to be in the one in this post, because they text SO much that she cant keep up. they're more tame in the groupchat with her LMAO

also, there's use of y/n, but i try to keep it to a minimum :)

enjoy!! <3

[thykingdoncome]

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬, 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬, 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 !

summary: you ask your boyfriends to kiss

|| rabbot x reader || smut mdni 18+, pwp, not a single lick of plot here folks, pinv, anal, dirty talk, pet names, threesome, double penetration, creampie x2, slightly mean!robby and softdom!jack, fingers in mouth, teasing, boyfriends kissing, praise, just silly girly things || a/n: heavily unedited, word vom, a little spank bank idea I had today and had to deliver to you wc: 1.7k

"please—"

it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.

robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.

"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.

you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.

"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.

both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.

you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.

"wanna see you kisssss—"

jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.

"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.

"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.

robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"

jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.

"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."

you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.

you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.

"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"

"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."

you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.

"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.

nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.

robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.

"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"

"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.

"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.

"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.

it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.

"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.

"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.

"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."

"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."

his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.

"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."

you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.

"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"

"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.

"fuck it—" robby growled.

he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.

they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.

robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.

"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."

"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."

robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"

but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.

a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.

"oh my god," you whispered.

when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.

"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.

"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"

"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."

robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.

it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.

then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.

you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.

the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.

"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."

jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.

"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."

"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.

you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.

"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"

"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"

"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.

jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.

your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.

as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.

but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.

wrote this at 8pm posted at 9:30pm so please ignore any typos or mistakes lol my horny lil mind couldn't be stopped

[got-cursed-like-eve-got-bitten]

i log on. i sexualise the old man. i log off

[caravaggiosbrushes]

"and love is love, is love, is love, is love, is love, is love, is love, is love

cannot be killed or swept aside

(…)

now fill the world with music, love and pride"

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

FREE LOVE!!!!!! QUEER LOVE!!!!

(based on this video ; ig; retweet)

[pencil-n-pen]

—i’m always on my own

fake boyfriend! jack x eldest daughter! reader

“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back I'm always on my own.” -All Them Horses, Noah Kahan

summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.

wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)

tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat

a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)

acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me

masterlist | ao3

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

And you’re not alone anymore. 

[ohangeleyes]

alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:

1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..

2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.

at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.

i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️

and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.

[hudsonsstretchmarks]

Nick Robinson (making me swoon) & Zoey Deutch via Still Watching Netflix

[stevenrogered]

VOICEMAILS FOR ISABELLE | dir. Leah McKendrick

[mndvx]

[diorinthenight]

YOUR LOVE HAS GONE COLD

PART III. ❝Your love has gone cold, you're intertwining your soul with somebody else❞

✦ pairing: dr. julien “jules” cunningham x fem! reader ✦ summary: jules tells you some hard truths. some truths make you want to run, others make you cling tighter to what’s left of you and nicky until you realize it wasn't meant to be there in the first place. ✦ wc: 7.7k ✦ crossposted to ao3 ✦ tags & warnings: 18+ only! angst & emotional cheating. actually so much angst. mommy issues. nicky x reader smut (istg for the plot). using sex to cope with emotions. ✦ recommended listening: somebody else - the 1975 PART I: THE OTHER BROTHER, PART II: HIS EYES ON YOU

FOUR DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING

You feel unbearably ill. Sleep barely touched you last night. Your mind tormented you because you know you did something wrong. Every time you closed your eyes, your subconscious dragged you back to him. Jules. Over and over again like a punishment you couldn’t escape. Moments replayed until they blurred together, until you couldn’t tell what was real and what your mind had twisted into something more. Flashes of your young affair weave into the present memories you have with Jules. The part that scares you the most is that you’re happy in your dreams with him.

You wake before the sun, your chest tight and aching. The room feels suffocating, the air too thick to breathe. You need out.

Careful not to wake the sleeping Nicky, you get out of bed. He lets out a soft, sleepy whine at the loss of your warmth. Shame flickers through you as you grab your robe and quietly make your way out of the room. You feel so lost, wandering aimlessly throughout the lodge like a spirit seeking peace. You push the heavy entrance doors.

The cold hits you instantly. It bites at your skin. It’s sharp and unforgiving but you welcome it. Your bare feet press into the damp ground, numb from the chill, but it’s nothing compared to the conflict inside you. The piercing chill isn’t enough to cool down the heat of guilt. You begin to break down.

Your cries aren’t graceful or quiet. It’s loud, jagged, ugly. Your cries rips through your chest and leave you gasping for air. Your knees hit the ground, unable to hold you up any longer. You can’t feel your fingers. You can’t feel anything but the heavy pain in your chest.

“I am so fucking stupid,” you choke out, the words tumbling over themselves. “I am so… so stupid…”

You repeat it like a mantra as if you say it enough it would somehow reverse all of your mistakes and anxieties. Your vision blurs with tears, the world around you warping into something unsteady and unreal. You sense something, a figure, judging every single choice since you walked onto this property. You feel this judgement staring into your soul, and you can’t identify where it came from.

“Hey, what’s going—”

A hand touches your shoulder. You scream, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it. You jerk away violently.

“Don’t fucking touch—”

Your voice dies the second you turn.

Nicky stands there, eyes half-awake and completely confused.

“Babe—hey—what are you doing?” he asks, his voice soft but laced with concern.

Your heart is still racing. “I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I just… I think I’m kind of losing it.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, stepping closer. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

“No—I can’t,” you shake your head, backing away slightly. “I just need a few more minutes out here.”

“What? It’s freezing,” he frowns. “Are you insane?”

A hollow laugh escapes you. “Honestly? Yeah, Nicky. I feel fucking insane.” Your words start spilling faster now, tripping over each other. “I just… I can’t believe this is happening. It’s all happening so fast, and nothing feels like it’s going the way I wanted, and I can’t even get through a day without my mom or your mom or Ju—”

You gasp for air, practically suffocating yourself with your tears.

“You’re just overwhelmed,” he says, brushing your hair back gently. “It’s a lot. The wedding, our families, everything happening so fast. Anyone would feel like this.”

Anyone. The word echoes strangely in your head. Anyone doesn’t wake up with someone else’s name sitting on their tongue. Anyone doesn’t feel their chest tighten at the thought of a different voice, a different touch, or a different life that isn’t supposed to exist.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” Nicky says gently, pulling you back before you can spiral further. “We’ll get through this. Together. I promise.” He pauses, searching your face. “Are you sure you want to?”

Your stomach drops. “Yes. Of course. Why would you think I don’t?”

“You just… seem so unhappy, and I don’t know if I want to force you into this…”

“I’m just tired of not feeling in control of our wedding,” you say quickly, the excuse coming too easily. “It’s just not how I pictured anything going.”

“Babe, I’m sorry you feel this way…” he murmurs. He’s sorry you feel this way? What does that even mean?

“Nicky, please,” you interrupt, your voice suddenly desperate. “Please… just help me not feel crazy.”

He’s concerned, but he’s holding his emotions at bay. It’s like he doesn’t know how to approach you when you’re like this. “Baby, you’re not crazy. Why would you even say that?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “It just feels like something’s been… wrong since I got here. Like something’s been following me. Hell, I feel like something is watching me right now.”

Nicky glances toward the woods, his concern deepening. There’s nothing there. You’re starting to go crazy. Maybe it’s Jules haunting you or maybe it’s the guilt.

“I think we should get you inside,” he says carefully. “Get some rest. Have you been taking your meds?”

You hesitate, and then slowly shake your head. For a moment, neither of you speak. Somehow that statement makes you feel worse because you know what you’re feeling is real. Does he not believe you? You aren’t having delusions, but you feel something real, judging each of your actions.

“I love you,” Nicky says like it’s an anchor he’s throwing out into rough water. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightens because you want to believe him, but it isn’t enough. That’s what makes it so unbearable.

You cling to him, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt like you can force yourself into this life. You’re trying so hard to turn into this version of yourself that can make Nicky happy and doesn’t think about Jules every time the world goes quiet.

“I love you too.”

He guides you back into the house, his hand firm at your lower back like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. He murmurs soft reassurances under his breath. They’re sweet, careful things meant to soothe you, but you’re starting to worry Nicky thinks you’re insane. This isn’t the first time he’s had to comfort you in a state of panic. You can sense this distance, like they’re something not quite right.

As you step into the cabin, warmth wraps around you, but it does nothing to thaw the cold lodged deep inside you. Across the atrium, your mother stands by the glass doors, a porcelain cup balanced delicately in her hand. She’s staring out at the pale morning light hitting the trees inside, her reflection faint against the window. For a moment, she looks almost serene. Then she turns. Her smile is immediate, but her eyes are cold.

“What are you two doing up so early?”

“Oh—uhm, just watching the sunrise,” Nicky answers, a little too quickly. You glance at him, confused. The lie feels unnecessary. Why would he lie? Why not just say you weren’t feeling well? Why does it feel like everyone is trying to keep something just beneath the surface? Why is he just tiptoeing around you and your emotions?

“Oh, I see. How romantic,” your mother hums, amused.

Her gaze lingers on you a second too long before she walks toward you, heels clicking softly against the floor.

“Nicky,” she says sweetly, “do you mind if I speak to your beloved alone? There are a few wedding things I’d like to discuss.”

You gave him a quick look. A look that is screaming No, Help me.

“Of course,” he replies without hesitation.

Nicky nods and gives you a quick kiss on the cheek. You feel like he just threw you into a shark tank.  You’ve been so obedient with your mother. You’ve been listening and doing every single one of her wishes, and now you’re afraid she will reveal her true self. She walks

“Don’t ruin this…,”she says coldly. Her voice is sharp enough to cut. “...For some childish fantasy.”

You’re frozen still. How does she know about Jules? 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you try to remain steady, though your voice betrays you.

She lets out a small, humorless laugh. She presses her fingers to her temple like you’ve given her a headache.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she says. “You may be able to fool your father, but you will never fool me.”

You just sit there and take the abuse. You can deny all you want, but she’s right about there being something between you and Jules. You hate lying. You can hide the truth as much as you want, but a lie will eat you up from the inside out. You have to tell the truth, even if it kills you. But this truth is something you can put into words. This truth is sacred. Only something that is meant for you and Jules. You’ve never spoken a word of this to anyone and neither did he. If there is anyone you’re willing to take a lie for, it’s Jules.

“If you think there is any future for you with Jules,” your mother continues, her voice sharp like a  knife, “then you are completely out of your damn mind.”

You stare at the floor, your hands trembling at your sides.

“He’s been through what—two marriages? Both failures, I might add. What makes you think you would be any different? That you would be the exception?”

You are quivering at the words of your mother. You can’t cry. You can’t get angry or yell or shout. You just take it quietly.

“You are getting older. Men marry younger as the years go on,” she goes on, relentlessly. “Not only are you wasting away whatever youth you have left, but you have no real career. You spend your days surrounded by art that isn’t even yours, chasing validation from people who would never see you as their equal.”

Your throat tightens, you’re trying to remain stone cold, but you can’t. As much as you hate to admit it, she is right. 

“And now—now—you are handed the perfect man. Stability. A future. A life people would beg for. You are willing to throw it all away for what? Nostalgia? A feeling you had when you were too young to understand what love actually is?” Your mother slowly creeps her way towards you, her heels dragging against the floor. Her judgement is burning you. You wish you could just shrink and disappear. 

“Do you know how embarrassing that is?” she asks, her voice lowering. “Do you know how selfish that is?” Her nails are digging into her porcelain mug. Any tighter and she might actually break it.

“And now,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “You want to delay everything that has been laid out for you.You have known Nicky since you were children. This was meant to be, but now you want to start over? You want to waste more time? What, I’m supposed to wait a few more years before you even think about giving me a grandchild?”

Your mother is close. Close enough that you can feel every ounce of rage and disdain radiating from her.

“Victoria doesn’t have that kind of time.”

What? Your head lifts and your eyes finally make eye contact with your mother. 

“What do you mean she doesn’t have enough time?”

Her gaze flickers away from you, just for a second, before returning back on you. Her jaw tightens like she’s biting back what she wants to say.

“Not that it concerns you, but… Victoria has been having… health issues,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “... a brain tumor.”

Your heart sinks. There’s no way. There has to be people that can help her. The Cunninghams are wealthy, but also, Boris would never let that happen to his wife. Right? You feel sick, thinking about how Nicky might react. He doesn’t know. He loves his mother more than anything else, and Jules. How would he react? Is this the anxiety you've been feeling all along? Anticipating the death of Victoria? Maybe that is what it is.

“What? Shouldn’t we do something? Help her?”

“That is not your responsibility,” she snaps. “What is your responsibility is standing here, four days before your wedding, and deciding whether or not you are going to sabotage your own life over a man who has never—not once—offered you anything real.”

That’s not true. The thought comes fast. Jules has given you so much whether you want to acknowledge it.

“You will marry Nicky,” your mother says, her voice final, unyielding. “You will have a stable life. A respectable life, and you will not throw that away because you don’t know how to let go of a fantasy.”

Her eyes lock onto yours.

“Do you understand me?”

Your chest feels so incredibly tight as if you’re being suffocated by the weight of the truth and pressure to marry Nicky. Your thoughts are loud and tangled and impossible to sort through. You just want to feel okay. Just for a few seconds because it seems like asking for a few minutes might be too big of an ask.

“...Yes..” Another lie. At least it feels like a lie. What you feel doesn’t match your actions or your words, but you feel so cornered. 

“Good.” Your mother’s annoyance with you has reached a peak. She cannot stand to watch you throw yourself a pity party, so she leaves.

“Go get ready. We have wedding plans to attend today.”

Then she’s gone. You stand there. You are too exhausted to cry. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. Your knees give out before you can stop them. You sink to the floor, the impact dull. You curl in on yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your body, as if you can hold yourself together by force. I need to tell Nicky. I need to let him know. Right?

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━

Minutes in the room alone feel like hours. You lose track of how long you’ve been sitting there, folded into yourself on the cold floor. You were hoping Nicky would notice and come find you, but you remembered he is building wedding signs with his dad and yours today. So you’re alone. Utterly alone, but maybe that is a good thing. To sit in your thoughts and reflect. You need just a moment of peace and quiet to recover from the verbal assault coming from your mother.

“Hey… are you okay?” 

It’s him. It’s always him. Jules stands in the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame. He isn’t sure if he should come in. The other hand is holding a banana. Strange. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it. He’s concerned.

He’s trying to not make things hard for you, but he hates seeing you like this. Despite his blunt attitude, Jules has always known how to comfort you. You thought about last night. The game of chasing each other around the house, hoping no one gets caught. You are over it. You just want to be happy. You want to not feel the pressure of the world on you.

You stay silent, ignoring him. You honestly can’t deal with this now. 

“You’re not okay,” he says quietly. “Just… talk to me.”

You’re still silent, but Jules is willing to play the waiting game until you finally break. You sit there, and he stands. He finishes his banana quietly. In any other situation, it would be funny, but not now. You don’t want to break, but the silence is agonizing.

“Jules…” Your voice comes out hoarse. “Please, now is not a good time. Just… leave me alone.” 

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Jesus. Julien, you are the reason I’m having these problems,” you snap, the words spilling out of you uncontrollably. “I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

“Tell me more,” he says softly. “Lay it all on me.”

You think about last night. How the look he’s giving you now is completely different from the one last night. He looks at you like you’re human.

You break. You're trying to take in as much air as you can with each breath, but you still feel suffocated. Your hands tremble. You drag in a breath that doesn’t quite fill your lungs. “It’s not just that… Your mom…” you start, your voice breaking. “She has a tumor.”

Saying it out loud makes it real and you weren’t ready for it. Jules’ eyes harden, like he couldn’t fathom his mom being sick, but he also can’t fathom that being an excuse for you to throw your life away. It’s disbelief, maybe.

“I have to marry Nicky,” you continue, faster now, like if you stop you’ll fall apart. “I have to. She doesn’t have time left, Jules. I can’t do that to her—I can’t break her heart when she’s already—” You shake your head, choking on the words. “I don’t get to choose this.”

Jules carefully walks towards you with an emotion that no one else has been treating you with. Instead of walking on egg shells, he’s actually acknowledging your pain and your fear. He meets you at your level, his finger tapping your chin. You flinch from his touch.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You don’t want to. You can’t, but his touch makes it impossible to not look into his deep, brown eyes.

“Just take a deep breath. It’s going to be okay.”

You follow his advice. 

“You really think this is about her?” he asks, his voice low.

Your response is silence. It’s not just her, but it’s still an issue applying pressure on you.

“No,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “It’s not. That’s just what you’re telling yourself so you don’t have to admit what’s actually happening.”

Your breath shakes. “....And what is that?”

His thumb brushes your jaw. It is somehow comforting and unbearable all at once. You try to turn your head, but Jules has a firm grasp on your chin, keeping your eyes on him.

“You’re choosing him,” Jules says. “Not because you have to… but because it’s easier.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper, anger starting to bubble in your throat.

“It’s not supposed to be.”

“You think this is easy for me?”

“No,” he says immediately. “I think it’s destroying you.”

You stay silent. Letting your anger build because you can’t take the audacity that is Jules.

“Why are you doing this?” he presses, applying pressure onto you. “Why are you about to marry my brother when you—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off sharply.

Tears burn behind your eyes, but they don’t fall. You push his hand away from you. “That’s not fucking fair, Jules,” you snap, your voice shaking but rising anyway. “You get married twice and somehow you still end up here! Still in my face like I owe you something!” 

His expression shifts slightly, but you don’t stop.

“You never chose me,” you continue, words spilling now, jagged and uncontrolled. “Not once. Not when it mattered. But now I’m with your brother and suddenly you care? Suddenly you show up like this?” You let out a harsh, broken laugh. “What, did it not work out again so you decided to come back and ruin my life instead?”

Jules’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He’s biting back his thoughts.

“You are so unbelievably selfish,” you say, voice cracking at the edges now. “You don’t get to stand here and act like I’m the one making the mess of this when you’ve been… you’ve been everywhere except where I needed you to be.”

Jules stays silent, lingering in everything you’ve just thrown at him like he’s absorbing the weight of it rather than fighting it. You don’t know what is worse though. The fact that he is sitting there, not defending himself or the fact that he’s accepting it. There was nothing else that needed to be said. You finally get the strength to stand up. You’re toying with your ring. Anxiously needing to get out of this room. It feels too stuffy. Too much Jules. You walk away, but before you exit the door you hear him stir.

“You’ve been sick all week because you know deep down, you don’t want to marry him. You don’t want to have to play house for the rest of your life.”

You pause, looking back at him. Insulted. You don’t respond. Twisting your ring as you hover at the doorframe. There’s a pit in your stomach. 

“Nicky might love you, but he doesn't know the real you. The you that I know.” Jules continues, staring at you like he's seeing into your soul.

“At least he loves me, Jules, something you were never capable of. Something that you can't even put into words.”

“There’s a reason you didn’t tell me when you started dating,” Jules says quietly. “A reason I had to find out you were engaged from an Instagram post. You couldn’t look me in the eye and say you loved him honestly. You know why.” His voice lowers. “Because deep down… you’re settling.” 

“Jules, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” But he does. There’s truth to what he’s telling you now, but what does it matter? Why does he bring up the past matter now?

“I do know what I am talking about. I mean, I made the mistake twice.”

“What mistake is that?”

For a second, it looks like he might actually answer, but he doesn’t. His mouth parts slightly but no words come out. A part of you would wish he would just tell you, but Jules knows you too well. He’ll tell you the naked truth when you’re ready. 

“Nicky isn’t your soulmate.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. You can’t. Because you don’t even know what you would say.

So you walk out. There’s this feeling of dull pain like you know Jules could be saying some truth. He would never lie to you. It’s not in his nature, but he gives the hardest truths a person has to listen to. Somehow, it felt like your ring had gotten tighter on your finger. The thought settles deeper now. You can’t shake off this feeling.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━ 

Portia was visibly pleased that you were actively participating in the wedding arrangements. She was mildly annoyed when you arrived late. Your eyes are puffy and skin pale as paper, but she let it slide when she saw how focused you were on the flowers, the decor, the placement of every last detail. 

Roses here. Drapes there. Dinnerware polished until it caught the light just right. Silver, not too silver. You were doing whatever you can to not think of Jules. To not think about last night or what happened just hours ago. You need to keep yourself from thinking about him because then you’ll forget about your wedding. You’ll forget about how Victoria is dying, and you have to give her the wedding you deserve.

You felt like you were operating on autopilot, like a body moving through instructions your mind had already had programmed.

Victoria is going to die. So I have to give her what she wants. I need to give her a happy wedding. The thought sits heavily in your chest, but you don’t let it surface. You just keep arranging flowers, correcting angles that don’t feel right, smoothing things that already look fine. 

Portia leans against the table, watching you with interest. “What’s gotten into you? You’re actually acting like a bride today.”

Your hands pause for half a second. A flicker of something passes through your chest. It is too quick to name, too sharp to hold. Then you smooth it over.

“I just want it to be right,” you say carefully. “That’s all.”

“Right for who?” she teases.

You force a small smile anyway, bending down to adjust another bouquet. “For Nicky. For your mom and my mom. For everyone.”

Portia makes a soft, satisfied sound, like that’s exactly what she wanted to hear.

“That’s so you,” she says warmly. “Always thinking about everyone else.”

You try to focus on wedding arrangements, but there’s a sick thought that just won’t go away. Flowers. Drapes. Centerpieces. Place settings. Everything is perfect. Everything is aligned. Victoria is going to die. The thought slips in again, uninvited. 

Only when Portia clears her throat. You blink back into the moment. You didn’t realize she was talking to you. You don’t remember what she asked, but you have to pull the happy bride card.

“Oh,” you say quickly, forcing brightness into your voice. “I’m just really happy to marry Nicky. And I… I want everything to be perfect, so I’m just lost in the wedding arrangements.”

Portia’s reaction is immediate. She lets out an excited squeal that sounds almost like a shriek.

“I knew it,” she beams. “I’m so happy we’re going to be sisters. I always knew Nicky loved you. Ugh, and now we get to spend the rest of our lives as one big happy family.”

You just keep arranging flowers that don’t need rearranging. A staff member walks past carrying a bundle of white lillies, and something in you snaps sharply into place.

“Wait,” you call out, too quickly.

They stop. You step closer, eyes locked on the flowers like they’ve offended you personally. “I’m so sorry, but no white flowers at the wedding. This isn’t a funeral.”

“Oh my god, yes!” she says, stepping in immediately. “You heard her! No white flowers.”

The staff member nods and hurries off.

Portia turns back to you, practically beaming with excitement. “You’re so particular today. I love it.”

You manage a small smile and get back to working on arrangements. You are honed into your craft for at least thirty minutes, but your focus was interrupted by the sound of three men entering the room. Your head snaps up immediately. 

“Nicky?”

He steps into the room carrying a sign with his dad and your dad just behind him, still half in work mode. The older men wave to you just before leaving to tend to more carpentry.

Nicky’s hair is slightly messy, sleeves rolled up, a little out of breath like he’s been moving nonstop. His eyes scan the space, and the moment they land on you, he smiles. 

“Special delivery,” he says lightly, trying to brighten the moment as he sets the sign down.

Painted in elegant, flowing script:

The Cunninghams.

You cross the room quickly, almost stumbling in your urgency, and throw your arms around him. Nicky stumbles slightly in surprise, but catches you immediately. His arms come around you instinctively, steady and protective, anchoring you to him. You breathe him in. He smells like wood and a bit like sweat. You’re just happy to see him right now.

Nicky glances over your shoulder and towards Portia, his brow tightening slightly. “Is she okay?”

“No clue, but she’s been very proactive today! I love it,” Portia replies happily like that explains anything at all.

Eventually, he shifts, gently guiding you away from the room with a hand at your back. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get you out of here for a bit.”

The noise of the wedding planning fades behind you. As you walk, your grip on him doesn’t loosen. Neither does whatever tight feeling has been sitting in your chest.

You see Jules. Coming the opposite way.

Alone.

He slows the moment he sees you, but you don’t.

Nicky doesn’t notice at first. He’s still focused on you, still guiding you forward, but Jules’s eyes are already locked on the two of you. On Nicky’s hand at your back. On the way you’re holding onto him tightly.

Jules’ expression barely changes

Nicky gives him a casual nod as you both pass. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jules replies evenly.

No one stops.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━

Nicky leads you back into the Lovers’ Suite. You are exhausted.

“Hey let me run you a bath to help you relax. Okay?”

“Okay,” you murmur.

He gives you a small, reassuring smile. Then he moves into the bathroom, already rolling up his sleeves. He’s glad there’s something he can do, something concrete he can fix. Honestly, Nicky has a hard time knowing how to comfort you during these situations. It’s honestly hard for you because sometimes you feel like a burden on him. That’s always been a flaw about Nicky who is otherwise perfect. Sometimes it makes you feel less like a person and more like something cracked that he’s desperately trying to piece back together before anyone notices. You hear the faucet turn on.

Water rushing, filling the porcelain tub. Warmth filling the silence.

Nicky is quiet as he works, focused. Bottles clink softly against the marble counter as he adds bath salts and soap with a level of care that borders on excessive. The scent of lavender begins to rise slowly, calming and heavy in the air.

You linger in the doorway for a moment, watching him with a small smile. He checks the temperature with his hand, adjusts it slightly, then turns back toward you.

“Alrighty,” he says gently. “It’s good.”

You move slowly, almost automatically, slipping out of your clothes and stepping into the bath. The water wraps around you quickly, easing into your muscles, pulling the tension out of your muscles.

“Thank you, Love.”

You sink down until the warmth reaches your shoulders. A long breath leaves you. You finally allow yourself to relax.

Nicky watches you for a second longer. “I’ll be right outside,” he says quietly. “Just call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay…” You murmur, letting your eyes close to fully submerge yourself in this moment. You should’ve told him the truth before he left. Nicky, your mom is dying. Nicky, I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know if this is a good idea. But those thoughts never leave your mind.

You sink deeper into the bath, letting the water rise to your shoulders, the heat wrapping around you like it’s trying to press everything else out.

For a moment, it almost works. Your muscles loosen. Your breathing slows. The noise in your head dulls just enough that you think, This is working.

The quiet doesn’t last. It never does. The second your body relaxes, your mind fills the space.

It fills it with him. With Jules.

It’s not even intentional. You don’t choose to think about him. He just… appears. It’s like he’s been waiting for the silence. Waiting for you to stop moving long enough for him to slip back in.

The way he said your name. The way he didn’t argue when you pushed him away. He just stood there and took it, like he thought he deserved it. The way he looked at you… with deep hunger. He doesn’t treat you like you’re broken. He makes you feel ravished and consumed. He sees every ugly, unfinished part of you and refuses to look away from it. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, sinking a little lower into the water.

Stop.

But it only makes it worse.

Now it’s his voice.

You’re choosing him… because it’s easier.

Your grip tightens on the edge of the tub, fingers slipping slightly against the porcelain. 

The water laps quietly against your skin, steady and indifferent. Your gaze drifts down to your hand. To the ring. It glints faintly under the soft bathroom light, sharp and bright and certain. You twist it slowly around your finger.

You hear his voice again.

Nicky isn’t your soulmate.

You think about your crumpled up underwear in a trashcan, evidence of your midnight affair. Then you hear something else. The sound of him moaning your name. You can hear it so clearly, repeating over and over again.

A shaky breath leaves you as you lean your head back against the edge of the tub.

This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Your head starts looping itself in circles. It thinks about Nicky. His kindness. How safe you feel with them. Then it goes to Jules. His bluntness. How he makes you feel in danger yet so thrilling. Nicky sees you, but Jules sees your soul. Back and forth. Over and over. You squeeze your eyes, pressing your head harder against the tub.

After some time, you sit up. The water shifts around you as you reach for the drain. It gurgles softly as it empties, the warmth slowly slipping away. You watch it go, like you’re hoping something else might drain with it. You dry yourself off quickly, wrapping a towel around your body, the fabric warm against your damp skin. For a second, you just stand there, staring at your reflection. It feels almost distant. Your hands trace your body, seeking a bit of relief.  You desperately want to feel something, to validate your connection with Nicky.

When you step back into the room, Nicky is already shirtless in bed. He is propped up against the headboard, scrolling on his phone. The soft glow lights up his face in the dim room.

He looks up the moment he hears you. Just like that, his expression softens.

“Hi, beautiful,” he says, a small smile pulling at his lips.

You have a small smile on your face, choosing not to respond verbally only physically. You drop your towel, displaying all of your vulnerability to him in this moment like a sculpture. His eyes widen and then fill with desire.

“Oh… Come here..” He says, moving to the edge of the bed. You walk towards the bed, Nicky’s hands reach out towards your waist and pull you on top of him. You land with a thump and laugh. Nicky flips you around so now he is on top of you, his firm legs anchoring himself to your hips. Nicky pulls you into a kiss, hands dragging all over your naked body. He’s so soft as he touches you, occasionally squeezing your breasts and tracing your neck with his fingers.

“You are so sexy… I can’t believe you are my bride…” He murmurs against your lips. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, teeth occasionally grazing your bottom lip. You groan at the passion in which he kisses you. You couldn't help but nip at his bottom lip when he tries to pull his head back to take a breath. You grin looking down at the growing tent in his briefs.

You lay back and widen your legs for him, noticing the haze in Nicky’s eyes as he sucked on his ring and middle finger. Your cheeks bloom pink as you watch him tease his fingers at your entrance. He’s delicately tracing his thumb over your clit while his middle and ring finger just barely graze your entrance. You’re already wet for him, just waiting for him to fill you.

“Oh.. Nicky…” You moan softly as he begins to run his fingers through your slick folds, already trembling.

“This is all for me?” He asked in amusement, circling your clit once, twice. He’s teasing you. You can’t help but whine. You need relief now.

“Yes, please…oh!” His fingers slide in and out your wet pussy. He starts to finger you slowly, sucking and biting on your breast. He’s so gentle and careful with you. You can feel warmth pooling to your core, but it never quite reaches the peak you want it to achieve.

You look down, seeing how his cock is practically ready to be freed. With his free hand, he pulls off his briefs. His length stands tall, ready for you. Nicky kisses up and down your neck as he strokes his shaft a few times.

He lines himself up with your wet entrance, the tip of his cock just teasing its way in. He wraps his arms around you, holding himself steady as he thrusts in you. Nicky moans your name over and over again as his cock slides in and out of you. He’s planting wet kisses on your neck as you stare at the ceiling, losing focus in the moment. You try to match the pace of his thrusts, but you lose your rhythm a bit. You close your eyes focusing on the sound of your heart beating in your chest, trying to have it align with Nicky’s.

Then it happens.

Jules.

A vision of Jules inside of you flashes your brain for just a moment. You’re imagining him, on top of you. Fucking you into oblivion. Your eyes shoot open. You bite into the fleshy part of Nicky’s neck, trying to ground yourself into the moment. The moment with your fiancé. With your husband to be.

Nicky pulls back for a second. “Ow, Fuck—”

“I’m sorry, Baby—I’m sorry!” You didn’t intend to bite him as hard as you did. You just needed to bring yourself back into the moment, but Nicky already forgot. He’s deep in focus, trying to finish. Nicky’s thrusts grew sloppier, his breaths coming in brief and hot against your neck. You’re looking at Nicky, but he isn’t looking back at you. 

“Fuck… I’m close—” He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, as he finishes. He buries his cock deep in you as he cums. You mimic his movement and moan loudly, but perhaps, it is all for show. For him. Nicky thrusts a few more times, slowly, trying to savor this moment. You stare at the ceiling, dragging your nails across his back as he rides out his orgasm. You don’t feel anything. You thought this would fulfill your desires, but you feel so empty.

“I love you,” He murmurs as he plants kisses on your collarbone, his hands caressing your waist. You lay there, unmoving. 

“I love you too, Nicky…” You say breathlessly, like you’re trying to remember if sex Nicky has always felt so… flat.

Nicky rises from the bed and enters the bathroom as you remain laying. You feel content, but somehow you wish you felt more. You wanted passion, maybe a bit of danger. God, you’re starting to really annoy yourself. You just can’t seem to figure out why you’re not feeling any satisfaction. Your beloved returns with a glass of water and a towel for you to clean yourself off with. Nicky lays beside you, kissing your neck. You drag the wet rag against your body, cleaning yourself off. Somehow this act felt wrong. If anything, you wonder what it feels like to be truly satisfied, remembering what it felt like for your pleasure to be the one prioritized.

“I can’t wait for you to be mine forever.” Nicky says softly. He takes the towel from your hands, tossing it aside without much thought, replacing it with his own hands instead. His fingers intertwine with yours, tugging you gently toward him until you’re pressed against his chest. For some reason, forever feels like a contract not an agreement.

You rest your head against his chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. His free hand drifts up, absentmindedly combing through your damp hair, smoothing it back like he’s done a hundred times before. 

“I can’t wait either…” You mumble back, closing your eyes. Something felt terribly off at this moment. 

“I hope this helps you feel less stressed about the wedding,” Nicky adds gently, his voice low, careful. “You’ve had a lot thrown at you today.” 

Now you have two choices. You could stay quiet. Let things continue the way they’re supposed to. Let him keep holding you like nothing is breaking underneath the surface. Find peace in this moment with him. Your future with him. The moment reaches a silence, one that is so fragile. So ready to be broke. You wait a minute. Maybe thirty. You lose track of sitting in his arms in the darkness as he whispers words of love to you.

After some time, you decide to go for your second choice. You swallow hard. You have to tell Nicky. You tell him this because you love him. Just him.

“Nicky…” your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

He shifts slightly beneath you. “Yeah?”

“There’s something I need to tell you,” you say, your fingers tightening slightly where they’re still laced with his.

Concern flickers across his face immediately. “Babe, what is it?”

You hesitate for a second.  “Your mom,” you start, your voice unsteady now. “She… she’s sick.”

Nicky’s expression shifts, confusion knitting his brows. “What do you mean? She’s been fine? She’s been here all day with your mom.”

“No… not that kind of sickness,” you cut in softly, your throat tightening. Silence spreads between the two of you before you continue.  “...She has a brain tumor.”

For a second, he just stares at you like he didn’t hear you right.

“…What?” he breathes.

Your heart pounds. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know if I should—she didn’t want it to… ruin anything, but—” your voice breaks slightly, “It’s serious, Nicky. I don’t think we have a lot of time left with her.”

Nicky pulls back just enough to look at you properly now, his hands still on you but no longer comforting. It is just holding there, like he needs something to anchor himself.

“That’s not—” he shakes his head. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” you whisper.

“My mom found out first. I—I think she didn’t know how to tell you. And then I…” you trail off, the guilt creeping in. “...I didn’t either.”

Nicky looks away from you then, running a hand through his hair, his breathing uneven now.

“Why wouldn’t she tell me?” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Why would she—why would everyone just—”

“No, Nicky, please don’t freak out. I think she just wanted to have one happy memory with the family,” you say, trying to make things better in vain.

His face drains of color. His mother, Victoria Cunningham, sick with a brain tumor? He couldn’t imagine that. He could not see that happening.

You reach for him instinctively. “Nicky, I’m so sorry—” 

He sits up, shaking his head. He almost somehow looks upset at you. Like you did something wrong, when you didn’t. At least, not in this situation.

“…How much longer do we have?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t know exactly. Just… not long enough.”

The words feel cruel no matter how gently you say them.

Nicky leans back against the headboard, staring ahead. He’s processing everything you just shared to him, unknown to you just how much you changed everything for him.

You lay next to Nicky. Close enough to touch, but he doesn’t fill the gap. He finally lays back down, but his back is facing you. He feels like a wall. Somehow all of that warmth turned to a chill immediately. You scoot closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist as you lay your head on his back.

“I love you, Nicky.”

Silence. No response. For a second, you convince yourself he might already be asleep. That maybe this is just exhaustion finally catching up to him, pulling him under before he could respond.

You just don’t realize how deeply your words have unraveled something inside him. How this shifted the shape of this wedding in his mind. How suddenly all of this feels less like a celebration of love and more like something being held together by obligation and grief. 

Then you feel it. The slight shift in his breathing. Your love has gone cold, and now you’re left alone despite being right next to him. A sick thought begins to creep into your mind. The words of Jules' echoing in your mind.

You’re choosing him because it’s easier.

Your eyes burn instantly.

Maybe he's right. Maybe Nicky was easier, but now you're not so sure. You feel Nicky pulling himself away and loving you less than before.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━

“Dad?”

“Yes, Jude?” Jules murmurs, staring up at the dark ceiling.

Jude had wandered into his room nearly an hour ago, clutching his blanket and asking if he could sleep there tonight. Jules didn’t ask questions, he knew Jude was just scared of what was in the woods. He just lifted the covers and let the boy curl up beside him.

Now Jude lies tucked against his side, small and warm and far too awake for this hour.

“Do you think she’s scared of the Sorry Man?” Jude mumbles, “She tells me she’s scared of the woods so she stays inside.”

“The Sorry Man,” Jude repeats quietly. Jules is starting to realize how everyone seems to notice how you’re making the wrong decision but yourself and Nicky, “He isn’t real, Jude.”

“But she says he is,” Jude insists. “That’s why she’s scared.” 

Jules lets out a small breath through his nose, one hand moving absently through Jude’s hair. His son has always noticed things other people miss like the little shifts in emotions. It’s part of what makes him so easy to love and so hard to lie to.

You’ve been trying with Jude. Jules sees it every time you kneel beside him offering art supplies. Every time you hand him another disposable camera and ask him about the blurry pictures he takes of trees, windows, and people when they aren’t looking. 

“Oh, bud…” Jules says softly, unsure how to explain something he barely understands himself. “I think she’s just nervous. Weddings can be scary.” 

Jude is quiet for a moment.

“We have to help her.”

“Yeah,” Jules says after a long pause. “We do.”

Jude yawns, exhaustion finally reaching him, but there is still one question lingering inside of him before he can sleep.

“Do you love her, Dad?” 

Jules swallows hard, staring into the darkness. For a second, he says nothing at all. It might have been longer than a second. Maybe thirty minutes. It’s impossible to tell when he’s laying silently in the dark.

“Yeah,” Jules says quietly.

The words sound strange outside his own head. He’s never uttered those words to you. He’s never told another soul about his deep understanding of you. It has only ever been in his mind.

“Yeah, I do love her.”

By that point, Jude is asleep while Jules is laying there wide awake acknowledging what has always been there for you. Love.

taglist <3: @naazziiss

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ author's notes: when you get that mid ahh dick so now you think about your ex. can i get a hell yeah?? ugh, i rewatched the series recently, and nicky has been pissing me off. bro has no backbone, so i just HAD to incorporate some of that in here. i tried to be subtle with conveying how nicky doesn't complete the reader. you feel empty with him and UGH HE DIDN'T MAKE YOU FINISH!!!! oh man i wonder what jules will do about that in the next chapter…. hmmm… hmmmm??? anyways, i am so sorry it took me forever to post. i lowk originally posted this chapter a few days ago, but then i hated it and deleted it LOL. anyway… this is only 25% smut… so imagine what the next chapter will be like hmmm???…… hmmm….. lol, i kinda had a hard time writing this chapter, but i am hoping you all enjoy <33

[hellfirehoe]

[dilfgifs]

TONY GOLDWYN Scandal 7.17 "Standing in the Sun"

[you-didnt-have-to]

akhdjargjakaejdkahauyegaj

[bedsyandco]

genuinely just confused as to how one sees your mom win a gold medal. talks about that every time they talk about the olympics, even before they got to italy. talks about her with so much respect and admiration. mentions that the first person he thought of when he scored was megan keller because she did the exact same thing. and then goes to the locker room and laughs at a misogynistic joke made about them by tr*mp? does something like pucks and pages and then also goes and has a blast with p*tel in the locker room? it’s so fucking disappointing bc i feel like they’ve done stuff that shows that they know better. they’ve surprised people (positively) with stuff they’ve done, said and supported. and now we’re here somehow. like what you wear the usa jersey, drink two beers and suddenly your moral compass is nowhere to be found all of a sudden. the pendulum can not fucking swing that violently from one end to the other.

[abbysbenchpr]

i've tasted love and it tasted sweet (god's country) • jud duplenticy

pairing: father jud duplenticy x f!housekeeper!reader

series synopsis: after monsignor wicks’ mess, the church gets popular real fast. you assumed this housekeeping job would be easy enough, but nobody thought to tell you about the hot priest on site.

content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, wake up dead man spoilers, he's in love your honour, religious guilt, jud justifying why he needs to fuck reader nasty style, two freaks obsessed with each other, corruption but he's really okay with it so probably ooc jud, lust in the house of god, making out, jud's a big big kisser, dry humping, oral f!receiving, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, a hint of cockwarming, religion kink, college grad reader (not mentioned but implied in the series)

notes: hiiii everybody! thanks for being so patient with me, and for the love and support xoxo this is the final part, and i'm honestly blown away by the response. it's been so much fun, and i really enjoyed gettiing to write again even tho i didn't really have a plan for this series. apologies for any mistakes, it's 5am here T-T hope this chapter was worth the wait <3

disclaimer again that i respect all religions and this is entirely a work of fiction and i do apologise if i get anything wrong as i am not religious myself!

word count: 7.8k

read part one, two and three of 《 god’s country 》 here!

masterlist

as always, this is an 18+ blog, minors dni!

there’s a storm brewing in the distance when you pull up to the church for the start of your shift.

the morning starts downcast, and any hopes of the clouds breaking fizzle out by midday when you have to turn on all the lights in the main building just to avoid tripping over your feet, and not because it gets a little spooky when it’s dark. 

it’s just as well that the ominous rumbling steadily closing in mirrors your sour mood. 

jud’s avoiding you, and you just know it’s because you totally made him uncomfortable by coming on to him in the garage like that. it makes your heart twist in your chest to think that you fucked up so bad he thinks he has to hide.

the worst part is, you wouldn’t even have noticed, because even when he’s trying to avoid you, it’s in such a jud way. still too kind, too sparing of your feelings. 

he still asks about your day, and nods periodically to let you know he’s listening, like always — nothing out of the ordinary. 

until a lull in the conversation leads to you looking at him for a sustained five seconds.  then he’s stammering a half-assed reason on why he has to leave, hightailing it out the door with the tips of his ears bright red. 

but you could chalk that up to jud being in a rush yet still making time for you, even with so much on his plate. besides, he’d listened so attentively despite being unable to meet your eyes. surely, he was just busy. 

he’s missing at lunch. the kitchen in the rectory is empty when you get inside, even though he’s always made it a point to align his schedule with yours. you find the note he leaves, stuck to the fridge door with a sacred heart magnet — rain check on lunch? duty calls :)

but why would jud lie? he’s never had a reason to, so it’s easy enough to tell yourself it’s fine. the first time, at least. 

the next time gives you pause. jud has cleared out from the nave with suspicious efficiency before you can arrive to tidy up. the place is spotless, not even a crumb of communion on the altar. maybe you’re later than you realised, and he’d just cleaned up while waiting? but a glance at the time easily shoots down the flimsy attempt at rationalisation. you spend the rest of the day overanalysing every interaction you’ve had with jud, and it always ends up in the damned garage and your hand on his arm.

it’s really only by the end of today, when you’re on your way out, that these barely-formed suspicions are confirmed and transformed into a full-blown, gut-twisting guilt. 

the sky is a grim shade of grey that bleeds into everything else. the rain gets heavier as soon as you step outside, threatening to soak into your socks — the least of your problems. 

you’ve just gotten to your car, distracted by another day without jud offering to walk you out. as you stand there, fishing through your bag for your keys, there’s a flash of movement — slow and dark, just out of the corner of your eye. 

instinctively, your head tips back to look. raindrops pelt at your cheeks, even with the church-loaned umbrella (jud’s) as you follow the blur all the way up to jud’s attic room. there, in the miniature stained glass window, is the face of none other than the father in question. 

it’s dark enough that you need to squint, and the relentless sheet of rain is like static in your vision, but even with only the dim lamplight emitting from his room, jud is unmistakable. 

on a good day, just seeing the shape of his back makes your heart stutter in your chest. finally catching a glimpse after two whole days of missing him sends a jolt down your spine, a feeling so palpable it makes you freeze in place as you stare, lips parted on an inhale. 

the window obscures half of jud’s face, but what you can see — pinched brows, lips downturned as he worries it between his teeth. 

his blue-green eyes look almost black from where you’re standing, and while the shadows cutting across his scruffy jaw make him look more stern than you’ve ever seen him, he doesn’t look angry. 

no, you realise as he drags a hand over his mouth. he’s thinking. you know that pensive look, how his eyes tend to narrow and the creases in his forehead deepen as he gets further lost in thought. 

that should make you feel better, knowing that jud’s not glaring through his bedroom window as you drive off. 

you watch him watch you, and the weight in your chest pulls tight when something in his eyes shifts. the whites of his eyes become visible when they widen, comically large. even though you can’t hear it from the ground, you can make out the beginnings of his startled “oh, shit” just as he stumbles back from the window. 

whatever bubble of relief you’d felt pops, right then and there. his silhouette gone entirely. the guilt and shame returns tenfold, making a home in the pit of your belly.

you don’t stay much longer after that. 

—

he could’ve asked you to stay. 

fuck. he should’ve asked you to stay. 

the television in the living room is alive with the ongoing report on the storm landing in the area. jud has to turn up the volume just to hear past the drum of rain. 

his cheeks had still been flushed from his blunder upstairs when he made it to the front steps, barely catching your taillights as you pulled off the property into the dark. he had half the mind to chase after you, on his bike and everything, but a window slamming shut somewhere in the house had jolted him back to reality. 

he’s still dripping from when he’d rushed through the woods to close up the church, but the small puddle forming on the rug is inconsequential when it really dawns on him that you shouldn’t be driving in this weather. 

a pang of frustration flares in jud’s chest — where did this storm even come from, anyway? if not for the torrential downpour, he might’ve been able to stop you before you drove off. then he could’ve apologised for gawking at you through the window like a creep. 

but jud knows he’s not really pissed off at the rain. if he were you, he too would drive far, far away from the pervert priest who looks up your skirt and stares at you through windows.

jud buries his face in his hands as a wave of dizziness hits him with how tight his gut twists at the memory of it. he wrenches his mind away from anything relating to you since he’s proven to himself he cannot be trusted with it.

so he decides to keep busy, roaming through the house to triple check the windows and doors, before the paradoxical shame of his lack of it can make him keel over on the spot. 

—

he’s only just slipped a dry shirt over his head when the knock comes. 

three taps, and then silence. it’s a little eerie, and jud knows better than to let his imagination run wild, but he swears he’s seen a horror movie exactly like this. 

the compassionate side of his brain outweighs the caution because what if it’s someone who got turned around in the woods, or someone hurt?

jud’s pulling the door open before he can think to brace himself for an axe-wielding killer. 

he should’ve braced a little though, because the sight of you there on his doorstep — soaked to the bone with your wet hair plastered to your face — actually punches the air out of his lungs. 

“i’m sorry,” your voice cracks, shoulders caving from the weight of your wet clothes. “i know you’re mad at me and you have every right but my- my car broke down and there’s a tree in the road and i didn’t know where else to go—“

jud can practically hear his heart shatter from the shakiness of your voice. your chin wobbles, and when he looks past your shoulder, he hopes against all hopes that your car will somehow manifest into existence because he can’t bear the thought of you walking through this storm. all the while he’d been safe and in warm shelter, standing there like an idiot debating whether to call you. 

“jesus,” jud sucks in a breath through his teeth when you visibly shiver. “c’mere.”

he draws you into his chest with an arm hooked over your shoulder. doesn’t care that his fresh set of clothes are getting wet. his other arm winds around your waist, effectively locking you against him. 

the relief is instant, the way you melt into his warmth. your cheek is pressed to his sternum — you can hear his heartbeat like this. 

his long fingers stroke over the curve of your shoulder, as he speaks, lips just barely brushing over your hairline. “‘m not mad,” he murmurs, “could never be mad at you, angel.”

jud is almost bewildered by how you’d think that, but he finds himself reduced to the base instinct of needing desperately to make you feel better. 

your head lifts, glassy eyes searching his, and when you find no deceit — that he’s not just lying for your benefit — your face crumples, because you simply don’t deserve him. 

“hey,” jud’s voice is soft, and he has to try really hard to not smile at how you feel in his arms considering your tears are falling freely now. one hand comes to cradle your cheek, catching the tears in their tracks. 

you sniffle, momentarily distracted by how his hand covers the entire side of your face. “are you sure you’re not mad? you’re not just saying that?” 

jud can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes his chest. “promise i’m not mad,” he shakes his head, smiling to himself because he’s the farthest thing from it. “we can talk about that later, okay? let’s get you warm first.”

and part of you is still unconvinced, because he’s confirmed there is something to talk about. but he leads you up the stairs with his hand in yours, and he doesn’t let go, even as you come to a stop in front of his room. 

you don’t have time to hesitate, nor do you even need to glance up at jud for his assent before he pulls you over the threshold, and there it is. 

you don’t even bother trying to hide how you look around, taking in the space entirely his. the coat rack with a single coat, the empty duffle shoved underneath it, the pictures he’s stuck on the wall next to his bed. 

you come to a stop in the centre of his room — sitting on his bed feels… overzealous. 

jud’s eyes squint when he gives you a reassuring smile before he turns, letting you snoop in peace as he rifles through the small wardrobe. 

it hits you then you’ve never actually seen jud in… normal clothes. the all-black is nice — you’d be the last to argue it isn’t — but something about the way his t-shirt sleeves pull tight across shoulders, and how the thin grey fabric does so little to hide the rippling of his back. his sweats hanging low on his hips, drawstring lopsided — it’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him. 

he turns back to you with a stack of clothes in his hand and a towel in the other. 

“i hope you don’t mind,” jud says, and he knows he could probably dig up something better fitting in the church basement, something that doesn’t belong solely to him, but, alas, the rain. 

you shake your head, eyes still wide from trying to take everything in, like this is the last time you’ll be in this room. you’re glad he doesn’t know just how much you don’t mind. 

“thank you, jud,” you tell him, moving to take the stack of fabric from him. your fingers brush his, and when you look up, his eyes are already on you. the intensity nearly makes you flinch, fingers tightening around the clothes just as he blinks quickly, jerking his hands back. 

“sorry- i’ll, uh, i’ll be downstairs,” jud stutters, and nearly bumps into the doorframe in his haste to leave, cheeks dusted in a familiar shade of pink. 

you’re left alone in his room with a stack of his clothes in hand, and the thought that maybe you should’ve just stayed in your car. but he’d held you against him so easily, and it had felt so right to be cradled against his chest. 

his hand on yours, big and warm as he pulled you through the halls of his home, as if you didn’t know the place inside and out already.

and now you’re about to strip down and put on his clothes, in his room. and you know it’s wrong, so wrong, but you send up a thanks to god for the storm. 

—

jud busies himself in the kitchen, working on autopilot as he flicks on the kettle and prepares your tea the way he remembers you like it. 

he’s standing there, watching the water boil when the soft padding of footsteps come up behind him. you’re still blotting your hair dry with the towel, but you’re mostly dried and your cheeks have been washed of the mascara tracks. 

now that jud knows you’re safe and sound, he should be relieved, but standing there, with a mug in hand, he feels as if he’s walked right into a trap of his own making. 

you, in his clothes, nearly fells father jud.

god, and he’d hand-picked the clothes too — his old sleep shirt, worn thin from use and gingham boxers. the sleeves fall nearly to your elbows, and the collar’s long been stretched loose, revealing the dip where your neck meets your shoulder. 

he should be better than this. jud curses whatever remnant caveman dna is making his mind go blank at the idea of you wearing him, smelling like him-

“tea?” jud chokes out, holding the mug out in a last-ditch effort of keeping himself from you at arms length.

mercifully, and to his disappointment, you take it from him – this time without your hands touching. he catches the edges of a smile across the steam billowing in front of your face, and when you turn towards the den, he’s following like a dog with a bone. 

you settle on one end of the couch, and jud tucks his large frame into the other end, pointedly leaving a respectable gap between his leg and your bare one. jud doesn’t let himself linger on the sight of your soft skin, just curls his fingers into the fabric of his sweats and waits, because by now he knows it’s not a matter of if, but when. 

your nail absentmindedly traces the lip of your mug. you pretend to watch the news for a little, trying to remember the words you’d practiced in the car, but with every shift in his seat, your attention flickers over to jud.

he perks up when your throat finally clears, and you set the mug down on the coffee table. he follows your every move, in the hopes he can get a better sense of what you’re thinking. 

you twist to face him directly, leg bending as you scoot just the slightest bit closer in the guise of settling in. jud mirrors you, leaning his side into the couch as his arm come up to rest along the back. bridging the distance, yet still so far away. 

“jud,” you start, and it feels a little pathetic how he wants to sigh at the sound of his name from your lips. 

“i should apologise. i know you’ve been avoiding me–” you shoot him a look when his face scrunches, sheepish as his mouth opens to protest. “– i know you have, and i know why.”

jud’s heart drops to the depths of hell. do you know? did you overhear him in his bedroom that day? his face pales, mortified at the notion that you’ve been forced to work in proximity with your utterly corrupt priest every day since. 

“you do?” jud’s voice is weak, dread filling his lungs.  

“it was so wrong of me to corner you in the garage like that!” you blurt, hands coming up to cover your face, “-especially after you helped me with the ladder, and said all those kind things about me. i’m so sorry, jud, i was being completely inappropriate.”

jud’s mouth falls open, and the repenting on the tip of his tongue dissolves into thin air. his head tilts, eyes narrowing only slightly as your words sink in. 

you’re frowning, hands wrung in your lap as your gaze fixes on his shirt, all too self-conscious to look him square in the face after naming the elephant in the room. all the while you’re none the wiser to the hiccuping delight spreading in jud’s gut because he thinks you might be the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. 

this whole time, you’ve been worried you were inappropriate?

if only to assuage your guilt, he has the sudden urge to tell you the reason he’d had to avoid you in the kitchen every day was because all he could think of in there was pressing you against the counter and kissing you stupid. among other things. 

like how he couldn’t be in the nave alone with you because it would’ve felt too raw, like picking at a fresh wound for him to be thinking of you in all the ways he shouldn’t under the watchful eye of christ on the cross. 

jud worried it would’ve felt more sinful to deny these thoughts in front of him. because if the lord had put you in his path, not as a test, but as a blessing, would it be worse to turn away from the gift, than into it? 

jud catches himself before he can lay it all out, even thought he knows he should. the only way out is through, this much he knows. it’s only his luck that his way out is staring up at him with watery eyes and a pink, guilt-ridden pout. 

“it’s okay,” jud soothes, low and gentle like approaching a wounded animal. 

your head shakes, sniffling as you protest, “it’s not okay. you’re a priest, i should know better, and- and this is your home! if i’m making you uncomfortable you have every right to fire me, or-“

“woah, hey,” jud can’t help it, he shifts closer down the length of the couch, hands coming over yours as they wave frantically through your spiral. “i’m not going to fire you. take a breath with me, c’mon.”

you follow as jud’s chest expands on a deep inhale. on the exhale, the weight of his hands on yours hits you, and your fingers curl tighter into him. 

“that’s good,” he smiles, “listen to me for a second, okay?”

when you nod, albeit reluctantly, he sweeps a thumb over your knuckles in reward.

“i’m not mad,” jud tells you, with all the certainty in the world. your shoulders drop a little as relief starts to take hold. 

“you didn’t make me… uncomfortable, either.” jud shakes his head. quite the opposite, he thinks, and feels his ears burn in consequence. he tries to conjure the right word for what exactly you made him feel — everything comes up too simple. no single word to explain how he’s been kept up for nights on end because he can’t stop replaying every conversation he’s had with you. how can just one word describe the devout, pathetically hopeful way he scans the pews at every service, hoping to see your face among the rest, even when he knows he won’t?

jud’s always considered himself a man of faith. faith in himself to pull himself out of the ring, all blood and teeth and gore; faith in the lord to embrace him when he least deserves it. and now, with your hand in his, he believes in his very core that the decision he’s making is the right one. 

“i should be the one apologising.”

your brows furrow as your expression quickly grows puzzled. you can’t imagine he’s done anything to you to warrant an apology. 

“i haven’t been honest,” jud’s voice is uncharacteristically small, and you lean in to hear him better because god forbid you miss a single word. your fingers squeeze his, as though urging him to spill his deepest secrets. if you asked, he would. 

“about what?”

the question lands like a punch. jud knows how to take one, but this one feels like there’s no getting back up from it. 

your heart is hammering hard and fast in your chest. a hopeful thread begins to unfurl somewhere deep, and the rational part of your brain that screams to not get ahead of yourself, to expect disappointment, is smothered by jud’s thigh bumping into yours. when had you gotten so close?

jud’s chin dips, steeling himself with a breath as the last vestiges of sense lose its grip on him. 

“since the day i met you, i’ve been lying through my teeth,” truth pours from him, and he feels himself getting lighter with every word that escapes. 

“to you, and to myself. and i’m tired,” jud laughs quietly, because damn, does it feel good to finally breathe his feelings to life. 

you’re only slightly concerned, just for a moment, that he could be building to something bad, because it sounds bad. but then—

“i’m tired of pretending i’m not in love with you.”

your ears ring with the confession. love, love, love. jud is in love. jud is in love with you. your head swims as  his face softens, lines smoothed in relief. he sits a little taller, filling out his end of the couch as the weight visibly leaves his shoulders. 

it’s only when one moment passes into another, and you’re still rooted to your spot, eyes wide and darting all over his face that he begins to feel a little worry. 

his hand drags against yours, half like he’s trying to snap you out of it and a little too much like he’s pulling back. both your hands fly to keep him where he is, cradled in your lap.

his eyes flicker up to your face, where you’ve thawed and your mouth is moving with barely-formed sentences. 

“you- this whole time? when did- are you-” you stumble over the words, and jud lets you with an perpetual fondness that he’s only now freely letting show. 

“are you sure?” you manage, searching for any hesitation in the man sitting before you, knee tucked against yours, letting you take his hand hostage. 

jud’s face brightens in a grin, laughing like it’s the easiest question in the world. “yes, i’m sure.”

the corners of your lips droop, unable to stop the doubt from creeping in, even with how quick he’d been to answer. and you really don’t want to ask, afraid to pop the lovesick bubble you’ve found yourself in, but no part of you wants jud to suffer in the face of your actions. 

“what about…” your hand waves weakly towards the ceiling. 

before he can think better of it, jud’s arm resting on the back of the couch lifts, coming to cup your cheek instead. makes it so you can’t look away when he sighs your name, soft around the edges. 

“the lord knows what i feel,” jud tells you, voice hushed but firm with certainty. it reminds you of when he’s up in the pulpit, speaking with gentle conviction. “i’ve asked for signs, for guidance, and every single time, there you are.” 

you worry your lip as the possibilities bounce around your head. he could be defrocked, excommunicated, shunned from the community he’s spent so long cultivating. everything he has, put on the line for you. 

but he doesn’t seem worried, not the way you are. he looks at you with the peace of a man who’s made up his mind, regardless of the consequences. 

like he can read your mind, he lowers his face, all that much closer to yours, and murmurs, “whatever happens to me, it’ll have been worth it.”

nobody could blame you for surrendering. not when the pad of his thumb pulls at your bottom lip, smoothing over the indents left by your teeth. his forehead presses to yours, slow, like you might bolt if he moves any faster. 

“i don’t want you to regret this,” you whisper. to regret me. 

jud’s head shakes — the barest turn of his face that nudges his nose against yours. you shudder on an inhale as his breath warms your lips. 

the last thing you see is jud’s lashes fluttering as his eyes shut, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he speaks. “never going to happen.”

your lips quirk on the ghost of a laugh. for a moment, neither of you move. the house is still, and even the rain seems to have calmed, if only to hear the shared breaths in the space between waiting lips. 

you’ll never be able to tell who closed the gap, but does it really matter, when jud’s mouth is finally on yours? his lips press into yours softly, as if he’s scared of getting it wrong. just a little self-conscious, because he’s more than a little out of practice. 

but you’re moving with him, falling into it — easy as breathing. that’s all he needs. he kisses you like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. pulling you in with a hand on the side of your neck, your pulse jumps under his digits with every slot of his lips between yours. 

your hands lift from your lap, finding a new home in jud’s hair. fingers curling against his scalp, his mouth opens against you with a groan. to his utter delight, you waste no time in licking into his open mouth, tongue sliding against his as you shuffle closer.

braced on your knee, you lean over jud like this, and he’s quick to grab you by the waist to haul you into his lap. he doesn’t even bother with the pretense of pulling away — not when you’re practically melting into him, lips soft and wet and tasting like a fucking dream. jud’s dignity disintegrated the second he saw you in his clothes, and now he’s greedy, tugging at you like he can’t get enough. 

“jud,” you sigh, settling your weight comfortably atop his strong thighs. his lips chase yours, and he manages to sneak two kisses before you’re parting again. blue eyes blink open at the lack of you, but when he’s met with the sight of you atop him, panting and lips swollen, his mind goes blank. 

“say it again,” your request follows your fingers lacing at the nape of his neck. jud looks up at you, eyes glazed and blinking slow. his answering smile is content, and just a little too pleased. 

“‘m in love with you.” jud murmurs, and before he can finish his sentence, you’re descending upon him again. 

his own hands draw a lazy path up and down your sides, less frantic than he had been just moments ago. he wonders briefly if this is a dream, because it wouldn’t be the first time. he kisses you slow and deep, memorising the taste of you just in case it is. jud thinks he could do this forever.

your hips shift just so, and the flimsy boxers do little to disguise the growing hardness beneath you. you feel more than hear jud’s sharp inhale, the sound adding to the heat stirring in your core. his fingers grip at your hips, locking you firmly in place so he can grind up. his head is thrown back, a shameful moan tearing from his throat as his semi nudges at you through the layers of fabric. 

“shit-” jud’s voice cracks when you offer one in return, hips drawing slow circles if only to coax more of those sounds out of him. the seam of your boxers nudges at your clit when you drag yourself along his length just right, and you’re whimpering into his ear as you lower your chest to his. 

“jud,” you pant, unabashedly riding your priest through his clothes. he chokes back a sigh at the breathy sigh of his name, and slips his fingers up the back of your shirt. 

“you’re sure about this?” you ask again, dizzy with the effort it takes to form a coherent sentence as your inner thighs grow sticky. 

jud nearly whines, a huff of exasperation as his hardened cock juts into your thigh. “yes,” his big hands span the length of your spine, and you actually feel him twitch when he realises you’re not wearing a bra under his shirt. “you don’t feel how sure i am?”

your eyes roll, capturing his lips with yours once more. when you part, jud’s eyes sober for a moment as he catches your chin, and asks earnestly, “do you want this?”

your fingers play with his hair at the nape of his neck as you pretend to mull it over. jud’s face scrunches at your exaggerated expressions, because if he still can’t tell, then you’ll just have to show him. you tell him as much, pecking him once. “i want you, jud.”

the smile that breaks across jud’s face is like the sun. he carries you up the stairs, and you have to hide the way the easy display of strength has your cheeks heating.

jud’s bedroom door is kicked open, just as your lips latch onto his neck, tracing the tattoo with your tongue the way you’ve always wanted. his grip on you tightens, digging into the backs of your thighs when he feels the light drag of teeth against the sensitive skin. 

you finally get to see the tattoo in its entirety, now that jud’s out of his clerical collar. the cherub and its devil counterpart, serendipity inked underneath. jud shivers when you make a happy sort of hum, because serendipity is exactly it. moving back home, taking the job nobody else wanted — it all led you here, straight through those church doors and into jud’s arms.

something possessive swirls in your heart when you’re struck by the desire to leave your mark alongside the permanent. lips sealing just under the angel, you suck at his neck until he whines, or bruises — whichever happens first.

you hadn’t noticed when jud lowered you onto his bed. it smells like him, clean and soft with the mingling of his soap and the old spice deodorant sitting on the nightstand. you shuffle back to give jud space, but the man lowers onto his knees. you’re rendered speechless at the sight of him knelt between your thighs.

“will you let me make you feel good?” jud all but whispers, cheek pressed to the inside of your knee. his pupils have taken over the pretty blue-greens you so love, reverent gaze entirely darkened as he peers up, faltering at your covered core. it makes you clench around nothing, watching him try to drag his eyes up to yours only to flicker back down. 

“please.” it comes out a little desperate, and when jud doesn’t move, you think for a split second to be embarrassed. until his entire chest heaves with a deep moan, and presses his face into the inside of your thigh. he leaves a lingering kiss there, murmuring under his breath — thank you, thank you, thank you.

his hands slide up your legs, smiling at the gooseflesh that follows. he finds your eyes, glassy and hopeful, when his fingers tug at the leg of your boxers. “can i take these off?”

your hips lift in response, and he muffles a grateful chuckle that sends heat to your face. “always so helpful,” he hums. the fabric is tossed somewhere behind him, and your head goes fuzzy with anticipation. jud’s warm breaths fan over your core, entranced. 

his head dips, and then his mouth is on you. glides his tongue up your folds, and jud thinks he’s died and gone to heaven because you taste better than he ever dreamed. tells you exactly that with his brows pulled tight, muffled by how he can’t seem to drag himself away from your weeping pussy. 

he suckles at your clit, and smiles to himself when your hips lift off the bed. any worries of his inexperience quashed as your heavy breaths delve into drawn-out keening. jud eats at you like a man starved, drawing out more of your slick and those pretty moans. 

“s’fucking sweet,” he’s practically purring into your pussy, vibrations shooting up your spine when he groans at the feel of your fingers winding through his hair and tugging.

“fuck,” you choke on a moan when that familiar heat begins to stir in your tummy. your head lifts to say something, anything to warn him, but whatever words on the tip of your tug die on a gasp when the tip of jud’s finger sinks inside and curls.

the cry of his name is cracked and utterly broken. 

“there?”

you can practically hear the cheeky smirk in his voice and nudge him admonishingly with your knee. he does it again, and your walls clamping down around him is answer enough. 

jud doesn’t even need to look to know there’s a growing wet patch on the front of his sweats. it feels so fucking right to be exactly on his knees for you, drinking you in — not even god could drag him away now.

“jud, i think ‘m gonna-” 

he pulls away only long enough to say, “let me have it, honey.” he leaves a sweet kiss at your hipbone, mouth shining in the dim lamplight. “please cum for me.”

when you do, you can barely tell apart the rain outside from the rushing in your ears. jud clutches at your hips when your back arches, instinctively trying to move away from the source of your blinding pleasure but he doesn’t let up. lapping at your release with a grateful sigh, he rides you through your high until you’re tugging his head away with your nails in his scalp.

jud looks entirely pussydrunk — dazed eyes, hair mussed, mouth and chin glistening with you and those signature red-tipped ears. his tongue darts out, tasting the remnants of you and wanting more. 

“was that- did i do okay?” 

you watch, bewildered, as jud rubs at the back of his neck — the same man that had you clawing at his sheets. your hands cover your face, because you can’t stop the giggle bubbling in your chest.

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” jud pulls your hands away with a grin, and face-to-face again, suddenly you’re shy. cheeks blazing, you pull his face to yours and kiss him hard, if only so he doesn’t get the chance to tease you. 

you can taste yourself on him, licking into his mouth for more. jud sighs, content to just lay atop you like this and kiss you for hours. 

his mind is quickly changed when your hand starts a path down, palming at his cock through his sweats. jud’s mouth drops open, physically unable to keep up with kissing as you loosen the drawstrings and slide under the waistband. 

jud pulses in your grip, skin so feverish and soft as you give him an experimental squeeze. his breath stutters as his body draws tight, like he’s bracing for a hit. 

your thumb glides over his tip, and the reaction is instant. jud flinches with a surprised groan, head falling into the crook of your neck to hide the way his face tightens at the building pleasure, all from your hand alone. his stubble tickles, but the wet breaths he’s gasping against your jugular is worth it.

you stroke him slow and long with one hand, the other coming up to card through his messy locks. “what do you want, jud?” you whisper, lips brushing his ear while his hips twitch with little thrusts. “-hm? we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

maybe it’s something about the tone of your voice. how you’re cooing at him as you cradle his head to your neck, so tender and patient even as he fucks into your hand. jud’s brain goes static, images of everything he does want to do flashing before his eyes. but he knows he doesn’t want to cum like this, with only your hand and layers of clothes separating you. 

so he lifts his head, kisses you once and presses his forehead to yours. “i want all of you.” 

“you have me.”

something in the air shifts. jud moves against you, still hungry but lacking the hurry, the greed. hearing you say it out loud makes something click in his brain, slows him down. like this, with you in his bed and the storm outside, he can fool himself into thinking he has all the time in the world.

his shirt comes off, and he lets you trace the tattoo across his chest, run your fingers down the planes of his abdomen. in turn, your hands raise for jud to drag the shirt up and over your head. 

“you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, lowering his lips to your sternum and kisses his path down. savours the low mewl he earns when he drags a nipple into his wet mouth, and another when he flicks the other between calloused fingertips. 

“jud,” now you’re the impatient one, shoving at the band of his sweats as he stays blissfully lost in your chest, sucking lovebites into the tops of your tits. mumbling more to himself, “been dreaming ‘bout this.” 

jud hums placatingly at the call of his name, distracted, oblivious to your struggle to not flip him over and have your way. you push up on your heels in search of friction. trying again, this time lacing your plea with a needy whine. “jud.”

“yeah, baby?”

“are you going to fuck me or not?” 

it’s bratty enough for jud to pinch your side — not hard, just enough to make you arch even further into him with a surprised yelp, 

“i was getting to that,” he tells you with a soft laugh, and finally kicks off his sweats. his cock, flushed an angry red hangs heavy against his thigh. on top of everything else, jud is big.

the sight of all of him bare steals your breath. his body tells a story, scars and ink and lithe muscles coming together to form the man kneeling over you now — your jud. kind, sweet, good jud duplenticy. 

he tries his best not to blush, but it’s hard not to when your eyes are roaming over every exposed inch of him. nobody’s looked at him like this in years, and he’d wholly believed nobody would again.

“you’re perfect, jud,” you say it like it’s a fact. he shakes his head, smiling as he looks away, like you’ve just told him something funny. that only strengthens your resolve. 

“hey, i mean it,” frowning slightly at his albeit gorgeous side profile, “look at me.”

jud follows obediently, fondly. leans into it when your palm comes up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking under his eye.

“i love you,” you say, because you want him to know. if within these walls, now, is the only time you get to be with jud, you need him to know.

jud’s head lowers in the softest kiss you’ve shared so far. it’s chaste, and somehow feels like the first ever. jud pours all his heart into it — he’s always been better with action than with words. he thinks about every time his heart’s stuttered because of you, the hours he’d counted until he could see you again, and seals each silent confession with a kiss.

the weight of jud’s body above yours is grounding, because with the way he’s parting your lips with his tongue, you feel like you might actually float. the tension in the room thickens, the sloppy sounds of his kisses reaching your ears.

you’re all too aware of his length between your bodies, slotted by the seam of your inner thigh. he’s so warm, and coats your skin in slick — you don’t think he even realises how he’s rutting against your leg, too engrossed in tasting your spit.

“want you inside,” you pull away for breath, murmuring against his open mouth. his cock twitches on your thigh, and you can see the moment it all hits jud. he thinks there’s something magic about your lips, because the throbbing between his legs returns tenfold the second he’s separated from you. 

“mmph- shit,” jud bites his lip to muffle the surprised moan when your leg shifts and his length comes to rest atop your mound. his tip nudges at your clit, and just the slightest contact reduces you to near tears. you’re so wet it hurts, and the sight of his leaking cock so close to where you need him has you clenching around nothing in anticipation. 

“please, oh my god, jud,” you cry, chasing the sensation with your hips, “need you– pleasepleaseplease.”

jud’s head clears, tunnel-visioned on how you need him, and how he can make it better. driven by the primal need to take care of you. he nods soothingly, smoothing the sweaty strands of hair out of your face and parting your thighs to slot himself between them. 

“don’t have to beg, angel, i got you,” he hums, taking his length in hand and notching it at your entrance. he watches you for any hesitation, and when you call out for him again, he pushes in — slow, for both your benefit.

the stretch is intense, even with your first orgasm. but jud is moaning, loud and unabashed in your ear, and you can feel yourself getting wetter — with each broken whimper, the deeper he sinks.

“oh, god,” jud’s voice trembles when his gaze lowers to where you end and he begins. eyes the way your lips stretch to take him, and the next thrust is involuntary, driving himself almost all the way to the hilt. “you feel so good-”

your fingers fly to his biceps, digging your nails in as he carves a space for himself within you. he’s so big, you feel his blunt cockhead nudging at the spot inside that you’ve always struggled to reach yourself. he watches you go speechless, eyes rolled back into your head.

“taking me so well, honey,” jud whispers, head falling to your collarbone with a guttural groan when he bottoms out. he can feel you pulsing around him, and the gripping wet heat makes him falter before he can even begin to move.

“i’m sorry, i- it’s been a while. don’t think i’ll last long,” jud whines, breathing hard as your nails trail down his shoulder blades. he shudders, and his hips roll experimentally. the drag out makes him see stars, the way your pussy clings to him like you don’t want him to go. 

“it’s okay,” you reassure him. a gush of wetness soaks his cock at the image, and jud thinks you really are an angel. 

his thrusts start slow, shallow thrusts that give him a fighting chance. when your thighs twitch, he lifts them to his waist. it pulls him in further, and as each thrust grows quicker, harder, your breathing grows more ragged.

jud swears freely under his breath, drawing you up in his arms as he locks you against his chest.

“mhmm- like that,” you whimper, face smushed against his shoulder. he hits that spot with every push inside, and the sticky sounds of his balls hitting your ass makes your ears burn.

“shit- i’m close, so close- i’m sorry,” jud whimpers, sniffling as he actually goes a little misty-eyed from how good it feels. he’s trying so fucking hard not to cum before he can get you there again, but you’re not making it easy with how you keep panting his name like it’s the only thing you can think of.

his fingers drop to your clit, rubbing tight circles in a last-ditch attempt as he feels his orgasm closing in on him. you’re drooling on his shoulder as you jolt, bucking in time with his staccato thrusts. 

jud moves to pull out, but your legs stay locked tight around his waist. his brows pinch in panic, but he doesn’t stop. “baby, i have to- need to pull out-” 

your head shakes, a hair away from tipping over the edge yourself. staring up at him with tears in your eyes, so, so close. “inside,” you whimper, “‘m safe. want to feel you fill me up.”

jud’s vision goes white, burying himself as deep as he can go when he cums, releasing rope after rope into you. you’re all too happy to soak it all up, milking it out of him as your orgasm hits in quick succession. your back arches, nails cutting into his shoulders as you cling onto him for dear life. 

he moans sharp and raw, riding out the aftershocks with gentle thrusts, pushing his release deeper inside your womb as you shudder below him. it all gets too much, and his arms give out, bringing his chest to yours. 

the remaining air in your lung whooshes out of you, because jud is heavier than he looks. he laughs, equally breathless. he rolls off of you, still nestled in your heat as he drags you atop him.

“hi,” you grin, leaning in to kiss him, relaxed and familiar. he smiles into it, running a soothing hand up and down your back.

“hello,” jud chuckles. you’re both sweaty, and more than a little sticky, but neither of you can even fathom moving right now.

“that was fun,” you hum, tucking your chin under his as his arms curl around your waist. jud huffs in amusement, lips pressed to your hair. 

“that’s one way to put it,” jud’s chest rumbles, and it’s so comfortable like this, curled under the covers, you feel your eyelids drooping against your will. 

he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, and lets himself blatantly stare. he still can’t believe this is real, a little scared to fall asleep in case it really is all just a dream. he wonders if he could go back to before, when having you like this was nothing but a doomed, sinful fantasy. 

jud gets his answer when you mumble, “have to get my car.” words jumbled together as you fight the edges of sleep, he knows there’s no going back.

“i’ll take care of it,” he promises.

jud must drift off too, because the next time he wakes, the room is cloaked in darkness. you’re still clinging to him, out cold and snoring softly. it’s still raining, and the world is still turning. he thanks god for the path created for him, and with an angel holding his heart in her hands, jud thinks he’s where he was always meant to be. 

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[tshyn]

every night is fanfic night if you're a whore like me

[belovedmiwi]

nothing. i mean nothing could've prepared me for gay finn harry potter heated rivalry skit.

GODDAMN NOTHING COULDVE PREPARED ME LMFAO