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[of-apollo]

₊⊹ THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT !

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Fem!Robinavitch!Reader.

SUMMARY: When the unimaginable happens and you are attacked in the comfort of your own home, you are wheeled into the Pitt where Jack loses all sense of professionalism when he sees the state that you are in. In the chaos, the secret of your relationship unravels, and Robby makes a tense situation worse on everyone including himself with his reaction.

NOTES: Mentions of an armed break-in (stabbing), mentions of physical violence, descriptions of physical injuries and blood, surgical procedures, canon-typical medical settings, family conflict (Robby is stressed and therefore mean), secret relationship.

REQUESTED BY: @mysticrisingroses

NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI

The heavy, metallic tang of disinfectant and cold morning air had a way of clinging to the back of your throat during the twilight hours of a hospital shift, but Jack Abbot had long since stopped noticing it.

It was ten past six in the morning, that strange, liminal window in the emergency department where the exhausted night crew was desperately trying to hand off their last few chart files while the incoming day shift shuffled in with steaming paper cups of cheap coffee.

Jack stood at the central nursing station, his broad shoulders hunched slightly over a computer terminal as he signed off on his final discharge summaries. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw stubbled, and every muscle in his back ached with the heavy, familiar fatigue that came with twelve relentless hours of trauma calls.

He was looking forward to nothing more than driving home, taking a scalding hot shower, and slipping into bed where he hoped you would still be sleeping peacefully, entirely unaware of the chaos he spent his nights wading through.

Keeping your relationship a secret had been your idea originally, though Jack had agreed without much resistance, knowing precisely how protective and intensely possessive your older brother could be.

Robby was a brilliant physician, but he viewed the emergency room, and everyone within it, through a lens of strict, professional compartmentalisation, and he guarded his family with a fierce, almost suffocating tenacity.

Jack knew that if Robby discovered his close friend and colleague was quietly slipping out of his younger sister’s apartment in the early hours of the morning, the fallout would destabilise the delicate balance of the entire department.

So, you had kept it hidden for four months, snatching quiet moments in empty breakrooms, lingering hand-brushes by the elevator banks, and long, warm nights wrapped up together away from the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital.

The sudden, piercing blare of the telemetry alarms and the sharp, urgent rattle of the double doors being thrown open shattered the low hum of the morning shift change. Dana looked up instantly from her desk, her brow furrowing as the paramedics burst through the entrance, pushing a stretcher at a dead sprint.

Jack didn't think much of it at first, traumas rolled through those doors every twenty minutes, until he caught the sheer, pale panic on the lead paramedic’s face, and the distinct, sickening crimson pattern soaked into the white sheets draped over the gurney.

Jack stepped forward purely out of muscle memory, his voice raspy from a long night of shouting over sirens. "What have we got, guys?"

"Twenty-eight-year-old female, victim of a aggravated burglary at her residence forty minutes ago," the paramedic rattled off at breakneck speed, her heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum. "Neighbour called it in after hearing a struggle and glass breaking. Stab wound to the left upper quadrant, deep laceration to the right forearm, massive blood loss at the scene."

Jack took two paces toward the stretcher to take the chart, his eyes dropping casually to the patient’s face to assess her airway, and in that split second, the entirety of his world shattered into jagged, unyielding pieces.

The color drained from his face so rapidly that Dana actually reached out a hand, thinking he was about to faint. The woman lying pale and motionless beneath the blood-soaked trauma blanket was you.

The breath left Jack’s lungs in a harsh, strangled gasp, his professional distance evaporating so violently that he stumbled forward, his hands trembling uncontrollably as they hovered over your bloodied, chest-stained clothes. "No... no, no, Jesus Christ—"

"Jack? What the hell are you doing?" Dana barked, her eyes widening as she grabbed his elbow, shocked by the total collapse of his usually unflappable demeanor. "Get back, let us transfer her! Shen, I need a trauma team right now! Call down to blood bank, give me four units of O-negative on the rapid infuser!"

Jack didn't hear her. The sterile, controlled world of the Pitt was completely obliterated, replaced by a terrifying, primal panic that choked the throat right out of him. He grabbed the side rail of your stretcher, his knuckles turning stark white, his eyes wide and wild as he looked down at your face. You were barely conscious, your eyelids fluttering weakly, your lips parted as you sucked in shallow, wet breaths.

"Look at me, hey, look at me," Jack begged, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of his usual calm authority as he reached out and cupped your ice-cold cheek with a hand that was shaking like a leaf. "I'm right here. You're at the hospital, you're with me, you're going to be okay. Please, sweetheart, stay with me, stay open for me."

You turned your head toward his voice, your eyes unfocusing as you tried to track him through the thick, terrifying haze of shock. "Jack?" you rasped, a tiny, frail sound that nearly brought him to his knees right there on the blood-spattered floor. "Jack, it hurts so bad..."

"I know, I know, I’ve got you," he sobbed out, not caring in the slightest that half the nursing staff was staring at him in utter shock. He pushed alongside the paramedics, helping to physically lift your limp body onto the trauma bed.

The scene erupted into controlled chaos around him. Clothes were being cut away with shears, cardiac monitor leads were being slapped onto your icy skin, and the metallic thump of suction devices filled the small room.

Jack stood at the head of your bed, his gloved hands cupping your face, his head bent low so he was inches from yours, whispering desperate, broken promises against your hairline while Shen sprinted into the room, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves.

"Abbot, what is going on with you? Step back, I need space at the airway!" Shen yelled over the shrill, alarming beep of the heart monitor, which was ticking at a terrifyingly rapid rate. "Who is this?"

"It's... it's her," Jack choked out, his eyes never leaving your face. "It's Robby’s sister. Shen, please... "

Before Shen could even process the devastating weight of Jack's plea, the door to the trauma bay swung open with a bang, and Robby walked in, holding a tablet and adjusting his stethoscope around his neck, looking fresh and prepared for his morning shift.

"Hey, what's the noise down here? Dana said we had an unstable stab—" Robby stopped dead in his tracks. The tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the hard floor. His eyes swept over the blood-soaked trauma shears, the bags of crimson red blood hanging from the IV poles, and finally landed on your pale, bruised face surrounded by monitoring wires.

"Y/N?" Robby’s voice was barely a whisper, a hollow, disbelieving sound that shattered the room. In three long strides, he shoved past a nurse, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror as he grabbed the edge of the bed. "What happened?! What the fuck happened?!"

"Robby, listen to me—" Shen tried to interject, stepping between him and the bed.

"Get off me!" Robby screamed, his voice cracking with a terrifying mixture of grief and rage as he looked at your open, bleeding abdomen where Shen was applying heavy, firm pressure with sterile gauze to slow the massive internal hemorrhage.

"Why was she brought in like this?!" Robby’s eyes swung wildly around the room until they landed on Jack, who was still standing at the head of the bed, his shoulders shaking with silent, ragged sobs.

Robby froze, his mind racing through the dark, frantic puzzle of the room. He looked at the way Jack was holding you, not like a doctor holding a patient, not even like a friend holding a colleague's relative, but with the terrifying, desperate agony of a man watching his entire life bleed out on a stainless-steel table.

Robby stepped forward, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal fury. "Jack... why are you holding her like that? Why are you touching her like that?"

Jack didn't look up. He couldn't take his eyes off your face, watching your oxygen saturation levels dip dangerously low on the overhead monitor. "Robby, please, not right now," Jack pleaded, his voice thick and broken. "She's bleeding badly, she needs to go straight to theatre—"

"I asked you a fucking question, Jack!" Robby roared, lunging forward and grabbing the front of Jack’s scrub top, pulling him away from the bed with such violent force that the cardiac monitor cart rattled. "Why are you looking at my sister like that?! What is she to you?!"

"Robby, stop it!" Dana yelled, stepping boldly between the two grown men, her hands slamming against Robby’s chest to keep him from shoving Jack into the wall. "She is in hemorrhagic shock! Look at the fucking monitor, Robby! Look at your sister!"

"I love her!" Jack snapped, the secret ripping out of his chest like a jagged blade, his voice echoing loudly over the frantic, rhythmically failing beeps of the cardiac machine. "We’ve been seeing each other for months, Robby! I fucking love her, and she was attacked in her home while I was sitting here doing paperwork! So hit me, tear me apart, do whatever the hell you want, but do not make this about us while she is dying on this bed!"

Robby reeled back as if he’d been physically struck, his hands dropping from Jack’s shirt. His face twisted into a complex, ugly storm of betrayal, shock, and profound, terrifying panic. He looked from Jack’s blood-stained hands to your quiet, still face.

“You... you were lying to me? Both of you?" Robby’s voice shook, a bitter, wounded sound. "You were sleeping with my sister behind my back while—"

"Robby, her blood pressure is insane!" Shen yelled, his voice cutting through the rising argument like a scalpel. "We don't have time for a surgical team to come down, we need to open her right here or she goes into cardiac arrest in minutes!"

The harsh reality of the medical emergency slammed back into the room like a tidal wave. Robby blinked, the anger in his eyes instantly drowning in a wave of sheer, unadulterated terror as he watched your heart rate spike, the waveform on the screen flattening out into dangerous, erratic rhythms.

“No," Robby breathed, his voice small, vulnerable, and completely stripped of his usual arrogance. "No, no, no, look at me. I'm right here. You stay with me, do you hear me?"

"I need a thoracotomy tray and a laparotomy kit, right now!" Shen shouted, his hands working furiously to pack more gauze into your side. "Someone get on the suction! Robby, you need to step out!"

"Like hell I'm stepping out!" Robby yelled, shoving his way back to the side of the bed, his hands trembling violently as he reached for a pair of sterile gloves. "She's my sister! I am operating!"

"You cannot touch her, Robby, you know the protocol! You’re not doing shit either, Abbot," Dana sternly intervened, putting her body directly between Robby and the instrument tray. Her face was set like granite, though her eyes were filled with deep, maternal sympathy. "You will freeze or you will make a mistake, and she will die because of it! Out! Both of you, get out of this bay right now!"

"No!" both men barked in unison.

"I am not leaving her!" Jack yelled, his knuckles white as he grabbed a pair of gloves, his eyes fixed on Shen. "Shen, let me assist! My hands are steady, I swear to God my hands are steady!"

"Jack, look at yourself, you're shaking so hard you can barely stand!" Dana snapped, taking Jack firmly by the upper arms and physically pulling him away from the head of the bed. She looked at Robby, then at Jack, her voice dropping into a fierce, commanding tone that left no room for argument. "If you two care about this girl, if you love her at all, you will get the hell out of this room and let Shen and the trauma team do their jobs! Every second you stand here fighting like children is a second she doesn't have! Move!"

She didn't wait for them to comply, she aggressively pushed both men out of the sliding glass doors and drew the blue privacy curtains shut with a sharp, definitive snap.

The waiting corridor outside the main trauma suite felt like a cold, sterile tomb. The morning sunlight was just beginning to bleed through the high frost-tinted windows, casting harsh, pale light across the linoleum floor, but inside the hallway, time had ground to a complete standstill. The only sound was the distant, muffled shouting of medical commands from behind the blue curtain, punctuated by the steady, terrifying rhythm of automated alarms.

Jack stood leaning against the far wall, his hands buried deep in his curls, his body slumping down until he was on the floor. His scrub top was ruined, smeared with bright crimson streaks of your blood that had already begun to dry into stiff, dark patches.

Every breath he pulled into his lungs felt like glass, his chest tight with a crushing, suffocating guilt. He should have been there. He should have insisted on driving you home after your shift two days ago, he should have checked your locks, he should have protected you. The image of your bruised skin and the frail, terrified sound of your voice calling his name kept repeating in a horrific, endless loop behind his eyelids.

A few yards down the hallway, Robby was pacing like a caged beast. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were digging drawn blood into his own palms. Every time he turned around, his furious, bloodshot eyes landed on Jack sitting against the wall, and the bitter, hot rage inside him flared back to life, offering a brief, desperate distraction from the sheer, paralyzing fear that his little sister was dying on the other side of that glass.

Robby marched over, stopping directly in front of Jack. "Get up," Robby spat, his voice trembling with venom. "Get up and look at me, you coward."

Jack slowly lifted his head. His face was ghastly, his eyes hollow, dark, and utterly deadened by grief. He didn't offer any resistance, didn't raise a hand to defend himself. He just looked up at Robby with a hollow, broken expression. "Go ahead, Robby. Say whatever you want. It won't be worse than what I'm already telling myself."

"You lied to me!" Robby shouted, his voice echoing down the empty, quiet corridor, causing a few passing nurses to flinch and walk faster. "For months! I treated you like a brother, Jack! I trusted you with my life in this department, I took shifts for you, I let you into my home, and the whole time you were sneaking behind my back with my sister! You manipulated her!"

"I didn't manipulate anyone!" Jack rasped, standing up slowly, leaning his heavy back against the cold wall to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. "I love her, Robby! I didn't plan for this to happen! It started off slow, and then... Christ, she became the only good thing in my life! She asked me not to tell you because she knew you'd react exactly like this! She was terrified you'd make her feel guilty for just wanting to be happy!"

"Don't you dare put this on her!" Robby barked, stepping directly into Jack's personal space, poking a harsh, rigid finger into Jack's chest right over a dark bloodstain. "She is my little sister! My responsibility! She was hiding things because of you! You put her in danger!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Jack suddenly roared back, his composure snapping entirely as he grabbed Robby's wrist and shoved his hand away, tears spilling freely over his blood-stained cheeks. "You think I'm not sitting here wanting to tear my own skin off because I wasn't there to protect her?! I would have taken every single one of those fucking knives for her, Robby! I would lay down on that table and let them cut my heart out right now if it meant she gets to wake up! So don't you dare stand there and pretend you're the only one who cares whether she lives or dies!"

Robby stared at Jack, his jaw working as if he wanted to scream, but the sheer, raw agony in Jack's voice hit him like a physical blow. The anger drained out of Robby just a fraction, leaving behind the hollow, terrifying reality that neither of them had any control over what was happening behind those blue curtains.

Before Robby could fire back another bitter insult, the double doors at the end of the hall swung open, and Dana walked out alongside Shen. Both of them looked thoroughly exhausted, their blue gowns splattered with blood, but their faces were calm, settled into that weary, professional relief that both Robby and Jack knew so intimately.

Jack was across the hallway in a fraction of a second, grabbing Dana's forearms with desperate, trembling hands. "Is she... is she alive? Please, Dana, tell me she's alive."

Dana looked down at his hands, then up into his terrified, bloodshot eyes, her expression softening into a gentle, reassuring smile. "She's alive, Jack. She's stabilised."

A long, ragged sob burst from Jack's chest as he slumped against the wall, covering his face with his hands as the suffocating weight lifted off his lungs. Robby let out a shaky, desperate breath of his own, running both hands over his face, his shoulders slumping in profound, overwhelming relief.

"The blade missed the important stuff by less than a centimetre," Shen explained quickly, pulling off his surgical cap and wiping his damp brow. "Park and the guys are finishing up her sutures right now. She's going to be okay, guys. She's strong."

"Can I see her?" Robby asked immediately, his voice thick with emotion, stepping toward the trauma bay doors.

"She's being moved up to a different unit in a few minutes once she comes round from the anesthetic," Dana said gently, stepping smartly into Robby's path and laying a firm hand against his chest. She gave him a stern, motherly look that made even the senior attending doctor pause. "And before you step foot into that room, Robby, you are going to take a long, deep breath and leave your ridiculous ego at the door."

Robby blinked, taken aback. "Dana, I—"

"I don't want to hear it," Dana interrupted smoothly, turning her cool, unyielding gaze between Robby and Jack. "I have watched the two of you act like absolute idiots for the last forty-five minutes while that poor girl was fighting for her life. Robby, your sister just survived a horrific, traumatic assault. She does not need to wake up to her brother screaming at the man she loves. She needs peace, she needs rest, and she needs both of you to pull yourselves together and be adults."

Robby looked at Dana, his mouth opening to argue, but the sheer authority in her posture held him silent. He glanced over at Jack, who was still standing by the wall, wiping his face with the back of his wrist, looking entirely drained, hollowed-out, and deeply ashamed.

"Go up to the fourth floor," Dana added softly, her tone loosening into something kinder. "Clean yourselves up. Change out of those ruined scrubs. By the time you look like proper doctors again, she'll be awake in her room."

Your room was quiet, illuminated only by the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp and the gentle, rhythmic pumping of the IV drip monitor. The harsh smell of the trauma bay was replaced by the clean, faint scent of lavender soap and fresh linens. You lay propped up slightly against two large pillows. A thick white bandage was wrapped securely around your right forearm, and beneath the heavy hospital blanket, your abdominal dressing sat quiet and intact.

When the heavy wooden door pushed open, you turned your head slowly toward the sound. The heavy pain medication made your head feel light, floaty, and distant, but the moment you saw Jack and Robby walking into the room together, the fog cleared just enough for your heart to ache with sweet, overwhelming relief.

Both men had changed into clean, dark scrubs. Robby walked in first, looking hesitant, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his usual confident posture replaced by a cautious, quiet guilt. Behind him stood Jack. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his eyes were bruised with dark circles, his jaw tight with anxiety, hovering near the doorway as if he wasn't entirely sure he was permitted to be in the same room as you.

"Hey, kiddo," Robby whispered softly, walking over to the right side of your bed. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his face softening into a look of pure, unadulterated big-brother affection. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a very large truck," you rasped, your voice scratchy and dry. You offered him a weak, tired smile. "Dana told me that you were making a scene down there, Robby."

Robby let out a soft, wet laugh, dropping his head for a second as a fresh wave of emotion hit him. "Yeah, well, you scared the shit out of me. I thought, God, I don't even want to say it." He took your uninjured hand, holding it tight between both of his. "The police caught the guy, by the way. He was a petty burglar who panicked when he realised the apartment was occupied. He's in custody. He won't ever come near you again."

"Good," you murmured softly, squeezing his hand weakly. Your eyes drifted past your brother's shoulder, locking onto Jack, who was still standing quietly by the door, staring down at his shoes, his posture heavy with guilt. "Jack, come here."

Jack lifted his eyes, looking at you with such a raw, desperate tenderness that it made your chest tighten. He glanced cautiously at Robby, then slowly walked around to the left side of your bed. He stopped a few inches away, looking as though he wanted to reach out and touch you, but was terrified of breaking you further.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered, his voice cracking on the words. "I am so, so sorry. I should have been there. I should have stayed with you last night, I shouldn't have taken this shift—"

"Jack, stop," you interrupted gently, reaching your left hand out toward him. "Stop that right now. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known."

Jack lowered himself to the floor, wincing at the discomfort. He brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles, tears slipping quietly from his eyes and wetting your skin. "I thought I lost you," he choked out, ignoring Robby's presence entirely now as he leaned his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. "When they brought you through those doors... I've never been so terrified in my entire life. I don't care about anything else. I just need you to be okay."

You ran your fingers through his curls, feeling the heavy, frantic racing of his heart slowly begin to settle against your side. "I'm okay, Jack. I'm right here."

Across the bed, Robby watched the two of you. He saw the way Jack held your hand not with possessiveness, but with a deep, reverent care that was entirely selfless. He saw the way your face relaxed the moment Jack touched you, the way the lingering fear in your eyes melted away into complete, absolute safety.

Robby let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked up at the ceiling. "You two are absolute idiots, you know that?" he said softly, breaking the quiet emotional tension in the room.

Jack lifted his head from the mattress, looking over at Robby with a guarded, wary expression. You offered your brother a small, pleading look. "Robby, please don't be mad at him. It was my idea to keep it quiet. I didn't want you making things complicated at work."

"I am mad," Robby admitted honestly, though the harsh edge in his voice was completely gone, replaced by a weary, warm acceptance. "I'm fucking furious that you both lied to my face for months. I'm furious that I had to find out while my sister was bleeding out." He paused, looking directly at Jack, his dark eyes firm. "But... I saw you down there, Jack. I saw how you looked at her."

Jack stood up slowly, keeping his hand firmly wrapped around yours, meeting Robby's gaze across the bed without flinching. "I love her, Robby. I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry for lying to you, but I am never going to apologise for loving her."

Robby stared at Jack for a long, silent moment, before a small, dry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, leaning over to kiss the top of your head before stepping back from the bed.

"Well... at least I know if she ever gets hurt again, the attending doctor will be too terrified of failing to let her die." Robby walked toward the door, turning back with his hand on the handle. "I'm going down to the cafeteria to get some decent coffee. Real coffee, not that shit in the breakroom. Jack, you're staying right here until I get back. And then we're going to have a long talk about boundaries."

"Understood," Jack said softly, offering a quiet, respectful nod.

Robby looked between the two of you one last time, his expression softening into pure relief. "I'm glad you're alive. Don't do it again." With a final, gentle click, the door swung shut, leaving the room in a warm, peaceful quiet.

Jack immediately leaned in close, wrapping his arms around you with extraordinary gentleness, careful to avoid your bandaged abdomen as he buried his face in the warm crook of your neck. You wrapped your uninjured arm around his back, pulling him as close as you could, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"You really scared me, sweetheart," Jack whispered against your skin, his hands smoothing down your back with a soft, desperate rhythm.

"I know," you murmured, kissing the side of his neck, breathing in the clean scent of soap and his familiar, comforting warmth. "I'm sorry. But I'm safe now. You've got me."

"Yeah," Jack breathed, pulling back just enough to look down into your eyes, his face lit by the soft golden light of the bedside lamp. He leaned in, pressing a slow, sweet, lingering kiss to your lips that tasted of salt, relief, and quiet promises for the future. "I've got you. And I'm never letting you go."

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[mcybank]

⊹ jack abbot makes you ride him while you finish fighting warnings: 18+ minors dni! unprotected piv, established relationship, multiple positions ( spooning, prone, cowgirl ) fingering, dirty talk, overstimulation, biting, jack jealousy-bating, jack provoking overandover again, angry sex!!!! lots of name-calling, hair pulling/tugging, light spanking, literally them using sex to take out frustration ⊹ notes: ANDDDDD POST BYE !!!!!! queued her

pettiness was your strong suit. it was – in fact – one of the reasons why jack had fallen for you in the first place, back when it had been aimed at anyone but him. he’d found it utterly delightful, his little menace that could hold grudges like a steel trap. it’d turned on him now.

you’d folded into the far side of the bed, facing the wall, your spine all stiff. you’d stormed in here twenty minutes ago mid-argument and claimed the bed like a fort, and you’d been lobbing grievances over your shoulder ever since, even as jack finished getting ready in the bathroom, even as the water shut off and his footsteps came and went.

“and another thing,” you announced in the direction of the wall. “if it were my work thing, you would not call that a date. you’d call that watching me work. which is what this is. so don’t act like you’re being romantic – ”

“are you done?”

you were, in fact, just getting started. if all went according to plan, you would’ve continued this after the event (you weren’t that petty) and been mad in his ear allllll night long, lullaby-ing him to sleep with a list of all his wrong choices; you would’ve named a problem for every hour in a sweet sing-song voice.

you made your first mistake by glancing over your shoulder at him; shirtless, slacks open and belt dangling, hair still slightly damp, standing in the doorway like he had all the time in the world and no fight to lose.

it was, frankly, a cheap shot to show up looking like that in the middle of an argument you were winning.

he raised a brow, then shook his head before he crossed the room in three long strides and climbed in behind you. his fingers went straight to the hem of the t-shirt you’d put on after finishing your makeup and pulled it over your head. you made a sound of protest, but lifted yourself up just slightly to let him do it. answer enough, you supposed.

he tossed it aside, and his hands were immediately on you, sliding down your ribs until one hand settled on your hip, fingers splaying, while the other dipped lower, cupping the curve of your ass and giving it a squeeze that made you inhale sharply.

“still mad?” he asked, leaning in for his mouth to brush against your shoulder blade. his hand kneaded at your hip, moving to the soft inside of your thigh.

“yes,” you said, but it came out weaker than before. “jack – ”

your words stopped as his hand moved from your hip to your breast, gathering the weight under his palms before his thumb came up to brush against your hardened peak.

“hello? cat got your tongue?” he said through a snort, pulling you flush against him, chin going into the curve of your neck. he ground his hips against you then, letting out a low breath through his mouth. he pushed a fist into the mattress by your ribs, caging you in. “what d’you wanna talk about?”

“i’m serious, jack,” you said, trying to force your voice even. “you wouldn’t call it a date.”

he hummed, fingers shamelessly sliding down as he said, “come on, baby. if you wanna keep talkin’ about this, you gotta do better than that.”

“do better – ” you let your neck turn back to face him, and he immediately tilted his head down, his tongue peeking out as he tried to bite back a grin. “ – my points are good enough.”

he ducked and caught your mouth, teeth nipping at your lip the same second his fingers slid under the lace. he smiled into the kiss, fingers running down your folds. you pulled away immediately, going to face the wall again.

“did this happen when you called me a smug asshole?” he circled the pad of his finger once over your clit, causing you to shudder slightly against him. “or when you decided i’m a liar?”

“jackass,” you muttered.

“real creative.” he shifted behind you, other hand going to shove his slacks further down his hips, freeing his cock. he pulled back slightly, and wrapped his hand around himself, stroking once – twice – before pressing the head of it to the curve of your ass. he exhaled once through his nose, intertwining his fingers through yours and moving them around him.

“i’ve been like this for the last twenty minutes,” he supplied casually, then groaned when your fingers instinctively moved around him.

“i’m still mad at you,” you said, but you were already moving your hand because you did also want him inside you. it’d been too long.

he rocked himself into your hand. “yeah – okay. let’s fix that, too, while we fix this.”

he moved to his side, lining himself up between your thighs before fitting himself in between. his fingers slid down your underwear again, fingers grazing over your folds before pressing down on your clit.

his fingers continued circling, while two others slid lower, the hard line of his cock pressing heavy against your ass each time he rocked forward.

“can’t call this a date,” you muttered, even as your breathing picked up.

“no?” he murmured. “this won’t do?” he nodded absentmindedly behind you, then his fingers came up just to slide down your underwear over the curve of your hips and down your thighs until the lace was sitting at your knees.

“two weeks – missed this,” he muttered, more to himself than you, and immediately pressed back into you, sliding his cock fully between your thighs now, the head of him dragging through your folds with every roll of his hips.

“also, it is a date – i’m takin’ you – ” he said, angling his hips so his head notched against your entrance. “ – as my date.”

“it’s not.” you pushed your hips back against him.

he tutted softly, hand holding the base of him as he pressed his tip against you, just enough to make you feel the pressure of the stretch starting, then pulled back.

“impatient,” he murmured, doing it again.

“we don’t have time,” you shot back. “just put it in – ”

“yes, ma’am,” he breathed out, amused, and angled himself to sink into you with one slow, sharp push. his entire body went rigid the second he bottomed out, a groan rumbling in his chest as the stretch hit you.

a broken sound came out of your throat before you could swallow it, after two weeks of nothing. your walls instinctively clenched around him, and his grip on your hip went bruising-tight.

“fuck, been so empty haven’t you?” his forehead dropped to your shoulder blade. “sorry, sweetheart. forgot you just needed me like this.”

you tried to glare, albeit at the wall, but your hips pushed back to take the last inch of him. “shut up.”

he just laughed softly, already pulling back to go again. “i know i’ve been thinkin’ about this every night.”

your teeth grit together to hold back the moan, your fingers twisted into the sheets as your body clenched around him on instinct, spine arching even while you fought to stay rigid.

“so mad at me – shit, huh?” his fingers came up with some tremor to your shoulders, pulling you into him even further as he slid in. “just ‘cause you missed this, baby? should’ve asked hours ago instead of arguin’ with me about tonight.”

your hips moved back to bury him to the hilt, causing his palm to tighten on your shoulder with a groan. “no, i missed you,” you said sharply. “you, asshole.”

his breath shuddered, and you felt him nod against your skin. “makin’ such sweet words sound so mean.”

he punctuated his words by moving his hand down to your spine and shoving you forward, forcing your chest flat against the mattress. he followed you down, pinning you completely – chest-to-back, hips locked tight against your ass – prone. his knee nudged yours wider, letting him sink even deeper on the next stroke.

he blew out a sharp, deliberate breath into your ear. “can’t run that mouth so easy when i’ve got you like this, can you?”

“are you trying to shut me – ” you started, words coming out into the pillow.

“huh?” he dipped his head to the side to meet your smushed face, brows rising in amusement. his forearms came up to rest at the curve of the back of your neck. “sayin’ something?”

you twisted just enough to glare at him over your shoulder, still trying to form the argument – something about obligations and dates and missing him so much – but the words stayed half-formed when he pointedly drove in particularly deep and your breath left you in a sharp, broken sound.

he watched your face with a small, smug smile, not slowing.

“yeahhh, that’s what i thought,” he muttered and kept fucking you. his mouth brushed the shell of your ear. “poor thing, can’t even finish a sentence. needed this, huh?”

“i did not – ”

“mhm, lying now, too – ” his forearm flexed, fingers coming out to absentmindedly brush your hair out of your face. “thought i was the liar.”

“don’t touch me,” you muttered, turning your face into the pillow again.

“stop squeezing me so tight then,” he said through a rough pant, thrusting up once meanly.

“i’m not kidding – ” you said, firmer now. “it was a – fuck – shit thing for you to do.”

“mhm.”

“i’m not being unreasonable.” you had to grit your teeth together when one of his palm came down to knead the side of your hips. “a date is you and me – your being a shit boyfriend when i haven’t – ”

your words cut off with a sharp gasp as he rolled the two of you in one irritated motion, keeping himself buried as he put you on top. his hands clamped hard on your hips, pushing you down until you were seated fully on his cock.

the sudden shift punched the air from your lungs, and before you could steady yourself, he was already driving up into you.

“jesus, you just can’t let up,” he muttered, eyes locked on where you were taking him. “wanna look at you ride me while you keep running that mouth.”

“getting tired, old man?” you raised a brow.

he shook his head softly, fingers reaching out to rub over your clit.

“old man, shit boyfriend – m’fucking you and letting you argue.” he pressed a harder circle, pausing only to come down on your ass in a sharp slap suddenly, making you gasp. “giving you everything you need at once, and i’m a shit boyfriend.”

he reached out to press his palm flat just below your navel.

“can’t take me on a date – ” you used his chest to pull yourself up, then come down, “ – though.”

his eyes flicked up to your face with a small, strained smirk as his fingers pressed down firmer on your stomach.

“it is a date,” he said, as he drove up hard to meet you on the next downward slide. his other palm flexed on your hip to keep you down as he pushed up even further. “fuckin’ – nice event. you. me. dressed up.” he took in a sharp breath through gritted teeth as your nails dug into his chest. “sounds like a damn date to me.”

“it’s work,” you shot back. “you’re just calling it a date so you don’t have to feel bad about cancelling.”

“i didn’t cancel – anything.” his hand came up to push into your hair, pulling your face closer. “i invited you. you want me to leave you home, huh?” his jaw was tight as he tugged your hair back slightly. “things happen. plans change.”

“i don’t want to watch you work, i want to spend time with you,” you managed, surprised by how even your voice came out, considering.

“christ – ” he used the grip on your hair to keep you close, foreheads nearly touching. “actin’ like i signed us up for a week in the desert. it’s dinner. you don’t wanna go?”

he leaned to press your forehead against his. “don’t. imagine alllll the women who’ll try to talk to me, huh?”

“asshole,” you breathed out, nails digging into his shoulders now as you lifted and dropped again. “asshole.”

he snorted through his nose, tugging once on your hair before letting go, leaning back down onto the pillow. “keep ‘em coming, baby. keep punishin’ me for havin’ a job while you’re sittin’ on my cock.”

his hand went to your thigh, spreading on wider so he could push up even deeper.

“you want time with me?” he muttered. “this is time. right now. i’m in you. you’re on me, and you’re still finding ways to be pissed.”

he tilted his chin to catch your lips between his teeth. “you want me to yourself at dinner? i’ll fuck you in the bathroom if you want that, too.”

“this isn’t the same and you know it.”

“isn’t it?” he sat up further, both arms going around your back so your chests were flush. “because from where i’m at, i’ve got my girl riding me, calling me names, and still taking inch like she’s been starving for it. feels pretty damn close to spending time together.”

“principle – ” you tried to say, words cutting off as your hands got distracted to tug at the short hairs at the nape of his neck harshly.

“principle’s pretty shit when i can feel you’re close,” he murmured, mouth brushing yours.

“yeahhh,” he breathed out, feeling you clench on him as your thighs started to shake. “we’ve got ten minutes and if you wanna finish this fight, you finish it on my cock.”

“won’t make it better,” you said through gritted teeth, trying to push through the building pressure – chasing it, pushing it away. “you still – jack – made this whole thing about you – ”

your sentence broke off into a sharp, helpless moan as the orgasm crashed into you. jack didn’t let up, if anything he held you down tighter, hips rutting up against you as you came.

his eyes were trained to your face, pupils thoroughly darkened. “aw, i’m sorry,” he cooed, fingers coming up to brush the hair off your face. “you were in the middle of tellin’ me off. don’t let me interrupt you.”

you opened your mouth to keep going, voice still shaky, and jack’s arms slid up your back to pull you down flush against his chest, crushing you into him so your face was buried in his chest.

“please finish what you were saying,” he muttered against your ear, one forearm caging you in. he let out a soft snort when you only whimpered, then added, “i’ll help. you were saying i was making this whole thing about myself.”

“you always – always do this. make everything about you and then act like i’m being difficult,” you – well, lied.

jack groaned low at your words, only spurred on even more.

“i do? y’really think so?” he mused, almost conversationally. his hand slipped between you, fingers finding your clit and pressing there, holding the pressure while driving up in one-timed strokes that made you gasp. “i make everything about me?”

“you do – ” you started, but the words dissolved when he pressed his palm flat against your lower belly, the pressure from both angles sudden and overwhelming, making everything tighten impossibly.

you groaned into his neck, and he tilted his face to the side to press his lips along your hairline.

“yeahhh, clearly i do.” he pressed a kiss to your ear, almost tender. “it’ll make me feel better to know you’re sittin’ all mad throughout the dinner you don’t wanna go to filled with me.”

[tears-of-acid-and-sluts]

Hey so Peter witnessing how much the world loves him after being hated and betrayed in the past, is so important to me.

[starlord-s]

you aren’t surprised when you find peter getting dressed in the middle of the night, as if he’s in a rush to get out of your room.

“you know, one of these days you’ll at least have the decency to wake me up before you decide to get out of dodge.”

peter turns to you with a regretful smile, “you know i can’t do that, (y/n).”

“staying the night doesn’t mean anything, peter,” you say bitterly. “you can fuck me but you can’t sleep beside me? i’m not asking you for a commitment, i’m asking you to sleep and then leave in the morning like a normal person. it makes me feel like shit when you sneak out like you came here for one thing and one thing only.”

“i’m sorry.” you know that peter isn’t by any means a bad person, but the empty apologies are starting to get on your nerves.

“just go,” you turn away from him. “i sleep better without you here anyways.”

“(y/n), please don’t be like this.”

“be like what?” you turn back to him. “i can’t keep doing this with you if she’s on your mind. i thought you were trying to move on.”

“i am, but you know it’s been hard—“

“it’s been four years!” you exclaim, sitting up in your bed. “four years of this on and off thing, and i don’t think i can do it anymore.”

“what are you saying?”

“i’m saying that i want you to get the hell out of my apartment and i don’t want to see you anymore.”

you’ve known peter for a long time. you met him when he was at his lowest and needed someone to get under so he could forget about his heartbreak, but over time a friendship developed between the two of you. he confided in you about things he would’ve normally confided in ned about, such as spider man and the amount of pressure that’s on him to make may proud.

and with time, you’ve fallen in love with him. you thought it was something you could work through and eventually forget about, but the nights in the sheets have only made you fall harder. you find yourself yearning for the post coital moments as well as the sex itself.

“get out,” as soon as peter notices the tears in your eyes, he feels like a jerk. “go and watch ned’s instagram story and fantasise about the life you could have had with them instead of living in the real world. the people you interact with have real feelings, peter. just because you switched yours off doesn’t mean that the rest of us don’t know how to hurt.”

“(y/n)—“

“get out!”

he knows he won’t be able to change your mind, so peter lets himself out with a look you can’t read on his face. as soon as the door clicks behind him, you freely let your tears fall and wish you had never met him.

[angelicbrini]

Hi! Love your writing💗 Can you please write a one night stand with Will where the reading slips out before Will wakes. Time passes since that night but Will knows one night wasn’t enough for him so he tries to find you. Add whatever you want to it, but make the one night stand fucking hot!

─── ONLY YOU | ws²

will smith x fem!reader

in which: it was supposed to be a forgettable one-night stand, which it was (to you). but will’s not satisfied with that, because he has this undeniable desire to make it something more. word count: 3.7k !

contains: NSFW! oral sex (f!receiving). protected sex. praise kink. hair pulling. detailed makeout. smallest bit of angst. macklin featured. fluff. happy ending. open ending. title is only you, porthead.

You didn’t go out with the intent of ending up at some random guy’s house. That wasn’t your goal, nor was it something you specifically anticipated, but the opportunity kind of landed in your lap. You were sat at the bar, chewing on the plastic straw between your lips as you patiently waited for another drink.

Then a guy approached you out of nowhere, and normally you’d try to brush a stranger off or ignore him, but he was significantly attractive. He was pretty with blond hair that covered his forehead, red cheeks, and an unfortunately endearing smile that’s burned into your mind.

He told you his name—Will—then you told him yours, to which he complimented and mentioned that it suited you. Multiple drinks were bought, conversations were had, and now here you are—back pressed against the wall in his bedroom with your arms wrapped around his neck to steady yourself. His hand is on your thigh, holding you still while his other stays on your hip. You’ve been like this for a few minutes because he could barely get you through the front door without having his lips on yours.

Will needs to pull away and stop kissing you when he’s all pent-up. He’s just trying to restrain himself, and hold back because he’s fully aware that he’ll fuck you against this wall without hesitation.

He turns you around, brushing your hair away to have easier access to your neck. He leans in closer, dragging his lips against your skin. “I was watching you all night, you know?” He says, breathless, while his trembling fingers fumble around with the back zipper of your dress.

You laugh, hands splayed against the wall to keep yourself up. “I’m here now.”

His nose is tucked into the crook of your neck, sucking and biting while he tugs your dress down. You’re left in nothing but a matching underwear set—it’s black, lacy, and adorned with these pretty little flowers. It’s driving Will insane. You might kill him before he gets the chance to make you come.

You turn around, kissing him harder than before. His mouth is moving against yourself in perfect synchrony, tongue dragging across your bottom lip to open your mouth wider for him. He can taste the faint hint of alcohol. It’s sweet.

“Off— Will, take it…” you mumble against his lips. You’re eagerly fumbling with the hem of his shirt, trying to tell him to take it off without explicitly saying it.

Will pulls away reluctantly, mostly because he can’t seem to live without having your lips on his. He reaches for the back of his collar, tugging it off in one swift motion. You drag your hands over his bare chest, feeling his muscles flex beneath your skin. It’s summer, so he’s got this pretty tan on his skin. His body is toned, to say the least, thick and muscular like an athlete should be.

He looks down at you, his hands still on your hips. “You’re impressed?” he questions.

You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hide the growing grin. “It’s not bad,” you say. You’re lying, obviously.

You settle at the head of his bed, Will chasing after you without thinking twive. He’s on top of you with his soft lips on your neck, sucking your sweet spot. “I’ve got you, baby,” he mumbles against your skin, breath hot. He pulls back until his face is flush against yours, blue eyes piercing through you.

You don’t have to beg for him to do anything. Will places a quick kiss on your lips, before he shifts down the bed, palming and kissing your body until he’s on his stomach with his head between your legs. He looks up at you, something between awe and disbelief plastered across his face. You just look so pretty, anticipating having his mouth on you. You just met him a couple hours ago, but it’s a sight he’s not sure he’ll be able to forget.

Will pulls on the waistband of your panties, snapping it back against your skin. “You look so pretty like this,” he compliments, staring up at you while his chin rests on your thigh. You flush while avoiding eye contact with him. His gaze is too strong.

You rake your fingers through his hair, watching his every move as he tugs your underwear down at a painfully slow pace. He wants to test the waters, see if you beg for him to speed up. You lift your hips, to which he takes as a sign to hurry until you’re left bare for him.

Will swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, hands hot on your skin as he parts your legs wider for him. He leans in closer to your heat, spitting on your folds before he uses his fingers to combine his saliva with your arousal. You don’t even want to think about what’s going on in Will’s mind, having a stranger be this wet and needy for him. He doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are dark, there’s barely any blue left.

“So fucking beautiful,” Will mumbles against your heat. He keeps his tongue flat on your clit before he latches his mouth around you, sucking harshly on your bundle of nerves.

You exhale, your grip on his hair tightening. It’s curly and soft between your fingers. “Holy shit, Will,” you gasp out. You try to close your legs instinctively around his head, but he’s quick to grab your thighs and force you to stay open for him.

His hands are on your hips to pin you against the bed, keeping you still for him so he can keep going without disruptions. He’s just met you, but he could probably do this for hours.

Will’s tongue is lapping at your wetness, these disgusting, slurping sounds filling the room and mixing with your quiet moans. He’s practically fucking you with his tongue, groaning into your heat when you pull on his blond waves.

You’re thrusting into his face, begging for more stimulation. “Will— I need…” You can’t form a full sentence, not when his tongue is pressed against your sensitive spot.

He pulls away slowly, revealing his flushed face and chin coated with your juices. His pink are stained with your slick. It’s disgustingly hot. “Need what? Tell me.”

You chew on your bottom lip, brushing his messy hair out of his face. “I need to feel you,” you tell him, partially shy.

Will knows exactly what you’re asking for. He scrambles around until he’s above you again, kissing you harder than before. You can taste yourself on his tongue. You’ve never let a man kiss you after anything like this; he’s just an exception.

Your mouth is still on Will’s as you fumble with the zipper of his jeans, while he’s fishing in his wallet for a condom. He knows he’s safe, and you’re on the pill. But it’s always better to take precaution, just in case.

You can see the outline of his cock through his boxers when you shuck his pants down slightly, the sight making your breath catch. You don’t want to fuel his ego, but you should’ve known what to expect with the way he’s been talking to you all night.

Not many words are exchanged when Will frees his cock, ripping open the condom wrapper with his teeth. He slides it on, occasionally looking up at your and the stunned expression plastered across his face.

He returns to his original position, kissing you again, because he’ll allegedly die if he doesn’t. “Please, Will,” you beg against his lips, not saying anything else. You flush, embarrassed with how desperate you are to feel him.

“I know, I know,” Will whispers, one arm braced beside your head while his other hand holds his cock. He teases you at first, rubbing the tip against your folds, up and down, to collect your slick. He wants to hear you beg. It turns him off more than he’d like to admit.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his sculpted back as your way of telling him to hurry. He inches himself inside, little by little, until his pelvis is pressed against yours. Your loud sounds of pleasure fills the room as Will buries his face in the crook of his neck, mumbling words of praise while his other hand needs your breast through your bra.

“You’re perfect,” he mutters, his words only fueling the arousal pooling between you. “So good for me— fuck, perfect.” His words are all jumbled and messed up as he slams his hips against yours, completely ignoring the mess you’re both making.

It’s gross; his pre-cum mixing with your slick. You can feel every inch of him and it’s all you can focus on—his length, how he’s throbbing inside of you, and how amazing the stretch is. You’re clawing at his back, hard enough that you’ll leave marks and you’re scared you’ll draw blood. But it feels so good.

“Keep— Will, fuck. Keep going,” you manage, eyes squeezed shut and mouth hanging open as his pace picks up. He’s consistent with his thrusts, hips slamming against yours. You’ve never been this much of a mess before. You’re drooling while crying out for him to continue.

Will’s whimpering your name repeatedly into your neck, hard to hear over the sound of skin slapping and pornographic moans. You’re insane. He won’t be able to stop thinking about this no matter how hard he tries. It doesn’t feel real at all, like a once in a lifetime experience.

Your back arches, chest pressing against his. “Let go for me, c’mon,” Will mumbles when he realizes you’re close. He can’t believe it. He approached a pretty girl at a bar, and now he’s about to make her come.

It’s when he sucks on your neck and pushes his cock into you as deep as he can, when you clench around him, climaxing while broken sounds slip from your lips. Will fucks you through it, kissing your soft skin until he finishes, filling the condom with his cum. He doesn’t pull out immediately. He just stills, the both of you catching your breaths.

“Holy shit,” Will mumbles before sliding out of you reluctantly. He winces at the loss, only because he wishes he could’ve kept going for longer. He lands beside you while quiet breaths leave his lips.

You can feel the mess below you. “I’m— shit, sorry for that,” you apologize. You feel sore inside, while missing the full feeling you had moments ago. You didn’t expect your night to end like this, but you’re not complaining.

Will laughs, wiping the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. He leans in, just to press a kiss on your cheek despite all the drool, which is oddly domestic for a one-night stand. “Never say sorry for something like that.”

You wake up with a redundant pounding in your head, and sunlight pouring through the window that makes you clamp your eyes closed immediately. It’s really bright and there’s a faint ringing in your ears. You already know this is a result of far too many drinks last night. You glance over at your phone, realizing the time. It’s ten AM. You’ve got work in a few hours, and you clearly need a lot of time to get ready with how frazzled your mind is.

When you try to force your exhausted body up, you can’t. There’s someone holding you down—a firm, warm arm wrapped around your torso with someone’s face tucked in the crook of your neck.

Right, you’re at Will’s apartment. You almost forgot, though the hockey equipment and jerseys littering the room would’ve been a big enough hint.

Your legs are tangled with each other’s, labored breaths filling your ears. You don’t want to wake Will up, because that comes with questions and this was just supposed to be a simple hook-up that you can both brush off.

You eventually get out of his hold, glancing over at Will. He’s pretty when he sleeps—his hair is all curly and frizzy, while he snores quietly with an open mouth. You’re looking at him, and a small part of you is telling you to wake him up, possibly for his number, and make this a consistent thing. But you don’t. You’re mature enough to know that this is just a one-night stand, that’ll eventually be a foggy memory in your mind.

You just pull his oversized shirt off of yourself, substituting it for your underwear and wrinkled dress sitting in the corner of the room. You know you look like a mess right now, but you’re not too bothered. As long as you can slip out unnoticed, you don’t care. You’ve got your own clothes on now. You do need to find your shoes though.

You shamelessly look around, a satisfied sound leaving your lips when you realize they’ve somehow ended up beneath the bed. You pick them up, holding your heels in one hand with your phone in the other.

Unfortunately, the sex was good, amazing even. Will had somehow managed to hold you like you were something fragile, while also fucking you relentlessly. It’s kind of frustrating to you that you know this is the first and last time hooking up with him. You give him one final look before you slip out of his room, hoping you’ll never run into him again.

When Will finally stirs awake after the events of last night, he’s confused at first. His arm isn’t wrapped around someone, the space next to him is empty, and the bane of his existence—also known as his best hook-up ever—is missing. At first, he can’t believe it. He blinks repeatedly; surely he’s dreaming and you haven’t actually left without saying anything to him.

He sits up, glancing around the room. Your clothes and shoes from last night aren’t on his floor anymore. His shirt that he gave you is discarded in the corner. He feels kind of nauseous as realization settles inside, because there’s no way you snuck out of his house.

Will shifts off the bed, a small pout on his lips. A part of him is extremely delusional and telling him that you’re in the kitchen, waiting for him to wake up. And it doesn’t help that it’s still early. Will hates getting up early when he has no training.

The pout is still on his lips when he walks out his bedroom and to the kitchen, pausing when he doesn’t see you. It’s just Macklin eating breakfast while sat at the island. He seems to spend more time at Will’s apartment than at the Thorntons.

“Did you see a girl leave?” Will’s quick to ask, looking around as if you’ll randomly appear. It’s early. He’s still exhausted and trying to adjust to the sunlight while multiple questions are floating around his head.

Mack looks up, his eyebrows pulling together while droplets of milk collect in the corner of his lips. He always eats his food in the messiest way possible. “Good morning to you too.” He scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. “And, no— wait, did you have a girl over?”

“You didn’t see anyone leave?” Will ignores his stupid question. He can’t even think straight.

“Dude, I just got here. Is this about that girl from the bar?”

Will buries his face in his hands. “Yes, Mack, and she’s fucking gone.” His words come out muffled. He feels like an idiot.

It’s been a week since Will last saw you, and it’s affecting him more than he’d like to admit. Now, he’s a hockey player and he adheres to the stereotype that they sleep with a lot of women. It’s not his proudest achievement, but he’s being honest. And Will’s had one-night stands with plenty of women, whom he was able to forget about right after.

However, now? It’s like the image of you and your words of praise are embedded into his mind, like he can’t get you out of his head no matter how hard he’s been trying. It’s frustrating; he’s supposed to be busy with training and bulking up for the upcoming season, not thinking about a woman he barely knows.

But alas, his attempts aren’t working. You’re all he can think about. He wants to shoot himself in the head with a nail gun repeatedly, do anything that’ll make him forget.

You slipped out of his apartment before he woke up, leaving him with questions he’ll probably never get the answer to. That’s most likely the main reason why you’re still a thought floating around his head. You just left, left him wanting more.

“Are you still going crazy over that girl?” Macklin asks him the next time they’re at the rink in San Jose. His voice is low. They’re training with a few other players—including Sam and Misa—which means they can’t talk too loud or they’ll be swarmed with questions.

Will nods his head as he holds his bottle to his mouth. spraying water into it. “Hard not to if you knew how amazing our— uhm, you know…”

Mack looks visibly disgusted; it’s evident even through his helmet. “I actually don’t want to know. Keep that to yourself, Smitty,” he tells him. “Fucking gross, dude.”

Will laughs, but in reality, not being able to see you again is slowly eating him alive. He never lets women affect him like this, never allows them to throw him off his game when he steps onto the ice. But you have; it’s like he’s become fixated.

“I think I remember where she works,” Will suddenly states, catching Macklin off-guard. “Like— at the bar we were talking, right? And she said she works at this place downtown.”

The two of you were involved in a conversation—before you ended up at his apartment—that lasted pretty long. You exchanged personal information that Will’s been struggling to remember because of the semi-drunk state you were both in. It’s taken him around a week to somewhat recite things that could’ve helped him find you earlier.

Mack frowns. “So, you’re planning on looking for a random girl you barely know? That’s real dedication, dude.”

It is dedication, and it’s making Will seem extremely desperate. But he’s not sure he’ll be able to function for the rest of his life if he doesn’t see you again. Yes, it’s that serious.

It’s a quiet day at work, thankfully. You’re in the back of the bookstore, tying your apron and fixing your hair before your shift. So far, your life has been fine, decent. You haven’t been thinking about a random blond man in San Jose, or a one-night stand with the guy in question. Maybe it would’ve been nice to say something before leaving, but that’s in the past now. You don’t care anymore.

Your friend peeks her head into the staff room. “Hey. there’s some guy asking for you,” she says.

Your eyebrows knit together. “Me?” You’re confused. Throughout the entire time you’ve worked here, no customer has ever asked to see you specifically. You walk out, still puzzled. However, your internal questions are cut short when you see a familiar face standing in between the shelves.

It’s Will. He’s got a baseball cap on his head, except it’s worn backwards—with his wings peeking out—which is probably the worst thing he could’ve done. He’s one of San Jose’s biggest stars. It’s not smart for him to be here, flaunting around without at least attempting to hide his identity. But you know him, at least a little bit. He doesn’t care.

“Fuck, Will. Are you serious?” You’re mad that he decided to show up here as if you didn’t purposely leave without saying goodbye. You take him by the wrist, leading him to a quieter part of the store where you hope your coworkers won’t be able to hear you.

You look so pretty and professional in your work attire. Your hair’s up today, secured with small pins, and nothing like what Will saw the last time you were together. You look nothing like the same girl who was moaning his name between ragged breaths while digging your nails into his back. His mind goes blank immediately.

“I needed to see you again,” Will murmurs, tilting his head as he looks down on you. “You forgot your manners and left without saying goodbye.”

You narrow your eyes at him and his audacity. It’s unfair that he looks extremely attractive right now—rosy cheeks, pink lips, and that annoyingly charming smile on his face. It’s sickening, truly.

“So you show up to my job? I’m going now.”

“Please.” He moves to the side so you can’t storm off. He’s looking at you with these puppy dog eyes, all big and desperate. There’s that familiar crease between his eyebrows and pout on his lips, because he thinks that’ll work on you again. It’s the exact same move he pulled up the night you met.

But you give in, to be expected. “What do you want?” you ask. You really don’t know why he’s here, though you do have the smallest idea.

“You,” Will says, simple. “I want you, and I want to take you out.”

You shake your head. It’s too much, too soon. You just wanted to fuck a stranger, and leave it at that. It’s not supposed to become this big thing. “No, Will…” you trail off. “It was supposed to be a one-night stand. You get that, right?”

“I know, but that’s not why I’m here. I just want to take you on a date. Seriously. I’ll pick you up, I’ll pay, I’ll drive you anywhere—” He’s just rambling now. Will’s never had a girl make him nervous before. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Stop, Will,” you cut him off. “If I say yes, will you stop begging?” He makes a quiet, satisfied sound at that with a frantic head nod. “Fine, then. I’ll give you my number.”

He doesn’t even hesitate to ask, “And I’ll pick you up later, yeah?”

You roll your eyes, trying not to seem too happy by that. He was so devoted to seeing you again, which is something you’re not used to. You shove him in the chest lightly. “Mhm, and if you’re lucky…you might get a repeat of the other night.”

The bunny-toothed grin on his face is so big and stupid.

🐰 thank you anon <3 i love specific reqs so bad

[minimouse02]

Hiii! I have a Will request. You take your nephew to go to a meet & greet and ask him to give Will a note for you that says something along the lines of “my aunt is cute and single and I need an uncle. He’s her number…” and Will reads it and looks up and you and smiles. Then he texts you and the rest is history. Can be fluffy and or smutty.

Wingman

pairing: Will Smith x female reader

description: You send your nephew to give Will a note at a meet and greet and end up on a date that leads to more.

CW: Fluff, smut, mdni, age gap mention.

The crowd around you buzzes with energy, but your focus is entirely on the small piece of paper clutched in your nephew's sweaty palm. You crouch down to his level, adjusting his tiny hockey jersey.

"Remember, just hand it to him when you get to the front of the line," you whisper, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "Can you do that for Auntie?"

He nods seriously, brown eyes wide with determination. "I got it."

Your heart races as you watch him join the queue of fans waiting to meet Will. The hockey star looks even better in person, tall, broad-shouldered, with that easy smile that makes your stomach flutter.

He signs autographs and poses for photos, his movements fluid despite the long line.

When it's your nephew's turn, you hold your breath. The little boy marches right up to the table, extends his hand with the note and says something you can't quite hear. Will's brow furrows slightly as he unfolds the paper. His eyes scan the words, then slowly lift to find you in the crowd.

A grin spreads across his face and he winks, just once, before turning back to your nephew and ruffling his hair. Your face burns as you quickly look away, pretending to study the arena ceiling.

That night, your phone buzzes with an unknown number. You almost ignore it, but something makes you check.

This is Will Smith. Your nephew is quite the matchmaker. Coffee tomorrow?

Your thumb hovers over the screen, heart pounding. You type back a simple yes before throwing your phone across the bed and screaming into your pillow.

The coffee shop is quiet when you arrive the next afternoon. Will's already there, looking casual in a simple hoodie and jeans that do nothing to hide his athletic build. He stands when he sees you, pulling out your chair.

"Thanks for coming," he says, voice deeper than you expected. "I have to admit, that's the first time I've been asked out via note passed by a seven-year-old."

You laugh, some of your nervousness melting away. "He takes his wingman duties very seriously."

The conversation flows easily after that. You talk about hockey, family, your job and his life on the road. Two hours disappear before you realize it. When he walks you to your car, his fingers brush against yours, sending sparks through your entire body.

"I had a great time," he says, leaning against your driver's side door. "But I'm wondering if maybe we could continue this somewhere more private?"

Your answer is to pull him down for a kiss. His lips are soft at first, then firm as he deepens the kiss, one hand cupping your face while the other rests on your hip. You part breathlessly, foreheads pressed together.

"My place is five minutes away," you whisper.

The drive to your apartment is a blur of stolen glances and racing hearts. As soon as your door clicks shut, his hands are on you, spinning you around to press you against the wood.

His mouth claims yours again while you fumble with his hoodie, pushing it up until he breaks the kiss long enough to yank it over his head.

His skin is warm beneath your palms, muscles flexing as you explore his chest and shoulders. He walks you backward toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. You fall back, pulling him down with you.

Clothes disappear in a flurry of movement until there's nothing between you. He settles between your thighs, propping himself on his elbows as he studies your face.

"You're even more beautiful up close," he murmurs, tracing your jawline with his thumb. "I've been thinking about you since yesterday."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Then stop talking and show me."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through your chest. "Impatient, are we?"

But he obliges, positioning himself at your entrance before slowly pushing inside. His movements start gentle, but soon pick up speed as your hips rise to meet his thrusts.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer as he hits that perfect spot inside you again and again. When his thumb finds your clit, circling gently, you can't do anything besides whimper his name.

"Will," you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders. "Don't stop."

His answer is to kiss you deeply, swallowing your cries as pleasure crashes over you. Your body arches beneath him, inner walls clenching around his length as you fall apart. He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep inside you with a guttural moan.

"I think your nephew might expect a thank you card," Will murmurs against your hair.

You laugh, pressing closer. "Maybe a promotion to official matchmaker?"

He rolls you onto your back, grinning down at you. "How about we start with round two first?"

[kitnootkat]

Why can't you see? You belong with me!

pairing: will smith who hates your bum ass boyfriend x reader! type: text messages a/n: This came to me in a dream but I couldn't think of a song except for you belong with me but more aggressive hope you like this!

ending a/n: i hope this didn't feel rushed !! I really enjoyed writing this and some of it genuinely came from deep down in my soul if we couldn't tell LMFAO. guys if your friends genuinely treat you better than your s/o, sit down and really think about what you deserve !! All loves, lumi!!

[anyaawrites]

a big misunderstanding

will smith x reader

word count: 1,980

description: you overhear will saying something about your relationship and it causes you to prepare yourself for the worst. then, when faced with a family emergency, everything comes to the surface with will

requested!

°°°°°

at first, it showed in the little things. will remained the same; he still sent you silly tiktoks at two in the morning when he couldn’t sleep during away games, he still called to tell you things that could easily have been sent in a text, he still looked at you with those ridiculously blue eyes— as if you were the most captivating person in whatever room you happened to be in. but something had changed.

then, one day, you happened to overhear him talking to one of his teammates. you hadn’t intended to eavesdrop at all. you were simply walking down the hallway toward the locker room, waiting for him after practice, when will’s voice suddenly drifted around the corner.

“i don’t know, man. i just don’t feel like i can keep doing this.”

you stopped; your heart sank into your stomach. there was a pause, then the teammate— macklin, it sounded like— said something you couldn’t quite make out. will sighed.

“i love her, that’s not the issue.”

you should have kept walking. you knew that. but instead, you froze in place.

“i just don’t know if it’s fair to her,” will continued.

a lump rose in your throat. then you heard footsteps behind you, you panicked, turned and walked quickly in the opposite direction before mack or will could spot you. you didn’t hear the rest of their conversation.

you didn’t know that will was talking about the pressure that came with hockey— the constant travel and the grueling schedule— and how guilty he felt when he couldn’t spend as much time with you as he wanted.

you didn’t hear him add, “she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. that’s why i don’t want her to get nothing but the leftover scraps of me.”

you didn’t hear mack tell him he was being stupid. you didn’t hear will laugh and reply, “yeah, i know.”

all you heard was “i don’t think I can keep doing this.” and “i don’t know if it’s fair to her.” and your imagination filled in the rest: he was going to leave you.

and you began to brace yourself for the inevitable pain of heartbreak. at first, you didn’t even realize you were doing it. you started inviting him over less often. whenever he suggested you spend the night at his place, you would suddenly find things you had to do early the next morning. you kept your phone conversations brief. when saying goodbye and kissing him, you still smiled, but you no longer held him as tightly as before.

and will, of course, noticed. he was always very attentive when it came to you.

one evening, you were sitting together on the sofa with your legs intertwined, while will absentmindedly ran his fingers through your hair.

“you’re acting weird,” will blurted out suddenly.

you looked at him. “i’m not acting weird.”

he looked at you in a way that made it clear he knew you were lying. “you’ve been acting really weird.”

you rolled your eyes. “oh, thanks will.”

he smiled, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “you’re welcome— anytime babe.”

you tried your best to smile back. he studied your face for another second.

“seriously. are you okay?”

“yeah.” you brushed off his concern.

“are you sure?”

“yeah.”

“well, only saying ‘yeah’ isn’t quite putting my mind at ease.”

you laughed softly. “maybe i’m just tired. i’m sorry.”

will leaned forward, and his light curls fell across his face. “you know you can tell me anything, right?”

something tightened in your chest. “i know.”

he gave you a quick kiss on the forehead. “good.”

and because you were terrified that if you brought up that day in the hallway— if you asked what he had meant— you would force him to say the words you dreaded so much, you stayed silent. you simply pressed yourself closer to him, and will, having no idea you were bracing yourself for the end of your relationship, wrapped both arms around you.

°°°°°

about a week later, will had one of the worst days imaginable. practice ran hours over schedule, and his phone was running out of battery. exhausted when he finally got home, he took a shower, grabbed a quick bite to eat, and checked his messages. there was no reply from you, even though he’d messaged you earlier.

will

are you alive?

then without waiting for a reply,

helloooo???

still silence,

my girlfriend abandoned me

and finally,

fine, i’ll just tell everyone you hate me :(((

there was still no word from you. will tried to reassure himself that you were probably just busy, and he went to bed.

however, the next morning, there was still no reply. he tried calling, but got no answer. he sent a few more messages— silence. he called again— the call went straight to voicemail.

by noon, will was beside himself with anxiety. he called three more times— each time to no avail. he sent messages— one after another. by now, he was openly panicking. you always answered; you might not reply right away, but you always did. always.

when practice finally ended, will was literally shaking with anxiety. sitting in his car, he dialed your number again. there was no answer.

“come on,” he muttered under his breath.

he pressed the call button again. silence. his heart was pounding wildly. he knew he was likely working himself up and imagining the worst-case scenarios, but he couldn’t help it. will put the car in gear and drove to your place.

°°°°°

you had spent the entire day crying. a family emergency had occurred— the kind that makes your heart sink every time the phone rings; the kind that forces the whole family to change their plans overnight and scramble to figure out what to do next. you had barely slept or eaten, and by now, your phone battery had died.

when you finally made it back to your apartment that night, you were beyond exhausted. your eyes were swollen, your cheeks were streaked with tears, and your hands trembled as you climbed the stairs to your floor. then you saw will: he was standing at your apartment door, knocking. your heart nearly stopped.

“baby?” he knocked again. “please, just say something.”

you froze at the far end of the hallway. will turned around, and his expression shifted instantly the moment he saw you— relief, then confusion, and finally, as he got a good look at you, genuine concern.

“oh my god,” he muttered, practically running to you. “where have you been?”

you tried to speak, but nothing came out. will’s blue eyes were fixed intently on your face.

“hey,” he whispered, and you looked away. he gently took your hand. “hey, hey. look at me.”

you finally looked up, and his expression softened.

“what happened?” he asked, sounding so worried that your heart nearly broke.

your lower lip trembled violently. “i…” your voice wavered.

will’s face darkened. “baby?”

you started crying again. not quietly, but with the kind of sobbing where everything you’d held inside all day finally poured out. will immediately pulled you close.

“it’s okay. it’s okay, come here.” you buried your face in his chest as he held you tight. “i’m here,” he whispered. “i’m right here, baby.”

you clutched his shirt tightly, as if he might vanish. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize.”

“i didn’t mean to…”

“don’t.” his hand moved gently up and down your back. “it’s okay. just breathe.”

you tried, but couldn’t take a deep breath between sobs. will just held you tighter.

“can you tell me what’s going on?” he asked quietly.

finally, you managed to explain everything— telling him about your family, the emergency, the panic, and just how chaotic the day had been. the words came out in broken sentences. but will listened without interrupting, simply holding you close. when you finished, he pressed a kiss to your hair.

“i’m so sorry. is that why you were acting so distant?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible.

you froze, then shook your head. “i thought you wanted to break up with me,” you murmured.

will went still, as if turned to stone. “what?”

you pulled away from him; your eyes were still swollen and red. “i heard you talking to mack.”

he frowned. “when?”

“at the rink,” you explained. “you said you couldn’t keep doing this anymore.”

his expression changed. “oh.”

“and that you didn’t know if it was fair to me,” you continued.

will looked at you for a moment, and then his face showed genuine desperation. “baby.”

“i thought you were trying to figure out how to leave me.”

“no,” he shook his head immediately. “no, no, no.”

“i didn’t want to force you to say it.”

“i wasn’t talking about leaving you at all.” will cuts off.

you swallowed hard. “what were you talking about, then?”

will stepped closer, reaching out for you again. “about the schedule, about hockey.”

you blinked in confusion. “hockey? the schedule?”

“yeah.” he almost laughed, but his expression was too weary. “i was talking about hockey. about how i hate not having enough time with you.”

you stared at him intently. he took both your hands in his.

“i told mack i felt like you were only getting the scraps of time left over after hockey. and i said i thought that wasn’t fair to you.”

you eyes welled up with tears again. “but you said you couldn’t do it, and you love me.”

“i do love you.” he replied instantly, without hesitation. “i love you.”

your breath caught in your throat. “will…”

“i love you so much.” he wiped a tear from your cheek. “the last thing i want is to break up with you.”

you looked at him, and he gave you the faintest, saddest smile.

“i was just complaining about how much i want to spend more time with my girlfriend.”

a shaky laugh escaped your lips, and will finally smiled. you wiped your face.

“i feel so stupid.”

“no. you’re not stupid.”

“but i still should have just asked you.”

“yeah,” will paused. “probably.”

you glared at him through your tears. he immediately shook his head, as if scolding himself.

“sorry, sorry. too soon.”

you laughed again. will’s expression softened. “you could have asked me.”

“i was too afraid,” you explained.

“i know.” he hugged you again. “but please, never sit there again convincing yourself that i’m secretly trying to leave you.”

you closed your eyes, feeling his chin rest against the top of your head.

“if i have a problem, i’ll tell you.” will promised.

you nodded. you stood like that in the hallway for a while longer, just holding each other.

finally, will pulled back and looked at you. “can i ask you something?”

you nodded.

“why didn’t you answer me today?”

you held up your phone. “my phone died.”

he looked at you. “it died?”

you nodded again. “yes.”

he exhaled and closed his eyes, resting his head against yours. “i was so worried something happened to you.”

your face softened. “i’m sorry.”

“i called you a hundred times.”

“no, you didn’t.” you replied, stunned.

“well, something close to that, anyway.”

“will!”

“i was so worried!”

he kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then the tip of your nose. then he hugged you tightly again, and for the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe freely. will kissed the top of your head.

“just so we’re clear…” he began.

you looked up at him. he smiled, and dimples appeared on his cheeks.

“i’m not going anywhere.”

tears welled up in your eyes again. “you’re making me cry.”

“i’m sorry.” he kissed you gently. “but i’m not going anywhere. you’re stuck with me.”

you pressed your forehead against his. “good.”

[mcybank]

Fired, With Love – Jack Abbot

⊹ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ⊹ summary: you have a mean jealousy streak, and jack’s favorite hobby is to set it off. when he mentions an ex, he figures he’s in for a good morning. for the first time, he takes it too far. ⊹ warnings: [ wc: 15k ] angst – Lots of it im sorry but it gets resolved! hurt/comfort but it’s very obvious (i hope!) that they love each other. established relationship, age gap. insecurity spiral (age gap related), jack’s got a made-up ex named diane but she never appears on page, reader’s having a Sucky morning; she’s also a little spiral-y, very self-deprecating thoughts (jealousy, comparison, fear of not being enough in relationship), she isolates, cries in the shower, jack messes up and Immediately Knows and is making up for it, mutual fears, they are very healthy communicators eventually, jack and reader are really really obsessed with each other, jack grovels + Hey did you know this was going to be a short fic ⊹ notes: writing this felt like giving birth!!! spent hours and hours and hours on it bc i couldn’t stop writing them thank you SO much for this request! a LOT longer than i intended buut it was so much fun to write + i’ve never been in an age-gap relationship but i imagine This exact thing would fix me !! i literally have a big fat crush on this - also probs one of the last longfics i’ll be able to write in such a short time bc i’m going back to school soon :/

Last month, Jack had ran himself into the ground trying to make sure you understood that there was no mystery woman on his phone. It’d lit up with a text from an unknown number – a scammer, really, trying to paint the picture of a generous human, taking advantage of his old age ‘Hello! It has been forever! Do you still have this number, Jack Abbot? – and Jack had spent one beautiful, incandescent hour being investigated. It’d felt like being back in the military, if he was being honest. He’d last been interrogated like this at a desert, and the girl was clearly better at it, because he’d happily surrendered his phone, his passcode, his call log, and his theory of the crime.

( “It’s a scam, baby. They take advantage of the old guys. But check for any women. You’re only gonna find yourself in there.” ) 

He’d watched you bite down on a smile as you tried to keep the act going, and Jack had fed you all truths ( that he’d picked up once, stupidly, and someone asked him for his SSN; they didn’t know what a smart man he was; that he loved you, and only you; that the scammers may have the number, but only you got the man; that his passcode was your birthday, which you’d known, which you’d set ) and you’d recieved each one, nodding, refusing to let the corners of your mouth win. 

( “You’re being charming,” you said to him, sternly. “It won’t work.” / “No, ma’am.” / “It’s working a little.” / “I know, ma’am,” he said, grinning. )

Then, you’d finally decided with reluctance that he was, in fact, “Free to go,” after making note of how scammers are becoming immensely mean, using buzzwords for people Jack’s age. “Forever,” you’d repeated, now disgusted on his behalf. “Who sends that to a veteran? That’s a targeted word. I should report the number.” 

If he was honest, the least your jealousy had shown that week. Jack had never considered himself to be a ‘get an inch, take a mile’ sort of man. Decades your senior, he’d figured himself past the age where he took liberties. He asked before he took; he gave more than he got; he was, by every account, a reasonable man. You’d made a liar of him. He’d become crazy, had started finding childlike joy in small trouble; the sort a boy makes by poking a hive with a stick, except the hive was you and the stings brought him immense satisfaction. Each one, after all, was proof that somebody in this world considered him worth protecting and keeping tucked to themselves.

And you were crazier. Not about him – well. Also about him. But crazier as a baseline condition, a factory setting. You’d woken him at three in the morning by sliding one of his eyelids open with your thumb because you’d dreamt that he was texting another woman and needed to check his phone while the wound was still fresh. He’d handed his phone over, half-blind, and you’d scrolled through it sitting on his stomach. When you found nothing, you’d flopped down onto his chest and gone straight back to sleep. 

It was, frankly, a lot of crazy to be on the receiving end of, and Jack – who’d spent much too long being the most even-keeled, unbothered man in most situations – had taken one look at your little feral devotion pointed square at him and thought that yes, he wants in on all of that.

He would gladly take that your whole storm wrapped up in a package, had done just that, and was not planning on letting go. 

Being loved by you was full-contact, hands-on, and all consuming. You bit and you climbed him on the kitchen while he was holding hot pans; you pulled his face around by the jaw when you decided his attention wandered. He let you, always, going soft-eyed and pliant the second your hands landed on him, and had long ago stopped pretending otherwise. 

That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t had his moments, especially when it came to his girlfriend. He was, in all senses of the word, protective over you.

He’d known enough men – had been a different man through each decade – to know that you in the wrong hands would have ruined someone, like you had him.

He’d considered himself lucky to have your devotion – a thing so pure, presented with such ferocity – pointed at him. The thought of it being pointed at someone else made him sick simply because he knew how difficult it was to not fall in love with your claws. He knew how it felt to have you scruff him by the collar and inspect him for another woman’s perfume that even you knew did not exist, how it felt to be counted and guarded and kept, and he knew there was no single man alive who could feel that and walk away sane.

He’d take a bullet before he let anything happen to you and consider it a fair trade.

Jack was nothing less than smugly, bone-deep, sure of you. And a man that sure, holding a jealousy that pretty, developed habits. He’d learned (through research he’d conducted, very selfishly, for his own benefit) exactly which levers produced the show.

A waitress lingering around him for a second too long; a squeeze of your hand going tight in his, and him spending the next thirty minutes in the parking lot outside the restaurant making up for another woman’s slow legs.

Mentioning, idly, that a pharmacutical rep had been ‘friendly today’; good for a whole evening of you cross-examining everything about him, her, her tone, his response. 

He knew the difference between small provocations and the premium ones, and he deployed them the same way he planned date nights. He would’ve gone as far as to say they were date nights, impromptu, functionally; every match he struck brought him an evening of you staking your claim with both hands, and then the long, sweet business of being claimed. 

He’d never once found the bottom of it. He’d never once thought to even look for one, where the jealousy cut off and turned inward. It had never once pointed that direction. Your claws faced outward, out at the world, never once you, carrying them.

He didn’t know there was a depth where that happened. It was why he poked the proverbial bear. 

When he’d gotten off his shift at seven in the morning, tugging his bag over his shoulder, he’d leaned his hip against the driver’s door and opened your texts. Some people had a cigarette after a shift. Jack had you, delivered in installments, and he stood there in the cold biting down his smile as he scrolled through the night’s yield.

( a photo of a cat that lived outside the bar; a voice memo at 1:30 he already knew was you narrating something you’d decided was urgent; a link to a lamp with no explanation, which meant ‘buy me this lamp’ (he did, immediately, Apple Pay and its joys of quick payment); a text at 2:47 that just said that your feet were cold; and finally, a goodnight! i love you! sent at 3:15 am )

He’d thought, not for the first time, that he was genuinely a lucky bastard.

After years of pagers and reports and envelopes, somewhere his correspondence had started to include a nightly paper trail proving that somewhere in Pittsburgh, you moved through your night with him present in it. They were simply dispatches you sent because things weren’t fully real to you until he’d been notified.

A man could be told he was loved a hundred ways, but there was no proof on earth like being your first call about nothing. 

If he were a better man, he would have told you about the name that had popped up on his message thread under yours the second he’d unlocked the phone – right there, sandwiched between your goodnight and a spam text about his car’s warranty, a name he hadn’t seen light up his screen in the better part of a decade. 

Diane: Hey stranger. In town next week for a conference - would be good to catch up if you’re around. Coffee? It’s been too long. Hope life’s treating you well. 

It was a strange sort of vertigo of a past life reaching out to tap him on the arm. Diane – Jesus. He hadn’t thought about her in years; it’d been long enough that the name landed without a hook. It was a faint mothball smell of a version of himself he’d long since folded up and put away. No, he had felt near to nothing for her name for the only one that popped up in his head was yours. 

Jack had spent months getting fat and happy on your jealousy; he’d learned there was no sweeter sound than you getting worked up over nothing.

Jack had, right there in the parking lot, a plan because Diane was – he’d assumed, for you – not nothing. No, Diane had history, and it was a real, verifiable history. If a stranger’s coffee order could get you draped over him like a bodyguard, then this – Jack immediately thought – was going to be a show.

Before he’d got in the shower to start his ritual of getting in bed with you – the shower, the hygiene of it all – he found you sprawled across the entire acreage of the bed with the blanket cycloned around your legs. He crossed over and crouched at the edge of you, heart beating gratefully at the sight, because this part couldn’t wait for hygiene. 

He settled for tucking the hair off your face – two featherlight fingers, hooking it back behind your ear – and your nose scrunched in your sleep before it turned into his hand.

“Hey,” he whispered, not to wake you (secretly hoping you would, anyway), and leaned in to press his mouth to your temple that made you make a tiny sound at the back of your throat.

Your fist unclenched from under the pillow and groped out blindly to his forearm, fingers curling around it without opening your eyes. 

Jack stayed crouched there a moment longer than his knee approved of, grinning down at you. 

“I know,” he murmured, working your fingers off his forearm one at a time and folding them back against your palm, pressing them there with a squeeze. “Ten minutes.”

When he tucked himself into bed beside you, arms instinctively falling over your waist to pull you flush against him, you were half-turning to him before you’d even surfaced. You made a tiny sound, unintelligible words – something about the temperature of his hands – and burrowed closer, one leg sliding under his waist and over the mattress, your cold feet immediately seeking out the warmest available part of him. 

“You’re cold,” you mumbled, not opening your eyes, wounded.

“I know, right,” he murmured, pulling you in closer to his chest. “You, though, are warm.”

You wrapped yourself tighter around him, hand finding its way under his shirt to flatten against his ribs. “You can borrow me.”

His hand moved up your spine, thumb catching each notch, and he pressed his cold nose to your temple just to feel you flinch and swat at him, which you did, gorgeously, with a wounded utterance of his name that made his entire body feel like it’d gone under the sun. “Missed you.” 

You smiled, tipping your face up, eyes still shut as your mouth searched. He met you there, pressing a slow, morning-soft kiss that just stayed. When you finally pulled back and sighed, boneless, he cradled you to him. 

“Hey, so,” he murmured, thumb still stroking your back, “old friend of mine’s in town next week. Reached out this morning.” 

“All your friends are old.” You hummed into his chest, still processing the words, and he felt your body still in his arms. “What old friend?” 

“Just an old friend, baby.” 

You lifted your head off his chest at that, one eye cracking open then the other, the sleep burning off you so quickly. He exhaled a sigh as he watched that beautiful, familiar spark catching behind your face. You propped your chin on his sternum and narrowed your eyes at him.

“This old friend doesn’t have a name?” 

“Mhm. Does.” He kept his face maddeningly neutral, thumb still sweeping your spine, savoring the little furrow in your brows and the way your hand had started gripping the side of his waist, staking a claim. He loved you. “Diane.” 

Your lips pursed as you processed the name, as if checking everything you know about Jack in real time. Then you shook your head a little, lips curving up into what he could only consider your angry-smile. “Who the hell’s Diane?”

“We go back a ways.” He shrugged easily, that confidence of having done this a hundred times and always getting sweet, sweet you packing up in him. “Dated, for a bit. Long time ago.” 

You took in a sharp inhale, snorting softly as your hands left him completely. He tried to bite down his frown from showing.

“Dated,” you said, through a small breath with wide eyes. “You dated and she texted you?” 

“She did.” Jack laced his hands behind his head and settled back into the pillow. “Wants to grab a coffee. Catch up.”

“Well, are you going?” You were up on your elbow now, the blanket pooling at your chest, as your brows went up to your hairline in thorough dissatisfaction. 

No, he wasn’t. The possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d read the text, and moved on to the far more interesting business of what it could do for this morning. The coffee itself was nothing; he had no interest in sitting across a woman who hadn’t crossed his mind at all to trade summaries of decades.

You existed. There was, now, no hour anyone could offer that beat an hour of you doing anything at all. 

He had sat through watching you decide whether or not you’d return a sweater for forty minutes; trying it on over and over again, the same sweater, then tucking it into parts of your existing clothes to test it (into jeans, out of jeans, under the jacket, sleeves shoved up, sleeves shoved down, “should i just cut the sleeves off?” with the scissors already located, and he’d told you “do the crime and you can’t return it,” and watched you reconsider, setting the scissors down). You’d kept it and worn it while sitting on the couch for the rest of the day, then never again. 

“Thinkin’ about it,” Jack said, hooking a lazy finger into the strap sliding off your shoulder and tugging it back up, a tending gesture entirely at odds with the trouble he was stirring. “Just coffee, angel. She’s only in town a few days.”

“Well, your girlfriend is in town all days,” you said, swatting his hand away. “You can’t just get little catch-up coffees with women you fucking dated, Jack. That’s not – it’s not a thing people in relationships do.”

“No? But it was so long ago.” 

You’d pulled yourself upright now, cross-legged in the sheets, the blanket in your lap and the one strap already sliding down again. “Doesn’t matter, Jack.” You jabbed a finger at his neck. “You’ve got a girlfriend. A very good one –”

“Best one I’ve ever had,” Jack agreed, catching your finger and kissing the tip of it, entirely pleased. “I like her. Love her, even.”

“Then why think about it at all?” you asked as he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your cheek. 

“Just surprised, baby,” he said, shrugging. “We go way back. Before your time. It was – a real thing, for a while.” 

Your eyes quickly flickered down to his chest, mouth opening, then closing again. “How long were you together?”

He clicked his tongue, brows furrowing as he genuinely tried to reel back the memory. It was funny the way time did that.

“Couple years,” he murmured. “Give or take, three. Yeah. Around three.”

Your eyes had gone slightly wide as you looked at a spot on the blanket with your bottom lip tugged between your teeth.

“Three years,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, huffing slightly through your nose. 

Your eyes flicked up to him, and Jack’s hand went still against your spine. They eyes were wide, glassed, and lost, blinking up at him with some unguarded confusion. You looked at him the way you did when a word went missing on you mid-sentence (your fingers snapping restlessly at the air like you could catch it, ‘you know the one, Jack, the word – the – the thing,’ while he supplied guesses just to watch you swat them away), except there was no word being hunted now. 

“That’s – a long time, right?” you asked him then, tilting your head to the side, looking at Jack like he had some sort of conversion chart on what three years were ought to weigh. 

Jack’s eyes landed on your fingers tugging closer to him on the blanket, not landing on him. They stopped an inch short of his ribs, curling back into themselves. 

His eyes went from your fingers, to your face, which was still waiting for his answer. He sucked in a small exhale, buying a second, though he couldn’t have said for what. 

There was some low-grade, humming static on his skin, and he forced himself to override it, because you’d asked him so gently, and he always answered your questions. You asked him things at all hours, in all states, with your mouth full, from the other room, half-asleep on his shoulder blade.

( What’s the worst thing you ever ate? You’d help me hide it, right? What’s your favorite planet? If we were both dogs, who’d be walking who? Am I the funniest person you know? Would you still love me if I couldn’t talk, only hum? Who taught you how to drive? ) 

He’d answer every single one thoroughly, treating them all like he would’ve a question for boards, because early on he’d discovered your asking was an act of love; you collected his answers, kept them somewhere in that beautiful head, stored him. Nobody had ever wanted his mind so thoroughly before. 

So when you asked, he answered.

It was who Jack was to you. It was maybe his favorite thing to be, just Jack. Jack and all the little things he thought about all the little things he’d given little to no thought to. 

“Felt both long and short, if that makes sense,” Jack mused, wandering back into it, because you’d asked and the memory was a harmless thing to ignite. It was cold hearth, ash-dead, nothing in it did a single thing to a single fold of his brain.

“We took some trips – did two weeks through Italy one summer.” He shook his head slightly, blowing out a short breath at that fact of his life. “And her sister’s wedding in Maine.” 

“Italy,” you said, lips curving around the little word. Your eyes flicked down to his chest, then his torso. “You went to Italy?” You breathed in softly, and your head tilted again. Jack wondered if this was where the claws came out – Italy. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Lots you don’t know about my misspent youth,” he said, lips curling in a casual smile. His fingers reached out then to catch yours and folded them in his palm, bringing them up to his mouth to press a kiss to the knuckles. 

“What was it like?” you asked, brows rising slightly. “I’ve never – I don’t really know what it’s like there.”

“Rented this Fiat, did the coast. Amalfi, Positano – she had the Italian, so she handled the talking. I just drove and pointed.” A huff moved through his chest where he’d trapped your forearm. “She’d order. I’d eat whatever showed up.” 

He waited for the strike. She ordered for you? Then your fingers would go to his throat. Nobody orders for you. What did she order? Was it good? 

Your lips had made this small shape of an ‘o’ as your eyes had snagged on him as he spoke, criss-cross and those small inches away from him on the bed. 

“What’d she – where’d you even find the time?” you said through a short laugh, shoulders coming up slightly.

“We’d come out of residency and the schedules just –” He’d left your fingers for a second to lace his own loosely over his chest in the air, two combs of a zipper missing. “Lined up.” He retrieved your hand automatically, repocketing it to him. “Traded calendars at the start of the month, find the overlap. Italy was a big overlap we got lucky with. Had a little cash for once, and somebody said to go now or never go.”

The word ‘residency’ had barely left his mouth when he heard you take in a small inhale, your lips jutting out slightly.

Now? Jack wondered dumbly. Now you’d get mad, say something territorial, something pretty and unhinged about schedules. I’ll make your schedule. He readied his face for it, schooling the grin down in advance so you wouldn’t catch him enjoying it. He also would have let you make his schedule, had you asked, even though he wasn’t sure how that would’ve worked. He’d have found some compromise between his job and you. He’d have nodded along solemnly, and asked you when it was effective.

“I didn’t know you’ve been to Italy,” you murmured, almost musing, as your eyes went to the desk beside the bed, past his shoulder. He followed your gaze to the little basket where you kept your folder of documents he’d made you organize last spring. 

“Long time ago,” Jack said, because it was. It was a very long time ago, and he felt the need to clarify that. He didn’t know why he was elaborating like he’d been accused. He hadn’t. You hadn’t accused him. “Very long time ago.”

His palm tightened over your fingers – a small, reflexive press – and got no answering flex back.

Your fingers lay there in his hand, warm, accounted for – like Jack always needed them to be – but absent. Jack found himself pressing again, interrogatively this time, you in there?

“That’s –” you started.

Jack’s eyes snapped back you again, like a dog hearing it’s name. Your mouth twisted, working like you were deciding on a seed and what to do with it.

You gave a small shrug – one shoulder, half-mast – and reached over with your other hand to roll a little lint of fluff off the blanket around your finger.

“That’s really far to go with someone,” you said, softer. “Italy. That’s like – a whole thing to do.”

“It was,” he said, absentmindedly, though, as he watched you.

There was something about the set of you he didn’t quite like, though he couldn’t have said what. The way your shoulders had come in a little? The way you seemed all gentle and docile now, when a minute ago you’d been jabbing him in the throat?

Jack prided himself on knowing you; he’d taken it up as a personal study. Your spine, usually all insolence, all sprawl, had gone considerate. Even your knees, criss-crossed under the sheets, had tucked in closer. 

“You okay, baby?” he asked, feeling that need to poke at it directly.

“Mhm.” You nodded quickly and looked up at him with a smile.

His fingers immediately reached up to settle under the hinge of your jaw, as if to hold your smile there, thumb laid along your cheek.

“Yeah, I just didn’t know it was – so serious. That’s all. I thought it’d be, like, some girl you dated a few months.” You let out a little breath of a laugh. “Not an – Italy person.” 

Jack’s brows furrowed. He didn’t really know what an ‘Italy person’ entailed, but he didn’t like how it sounded in your voice. 

You sometimes said things that made him want to burrow into your mind. They were little nothings, coinages, a whole private mint going on up there.

( It feels like a July day, when it was very clearly December and you were snowed in; he’s looks like a Tuesday guy, about a stranger at the DMV on a Friday; my feet are homesick, which turned out to mean you wanted to go to the beach, and also somewhere deserted sometimes, and a hike. ) 

He never asked you to translate. Half the time, it was impossible for you to do so, anyway; the words just arrived to you whole, and he’d learned to hold them up in the light until they made sense.

They always made sense, for there was always a ‘you’ inside of them. And he’d found that whatever came from you, it was worth keeping to dig into. 

( Sometimes, it made sense days later. Like when you’d said, one night in the car, engine off, “I like you when you park.” 

He’d laughed and asked, “As opposed to what?”

You’d had no answer, but he understood, days later, that you liked Jack in-between things. You liked him with the engine off, day done, night not started, with nowhere to be just yet.

He supposed it meant you liked the little pockets of nothing that every life has and nobody claims; idling, as opposed to mid-shift, the one where there was no overarching function making him do something. He’d found he liked those little pockets of nothing, too. )

He supposed that ‘Italy person’ would turn out to mean something exact, too. 

He waited, again, for the claws. What am I, then? with a finger at his chest, and he’d catch the finger and kiss it again and tell you what you were – everything – and you’d pretend it wasn’t enough, and demand he phrase it better, and he would.

Jack would phrase it better then better than that, mouth at your knuckles, your wrist, working up the arm between clauses. 

Mine, obviously, don’t be stupid. You’d hum, and he’d say it slower – mine, ob-vi-ous-ly – and you’d call him useless, and somewhere you’d end up bickering about whether Italy even had good food. He’d take your side on, traitor to decades in under a minute, and your sulk would die of neglect without either of you watching it. 

“I don’t know what that means, sweetheart,” he said, trying to force a casual smile through a small, chuckle. He shook his head confusedly. 

Your lips pressed together as you shrugged. “I don’t, either. Not really,” you said.

Before Jack could respond, you reached over and patted his chest twice and said, “Long night?” 

It took Jack a second. He heard actual sound, cogs audibly changing gears, because you’d been in Italy, and now you were in his shift, and the border between those two had been crossed with no warning. He’d been asked this normal question a thousand times; it was a fine question, a normal one. He’d answered it a thousand normal ways.

“Uh, yeah – middling,” he said, hand now coming to find your waist where you sat and tugging slightly, getting you back down into him. “Don’t wanna talk about the shift, though.” You landed against his chest and his chin fell to your head, some unscripted instinct in him kicking in. “Wanna talk about you.”

“Me?” You laughed slightly. “Nothing to report here.” 

“Disagree.” His hand started running over your spine, pressing his mouth to your hair for a second, breathing you in. “Missed you today,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Listened to your voice memo twice on the way back.” 

“Really?” 

His arm tightened around you, bring you up closer to his face, where he could reach your temple without any work. He pressed one, then another, and another kiss against them slowly, mouth lingering against your skin on the last one as he waited. For what? He had no idea. 

Your hand traveled up from his ribs to his jaw, cupping it, then running your thumb against the stubble once against the grain, the way you liked. It usually came with commentary (you’d make such a good beach, Jack; this is my favorite texture on earth; Jack, keep it like this always) and tonight he got none of it.

Jack turned his mouth to it on reflex and pressed a kiss to the middle of your palm, and felt your fingers curl slightly on the contact, gathering the kiss like you were keeping it. 

“Love you,” you murmured. “Go to sleep, Jack.” 

“Love you, too,” he said.

He couldn’t ignore how you’d practically shut off right in front of his eyes. So, he asked, “You tired?” he asked, feeling some base need to clarify.

“Yeah,” you whispered between your faces, and you did sound tired. Tired, Jack knew how to work with. 

“Good,” he murmured, softer, relieved to hear it was that. “We’ll be tired together, then we won’t be tired.” 

Your breath billowed softly over his mouth, something like a laugh, and his hand slid down to your arm to find your hand, tucking the whole laced knot of it down between your chests where it lived. Your head ducked slightly to go under his, burrowing in his neck, and he smiled as his chin came to rest at the top of your head. 

“Sleep,” he said gently, with all of the command he could muster whilst three-quarters gone himself. “We’re gonna sleep the whole day away.” 

You did. Sleep – that is. Or stayed in his arms until his breath went long and even and unmistakably out. When you were sure – when that deep untroubled weight of him told you he was really under – you extracted yourself out of the bed.

You didn’t want to, but sleep wasn’t coming easy with Jack tonight. It sucked; sleep always came easy to you with Jack. Getting out from under him, too, wasn’t easy. He slept like he meant it now, all of his weight poured over you, one heavy arm slung across you like a seatbelt. 

You lifted his arm by the wrist, an inch at a time, and slipped out from underneath it. He stirred and made a rough sound of protest and reached for the warm gap you’d left, patted once, then again, searching, and you winced at the sight of it.

You hurriedly fed your pillow to his arms and watched him gather it against his chest, watched him settle, thinking it was you. 

You should have gone outside now, like you’d planned, and instead you leaned in over the mattress, drawn back down by some law you had never once repealed.

Because – even now – you couldn’t leave Jack Abbot undecorated, you weren’t functioned that way.

Every time you left his vicinity, you’d paid a toll at the door; a kiss to the knuckles, the shoulder, the one time you pressed his closed eyelid so gently he’d told you about it during breakfast, thinking he’d dreamed of it, that it’d felt nice.

You picked the stubbled jaw and pressed the smallest kiss there for half-a-second, and he hummed just as you leaned away. His arms pulled the pillow tighter.

You felt heat build up behind your eyes at it. Jack was, somehow, reassuring you unconsciously, four fathoms down. You blinked at the ceiling, because this was just Jack sleeping with a pillow. Normal girls do not cry about things like this. 

When you successfully made it to the kitchen to make some coffee, which you didn’t end up making, you scrolled through your phone absentmindedly for a few minutes.

Your teeth were digging into your lower lip, and you were sure they could’ve left a permanent dent on them because of how long you’d been sitting on the countertop next to the coffee 

You were being mature. You were being so very mature about this.

Any second now, the maturity would kick all the way in and you’d feel it; the maturity, the security, the calm, grown-up ease that’d let you hear about your boyfriend’s beautiful doctor ex-girlfriend and their beautiful accomplished Italian holiday and simply nod. Maybe you’d be glad he’d had love before you, had something great enough it’d taken a tour across oceans.

You wouldn’t be this.

She was three years to your year.

You’d been counting since the bed, some sick little voice in the back of your head clicking away – that’s longer than you, so much longer, it’s double! and then one more!

She got a whole coast and you? Every time you tried to set the voice down, it just picked itself back up and started again.

You had – after a year – found the one proof that you’d always been, cruel-to-yourself, looking for. Jack Abbot had lived a life before you, several lives, and he’d had love.

So much time she’d had with Jack.

When you reached for your enormousness, for the claws, for the whole arsenal, you found your armor completely empty.

She predated you; you had no way to be big at her. You couldn’t bodyguard Jack from his own past, though you wished he’d have been a bodyguard to it from you. It was an insane thing to wish. All he did was answer your questions, because you’d come knocking.

An unfair, childish, foolish part of you wished he’d lied and decided the truth was too heavy for you and carried it himself. 

She had Jack, and she let him go. You could hardly let Jack go for the length of a shower. You’d have died.

What did she know that you didn’t? What was it like, being a woman who could afford to lose him? She’d walked away from Jack and was whole; if you’d lost Jack, there’d be nothing left.

You knew it was dramatic, that it didn’t work that way. It wasn’t true, but it sure felt like it. Jack had filled your life completely, and you didn’t ever want that space ever again.

Nothing about that is romantic. You’re just a girl who bet everything she had on the first big thing she saw. 

Jack had lived a whole entire grown-up love – the real kind, the serious kind – with her.

Your cruel brain wondered if there were others. You’d never heard about Diane before, what was one more name he’d never mentioned? He had decades you knew nothing about.

It all happened before you’d ever set your eyes on him and thought he was the only man that existed. It had happened before you’d seen him and thought he could be the one, then wished that he would be the one. He’d had that before.

You’d always known that, abstractly. But the idea of years and years of Jack being loved by great women who understood his work, women his own age, women who’d been there for parts of him you never got to meet. That a door swung open all the way tonight. 

You were the latest in a line you didn’t even know the length of.

You’d never even thought about Italy – it was so far away, and you didn’t even think you’d said the country’s name out loud until tonight.

Italy was – you always thought – a thing that happened to other people. It happened, you understood, to Jack. Not your Jack, another woman’s Jack, back when he was somebody’s whole future instead of their past.

He had been loved over there. He'd been to Maine with a family who’d probably thought he was the one.

You were holding the frayed end of a rope whose length you’d never wanted to measure, because you’d assumed stupidly, sweetly, that the rope started when you’d grabbed it, that Jack began the night he met you.

Stop. You’re being crazy – like always. A part of you always had known Jack liked getting a rise out of you, and you liked giving him one. Get a rise out of him, the petty, young part of your brain supplied. 

You laughed softly to yourself, clutching your arms around your waist as you folded over, forehead dropping to your knees.

With whom? If you looked for ammunition, you found no Diane.

The guy before the last guy whose last name you couldn’t even remember anymore; a handful of small-time relationships that had lasted one season and ended not because they were wrong but because they were nothing.

You had no great, grown love in your belt that you cold hold up to the light and make Jack ache over. 

You had Jack. Jack was your Diane and Jack was your Italy – your three years, your coastline, and your entire globe, probably even more – the biggest love you’d ever had by a distance so vast it was hardly a competition.

Jack knew about your entire life and every supplementary information about you that held no weight on you, or only very little.

Jack knew about your first pet’s name, and its cause of death, and the movie you still couldn’t watch because of it. He knew your worst subject’s grade and, worse, the teacher’s name, and had once gotten angry at that man on your behalf.

He knew the reason you hardly talked to your family; he knew it all by now, because you’d kept handing out pieces over this year, and somewhere around the eighth month you’d realized he knew the story completely now. 

He’d learned it all, greedily, like each fact was worth having. You’d hand him a dusty nothing – a camp story, a recurring dream since seven, your opinion on cilantro – and watch it get written down somewhere behind his eyes. Weeks later, he’d produce it at the right moment. No cilantro, she hates it.

It had felt like Jack had opened your junk drawer and thought of it as treasure.

Your life was small and short enough to fit into his hands entire. It was a carry on. He held all of it and had room left over for more. You just didn’t have any more to give him.

Jack had finished reading you.

You’d been collecting him, too, greedy in your own right, thinking you were getting, at the very least, to the hallway. Now, you were wondering if you’d only just walked up the porch to the door.

You could produce Italy in your brain now; Jack against some sun-warm railing over water; Jack driving a little car on the wrong side of the road with confidence; Jack looking longingly at a woman who was speaking a language he couldn’t understand, holding him up.

Some parallel-Jack, out in the corner of your mind, who’d married the doctor.

Jack who was, right now, in some other version of this morning, drinking coffee, happy, whole, entirely fine. Jack, who was talking about some case from a journal – in his fluent doctor-language with someone who never needed the glossary – never pausing to translate English into – well, English. He was never smiling patiently and having to shrink his work down to a bedtime-story size like he did you. That Jack’s wife could meet Jack in the dark after his bad shifts instead of standing at the edge with a flashlight, calling in.

You couldn’t even imagine parallel-Jack lonely with something missing at his table. Your imagination – which loved him, which had only ever been able to love him – refused to even draw him sad. It kept handing you Jack complete; a whole finished Jack, out there in the corner of your mind.

This Jack’s completeness had to require your absence. It needed you to put yourself out of this world and into the crevice of your mind that hated you.

You had to widen your eyes on the floor. Your heels knocked the cabinet.

No. No. Your Jack – the real Jack – was thirty feet away and had never once been anything but certain of you.

Jack had never once not been certain of you. You were sitting on the countertop in his sweatpants right now. Your fingers were curled into the cotton of the pants, holding it like it was his hand, because Jack himself suddenly felt like too much to deserve.

You were getting homesick of him, getting jealous of women in your own head, grieving trips that had already happened, creating an entirely one-girl production in your mind that was only cruel to you, and the man who’d done nothing to put it there.

Go to him, you tried to tell yourself. Go to Jack. Wake him up. Talk to him.

He never turned you away. You had come to him with nothing, a whole lot of nothings, and he had never once turned you away. 

( You’d had a terrible dream that your childhood house was empty. It was the whole dream. You’d walked through it, room-by-room, and everyone was gone and the furniture was gone and your voice didn’t work. It was classic dream-physics. You’d woken up with shaky breaths, body tensing up over, well, nothing. Over the fact that the wallpaper was gone. You’d lain there for four minutes being reasonable about it, then you’d poked Jack. 

Poked him once, then again. Then again – his hand caught your finger, eyes still shut, reflexes working. He folded your finger in his fist and kept it there, on his chest as one eye dragged open, looked at the little digital clock, looked insulted, then looked at you. 

“What?” At your silence and the sight of your small pout as your body went still, both his eyes opened, everything in his face shifting around not making this worse. “What happened?”

“Bad dream,” you said, and because he’d wait all night without asking, you added, “My old house. Everything was just gone. It’s stupid, it’s not even –”

“Not stupid.” His arm had come up to haul you down onto his chest in a drowsy motion, your ear landing conveniently over the slow bass of his heart as his hand rubbed over your skin. “Empty house,” he murmured, clicking his tongue. “Yeah. That’s not a great one.”

He always agreed with you. Then, he added, “This place has got everyone we both need in it. Go back to sleep.” )

Your mind had, finally, gone quiet. Finally. Even it knew overkill when it saw it. 

Fuck, maybe you were fucking crazy. Jack should have gone running. If he had any sense, he’d have looked at you and walked calmly in the other direction. He hadn’t. He had stayed.

This morning your enemies included a hypothetical, a memory, and Europe al-fucking-together. 

He hadn’t let you go, you had to remind yourself. He’d kept you. Had, a few times, put a foot on the door to keep you there.

You slid off the kitchen counter to make your coffee, almost distantly. You made it this time, too. By the time the machine started its slow gurgle, you’d forced yourself to wrestle the whole thing back where it belonged, blinking your eyes clear and dry. It was the deal you’d made with yourself, you supposed, when Jack had said Italy and that she was a doctor, just like him. 

You weren’t going to be the crazy, young girlfriend who spiraled over an old flame. You were going to be so graciously secure about all of it that Jack would never, ever know the morning had touched you at all.

You’d nearly convinced yourself of it, too, as you settled on the couch with the mug on the little glass table beside you as you scrolled through your phone. Then, you’d heard the bedroom door, and the soft knock of crutches against the floorboards as Jack shifted his weight. 

You felt your heart drop at the sound of it, and had to force yourself to look up at the ceiling for a few seconds before he materialized, because you had never – not once – felt that feeling in your body in the three-sixty-five and a few more days you’d loved him.

No, you had to tell your body. We don’t feel this way for Jack. There’s no need to start now.

He came around the corner a second later, crutches under his arms and squinting against the light, hair flattened up on one side of his head from all of forty minutes on the pillow. His eyes swept across the room quickly and landed on you, face easing slightly.

“There you are,” he said, voice rough with sleep. He stayed there for a second looking at you, head-to-toe, checking. “Woke up to a pillow,” he said, one brow going up, dipping his chin at you in soft accusation. 

“Jack –” You pushed yourself up off, padding over to him on instinct, because you were you, it was now nine in the morning and he’d hauled himself out of bed after only one tiny blink of sleep after his shift. Every single step he was taking on those crutches was a step he shouldn’t have been taking. “What are you doing up? Go back to bed –”

“Could ask you the same, baby. You’re never up this early.” When you got close enough, his eyes immediately came down to yours and stayed, moving over slowly. Then, he flicked his gaze to the entirety of the living room behind you.

“You get lonely out here? Something wrong? Should’ve come got me.” he fired off at once, so quickly that your mind had to catch up to process it.

“Not lonely. Nothing’s wrong. You needed sleep – ” 

False. False. True. You were a liar more than half the time today, and you knew you were making this bed all by yourself.

“I need lots of things.” His hand came up off the crutch grip – balancing himself there on one – and reached out to you, knuckles first, dragging down your cheek slowly as his head tilted to look at you. The touch was so, so tender it almost undid the whole act you had running. “Sleep’s like – fourth.” 

You leaned into his hand before you could stop it, and his face flickered for a second – relief, there and covered – and his thumb pressed in to hold it, keeping it. 

“I just couldn’t sleep,” you said into his palm, because half-truths were easier to say to his palm. “You can, though,” you said quickly. “You worked all night. I’d already slept before you came home.” 

He appeared to weigh this, and when your eyes finally moved back to his face, it was tilted slightly to the side, lost. Like a dog, hearing a new sound. It was a new sound, you realized the second it left you. It sounded like exactly what you had decided you were going to be – reasonable and considerate – and you had never once been reasonable about Jack going to bed. Sending him off to rest, so generously, without you, sounded – to you and him both – like another person’s girlfriend talking. 

He took in a small breath, a chuckle dying in his throat, and his head dropped closer, the stubble catching in the light.

“Counter-offer?” he murmured. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, settling there. “Couch. Both of us. Nobody sleeps. Nobody does a single thing.” 

“Like gremlins,” you murmured. 

The crease in his brow lost a little bit of its altitude. “Exactly like gremlins, angel,” he said gravely, instantly. 

Your lips moved hesitantly, and your hands came up to his bare chest, pressing slightly. “You’ve been up all night, Jack,” you said through a short laugh, fingers skating around the breath of his chest to sit at his ribs, trying to turn him. 

“Stop it – please, no.” He stayed put, eyes flicking down to where your hands had come up and lips twisting in, what you could only describe as a snarl. “I’m not tired.”

It was such a bald, indefensible lie that you visibly shook your head at him. The evidence was all over his pretty face, the pretty, lying face. The curls were silvering mess flattened on one side and standing at attention on the other, and you had to physically stop your hands from going to them.

The morning stubble had come in along his jaw in that salt-and-cinnamon scatter you’d once spent a full minute petting against the grain while he sat there letting you, patient as a trained dog. Still, tired lived well on him. Everything lived well on him. You’d told him once, and he’d thanked you, because he’d found himself tired a lot and hadn’t quite found a way to ease it. He’d tried.

“Jack,” you tried, voice warming a touch.

“What?” he drawled, shaking his head at you now, like he was deciding to show how scandalized he was now by all of this. “I’m not allowed to sit with my girl?”

He started moving to the direction of the couch – crutches finding their rhythm – without giving you any time for defense. “Man works a night shift and isn’t allowed to sit with the prettiest thing he’s ever seen?” 

You huffed. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Jack called over his shoulder. “Come sit.”

You trailed after him, because what else could you do? Dig your heels in, tell him no? That would’ve been a tell the size of five fucking houses. The second you were in range, his arm left the cushion and hooked over your waist mid-step and hauled you onto his lap. Your yelp was swallowed by the drop, and you landed sideways across his thighs with his arm already snaked across your back. 

“Your leg, Jack – ”

“My leg’s thrilled.” His other hand collected your knees and folded them up toward his stomach, tucking you in closer, arranging you into the compact bundle he preferred, until you were sitting in the wide, warm bowl of him with nowhere to look that wasn’t him. His hand then came up to your back and pressed, instructively, until your cheek gave up and landed against his shoulder. He let out a long, slow breath at the contact, chin coming to rest on your hair. “There we go.”

You breathed in a lungful of air as you settled against him, his presence like fire and water over you right now. You were so scared of someday losing this, this exact thing. His chest hair scratching at your cheek; the weight of his head – carrying so much – on your head; the way he smelled like your soap because you’d asked him to once and he’d never gone back, and now this man walked around his emergency department smelling like pink fruit all day and let everyone at work deal with it.

It was so, so unbelievably simple to be with Jack, to be in this flowery presence of this gruff man, being his. Jack had come along and he’d made you put everything down – the checking, the second-guessing – and you had, you’d put everything down, and dumped both arms around his neck instead. 

“How do you wanna use our nights off today, hm?” he asked softly, moving his head to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. 

This was your event. You knew that was why he was asking, dangling it, because the planning was half the having for you and he’d learned to just hand you the whole day and watch you go. You always had opinions.

Before you’d tucked yourself into bed last night, you’d thought maybe you and Jack would go to the diner whenever you woke up, breaking fast in the afternoon like degenerates. 

Maybe the flea market afterwards, because Jack, at a flea market, haggled in such a nice, slow voice that made grown sellers fold like the lawn chairs they were selling. He’d followed you around from table to table for two hours, never once questioning why you were suddenly looking at doorknobs. You could’ve looked at gravel, and he’d have carried it. Then you’d come home, couch, a game on, his head in your lap – heavy, trusting, king of some small kingdom – while you messed with his curls.

It all seemed so unbelievably wrong now. It seemed nice at the same time, the same as before. But the diner. She probably never made him eat at diners. The flea market; she went to Positano. You had no idea what Positano even looked like, exactly. It was probably the most beautiful place on all of earth and Jack had stood in it, years before you existed to him, being well-loved, and you’d spent this morning secretly hoping it was ugly. 

You pressed your cheek harder into his chest and he hummed, appreciatively, and adjusted his arm to noodle you.

She got this, too.

You had to stop yourself from groaning at your own voice, from yelling at it altogether. The thoughts were just pushing you closer and closer to him, your cheek nuzzled against his chest, shifting slightly like the bare contact of his skin could just scrub it all out; your cure and disease were Jack. Every awful, awful thought sent you burrowing closer into his exact chest that had caused it, and he kept receiving you, warm and obliging, having no idea he, right now, was both your wound and bandage. 

You just wanted your day back. You couldn’t tell anyone how insane this was, least of all Jack. You’d have crawled inside his ribcage if it zipped.

You knew that Jack had been trying to get under your skin – you knew that he liked it – but you’d figured this game was one that was built for you to win. Every round was just Jack setting up an excuse to spend the afternoon demonstrating with his mouth, his eyes, his face, that there was no contest to even worry about.

Because you couldn’t very well go to Positano today, and because you suddenly felt like a kid handing over a macaroni necklace to someone who owned diamonds, you said, “I don’t know,” into his chest. “You decide.”

His thumb paused on your skin for a second, then it resumed.

“Me?” he murmured, chin tilting for a second to press his lips to the top of your skull again. “I wouldn’t have the first clue, angel.” 

“Try,” you said. 

He huffed slightly. “Alright, then. Bear with me – first day on the job. We stay here till noon, then the diner with your jams. Then that stretch by the river you like, lemonade from the good cart guy.” He squeezed your arm and pressed another peck to your head. “Home by dark and it’ll be the best outing in the world.” 

It sounded so perfect. You pressed your whole face down into his chest, even as you thought about how his outings were once grander, with people who’d done grander. With a doctor, no less. “Sounds perfect.”

For a moment, the two of you just breathed there. It may have been the fact that when it got quiet when you were with Jack – instead of quiet with just yourself – things seemed a little easier, but you found yourself saying, against him, “Jack?”  

“Yes?” he said instantly, chin lifting off your head and you felt his attention come down on you, whole and immediate, like he was summoned.

“Are you gonna get the coffee?” you asked. 

“Huh?”

“With her,” you said. “You know –”

Your words cut off as you shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid all over again. Saying it made it real again, and now you’d brought the topic to the couch. It happened on the bed, and you’d carried it to the kitchen, and now it was on this lovely couch. You were going to taint it all with it.

“You should probably go. To catch up.” You lifted your head up to meet his eyes, forcing your voice even. “I don’t mind.” It felt like it’d come out with steel; you almost winced at your own words. 

Jack blinked at you, then his head tilted, and the softest, most confused grunt left him. 

“Baby,” he started gently, amused, almost, reaching for the joke in it at first. His knuckles came up to brush against your cheek for one second. “I’m not going anywhere near that coffee – you’d have me chipped like a dog by Tuesday.” 

It was a gift, you could see his words wrapped and extended – him invoking your domestic insanity, holding it up like the reason the sky was blue – and all you had to do was accept it. The morning would become the, in all senses of the word, usual.

You would’ve preened at the portrait of you, and now you heard it from the morning’s new ears – he’s got an ex who speaks Italian and you think it’s fun to threaten him with 24 hour surveillance. 

“I wouldn’t, though,” you said quickly.

When his knuckles paused on your cheek, questioningly, you continued, “You should go. I won’t be mad at you.” Your lips pressed together for one second. “I promise.” 

Jack’s hands went to your hips and his jaw shifted from side to side, as he looked away from your face for a second. “Yeah. Okay. I’m not grabbing coffee with another woman.” 

“She came all the way. You guys are old –”

“Stop,” he interrupted with a laugh – disbelieving and no humor in it – as his head reeled back.

“Stop it – I don’t want this.” His hands flexed on your hips, then came up to wave in the general direction, then fell back down. He looked at you really, really upset, or baffled, or both. “Who cares how far she came? People fly places. I don’t want to have coffee with anyone.”

You shrugged, letting your head drop into his chest again. “If that’s what you want. You don’t have to do it because of me.” 

“I am absolutely doing it because of you.” His arm came around you, bringing you back close to him. “I’m not going ‘cause my girlfriend exists. That’s a whole reason. It’s a great one. So don’t talk me out of it.” He pressed his lips to the top of your skull. “Not your reason to give away. And you can get me chipped, if you like.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. What could you even say to that? You felt him nod over you at the silence, felt some hesitance creep into his body, as he pulled you in. 

“Actually,” he said after a moment. “Let’s put a pin in the plan.” One hand lifted off you and made some small motion, you couldn’t see it but you felt the absence where it had been, before it came back. “We’ll do it tomorrow. Next week. River’s not goin’ anywhere.” His arm resettled around you, snugger than before. “Today we’ll stay in.” 

“Jack –”

“Blanket, couch, girl.” He counted your day off your spine, three soft taps of his fingers. When you made a sound of protest, his said into your hair, quieter, “I’ve got all I need. I’m not feeling the outside today. That okay?”

“No, it’s not – let’s go. I’m just tired right now. I’ll be up later.” 

You felt him breathe, then, the gust of air pooling into your hair.

“Then come to bed,” he tried weakly, and he sounded so broken you wanted to cry. You could hear him knocking at the door of you. “Sleep. Let’s sleep together, if you’re tired.”

“Not sleepy-tired,” you said, and heard how little it made sense even as it came out of you.

Then, you pushed yourself up off him, palms to his chest, trying to keep the motion casual. “I think I just need to wake up properly. Move around a little.” You stood, angling your face away, blinking fast as you looked at the dark TV screen. “I’m gonna get in the shower, if that’s okay?”

When you tried to look over your shoulder, he’d straightened up, palms falling down to his sides on the couch as he looked up at you. 

“Course it’s okay,” he said, hands following up then to settle for your hand, thumb passing over your knuckles. He gave your fingers the gentlest tug and pulled his head back, catching your eyes for a second before you could look away again, and the look on his face was so, so soft. “Do you want breakfast?” 

You nodded quickly. “Yeah – thanks.” 

He made a small sound, then pressed his lips to your knuckles, then let your fingers go one at a time. You made it four steps down the hallway with his gaze heavy on your back, and you couldn’t stand it.

There was a great, large, incessant bug in you that couldn’t stand Jack back there with his worried face and scared smile. So you half-turned over your shoulder, your eyes down at the baseboard, and called out, “Love you, Jack.” 

You’d told Jack you loved him at full speed, into his mouth mid-argument, into the phone before you’d even said hello, at grocery stores, at funerals, at red lights, six times a day minimum. It was the surest sentence you owned. This time, it went out like a paper boat, pushed onto the water with two fingers, and watched all the way across. 

“Love you, too,” he called back warmly, after what felt like a hundred years.

Jack had once spent a very, very long time to get you to believe that even if you held onto something good loosely, it won’t run away. He’d had to get you to believe that even if your grip on him loosened, even just for a second, even for a month, he would still be right there. Why was he feeling the need to hold you so tightly now? 

He set your plate at your spot, and his at his. He poured the coffee, saw the first coffee you’d abandoned on the counter, full and stone cold, and stood there looking for a second longer than the mug deserved.

He’d put on his prosthesis after plating the food, a part of him too large and hopeful – instead of its usual, content, un-worried hum – expecting you to come out of your shower wanting to do something, the diner, the river, after all, trying to change his mind.

He’d hoped you’d come out wanting to be carried somewhere on his back. He wanted to be ready, he always was now. He kept himself pre-approved for whatever you thought of next.

The inside of your head was a busy little harbor, boats coming in at all hours, and he’d been granted a standing spot on the dock. You’d let him become the first to hear about octopus, cats, furniture, which part of your body felt cold, warm, or lukewarm. A year of receiving your pretty cargo and he’d never once been bored. 

He, decades your senior, had seen the world be made interesting again by you just narrating it at him. He had the sneaking suspicion he’d follow your voice wherever it went, into traffic, a dock, into old age, and the shower.

The water kept running. He wasn’t the kind of man that’d track your showers, but years of working in emergency and emergency-adjacent situations had honed up his internal clock eerily well, smoothened out his pattern recognition.

He had to tamp down the urge to deploy it, to use this innate, terrible, awful instinct in his brain on you – you, who he felt more than monitored, who he’d only ever read with love, no grains of salt, no instruments. 

You were the girl who rearranged things in his cabinets by feeling and left in it a system he still couldn’t crack and refused to fix. Opening a drawer looking for a spatula and finding your hair ribbons had become one of the small startling joys of his one life.

He’d been a clinician for so long, and you’d built with him a corner of the world where he was just a man, holding a girl, and being completely in love with her.

Jack, bring me the towel even though it’s right there. Jack, come look at this bruise. Did I not wash out the conditioner out properly? Jack – Jack, Jack, come and just sit with me while I shower.

His knee bounced under the table, and he stopped it. 

Your eggs had gone cold, glossy, and began settling into themselves. The toast had lost its heat, and the jam sat unopened with its little lid on – the grape, the good one – and the jam was a small purple fact that he could not find himself liking to sit across from. You’d have opened it by now and started walking the length of the place, spoon in your mouth, talking. 

A year of you had taught him what mornings looked like when they were going right. He knew this one had gone wrong so quietly and terribly, that he’d been able to hold you the entire time it was happening. 

It was the bitter feeling of the surge he’d had in his chest this morning at the thought of your instincts.

He’d read a woman’s name off his screen and come home with it like it was a match to your pretty fire. He’d carried it into bed with you, and all Jack knew was that at this morning, his girl had been in his arms so sweetly, and minutes later, her fingers were hesitant to press into his skin. The only thing that happened in between was his own mouth, having fun. 

Jack wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, but he was walking to the bedroom now, to the ensuite bathroom. A year ago, this hallway had been a hallway. Now, it was a museum of you mid-motion, and he moved through it with his heart going at a pace he hadn’t earned sitting down, past the bed still holding the shape of the forgery you’d left him in, a pillow. He had to look away from it like the sun. 

He told himself that the bathroom door being closed was normal. Steam, privacy, nothing; all of it were real things. 

“Hey,” he said to the door lightly, knuckles going in two soft taps. It was the same knock he used with the you in the bath going pruny as he was happily serving you wine. “You fall asleep in there? S’been a minute.”

He tried to force his lips into something close to a smile even though there was a door between you right now.

Perhaps it was because Jack – even now, even morbidly confused – knew you, and knew that the door would be locked before he confirmed it with his shaky fingers. 

( You, who talked to him through the glass of the shower, sat cross-legged on the counter while he shaved – you missed a spot, no, the other spot, how do you have a medical license, genius – and stole his coffee between critiques and made him laugh hard enough he’d nicked his jaw and you’d gasped like the injured party, then kissed it before pronouncing him stable.

You, who had once flung the shower door open mid-rinse to tell him that you’d figured out what you both were in a past life. He never got to hear the answer. You’d seen him standing at the sink in his towel and lost the thread altogether, and the past lives were never mentioned again, and Jack had walked around for the next twenty-four hours unreasonably pleased about being distracting at his age to you. 

A door had, simply, never existed in your relationship. )

The key was right there. He’d put it there himself, two summers before he’d ever met you, the day the door had swung shut at its own draft and locked an empty bathroom. He’d forgotten it existed, but his hand went up and found it first try, blind, and came down holding this tiny cold thing. 

His fingers were unsteady fitting it in, which was new. He’d threaded needles into people in moving vehicles. Now, in his home, his fingers trembled over a privacy lock like a first year, because on the other side of the door was the whole of his one life, in falling water, hiding from him – him – and every second the key took was a second you sat in there believing you had to do so. 

“I’m coming in,” he said to the door, softer than an announcement this large should’ve been, like some part of him was afraid of the wrong reaction at your response to it. “Just me. I’m coming in, okay?” 

His chest caved – folded in on itself, turned over – because there you were, on the floor of the shower, curled up under the pour of the water, your knees to your chest and your arms wrapped around them, your face hidden down against them. His girl – the loud one, the strongest person he’d ever let himself love – made small and quiet and hidden on the floor of the shower. He had seen you in this place a thousand times and never once, not ever, like this.

“Oh – baby. No, hey –”

Your head snapped up at his voice, and just that sharp little movement of you made him tilt back slightly. Your face – wet and swollen, eyes red at the rims, gone raw and young and caught in a way he’d never seen it – did something terrible when it saw him in the doorway. It crumpled then hardened, both at once, a door slamming behind glass, and you scrubbed the heel of your hand over your eyes like you could take back the last thirty seconds if you were quick enough about it.

“No,” you said quickly, the word cracking out of you with a sharp edge under the thickness. Your hand came up between you, a flat little barricade under the steam. “No – get out, Jack – I told you I’ll be – please, get out –” 

You didn’t push him. This wasn’t a thing that happened. You pulled – you reeled him in by the shirt, you climbed into his lap, you fought tooth and nail for every inch of distance he’d tried to keep, whose entire love was a set of hands hauling him closer, closer, closer.

He had spent all this time being pulled by you, gladly, helplessly, and he did not have – had never needed – a single instinct for being pushed. 

“Hey – hey, no – don’t –” His hand came out to the glass, pushing slightly. “It’s just me. It’s me. Look –”

“I don’t want it to be you right now,” you said, and the words were so awful and completely jagged.

You turned to face away, like you were trying to push yourself out of his sight entirely. “Please. Please, just go and get out. I don’t want you here – please, Jack.” 

“No, don’t ask me that,” Jack said immediately, voice breaking clean in half as his eyes went glassy and desperate. “It’s me – you don’t hide from me – we’re not that –”

“Please,” you said, voice barely audible over the running of the water, and his nose burnt as he caught sight of you shaking. “Please, just give me a minute – a minute. I’m – I’m asking you to leave.” 

Jack’s hand hung empty in the air as he looked down at you, heart in actual pieces on the tile, and he understood – quietly – that the only thing you were begging him for was the single thing he’d have rather died than do, to turn around and leave you crying. 

So – because you’d asked, because pushing past a plea like that would only carve you open worse, because loving you had never once meant taking what he wanted when it wasn’t what you needed – he made himself.

“Okay,” he said, voice coming out in ruins. “Okay, baby. Okay. I’m going – I’ll go.” He reached up and took your towel off your rail and set it closer to the shower. “I’m right outside. I’m not far – I’ll be right there and you come get me the second you want me, you hear? The second.”

You stayed silent, so Jack, clumsy with grief in a way his body never was, made himself turn his back on you. At the door, he paused, eyes pinching shut to make himself not look over his shoulder. Instead, he said, “I love you.”

He pulled the door behind him, left it breathing half ajar with the steam sighing out through the gap, and pulled himself to sit at the edge of the bed, facing the bathroom. Like you were going to run from him, like some part of him needed both feet under him and the door in his eyeline needed to be ready. For what? He couldn’t have said. To catch you, he supposed. To get you the second you’d let him. To not be caught sitting down when you finally opened the door and needed him standing. 

He sat there with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands pressed together against his mouth and waited, and it was the longest ten minutes of his recent life.

Every second of it was stretched unbearably, because he was learning there is this particular hell in loving someone past all sense and being made to sit on the other side while they hurt. He didn’t know what to do with this feeling, had never had to think it was a possibility between the two of you.

When the door opened, Jack was on his feet before he’d decided to be. There you were, towel-wrapped, hair dripping onto your shoulders, face swollen and turned just slightly away, eyes on the floorboards. You crossed your arms over your chest, gripping the towel closed.

“Hey,” he said, breathing through it, his voice half-ruined, shaking. He caught it and hauled it down a register by force, into the very low, sure place his voice lived when everything depended on it.

He made himself stay planted – made himself open his arms instead of using them, wide, a whole doorway of him – while every muscle strained against its leash, because his body had exactly one theory about you crying and the theory was to go, and he stood on that theory with all his weight. 

“Come here,” he said instead, begging with a steady voice, a whole vacuum sealed into two words. 

Your eyes climbed as high as his chest and gave up there, arms tightening. You shook your head dimly, water flicking. He nodded to himself, made himself stay standing, without letting an ounce on his face where you’d have to carry it. 

“One step. That’s all I’m asking.” His arms turned palm-up at the ends of his open arms, still, though nothing behind his ribs was. “You don’t have to talk. Or explain anything. Not tonight, or ever. I’ll die curious – but I’m standing here figuring out I don’t work right until I know how you feel in my arms and I haven’t known for hours and I am asking you –” His voice strained, and the words came out bare, “ – Please, I am asking you to come let me hold you.” 

You let out a small sound, eyes pinching shut, and he watched a whole war happen on your face. Jack thought, uselessly, hopelessly, that he’d have stood there through a winter or as the building came down, holding a door ajar in himself for as long as doors took.

You crossed, though. Your body came to him hard, all at once, like you were dropped from a height, and Jack caught you with one arm crushed around your towel-wrapped back. The other flew to your wet hair, his palm rounding the whole back of your skull, pressing you into his heart, gathering you in and in and in, past where space existed, trying to find one more setting past where proximity itself existed. He let out a sound that was – dangerously – close to sob into your hair, finding himself completely undone for the first time in a very, very long time. 

“There you are,” he murmured, rocking you slightly as his mouth pressed to the top of your dripping hair. “I’ve got you. Got you now.”

You shook against him, and Jack winced at the feeling of it, gently reeling both of you down onto the edge of the mattress, then back, then over, until he had you sideways across his lap, your knees folded over his thigh, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms locked around you like a cage. The towel gave up at under your shoulder, so he pulled the corner of the blanket up over the bare curve of it – wrapping you precious – and then his arm closed the last of the circuit and locked. 

For a while, he simply let his hand move up and down your spine while you cried into his throat, and every shudder that went through you went straight through him, too. He pressed his lips to your temple and left them there and rode it out with you, breathing slow on purpose, loud enough for you to borrow the rhythm off of his nose, an old medic’s trick he was running on the only patient he’d loved past all sense. 

Somewhere in the middle of it, with your tears running down his throat and pooling at his collarbone,

Jack thought, helplessly, that even this was somehow yours and somehow beautiful; you cried like you did everything, with your whole body, holding nothing residual, generous, so generous, even in grief. You’d never given him a partial anything, and Jack tightened his arms around the full, shaking entirety of you and thanked the universe, genuinely, that when you’d finally fallen apart, you’d walked the few steps and done it on him. 

When your crying wore itself down, Jack made himself stay silent. The questions, fully formed, seventy versions of them and redrafted since the kitchen, he swallowed, because he had a feeling he had pushed enough for one simple morning. He’d pushed this morning smiling. He held you and let the question live in him like a swallowed stone and, apparently, he was less subtle about it than he thought.

Your voice came up out of his neck, waterlogged and small, as you said, “I know you want to ask.” Your fingers moved faintly against his chest, a fidget with no strength in it. “It’s okay. You can.” 

Jack had to close his eyes at your first full sentence being a door held open for him; you’d crawled out of your own wreckage to check on the driver. 

“I do,” he said into your hair, honestly. “But I’m not gonna spend your turn. So here’s mine first.” 

He felt you go still against him – attention gathering, a tiny tilt of your head at his collarbone – and he breathed in heavy, big enough to lift you where you lay, to pay up. 

“I got really scared today,” he said, voice going into a whisper as he leaned down to talk to you. “I woke up to you not in my arms and my whole chest felt – wrong. I do this for a living, I’ve got all the words. It wasn’t – wasn’t sick. It felt wrong, you not being somewhere you’re supposed to be. First time in – forever, if I’m being honest.” He tapped you skin twice, to hold himself. 

“And when I found you, I couldn’t reach you. And now – seeing you –” He felt you stiffen up at that, and he nodded in understanding, skipping over. “I’m thinking of getting rid of all our doors.” His hand kept moving down your spine, and he faced your head then. “Bathroom’s the priority. Bedroom might be load-bearing, but. Front door stays. Everything else is beaded curtains by Friday.” 

You made a small sound against his neck, and Jack had to stop himself from crushing you into the tightest hug at the bridge of a laugh. He pressed his mouth to your temple for a few seconds instead. “Another thing while I’ve got the floor. Telling me to go get coffee with an ex – don’t do that again. I’m not gambling with you. I’ve only got one of you. So, I’m never going to coffee with anyone else again.” 

“You’re allowed to cry,” he said, setting the joke aside. “I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t do it with me knowing about it. That’s mine, and I’m gonna find it and fix it if it takes me the rest of my life.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” you protested, sounding wounded. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “That’s mine. That’s what I felt today. You don’t have to give me yours.” 

His arms adjusted, and some helpless, incurable corner of him – the one that had flirted with you through every disaster you’d ever handed each other – added, “But, if you wanted to trade, I can make it worth your while.” 

You laughed at that again, and the two of you stayed silent again for sometime. Your fingers crawled up his chest, up over his collarbone, curling loosely around his neck, your palm settling in like you needed contact to speak. 

“You went to Italy,” you said. 

Jack’s brain did one, full lap around the words, and came back with nothing. He did the only thing he could when you handed him a coin he couldn’t read, which was holding it up to the light and keeping his voice soft and not dropping it. 

“I did,” he said, carefully. “Long, long time ago, baby.”

“Was it nice?” you asked, the words coming out so small. In the same breath, like a small dam breaking, you added, “Do you miss it?”

Jack never had to look for a trap in your words, not like this.

There was none now, either. You’d asked about Italy like you asked him about bad days, ready to receive whatever came back, your thumb doing a nervous sweep against his neck like you were comforting him in advance. You’d found the one grief in the world with his fingerprints on it and your first instinct was to ask if he wanted it back. 

For an ugly second, he thought he could have lied. No, it was overrated, beds were weird, bad food. You’d have heard it, and Jack thought that it would’ve taught you that you couldn’t survive the truth. 

“It was nice,” he said quietly, hands moving up and down your spine. “I was young. Younger, anyway. Whole trip was –” He exhaled, shaking his head as he tried to hunt for the honest size of it. “It was a trip, baby. It was nice.” 

He pressed his lips to your hairline. “I don’t miss it. There’s nothing in there to miss. Like –” He clicked his teeth, searching for the words. “Driving past a house I used to live in. Half the time, can’t even remember which window was yours. You just keep going, ‘cause everything you own’s at the new place now.” His fingers tightened on you. “Think if I’d known what this was, back then, I’d have kept missing this, there.” 

Your breath shifted against his throat, and you nuzzled your face into his neck.

“What’s got you worried?” he murmured. He closed his eyes, letting his head lean to rest against yours, palms moving from your waist to your nape, then down. “I can get us to Europe by Thursday, just say the word. I’ve got PTO and miles I’ve been sitting on for years. I think they were for this.” 

“I don’t wanna go to Italy,” you said, smiling against his neck. “I think this is something I have to get through myself. It’s not anything you’ve done to me.”

Jack felt that familiar twist in his chest. It’d come to him for the first time today, and it kept coming up and up and up, and he couldn’t help but want to claw at his own mouth for his selfish, cruel little game, for every grinning careless word he’d dropped on you like they weighed nothing. And now you felt that you had to deal with it yourself, like it was yours to carry alone, off in a corner, someplace he couldn’t get to. Because he had done this. 

You were, simply, acting like the two of you weren’t the two of you; you had spent a whole year proving to him that ‘by yourself’ was a thing that, now, never existed. 

He drew you back, fingers threading through the back of your hair, trying to physically take you back from wherever – whatever – this by yourself was. He put your face in the light, wet-lashed, trying so hard to keep it together, and his thumb swept the damp while his own face did whatever it was doing, open and scared and thoroughly past the point of keeping it in check. 

“You don’t have a ‘yourself’ anymore, sweetheart. I don’t have that anymore. You woke me up at three in the morning to tell me how you fell off the monkey bars in third grade – remember? You didn’t think twice about it.” His forehead came down, brushing your nose with his. “And now you’re gonna sit here and tell me this – the saddest thing that’s crossed that pretty head all year – this one you’re keeping alone?” 

“Jack–”

“What is going on in that head of yours?” he interrupted, words soft but pointed, suddenly having given up all pretense of coaxing and gone straight to needling.

He watched you open your mouth as you took in a breath, and maybe it was the closeness or the way his thumb kept moving along your jaw, but you said, “I don’t know if I’m the real one.”

Jack’s brows furrowed, feeling heat build up behind his eyes as he looked at you with a pained, confused expression.

“I don’t know if I’m the one you do it for real with, Jack, or if I’m just – the young one. The one you get before – or after – I don’t even know how it works.”

Your hands came up between you, aggravated at yourself, at him, at the lack of vocabulary. 

“You’ve done so much. You’ve got countries. Experiences. So many of them. And I’ve got –” Your shrug came out tiny. “– you. You’re my biggest everything. You’re my Italy and I feel like I’ve been with you for three years and my – you’re all of it, Jack. I’m terrified I’m just the person that came after your big thing.” 

You blinked, and Jack’s fingers reached up to catch the little tear falling over your lashes, his own eyes blinking furiously. Jack wanted, so badly, to reach to you and press your kiss to your mouth to stop this, to to kiss this whole wilted garden you’d created in your head out of you.

He shook his head. “I hope I’m not your – her,” he said, a wince in the words, finding it difficult to even get them out. “Or your Italy.”

“You are –” you said, with so much conviction, chin coming up, ready to fight him for the honor of it, “you are – that’s what I’m telling you –” 

“I’m your Jack.” His hands tightened on your face, voice coming out slightly cracked. “I’d forgotten about this woman until this came up. I don’t want you to forget me. I’m your Jack and I’m the luckiest man for it everyday. So you pick a better word soon, and don’t take that title away from me.” He shook his head. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

You bristled slightly, your eyes shining into his as they went wide, the whole of you locking up at the words. He tapped his palm gently against your cheek once, then again, frowning as he thought he really ought to tell you this more, for a girl who kept a running tally of everything else.

You’d created a museum out of things he’d said, and somehow this one, the biggest one – the luckiest man of it – he’d been rationing. He’d been handing it over in the glances and over eggs, assuming it was arriving, that a girl who read him so fluently was taking what he’d said to you over and over again, so simply because it was just a fact. 

Never again. He’d tell you daily now, remind you of it while making you look him in the eyes. 

“I tried to make you jealous,” you said, the words coming out through a sad, shameful laugh. Something in his chest broke hearing you confess it like it was a crime. “I’ve got nothing, Jack. You won’t care about Sam, or Dave, or – I don’t even remember one’s name. That’s all. You had a doctor you went to Italy with.” 

His eyes fluttered for a second, the muscle in his jaw clenching as his fingers ran over your cheek. The nature of it all was too backwards. Jack had made a very sad sort of peace with himself – he’d known what he was – and somehow, at the end of all that, at the bottom of the ninth of his whole entire life, you’d walked into it glowing like something confiscated from heaven. You’d looked at the full of him, and decided you wanted him. You, dished out to him probably because of some fate-giver who’d been asleep at the desk, who had let the single best thing walk out to him.

If a single one of those guys had stayed awake one more hour, asked one more question, been at the right angle to see who was sitting across them, you’d be – Jack grimly, awfully thought – somewhere else right now. And Jack never would have known; he wouldn’t have known to miss you. You’d have been long gone and loved properly, early, by someone with the sense to do it. 

Jack would have worked his nights and run the bay, choosing every day to enter a new crisis, and never known the whole time that the best thing that would ever happen to him had happened to somebody else instead, on time, the way it properly should have. It was their loss, and he was going to make his entire life out of it. 

His arms moved before the thought even finished, hauling you in impossibly closer, resettling the whole, true warm weight of you against him. “Stay right here,” he murmured.

You did. Your lashes stuck wet in little points and your fingers resettled on his neck. You were wearing his shirt, drowning in it. Jack had been the steadiest set of hands in many rooms, he knew it without vanity. But nothing in his skill set covered you; steady hands didn’t win a girl who lit up rooms; being good in a crisis didn’t earn a woman who made every ordinary Tuesday feel like a celebration. He’d spent so long getting excellent at the exact things nobody falls in love with – triage, containment, blood – and you’d walked into his life and fallen for him anyway, for reasons he couldn’t successfully point to, and he’d stopped asking why out of superstition. You, he was not in the mood to reasonably place; Jack knew when a person was handed one, that they should keep showing up for a miracle, quietly hoping it stayed. 

Jack, falling apart at every seam of him, eyes hot and jaw aching, huffed. It was one, soft breath of a laugh, and your eyes snapped up to his, betrayed, and he shook his head fast, thumb pressing to your cheek to stay with him. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, shaking his head softly, thumbs framing your face to tilt it up. “I promise. I’m laughing ‘cause you’ve got no idea what I’d give to have your problem.” 

You blinked at him, mouth curved into a frown. That one, he was sure, was aimed at him. His hands were shaking slightly against your jaw.

“I mean that I am very, very glad that you’ve got no Italy to wave at me. You think I want you to have another big grown love in your pocket? Some guy you crossed the country with?” His hands tightened on your face, eyes shining. “It would ruin me. I’d never sleep again. And I’m sorry for waving mine at you this morning, because I didn’t think it’d make you not sleep.” 

He held your eyes through it, taking his medicine looking at you. “I said it ‘cause I love you jealous. It makes me feel nice to know you care about me.” His lips curved into a sad smile. “I didn’t think what it’d do when I brought this up. I will be very, very sorry about that for a long time.”

When you smiled softly, eyes hooded as you looked down at his mouth, he nodded to himself.

“And I had a nice trip with a woman a hundred years ago, and it ended, and I have zero photos of it. That’s a thing that happened to me. You are not a thing that happened to me. You are what it was all for. All the years, the whole time, all the wrong turns. That was just me taking the long way to find you. You are my biggest thing – biggest one that’s ever happened to me – and I want you to know some pretty life-changing things have happened to me.” 

You stared at him, mouth open, tears going uncaught now, because Jack had gone completely still, needing you to see all his years on his face at once. 

He huffed, mind flicking through this haze of memories. He could reach back and find the years, the apartment, and it all came as nothing. He’d loved women, had meant it completely, with everything he’d had on hand, and he may not have been wrong. And now he can carry the tender knowledge that a person can feel absolutely certain there is everything to be felt and be off by a whole magnitude; he’d stood inside his biggest feeling and called it the biggest and had simply, innocently, not met you. 

“And since you told me yours,” he said, quieter, eyes going down because he found he couldn’t quite hold your gaze for this.

“I know what it feels like to think you’ve found what good love is, and then to find out how it is to love someone bigger. That the thing you could’ve sworn was everything was just – nothing, in the grand scheme.” 

He turned his face to the side as he held your face, suddenly finding the enormity of this simplicity pressing at the back of his eyes. Everything – he was sure of it – had just been the longest drive over to you.

“But you got this first. You’ve got nothing to check it against.” His thumb swept your cheekbone, and his eyes came back to you. 

“I know how big this is because I’ve got my whole life to look at it against. And you just have to take my word for it.”

He tugged his lip between his teeth, searching your eyes with question, checking whether the words were pushing through, whether they had the gap to push through. Your face was tilting toward him, listening with every feature at once; he could see the whole war playing out on your face you had never once been able to conceal from him. You had no poker face, at least to him, you didn’t.

“This is the one,” he said, nodding just barely. “There was never a morning I woke up and had to think about anything before you. You are the reason I know what you think is the big thing is small.” 

Your breath stuttered, and your chin trembled once before you caught it from gritting your teeth inside your mouth. 

“And sometimes –” He nodded, more to himself, as he forced himself to continue. “– I have felt a similar thing. I see you, and I wonder if you’ll think about some guy your own age, out there somewhere. Standard legs. Normal hours.” He shrugged. “No years of the stuff I’ve carried. And I think, someday, you’ll look over at me and think you settled for the –”

“That’s crazy,” you interrupted, the words shooting out of you instantly. Your fingers flew up to grip both his wrists. “That’s crazy, Jack – I don’t want – I would never. There’s no guy, I don’t want standard legs. I want your legs – leg – fuck, Jack.” Your voice broke off as you let out a small, pained groan. “I would pick you over any person who has ever lived.” 

“Yeah, see,” he murmured, a small smile coming up as he let the weight of your words land on him. “Can you see how it sounds crazy when it’s coming at you?”

He brushed his nose against yours at your stunned silence. “I feel the exact same way about what you said. It’s crazy.”

He had to blink over and over as he settled on the weight of your words, said so simply and furiously with no build up. The biggest sentences of his life just slipped out of you, unwrapped, and you had not the first clue what they weighed. Any person who had ever lived. God, you’d waved off the whole crowded history of the species in one breath to pick a tired man in Pittsburgh.  

“Let’s go,” he murmured, wrapping you up and pulling both of you back against the cushions, resettling you on his chest. Your ear was at his heart. The blanket was up to your shoulder. “We’re gonna lie here a while now. I think we both need it.” 

“It was a weird morning.” 

“Mhm.” His hand went to your spine. “Top five weirdest.”

And he should have let it be, but there was still something sitting in him. 

Jack pressed his lips together as he once again said, “I am sorry for this morning. I was –” He breathed in through his nose, fingers coming up to your head, tapping it twice to get you to look up at him. You did, chin pressing into his chest and your eyes tired yet focused. “Immature.” 

Your lips twisted slightly, then you tugged them with your teeth once and looked away, like you were trying not to agree. 

“I was,” he said, easily, agreeing for you. His thumb traced your hairline. “Good thing for me, I happen to be with a girl who likes getting her revenge. Even when I don’t think I did anything.” 

“You do –”

“I do. I do. You’re not wrong,” he said, the opposite of a complaint in it. “You know how to settle a score. And this morning I racked up a real big one. And you’ve just been sitting on it, being gracious.” His nose wrinkled, his fingers going to cradle the side of your face. “You keep that up, you’ll start minding your business and I’ll be living with a stranger.”

At your small, hesitant smile, Jack continued, “I know you don’t like the paintjob of my truck.” You nodded at that, honest as ever. “What I’m thinking is, you key it.”

Your eyes widened.

“Go nuts on the thing. Do some drawings. Write nice words. I drive it around after, everyone sees it. And when we’re good and done with that show and tell,” he continued, fingers threading into your hair, “we take it in. You pick a new color. Any color. Change the seats if you want, too.”

“People will think –”

“People will think a woman loves me enough to key my truck. Do we have a deal?”

[linaaawrites]

Could you please do a new dad Will Smith sceanario when he takes his baby to the rink for the first time for practice or game or sth!

Little One

pairing: dad!Will Smith x female reader

description: Will proudly introduces your newborn to his teammates for the first time.

TW: Fluff, established relationship.

masterlist

The car seat feels impossibly heavy as you carry it through the players' entrance at the rink, but the weight is nothing compared to the joy swelling in your chest. Inside, your little miracle is sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of the milestone about to occur, first visit to Dad's workplace.

"You ready for this?" Will asks, his voice soft as he falls into step beside you, his hand automatically reaching for the car seat.

"I think I should be asking you that," you reply with a smile, watching as his eyes keep darting to the car seat with an expression of pure adoration. "You've been buzzing with nervous energy all morning."

"Just want them to meet our little one," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "And show off the amazing mom who made this possible."

The locker room is already bustling when you arrive, the familiar sounds of sticks tapping and skates being sharpened filling the air. Conversation stops abruptly as you enter, all eyes turning toward the newcomer in your arms.

"Well, well," Toff says, grinning as he approaches. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, look who dragged the cat."

Will swats at him playfully, but his eyes never leave the baby. "Shut up, man. Come meet my kid."

The team gathers around, their usual competitive energy replaced by something softer, more reverent. Toff leans in close, his expression shifting to one of wonder as he studies the sleeping infant.

"Look at that," he murmurs. "Got your nose, thank God. We were worried it might get Will's."

You laugh as Will rolls his eyes, but there's no heat behind it. He's too busy soaking in this moment, his two worlds colliding in the best possible way.

"Can I?" Misa asks, extending his hands carefully.

Will nods, watching intently as Misa takes the car seat, his movements gentle and deliberate. The team passes the baby around, each player taking their turn to coo and whisper, their usual rough hockey exterior melting away in the face of such innocence.

"You did good, man," Alex says, clapping Will on the shoulder.

"We're so happy for you both," adds Sam.

Will's chest swells with pride as he watches his teammates fawn over your child, but his eyes keep finding yours across the room, filled with a gratitude so profound it almost takes your breath away.

"Okay, okay," he says finally, gently reclaiming the baby. "Time for Uncle Mack to get his turn."

Macklin's face lights up as he takes the infant, his usual playful energy replaced by something tender, protective. "Hey there, little one," he murmurs, rocking the car seat slightly. "Don't worry, Uncle Mack will teach you all the tricks your dad doesn't want you to know."

Will laughs, but there's something in his eyes, something that says he's already imagining all the ways this team will wrap your child in love and protection.

As practice begins, you settle into the stands with the baby, watching as Will glances over frequently between drills, his face breaking into smiles each time he catches your eye. He's playing with an extra spring in his step today, fueled by the pride of fatherhood and the love radiating from the stands.

Two hours later, as the team files off the ice, Will is first to reach you, his face flushed from exertion but beaming with joy.

"Did you see?" he asks, dropping onto the bench beside you. "I think I played better today. Having you guys here changes everything."

"You were amazing," you agree, leaning in to kiss his cold cheek. "But you're always amazing to me."

Will's expression softens, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. "I was thinking during practice," he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "About you and how you carried this little person and brought it into the world. You're incredible, you know that?"

"Will," you start, but he cuts you off gently.

"No, I mean it. You're the strongest person I know. The way you handled everything, the pregnancy, the birth, the sleepless nights. You make it look easy, but I know it's not. You're a fighter and you're going to be the best mom our baby could ever ask for."

Tears well in your eyes as he continues, "I love you so much. More than I ever thought possible to love someone. And seeing you with our baby… it's like my heart is going to explode every time."

You lean in to kiss him properly, your lips meeting in a tender exchange that says more than words ever could. Around you, the team pretends not to notice, giving you this moment of privacy even as they smile knowingly at each other.

"Ready to go home, my beautiful little family?" Will asks when you finally pull apart, gathering your things.

You nod, watching as he carefully lifts the car seat, his movements confident and sure. The journey home is filled with quiet contentment, Will's hand resting on your thigh as he drives, his eyes frequently flicking to the rearview mirror to check on your sleeping child.

As you pull into your driveway, Will turns to you, his expression soft. "Best day ever," he says simply.

[mlkba]

he’s so happy to drive a zamboni

[wannabehockeygf]

Clayton totally kicks lucky out of the room at night when you guys have sex because he gets weirded out by lucky watching you guys

suggestive content below

lucky is sprawled across the foot of the bed, black and white fur curled into the perfect loaf, big brown eyes tracking every lazy movement between you and clayton. the room is warm and golden, sheets rumpled from a lazy sunday, and you’re tangled up in clay’s lap, giggling as he nips under your chin. his hands wander, tracing the shape of your waist, thumb circling just beneath the band of your sleep shorts, but every time his mouth finds your throat, lucky’s head lifts—watchful, expectant, as if he’s waiting for his own invitation.

you break the kiss to glance back, catching a glimpse of that fluffy head resting on a pile of your clothes, one paw draped possessively over clayton’s hoodie. “he’s staring again,” you whisper, laughter bubbling up as clayton’s hands tighten around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

“he always stares,” clay mutters, voice muffled against your jaw, but you can hear the exasperation and the fondness. “i swear to god, he’s a fucking voyeur. can’t even get my hand in your pants without him acting like he’s about to dial animal protective services.” he nips at your ear, then glares over your shoulder at the dog. “he’s not even subtle about it.”

you twist, catching lucky’s gaze, and the dog’s tail thumps, slow and expectant, like he’s waiting for you to call him up into the mess of sheets and legs. “he just loves us,” you say, voice sing-song, but clayton groans, tipping his head back against the headboard.

“he loves you,” he gripes, mock-wounded, fingertips sneaking under the hem of your shirt anyway. “he tolerates me. but the second i try to get my tongue in your mouth...” he leans in, kissing you again—soft, slow, his hand sliding farther down, palm curving over your hip. you melt into it, but the second your breathing changes, lucky’s head pops up, ears perked, tail wagging like he’s about to leap in and referee.

you can’t help but laugh, breathless, as clayton groans, shaking his head. “no. absolutely not. this is not a group activity.” he gently sets you aside, rolling off the mattress, and pads over to the door. lucky tracks his every step, eyes big and mournful, chin drooping as clayton opens the door wide. “out, buddy,” clayton says, pointing. “go lie down. somewhere else. anywhere else.”

lucky gives his best, most pathetic sigh, stands, and slinks toward the hall, casting one last betrayed look over his shoulder. you try not to giggle as clayton holds the door open, waiting for the dog to exit. “don’t give me that face,” clay says, shaking his head. “you’ll survive one night with the couch.”

the second lucky’s out, clayton closes the door with a little too much satisfaction, flicking the lock for good measure. he turns, eyes landing on you sprawled in the middle of the bed, your shirt riding up, hair a mess, lips swollen from all the interrupted kissing. “finally,” he sighs, crossing the room in two strides.

he drops onto the bed, pulling you back into his lap, mouth already finding yours again. this time, there’s no interruption—his hands are everywhere, greedy and sure, sliding under your waistband, dragging your shorts down your thighs, cupping your ass like he’s missed the feel of you. you’re giggling still, breathless and giddy, but it turns into a whimper when his mouth finds the side of your neck, sucking hard, leaving another mark to join the constellation already blooming across your skin.

“see?” he murmurs against your collarbone, hands roaming, squeezing, kneading. “so much better without an audience.” he kisses you again, deeper this time, and you melt into him, fingers threading through his hair as his hands settle exactly where you want them. lucky might whine at the door, but clayton’s only focus is you—your body, your laugh, the way you gasp his name when his fingers finally slide where you need them most.

[wannabehockeygf]

ju please write more soft toddler dad clayton pkeas splsepl please pleaseplspls👀🧎‍♂️

this is longggg but enjoy! boy/girl twins :)

the house rules, as clayton announces them at least twice a week, are very clear. bedtime is bedtime. the big bed is for mommy and daddy. the twins sleep in their big-kid beds like big kids, all night, no exceptions. he says this with his chest puffed out, arms crossed, dimple on full display, while your daughter pats his cheek with her tiny hand and says, “okay dada,” in that sugary little voice, and your son nods so seriously his whole body wobbles. and then, without fail, at some hour of the night that belongs to no civilized human being, there is the sound of two sets of little feet on the hallway floor, a door creaking, and the world’s most pathetic whispered negotiation conducted entirely in baby talk at the foot of your bed.

“dada. dada. dada, up.” your daughter’s whisper is not a whisper. it is a full-volume statement delivered at close range, because toddlers do not understand inside voices no matter how many times you model them. she stands there clutching her stuffed bunny by one ear, blanket dragging on the floor like a wedding train, curls a mess, cheeks warm from sleep.

beside her, her brother has his thumb in his mouth and his other hand raised in a tiny wave, and when you crack one eye open he whispers, “hi mama,” like he’s genuinely delighted you exist, and that’s it, that’s the whole con. they don’t even have to try anymore.

“no, buddy,” clayton mumbles into his pillow, one arm already reaching out on instinct. “big-kid bed, remember? we talked about this. big talk. handshake and everything.” your son takes this seriously for approximately four seconds, then lifts his little foot and rests it on the mattress like a sailor claiming new land.

“one foot,” clayton warns. the second foot comes up. “two feet. okay, that’s—hey.” and then your daughter does the thing that ends every negotiation before it starts: she rests her chin on the edge of the mattress, blinks her enormous eyes, and says, “snuggle dada. pease. pease dada,” and clayton, a professional athlete who body-checks grown men for a living, makes a sound like a dying accordion and folds like a beach chair.

“fine. fine! come on, come up here, you little manipulators.” he hauls them both up and over the mountain of duvet, grunting dramatically, “oh my god, you’re huge, when did you get so huge, you weigh a thousand pounds,” while they shriek with laughter and immediately begin rearranging his body to suit their purposes.

your daughter wedges herself directly against his chest, bunny squashed between them, and announces, “warm.” your son performs a full log-roll over clayton’s legs to land in the space between you and him, settles his head on clayton’s shoulder, and sighs the deepest, most contented sigh ever produced by a person three feet tall. “goo night,” he tells the ceiling. it is two in the morning. he has been asleep for four hours. he is simply saying it again, for the record.

clayton finds your eyes over the top of your son’s head in the dark, and even mostly asleep you can see him smiling, that soft helpless one. “don’t,” he whispers. “don’t look at me like that. i had rules. i said the thing about the rules.”

“you said the thing about the rules,” you agree, and his hand finds your hip across their little bodies, thumb rubbing slow circles on your skin, because even with two toddlers reconstructing the bed like tiny hostile architects, some part of him always has to be touching you. “you’re a pushover, clay.”

“i am not a pushover.” your daughter nods off mid-sentence against his chest, one fist curled in his shirt, and his voice drops to the softest register he owns. “i’m a sucker. there’s a difference. pushovers don’t know they’ve lost. i know. i see it happening. i lose on purpose.”

he presses a kiss to the top of her head, then leans over and presses one to your forehead too, because everyone in this bed gets one, that’s the policy. “they get it from you, you know. the eyes. the whole—” he gestures vaguely at your face with the hand not anchored around your son. “the weapon. i never had a chance.”

the mornings are chaos in a way you wouldn’t trade for anything. whoever wakes first usually does so because a small elbow has connected with their ribs or, on truly special days, because someone is sitting on clayton’s head bouncing gently and saying, “dada wake up. dada. dada, sun’s out. dada, pancapes.”

pancakes are a whole thing in this house. your son learned the word before he learned most others and deploys it like a magic spell—he’ll toddle into the kitchen at seven a.m., look up at clayton with pure faith, and say, “dada pancapes?” and clayton, who once set off the smoke alarm making toast, looks at you over his head with an expression of pure panic and whispers, “baby. babe, he’s asking me. he thinks i can do it.”

“you can do it,” you say, sipping your coffee, because watching clayton attempt domestic tasks is your favorite free entertainment. he ends up with batter on his forehead, and the twins sit side by side in their booster chairs providing a running commentary that is mostly just the word “pancapes” repeated with rising urgency.

when he finally slides a lopsided, slightly too-dark pancake onto your daughter’s plate, she gasps like he’s produced a miracle, claps her sticky hands, and yells, “tank you dada! best best BEST,” and clayton turns to you with his whole chest puffed out, batter on his face, eyes shining, and mouths, best. she said best.

you don’t even bother hiding your laugh behind your mug. your son demands his pancake be cut into “triangles, not squares, triangles,” which he pronounces “fwy-angles,” and clayton takes this request dead seriously, tongue between his teeth, cutting with surgical focus like it’s a game-seven play.

hockey is a religion in this house practiced primarily by tiny devotees. the twins have mini jerseys with their daddy’s number, worn approximately six days a week, and when clayton’s games are on tv they stand directly in front of the screen—blocking the entire view, always, no matter how many times you move them—pointing and yelling “dada! dada dada dada!” at every single player on the ice, because at two, every hockey player is dada.

“that one’s not dada,” you say from the couch, your daughter parked on your chest like a parrot, sucking juice from her cup. “that one’s uncle logan, baby.” she considers this, then points at the opposing goalie and says with total confidence, “dada,” and logan faceplants on the next play and you laughs so hard she bounces. “okay,” you wheeze, wiping your eyes, kissing her curls, “okay, that one’s dada. sure. anything you say.”

your son’s devotion takes a different form. he carries around a little plastic hockey stick everywhere, including to bed, including to the grocery store, including into the bathtub until you confiscate it, and he’ll set up “nets” using laundry baskets and then coach himself in a language all his own. “goal. GOAL. dada, goal, did see? did see it?”

he needs clayton to have seen it. nothing counts until dada has seen it. clayton will drop everything—phone call, shoe half-tied, coffee mid-sip—to whirl around and yell “I SAW IT! WHAT A GOAL! YOU’RE UNBELIEVABLE!” arms up, and your son does his celebration run through the living room, knees high, chanting “go go go go,” and your daughter claps for him from wherever she’s been narrating her stuffed bunny’s day, because she doesn’t know what’s happening but clapping anyways.

the twin thing still gets you both. they have conversations with each other that no adult can parse, long and involved, conducted in overlapping baby babble with real conviction, faces close together, occasionally pausing so one can solemnly hand the other a cheerio, sealing some agreement only they understand.

your daughter will come to you and deliver a full report of something her brother did, gesturing, dramatic, entirely unintelligible, ending with a firm “yeah?” seeking your agreement, and you’ll nod, “yeah, totally, i know exactly what you mean,” and she’ll nod back, satisfied, and pat your leg twice like a tiny colleague closing a meeting.

clayton watches all of this with his chin propped on his fist, eyes gone soft and far away, and later, when the house is finally quiet, he’ll wrap around you in what’s left of the bed and mumble into your neck, “we made those. we literally made two entire people. and they’re, like, funny. they’re funny and smart and they have your eyes and—do you think they know how much i love them? like do they know? i need them to know.”

“clay. they know.”

“but do they, though.”

bedtime is its own three-act play. bath first, which means the bathroom sounds like a disaster, clayton on his knees in a puddle of water working shampoo through two heads while they take turns pouring water on his shirt, “accidentally,” giggling like it’s the peak of comedy every single time.

“oh, wow. wow. soaked again. how does this keep happening to me,” he says flatly, dripping, and your son pats his soaked shoulder kindly and says, “s’okay dada. dry soon,” and clayton has to turn away and breathe because he can’t laugh at the joke and be mad about the shirt at the same time and the whiplash is killing him.

then pajamas, which is a wrestling event—your daughter goes rigid as a board when she doesn’t want her arms in the sleeves, full starfish, and clayton negotiates with her like she’s holding hostages: “okay. okay, what do we want. what will it take. one more book? fine. two? you’re bleeding me dry here, sweetheart”

the current record for “one more book” is nine, and clayton does all the voices, commits fully to the voices, the dragon gets a whole personality, and when you pass the door and hear him doing a gravelly “well HELLO, little rabbit,” with genuine theatrical flair while your daughter stares at him with naked adoration, you have to press your hand over your mouth so your laughing doesn’t ruin the ambiance.

and then, the finale, the event you both pretend to be surprised by: the dark, the monitor, the quiet, and then, hours later, the pitter-patter. sometimes they come separately, one scout first—usually your son, standing at your side of the bed this time, breathing his warm little toddler breath on your face until you wake with a heart attack and a “mama. bad dream. small one. tiny dream,” which apparently requires immediate transport to the big bed.

sometimes they come as a unit, holding hands through the dark hallway so nobody gets lost, dragging their blankets, and honestly, watching them stagger in together like the world’s smallest, most dedicated humans, you’ve given up on pretending your heart doesn’t fold in half.

“dada,” your daughter whispers, right at his ear, because subtlety is dead. “move. need spot.”

“there’s no spot,” clayton lies, eyes closed, already scooting. “daddy’s bed is full. totally full.” she considers this, then climbs onto his back, settles there like a tiny queen on a very tired horse, and says, “now there spot,” and he groans, he complains, he says every single night that this is the last time, that tomorrow they’re building a wall, that he’s putting his foot down—and his foot has never once gone down, not once, not ever, because his daughter sighs and melts into him the second she’s where she wants to be and his son hums a little sleepy song into his shoulder and honestly, what’s he supposed to do. be strong? against this?

“they’ve ruined our bed,” he murmurs to you across their sleeping bodies, but his hand slides over your son’s back to reach you, fingers lacing through yours on the mattress, and his voice has no complaint in it at all. “completely ruined it. there’s a foot in my kidney. i think i’m being headbutted. your daughter stole my pillow forty minutes ago and i let her keep it.”

“your daughter,” you whisper back, and he squeezes your hand, and in the dark you can see the shape of his smile.

“yeah,” he says softly, looking down at the two of them, the wild curls and the fists curled in his shirt and the bunny and the plastic hockey stick your son somehow smuggled in again, wedged between them like the third twin. “mine. ours. both of ‘em.”

he leans his head back, closes his eyes, one baby on his chest, one hand holding yours, and exhales like the luckiest man alive. you fall asleep like that, all four of you in the big bed that was only ever going to be a suggestion, to the sound of small breathing and clayton’s heartbeat under your daughter’s ear, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand until he drifts off too, a soft, wrecked, happy man, exactly where he wants to be.

[scelebrini]

hey! babes you’re out here doing the lord’s work. your writing is impeccable and lord knows i love a submissive man <3

anyhowwww i saw you added ryan leonard to your list and i got cookin. could you write one where reader is friends with benefits with ryan and he’s upset (about something idk) and needs comfort, but he’s scared to open up to her because they’re supposed to be a casual hookup thing?

(& then when he does finally break down in front of reader, she just loves on him and kisses it better.) it can be a little spicy/smutty too if you want, I love some feel better sex. hope that made sense/wasn’t too long, take as much time & creative freedom as you will!

<3 ~ mitsy or caf ☕️

RL9.||ryan leonard.

fluff.

ryan cries to his fwb.

“hi ryan,” I said softly, pushing open his bedroom door. He had texted me about twenty minutes ago asking me to come over, and without a second thought, I had immediately gotten into my car and driven across town.

“hi,” he replied in a tone I had never heard from him before. We usually kept things casual—mostly hooking up, occasionally grabbing brunch, or just passing the time. But I had never seen him look so utterly defeated.

“what’s wrong?” I asked, lingering near the foot of his bed.

He just shrugged, his shoulders heavy. “bad day,” he muttered.

I nodded, noting the tight, defensive set of his jaw. “you told me to come over,” I prompted gently, climbing onto the mattress and moving to sit beside him. My hand instinctively slid across his stomach, but he immediately caught my wrist and pushed it away.

“don’t want to have sex,” he said, biting his lip nervously, refusing to meet my eyes.

I pulled my hand back, blinking in surprise, though my confusion quickly melted into concern. “okay, that’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I called you. I just... I wanted to be with somebody,” he murmured, staring down and anxiously fidgeting with his fingers.

“don’t be sorry, it’s okay,” I said, shifting closer to rub a soothing circle into his arm.

“it’s just... you’re kind of the closest person that I have here who won’t judge me, and I just wanted some comfort.” His voice cracked sharply on the last word, and my stomach dropped as I watched his eyes well up with heavy tears.

“oh, ryan, come here,” I whispered, opening my arms and pulling him against my chest. He broke down completely, burying his face in my shoulder as silent sobs wracked his frame. I held him tight, pressing soft kisses to his hair and murmuring that everything was going to be okay.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out between breaths, his hands clutching weakly at the fabric of my shirt. “you thought I called you here for sex, and now I’m just... I’m just sitting here crying.”

“no, ryry , it’s okay. Listen to me,” I said, pulling back just enough to look into his tear-stained face, my hands framing his cheeks. “I don’t just see you as sex. You’re so much more than that to me.”

His breath hitched at the words, and a fresh wave of emotion crossed his features before he buried his face in my neck again. I wrapped my arms securely around his waist, rubbing his back in slow, rhythmic circles.

I gently rocked us from side to side, whispering sweet nothings into his hair, letting him lean all his heavy weight against me until the storm of his emotions finally began to pass.

We stayed like that for a long time in the quiet room, the tension slowly draining out of his muscles. When he was finally ready, he pulled back, wiping his palms awkwardly over his face.

I reached up, my thumb gently brushing away the lingering moisture from his cheeks, before leaning in to place a tender, lingering kiss on his lips. He sat in the quiet aftermath, just looking at me with a soft, bewildered vulnerability in his eyes.

“thank you,” he said softly, his voice still rough and laced with lingering nerves.

I smiled, offering him a reassuring squeeze of his hand. “you’re welcome, ryan. I’ll always be here for you.”

A small, genuine smile finally touched the corners of his mouth, and he nodded, visibly lighter. “let’s get something to eat,” he suggested, his stomach letting out a small rumble that broke the remaining tension.

“sounds like a plan,” I said, standing up and holding out my hand to pull him up with me.

i’m horrible at titles if you couldn’t tell.

[groovyangelkisses]

trying to fall asleep next to pope, but you’re totally tossing and turning. his heavy frame is pressed to your back… now your arm…. now your tummy as you flip sides and angles. frustrated, exhausted, restless.

andrew breathes heavily through his nose, trying to quell his frustrations as you flounder around your bed. your whimpers of annoyance mix with the grating whine of lack of comfort, and your pout grows tenfold as you settle on your side once again. tears build as you nuzzle into the pillow; it’s just one of those nights where sleep seems as far as possible, and you wish pope were up with you to chat.

but you can’t wake him, the poor thing never sleeps already. which is why you jump a bit when a big, veiny hand comes to rest on your cocked hip; sliding down to sink his fingers into the plush skin of your waist that’s pressing into the bed. one heavy flex of his arm around your tummy and he’s pulling you closer to him with a huff.

his warm chest slides perfectly against your back, and you let out a deep breath of relaxation. feet stretching and calves flexing as your body expels the extra sleepless energy, andrew’s hand is lightly gripping your jaw with a soothing rub. “‘s time to sleep, sweetheart.”

slipping his thumb into your mouth and resting the thick digit on the middle of your tongue. you suckle and sigh, finally placated from your extra movements and anxiety.

andrew is as close as possible, bare skin pressed to you with the velvet tips of his thick fingers cradling your soft face while his calloused thumb rests comfortably in your mouth <3

[pearlsteacup]

A Girl's Best Friend

fiancé!Draco Malfoy x fem!reader

fluff, slight angst

When you and Draco get into some small argument, Narcissa decides to knock some sense into her son. What? Did you really think she'd take anyone's side but yours?

CW! small couple fight, coarse language, Draco overcomes ego. Let me know if I missed anything!

This is a short one, but I love any fics with great Narcissa-reader relationships.

Masterlist

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Narcissa Malfoy loves routines. 

She loves pre-set tea-times and punctual gatherings. She loves the certainty it brings to such an uncertain existence. And she simply does not care if the snobbish pureblood ladies call her a rigid scheming bitch for it.

It’s just who she is.

So forgive her for the overwhelming concern that collects in her neck when you don’t show up that weekend. It’s practically a ritual–ever since you started dating Draco. Saturdays mean a day full of shopping and a luxurious evening dinner. Over the years, as you developed from the nervous girl Draco brought home, to his confident fiancée, she’d grown attached to it. In her mind so had you.

It must be serious if you missed it.

So, she storms into her son’s study, voice low as she says, “What did you do?”

“Mother,” Draco startles. But Narcissa is unfazed, her arms crossing over her chest.

“Why isn’t she here yet?”

He remains silent for a long moment. Then he sighs, long and full of suffering. Sounds like an argument. Narcissa is unsure whether to feel bad for her poor son, or hex him for fighting with you.

“We got into a small…disagreement,” Draco says finally. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes averting to his desk. 

“A disagreement about what?”

“It’s very petty. I don’t know why she’s gotten into such a toss about it.”

“Now, Draco.” Narcissa loves her son very much. She would die for him, it’s common knowledge. But there are some things she considers unacceptable. Which is disrespecting women, you especially.

“Have I taught you nothing?”

Draco sighs again. Narcissa softens a little. She gently rubs his shoulder, “What happened?”

“I forgot to say ‘I love you’ before leaving the apartment last Friday.”

Narcissa barely stifles a gasp. Draco casts her a look, before sinking into a wing chair. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

“Mother.”

“You better go apologize to the girl right now.”

“What? It wasn’t that ser-”

“I don’t want any of that ego, Draco.” Her tone rarely hardens around him. He scowls, but it falls flat immediately. Narcissa knows this must be hard on him. For all that pride he’s inherited, there’s only so long he can stay away from you. Only so long until his steel and porcelain crack.

She sighs this time, settling beside him.

“Verbal acknowledgements of love are very gratifying, Draco.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t take long to say three words.”

“I know.”

“And it’s obvious to anyone with…any senses, truly, that you love her.”

“I-I do.”

“And I want my best friend back.”

Draco finally meets his mother’s gaze. She sees the baffling combination of emotions ravaging through his head. She reaches over to smooth the hair on his forehead. He leans into the age-old comfort, nodding slowly.

“I’ll go talk to her.”

A beat of silence.

Then he jumps up to his feet, pulling his coat off his hanger, “I’ll go right now.”

Narcissa can’t help but smile. He can’t stay away from you for long, but sometimes, everyone needs a little guiding nudge.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

The last thing you expected to see when you opened the door was a very rain soaked Draco Malfoy.

His platinum hair drips all over the fancy wooden floors of the building. His coat is sopping, and despite the very recent argument, you are terrified your Victorian child of a fiancé will catch a cold. You tug him into the warmth of your apartment.

But you are mad at him.

So no welcome. And certainly no kiss.

“Darling.”

You don’t respond, disappearing within the depths of the house to fetch warm clothes. You hear his footsteps behind you.

What does he think? He can show up drenched in rain and just expect you to talk to him. You take your goodbyes very seriously. 

You don’t know why he didn’t apparate into the building straightaway. There’s no protective spells about it. Or why he didn’t just use your fireplace. He has done so multiple times before, of course. But then again, he’s always been dramatic.

“Y/N.” He catches hold of your wrist. The cold makes you shudder.

“Look at me.”

You turn slowly. You’re surprised he’s overcome his pride at all.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, are you?”

You free yourself from his grasp. He doesn’t resist. He runs a hand through his hair. A trait you’re so familiar with. He’s frustrated, maybe tired. You huff, annoyed. 

“I didn’t think I’d have to force you to say ‘I love you’.”

“I do say it!”

“Yeah,” you scoff, “Not everytime.”

“Merlin’s sake,” He curses, and you roll your eyes, “You and my mother have dangerously similar ideals.”

“Oh, so she put you up to this? That makes sense.”

“No, wait. Please let me-”

“Get changed, Draco.” You all but toss the clothes at him. A shirt that you had stolen from him a few weeks ago. He catches it, tossing it to the side.

Before you can react, he grabs hold of your waist, spinning you around. You let out a small yelp, but he’s down on his knees, his wet hair pressing against your abdomen. His thumbs rub slow circles over your hips. A shaky breath escapes his lips.

“I love you, Y/N.” His voice makes a shiver run down your spine. It’s soft and low, like the sound of rustling velvet. You love it so, so much. But you force your hands to stay stiff by your side.

“I love you every moment of the day, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you last week. It is utterly my fault, and it is again my fault that it took my mother for me to realise that." His head lifts to meet your gaze, “Do you understand?”

You think you might cry. Your voice trembles when you say, “Yeah. Yeah, I love you too.”

He takes your hand to press a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist, “Good. Because I do think my mother would kill me if I let you miss another weekend with her.”

You laugh at that, finally ruffling his hair like you’ve been dying to do. He scowls, but it’s playful.

“I don’t think I could live without another weekend with her,” You answer.

He lets out some sound of relief, and you giggle again, “Let’s go then.”

You grin, wild and unrestricted. 

Narcissa might just be the bestest friend a girl could ask for.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Thanks for reading!

[hockeylovers-stuff]

Maybe something with Draco Malfoy who has a fetish for lacey lingerie? Thank you so much

Green Lace - Draco Malfoy

pairing: Draco Malfoy x female reader

summary: Draco's obsessed with your lacey lingerie

CW: Smut, MDNI, lingerie fetish, rough sex, dominant Draco, praise/degradation kink.

The green lace scrap barely covers anything and Draco knows it. His eyes trace the intricate patterns as you stand before him, his fingers already twitching at his sides. The Slytherin common room is empty, firelight casting shadows across the leather couch.

"Come here," he commands, voice low and rough.

You obey, stopping between his knees where he sits on the couch. His hands immediately find your hips, thumbs stroking the delicate fabric covering them. He leans forward, pressing his face against your stomach, inhaling deeply.

"You knew I'd want this," he murmurs against your skin. "Wore it just for me, didn't you?"

His fingers trace the edges of the bralette, following the scalloped lace where it cups your breasts. The touch is light, almost reverent, but you know better. This is just the beginning.

"Answer me," he demands, looking up with silver eyes darkened with desire.

"Always," you breathe. "Always for you."

Draco's smile is sharp as he pulls you down onto his lap. The lace scrapes against his trousers, and he groans at the friction. His mouth finds yours, hungry and demanding. One hand stays on your hip, gripping the lace panties, while the other moves up to tangle in your hair.

"God, I love this," he pants between kisses. "Love feeling it while I'm inside you."

He shifts you, positioning you so you're straddling him. His erection presses against you through his clothes, and you grind down, earning another guttural sound from his throat.

"Patience," he warns, though his hips buck upward. "I want to enjoy this first."

His fingers dip below the waistband of the panties, tracing your folds but not entering. The lace pushes against his hand as you squirm, desperate for more. He chuckles, enjoying your desperation.

"Needy, are we?" he teases, withdrawing his hand. "Not yet. First, I want you just like this."

With a flick of his wand, both of your clothes vanish except for the lingerie. The sudden exposure makes you gasp, but Draco's attention is fixed on the lace still clinging to your skin. He lifts you slightly, positioning himself at your entrance.

"Look at me," he commands. "I want to watch your face when I enter you."

You obey, locking eyes with him as he slowly lowers you onto his length. The lace of the panties stretches uncomfortably between you, but Draco doesn't seem to mind. In fact, his eyes roll back at the sensation.

"Fuck," he groans. "The lace… it's…"

He can't finish, too lost in sensation as he begins to move. Each thrust pushes the lace against both of you, creating an exquisite friction that has you crying out. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he sets a punishing rhythm.

"You feel so good like this," he pants, forehead pressed against yours. "All dressed up for me, taking my cock while wearing this pretty lace."

The words send a fresh wave of arousal through you. Draco notices, of course he does, and his mouth curls into a smirk.

"Like that, don't you? Like when I talk about how you look in this lace? How I can't wait to ruin it, fill you up while you're still wearing it?"

His pace quickens, hips snapping upward with increasing urgency. The lace bites into your skin now, a delicious counterpoint to the pleasure building inside you. One hand moves from your hip to your clit, rubbing in tight circles through the soaked fabric.

"Come for me," he demands, voice ragged. "Come all over me while wearing this lace. Show me how much you love it too."

The command sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you, muscles clamping down around him as you cry out his name. Draco follows moments later, his body tensing as he spills into you, his face buried in your neck.

For a moment you both stay still, breathing heavily in the aftermath. Then he's lifting you, laying you back against the couch cushions. His eyes trace the disheveled lace, now stretched and damp with your combined release.

"Ruined," he murmurs with satisfaction. "Perfect."

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Next time, I'm buying you the white set. The one from that shop in Hogsmeade. Want to see how it looks when I take you from behind."