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@peter-beter-barker is my main blog *[18+]* CAUTION: Please be aware of possibly triggering content on this blog. All fics are tagged to the best of my ability.

[noglimpseofvisualaid]

all these faces, all this fun is overrated ▸ college!matt murdock x reader

[ao3]

summary: If you were finally going to allow yourself Matt—allow the indulgence that had you burning for him day after day, night after night—you quickly came to the realization that it would be now. It would be tonight. And it would be before there was any chance you could talk yourself out of it. warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI bc oh god is this smutty. banter as foreplay, mutual pining, matt's an established whore, slightly buzzed but otherwise consenting adults, the porn that grew feelings, fingering (f!receiving), grinding, heavy petting, unintentional edging (if you squint), oral (f!receiving), matt has an oral fixation (if you really squint), unprotected piv sex, creampie(s), overstimulation, general filth, and feelings did I say feelings yet | afab!reader wc: ...28,463 a/n: after god knows how long (3 weeks! sob!) i finally finished this fic. first, it was around 5k and I was like okay! it's taking a bit to get to the vision. then it hit 9k and I went oops okay so this is getting pretty long. next thing i knew, i wasn't writing the fic anymore, it was writing me, and i was just the vessel it chose to get it out onto the internet. that being said, i swear this was literally originally supposed to be like a 3k filth oneshot based off that gd MSI song that went with that tiktok trend bc i couldn't get it out of my head. the exact vibes were lost in the feelings and plot that slapped me across the face, but i ripped the title from it in honour of this fic's humble beginnings. i worked so hard on what is actually like. my first full blown smutty fic ever so. please, i hope everyone enjoys!

It wasn’t fair of you to say Foggy had convinced you to come to this party. That would be giving him too much credit. You did make him beg first.

The worst part was that you unfortunately understood why he was so insistent. That between mid-term preparations, the job you worked to pay for your off-campus apartment, and the fact that it'd take counting more than your fingers—you would need not just another set of hands, but maybe also some feet to accurately portray the amount of days last since you’d been able to spend any time doing anything you wanted—the accusation that you were beyond stressed couldn’t be dismissed without its rightful merits.

But agreeing with him hadn’t been enough to breach your resolve. You and Foggy Nelson had two different definitions when it came to the word ‘break’. Relief came to you in the quiet moments where there was no work to be done; in the time you spent doing what you wanted, or simply in some much neglected self-care. Foggy found his in letting loose with cheap alcohol and loud music, seeking out the right environments to safely let his frustrations and stress shake free until the burden felt lifted. You had originally shot back that you couldn’t afford the headache. Or the hangover. He retorted simply that you were too tense and probably needed to get laid. Maybe you were and maybe you did. You weren’t going to give him that satisfaction simply because it hadn’t been enough to sway your decision.

Then came the preceding week leading up to it, and Foggy's asks became teasingly persistent. The simple yes or no question of whether or not you'd go evolving into increasingly persuasive reasons he thought you should: There'd be non-alcoholic drinks. The house was big enough to have more than enough rooms to duck away and hide in. If you weren’t vibing, there would be no one forcing you to stay. He was your friend and would promise not to leave you alone and that he just wanted to see you have some fun before exams beat both of your asses.

Your ‘no’s’ had become hesitant over time, the reasons against why you shouldn't go quickly being overshadowed by the fact that you not only had the day off from your job the next evening, but also only one afternoon class to worry about. Not to mention that Foggy Nelson had a charm that made it nearly impossible to argue against—that being the tough to swallow truth that he was usually always annoyingly right. 

You began to realize that maybe a party wouldn't be too bad. Maybe it'd be good to be in a place that wasn't your apartment, workplace, or lecture halls. Maybe it'd be good to interact with people other than your friend, even if it was stupid and drunken conversations you might not even remember. Maybe it'd be good to flirt around because he damn sure hit the nail on the head when it came to clocking the pent up sexual frustration you’ve been trying to ignore.

He knew he got you when he’d cornered you in the campus library the day before the party, both hands down on the table in front of you, a mischievous grin glinting against the blue in his eyes and the words ‘Matt will be there’ coming out teasing and far more knowing than you appreciated. You had rolled your eyes, shut your book, and turned to leave him behind before he could only add the flush that quickly rose to your cheeks as fuel to the fire. But it had been no use—he'd caught up to you in no time, matching your step in stride and launching into a victorious animated speech, the sound ringing louder than it had any right to be in his voice. 

“Party starts at seven, but we won't be there until nine or so. I'll text you the address. Wear something comfy. I'm so down to fist fight any weirdos or creeps to defend your honor. And oh! Put on that really subtle perfume Matt likes, he'll go crazy.”

And it didn’t matter how long you’d spent your time getting ready grumbling about Foggy’s audacity. In the end, he had won. In the end, it only took a quick glance at your phone to make sure you were in the right place. In the end, it was now nine-forty at night and you were standing in front of the door that separated you from the party already in full swing inside. 

You didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that the mention of Matt Murdock was the icepick stabbed into the glass that shattered every defense and half-assed excuse that had you stalling your answer for the better part of a week. In defense of your say in the matter, you refused to give any more ammunition to Foggy. The fact that he had not only already picked up on the almost ridiculous sized crush you had on his best friend, but was more than willing to weaponize it against you kept you reeled in, in spite of his unsuccessful attempts. Why he thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to get together, you would never know. Between Matt’s well-known revolving door of commitment issues, and the promise you made to yourself to not to fuck around with anyone not worth it for the long haul, it didn’t matter how attractive you found him: Matt Murdock would be nothing but trouble.

That being said, you told yourself you dug that perfume out from where you’d misplaced it among your other products because you liked it, and not at all because the thought of giving the blind man something else to recognize you by made your chest tighten with a theoretical satisfaction. 

Just as you were telling yourself he had no sway over why you were currently twisting the knob to the front door. You wanted to be there. Have a couple of drinks, relax, and have some of the fun you’d been putting on the back burner for the last month and a half. And if you also had a chance to check Matt out and fantasize about a couple of things, then hey, you were supposed to enjoy yourself tonight anyway.

It was the music that hit you first. Loud, catchy, and with enough bass to remind you of sitting front row during your high school’s orchestra performances whenever the brass sections would be featured, but amped up to twenty. You were already buzzing out of your skin and the door had barely shut behind you. Casting your sight out, you noticed a couple of people you didn’t know wave at your arrival, and you managed to give a polite smile as you began to weave yourself through the crowd of moving bodies. If the outside was anything to go off of, Foggy had been right; this place was huge. You had entered a foyer that opened up to a hall that connected its adjoining rooms with large marble arches that gave the impression of distinction, but allowed for direct sightlines from the hall, living, and dining rooms. All of which were packed to the brim with both people you recognize from and around Columbia, and other faces you wouldn’t even begin to try to remember. You made a mental note to ask Foggy who was throwing this party and if they were a rich socialite or what. 

It was warm, despite your notice of the window air conditioner units and box fans set up in every room you shimmied through, passing through people dancing and chatting. All things considered, with the amount of bodies in the building, the machines were working overtime to keep it as comfortable as it was. The air was thick with that heat as well as the faint smell of weed and heavy fog of alcohol that mingled in every breath you took. Interestingly enough, through the initial overwhelm and nervous jitters, you felt yourself beginning to relax. There were no expectations here. No deadlines, or professors, or bosses. Just the inviting thrum of the music, the beckoning call of a cold drink, and the thought of just maybe being able to let off some steam. 

You followed the trail some people holding cups left, navigating to where you could only hope had a path to a kitchen, passing a flight of stairs that looked like it led up to a hall with an endless amount of rooms until you pushed open a double-action door that revealed a large tiled kitchen. Your eyes scanned over the buffet of chips, finger foods, and other junk meant to be enjoyed before cholesterol caught up in old age spread out appeasingly on an island counter until they swept the room, catching on the stainless steel of the refrigerator. It wasn’t until you were contemplating your choices, bent over to gaze at your pick of poisons, that you realized you weren’t exactly sure what you were looking to get out of the night. So until you figured it out, you were satisfied with grabbing a bottle of water, grateful for something cold and crisp as you shut the fridge, shuffled out of the way so the other people filtering in and out would have room, and leant against the counter, taking a few sips as you pulled your phone from your pocket.

Shooting Foggy a quick message letting him know you made it there easily enough, you sighed into your surroundings, closing your eyes while you tracked the next gulp of water travel through you, welcoming the chill down your spine and the clarity it brought to your mind as you thought. You truly weren’t sure what you were expecting out of your showing up. Having some fun, of course. But when it came down to it, that was only a base level goal. You had options: you could dance until your feet fell off. Drink enough to feel bold and weightless and have to come back to pick up your car in the morning. Do something stupid with someone pretty. You pursed your lips—you could do all of the above.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard.” Your head jerked up at the sound of Foggy’s voice, bottle halfway to your lips before you swiveled to see him holding open the door for someone exiting the kitchen as he came in. His smile was infectious, and you felt one mirroring in your own features as a gentle relief filled you, the distant memory of his promise to not leave you alone and enjoy the night with you echoing faintly and you were grateful to have a friend like him as he hopped over to you, swinging the door to the fridge open and pulling out two beers from a brand you didn’t recognize. “What happened to giving that hard-working brain a rest?”

“This hard-working brain needs to form a gameplan, Fog.” You laughed, finishing up your water as he crossed the room, held out a bottle to you and settled into a spot next to your side. “Figure out what I should expect.”

He frowned playfully, poking your shoulder with a firm finger, “You,” his opening statement was emphasised by a wiggle against your arm, “shouldn’t expect anything. You’ve made it to this cool party, so now enjoy the party! Do what you feel is right! Go with the flow! What do you wanna do?”

“Not sure.” You answer honestly, shaking your head with a light chuckle, twisting off the cap to the beer and taking a tentative sip. The taste had you second-guessing whether you should drink it at all, but it was beer and it would get the job done. “What’s going on around here?”

Foggy sighed, following your actions and shrugging. You noticed the pink dotting his face, the tenseness already gone from his shoulders. He’s barely been there more than a half-hour before you arrived, yet he already looked incredibly care-free. Maybe you really should take notes. “Nothing much upstairs, since those are all the bedrooms. Mainly dancing and stuff out there. There’s a few card tables set up on the patio by the pool if strip poker and skinny dipping appeal to you at all.” You snorted into your drink, raising your eyebrows as he continued. “I was planning on heading back down to the basement—bringing you with me, of course.”

“What’s down there?” You groaned slightly as you stood back up straight, the tension you carried yourself cruelly making itself aware in a threatening tease, and followed the nod of Foggy’s head and his lead as the both of you crossed the threshold back into the main party. He raised his voice so you could hear him over the noise. 

“Well for starters, it’s so much quieter. Matt basically made a beeline when he realized he could go down there. But it’s also just chill. Hangout space, mostly. Couple of games going, few joints being passed around, but nothing you don’t have to join if you don’t want.”

You hummed an acknowledging reply as he led you back to the stairs that led to the second floor, and to a door just to the side of them you hadn’t noticed your first go around. You swallowed hard as you descended behind Foggy, shutting the door behind you and feeling for the railing even though the light above the stairs was bright enough for you to see your way. An excitement rose in the pit of your stomach, giddy and childish, at the thought of seeing Matt down there, but you squashed it down just as fast as it came, the words ridiculous and get yourself together slapping across it and you found yourself dragging another mouthful of beer in the moment your feet landed on the basement floor as a means to prime yourself for whatever the night held for you. 

The basement was dimly lit, well furnished, and while still moderately packed, incredibly calmer than the first floor. Most noticeably, it was quieter—quiet enough that a small speaker was able to softly play its own music, a smooth R&B playlist going on to filter in with the background noise of chatter, footsteps thumping from above, and the amicable laughing from the apparent groups of friends clumping together in the space. You started to sweep over the room before you realized that Foggy was moving without you and you wasted no time catching up, trailing behind him until you reached a couple of couches pressed up against the corner. There were a few seats left, one of which Foggy didn’t hesitate taking next to Matt, flopping down onto the couch with a pleased noise that had to be exaggerated, or else that had to be the comfiest couch in existence. 

Your chest tightened for a moment, heart doing a flip in your chest at the sight of him. Matt, with an easy smile on his lips, drink in hand, dark lenses over his eyes, and unbuttoned shirt over a thin white tee. Once upon a time, you balked at Foggy’s confrontation about how you felt about Matt, your instinct to deny, not willing to believe you were that obvious. But as you stood just off to the side of the couch, your eyes shamelessly lingering where his shirt stretched across his chest, almost tight enough to map out the shape of his pecs underneath, and trailing up his neck, you knew for damn sure you were as obvious as fire truck sirens in a burning city—even when your blatant staring led your gaze to where that easy smile was pointed in the direction of a pretty brunette on his other side. Well, you thought mournfully to yourself and pointedly looked away when her eyes flickered to yours, a look of wanting all too familiar on her face because you’ve caught it too often on your own, definitely still attractive. 

Huffing a sigh, you go to take the seat next to Foggy with plans to rest against the arm of the couch and sink into it much like him, but as you approached, you just barely caught the way Foggy’s eyes shifted from you, to Matt, and to the seat you were turning to take before an all too impish smile accompanied the way he suddenly slid into the corner seat and patted the cushion next to him. You stalled for just a moment, surprised betrayal dropping your jaw as Foggy tried to hide his content smile behind a non-chalant sip of beer.

“Gonna sit?” Foggy couldn’t help himself, and you shot him the dirtiest glare you could muster in the split second you had before your loitering would become awkward and you turned to sit in the last spot available to you. Next to Foggy, but also, very purposely—and you would be sure to harbor this grudge as leverage against him for however long you could get away with—next to Matt. 

“Remind me to pencil killing you into my schedule for next week.” You hissed as you sat down, indignation stuttering as in fact, the couch was incredibly comfortable. But your point had been made, you couldn’t enjoy the nice fluffy couch, and Foggy cackled next to you as you were slowly made all too aware of the fact that if you shifted over even slightly, you’d be brushing up against Matt’s side. He has to be trying to make you suffer, you were sure of it. This wasn’t clumsy matchmaking, this was psychological torture. 

Foggy laughed again, louder, when you kicked his leg softly out of the way so you could adjust in your spot. “I’m a little busy then. Do you mind pushing my murder back a few weeks?” 

“Extensions are only for friends who aren’t also trying to kill me.” 

“I literally have no clue what you’re talking about,” He sang under his breath, blissful and entirely perceptive to the way you choked the neck of your bottle.

“Your days are numbered, Nelson. Count them.”

“Who’s committing murder?” 

You jumped at the sound of Matt’s voice, and you turned your head to see his head turned toward you and Foggy. A playful smile tugged his lips as he tilted his face, and your name passed through them in a quiet question; a gentle wonder if he was addressing the right person, and you suddenly felt horrible for not letting him know you were there first. If your offered greeting was sheepish and soft, it was only because you held yourself up to a higher standard. Not at all because you watched Matt lean in ever so slightly, as if being closer could help him discern you. 

“Hi.” His smile widened at the sound of your voice, and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped in your chest. 

“Hi.” You returned, unable to help the smile of your own as your eyes quickly darted around his face. It wasn’t like it had been an eternity since you’ve last seen him—being friends with Foggy more often than not meant hanging out with him also meant hanging out with Matt—but it was always nice to check the mental boxes of what made this man so appealing to you. The crinkles by his eyes when he smiled like that. The way his hair swept down onto his face. The fullness of his pink lips. When you felt yourself staring, your heart beginning to race, you cleared your throat and took another sip from your bottle. 

Matt shifted next to you, angling himself closer as he adjusted on the couch. Curious, knowing he was talking to someone, you glanced over his shoulder to find his other side empty. 

“Where’d your friend go?” The question came out before you even thought about it, borne of both a curiosity and masochistic urge to know, and you quickly found her retreating body settling down in a group of people sitting in what looked like a circle on the floor a few yards away. 

Matt’s brow twitched before he sighed, shrugging his shoulders like dismissing beautiful women was a simple pastime he couldn’t be bothered with. “Ah, it wasn’t going anywhere, so I told her she should go enjoy herself.” 

“Oh, let me tell you, she wanted it to go somewhere.” You scoffed against the glass, remembering the look of desire you caught. A little while longer, if you didn’t interrupt, and she might have gotten it. A sliver of green jealousy you couldn’t help rose at the mental image of Matt between her legs—or anyone else's, for that matter—but you quickly stomped that down into the closest recess of your mind you could manage. It would be helping no one, and certainly not you, for you to unpack any of that.

“I know,” Matt said airly, deep breath filling his lungs before letting his head and voice dip toward you. “But you’re here now, and I enjoy talking to you much more.”

You stared Matt down, keeping a straight face your only defense to the way his voice shot straight through you. It was hard to tell if there was an implication he ended that conversation for you or if you were simply losing it. So you ignored the way you felt heat stir in the pit of your belly, ignored the way Matt seemed to wait for you expectantly, head cocked and smile turned teasing, ignored the way Foggy shook silently with laughter next to you—you could handle it. So he wanted to flirt. He’s done this before. You do it too. Yeah…you can handle it.

“Sure you do.” Flippantly, you hummed, and Matt’s leg brushed against yours as he shifted to prop his head up on his hand, elbow on the back of the couch. A tingle washed over you then, light and full of a crackling potential, before it dissipated across the surface of your skin. “You should say goodbye to Foggy, by the way. He might not be here in a few days.”

“Should you be confessing ideals of premeditated crime to me?”

“Oh this isn't a confession. It’s a statement. I’m just telling you everything so there’s no surprises during the trial. Which, you’ll be representing me, of course, Counsellor.”

Matt grinned. “I don’t know, I haven’t quite passed the bar yet. Besides, I might be biased. Considering he’s my best friend and all. Lines get even blurrier when you take into account my prior knowledge of this first-degree murder. I’ll have you know, by telling me this, I’m well within my moral means to stop you.”

You raised your drink, letting the invitation of the alcohol spur you on as it warmed your body. Despite yourself, you were having fun, honeying your words as excitement thrummed through you. “Go ahead.” Slyly, you lowered your voice. “Stop me.”

Admittedly, watching Matt’s reaction did more to you than you thought it would. He paused just for a moment, sitting in the weight of your statement before he wet his lips—an action you followed all too closely—and brought his own bottle up to his mouth, smirk hiding around the edges. You watched the way his throat worked down his drink, unable to stop the thoughts of wanting to kiss down the motion. You knew he couldn’t see, yet it seemed that behind those dark frames, he was fixed entirely onto you. 

Desire loomed just under your skin, itching to strike flint against the kindling, but you were quick to abate. Teasing was fun, but you had to remind yourself that that’s all it was: teasing. For as much as you wanted to grab Matt Murdock’s face and make out with him on his lap right there on the couch, or drag him out to your car and lead him to your apartment, party be damned, you also couldn’t bring yourself to do anything you would regret. And Matt, in all his bed-warming glory, would be something you’d regret. One fun night wouldn’t dull the ache you felt in foolishly wanting to be something more, something meaningful with him. Exclusivity wasn’t a word he knew. Or at least one frequently honoured, if you pieced anything about him together correctly.

A flicker of embarrassment wasn’t the only thing that warmed your face as you sat back against the couch, dropping your head and letting your eyes flutter shut against the picture of the ceiling, but it was what you focused on as you let out a deep breath. Maybe it was silly of you, to want a relationship. You definitely felt silly, knowing that most of your peers—including the ones at this party—most likely weren’t looking for anything serious. It was hard enough, getting into Columbia. And working during your graduate program on top of that…no wonder short-term flings or one night stands were so popular. And as worked up as you were, however tempted you might get, you told yourself you weren’t looking for throwaway easy stress relief. At least, not with Matt. Briefly, you contemplated if you would go home with someone tonight, someone you wouldn’t have to remember the name of, or face again in your small circle of friends. Someone just to help ease the ache that always grew tenfold whenever you let Matt get to you; someone to help you pretend. The thought flickered before you shook it from your mind. You frowned, feeling wrong to even be thinking about it with Matt right there, and stretching your spine as you felt Foggy bounce on the couch by your side.

“That has to be a record, you two,” Foggy threw out casually into the air. “Should I give you the couch? Clear out the basement?”

“You can keep dreaming.” You chuckled as you quickly dragged your hand down your face, sitting back up. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, face screwing up into a frown before he rolled his eyes. “So what’s the plan, gang? Getting wasted? Should we plot world domination? Or—”

“Foggy! Matt!” Your heads swivelled to the sound of the voice calling them, and you spotted a guy with cropped blond hair that’s sitting in the circle you noticed earlier waving his arms up. You didn’t know him, but obviously your friends did. “Come play with us! And bring whoever’s with you, the more people the better.”

Foggy’s face lit up. “Or we could play—”

“No.” Matt said simply.

It dimmed just as fast. 

“Why not! Don’t you wanna feel like a pre-teen again?”

You watched as Matt grimaced, but not without amusement. “Not necessarily, no. I went through enough getting to my twenties. Totally fine not participating in middle school games.”

Glancing between them, and spotting that blond man again as there was a sudden cheer from the circle, you bit the bait. “Okay, so what are they playing over there?”

“Take a guess,” Matt leaned in closer to you, and it took a decent modicum of strength not to study his profile from the angle, holding up his beer like he was scrutinizing it before you realized he was displaying it out in front of him for example. “There’s a bottle, drunk undergrads, and a closet the next room over.”

You felt a laugh bubble up from your chest as you finished off your own drink, squinting over at the circle and watching as someone from the group leant forward to spin a bottle, and two of them were ushered into another room off the basement. “Oh, that is so middle school.” 

“But it could be fun!” Foggy sighed, like he was contemplating but not quite arriving at a decision. “Besides, you don’t gotta go make out with someone. There’s like, truth or dare or something. Unless standing in a cramped space making awkward conversation is your thing.”

Rolling your eyes, you snorted. “I’ll pass.” The idea greeting you with a childish humor—alongside the gut selfish thought of how you’d be a horrible player, and would only choose the closet if that bottle landed on Matt.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed in a soft voice, and you had to tell yourself he wasn’t looking at you. He literally couldn’t. “Me too.”

“So it’s been decided.” Foggy nodded his head once, slashing his hands through the air. “World domination it is, then?”

“Think I might need another drink before I’m meant to get nefarious,” You said, leaning forward and placing your empty bottle on a small coffee table in front of you. “But by all means, where do we start?”

But when Foggy doesn’t answer you, and questioningly, you look over to see his gaze fixed on a group of people that just descended into the basement. As if sensing your question, you hear Matt’s voice close to your ear, his breath hot and low. And even though he didn't even say anything remotely sensual, the shiver that ran down your spine was imagining he did. “Think the NYU 3L’s just got here.”

“Oh no.” An oxymoron, given your grin, watching as Foggy began to frantically smooth out his shirt. “I think—” Your eyes scanned over the new heads dispersing around the room until you spotted the sway of blonde hair tied up high. “Yup, she’s here. And he’ll be gone in three, two…” 

“I um,” Foggy shot up, hands combing nervously through his hair as he turned, torn between addressing the two of you and glancing over to where Marci Stahl just sat down in the spin the bottle circle, “think I might go play afterall. I’ll just be- you know where to find me!” You and Matt erupted into laughter, cheering as Foggy stumbled his way over, hovering only long enough to strategically pick a seat before plopping himself down and sending you a thumbs up. 

“Ugh,” you groaned playfully, and it wasn’t hard to miss the way Matt stretched to rest his arm behind you when he settled back down. And you leant into it, his forearm behind your neck and his fingertips lightly grazing your shoulder in lazy passes. “Young love. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

“If growing up means Foggy still thinking there’s any way she’ll give him a shot, then sure.”

“Put that cynicism aside, Murdock.” You looked over to see his brows shoot up in amusement, then even further when you plucked his bottle out of his hand. “They’re gonna Romeo and Juliet that shit—sans poison, just you wait.”

Matt chuckled. “You can get your own beer, you know.”

“Payment.” You took a sip, watching him from the corner of your eye. “For thinking you were slick enough to pull this off.”

He pressed his fingers into your shoulder purposefully then, caressing a line where he could reach, then back up. “What, this?” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk, a flash of teeth. “Guess I’ll note that a little affection means you wouldn’t be above stealing a blind guy’s drink.”

“Yet somehow, I don’t feel bad at all.”

“Didn’t think so.” Matt shimmied in his seat, getting comfortable when he reached through the air to grab his drink back. You guided it to his hand and watched as he sighed into another swig, licking his lips again and you almost swore he bit back a low groan that still escaped, feeling a rumble where you pressed against his side, despite his effort. “Mm, I actually think you feel pretty good right now.”

“Yeah?” Nonplussed, and completely aware of how your heart beat quickly behind your ribs, “How’d you figure?”

“One can hazard a guess.” He turned toward you, and you met his face with enough conviction to try and see through the black lenses and try to get a glimpse of his eyes behind them. “But also,” he dropped his voice to a whisper as he shifted closer. You’re not sure if he knew just how close he was to your ear or not, but the heat of his words licked down your spine. “You haven’t pulled away from me yet.” 

Unable to help it, your gaze dropped to his lips as you swayed back just to breathe. He was so close to you, it would barely take anything to kiss him. A few inches forward. An upward angle of your head. And it was tempting, as you stared longer than you should have, breath catching in your lungs at how they were parted so prettily, hinging on as if on an unspoken word. Or an invitation. If this were anyone else, they probably would have clocked the intent you beat down and have done it already. But Matt couldn’t see the way your eyes darkened, or the way your chest rose and fell slightly quicker. There was always part of you that thought he had to know, or at least, in his words, be pretty spot on with his guesswork. You supposed Matt knew the effect he had on people, and how you weren’t much different.

You may have thought any different, but you apparently loved the self-punishment that came with declining his every attempt to tempt you into dark corners and private rooms, it seemed. 

“Don’t think anything of it. Just comfy.” You rolled your neck, leaning back against his arm. “Don’t need that head of yours getting any bigger.”

“Oh, but don’t you wanna see how big it can get?”

You groaned, ignoring the traitorous way your stomach fluttered at the double entendre or how the baritone of his voice travelled straight in a quick clean pulse between your legs. You would not think about the size of his dick. You would not look down at the crotch of his jeans. “You ruined it, Matt. Really. Got me going there and everything. Might’ve rerolled your chances.”

He threw his head back and laughed, deep and real. “Sure I did.”

Then, there was a silence. A moment passed between the two of you that was easy to settle in. Found in the overlap of too loud voices, the faint sounds of Mario Kart, the background beat of Frank Ocean, and the creeping alcohol flushing through your bloodstream. It made it easy then, sharing the rest of Matt’s drink and just soaking in the environment. A hum formed in the back of your throat, pleasant and almost content; and for the first time that night, you started to actually feel relaxed, tucked into Matt’s side on a comfy couch in someone’s basement. 

But the thought didn’t linger for long, your brow furrowing at the realization that you could get used to this, to easy comfort and sharing a beer. That you wanted to get used to it. That maybe next time, you could steal his drink away in a bout of distraction, in a kiss, perhaps. That you’d be leaving just as you arrived: together. That you wouldn’t have to suffer showing up to parties you only went to for him just to see him flirting with other people anymore, simply because he would be yours.

But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t be. And you’ve already made your peace with that. Because that’s just how it was, selfish thoughts aside. You could flirt with Matt Murdock, let him flirt with you. But that’s as far as you would ever let it go. Because if you ever gave in, you wouldn’t be able to help yourself from wanting more. You wouldn’t be able to take anything he wouldn’t be willing to give.

You inhaled sharply, sitting up and moving away. An inch. It was truly only an inch. But an inch was more than noticeable when your thigh had been fully pressed into his. You never truly realize just how warm someone is until you lose contact. Or just how cold you leave them.

“Are you okay?” 

Matt followed you to where you sat at the edge of the cushion, straightening his back, and you almost missed the way he hesitated before deciding to place both of his hands in his lap. “Hm?”

“You…you got quiet. Is something wrong?” Your face twitched against a pout at the earnestness in his voice, soft and simple. “Did I- was it the joke? Not feeling it today?”

You shook your head, a dry chuckle escaping. “No, Matt. No it wasn’t you, don’t worry.” He seemed to relax then. You didn’t notice how much he had tensed at the thought of him making you uncomfortable until you saw his shoulders sag. “I…yeah. Don’t worry.”

He frowned. “You’re telling me not to worry, but your entire mood just changed.” He stated pointedly. “I can- I don’t know, it’s like I can feel it. Tell me what’s up.”

You sighed, heavy and full. You didn’t know if you could tell him even if you wanted to. You and Matt were friends—or at least, you thought you were—but you weren’t particularly close despite the fact that Matt tended to be an open book with you. Purposefully, you’ve kept yourself from establishing that return in connection, from wanting to indulge in him to weather your frustrated rants or hold safe a few of your secrets. That kind of connection would only make the way you felt about him worse, if you craved him not only under the sheets but as a confidant. It was bad enough that you wanted him so much based on what you knew of him just from this last year since you’ve met him—being exactly your type in more than just looks and humor. You never could quite find it in yourself to cross that line, because then you knew, you’d truly be lost. 

“I’m fine, Matt.”

“You’re not.”

Defensive, and upset with yourself for not being able to just be normal about him, you couldn't control your tone. “What’s it even matter to you?” You spit back, your eyes widening just as you said it, and a lick of regret stinging the back of your throat from how sharp the words came out. 

You watched Matt, taken aback, confusion and…something else you couldn’t quite place creeping onto his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance. 

“Murdock!” Glaring, your eyes snapped back to that same blond guy that called out to Matt and Foggy earlier. “Bottle landed on you man. Get your ass over here!”

Without even thinking, you called out in his defense. “He’s not even playing. Spin it again.”

“You have to see how clearly it’s pointing to him!” And you did. A quick glance, and you could see over the distance that there was a clean gap between seated bodies, the open bottleneck of a long empty drink pointed barrel straight across the room. There was no doubt, if someone were to draw an arrow from it horizontally until it reached another, the line would hit Matt dead and center. 

For a split second, you watched Matt’s jaw tick with a restraint that you couldn’t decide if it was rooted in anger, annoyance, or a special third thing you just weren’t picking up on, opting safely for all of the above. You went to go roll your eyes, to tell Matt to ignore them. But then suddenly, he grabbed your hand, fingers wrapping around yours as his other one reached down to where his cane was on the ground by his side. 

“Come on,” He murmured, only loud enough for you to hear. “Let's go somewhere quieter.”

Confusion sent a shock through your system, a gentle short-circuit as it felt like you blinked and the dynamic changed drastically. “Aren’t we already somewhere quieter?”

He sent you a small sardonic smile, tugging your hand as he stood up. You tried not to think about how warm his palm felt in this moment that caught you off guard, or the slight callousness of his fingertips where they pressed against your skin as you followed. “Private, then. So we can talk.”

The question sat on your tongue as Matt began to move swifter than you thought he would, dipping out his cane and taking careful, measured, yet confident strides before your brain could even catch up. Talk. He wanted to talk. Your reply came out in a whisper you weren’t sure if he heard. “Okay.”

The both of you were already across the basement floor before you started to hear a sound of a protest. One you intentionally ignored to instead tell Matt about the stairs coming up. The angle ascending was weird, and you didn’t want to inhibit his navigation in any way, so you gently slipped your hand from his, but not without muttering an assurance that you were right behind him. 

The main party was just as loud as ever, and you swore you saw Matt take a deep breath and brace himself before he opened the door that led from the basement, and you couldn’t blame him. He waited until you stepped out, shut the door behind you, before his fingers caught the hem of your shirt and he leant down so you could hear him better. “Upstairs?”

You nodded your head, momentarily forgetting he wouldn’t have picked up on the gesture as you guided him through the luckily sparser crowd in the hallway until you rounded the corner of the staircase. Matt found the railing, and you looked at him. He motioned for you to lead the way. This house really was huge. And the assumption you had earlier when you’d gotten there that the second floor was a neverending assortment of rooms wasn’t far from wrong. You supposed Foggy hadn’t been either, his comments about places you could hide being one of his selling points to you. The first door you had opened was a bathroom. The second, a bedroom that was fully furnished and sheets unmade. The third was when you’d hit the mark, finding unlocked entry into what looked like a long since unused guest room after you’d flipped on the light. There was a full-sized bed in the middle of the room, pressed against the wall with immaculately folded sheets and crisp tucked edges, a small hallway side table that housed a fake potted plant, a lamp at the bedside that was slowly collecting cobwebs, and what looked to be an ornate dresser that had in its past, seen better days. 

The second the door closed, clicking against the latch, Matt wasted no time. 

“Just to get it out of the way, you matter to me, so of course if something upsets you, I want to know.” Your jaw dropped as you watched him trace the wall and navigate a little around the room before leaning his cane up against the dresser, casual all the while you suddenly felt like you were frozen where you stood. “So could you please…If it’s me, I want to know, so I can do better. If it’s not, then if you’re willing to share, I’m willing to help out.”

Your mind raced, suddenly overwhelmed and in a whirlwind state of shock as to how you’ve gotten to here, alone with him, when just five minutes ago everything was normal. Everything was fine. “Matt.”

“Is it me?”

There was a pain in his face, subtle, but tugging just enough to be evident as you studied him. “No it’s…it’s complicated.”

“How?”

You threw your hands up in the air. “It just is! I don’t know!” Squeezing your eyes shut, you continued. “I like what we have Matt, whatever it is. I just. Don’t want to mess it up, with the shit I don’t tell you, I guess.”

“What we have.” He repeated. Slowly. Gently. Then softly, taking a step forward, he asked, “What do we have?”

Suddenly, you felt like you were under a spotlight in an otherwise pitch black room. You always thought the weight of a person's focus came from how they looked at you. But now, in the quiet, music muffled and distant, alone with Matt, you realized just how wrong you were. You could nearly feel the way he was honed in on you, five feet away and steadily approaching in small measured shuffles forward. By all outward appearances, it seemed to be like he knew exactly where you were, featherlight steps that almost seemed feline in nature, and was giving you ample time to make a decision. 

“We’re friends.” You began. “Joking around. Hanging out. It’s easy with you, sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” He nodded. Waited for you to continue. He was three feet away now. “I like…I like messing around with you. Don’t mind it at all. So if you were worried you crossed a line, you didn’t, Matt. You’re okay. Promise. It’s all in good fun.” 

If you weren't so aware of your thoughts right now, you might not have noticed the way that last sentence snagged in a lie against your tongue.

“There.” He stopped just a foot in front of you, a firm set to his face as his brows furrowed in thought. 

“There, what?”

“Your voice wavered, just then.” It was an accusation, but it didn’t make you feel targeted. It was simply as if Matt was sorting through the interference of your mind and plucking out the loose strings. “I know you like the flirting, but it never goes anywhere. And you say it’s only easy with me sometimes. Why?”

“Why does it never go anywhere, or…”

He lowered his head, chin dropping just slightly. “Both.”

You scoffed, and for the first time since this conversation started, you felt like you were ready to throw in the towel and switch topics as your heart flipped in disbelief. He couldn’t seriously be asking about this right now. “Matt, really, you’re getting worked up over a random stray thought that made me go quiet. I’m fine. Everything is fine—”

“Everything is not fine, because you’re all I can think about, and I need to know if I'm about to say something that'll majorly screw things up or not!” And Matt swayed where he stood, like he was torn between stumbling away and reaching forward to you. Your heart thudded in your chest. 

Then it was silent—music, party unheard—save for the roaring in your ears.

“What?”

Matt’s head suddenly shot up. And in an action in which you thought you’d find a breath of clarity, he instead turned sharply toward the door. Briefly, you weren’t sure what impressed you more, the fluid strides in which he made it over, or how he remembered which direction it was in after turning around a couple of times in his pace of the room to find a wall. It also took you by surprise, the inherent trust he had in how he moved, like he was past guessing the space he had to work with and simply acted. But that was a moment quickly pinned to the background, as when you saw Matt’s hand grab the door knob and twist to push it open—it wouldn’t budge. 

Matt tried again, and you heard the jiggle of the knob, and watched, befuddled and disoriented and trying to make sense of the last thirty seconds, while Matt shoved a shoulder into the door to only be met with no give. 

The door was locked. 

“It locks from the inside,” Matt replied, voice low with a dangerous edge of an irritation you've only witnessed from him rarely, and you realized you said that out loud all the while you saw him pathetically twist the lock back and forth as if he were reveling in the cruel joke of it all. “Someone out there blocked the way.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Matt takes a step back, and you wonder if he was contemplating making another pass at the door. His head seemed to tilt around the general direction of the frame as if trying to trace it out mentally, his fingertips splayed on the wood at the end of an extended arm. For a second, it looked as if he were lost in a contemplation under the warm light of the room, studying…whatever it was he could gather. If he was going to throw himself at it again, you realized you should probably stop him. You also realized that somehow, he knew the door was locked before either of you had tried to leave. 

He also had just admitted to thinking about you all the time. And selfishly—or at least in the hierarchy of emotional distress those three things gave you—that seemed like the most pressing thing to address. 

His fists clenched at his side and you saw him take another step back as if to gear up for a charge before you blurted out, “What do you mean I'm all you think about?” He seemed to falter, going stiff and turning away from the door in a shaky glide as he pivoted on his heels. “Because if that's just a line to try and get me to open up, that's so not cool, Murdock. And blind or not, I'll use you as a battering ram to get out of here.”

“Oof.” A little amused huff shook him before he pursed his lips, shaking his head. “No. No that…that wasn't a line. I'm not trying to—” he flung his hands frustratingly down by his sides after they drifted up to rub at his face, shifting his glasses until he replaced them on the bridge of his nose— “It means exactly what you think it means.”

With a shaky confidence, you took a step toward him. “And what did you mean when you said you don't want to say anything that could screw things up?” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you wanna say, Matt?”

He approached slowly. So slow it was almost a prowl, and you might have equated it to one under different circumstances. On instinct, you took a half step back just from the sheer intensity Matt seemed to carry with him, your stomach fluttering with a new craving despite yourself. Again, he paused in front of you, and you noticed the way his chest rose and fell just as violently as yours.

“Tell me what had you freezing up next to me down there first.” 

“Not fair.” 

“I asked you first.” 

“No, you confronted me.” You said stubbornly, deciding to go rambling down that path than to admit he was right. “Very rudely, might I add. Killed my buzz from that crappy beer and everything. And then you dragged—”

“You followed me willingly,” He took another step forward. And another. You moved back if only to keep space between you. 

“—me up here, then go and say an incredibly insane thing to me—”

A smile started to tug the corners of his mouth. “It was a truthful admission.”

“—Then you did that weird and somehow sexy thing with the door.” You felt your heart leap to your throat as the back of your thighs tapped against the blunt edge of wood grain and you let out a soft grunt. Your hands reflexively grabbed onto the sides. Matt grinned at the sound of your surprise. “And now you're…you're backing me into a table, y'know—”

“It was either that or a wall, I figured.” 

“—and it should be threatening, maybe, and I probably could’ve darted around you without you knowing, but it's honestly kinda hot, and—”

“I want you.” Your mouth went dry, parting on an expression that was a mix of shocked and aroused as he stopped in front of you, his knee bumping into your leg and stilling himself only just before he'd have to brace himself on the wall to lean over you. “That's what I was gonna say.” 

As all things lit up in you much like restoring power to a city grid, you swallowed thickly against the hammering of your heart in your throat. If you were a better person, you would roll your eyes and push him away, calling Matt out on what had to be another line and focus on the more pressing issue of getting out of the locked room. If you were a stronger person, you could blame the heat that rolled through your veins like molten magma and primed every nerve on the drinks you had, and come up with some other excuse as to why its epicenter would lead straight to your core. But you were neither, and the long, long months of this game you played were starting to catch up to you. Whether you were winning or losing, it was hard to tell.

“And that's the big thing you were afraid would make shit hit the fan?” You breathed, your hands growing restless as you fought the urge to touch him. You didn’t. That’s how you held your line. That’s how you lasted so long. You could last a little longer.

“Mhm.”

You lifted your chin, emboldened by the forbearance that twitched a muscle in his cheek. “And here I thought it'd be something I didn't already know.”

Matt tilted his head, a slight cant toward his shoulder as a confident lilt yet again infiltrated his words. “You knew, huh?”

“Believe it or not, there is a limit to how many times you can proposition me before I started to suspect you actually might have started to mean it.”

He paused, and briefly, giving way to a sober moment, his face softened, a fragility you were surprised to find, not thinking clearly enough for insight, whispering on the coattails of his question. “So you're saying, I…didn't just catastrophically ruin things?”

“Nope.” The question of ‘why would it?’ carefully lingered at the front of your mind, but the words died before you even had the forethought to speak them; the idea that Matt could have been implying anything more than what seemed to be surface level desire not even crossing into your realm of possibility in this moment. This moment, where all you could think of was how close he was. How warm he was. How every time he shifted on his feet, he bumped into you and it sent a flicker of anticipation that did nothing but join the haze that began to carve out space for the one way track you seemed to be careening toward.

That softness didn't fully disappear, it lingered, only just now hidden behind the zealous intent of his concentration and the unconscious way Matt drew his bottom lip between his teeth. “And you're admitting to knowing I've wanted you for months now and you've just been having your fun brushing me off?”

“Trust me, it's not always fun.” Came your reply, shameless memories flashing behind your eyes of the countless numbers of days you've gone back home with your heart racing from the exercise of your restraint around him. Or the way you'd daydream about Matt while you worked until you often found yourself snapping out of distraction. Or how you'd be unable to sleep sometimes until you got yourself off to the thought of him. 

For a brief moment, you contemplated not being fair in your confession. One final sense of preservation reminding you in alarm bells why you've spent all this time ignoring him—ignoring yourself. Why you've shouldered and toughed through all the flirting, the invitations, and sometimes downright filthy observations. The reason you'd declined him that first time nearly a year ago being the same reason that's held strong over the course of the time that's passed: there was no real way for you to tell, for you to be certain, that you wouldn't just be another notch in Matt's bedpost. That despite the fact that he's been nothing but a gentleman to you otherwise, playing nice by your rules, heeding within the boundaries of the cat and mouse you'd encouraged. It's been months, and you don't think you've ever witnessed Matt Murdock hang on so long to anyone—the fervor that at first felt like him trying to do better, do more to convince you, slowly turning into a comfortable normal. A playful back and forth you two shared in. The both of you truly had been playing a game. Playing a game, and having fun, despite the main reward doing nothing but adding to the pile of tension that in this moment, felt so unrestrained, you were bursting at the seams.

Unable to ignore it any longer, you couldn't even find the will in you to summon the strength you always mustered to stop any risks for escalation. Any opposition that might have bubbled up in the forms of bad idea or you'll regret it dying out like the last burning embers of a flame doused in enough water to flood.

If you were finally going to allow yourself Matt—allow the indulgence that had you burning for him day after day, night after night—you quickly came to the realization that it would be now. It would be tonight. And it would be before there was any chance you could talk yourself out of it.

Your equal admission came mild, words concentrated and accentuated from carrying the truth you've wanted to share for far too long now, and not without its own equity in weight. “I want you too.”

The air turned electric; the silence that bridged the remaining gap between you charging quickly into something thick and heady as active reality was starting to actually settle in. Matt let out a little breath, as did you, shaky and involuntary, as he deliberately pressed closer. His knee found the seam of your legs, and he effortlessly nudged himself between them. Your hand shot out to steady yourself against his arm, nerves producing a slight tremor you couldn't quite control.

Your voice, thick, and seeming all too loud to your ears, tested the waters. “We should get out of here.” Out of this room. Out of the party. You weren’t sure which. You wanted both. You wanted Matt.

Matt gravitated toward you, like he was unable to help the pull anymore, same as you. You froze when his fingers pressed featherlight against the side of your neck, thumb sliding just under your jaw enough to tilt your head the most minute of degrees. He was close enough, his breath fanned distantly against you when he spoke. “After I kiss you first?”

A breath was held, thundering anticipation in your chest, and you let the frantic nod of your head against his touch do the talking. 

You’ve known Matt Murdock for a while now, pulled into the little bubble he shared with Foggy Nelson quickly after stumbling into an unlikely friendship. You’ve been around long enough to know the rumors and which of those actually held truth. To overhear the occasional giggles and whispers every once in a while from men and women around campus. Long enough to know that Matt had steadily built a repertoire well known amongst a select group of the co-eds. But nothing you gathered, assumptions you weighed, and the personal experience you used to supplement your own fantasies could have predicted this. 

Against your expectations, Matt’s kiss was surprisingly soft. It was almost unsure, as if he were on a trepid venture, using the way he moved slowly against you as permission still. You could almost taste the trickle of hesitation intertwined with the sparks behind your eyes and behind the way your brain roared and heart sang with the simple satisfaction of ‘finally’. When you kiss him back, he let out a gentle little sigh, and you felt him smile into you, seemingly enough of an acceptance to abate the incredibly trivial worry he had that once it happened, you would somehow want it to end. And as he pressed closer, deeper, your pulse leaping under your skin as you felt his fingers slide into a delicate cradle around your throat, the thought of wanting it to end was so far removed from your immediate mind, it was easily humbling the version of you that swore you’d never allow this. Allow him.

When Matt pulled back, it was instinct to chase after him. But through the pleasant haze that muddled your thoughts, the gentle passes of pleasure that lazily rolled through you like low tide lapping at the shore, you instead opened your eyes. Through your lidded gaze, blinking, you watched a quiet gratification steadily bloom across his face alongside a grin that was almost boyishly giddy, and settle into a content as he released another deep sigh; an indulgent revel as you both shared in this long awaited moment. 

It might not have been a good look, but after a couple of flips of your heart in your chest, you dictated the moment was over as you impatiently leant forward to wrap your arms around his neck and pulled him back in. You could relish in finalities later. You wanted to kiss him now. And Matt had little objection as he melted back into you.

“So, about the door—” He wisped in the inbetweens, soft laugh interrupted between each press of your lips to his and his hands steadied himself on the table as he leaned into you.

“Mm, not yet.” And Matt grins because he already knew you wouldn’t even entertain the tease. Not when you were like this. Not when you felt like the world was spinning beneath you, weightless, and his kiss dizzying. You responded to him at first equally, before a surge of more overtook you. 

Unbidden, you gave way, relenting to every part of you that craved him; that wanted to take. You’ve dreamt of this for so long: the feel of him close to you, the weight of him as he had you hemmed against the table, his hands by your sides, hot and solid and willing. The taste of him—oh how you wanted the taste of him, whether you found it against his skin, in his mouth or in yours. You didn’t want to stop, despite knowing you should, knowing that maybe this wasn’t the time or place, a distant reminder that you were a guest in somebody’s home locked in a bedroom that wasn’t yours. But you cling tightly onto that flicker of greed, letting it fuel you as you surged forward into him, your fingers curling against the strands of hair at the back of his neck. A surprised little noise escaped Matt then; a soft startled whimper falling from him as you tugged him to you, your kiss insistent as you took the next step, wordlessly telling him what you wanted with a swipe of your tongue against the plush of his lips.

Matt’s hands were on your face faster than you felt him move, warm palms cupping your jaw, fingers pressing into your temples as he held you in place, body leaning forward until his hips pinned your own. There was a reluctance in the way he pulled back, and you felt the shudder that ran through him, a shiver that seemed to crackle through his system and percolate to you where you were skin to skin, raising goosebumps that formed anywhere they could as he parted from you only the smallest fraction. Matt shook, and you gulped, swallowing hardly at the feel of his breath mixing with yours, lightheaded and yearning, as time seemed to slow.

“Fuck,” The curse is breathed against the skin of your lips, hot. Whispered like a resolution; burning like a brand. Your hand curled tight in his shirt collar, shivering with him. Waiting. Restless. Curious.

You understood in the split-second just before it happened, what you must have done. And it was like you could feel in this limbo of space the power in the aftermath of Matt's undoing, restraint unraveling as the fervor you'd fed him convincing enough to turn the lights green and the throttle red. He hovered there, in front of you, ghosting another kiss he was gearing up to give as the cogs in his head turned, inhibitions flicking off one by one. A single second stretched into an agonizing eternity—galvanic and volcanic.

He let go.

Now this…this is what you expected; a kiss full of a hunger and desire so explosive it was nearly overwhelming, static crackling in your ears and a reticent moan freely opening the gates to the roaring flame Matt brought with him. His insistence seeped into you heavy and sudden, reminding you of the swift fury that can come with rain against bare skin during a thunderstorm. His hold on you tightened ever so slightly, trying to pull you impossibly closer as if he wasn’t already pressing bruises onto your lips. You felt a hand card through your hair, a sharp pull that was far from unkind tilting your head back until he was almost on top of you. It was a steady devouring; months of want, of self-control, pouring into you with the press of his body and the surprising nip of his teeth and no apparent plan of stopping until you were made up for lost time. If this were any other person, you might have struggled to keep up with his intensity. Instead, you matched Matt in stride as you parted your lips in a gasp, opened up to the way he eagerly slid into your mouth. You moved without thought, without reason, guided simply by the carnal instinct that sought to fill in its depravity. 

He was everywhere; carding through your hair, tracing down your neck, the curve of your shoulder, like he was mapping out the shape of you under his touch, charting a path he could later reference and follow. His hands fell to the dip of your waist, holding you steady as you tried to lift off from where you were leaning against the wood and into him, your turn with your hands on his face as you swiped over his cheeks and held him against your palms as you dared to drag your tongue over his. You were not at all prepared for the burst of him—beer and slightly sweet with a faint whispering of copper—or the sensual groan that tore from a place deep and ragged, ripped from the stirrings in his chest. He parted for you, a silent ‘again’ as his grip found its banded attention on your hips. He settled there and jolted when you licked into him again with the intent to see what other sounds you could pull from him. The table creaked as the both of you collided firmly with it, and Matt rocked against you, denim catching the side of your hip in a clumsy, unconscious grind. 

You were burning now. This wasn’t enough. Nowhere near. Fingers clawed at Matt’s button up, and you began to yank it off his shoulders before he helped shrug it to the ground and he was on you again like he’d never left, tugging through strands of your hair and kissing you like the only way he could breathe was to siphon the air straight from your lungs. You’re lost for a moment, a delayed shock catching up, running through you, before your mission stirs back into awareness once more. Your touch is unwavering and steady as you stroke down his arm, as you claw gently against the cotton still over his chest. Matt released a quiet growl then, a low rumble from the back of his throat that you couldn’t quite classify—warning or invitation—so you heeded it, flicker of fire igniting through you, as both. 

Frantically, you began to yank up his shirt from where it was tucked into his jeans, tugging at the fabric until you could bare skin. Your goal had been to get it off him, to have Matt shirtless in front of you, but you quickly found out he had a similar idea before you could even swipe across his hipbones, your motions stuttering as you felt a large hand slither under your own shirt, blazing palm sliding up, up, up, against your stomach to your chest. His fingers prodding mildly at the lower curve of your bra. 

“Holy shit,” You gasped, and you tried to push into his hand. “Matt, please.”

There was an appreciation in the way he carefully grazed over the curve of you, but it was quickly overshadowed by the way he grabbed at your breast, kneading you in the palm of his hand and earning him another low moan, that in response, had him rocking into you again. There it is. And you felt more of him this time, your nerves shot and hyperaware, and Matt now hard enough that you could faintly begin to etch out the shape of him growing against your leg. You almost whine when he suddenly stops kissing you, panting heavily, but it catches on a choked gasp when wet lips instead start roaming other skin. Your chin. Your jaw. With a soft chuckle, Matt licked playfully at the lobe of your ear before he pressed a kiss to a spot right beneath it, firm and emphatic. His first move against your neck was lazy, and languid, and you felt yourself susceptible to slipping away as he began to take his time to explore. So you groped around wherever you could reach, your hands sweeping over the muscles in his shoulders, skirting down his back. You passed over cotton and skin and denim until your hands reached their target along the curve of his ass. Briefly, you wondered if you weren’t so distracted if you’d be embarrassed by how much you wanted him. But frankly, you were too turned on to care. Your thoughts came simple, one right after another. Right now, you wanted to feel him again. And your hands helped to prove your point, cupping at him until you had a solid grip, pulling him to you, guiding, encouraging. 

Matt moaned so close to your ear, hot and heavy as his head dropped helplessly into your shoulder, it only stoked the flame. He granted your wish, bucking into you again with a slow roll of his hips and a high, strangled noise against your collar. And this time, you laughed; wild and full of the disbelief that this was actually happening. A lazy pulse of heat coursed a new warmth through you, rocketing intensely through your veins until you couldn’t ignore the ache between your legs any longer. You could probably try and make Matt moan for you all day if you had the patience, but now wouldn’t be the best time for that trial. You’d nearly forgotten, when you tried to squeeze your thighs, tried to relieve some of that pressure in search for some—any—friction, about Matt’s leg. Instead, you found yourself clamping around where his thigh was slotted between yours, thick and strong, and responding in a knee-jerk reaction as it lifted higher, giving you an expanse to find relief on as you twitched instinctively.

“Oh, shit,” Matt all but yanked you down onto him, panting into your skin as his touch, his direction, persuaded you all too easily to grind against him. Relief however wasn’t the only thing you found, your eyes fluttering shut as you rolled your head back at the feel of a soft suction at the column of your throat, skin pulled between lips. The smallest graze of teeth. You wondered if it’d leave a mark. 

Then Matt suddenly startled against you, and just when you had started to chase a rhythm against him, working against the thick solidity of his thigh, he pulled away. This time, you did whine. A protest as you opened your eyes and your jaw dropped. Too worked up, your body kept moving, racing after and wanting. You were just about to speak, whether words would be a snark or a plea unknown to you until they would come out, when you spotted him, face flushed a deep pink and mouth hung open on a hinge. It was hard to choose what exactly you should focus on: the way his tongue pressed out against his bottom lip, curling up slightly as if dragging in the smell of sweat and arousal in the air, or the way his palm again found the plane of your abdomen, pressing flat with his fingers pointing down, grazing the waistband of your pants, dipping ever so criminally slight under them. Despite his cocksure demeanor, Matt trembled before you, like a rubber band strung too tight, ready to snap. And yet again, his touch was hesitant. Waiting for permission. You tried to form a coherent sound, but your body was already reacting to the possibility of what he was offering, an indecent groan falling from your lips instead as you pushed off your toes to try and rock into his touch. That was enough for him to slide down further, not yet under clothes, but your legs spread the best they could from how he’d caged you in to let his hand slip through. 

“Want some help?” Husky, Matt’s voice was so low it rumbled through you like a train on the tracks. He was warm, so warm, as he cupped over you, the sudden heat and pressure making you twitch almost violently as you didn’t even hesitate to grind into the heel of his palm. Flashes of white flickered behind your eyes as you finally got the friction you sought after, pressure enough to make you bite your lip and dig your fingers around the flesh of his arm, a broken cry dying in the well of your chest in a last effort to stay a semblance of quiet. 

“Need more.” You choked out, subject to how his touch stayed firm and consistent, following your motions to keep the stimulation you wanted, but deliberately slow. 

“Can I?” Matt swallowed hard, thumb hooking once again along the edge of your pants, brushing just ever so slightly against the sensitive skin below the belt. Never once in your life, ever, have you seen a man look as wrecked as Matt did now asking to pleasure you. Words stumbled out of his mouth in an eager plea, laced with a genuine excitement, a sincere want, as he rutted against you again, breathing hot into your skin like proximity would compel you further. Like he even needed to convince you more. “Say yes. Please say yes.”

You tugged Matt into a kiss that was hot and messy and uncoordinated, tongue and grazing of teeth, his glasses bumping against you. “Yes.”

To your surprise, Matt didn’t tease. He was swift, deftly slipping his hand under pants and your underwear alike, moving like a man on a mission about to accomplish his goal. He only paused once, heavy breaths from the both of you stirring the air as he took a moment, feeling you hot and bare and throbbing against his palm. Unconsciously, you nodded, and you think Matt felt it where he still was tucked against your shoulder, because at your signal he pressed a single finger forward, dragging slow and careful through the warm slick heat that’d been there waiting for him since minutes after you’d sat on that damn couch.

Matt moaned with you, his mouth parting on a ragged breath and his other hand on your hip tightening like feeling you was affecting him just as equally. “Oh, sweetheart I knew you were wet,” His voice was thick as it crooned out to you, parting you further as he explored, spreading through your wetness and nudging just enough against your clit to make you gasp and try and chase after it. “But all this? You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not before you finish what you started- ah!” You clutched onto his arm as he intentionally brushed over you again.

Matt stumbled over a laugh, but it lacked any cruelty. Just the same breathless intoned disbelief you’d expressed earlier. “You were saying?”

“Asshole.” “I could be.” But he wasn’t. Far from it as he sighed into you and began tracing your clit in slow, featherlight circles. “But not tonight. Not with you.”

With how much you needed something, anything, the soft touch was more than enough at the start. Something direct and consistent in its way he revolved his fingers to send fleeting, gratifying waves through you. It made you shiver, flex your hand where you’d found purchase against his shoulder. Matt moved patiently, thoroughly, taking his time to see what touches, what movements, drew out which noises. He was hedonistic enough for the both of you, humming pleasantly into your skin and lips quirking against you with every gasp and twitch and tremor, moving with no rush. Just the simple intent of making you feel good.

Eventually, however, your desire began to outweigh the input of pleasure. Matt’s sweet, satisfying motions grew unintentionally teasing. You tried to hold on, scolding yourself for a capacity for greed you hadn’t yet known you were capable of. You were getting what you wanted. There was no real reason to rush. Yet your need for more again grew with every languid pass over you and occasional roll of his own hips against your upper thigh. Despite the way you usually got off, satisfied with your fingers alone, Matt’s unlocked a craving that burned rampant, smoldering and deep. 

He seemed to sense it somehow, whether it was in the way your soft groans evolved into seeking whines, or in the frantic disposition of how you tried to meet him, torn between pursuing more from his hand, and leaning into, meeting him where he rubbed against your leg. Matt made the decision for you, pressing his fingers firmer against you and catching your lips in his as he swallowed your moan before it even had time to breach the air. 

“What do you want?”

“Put them inside.” You panted the words into his mouth, tugging his bottom lip between your teeth and nipping lightly just to hear him groan. “Please.”

You watched the way his brow furrowed when he screwed his eyes shut, and he ground harder against you, an opened mouth grunt tumbling out with a sudden jerk of his hips. That band was still winding. You wanted to be there for when it snapped. “Open wider for me then, honey.”

And he shifted, taking a half-step back from where he corralled you enough just to give you room to spread your legs further where you stood. It was a momentary loss, the direct stimulation, but you couldn’t complain as your entire body coiled with a quiver of excitement, tight pressure just aching for release. Testing, Matt slid a finger along your entrance, wetting himself in slick arousal and pressing his face into the side of yours to muffle the raspy noise that escaped him at the way you instinctively bucked into him, needy and borderline impatient. 

“You really do want me, huh?” A grin curling around the shape of the kiss he pressed against your cheek. 

“Matt, I’ll lose it if you try teasing me right now.”

“But I can tell you like it,” he whispered hotly, running his finger over you again, pressing ever so slightly with just enough force to almost push into you without actually getting there. And you clench around the projected impression of him, your body craving what was just barely out of reach. “I can feel it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, your cheeks, your face, everything burning with want. Of course you liked it. You liked him. The multitude of things you imagined him saying to you far exceeded the tameness of that statement in comparison. But coherent thoughts were slipping from you, and you just wanted to feel. You could tell that Matt didn’t have the capacity to drag this out any longer either, meeting the roll of your hips as you’d tried to coax him in perfectly with the easy glide of his index slipping into you. Your back bowed on a heady moan as suddenly, that coil was being acknowledged. Matt moved in a lazy search, pumping his finger with a small curl that gave only the slightest amount of pressure, but was enough to send small pulsing shocks of heat through you, too turned on to pretend you would be able to last long at all if Matt played his cards right. 

And you’d no doubt he would, a quiet, satisfied hum buzzing against you as it seemed he had his fill preparing before a second finger joined the first. You clawed at him where your arm was thrown around his shoulders, your head tipping forward against his breastbone as you panted into him. With how wet you were, the stretch was nothing but pleasant and comfortable. But your undoing truly lied in sensitivity. You couldn’t think back to a time you had been this horny in your life, and the first slow push of his fingers pressing up inside you almost had you choking on a plea, a flash of white blinking behind your eyes as the stirrings of that familiar build up in your core teased that it might be there sooner than you thought. 

“Oh, fuck,” You inhaled sharply, that first drag of his fingers sending a shiver down your spine. “Jesus, Matt, oh my god.”

He responded to you with a smooth roll of his wrist, a shudder complimenting your own as he parted his lips, licking them and breathing heavily against your shoulder. Matt’s voice was rough. Like you were slowly tearing him apart by barely doing anything. “Did Foggy tell you to wear that?”

Your thoughts were muddled, nothing existing around you but you and Matt and the room you were in, so it took you a moment to parse through your thoughts until the puzzle pieces clicked. An off-hand comment made. A recommendation followed. “Really don’t wanna think about Foggy with your hand down my pants,” you turned your head until you could press closer to him, your other hand coming up to rest on his chest. “But he might’ve mentioned it, yeah.”

“Compliments you so fucking well.” And he bows his head closer to you, twisting until he could just barely graze the back of your neck with a kiss. “Not overwhelming. Still very you. Smells so good—you smell good.”

And despite still feeling the ghost of his kiss on your lips, despite already having his hand, a small swell of mundane accomplishment bubbled in your chest. Enough to make you smile, and some of the easiness you shared trickled into the lilt of your voice. “Aw, does Matt Murdock have a sensitive nose?”

He grinned, and you matched him the best you could before he curled his fingers just a little sharper, pressing up into you a little harder. You clutched onto him tighter, biting off a moan. “You’ve got no idea.”

He found a steady rhythm then. He had to work, adjust with the obstacle that was your pants—since neither of you had the foresight to work them off—but if anything it bid in his favor. Matt couldn’t pull too far away, constricted by the fabric, but that didn’t matter, him opting to work you up in a steady grind and fervent pressure. The pace became heated, natural, as you met him the best you could, and the air rang out in shared whimpers and soft cries. It only took two grinds of your hips into his hand before he adjusted, maneuvering until the heel of his palm started to build the tension again on your clit, rocking into it with every steady push and pull. 

Sparks snapped in the corners of your eyes as heated pressure built in your core. You were getting close. You were getting close and it would be Matt that’d get you there. You pressed your mouth to him over his shirt if only to help prove your point, shifting into him as you listened to his short, tiny breaths, or the lewd wet sound that was proof of your indecency. You felt the way his thumb swiped comfortingly against your hip after he’d roamed down to grab at your ass and come back up. This wasn’t a dream, or a fantasy, or some sort of cruel illusion. It was actually happening. And you were letting it. 

“Fuck.” You held onto him tighter. “Shit, Matt, please- fuck! Right there.”

“Such a dirty mouth,” But his tease fell flat on a breathless sigh, almost distracted-like as he concentrated on the spot that made you keen into him.

“Says the Catholic boy fucking me on his hand, shut up.” 

He in fact did not shut up, his voice dropping, low and trembling with something you could only describe as excitement. “Are you close?”

“Mhm,” And you mouthed at his collar again, nudging his shirt out of the way to reach skin.

“God, if you sound like this only with my fingers, I can only imagine what you’ll sound like when you’re taking me.” He breathes, an awe in his voice like he’d just come to the same realization you had: that he couldn’t believe this was happening. And it was everything at once; his voice, his words, the insistence of his strokes. You clenched around his fingers as a sharp bolt a pleasure wracked through you, unable to help the way you visualized helping Matt out of his jeans, pulling your pants down too. Finally being able to see all of him. Hedging your bets on whether the old table you were using as a foundation would be able to handle it. “You like that? Like thinking about what it’ll feel like when I fuck you?” When, he said. When.

If you were going to answer, it got cut off by the way your eyes fluttered open only to see the way his hips snapped against the air. You remembered at that moment he moved away from where he could use you to be able to touch you better, but now you could see the way his cock strained tight against his jeans. Untouched. You’d fix that. 

Clumsily, you leant more of your weight against the table, leaning back only enough for your shoulderblades to wisp the cool wall behind you. And before Matt could ask anything, you reached out to hook a finger in his belt loop to pull him closer. He stumbled over his feet, faltering for just a moment, and you grinned at how cute it was that you caught him by surprise. 

“What are you—” “Let me help.” Your voice a sultry drawl that danced upon his skin.

Matt couldn’t help the throaty moan that tore from his chest at the first feel of your fingers skirting over the length of him over denim, nor the way he jerked into you, barely even touched and seeking something more substantial. He was so hard, you could only imagine how much he ached, warmth radiating from him in pulses against your hand. And you had meant to pop that button, try and fail because of your lack of patience to inch down his zipper. But a sweet little whimper tumbled from Matt’s trembling lip as in one fluid motion, he rolled up hard against your palm and ground his hand harder into you. Your resolve cracked at that, not knowing if you currently had the bandwidth to focus on him like this. You felt bad for a second, before you found resolution in the way he eagerly chased you. If Matt was satisfied with fucking himself against your hand, then you wouldn’t have any problem diverting your attention back to the fact that you were so close now, the crest of your high was almost in sight. 

You still felt like you needed to do something though. And your first thought was to pull Matt back to you, kiss him until your lips went numb, but the noises he was making went straight to your head, your heart, and between your legs. To cut those off would be a sin, you thought. So you settled for trying to spur them on, pressing in firmer drags against him as you met his thrusts, and fisting your other hand tightly in his shirt, yanking it down to pull him closer. You heard the solid thump of his palm hitting the wall behind you, and a shaky moan vibrating under your lips as you grazed your teeth across his clavicle before pressing a kiss to the column of his throat. 

“So good,” You managed to get out, following a straining tendon in Matt’s neck, him rolling his head back to give you space before you sealed your mouth over the thin skin just under his jaw. “Doing so good.”

It was as if you were held suspended in that pleasure for an extended period of time, the whole world both falling away and stopping in those few moments before you came. Nothing but the thundering in your chest, the taste of Matt against your tongue, and his fingers inside you. Your thighs clamped his hand in place as you shook, orgasm washing over you in a deep powerful wave that momentarily stole your breath, black creeping into the corners of your vision. And Matt worked you through it, slowing his ministrations but not stopping, riding the way you still grinded against him until your spasms grew too sensitive, edged on the cusp of an intensity you hadn’t yet explored. 

He kissed you, both to distract you from the way he slowly slid his fingers out of you, hand creeping back out from under your pants, and to swallow down the blissed out whine that came with the movement. He breathed with you, and distantly you felt his hips retreat from your hand. With your eyes closed, still basking in the lingering pleasure of your climax, you tried to feel back around for him only to be met with the gentle clasp of Matt’s hand around your wrist, guiding you away. 

“He-hey,” You stuttered out the word, blinking against the heavy rise and fall of your chest. “What ‘bout you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and you lifted your head just in time to see Matt pull his fingers over the flat of his tongue as he licked over the hand he’d just had in you. Your jaw dropped as you watched his full body shudder, a strained moan stuttering from his chest at the taste of you and you watched him work you down his throat as he tilted his head ever so slightly back, hips thrusting forward once again against nothing but air. When he came back, he grinned, devilish and wicked.

“Unless you want me to come the second I’m in you, sweetheart, give me a minute.” His laugh was short, rough, and delirious. And giddy, you found yourself sitting up.

“You were that close?” Wide-eyed with wonder, you cast your gaze down to his crotch, rolling the odds for what little else it might’ve taken. “Didn’t even get your pants off.” He swayed, tilting his head and raising his brows as if to say ‘well,’ before he dipped back to you, drawing in a long, deep, indulgent breath. 

Your thoughts slowly began to clear as the both of you lingered in the growing calm. But then dizzy awareness began to come back to you in time with the thumping bass of the music playing downstairs under your feet. You bit your lip, suddenly tasked with making what shouldn’t have been such a hard decision. 

“Still wanna get out of here.” You couldn’t tell if the words came out as a statement or a question, but the meaning held true either way. You stumbled as you stood, Matt moving back slowly to accommodate you, his hand on your waist. 

“This is a pretty spacious closet, though.” His joke was melodic, irony of what made you go upstairs in the first place not lost on you, and you couldn’t lie: it was so incredibly tempting, whether you’d stay put and he’d have you right there against the wall, or if you dragged him over to that pristine bed and found satisfaction in messing up the owners sheets. 

That snapped you back to it. 

You swatted playfully at his chest. “God’s sake, Matt, I have no clue whose house this is. Have some decorum.” The smirk he sent your way was absolutely sinful. “Besides, the car ride’ll give you some more time to cool off.”

“Car ride?” Matt hummed as the hand on you found skin again, squeezing you gently. “You gonna bring me to a secondary location?”

“I know somewhere even more private than up here we can use for the main event.” You whispered in the space that rapidly closed before he kissed you again and you added: “I still wanna keep going.”

He nodded against your lips. “Me too.”

Your sigh was deep and content, an excitement brewing up a fresh new wave of anticipation. “First thing’s first—”

“Call Foggy.”

You blinked. “What?”

Matt shrugged like he was being obvious. “Well, we can go see if the door’s still blocked. If it is, we can just call Foggy and have him move the chair for us.” 

“I…right.” You scoffed in disbelief, a solution as simple as that had not even been given a chance to cross your mind since the two of you went upstairs. But as long as he picked up, it really would be 

You leant to press what was meant to be a quick kiss to Matt’s lips as you pulled your phone out of your back pocket, but he grabbed your bicep just as you were about to pull away and brush past him, lingering just a few moments more into it before he let you go. You smiled at the ridiculousness of it all, mumbling that you were gonna move to go test the door, leaving him behind at the nod of his head. 

Your mind reeled as you crossed the bedroom, dialing Foggy’s number and hearing it start to ring out against your ear. Your body was still coming down from your high, nerves settling and want still politely throbbing and waiting for permission to grow again between your legs. When you reached the door, and before you tried the knob, you glanced back to see Matt shuffling around until he grabbed his cane and started in the direction toward you. Like he knew you were watching him, his face split into a wide smile, and you couldn’t help the giggle that started to bubble up your throat when the call picked up, and you were blasted with a cacophony of noise. 

“Finally!” Foggy exclaimed over the loud background of music, nearly screaming into the receiver. “I’ve only tried calling you two like a million times. I know Matt’s with you, saw you guys walk out together. Where are you?”

“We are, uh,” You let out an annoyed groan as you rattled the door knob, pushing forward, but no luck was spared. “We’ve been locked in a room.”

You would say there was silence over the line, but it was truly impossible in this house. Nevertheless, you waited until Foggy decided how long he should hold for dramatic effect. “What?”

Rolling your eyes, you shifted to get comfortable on your feet. “We left the basement because Matt needed to get away from that shit-head trying to get him to play that stupid game—”

“That was pretty shitty of him, to keep asking,” You heard Foggy grumble in agreement over the phone.

“—so we went upstairs to talk, and…” You faltered as you felt Matt sidle up behind you, a smile creeping back onto your face before your eyelids fluttered at the press of his lips against the back of your neck. “...and we found out the door was blocked behind us.”

There was another pause, and you could almost see the way Foggy must have been balking if you closed your eyes. “And you’re just telling me somebody trapped you in a room, now?” You felt your face grow warm, weighing the odds on how fast he might get to you if you let him know in just what way you and Matt had been preoccupied. “And why didn’t you pick up my calls earlier?”

“We were talking! And doing uh, something important.”

“Something important.”

“Yes.” You could facepalm, the way you weren’t subtle at all. You knew it didn’t really matter, that once Foggy made it up to you, he’d be able to read it all over the place. You hadn’t yet taken inventory of just how wrecked either of you looked, but you bet it was more than enough to cross lying out of the equation. 

“Something very important.” Matt chirped seductively next to you, nuzzling into the side of your neck and hands pulling your hips back into his as if to give you a reminder—as if you could forget—that he was still in fact, very hard, and the plan was to get out of there as soon as you could. 

You couldn’t tell if the exclamation you heard on the other end was Foggy actually hearing Matt’s addition, or just a general party thing, but in all honesty, you didn’t care. “Could you please get your ass up here and let us out? Probably won't be hard to miss. The only door up there with a chair shoved up against it, most likely.”

There was a distant ‘oh my god,’ as it faded presumably with a phone being pulled away before the call disconnected. Spinning around, you drew your brows together as you scanned over the state Matt was in. He simply smiled, smug around the edges, as you smoothed out his white tee and carded through his mussed hair. There was nothing to be done about the way his lips were slightly shiny and clearly kiss-swollen, or the fact that all it would take was one look to catch a glimpse of the very clear tent in his jeans, but you still did your best if only for your peace of mind. You couldn’t even bring yourself to go over to the mirror you just now spotted in the corner of the room, knowing you were probably too far gone to pretend to look put together. You at least fixed how your pants hung on you, adjusting and pulling them back up to a decent, modest place. 

“He should be on his way,” You told Matt, and in a final sweep of the room, you spotted his discarded button up on the floor. Patting his chest, you went to go pick it up. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Don’t think it will.” You heard him muse as you slung his button up over your shoulder. 

And just as you returned to him right beside the door, there was a faint thunk against the frame, and a muffled scrape of something being pulled out of the way. You barely had time to find amusement in it before Foggy was yanking the door open, gaping at the two of you where he stood in the doorway, slightly out of breath like he ran through the house and up the stairs.

“Did you…?”

“Holy shit!” You couldn’t tell if it was pride or embarrassment that was winning in the fight for control over his features as his eyes flickered from you to Matt. “I knew it! You guys finally—”

“Two questions.” Looking back at Matt, you saw him holding back laughter, both hands clutched on his cane in front of him and his shoulders pulled slightly up to his ears.

“Two- I get two questions?”

“Get to answer them,” You clarified, resting your hand on your hip as you let out a deep sigh. Your car keys were salaciously weighty in your pocket. “First: any luck with Marci? And second: do you have a safe way back to the dorm?”

Stammering, and caught off guard, Foggy cleared his throat. “Yes! Yeah, and…also yes, why—”

“Good.” And with that, you reached behind you to grab Matt’s hand, tugging him with you as you breezed through the doorway past Foggy. “Then we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, why are you leaving- oh my god.”

You remembered to yell a thanks to Foggy over your shoulder as you fervently dragged Matt with you down the hall, muttering a quick stairs, stairs, stairs, to him as your heartbeat began to pick up again behind your ribs. Surprisingly, he matched you in speed and swiftness, just as eager to get out of the party as you were, entirely entrusting you to guide him safely through the mass of moving bodies and heat of the building. 

Despite doing nothing inherently scandalous, it felt oddly liberating to be leaving with Matt as the both of you met the outside, breaching into the cool night air. If anything, getting out of the house made the growing flush you felt glow hotter—the temperature difference a blaring sign to the lustful way your awareness grew stronger. With every step you took down the block to reach where you parked, with every hushed giggle and squeeze of his hand in yours, your heart pounded heavy with anticipation and arousal. You’d led Matt over to the passenger side door first when you’d finally reached your car, and you waited until he opened the door and started to slip in before you joined him, hands shaking as you yanked your seatbelt on and turned the key in the ignition. 

At first you were primed to go, an uncontrollable smile playing on your lips as you went to shift the car into reverse, but then you paused, hand hovering over the gear shift. It was not for lack of want, or even the threat of regret that caused you to take a moment. It was simply the weight of it all. The reality. You've wanted this for so long—wanted Matt—you just…needed to be sure. 

“Are we,” the engine was stalled, primed, rumbling and ready to go. “Shit, Matt, do you actually wanna do this with me?” 

“Of course I do.” Came his soft reply, instant, and not needing to be loud for the heft of his words to carry across the small space. “But if you don’t, I won’t ever say a damn thing if you decide just to bring me back to campus.” 

He states it as if it were that simple. Presenting you the choice. It wouldn’t even be fair, seeing as he’s already got you off just a few minutes ago and it was your decision to make what the two of you were doing more tangible, more real, by wanting to take it back to your apartment instead of staying in the haze of thumping music, weed, and mist of cheap alcohol. You didn’t even really need to think about it that hard though, when it came to it. It really was that simple. And the fondness that had you craving Matt deeper in the first place returned in an intense and almost overwhelming wash over you. The choice was yours. And he’d respect it either way. Just like how he respected the game, never pushing you for the sex you swore yourself off from even when the both of you would part ways hot and bothered too many times to count. Or the way he’d back off the second you weren’t in the mood, or if neither of you had the time or patience to rile each other up, and you would settle the air into something calmer and closer to easy friendship. 

Your decision came easy. You shifted the gear. 

Before you could press down on the pedal however, Matt continued, words blazing a silken fire in their wake. “But if I’m being honest, I really want to get back to your place so I can drop to my knees and get a better taste of you.”

“Oh my god.” That torch he placed in you blazed again, and you were already pressing your thighs together to relieve the ache that came back with a reckless abandon. You knew it’d be a mistake, knowing the visual would only spur you further, but you couldn’t help but to look over to see Matt’s head turned to you, a wide cocky grin lazily splitting his lips as his tongue darted out to make a show of licking over them. “Jesus Christ. You really are such a bad Catholic.”

“Never said I was a good one.” He shot back in a smooth reply. “How far away are you?”

You flicked on your headlights and pulled out of your parking spot, guiding the car onto the road. “Like four minutes.”

Matt isn’t subtle at all as he sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, deliberate in the way he let a breathy moan ring out in the confined space of the car. One glance over, and the sight of him grabbing hold over the straining shape of him over his jeans, rutting into his own hand, was something you replayed over and over in your mind the entire drive. “Bet you could get us there faster.”

You did. 

The second the both of you stumbled through your apartment’s front door, kicked shut carelessly—by you or him, you couldn’t tell—all bets were off. Matt’s cane clattered to the floor in the distance of your front hall, and he wasted no time pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss; hot and needy and filthy. You might have been the one Matt was relying on to lead him through your space, but you couldn’t even rely on your talent as a guide as navigating became the least of your worries. If bumping into a coffee table or the couch arm was the price the two of you would have to pay just so your hands wouldn’t have to leave him, or for you to have to send your focus anywhere else, then you would pay that price willingly. Luckily for you, the front door to your room was a straight shot. 

There was no thinking as you and Matt fell in time as you led with your back turned, the speed of eager steps only hindered by the fact that nearly every second involved a clumsy attempt at removing more articles of clothing. It almost felt like a passionate waltz—if waltzing had evolved into a feverish assault on the senses; your shirt too tight and your pants too constricting and your head spinning as Matt’s hands fumbled with the clasp of your bra while you moved. Your hands yet again found themselves snaking under his shirt, this time pulling it up with you as you went, pressing firmly up the lines of his abdomen, feeling him flutter under your touch, and spreading your palms over the muscle of his chest, being sure to brush your thumbs over his nipples if only for the way it made him shiver. 

Matt broke this kiss solely to help you pull his shirt over his head, and you sighed half in content, half in satisfaction as you finally set sights on him topless, broad lines and firm muscle, shirt flung somewhere into the depths of your living room. And despite Matt trying to dip down to find your mouth again, you busied yourself littering kisses from one edge of his collar bones to the other as you undid the button to his jeans, and carefully pulled the zipper down. Your plan of action had included tugging the denim down far enough to get him in your hands, but you were interrupted. Unexpectedly, he stopped you, his hands, strong and firm, grasped both your wrists, guiding you and placing them to hold him chastely low on his hips. 

“Not yet,” He kissed you through your quizzical groan, pulling your bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it gently before letting go, “Told you what I wanted to do first.” Freshly set alight at the reminder, you murmured an agreement, arching into the way he held you tight, cradling against your ribs.

You knew it couldn’t be much farther to the bedroom when you suddenly hit the wall, jolting against it with a small ‘oof’ before a frown twitched your expression. When you swung your head to the side, it was an easy realization that the two of you faintly veered off course, unable to follow the easy path to the door in favor of a curve that now situated you up against the wall, inches from the frame. Reaching over, you could almost brush your fingertips against the doorknob. 

“We’re right- right here,” You tried to begin, “Just gotta get the door open.”

“Hold on.” He whispered, distracted, hands finding your face again as he cupped your jaw. 

For the second time that night, Matt subverted your expectations. What had been a desperate, messy kiss, slowed down into something intoxicatingly sweet. His thumb grazed your chin as he kissed you softly. Tenderly. Like you were something sacred to him. You weren’t prepared for the sudden shift, but you let this tentative affection float over you, envelop your mind in its subdued passion and careful reverence. For the second time that night, a flicker of what this really meant, what you were really doing, brushed your thoughts with a pigment that lingered. 

This…with Matt, this wasn't just sex to you. It was a desire, sure. And lust, no doubt. But it was also the way his face lit up when he laughed. His quick, whip-sharp wit during a debate. It was the way he threw himself into his studies not just with the goal of being the best, of being the smartest, but being humble in his intention. It was the way he was intolerant of any bullshit, but was kind, despite being hard on himself. The way he could flash a smile and bring someone to their knees and all the while it just felt right and normal and safe, because this was Matt Murdock and it was easy to trust him to not abuse the power he must've known he had.

Your breath hitched as you lifted your arms for him, Matt slowly pulling your shirt off over your head. You heard it land quietly on the floor, and Matt lowered just enough to place a leisurely kiss to your sternum. His hair was soft, so soft, as you brought a hand up to run through it, raking gentle caresses against his skull and wondering if you had been patient long enough to deserve the delicate purr he rewarded you with. 

Hesitation did prick in the undercurrent of your thoughts. This wouldn't be just sex for you. That sometime along the way, in banter and teasing…in drinks and time shared, you'd started to grow feelings for Matt. Ones that seeded firmly with roots fixed in wanting no excuse to hold his hand, or to kiss him in broad daylight, or to not need a reason or pre-made plans with friends hoping he'd actually be there just to be able to see him. You knew, as his kisses between the valley of your breasts stole your very breath in the gentle coax of gasps from your lungs, that if you only said the word, if you told him to stop, he would. You knew, that by the end of this night, there was a good chance that regret would eventually catch up to you; that the shape and form, the phantoms of his touch and attention would litter your consciousness until it drove you mad. 

But you pushed it all aside, because right now, in this moment, even if only for the night, Matt Murdock was yours. 

In the way he paused in an instant when your fingertips pressed the lightest pressure against him, happy and willing to wait without a second thought or question. 

And in the way he let you gingerly lift the dark frames of his glasses, slow and controlled, and with a bated breath just waiting for him to tell you to stop. But he didn't, a warm smile instead bloomed a light that reflected in his dark eyes as he rested his head against your skin. And this would be a memory you'd never forget; Matt, slipping to his knees, head tilted against your chest, before you, and an unseeing gaze cast up in your direction filled with a burning devotion you felt undeserving of—as if he knew you needed the comfort despite the way he guarded it for his own. He was giving it to you. Giving him, to you.

Yeah, you thought, a heat consuming you from the inside out, ravaging in want and emotion and simple, sanguine greed as you slipped the last shield he wore onto the little hallside stand to your side. If only for the night. 

Matt Murdock was yours.

You'd forgotten all about your bedroom at the first rasp of his tongue swiping at you over the fabric of your bra. The action was enough to set your nerves once again aflame, and Matt was reverent in how he slid the straps down your arms, gracefully tugging it down and off and discarding the garment amongst the floor to be found in the morning with the others. He was taking his time, sweet, like your experience was paramount to his. He hummed pleasantly as his concentration settled on you. And your breasts weren't an afterthought, just a means to an end as he gave equal time to both of them, licking and sucking and leaving a trail of liquid fire in their wake as he rolled your nipples in his mouth and left a bright red mark you could already see blossoming against the swell of one of them. 

Your head fell back just enough to meet the wall behind you, eyes screwing shut at the drag of his cheek down your stomach, jumping under the small nip of teeth at your hip, and twitching over the feel of his hands sliding firmly against the small of your back. Your ass. Your thighs. Matt sank fully onto his knees in front of you, hands dragging down until he settled against your legs and between your thighs like he belonged there. He rested, for a moment, breathing a happy sigh against your groin and you swore you started to burn so hotly, you felt like you were about to burst into flames. 

The kiss he pressed just below your navel was like a signature he penned in permanent ink, as if tagging his presence, eyes fluttering shut as he finally inched your underwear and pants down until they rested around your ankles. He hadn't even done anything, but your legs were already shaking as you went to step out of them. Deft fingertips guided you against your calf as you did, using in the motion to trail his touch up until he hooked just under your knee and lifted your leg onto his shoulder. That same hand slid up as your voice trembled, tumbling from your lungs, to hold you steady at the hip.

Every part of you burned. Ached. And at his pause, you swallowed hard at the sight of him beneath you, stilled where he settled comfortably on the floor, mere inches from where you were fully naked and flayed bare before him. You've never seen a hunger like this until your half-lidded eyes gazed down at him, smoke and flame and an indulgent breath tugging up a satisfied smirk like a man presented a feast of every one of his favorite meals. And if that wasn’t a sight to behold; you wanted him, and you couldn’t tell if the heat grew warmer because of you or him, as you squirmed against the fan of his breath and the way he held you. Your plea was quiet. So quiet—as if a single decibel louder would convince him to pull away—you barely even heard it.

He dove in. 

You weren't sure whose moan was louder: yours or his, as his thumbs spread you apart to make room for the flat of his tongue. Hot. His mouth was so hot it burned, fire licking into you alongside him. He was in no rush, no hurry; just an agonizingly long, slick sweep of his tongue up the line of you. Spurred by the way a broken whine gleaned off your lips, Matt took his time in his savor, being sure to swipe against every inch, gather as much as he could with that first dip in, only pulling back after pausing when reaching your clit, relishing in the way your cry morphed into something filthy, and giving it an extra pass before he rolled his head back. 

There was a pure bliss in the way his eyes were shut and in the eagerness of his groan. His chest heaved like he’d hiked a mountain as you watched him swallow you, his head resting on your thigh as his throat worked the taste of you down. And if you’d known, if you expected even a fraction of what was about to happen, you might have recognized what he was doing for what it was—that in the languid way he settled back against you, hand adjusting his grip on your thigh tighter—you might have been able to prepare faster.

You couldn’t count the amount of dreams you’ve had about Matt eating you out. The amount of times you’ve fantasized of this very moment, against a wall like this, or on a bed, a couch. You pulled from past experiences, ex-lovers, the unrealistic feeling of your own knowing fingers or toys; a hybrid amalgamation of all of the above. The point was, you could never pinpoint exactly how it would feel, only the idealistic fiction that formed because of a soul in pining. And in spite of the multitude of ways he’s already proven you wrong or unknowing in one night alone, this was an expectation that apparently, you didn’t hit too far off the mark.

There was a mercy, yes, in the way he built up to it, but a vicious magnitude hung thickly in action. When he delved back in, it was with abandon. He moaned openly, making it known to you to make no mistake of how much he wanted to be there, and he parted you on his tongue until your body finally caved and sank into him. Then he started to work; steady, avid laps against you that had you choking on a shout. The rough grind of his nose against your clit when it escaped his focus encouraged slow-building tremors to meet his pace.

Rough, rolling pleasure began to consistently flutter over your skin like the silkiness of a hearty Spring breeze. Your back bowed and your hand clawed at the wall above you, trying to find some sort of grounding reprieve against drywall and paint. But you found none. And you wouldn’t find any if you kept fighting it, tension growing in the pit of your belly as your abs flexed and shuddered. Matt’s glide against you grew smoother, your arousal smearing across his mouth and chin as he drank you in. You jumped, a hoarse whimper tumbling out as you felt the eager tip of his tongue testing, settling, then pushing into you with the firm press of his head between your legs. His entire body rolled up into it, like the only thing he was made for was this. And with the ardent way he latched on as if he were only an extension of your own body, you’d have half a mind to believe he was. 

There was no thought, capability escaping you in the moment, when you fisted a hand in his hair, your hips moving with him as you tried to grind against his face. And Matt let you, letting out a staccato moan that ravaged and ripped through you with the way he buried his tongue so far up your cunt it was like it was him being pleasured. Making sounds he'd make as if it were you taking him in your mouth. And that had your mind racing anew—marveling at the odds of you being able to return the favor, wondering if he’d teeter on the whim of your control, set by your pace, or if he’d work you how he wanted, held back by fine lines of constraint. 

Matt of course, was first to know how that line of thinking affected you. Both his hands formed a sturdy grip on your waist, flicking at your hipbones, before he pulled you down onto him with a grunt and curl of his tongue. 

“Oh, shit.” Your back thudded against the wall as you rose and fell against it. “Matt. Fuck, Matt, baby, please, that feels so good.” You weren’t even sure what you were asking for, but you weren’t disappointed as he preened under the praise, offering a decadent hum of appreciation that flickered through you like blinking starlight. 

And he seemed to keep offering. With every tug at his hair and rock of your hips—even at every broken breath and easy moan—he rewarded you with something of his own. A sigh or a dirty little growl; a change in pace or intensity. It kept you on edge, unable to prepare for what he might do next because his every move was reliant on and responsive to you. When the leg that was thrown over him started to shake and slip off his shoulder, Matt made a sound of disapproval, bumping you back with his bicep against your thigh and his fingertips digging imprints into your ass like he wanted to be caged in, trapped by you.

It was like he could read your thoughts. “Could stay here for hours,” he breathed wetly against you, pulling back only far enough to speak. You shivered at the feel of his lips brushing over you at the form of each word. “Tastes amazing, you know that?”

“Figured. Or else I don’t think you’d be trying to kill me like this.” You had patience. You had restraint. You really did. But your body was truly trying to ruin your image as it reacted involuntarily against your character, hips jolting forward and down in search of his mouth again, anything that would bring the friction back as the burning ache grew more insistent and seeking.

Matt simply grinned, confident and cocksure and all too pleased with himself, turning just slight enough to plant a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh. And you couldn’t even fault him. You and him both knew he was doing a good job. 

“So needy.” His sigh was playful as it buzzed across your skin. You couldn’t even bring yourself to argue what would most definitely be a weak defense. You were. Your want didn’t even come close or fall short of needing him to keep going. 

And at your tiny whimper, he honoured your request, slack-jawed as he pressed his face against your leg, drawing you in as he slicked two of his fingers along the line of your entrance. And sucking in a breath similar to yours as he twisted his wrist until the angle was right, and thoughtfully, he began to push.

This was familiar even in the ways it wasn’t, the second time this night Matt’s had his fingers in you, and there was a confidence now in how he moved. He already knew where to go, how to press. And that’s how you knew, in the way he paused, the pressure the pads of his fingertips used teetering on the edge of just too little, that it was all too deliberate. 

“Please don’t tease me.” Your whisper was feverish and wild, darkened gaze peering down at Matt as if keeping your eyes on him would shed some insight into what he was planning. 

“I’m not.” He stated simply, words thick with a molten craving. 

And pulling in a ragged breath, he was on you again. 

If he later told you his plan was simply to make you come again, you’d believe him. If you were told he actually was trying to kill you, you’d also believe him. But within the case lies that you truly believed it had nothing to do with goals as superficial and simple as those. Because as his mouth found you again, tongue laying flat before his lips moseyed into place, settling in a seal around your clit, you truly, firmly, and irreparably believed, that Matt was out to devastatingly ruin you.

With the first gentle suction, his fingers held fixed but unmoving. Just a waypoint, a guiding compass only there to ease against the way you pulsed against him. A steady hand that right now, acted as anchor in contrast to the delicate, almost exploratory way he licked softly at you. Desperate, you had to remind yourself to breathe through it, feeling the way it was instinct to hold it in your lungs at the most direct stimulation you’ve had all night in light flicks and reserved kisses. If you had any bite in you, you’d accuse him of toying around. But you found no malice in the way he wound you up like this, and you could only equate it to the prep a runner went over before a marathon. The stretch. The warm up. The sprint. 

You struggled to hold on to coherency, ghosts of it whizzing by, as you felt his steady build rise and rise, running parallel to the growing volume of the symphony of sounds the both of you poured into the air, until seemingly, Matt found his content in working you up for him. For a split second, he paused. A hair of a second, a fraction. Then in the surety of his position, the readiness in which he was wrapped around you, he sucked. And he sucked hard.

The moan was pulled razor sharp and sudden from you, unrestrained on a breathy cry as it took everything you had to not double over. The way his other hand shot up to splay over your stomach helped, a weight that kept you against the wall as if to say ‘I’ve got you, I’m here’, like he wasn’t the one disassembling you piece by piece. The way his fingers curled inside you was delicious; a firm grind into where he knew you would fall apart, and pressure teetering just on the cusp of excessive. 

The rasping strokes of his tongue could be considered criminal. Premeditated in the way that told you he’d truly spent his time studying, attuning to your body and how it responded just so that he would know exactly how to ravish you. That sweetness that you’d shared on display slipped into the background, replaced instead by a sinful greed that startled you but was far from unwelcome. Frantic, and breathless, your hand curled tighter in his hair, the pulling only earning you more reckless moans that shocked your system like lightning. You rocked faster against him. It was almost too much—the intense consistency of the suction, the burning insistence in every pass of his tongue—but it came as a shock to precisely no one in the swaths of fire that swept up your spine, or in the white-hot static that blurred the edges of your vision, that it was exactly what you needed.

Your high arrived loud, righteous, and fast in steady heat and heady pleasure that rippled through you in waves Matt only sought to draw out. His touch grew gentle, but unyielding, the brushes with his tongue against your clit mild and subtle, and the thrust of his fingers slowing to an indirect tender massage. He stayed like that until your body stopped convulsing, and the waves of blazing pleasure ebbed until it was nursed back down into a fervent ember toeing the border of pain. 

You'd have thought it would be safe of you to assume that your satisfaction would be enough to tide you over, but it was nothing but desire that burned in you despite the way you were still trembling. Matt didn’t seem to care too much as you slowly slipped your leg off of him, awareness coming to him to help steady you on shaky legs as he panted heavily on the ground. You probably should have given yourself more time to pull yourself together, but then the reminder that you’d already waited months for this moment was enough to steer you toward determination. Reaching down, Matt rose to his feet on your command, drawing breath just as he cradled your face and pushed himself into you. This kiss was a thanks you gratefully accepted, wet and tasting of you and debauched desire, before you spoke. 

“Bedroom. Now.”

“Yeah,” Matt’s words were slurred, thick like honey as he nodded quickly. “Right. Okay.”

The fact that both of you were steady enough on your feet to make it through the threshold was testament tenfold to the solid argument carnal instinct and innate want could make in defense of overriding any warning signs to take a break. Matt laved down your neck as he followed you blindly, suckling at your skin and pressing wet open-mouthed kisses wherever he could reach. And even with your eyes rolled back into your head, you were still able to pirouette the both of you through your room until you felt the backs of your knees collide softly with the sheets over your mattress. 

“Bed,” You murmured urgently, running your hands down his chest. “Bed. Bed, we’re at the bed Matt.”

One of his arms reached around to hold you, a welcome relief against the small of your back as you leaned to give yourself space, edging your hands back to the belt of his jeans. Restlessly trying to tug them down to no avail. With a loud groan, you weren’t above voicing your displeasure as yet again, Matt flicked your arms away, opting instead to push you down gently until your back hit the covers and he could climb over you.

“Jesus, Matt, why won’t you let me take off your pants—” 

His reply was quick and raggedly depraved, apology laced beneath his blatant desire. “Next time.”

The dissonance in your mind barely allowed the implication to rocket through you. The idea of a next time had you arching against his grounding touches as he shifted away enough to hold himself steady against the floor to shove the rest of his clothes off and kick them away in a crumpled pile against the wood panel where they should have belonged minutes after you’d gotten inside. ‘Next time’ meshed, melted in your mind and against every thought, syrupy and sticky like ice cream outside on a hot sunny day. It was intoxicating and exciting and faintly distinctive. ‘Next time’ implied that you’d be doing this with him again. ‘Next time’ meant that maybe, just maybe, Matt was open to not letting this wonderful, incredible night fade away with memories and time. And what he meant by that, well. You didn’t have the capacity to linger on it for too long at the moment. 

You watched as he carefully climbed back onto the bed, fingertips using your legs as a guide on where to settle as he shifted against the mattress on his knees. Propping up onto your elbows, you stared at the line of him in quiet awe. From the ruined, deep blush that splotched the features of his face pink, to the broad line of his shoulders that bled into a lean muscled torso. And it was like Matt could feel your eyes raking over him as they drifted further down and down, over tensing abs and the dusty patch of his happy trail until you finally set your sights on his cock in a full thatch of dark hair between his legs; thick and leaking and flushed so hard it looked heavy, that at your audible moan, Matt couldn’t help the way it jumped, his hand shooting down to grip at the base of him. 

You’d give in to the way you wanted to throw yourself back down into the bed, if not for fear of missing the way Matt adjusted, spreading himself out wider as he shifted on his knees, his other hand feeling around for your leg as you made it easier for him, spreading until you could drape your legs against his thighs and around him and he could shuffle forward enough to be able to reach you easily, slotting, nestling between you. It was unreal, this display in front of you. Matt like this. It almost felt dreamlike—like any second now your alarm would go off and you’d wake up in your bed with a wicked hangover and the distant, receding echo of drunken fun. 

But it wasn’t a dream, and Matt trembled as he rubbed down your thigh with one hand, feeling out your position, and jerked a few times against his fist with the other. 

“You’re gonna have to- pillow, sweetheart.” He managed to choke out roughly, and you clumsily followed his request, words floating in a halo of ecstasy in the air around your head as you yanked a pillow from above you and crudely lifted your hips enough to shove it under and raise you to him. Matt tried to help, his fingers bumping against yours in a way that made the both of you giggle as you adjusted and flattened any lumps out. 

Then came the held breaths. Matt shifting forward until he accidentally brushed up against you. Both of you jolted at the feeling, anticipation skyrocketing nerve endings to their very limits. You watched, guiding another pillow just under your head for support, as Matt drew his lower lip between his teeth so tight you’d be surprised if he didn’t break skin as he bit back a moan the moment he slid himself against you. You didn’t care for such restrained abandon, letting your voice ring out loud enough to carry the sentiment for the both of you. 

He was slow, thorough, as he dragged the length of him through slick heat, coating himself in the proof of your want for him and the aftermath you’d pulled him away from before he could spend the time with you in his mouth to clean up. A raw, stripped noise drifted wantonly from his lips and he hunched into his shoulders, breathing heavy and swallowing hard against the rising presence of the two of you in the air. 

You reached out, fingertips brushing his forearm, feeling his skin prickle under his touch, as you curled your legs around him; a gentle urge forward. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah.” He crawled closer, and you felt his tip part through you until he was right there, lining himself up. The way he nudged against your entrance shot like an arrow straight to the heart. “Are you?” 

“I’m ready. I’m so ready,” Your words came out in one big aching breath. “Please give this to me, Matt, I need it. I want it. I want you.”

And you’d given him enough—more than enough—to have him moving without a second thought, both you and him sharing and certain in your desire, incentive, and mutual need. The necessity to chase what had been building up for far too long, to follow through with the only natural conclusion to the night. The press in was easy. You were so turned on, prepared enough, that there wasn’t even a chance for any modicum of pain or discomfort. Instead, all you felt as Matt pushed, inch by inch, was the glide, your body yielding to the stretch of thick brazen velvet heat, and the truly addictive sensation of being full. 

You both shared in the helpless, shattered moans that danced, twining in the air as Matt bottomed out, tilting over you with a final flex of his hips before he stilled. It might have been easy, but you still needed to adjust to the feel of him and he kindly and wordlessly accounted for that. But when your whispered ‘okay’ fell on deaf ears, and your eyes fluttered open to see Matt’s chin dropped to his heaving chest, you realized something more than just comfortability was making him wait. 

“Matt?”

“Just…” His voice rattled wetly on a deep breath, slow and steadying. “It’s- I haven’t done this in a while. I just need a minute. Wanna savor it.”

For a moment, everything around you disappeared. Your brain blanked, your thoughts froze, and your chest felt too full. Then everything…roared. Your heart sped up, flipping ceaselessly, pulsing heat coursing through you and Matt let out a broken whimper. You spoke with the ghostly fiery remnants of the hope that added up in months of desperate deprivation. “What do you mean?”

You weren’t sure how Matt found the brazenness in him to grin, wide, yet not without its share of sheepish admittance in its soft edges as he opened his eyes for you. “Told you I’ve wanted you.” He stole the breath of your reply with the slow way he began to draw back, fueled by the gasp that parted your lips and the feel of astonishment in your body’s reaction. “For a while, it’s only been you.”

Over the next few minutes, words felt too heavy. A thick reverence settled like a warm blanket over the room, and Matt set a slow, steady pace that gave you all of him in full long strokes. A gentle power as the full weight of him helped drive him forward. For a bit, there was nothing you could do but feel, helpless and content and beyond satisfied. There was a distant happy floating part of your subconscious that drew the conclusion that you didn’t even need to come again. That you could find a perfect ending entirely in the way Matt moved in you and with the force of his vulnerable admission. 

That bubble grew around you until it too started winding in. This pleasure was overwhelming in only the best ways possible. Matt’s hands on you, grip strong and unwavering. The way the front of his thighs met the back of yours, skin sweeping together in an easy sweat slick rhythm with every potent, rolling thrust. In the melodic, reverent moans and the obscene way your hips collided. That sweetness was back. The shared bliss that you now recognized as equally returned veneration. Devotion of the highest power; something just shy of possibly becoming worship found in the wells of a yearning heart.

It was easy to lock on to Matt, easy to watch. There was a restraint in the way he rocked to meet you, as if his thin grasp of control was entirely dependent on how deep his fingerprints imprinted against your skin and in the way you flexed against him, slipping more and more with every tiny gasp and blissful shiver. The stretch of him was all you could have asked for and more, hot and steadfast and every glide stoking a gratification that thrummed shockwaves through you like electricity in a body just granted life; satiatingly full.

You found yourself reaching out for him, your hand finding the side of his face and Matt wasted no time leaning over into the affection. You cradled him there for a moment, before your thumb swiped over the ridge of his brow, and your fingers slowly began to trace the curves of his features. The swell of his cheek. The line of his jaw. When your fingers swept back up to follow the shape of his lips, he pressed a soft kiss to them. You held them there for him, heart blooming with how he craved such intimacy, until you began to drag them down. The gentle touch parted his lips, and you were intent on continuing on with your path until the tip of his tongue darted out against you. Surprised, you paused, and Matt did it again, firmer, opening his mouth wider and oh. 

Sliding your fingers into his mouth slowly, your eyes went wide as you settled them against the flat of his tongue. His lips closed around a pleased hum and with a gentle suction, and he worked you over in a strained groan, tongue swirling around you until he was satisfied in thinking he sucked all the taste off of them, salt and sweat. Testing, you curled your fingers down into him, a slight pressure just to see what sort of spark it striked. And you might as well have struck gold, Matt moaning into it, his eyes rolling shut against a helpless, rougher thrust. When he let you go, a faint string of saliva hung from your fingertips, and you painted his skin with it, following the original trail you’d detoured from down his chin and grazing over the column of his throat. 

And whether that was the prompt, or simply the turn of the tide, there was no mistaking in the way Matt paused, adjusted your legs up just enough to hook around his waist, and drove in deeper. Charged and riled up, there was truly no more waiting as the change settled over you, fierce and filthy.

His mouth hung open now on a perpetual tangible sound, heavy groans and hitching breath amongst your own chorus of noise keying you into just how badly he needed this. Needed you. 

“I’ve been dreaming about how this would feel.” He begins, wildfire blaze and honeysuckle aroma. “You’re just like how I imagined, you know that?”

You hummed a wordless reply as you felt that blaze drop closer to you, the line of his chest now matching yours as he settled onto his arms, elbows digging into the mattress just above your shoulders. Your back arched off the bed at the angle shift that came with the way your legs followed him, pulling toward your body until you instinctively crossed your ankles around his back when he fully situated himself on top of you. 

Matt’s voice dropped into a register soaked in honeyed hedonistic pleasure, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear as he weaved sin into the very fabric of your being. “Feels like Heaven.”

You never wanted this to stop; the weight of Matt pushing you into the mattress, the way his kiss still ignited your bones and sent sparks to burst behind your eyes. You wanted to explore the slight possessive cant his thrusts took on as he snapped his hips forward, and the way he shuddered into you when you dragged your nails down the trail of his spine. 

The shape of his name felt so good as it tumbled into the air, gaining traction in time with each press of his cock inside you and each rough grind against your clit he tried his hardest to keep consistent when the roll of his hips perfectly met yours. Getting lost in it was easy, natural, as minutes ticked by and the stirrings of another climax grew. This was everything you wanted, everything you needed and more. Matt seemed to know exactly what to do, sometimes even before you did. Shifting to match the way you squirmed, speeding up before you could even ask, fucking into you harder as you clawed into him in the hopes that the raging tension, that winding coil of pressure in your core, would snap and let you drift apart against the sheets. But instead it stayed steady. Which in itself wouldn’t be a bad thing—hung, suspended in an endless pleasure—if it wasn’t for the way you began to notice the way Matt’s rhythm started to falter. He tried to hide it too, a determined furrow to his brow as he kissed you through choking gasps and low moans. And the thought of him coming edged you nearer, lighting a flame beneath you that burned brilliant and bright. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

“Oh, fuck,” The taste of your name was reverent and pleading on his tongue as it echoed against skin and sheets. His hips started to stutter, his careful control growing uneven and instinctual. “I’m so close, sweetheart. Tell me you are too. Tell me, please. Fuck, please, honey, because I don’t know if I can stop it. Tell me—”

And you were truthful in the way meaning lingered as you tried to gasp it out, orgasm crawling up from the tips of your hands and feet like the slow creep of wall-crawling ivy, but you could also see where this road was ultimately leading. The tightening peak in your core didn’t yet match the desperation in how Matt moved in you. You were close, yes, but Matt was already there tipping, falling over that cliff. 

You did what you could to try and help, dragging Matt back down into a messy, chaotic kiss, seeking in the way his tongue flicked skillfully against yours, and snaking a hand between your bodies to try and rush you along, match him in stride. Together, it sent washes of a bone-deep pleasure flickering through you, but it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t that your climax wanted to remain elusive. You simply, inherently, apparently, just needed a little bit more.

And when he started slowing, frantic and sloppy, you couldn’t find it in yourself to try and make him hold on in the way you knew he’d try if you’d just asked when he was right there. A single whisper against his lips sealed the deal, you pushing permission in hushed tones and wrapping both of your arms around his neck as he moaned into your mouth.

Matt lasted as long as he could for you.

It stoked the flame, the way his body tensed. You could feel the way the muscle of his thighs contracted, and you grew hooked on the lightheadedness you felt as he rapidly panted above you. You don’t think you’d ever hear a sound prettier than the noise he made as he buried himself completely into you, coming deep in hot steady pulses, a slew of praise, and a strangled, guttural moan. 

You could hear the way your heart pounded in your ears as he struggled to stay upright above you. And when he flinched at the first shaky caress of your hand, you waited until he was ready to lean back into the touch. The brush of your kiss was gentle, and you hoped it sang of the gratification that rejoiced just under the surface of your skin. Maybe another day, the satisfaction would have been enough, but your own edge was just barely within reach. And while Matt breathed, settling down, you took advantage of the way he was still seated in you, throbbing and filling you up. The sigh that parted your lips when you dipped your hand between your legs again was heady, and you chased it, not wanting to lose sight of the way that heat still curled at the edges. You focused on the burning weight of Matt. The cognizance of what he’d just done only spurring the roll of your wrist.

When Matt sucked in a breath and began to pull back, you steadied yourself for the inevitable loss of him. But then it never came. Matt shifted, a hand tracing down your body until fumbling fingers laced with yours just to bring it up to rest on the pillow beside your head, and he pushed back in. You froze, feeling the way you instinctively clenched around him, your body seeking the more you craved.

“Didn’t you-” Your voice shattered when he did it again, this time building closer to a slow, sloppy, full thrust as his body reared up over yours. “Matt, didn’t you just…”

His reply was broken, words cracking at the edges. But he managed to send you a smile full of filth and desire. “Yeah.”

“You can stop.” Although you arched into him, torn between your orgasm billowing on the horizon and worry for his overwhelm. “Fuck, baby, it’s okay, you can stop. Isn’t that too much—?”

“Only a little.” It wasn’t easy to look past the way his voice was shaking, trembling above you as he struggled to keep himself held up on his arms, but there was no mistaking the determination in the echo of his words. Or the unmistakable edge of pain cutting sharp around his subdued gasps only furthering the way his brow furrowed in slack-jawed pleasure. “But right- right now, I like it.” He groaned as he found a new, shaky, lazy pace. And he dipped his head down, burying himself against the crook where your neck meets shoulder, and determinedly ground himself in every feel of you he could manage.

You’d never been engulfed in something like this before and you didn’t know what to do—didn’t think there was anything you could do except ride it out, filing away Matt’s bitten-off little whimpers as he fucked you through overstimulation into a sacred little folder, let the wave of your climax crest over you again to the caress of his tongue against your throat and the sinewy shift of muscle working overtime above you under the soothing weight of your palm sweeping over shoulderblades and the dip of his waist.

“Know you're close, sweetheart—wanna feel it.” he gasped, dragging his nose against the line of your throat before his lips captured yours. “You'll give it to me, won't you? Need it so bad. Fuck. Please, god I need it.”

It was the mix of his words and the way he continued to drive himself forward, an unwavering resolve in his want to give you another orgasm strong and unyielding even in the frantic snap of his hips that almost whispered temptations of holding back something rough and hard. It was a race to take care of you, see you to your fulfillment, before the consequences of his own caught up to him. You could tell it nipped at his heels by the way his eyes were blown wide and glassy as you caught glimpses behind a heavy half-lidden gaze, in how the power of his thrusts grew unpredictable as he shifted you in angle until you clawed out for him to make up for consistency, and in how his hand replaced your own, fingers circling your clit with a persistent coaxing desperation.

You came with a snap of the rubber band that had been winding since that bedroom at the party, hard and uncontrollably; a raging, wild storm of white-hot sparks that dotted your vision and a smouldering ember that wrapped a thick, weighty smoke around your head.

When he felt you shake, when you cried out a grateful ‘thank you’ against his ear and started to spasm around him, Matt couldn’t keep going. He came again too, choking on a hoarse cry of your name, when his arms finally gave out from under him, twitching in time with you as he collapsed onto your chest, and the aftershocks of your lingering pleasure bleeding out all he had left to give. 

You don’t know how long you laid there. A few seconds. A few minutes, maybe. It didn’t matter; as long as it took for your heart to stop racing and the sheen of sweat that beaded along skin to dry. Matt was…somewhere else, for the majority of that time, him adjusting only once in the swarming aftermath to drag his head over your breast, ear pressed down over the left side of your chest. You enjoyed combing your fingers through his damp hair, lightly scraping your nails at the back of his neck, humming softly in a quiet content while he listened to the steadying beat of your heart until he began to stir on top of you. 

He didn’t lift his head when he breathed your name; a tiny little question.

“Yeah?”

“I should pull out of you.”

“Think it’s a little too late for that.” And what began as a breathless little giggle morphed into a deeper laugh when Matt snorted, dragging his cheek against your skin as he breathed deep and rolled his shoulders to begin his ascent.

Lifting up, Matt faced down at you with a wide, blissed out smile that scrunched a line above his nose, beckoned the crinkles by his eyes, and a harnessed glow you’d never seen before. He rendered you breathless—how he was giving this so freely to you, you couldn't even fathom.

“You ready?” He asked in a soft, reverent whisper, reaching behind him with one hand to coax your legs to return to the mattress, the strong press of his fingers rubbing a soothing apology into the soreness of your muscles from holding the position for so long, the other pressing a kiss against the back of your hand where he still held it.

The both of you flinched when he shifted back to achingly reel his hips in enough for him to pull out of you, soft and spent. You bit back a whine at the loss of that fullness, but it was quickly replaced by the place he claimed by your side, rolling against the sheets until he laid down next to you, throwing an arm like a brace across your torso and splaying his fingers against your back. 

You laid together as long as it took before you floated back from that dreamlike mist and to reality. Before the stickiness between your thighs and the way his come dripped down your leg grew uncomfortable. It was breaching a fragile quiet, how you got out of bed on shaky legs. Matt's hold on you was hesitant, grip tight but careful, like he was afraid that if he slipped away, you would slip past him right along with it, as you guided him with you to the bathroom. And with every tender swipe of the warm washcloth, and with every time your gaze flickered up to Matt under the stark fluorescent lights, you knew there was no escaping the elephant that tried its best to sneak, mild and embarrassed, but justified in its presence, into the room. Back by your bed, in fresh underwear and after fishing Matt’s silk boxers off the ground, you paused as he caught your elbow, stilling you before him. 

Turning toward him, Matt held you close. The way he touched you is reminiscent of earlier that night, the light touch of hesitant fingertips tracing the length of your neck, wisping across your collar. Except now they also dragged down to where you were still topless, forging a new path where he’d begun to press softly against the curve of your chest and gently tracing the indents of your ribs. His fingertips left lines of something bittersweet against your skin, hanging just on the precipice of resolution in his touch. Like he was trying to memorize what was given to him tonight, what he had. What he might lose. 

You caught his arm, brushing your thumb across his skin as you held loosely onto his bicep, trying to push some comfort through your action. “We don’t have to talk about this today.” The offer felt heavy as it pushed through your lips, the growing weight of distant fear twisting in your stomach as the dust began to settle to shed light on the reality of what remained. “You could stay the night if you’d like. I’ll drive you back to campus in the morning. We can take some time.” Your lip stung as you bit it, reluctant to even breathe air into these next words, but it wouldn’t be fair of you to not put the option on the table. “Or just…or we could just forget it.”

“No.” The statement was firm, instant, but Matt’s voice was frail—like he was losing the battle with the urge to beg, the plea echoing in its shadow. “I don’t want to forget it. I want- I wanna talk about this now. If…if that’s okay?”

You swallowed thickly, nodding your head. “Okay.”

But you weren’t sure where to begin. Hovering in this dense silence that filled your bedroom, in the wake of everything that just happened. Everything you’ve kept yourself from experiencing. Everything you swore you’d never let yourself have. Every way you could think of to begin died on your tongue, words escaping you alongside their meanings. You suddenly felt selfish, what you wanted from him. And foolish. So incredibly foolish. It wasn’t exactly regret that started to seep in with the tumult in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t think you even could regret tonight if you tried. There wasn’t just a satisfaction, or just the pleasant hazy post-sex bliss that rippled through you like gentle reminders of what was probably the best experience you had with someone up until that point. It was a loss: the pride you held out in front of you as the last barrier of defense that fell the moment he asked for a kiss sitting, trembling with the possibility that these next few minutes might give something substantial to the fears that had up until recently, kept you in check. A victory: a deep furrowed craving that had sat lying in wait, yearning for months, finally coaxed forward, rewarded, and fulfilled in more ways than you could have even feasibly imagined.

Further still, it was easy to let those seeds of doubt influence your expectation. To let the character of Matt, tonight rewritten and brand new before you, be overshadowed by the interpretation of him you protected your heart from for months. This conversation wasn’t one you think you could be ready for, but you prepared yourself for the fallout regardless. Opting instead to brace yourself for the worst possible outcome, leaving yourself vulnerable and hopeful if not unaware for if it came to the best. 

The silence, now stretched too long, brought a frustrated heat to your face. You hated that it couldn’t be simple. You hated that you couldn’t just file away this night under something cut and dry. Because you knew—deep down, you knew—this wasn’t a carefully chosen conquest. The onus wasn’t on Matt Murdock charming his way into your pants with an offer you couldn’t refuse and the bitter taste of knowing you were doing something stupid stinging in the back of your throat. The whisperings had been there all night; in the vulnerability shared, in the way he responded, in the utterance of raw admissions strung up plain for anyone to see. You struggled to find the balance of that coin, some part of you drenched in such arduous disbelief that of all people, Matt chose you, that you had to search every word, action, touch, and endearment for the punishment, the joke, the end to the dream.

It was like Matt could sense the hill you were slipping down, the soft mutter of your name cradling around you like a gentle lifeline. “Look at me.” So you did, taking in his expression in the rapid movements of your eyes over his face in the low light. And what you found could only be a mirror of what you were sure reflected on your own features; a breath held back by the bite of fear. Apprehension. Longing. Then his voice fell into something hesitant in the quiet moments that followed, question echoing all too familiar as he repeated it. But this time, it was searching for something else. Something more. Desperate for something solid to grasp onto. “What do we have?”

And you charted it all out, laying the answer down flat in your mind. Months—term after term of falling into step. Of playful banter and risky flirting. Of drinks shared and quiet moments when lines were drawn. Of finding authenticity in an otherwise easily misunderstood performance. A gentle evolution from somebody you off-handedly knew to tentative friendship. You knew what you and Matt had; a relationship that thrived on sharp tongues and a scrutinizing study of character that despite your effort, opened the gates of possibility to something calm and dangerous in its delicacy. But that's not what he was asking. 

Instead, you steeled yourself where you stood. He was looking, searching for the next step forward. All the while giving you the agency to his heart, allowing all power over dictation and final say to whatever you chose to establish. You couldn't ignore the infliction he dealt to himself, seeing straight through the spaces in between to the fear, the cruel reminders of the last time he gave himself so freely to someone. That was before you met him, but ghosts were best known for haunting. “What do you want?”

It was almost as if you could see the wheels in his mind turn, a sightless focus casting his eyes from side to side as he tried to settle on the right words to say, finding the extent of which he was comfortable enough to voice. “Can I still kiss you?”

You weren’t the same person you were when you arrived at that party. That version of you, if placed in your position now, would have had no trouble making a joke out of it. Putting a teasing spin on how if he didn’t think he’d earned it after single-handedly raising some bars that were admittingly far too low, then that was on him. And that version of you did linger, buzzing in the back of your thoughts and offering a hand should you take it for the easy way out. Instead, in this moment, you were wholly the part of you you sought so long to protect; the one that didn’t miss the vulnerable cadence of his voice, or the way his eyes darted rapidly across where he assumed your face to be. So you tried to solve the puzzle in his quiet, shimmying closer to him until you could press your lips to his. 

This kiss was something new. It wasn’t the sweet satisfied devotion that could breathe fire into a soul, or the lust-driven hunger that fueled nothing but go, go, go. It was a soft, tentative ask. Not just seeking permission, but in search of solace. A place to stay. A kiss aware of the possibility of rejection. It wasn’t until you pulled away that you confidently thought you dug your way to grasp at its roots, a clarity finding you in what it meant for him to also have expressed his want. And the picture you’d missed, too otherwise distracted to place how his consistent, fervent intensity seemed to match yours—and all it included, carefully considering that you’d poured yourself into him with months of lonely yearning. And the steady implication that he had also, maybe, possibly, done the same. The pieces had not been handed to you all at once, but incrementally; inside the quiet, intimate spaces that slipped through the cracks between feverish touches and hot, liquid desire. It was so easy to overlook them in the moment, but felt nothing but so incredibly monumentally substantial now.

Taking a calculated risk that had your heart leaping up into your throat just on the incrementally slim off chance that you were wrong—now that the haze over your thoughts, and other carnal distractions were clear—you broached the topic with a solemnity and offer you wouldn’t be able to come back from. “You can kiss me whenever you want.”

“Yeah?” Matt looked almost surprised, like the part of him that already knew your answer was still caught off guard by his own doubts, but he fought to not let the entirety of his expression show; a twitch that opted to lean more into the favor of the cool demeanor much like you’d seen him display only a few hours ago. Like what he was used to doing when he fell into step with you. Like he expected in this wind-down that you wouldn’t take him seriously—or not understand the nuance of what he was even asking. When in reality, you were glad he asked first. Because you weren’t so sure if you’d have had the guts to bring it up in the next couple of days, let alone so incredibly soon. “Even tomorrow?"

You hoped he could feel the weight of your stare as you studied his face, your voice dropping to a fragile whisper that clung to every hope you’ve ever had. “Especially tomorrow.”

The urge to bask in the grin that split his face wide was overwhelming and you caved in an instant. The light of him filled you to the brim, your heart doing airy flips in your chest while your mind raced, fervent disbelief that this was how it all sorted out; resolution found in the sharing of admissions equally matched in tenacity.

The quiet was simple, when you met Matt back on the bed after throwing on the first sleep shirt you found. He’d laid in wait, an almost incredulous smile widening at the first dip of you crawling up to lay next to him. You wondered if he would always like this, eager hands reaching out to touch you the moment he could, guiding you to where he could lay your head on his chest and grab your thigh, comforting and purely there, when you lifted a leg to tangle with his. He held you then, the two of you breathing together in the comfortable quiet against the sheets, letting the realization that the platter was just given to you, the door was now open to a future where you did have this—cuddling into Matt with his arms wrapped around you, the wisp of a kiss pressed to the top of your head—and not just for the night. 

It was only a few hours ago in which that very realization held an opposite sentimentality. That thinking about wanting him only led you to find a disappointment welled deep inside your chest. And despite the surrealist way you bathed in the gentle circles being traced onto your skin, or hearing Matt’s heart beat beneath your ear, that hesitation still persisted. If only in insecurity.

Your voice was small, as it spoke. Like you tried to keep the edges blunt as if you were in a room full of bubbles ready to burst. “Tell me you mean it,” Swallowing against your nerve, a part of you that wondered if maybe you should have saved this for another day, you continued, “I mean, neither of us have actually said what this is yet, and I don’t want to rush labels or anything, I just…I wanna make sure we’re on the same page.”

The pause Matt took wasn’t hesitant, but careful. He knew just as well as you did that he was walking on the eggshells of a pretty consistent history that more than spoke for itself. “Of course I mean it.” The reason why you even asked at all hung perilous and sharp like a sword above both of your heads. “I want to be with you. Do this. Us.”

It was hard not to chew at your lip, cast your gaze down until you felt Matt’s finger hook under your chin, tenderly prompting you to look up at him. “And you think we’ll last?”

“I certainly hope so.” Then he dipped into something you’d never seen from him before. Something heavily guarded and drawn out in rough breaths that were hard to take. When he spoke, everything in you stilled. “I hide things, from people. It’s hard to share. Hard to explain. I can’t be myself with others.”

You felt now like you were just handed something fragile pulled up from the depths of him, a gift of something made of a porcelain he was trusting you not to drop. You cradled it gently, shifting to wrap it in silk and lay it amongst the pillows. “Is that why you want to try? Are you yourself, with me?”

“Not fully. Not even close.” He offered you a sad smile that ticked up with hope scattered around the way his lips tugged it into shape. “But I think one day, with you…I could be.”

The realization that you were edging into territory that presented Matt more naked than you’ve seen him tonight clutched heavy around your heart. A swell of veneration, of appreciation. A flicker of coffee dates and hand holding. A rediscovering of who you were and the beginnings of a future together. It was almost overwhelming, the way Matt stripped down and offered this to you; the willingness to figure things out, to grow close, to try again. You leaned up to press a slow and gentle kiss to his lips, sighing into his smile as you nodded your head in reverent understanding. 

“Sounds a lot like you’re hoping I’ll hold out in the meantime, waiting for you to be ready.” 

For a moment, he met your reply with open relief, welcoming how you saved the conversation from becoming too much of a weight to burden at the hour it was with how deftly you spoke, letting a trickle of your normal rhythm with him sooth every syllable. “Well, you’ve already waited for me once.” He pointed out, not a single hint of triumph or smugness in his voice at how you held out hope all the while unknowingly, Matt was gathering the nerve to ask you to be his. Just a steady stream of admiration and gratitude. The plea never gained the strength it needed to become vocal, but the ask rang just as clear as the echoing toll of a church bell in the breath in between. 

Would you wait a little longer? 

And for all of him, it barely took anything to weigh the odds—finding a conclusion in his sigh of relief, the way Matt seemed to compliment even the most neglected parts of you, and the way you knew if given the chance, you would protect any and everything he’d share with you. For all of him, it didn’t matter how much time may pass, if all you had to do was love him while in wait…you knew you would.

if you made it all the way to the end, ty and i hope you enjoyed :)

[inknopewetrust]

dancing in the dark

jack learned to deal with all of his problems alone. when he finds someone to help shoulder his burdens, he falls deeply, unconditionally head over heels for you—and he loves coming home.

Contents: smut. SOMETIMES jack needs to talk shit about Robby and fuck his wife in the kitchen. discussion of sex over 35, fluff & smut, a healthy marriage is a sexy marriage, blue pill mention.

[jack abbot x fem!reader. wc: 5.4k ]

Masterlist | Other Jack Fics

When Jack couldn’t sleep, he found a solution.

Those solutions built up over the years and as his therapist put it: “were concerning, ‘not real’ activities to help him.” He didn’t listen. Instead, kept chugging along when weather churned his emotions into a mature storm.

It built. Heavy and hot and angry every day. For every minute Jack spent without a break, the boiling point seemed to climb.

And then when he got home, he crashed.

Bag dumped onto the floor, feet dragging louder every step as he followed the light into the kitchen and tried not to think about how at eight in the morning, all he wanted was to fuck his frustration out.

It was eight. He didn’t want to burden you with having sex with him just because he was combusting with weeks of problems.

He tossed his keys on the kitchen counter and watched you pour a cup of coffee from behind. Jack leaned, with relief, into the wall and shut his eyes for a moment.

“Do you want one?” You asked aloud. He hadn't said a thing and you were already helping ease the tension behind his brow.

Jack shook his head. “Not if you want me like the energizer bunny.”

“Oh, oh,” you exhaled. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

A short, airy chuckle escaped Jack’s lips as his head dipped. He was exhausted—you could see it in the frame of his body and the way his shoulders drooped like a person who had given up on the day when you turned around. With the mug to your mouth, you blew on the steaming coffee carefully.

“Rough night?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah.”

“Do you,” you began to breach slowly, “want to talk about it?”

Your eyes fluttered around his face for an answer before he gave it. He chewed on the inside of his lip before hovering, his right fingers twisted his ring on the left. Probably a female patient stuck on his conscious, you imagined.

Jack only ever got in a funk about patients that reminded him of himself, the men he served with, children, or women who reminded him of you.

He'd argue that the ones "like you" were the worst. For you, it all looked relatively the same.

“Robby came in early and this woman…” he trailed. A shake of his head followed the click of his teeth. “He really fucking pissed me off about her care.”

“Oh?”

“He’s been such an asshole lately.”

“I’ve heard.” Your eyebrows raised in acknowledgement. “He’s been an asshole for months, apparently.”

“Try a fucking year,” Jack scoffed. He lifted from the wall and ran his hands over his face. “He stalled too long and by the time Neuro came down, they berated me for waiting so long to page. It’s not my fucking fault. I told Robby what the course of action was and all he did was argue about it.”

The steam began to roll.

“He’s just—” Jack huffed “—is so dense sometimes it makes my blood boil.”

“Sounds like you need to go to couples therapy,” you replied lightly and his shoulders dropped further at the retort. “They must have a platonic co-worker, bestie session somewhere.”

“Funny,” he panned. “Robby needs fucking therapy. He’s gonna get me into a lawsuit that I have no reason to be apart of.”

“You’re gonna need more therapy for Robby’s lack of it.”

“And you know what?” Jack exasperated. He held up a pointer finger and wagged it around to make a point. “He’s a know-it-all too.”

“Aren’t you all?” You looked at him seriously. “Isn’t the whole point of your job to be the biggest know-it-all for your staff?”

“He’s an ass about it though. I’m not. I’m like… cool. Like a coach or something… he’s… he's just an asshole.”

“Then don’t ask for his opinion, Jack. Rely on your residents, your seniors, before falling back to him. Robby isn’t the chosen one, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why act like it?”

Jack shook his head. “Maybe because he does. He’s a fucking… wolf in sheep’s clothing and every time it pops out, I wonder why the hell I listen to him in the first place sometimes.”

“He can be a bully,” you agreed from what you knew of Robby and what Jack debriefed to you in confidence.

He loved his friend, truly, but even friends can be a larger stressors of life. In Jack’s line of work, it was more probable than not that Robby and Jack’s friendship would ebb and flow over time. Robby was hitting a low—and everyone always suffered when the great Michael Robinavitch hit rock bottom.

“I just wish he’d just knock it off.”

“You know that it’s not that easy.”

Jack concurred. “Doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating when other people don’t accept it.”

“Why won’t he?”

“I really don’t have a clue, honey.”

Your mouth quirked a smile to one side. “Then fuck ‘em right now. As much as I care about Michael’s well being, I really don’t want to talk about him when you’re home.”

“I know you don’t.” Jack breathed in. He shook off Robby and the patients and looked at you truthfully. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you returned.

He paused, gazing at you with a refreshed appreciation. Jack’s eyes softened easily. You’d been home alone without him for an entire night and while he knew you didn’t mind his deflation of work drama, it really wasn’t what you wanted to hear this early.

Let alone when you’re in his presence again, on an off day, with a whole day to waste.

“How was your night?”

“Fine,” you gave a vague, noncommittal motion. “Didn’t do much. Watched the news, I told you I didn’t want to make dinner so I had a bowl of cereal… went to bed, but I don’t like sleeping without you.”

Neither did he. Jack hummed. He nodded in listening and his eyes trailed down your body shamelessly. The shorts you wore to sleep always bunched weird—your own reasoning—when you walked. A shape he could only identify as an upside down heart narrowed his attention to the apex of your thighs. It targeted Jack’s mind with a reminder that he was home.

There was nothing more to worry about at work.

He was at ease under a roof to share with you.

You. You. You.

And his body sure knew it.

“Is that all you did? Sleep?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. The time on the microwave read 8:36 and for anyone else, maybe it would be too early for this. But for Jack, time was an illusion of practice.

He slept for four hours a day and devoted himself to a million different tasks to escape the quiet. However, when you were home together on a Saturday, Jack couldn’t help the way his brain immediately shifted into one mode. He missed you. He missed being close to you on nights where he imagined you tossing and turning because he wasn’t around to hold you.

“Why?” You said warily. “What did you imagine me doing other than sleeping?”

Jack’s tongue wet his lips; it ran over his bottom lip before he bit down to stop himself from blurting out the first thing that came to mind. He wasn’t seeking to be so fucking dirty minded at the break of goddamn dawn, but one look at you and he was always on the brink of exploding.

He thought you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. The kind where sailors of old were bewitched by sirens in the water... empires surely fought over you in another life. You looked so simple and refreshed in your pajamas and robe as you stood in front of the window that looked out into the backyard. The sun had risen, painting a swirl of Valentine’s colors in place of its generic blue.

He loved you. Immensely. And all of that love often transpired in every room of the house.

Jack’s mouth frowned in dismissal. “Nothing…” he scoffed. “Just like… did you read a book? Watch a… movie… or something? An audiobook?”

“Jack.”

“Maybe you watched a couple of episodes of—”

“I didn’t!” You were quick to defend. “I told you I’d wait for you to be off!”

He waited for seconds to pass. “So… nothing then?”

“Jack.” You set the mug down beside the sink. “Are you trying to ask me if I did something dirty?”

“Well that makes me feel and sound like I’m 10.”

“You’re kind of acting like you’re 10.”

“Rude,” he joked. “I… I guess so.” He answered your question.

“You wanna know what I do in bed without you when you’re ten minutes away and so frustrated about your job and all you can think about is fucking me?”

“Now you’re just being lewd.”

Jack stepped toward you and caged you with his hands stretched onto the counter beside you. Your hands landed on his stomach, smelling the antiseptic that always traveled home with him.

“Don’t you want to shower?” You inquired as his chin tutted out in observance of you.

“Don’t you wanna tell me what you did?”

“You have an imagination, Dr. Abbot,” you breathed. “Maybe you can use it to figure it out.”

Your hands smoothed over his sides. His breathing leveled out from his ire against Robby. Building the walls of his home around his heart, Jack hands gripped onto the counter hard. The strain of his muscles pulled on the veins of his arms that made you weak in the knees. Every bit of the man was attractive to you—everything.

“I think you were a little… cold,” he suggested. Your eyes lingered on his lips before meeting his own that seemed to pin you to the counter. “And you needed something to warm you up.”

“Oh,” you frowned, “so very cold.”

Your hands drifted higher. In a break from their internal memorization of Jack’s body, your hands traced his biceps and forearms, bumping over the shallow ridges of veins.

Jack rumbled. “Was it your hands? Or our friend in the drawer?”

Your eyes flickered back to his lips. Jack’s dick twitched in his scrub pants. Fuck. You were just perfect.

“A little bit of both, I guess.”

“You guess?” His face inched closer, noses brushing against one another. “Need a reminder?”

“Why would I?” You mumbled quietly. “You’re here now.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before.”

Jack’s nose danced across your cheek and to the side of your face where he sucked in the scent of you. Your hands brushed up to his pecks and back down, threatening to go lower at the bottom of his top. His breath hit your ear and your head lulled away from him playfully.

“That’s not what I want. It’s not what I wanted, either.”

“I was thinkin’ bout you last night,” Jack rasped against your ear, “how much I wanted to be here. All the things I wanted to do you.”

“Oh yeah?” You smiled as he placed a kiss on the side of your face. It was barely a kiss, a brush of his lips, but it was there. “You gonna tell me about it or do I have to guess.”

“Well you know how I feel about these shorts, honey.”

Jack backed away from your face and looked down between your bodies. He could see your nipples peaking at the fabric and the way your legs pressed together as he gazed. He wet his lips hungrily.

“Who knew sunflowers could be so fuckin’ sexy, huh?”

You laughed. He grinned like a schoolboy at the sound.

“I might only wear them just for you,” you said with a lazy smile. “They’re like my ‘Jack Trap’ I suppose.”

“Jack Trap?”

“Mhm,” you bit down on your lower lip. “Guaranteed romance with them on.”

“Guaranteed?” He joked and pretended to pull away. You tugged him back without resistance.

“Honey,” he lamented casually. “There is no trapping me. Ever. You got me. On my knee or not. Prisoner of your heart for life—honestly.”

“A prisoner?” You gagged. “In the world’s most cozy prison then.”

“Well I’ve never been to any so I wouldn’t know.”

You pushed against his stomach and he shook his head smiling before returning to blocking you in.

“I think about you every minute of the day,” he brought back. “Even if I know you’re working or reading or just making a sandwich, I’m thinking about you.”

The sincerity in his eyes killed you. He was certain death. Your certificate would read: CAUSE OF DEATH—HUSBAND’S LOVE, and it would be correct.

“Why don’t we put all that thinking to good use now?” You proposed.

You pushed up to him and planted a quick, easy kiss to his lips.

“For all the time I missed you at work,” another kiss, “and for all the time you missed me while you were at work.”

You kissed him again, longer.

“I think you have really good ideas.”

“That’s why you married me.”

“No,” he shook his head but his lips landed on yours. “I married you because you’re my best friend. And that you put up with all of my shit and still somehow love me.”

“Eh,” you shrugged, “that too.”

Jack kissed you deeply in return.

You sunk into a warm place because of it. His mouth commanded you to fall into him every time. A routine of adoration, his tongue was fast to escalate the scene to one of cuteness to one of craving. Chasing an itch that could never be fully scratched, Jack’s mouth devoured yours.

Shallow, hushed shaky breaths filled your ears when he chose to let them go. His left hand left the counter to cup your face gently. In a stark difference from his kiss, his thumb traced over your bottom lip, then top, resting in the center where your lips parted.

You locked eyes with him. Jack’s thumb breached your lips and your warm mouth accepted it. A mixture of your combined saliva coated his thumb and as he retracted, your teeth grazed his skin. Jack used his wet thumb to coat your lips before pulling your face back to his and kissing you once more.

It was thoughtless. A mindless warping of his body into yours and no one needed to think about anything except where hands went and how lips moved. Jack pushed his body into yours to lessen any possible space. Your back dug into the counter, quick to remind you that you weren’t 25 and sex outside of soft spaces wasn’t always easy.

But it was exciting and different and new.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had sex with Jack that wasn’t in bed. As much as your imaginations sought spaces that seemed sexy or exhilarating, the reality of it was that sex was a bodily maneuver that over time, became prisoner to age. It didn’t only matter if someone’s sexual prowess was dimmed by time. Knees ached, a back’s soreness frequented, and the longevity of the act became sporadic with hormone imbalances.

Jack’s twelve hour shifts and leg also didn’t always allow for more adventurous loving. But you were both satisfied with what you could do. You didn’t need to have pornographic levels of acrobatic flexibility to enjoy having sex with each other. Simple lust and attraction did all the heavy lifting where kinesthetics just didn’t work out.

Yet he kissed you like all of it was possible every time. His mouth moved against yours with fervor. Devoted to one task only: Jack wanted you to feel him. To sense one’s intent through only a kiss seemed useless—Jack gave every ounce of himself in it. Your lips nearly puckered with a grin, hands moved to cling to his scrub top as his hand tipped your head back.

His right leg wedged itself between yours. Jack’s hand that had lodged itself stiff against the counter slid between the opening of your robe and smoothed over your back before grasping your ass so hard you moved to grind against his leg. Your lips never released his, alternating between chasing his dominance and giving into it.

Jack’s hand prompted you to move. Switching to hold onto your bare thigh and sinking his fingers into your flesh, he asked your hips to roll without words. Heat rose to your cheeks when he let out a sound of appreciation.

It was something “new” he offered during times like these.

He’d always been vocal about praising you during sex—it was a non-negotiable for you when you first met so many years ago. This wasn’t a silent game. It wasn’t an unimportant encounter that could be quietly passed over until the next. Sex was sex. It was vulnerability in a bottle and fuck, if you were gonna let him see all of you, he better show that appreciation audibly.

So, when he followed up with a quick and low: “just like that baby,” your heart picked up a few extra beats.

However, Jack had become more aware of it over the last year. When he wasn’t able to give all of himself during intimacy because of his meds, he resorted to focusing on your pleasure alone and doubled down on the vocal praise. It added onto a long list of things that made Jack irresistible for you. He moaned more, let himself feel more openly, and sometimes, he talked you through it.

He was always willing to learn.

If someone asked him what makes his marriage to you work, Jack would say it was that he never stopped learning about you. People change. All the time. And just because you think you know someone in and out, it doesn’t mean that things become stagnant.

He never stopped dating you just because he married you. Jack learned, listened, and adapted when he needed to because that’s what good people did.

So, he knew when something needed to change and he knew when something clicked.

The kitchen? It’s doing it for him. It clicked.

It’s where he hoped he’d find you when he walked through the door and it was a magnificent feeling mixed with his anger to witness.

The gentle roll of your hips against his thigh was sending shockwaves throughout his body. His hand gripped your thigh harder, the other firmly grasping the back of your head as if to tell you telepathically to keep going. You leant your body on a diagonal away from him, pushing your hips down where the seam of your shorts began to press into your clit just right.

Shit. He really did love those fucking shorts.

Jack’s lips deserted yours. He looked down between your bodies, letting your face fall forward and down too, to watch you grind down on his scrub pants like a fucking machine. All you could feel, however, was the thickness of his thigh underneath it.

He loved that it being his right leg didn’t bother you.

And he thanked fucking God that he was a stronger goddamn soldier than the thought because he wasn’t sore, shaking, or ready to collapse under the pressure.

“Oh fuck,” he said your name breathlessly. “That’s so…”

“Mhm,” you hummed with a huff. “I knew you had a thing for these fucking pajamas.”

Both his hands landed on your waist, just above your hips.

“Is it bothering you?” You asked a bit softer. Still, your breath was catching.

Jack shook his head. “Think you can get off like this?”

“You’re not gonna fuck me?” Your hips faltered.

“Oh,” Jack’s voice dragged out like a cautious warning. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

Jack moved his hands underneath your pajama shirt and to your breasts. He palmed over your nipples before kneading them in his hands.

“You’re gonna come like this first.”

“You think I can?” You knew you could.

The seam of the shorts outlined your pussy perfectly. You “forgot” underwear whenever you wore these but under the guise of “she needs to breathe.” Jack didn’t argue. He didn’t argue as Dr. Abbot and he sure as hell didn’t argue as Mr. Abbot. The friction it gave felt better after every grind made them tighter. Soon, they were barely considered shorts and you hoped that the wetness building on his pants wasn’t going to wear down the fibers of it.

But Jack didn’t give a shit.

He’d buy a thousand pairs of pants if it meant you orgasmed on them.

“Yeah,” he murmured and your breath hitched. “You can, baby. I know you fucking can. You feel this?”

Jack left one of your breasts to guide your hand over his cock. He was hard, fully, without any assistance from the little blue pill.

“If you can do this to me?” He placed your hand along his covered shaft and your hand molded quickly. “Then yeah, you can fucking come on my thigh.”

You rubbed his length slower than you humped him. Nevertheless, you encouraged your bones to keep going. Jack watched your chest rise and fall more rapidly every minute that passed. It used to take no time for him to get you to the finish line but with time, that changed.

Your needs changed. He’d been rough, gentle, and everything in between but it varied from day to day what was needed.

This… this was working wonders.

“You feel so good,” you whined. “F-fuck me.”

“I will, be patient.” Jack’s head dipped to your neck where he nipped at your skin. He pressed kisses into the column of your neck and moved his hands back to the counter for support.

“Tell me if it’s too much Jack,” you said shakily. “I’m not going to leave you hurting.”

“You could take my other leg and it would hurt less than you stopping.”

“Jack,” you said seriously and hesitated moving again.

“Did I say you could stop?”

Jack lifted his head to look you in the eyes. You were taken aback by the boldness—you aren’t sure he’s ever said that before. Your mouth, against your heaving breaths, fell open into a small O.

“Did I,” he repeated, “tell you that you could stop?”

“N-no,” you sputtered.

“I know you’re close.”

“So? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not,” he assured. “But if you don’t get moving, my fucking erection is gonna hurt from not blowing my load into you.”

“Romantic,” you muttered dryly. “You’re not gonna fuck me if I stop? What happened to thinking about me all day?”

Jack moved his thigh instead and your chest stuttered.

“I told you that you need to finish first,” he nearly demanded. He said your name resolutely. “You gotta move, baby. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen if you’re not moving.”

You tested the waters and realized that it only jolted you back into place.

“You’re kind of mean, do you know that?”

“Something new.” He kissed your cheek. “Does it work?”

“A little.”

“Good.” He helped you pick the pace back up.

Not thirty seconds later, his hands left yours and pinched the back of his scrub top. He lifted it up and over his head before taking his tee off too.

“Does seeing these help?” He asked honestly about his pecks and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“What?” Jack’s eyes matched the furrow in his brow. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” you chuckled. He was so sweet.

You placed a hand on his cheek and rubbed your thumb over his skin softly. “You’re just so damn charming.”

“And you’re everything,” he replied.

“Yeah?”

He nodded and brought your hand from his face to the dip where his abs started.

“What’s everything?” You asked.

He didn’t even have to think. “You’re beautiful,” he started, “and kind. You’re always the most pleasant person in the room even when you’re a little bit bitchy. You take care of me when I need it the most and even when I don’t, you’re always there.”

Your head shook in agreement but Jack knew that’s not what it was. You were close. Hearing what he loved about you was sending your body into overdrive and the hand that was still on his cock loosened from distraction.

“You’re so good at your job and everyone loves you. But I love you the most, I think. Pretty sure on that one. And you’re so sexy. So, so, so fucking sexy that I can barely keep my hands to myself every time we’re in the same room. Your body is magnificent. Just a fucking smoke show of a wife.”

Your lips fought a smile.

“And I think you really want to come on me. I can see it, baby. I know you want to. You can do it. I’ve got you.”

“Yeah?” It sounded near pathetic coming out of your mouth.

“Yeah,” he affirmed. “Don’t stop, baby. Don’t fucking stop. I wanna watch you.”

Jack’s hand grasped your chin tightly. He locked eyes with you, never letting you out of his sight. His head nodded up and down as you whined and then shook once, twice, and wrapped your hands onto his arm as tight as a vice.

The lights seemed to flash brightly inside of you and your hips jolted against him.

“There you go,” Jack tutted. “There you go. Good fucking girl.”

“Oh what the fuck, Jack.” You stated. Your head dipped into his chest. “Good girl? Shit.”

“You like that one?” You could hear the smile in his tone.

“You know I fucking do.”

“Do you know what I like?” Jack asked you and helped lift your head. “Hm?”

“The idea that you’re gonna fuck me into the counter now?”

“No,” he shook his head. “You.”

“You’re so cheesy. You’re the cheesiest person I think I know.”

Jack scrunched his nose and ran his hands up your sides as your leg fell to the floor and you slumped against the counter.

“It’s a cute cheesy, right?”

“A hot cheesy. Like a Philly Cheesesteak kind of hot.”

“Disrespectful to Pittsburgh, but okay.”

Jack guided you to turn around. He helped slip off your robe before discarding it onto the counter so it didn’t get dirty on the floor. His hands went to the waist band of your shorts before sliding them down and palming your ass for the sake of it.

“Are you ready to go?” He asked softly. He guided his body to slot against yours.

He was as hard as rock from just watching you dry hump his goddamn thigh.

“Yeah,” you sighed in. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” Jack’s hand lightly slapped one cheek.

You backed up, leant forward onto the counter and having spread your legs enough to where he whistled at the view.

“Honey,” he swooned. “Why haven’t we done this sooner?”

“We usually don’t have sex when you walk through the door.”

“We might have to from now on.”

Jack lowered his scrub pants and pumped himself from balls to head as he zoned in on your glistening pussy from behind. One hand glided to your hips to position you right, his good foot nudging you closed just enough.

“I don’t know if I’m gonna be nice, baby.” Jack huffed low. “I’m still pretty fuckin’ pissed inside.”

You pushed closer to him. “And I’ll tell you if I don’t like it.”

“Such a good girl,” he praised. His cock lined up nicely. Jack guided his tip along your folds and closed his eyes at the sensation of it mixing with you. “I think I told you that? Right?” He suddenly couldn’t remember.

“Drunk on it already?” Jack’s hand ran up your back as he began to sink in.

Both of you lost words at the feeling. It was always like this—and you’re relieved that never changed. Jack fit inside of you like a hand in a glove. He was made for you, if that was a possible thing to manifest. Enveloped in your warmth, Jack let out a loud reset sigh with a satisfactory moan.

“Fuck. You feel so good.”

“Give me a minute,” you told him as your forehead fell against your arms on the counter.

Even if Jack fit you well, he was still big. You didn’t engage in this position much. It wasn’t practical 90% of the time with how much you’re both on your feet, plus it wasn’t the most comfortable setting. No one wants marble countertops digging into their stomach and arms. No one wants to be standing for however long it takes to come.

But when lust overtakes the both of you, it’s impossible to think of the consequences down the line.

“You’re good, baby,” he encouraged. Jack’s palms cupped your hips and sides.

“Okay,” you were ready. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” Jack tested it by pulling out a fraction and slowly going back in. “Sure?”

“Positive.”

Jack thrusted in and out carefully the first few times before gradually snapping his hips harder. The grasp on your waist tightened, fingers telling you that his upset hadn’t disappeared completely and it was rapidly creating a mask of attention diverting from you.

You felt his cock deeper every time. He was hitting you in the spot that made you see stars; head lulling back to your arms and up to the window, the early morning blues and greens meaning nothing when all you could focus on was Jack’s thrusts impairing your senses.

“Baby,” he said out of breath. “Give me your hand.”

You wordlessly obeyed and slid one of your hands back where he grabbed it fast. His hand entwined with yours and now pulling your shoulder back too, he picked up his pace further. Harder, all consuming where the thoughts were truly lost. Jack’s hips slammed into your ass and the sound of his cock pushing into your ecstasy made your eyes roll. His growls came at a close second.

“Shit.”

The words came spewing out of Jack’s mouth the closer he became.

“Fuck.”

“You feel so fucking good, baby,” he gasped when your walls squeezed uncontrollably. “Oh, just like that. Yeah… you’re taking me so well. Your pussy feels so fucking good.”

You let out a meek sound of disbelief.

“Oh my God, Jack.”

“I know,” he hissed. He repeated your name like a prayer.

His cock was immensely hard and he pounded into you just as much. You’d surely have a bruise or two on your arms, but it wasn’t something you were peeved about. Jack wasn’t hurting you. He would never hurt you.

“Fuck,” he gritted through his teeth. “I’m not gonna last long baby.”

“Neither am I,” you replied just as lost.

A follow up orgasm was on your horizon. Jack’s cock clipped your clit, sliding out of you for a moment of reprieve before he recorrected and pushed on. He never let go of your hand.

“I love you so much.”

You bit your cheek. “I love you, Jack.”

“I don’t think you know how much I love you,” he grunted. His hips shuddered. “I love you so goddamn much. You’re just fuckin’ perfect. My perfect fucking wife—that’s right, my fucking wife.”

The hand he held onto was your left. He would never get over the feeling of your ring on his skin.

“Oh you have no idea.” He sighed loudly.

“Come with me, Jack,” you begged him.

You were so close again. You squeezed your muscles around him, relishing the way it made his effort slow just enough for a moan to escape his lips.

“I’m right there.” Jack was starting to lose the rhythm.

“Oh fuck,” you groaned, feeling the precipice hit you again and making your legs quake in the process. You were suddenly overstimulated by the feeling and whined loudly as he chased his high.

“I’m there,” Jack repeated like a mantra. “I’m there, I’m there, baby—shit. F-fuck baby—”

Jack’s hand slipped from your grip and his hands planted themselves on your back as he rutted to stillness. His finish pushed into you with every thrust after it was over and he began to calm down his racing heart. The rush of his hands on your back soothed the overstimulation that continued to shake your legs.

Jack shushed you sweetly as he stayed buried inside.

“What the hell, Jack,” you mumbled almost incoherently into your arms.

He laughed but continued to rub your back. Around where his cock was softening, he felt a slow release of his ejaculation coming back and drip onto the floor between your feet.

He’d clean it up later.

“You okay?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah,” you were still catching your breath. “I just don’t think I need my coffee anymore.”

“No?” Jack asked amused.

“Wake me up fully like this everyday and maybe I won’t ever need it again.”

His hands gave one more appreciative swipe at your body before he gently removed himself for you and you could stand up straight again. Jack tucked himself back into his scrubs and then helped you back into your shorts and robe.

Your dazed eyes met his.

Christ. You simply loved him… maybe a little too much.

A/N: shawn doing a quinn app story maybe MAYBE inspired the fact this takes place in the kitchen. MAYBE. like probably greater than 99%.

reblogs, comments, and likes keep writers writing!!

[i-readtoo-much]

It’s a crime that I haven’t reblogged this yet

[abbotshealinghands]

Breakfast? Delayed. Work? Pending. Hotel? Trivago.

Dr. Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader / 3049 words

tags: +18, established relationship, domestic life, pet names, banter, kitchen sex, dirty talk, wedding ring kink, clit stim, fingering, grinding, aftercare summary: In which Jack shares a rare morning with you after a night shift. You say you're in a hurry. Too bad he's a pleaser. ao3 | masterlist (coming soon)

Your Doctor Jack Abbot arrives home from his night shift at exactly 8:15 a.m. He drops his bag heavily onto the floor and unties his boots as part of a familiar routine, greeted by Scout - your nine-year-old, three-legged German Shepherd and his adopted son - who pants loudly as he’s on the receiving end of rough scratches along his back. 

You listen as he talks softly to the dog, but you don’t greet Jack by the door unless it’s the weekend because the two of you work opposite schedules during most weekdays. It’s a Friday morning, which means that you either pass each other on your way out or share a quick breakfast if you’re lucky. Today, it’s the latter. 

As you’re pouring egg mixture into a buttered pan, Jack enters the kitchen with Scout, who is huffing with glee at both of his parents being home simultaneously, following closely behind. Scout drops to the floor like a fluffy pancake with newfound satisfaction, heaving a sigh as he settles to watch.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he greets, and his voice is already raspy from the tiredness that always hits the second he steps over the threshold of your home. You smile to yourself as you can sense the warmth of his body before he even touches you, the heat of it teasing you before you even get the satisfaction of his arms wrapping around your waist from behind. 

“Good morning, baby,” you respond warmly and lean back into the soft kiss that he plants on your neck. He runs the tip of his nose along the pulse point there, inhaling the perfume that you applied half an hour ago. He makes a sound in the back of his throat. 

“Yeah, mhm, good morning to me indeed; you smell fucking fantastic,” he murmurs into another kiss there, nibbling just a bit afterwards before staring over your shoulder down at the pan, “You making breakfast for me too, boss?”

“Yeah, this whole wife gig is pretty easy. I dunno why I didn’t marry you sooner,” you joke as you stir the eggs exaggeratedly for show, “I hope you like your eggs scrambled, I’m in a bit of a hurry this morning. Work at nine-thirty.”

“Looks good,” he comments, but there’s no clear evidence that he’s actually looking at the food anymore because his mouth is peppering your neck and shoulder with kisses. He caresses your stomach with the broadness of his palm, a smile evident from the tone of his voice. He gives you another kiss as if the first ten haven’t made your belly do somersaults, “You know me, though. I prefer your eggs fertilized.”

The familiar sound of Scout’s pants comes to a halt at that, and the two of you raise your heads in the way one does when you first notice a noise when it stops. Jack turns his head towards him, squeezing you tighter when you try to do the same, as if he’s scared that you’ll slip away. 

“This is happening whether you are here or not,” he announces to the dog. He holds his gaze like a cowboy squaring up in the beginning of a duel in the town square. Scout gives him the canine equivalent of crinkling one’s nose in disgust, gets up from the tiled floor, and leaves, as if the two of you having a sex life is a personal insult to his existence. 

“Big baby,” Jack adds when he’s gone.

“Doctor Abbot, he has more sense than you. You know, I don’t have time for this,” you remind him, speaking as though this is a conversation about the weather, but you still absentmindedly turn down the heat of the burner. You stir again.

“Got it, boss, I’ll stop,” he hums in agreement, but there’s no follow-through at all. In fact, you feel the previously mentioned palm slip down until it is joined by his other hand. 

You laugh his name in surprise and divert your hips from his grasp when both his hands start fiddling with the button and zipper on your jeans. He unfastens them like breakfast isn’t at risk, like there’s no responsibility on his part if you are to ruin the most important meal of the day. 

It’s not even when he stuffs his whole hand into your underwear that you gasp, but rather when he cups your cunt in his palm like it belongs to him, and you can feel the warmth of his wedding ring rest against you. Heat swirls and pools below your belly button, and as much as you really don’t have the time to do this, your body betrays you by going tingly. 

“Jesus, you. I have work in less than an hour. Get your hands out of my pants. We’re not fucking,” you scold with no real fight to it. He steps forward until you feel the outline of his cock at the small of your back. The stove brushes the front of your thighs, and it makes you mewl, pressing them together. You swallow thickly because you steadily smear his palm in wetness, all the while clenching around nothing and trying to avoid the heat of the stovetop. 

“Don’t wanna fuck right now. I can fuck you later. Right now, I just wanna make you happy,” he draws his calloused hand back a little to first run two fingers through your folds before spreading you open. You can tell that he is reaching up with his unoccupied hand to wet his fingers with his mouth, and God, you want those fingers joining the others right this instant or you’ll make an embarrassing noise. He chuckles as if he’s reading your mind, “I know you love my hands, so you just scramble those eggs. I can work from here, and lucky you don’t have to do a thing.”

“I do love your hands,” you try to joke, so that he can’t tell how much you are at his mercy when the second hand slips into the front of your jeans and panties. Might as well already schedule the time it’ll take to go change underwear after this, “Even if they didn’t go into surgery.”

“Oh, I know you just didn’t say that,” he huffs and gets competitive despite no one in this house ever being able to one-up him. In mere seconds, he finds your clit expertly, and it’s like he tries to make a point of his talent for precision. You can’t control the moan that tumbles out of your mouth mid-stir, the spatula nearly dropping down below the grid of the stovetop. 

“Fuck,” you tilt your hips greedily into his touch to get more. He starts touching you just how you like it, with two fingers on either side of your clit, going back and forth until you get the feeling that tugs deep in your gut. 

“Fall back, c’mon,” he orders, and you surrender without shame, letting the spatula clatter into the pan so you can collapse back into his chest. He withdraws the hand that’s been holding you exposed for the other to do its work unbothered, wipes the sticky fingers on his scrub pants, and then removes the pan from the active burner. 

“Hurry,” you whine feebly while electric currents replace your veins, yet he still avoids directly touching where you need it to make the fireworks happen. It’s cruel, and it’s exactly how you love it the most, the fact that you let him in on knowing that, for you, good things come to those who wait. Or maybe even… Those who wait come good? Really fucking good. 

“Don’t worry about your breakfast. We’re just working up your appetite, Mrs. Abbot,” he growls quietly into your ear, clearly enjoying this in a way that makes you feel like he has thought about it through at least half his shift. It makes your body go nuts, hands desperately scrambling for purchase on the oven door handle. 

His fingers descend into your cunt in the next moment, curling just right until he can tap rapidly against your G-spot. It’s so good that you start to sweat, your top clinging to your warm skin along your neckline and tits. He is building up to something that will inevitably be torn down again, and it will be in a way that’ll make you a better person throughout your workday. 

As you are getting warmer from pleasure stacking steadily, your perfume must be getting stronger too. The scent of it must go straight to his brain, and he is crazy about it, you think to yourself, because his breath changes, his cock resting rock hard and aching for attention against you. He is wet at the tip, the slightest hint of a drag of it against your ass. 

“Jack,” you moan loudly for the first time because no other words will be sufficient right now. Your orgasm feels within reach, unable to be ignored when it feels like a ball of fire in your lower half, getting bigger. 

“Fuck my hand,” he groans into your ear, his breathing having gone ragged and strained. He pushes his hips against you less subtly now, only to moan a little more high-pitched himself, “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”

You don’t have to be told twice. Fuck the time, fuck the job, the colleagues that could probably use this as an appetizer for breakfast more than you. You start rocking down on his digits, seeking out the heel of his hand to shamelessly grind against it with your sensitive, needy clit. 

However, the first flutter of your orgasm makes your knees buckle without warning. You wince as they knock against the glass window of the oven, your toes curling in your socks, “Ow, for fuck’s sake, Jack.”

“Power through, soldier. Ten ccs of natural painkillers coming right up,” the words curl in a way that tells you he’s smirking. He sounds so smug that you want to hit him, but you forgive him as he makes it easier for you to get there by holding his hand in place. 

You meet it with tiny little pushes of your hips, fast movements that make your thighs ache. By now, your head is so fuzzy that all you can do is chase the feeling right to the finish line, all the while concentrating on not putting your hands on the burners by accident. 

“Yeah— oh. Fuck, Jack, I’m gonna come. Don’t move a fucking inch,” you announce with just a tinge of meanness to it that Jack knows far too well simply means that it’s right there, that there’s no worry it could be fake because of how you hiss at him in the moment of desperation. 

You squeeze your eyes shut tightly as you fuck his palm, concentrating on tipping the scales of pleasure. A whine forces its way up your throat, you react by holding your breath, and then you come so hard that you fly forwards without warning as everything releases into relief that sings. Luckily, Jack wasn’t lying about not letting you fall. He has quick reflexes, catching you by pressing his palm against your chest. 

A gibberish version of his name, along with a string of bad words fall from your panting mouth as it peaks, your cunt choking his fingers while he presses down on your G-spot as if he wishes to have a wife made out of Jell-O. 

Your climax is a full-body-shake one that crashes over you in waves. Wetness seeps past his fingers, soaking the fabric of your underwear to the point where you fear your jeans are a lost cause, too. 

In the end, you find yourself in the confusing juxtaposition between raw overwhelm, tears, and smiling softly. Were it not for Jack, you would probably have collapsed into a pile of afterglow on the floor right now. Your thighs tremble slightly through the softer squeezes of aftershocks. Your breath tries to even out to no avail because he eases his fingers out of you slowly, unavoidably making your knees tap against the oven again. 

“Christ, you really let me have it, didn’t you, Mrs. Abbot?” Jack murmurs from behind you, his voice having dropped into that tender and patient register that melts you. He almost sounds in disbelief of being able to achieve anything like this in the last hour before post-shift collapse. 

You laugh breathlessly, but it doesn’t even feel like yourself. Jack takes it as the cue to calm your body down again after it’s been pushed so far, stroking his hand carefully across your mound to soothe you. When you whimper, he switches to just holding you in his hand again. 

“This was so fucking rude of you,” you breathe when it has ebbed enough to make you coherent once again. You’re still in your half-bend position against the kitchen table, still trying to make sense of how you gave in so quickly. 

“Sure, I’m a terrible monster,” he huffs, but still sounds unbelievably smug and pleased with himself. He uses the hand that’s still splayed across your sternum to straighten you to your full height again. You let yourself be manhandled, a leftover shred of desire lighting up as said hand glides up to rest against your throat. He draws you back into his chest.

“You good?” He asks a little softer, his thumb against your carotid and his other hand withdrawing from your pants. Your heartbeat is still going faster than a jackrabbit but still, you find the strength to turn around in his arms. 

His hand stays on your neck, but it turns lazy, so it’s not a grip anymore. He stares at you as he waits for a response, chin lifted slightly, and his mouth curling up in a dirty, tired smile. It’s the first time you see his face today, you realize, and the sight of his brown, scanning eyes makes you grin in that lazy, affectionate way. 

“Mhm. Absolutely,” you reassure quickly. There’s an embarrassingly goofy smile on your face, one that you know won’t go away on its own until Jack’s gone from your line of sight, “Almost would’ve needed a toe-tag there— instead of new underwear.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Dead upon arrival,” he deadpans and makes you giggle louder than the joke calls for. You feel hot all over from your orgasm, floating in a dazed state where the claustrophobia of your jeans and feeling like you’re wrapped in a blanket made of cotton and dopamine exist at the same time. 

You respond further by leaning in to get yourself a kiss. His mouth is soft, his five o’clock shadow scratches lightly without being uncomfortable. He wipes the fingers that were inside you on his other scrub leg so he can reach behind you to turn off the heat on the stove. He melts into the kiss by stepping forward and pressing your ass into the edge of the stove. 

The act results in your lips parting in a gasp when you feel his cock against your thigh, even moreso when he holds you close by the waist. Admittedly, you were too selfish a moment ago to be as aware of it as you are now. He’s hard enough for it to be uncomfortable, the kind where you know it won’t go away on its own. 

“Jack,” you pull back to get his attention, looking down between your bodies instead of stating what’s clearly obvious from how his pants are tenting, “You’re…”

He shakes his head when you try reaching for the hem of his scrub bottoms. He taps out by patting the top curve of your ass and then takes a single step back to stress his decision, “Don’t even think about it, boss. You’re gonna be late if I let you touch me.”

“Maybe the boss wants to be late,” you flirt back, now the one who smirks for once. Still, you’re half-serious, bordering on turning around to offer the most effective relief to his predicament.

“Yeah, I know, gorgeous,” he says with the most lovable and annoying gentleness to his rejection. He tugs the waistband on your jeans up around your hips, “But you’ll hate yourself for it by lunch, and then I’ll have to hear about it when you come home.”

You click your tongue at him, “Spoilsport.”

“Someone has to be,” he mumbles. He starts to fasten your jeans for you, and when the button slips through its hole, he lets his eyes flick down your button before meeting your gaze again. 

You nearly whimper. His mouth is so close, his cock is right there in his scrubs and not inside of you. Your knees wobble again, and he steadies you without thinking. 

“Besides,” he adds too casually, “You look like you’ll have to call in sick if I make you come again. So go upstairs. Take a breather, change, and I’ll make sure there’s breakfast to go when you come back.”

“You’re sending me away?” You complain like a toddler who is fighting having a tantrum when they don’t want to leave the playground. 

“Uh-huh, like a fair maiden to a monastery,” he mocks and already starts guiding you towards the door that leads to the stairs by grabbing your shoulders. 

“But what about you?” You try one last time. Maybe.

“I’ll soldier on,” he tells you over your shoulder because out of the two of you, he actually has the ability to do that, “And once you’re out that door? I’m going upstairs to take care of this like a gentleman; by which I mean a NyQuil-level treatment for the little situation you’ve put me in. I’ll be out cold until you come back to me.”

You stop in your tracks, “Little isn’t how I would describe it.”

He sighs as if he hasn’t just made the state of your underwear worse at that mental image. 

“Go,” he orders like he isn’t right on the edge of getting a crack in his composure. It has happened before, you want to retort, but he beats you to it, “Go before I pull you back here and bend you over the counter.”

And you do, but not before stealing one last kiss like a defiant child. Just to see what he’ll do.

[pearlessance]

Sweetheart

Pairing: Andrew Cody x shy!f!Reader

Summary: Everyone knows that Pope Cody's girlfriend is a real sweetheart. What they don't know is that, behind closed doors, you're a real fuckin' freak, too.

Warnings: +18 explicit content MDNI, porn without plot, established relationship, shy!reader, unspecified age gap, size difference, pope teaches you how to shoot a gun and touches you at the same time, face slapping, face fucking, reader has hair that can be styled, messy blowjob, reader helps complete a job, praise, car sex, reader makes out with pope over a mask so masked sex, restrained hands, creampie, overstimulation kinda, only barely lightly edited

Note: take that p w/o plot tag seriously cause uh....yeah. this is just me wanting to fuck pope cody bad

WC: 2.3k

[masterlist] [AO3]

Everyone thought Andrew Cody was a pervert.

And, really, how could they not?

They see him; all big and brooding, with wrinkles around his eyes and rough hands. And beside him stands you; soft and innocent, all shy smiles and quiet words. A sweetheart by every definition of the word.

He's older than you. Bigger than you. Meaner than you. All it takes is one glance at your manicured fingers around his broad bicep and your cheek pressed to his shoulder to know that, yeah. He's probably (definitely) taking advantage of you.

A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.

What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?

But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.

They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.

His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."

You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.

The gun clicks.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."

Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.

It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.

You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.

He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.

But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."

And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.

Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.

He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.

Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.

Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.

His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.

"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."

Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.

"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."

You've even got Smurf fooled.

They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.

While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.

Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.

And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."

Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."

"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."

His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.

In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.

But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."

It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.

The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.

They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.

You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.

Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.

And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.

The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.

And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.

He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.

Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.

"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."

He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.

Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.

"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.

"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."

You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."

He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.

He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.

"Wait."

Andrew freezes.

At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.

His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.

He's a monster. He's a fucking—

And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.

You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.

Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.

Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.

Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.

And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.

It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.

Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.

But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.

The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.

And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.

He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.

Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.

He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.

It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.

"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.

You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"

He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.

It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.

Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.

He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.

You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."

Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'

And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.

Pope will let them keep on believing you're just a sweetheart.

[levanswrites]

𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your boyfriend loves you with his whole heart. and sometimes, you’re not sure what to do with something that big. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, established relationship, touch/love-starved reader, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, brief smut, implied past trauma/abuse but nothing explicitly mentioned, heart-aching fluff, character analysis 𝐚/𝐧: flipping my favorite trope onto reader. this one's for all my peeps who have a tough time with physical touch and emotional intimacy

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

Your boyfriend loves easily.

Affection stitched directly into the lining of him, inseparable from the rest of his body.

Touch, to Steve, is instinct before intention.

Automatic and unthinking, his hands find you the way roots find water.

Waiting in line at the fall fair, he hooks two fingers through your belt loop and sways you gently side to side while the Ferris wheel spins overhead in smeared red and gold light.

The air smells like fried dough and cinnamon sugar, cold autumn wind carrying bursts of laughter through the crowds. Steve stands behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder, warm chest pressed loosely to your back while he argues passionately about kettle corn versus popcorn.

Once in a while, he'll slide his thumb beneath the cuff of your sleeve mid-sentence, stroking the pulse point at your wrist, completely unaware that your heart is beating itself raw under his fingertips.

It’s impossible to explain it.

How overwhelming it feels to be loved by someone so thoroughly.

Because Steve never hesitates.

Never acts like affection is something shameful.

Love pours out of him, as naturally as body heat.

If your hands are cold, he interrupts himself halfway through a story just to catch your fingers and tuck them into his jacket pockets alongside his own, rubbing warmth back into your knuckles while continuing his sentence without missing a beat.

If you yawn during movie night, his arm is around your shoulders before the sound can finish leaving your mouth. “C’mere, sleepy girl,” he murmurs automatically, pulling you sideways against his chest.

If your shoelaces come untied in the middle of the sidewalk, he drops immediately to one knee with a distracted, “hang on, baby.”

Rainwater hisses along the curb while he reties the bow tighter this time, fingers quick and practiced, one hand steadying lightly against your ankle. His knuckles brush your skin through your sock and you have to stand there, holding your breath until your lungs ache with it, staring down at the concentration pulling his brows together.

Wondering what it must be like to love someone with your whole heart and not feel like it’s going to break you open.

He’s warm everywhere, your Steve. Warm hands, warm mouth. Warm stomach pressed against your back beneath blankets. He smells like laundry detergent and faint cedar cologne rubbed into the collar of his jackets. Sometimes vanilla chapstick, sometimes mint gum. Always Steve.

And the kisses are constant too.

Quick, thoughtless ones, born entirely from fondness.

The corner of your mouth while waiting for the microwave to beep. Your forehead when he passes behind you in the kitchen. Your shoulder while you lean over the sink brushing your teeth side by side. The back of your neck when he reaches around you for orange juice in the fridge, mumbling a sleepy, “morning, honey,” against your skin before kissing beneath your hairline.

Sometimes he just looks at you for a second. Expression softening imperceptibly, like some private thought crossed his mind, and then he leans over and kisses your cheek with this quiet little hum in his throat.

Like loving you tastes good.

And god, the neck kissing.

It’s terrible.

And right now, in the middle of a museum gallery so quiet you can hear shoes squeak against polished floors, he’s doing it again.

You’re trying to read the plaque beneath some enormous renaissance painting—something about divinity and grief, oil on canvas—but Steve is behind you, arms folded around your waist while he scans the museum brochure one-handed.

One of his hands has slipped beneath your cardigan, warm palm spread low across your stomach.

“Okay, so,” he murmurs near your ear, voice low enough that the sound vibrates through you, “there’s the Greek sculpture thing upstairs, or... there’s apparently a room with these like, tiny dollhouses?”

You wrinkle your nose. “That sounds horrifying.”

“Right?” His lips brush the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Like what if one of them’s haunted?”

Then his mouth finds the hinge of your jaw.

One lazy, distracted kiss.

His lips are soft, slightly chapped from the cold outside. Warm breath spills across your skin afterward, making your pulse jump beneath his mouth. He lingers there, nose nudging lightly against your neck while he keeps mumbling off different sections of the museum.

You feel the shape of his smile against your skin when he finds another ridiculous exhibit.

“Apparently there’s a room that’s just chairs.”

“That can’t be true.”

“No, I swear to god.”

Then his mouth drifts lower.

Open-mouthed kisses this time.

Slow enough that warmth blooms beneath every press of his lips. You feel the faint scrape of his teeth catch your skin playfully before he smooths over it with another softer kiss, his thumb stroking across your stomach.

Your entire body tightens around the feeling.

The worst part is knowing that he isn’t trying to fluster you.

Steve isn’t performing intimacy.

He just never second-guesses affection.

Unlike you.

For you, every touch feels catastrophic.

The second Steve touches you, awareness crashes through your body all at once—your pulse, your breathing, the weight of his hand, whether your hair smells okay, whether your stomach feels too soft beneath his palm, whether someone across the gallery can see this.

Whether you deserve to be loved this openly at all.

“....and Robin said there’s some painting of a guy eating his own son which honestly seems kinda—”

He stops, hand stilling against your stomach.

“Babe?”

You blink hard, staring at the plaque without reading a single word.

Steve leans back, concern creasing immediately between his brows.

“Hey,” his hand slides higher, rubbing gently over your ribs. “You okay?”

“Hm? Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Another lie.

Your skin still burns where he kissed you.

And underneath all the panic is something worse.

Fear and hunger, knotted so tightly you can’t separate them anymore.

Wanting him closer, wanting him to keep touching you forever. Wanting to crawl inside every warm, gentle thing he gives you and stay there.

Not knowing what you’d do if he ever stopped.

Because as terrifying as it is to be loved this softly, you think losing it might actually destroy you.

“You wanna sit down for a sec?” Steve asks quietly. “I think I still have that granola bar in my bag if you’re hungry.”

You almost laugh, because of course that’s where his mind goes.  

Care.

Always care.

“No, I’m okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “We can keep going. The uh, Greek sculpture thing sounds good.”

He watches you for a beat longer than comfortable, thumb rubbing against your hipbone through your jeans.

“Okay,” he says finally.

His hand slides up your arm, gently fixing the cardigan slipping off your shoulder. His fingers brush your neck in the process, absentmindedly smoothing your hair back into place too.

And then, because he’s Steve—because affection lives inside him so naturally he doesn’t know how to love except with his whole body—

He reaches down and interlaces your fingers with his.

Warmth immediately fills the spaces between your knuckles, his callused fingers curling around yours with steady, secure pressure.

He keeps holding your hand the entire walk toward the staircase, thumb stroking across your skin while he talks about haunted dollhouses and ugly marble babies and whether you think ancient Greek people had chest hair.

And isn’t it terrifying, how quickly your body has learned what safety feels like in someone else’s hands?

...

It isn’t just the touching.

You almost wish it was.

Because that would be easier to understand.

A touch can be explained away:

Steve’s just naturally affectionate. Steve likes physical contact.  

But it’s not just that.

It’s the way he loves you without condition. Without making you earn it first.

A few weeks into dating, he showed up at your apartment carrying a bouquet so enormous it nearly blocked his entire face.

When you opened the door, all you could see were flowers.

Soft cream roses crowded against pale pink delphiniums, petals curling delicately at the edges like silk ribbon. Deep burgundy dahlias bloomed low in the arrangement, velvety and dark as spilled wine, white baby’s breath drifting between everything like tiny bursts of snowfall.

And hidden right in the middle were your favorites.

Blue hydrangeas.

Dusty-blue petals clustered together like storm clouds at dusk, edges fading lavender where the light caught them.  

You had pointed them out exactly once while passing a florist downtown.

Three seconds, maybe.  

You remembered slowing briefly in front of the shop window because they looked beautiful beneath the warm yellow display lights. Rain had just started misting softly against the sidewalk and Steve had been halfway through ranting about some middle schooler trying to rent an R-rated horror movie with a fake ID. You’d smiled at his story before murmuring, almost absentmindedly, “Those are so pretty.”

That was it.

You hadn’t even thought he heard you.

But Steve Harrington has a habit of holding onto the tiniest details about you like they're something precious.

“Baby, I swear to god,” Steve was saying now as he stepped inside your apartment, nudging the door shut with his foot, “I had the craziest day today. This guy at work tried to return a tape completely melted.”

The bouquet landed in your arms before he shrugged off his jacket.

“Melted,” he repeated, horrified, running a hand through his hair. “Like, fully warped. Looked like somebody cooked that thing in a microwave.”

You stared down at the flowers.

The bouquet was heavy enough that you had to support it with both arms. Thick stems pressed cool and damp against your palms beneath layers of cream florist paper, the wrapping folded slightly unevenly around the flowers and tied together with rough twine that looked suspiciously hand-done.

Not florist-perfect, but Steve-perfect.

The flowers smelled dizzyingly alive: sweet rose perfume softened by rainwater and the cool, earthy scent of freshly cut stems.

“…um, Steve?”

“—and Keith asked me if I did that,” he huffed, toeing off his shoes. “I mean, can you believe that shit? What does he think I do at work all day, destroy tapes for fun?”

“Steve.”

“Yeah?”

You blinked at him slowly.

“What’s…” Your throat tightened strangely around the words. “What’s this for?”

He looked down at the bouquet like he’d genuinely forgotten he walked in carrying it.

“Uh…” His brows lifted slightly. “Flowers?”

He laughed softly after saying it, confused.

But you didn’t laugh.

Because your brain was already doing what it always did: rummaging frantically for conditions. For expectations and hidden meanings tucked beneath kindness.

Your heartbeat started creeping unpleasantly high in your throat.

Was it an anniversary?

Oh god.

Had you forgotten something?

Your stomach dropped, dates scrambling uselessly through your head too fast to follow. One month? Six weeks? Was there something couples were supposed to celebrate this early? Had Steve done something thoughtful and now you were standing there empty-handed like the worst girlfriend alive?

The cellophane crackled beneath your tightening grip.

“Did I…” You cleared your throat quietly. “Did I forget something?”

Steve’s forehead wrinkled.

“Huh?”

“The flowers.”

“What about ‘em?”

Your voice came out impossibly small. “Why’d you get these?”

“Uh, ‘cause I…” He huffed a tiny laugh through his nose, head tilting. “’Cause I wanted to?”

His confusion only made your chest tighten more.

“Is it our anniversary or something?”

His frown deepened. “What? No.”

“Then… why?”

Steve stared at you for a second, slightly open-mouthed now, the soft amusement on his face fading into gentle concern.

“Baby, they’re just flowers.”

You stared back helplessly.

“But why?” you asked again, quieter this time.

“Well, I…” He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “I saw them. And I thought about you.”

The apartment suddenly felt very quiet.

You looked back down at the bouquet in your arms.

The hydrangeas were even prettier up close, petals shifting between pale blue and soft lavender depending on how the light hit them. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath caught between larger blooms like stars scattered through clouds.

A single sunflower tucked near the back, drooping sideways because Steve probably had the bouquet strapped into the passenger's seat on the drive over.

Your throat burned.

“That’s it?” you asked quietly.

Steve let out a soft breath through his nose.

His socked feet whispered against the floor as he stepped closer, one hand rising to cup your cheek.

Big enough to hold the entire side of your face, his palm enveloped you in warmth. Your lashes fluttered at the feeling of his thumb sweeping beneath your eye, brushing over the apple of your cheek, soothing something there without even knowing what hurt.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s it. I saw ’em and thought you’d like them.” His mouth tugged into a small smile. “You stared at those flowers for like, ten minutes.”  

You huffed weakly. “It was not ten minutes.”

Steve’s smile widened, encouraged by the sound of your laugh.

“There was this whole wrapping station thing too,” he added, gesturing proudly toward the bouquet still overflowing from your arms. The cream paper rustled softly as he touched it, uneven folds bunching around the stems where the twine had already started slipping loose on one side. “The lady kept trying to help me but I told her I could handle it.”

He tipped his head, inspecting his own work. “Pretty good, right?”

You looked down again.

The wrapping really was crooked. One corner folded inward strangely while another flared too wide, baby’s breath poking free through gaps in the paper.  

It couldn’t have been more beautiful.

Steve’s grin turned sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I think she stopped helping 'cause I was stressing her out.”

A quiet bubble of laughter escaped you, and the second it did, you noticed the way his face changed. Grin softening, eyes gone warm at the realization that he’d made you smile.  

That was the other unbearable thing about him.

How carefully he watches for your joy, waiting for the next chance to do it again.   

He really had done all this just because he wanted to.

No special occasions—he just saw something beautiful and immediately thought of you.

You blinked quickly, staring down at the velvety rose petals before he could notice the dangerous sting gathering behind your eyes.

Nobody had ever remembered little things about you before.

Not enough to act on them later.

Certainly not enough to drive across town carrying an absurdly oversized bouquet because of one passing comment you barely remembered making yourself.  

But Steve noticed everything.

The tea you always reach for when you’re sick. The songs you hum in the car without realizing. Which side of the bed you like to sleep on. Which sweatshirt you wear when you’re sad. The way you peel pepperoni slices off pizza before eating.  

The flowers you paused to admire for three seconds on a rainy sidewalk weeks ago.

Your fingers tightened carefully around the bouquet.

“Thank you,” you managed quietly.  

Steve smiled, stepping closer until the bouquet crushed lightly between your bodies, cellophane crinkling in the quiet of the apartment.

“Yeah. Anytime, baby,” he hummed, bending down to press his smile into the curve of your mouth, as natural as breathing.

...

You don’t know why you get like this.

Why your body reacts like it’s bracing for impact when all he’s doing is being gentle. Why his affection makes your chest ache the way it does.

Why your first instinct is always to freeze.

Body going stiff whenever Steve wraps himself around your back in grocery store checkout lines, chin hooked over your shoulder while he complains about magazine prices and rubs his thumb beneath the hem of your shirt.

Sometimes he brushes your hair behind your ear mid-conversation and keeps talking without even realizing he did it. Sometimes he reaches for your hand in his sleep, eyes still closed, finding you beneath the blankets when his body notices your absence before he does.

And you wonder why, in all those sweet, wonderful moments—when he kisses your forehead while waiting for the microwave to beep, when he pulls you against his chest during movies, when he drops to his knees on dirty pavement because he doesn't want you to trip over your laces, when he holds your face in both hands like it’s something precious—you feel this horrible urge to apologize afterward.

Sorry I’m difficult. Sorry you picked me. Sorry you don’t realize yet there are easier people to love.

Love had always arrived transactional before him.

Conditional.

Dependent on being easy enough, pretty enough, quiet enough, useful enough.

But Steve loves you without condition.

And being seen that intimately by someone so good—someone as warm and earnest and sincere as Steve Harrington—feels unbearable sometimes.

Maybe that’s why nights like this overwhelm you so badly.

A fancy dinner downtown stretches long past sunset, candlelight flickering gold across Steve’s face while he steals bites from your plate despite insisting twenty minutes ago he was “seriously so stuffed.”

Wine leaves his cheeks faintly pink by the time you leave the restaurant. His tie hangs loose, crooked around his throat, top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. Summer heat still clings to the sidewalks even this late at night, thick with blooming jasmine spilling from flower boxes outside storefronts. Somewhere farther downtown, music drifts through open bar doors, muffled bass and laughter carried through the warm air.

Steve's hand never leaves your lower back, fingers flexing gently against you whenever the crowd thickens, pulling you instinctively closer to his chest.

By the time you drift into the park, your heels are dangling from one hand and your body feels pleasantly heavy from the wine.

The grass is cool beneath your bare feet. Damp earth presses between your toes as you wander deeper along the meadow paths, fireflies blinking through the dark around you like floating embers.

Steve is halfway through retelling some ridiculous story his students had told him earlier that day, pausing every other sentence because he keeps getting distracted trying to kiss you.  

Grass stains smear across the knees of his expensive slacks when he finally pulls you down beside him into the field.

“Steve,” you protest weakly, glancing at his pants.

“What?” he asks innocently, tightening his hands around your waist.

“Those are gonna stain.”

“Mm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, grin lazy. “Worth it.”

You lose track of time there.

Talking between kisses, lying shoulder-to-shoulder in the grass while Steve points out constellations he names wrong on purpose just to make you argue with him. His fingers comb slowly through your hair while your head rests against his shoulder, skin sticking together in the humid night air.

And by the time he gets you home, you’re half-floating.

Steve crowds you against the apartment door before the lock has even clicked shut.

Both hands on your waist, lips sealing over yours. The force of it nudges you softly into the door, his body fitting against yours as he grunts low into your mouth like he’s been holding himself back all night.

Sweet burgundy wine still lingers on his tongue when his lips part against yours.

He’s warm everywhere.

Warm hands sliding beneath your dress, warm mouth against your throat. Warm breath ghosting over newly exposed skin every time he pauses to look at you.

And he does pause, constantly.

Heavy-lidded hazel eyes drag across your face, your throat, the curve of your body beneath his hands, lips gone slack from that third glass of Merlot though his smile tells you he’s drunk on more than just the wine.

His palms skim along the back of your thighs while he kisses down your neck, the soft scrape of his stubble pulling a shaky breath in the shape of his name.

He smiles against your skin, feeling your fingers clutch tighter at his shoulders.

“C’mere,” he murmurs softly.

The bedroom lights stay low when he walks you backward toward the bed.

Blue comforter wrinkling beneath you when he eases you onto your back, following you down, kissing over every inch of exposed skin while your heartbeat stutters harder with each press of his mouth.

Broad palms smooth upward beneath your dress while his lips trail lower, the slow descent of it dizzying; his mouth dragging across your collarbone, the center of your chest, down your stomach, your ribs, each kiss separated by warm breaths and playful nips that make your muscles jump.

And when he kneels at the foot of the bed—nudging your legs apart carefully, lovingly, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin inside your thighs as he settles himself in between—he lets out this quiet little sigh.

Like nowhere else on earth could possibly compare to this.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs against you, pressing the words directly into your skin. “You’re so beautiful.”

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of your underwear while he glances up at you through heavy lashes, tongue darting briefly to wet his lower lip.

You reach for his hair quickly, panic flaring.

“Steve,” you whisper. “Wait.”

His hands still immediately where they rest on your hips. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow hard. “Nothing, I just...”

Your head spins pleasantly and horribly all at once from the wine and the heat and the sweet boy kneeling between your thighs looking at you like you hung the moon.

“I should shower first.”

His brows pull together. “Why?”

“Because,” you laugh weakly. “I’m sweaty.”

Steve smiles at that, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s heard all day.

He leans in even closer, nose brushing over your clothed mound before he presses a slow kiss there.

“Baby,” he murmurs against you, “I don’t care.”

“Steve...”

“I mean it.”

His hands glide upward along your waist, warm and heavy as velvet, fingertips grazing your ribs on the way up.

“I like you like this,” he says softly.

Then he takes in a breath.

A deep, deliberate pull through his nose, the warm drag of air against the damp fabric making your thighs twitch around him.

“You smell good,” he murmurs, kissing you there again. “Like summer.”

Your face burns, but Steve only smiles wider, already halfway gone.

“Just stay,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you. We can take a bath after, promise.”

He turns his head to the side, nose nudging affectionately along your inner thigh before he closes his lips around the sensitive skin there. The suction is soft at first, teasing warmth into you before the pressure deepens just enough to sting pleasantly.   

A new love bite starts to bloom, petal-soft and tender, like a flower kissed awake by rain. His mouth traces over it, soothing the flush of it back into softer color with gentle, unhurried pecks.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss over the bruise-tinted skin. “My perfect girl.”

To be loved this intensely feels like it could swallow you whole.

Like the warmth of it could burn straight through you.

You don’t even realize you’ve started crying until your breath catches sharply in your chest, a raw, jagged gasp tearing from your lungs.

Steve’s head snaps up instantly.

You jerk your face away in horror, both hands flying to cover your eyes before he can see.

God.

Oh god.

Not now.

Why now?

“Baby, are you—”

His voice cuts off the second your breath stutters again, louder this time.

The mattress jolts beneath you as he pushes upright, fast enough that the bed frame gives a small protesting creak.

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

You can feel him at your side immediately, his quick, uneven breaths brushing against your hands where they're pressed tight to your face.

“Baby, what happened?”

His fingers curl around your wrists, firm but impossibly gentle.

Always gentle.

“Did I hurt you? Did I do something?”

“N-no,” you choke out immediately.

“Then what?” His voice starts to break slightly, turning sharp with worry. “What is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head helplessly, unable to form the words, unable to explain.

The lamp clicks on beside you. Warm amber light spills across everything at once: rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, Steve kneeling beside you, shirt open at the collar, belt buckle undone and tie hanging loose around his neck.  

The flowers from dinner are on the dresser.

Slightly uneven in their vase, waterline crooked, the hydrangeas beginning to open wider in the warmth of your apartment.

Embarrassment crashes over you like a wave.

Perfect.

A night he’d planned so carefully—reservations at the candlelit Italian place downtown, your favorite wine already waiting at your table, flowers arranged before you’d even walked through the door—

And now you’re crying halfway through sex because your brain can’t handle something as simple as being loved.

You turn your face away again instinctively, shoulders curling inward, but the tears don’t stop. They come harder, messy and humiliating, gasps of air ripping through your chest no matter how hard you try to swallow them down.

You feel Steve’s hand slide up your spine.

Slow, slow passes between your shoulder blades, fingertips pressing gently.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide, okay? You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, wiping at your face uselessly. “I-I don’t know w-why I’m—I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry—”  

“No, hey, don’t apologize, baby. Don’t say sorry.”

You resist him weakly when he tries to gather you in his arms.

You can’t look at him.

Can’t stand the thought of seeing the concern on his face after ruining this.

“I just—” You let out a shaky breath, voice cracking completely. “Fuck, I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Steve stills at that.

Then slowly, carefully, he takes your wrists fully in both hands.

You let him this time. Arms trembling the entire way down as he lowers your hands into his lap. You still refuse to meet his eyes, staring instead at the heavy rise and fall of his chest. His crisp white shirt is wrinkled, open at the collar, a faint pink bite mark just above his collarbone where you kissed him during the taxi ride home.  

His gaze presses into you, heavy and intent, trying to read what you can’t say.

“I need you to look at me,” he says quietly.

“I can’t.”

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. “You can.”

Another tear slips down your cheek. He catches it without hesitation, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb.

“Please,” he whispers, softer now. “Look at me.”

You finally do.

Steve’s hair is a mess, chestnut strands falling across his forehead where your fingers had been tangled moments ago.

His eyes—warm honey and green and amber all blurred together beneath the low light—are pained, tight with worry and unbearably expressive.

“There's nothing wrong with you,” he says, unshakably certain. “Nothing.”

His lips are swollen from kissing you, parted slightly with how hard he’s breathing.

It’s so painfully clear, how panicked he is.

Steve’s face never hides anything

It doesn’t know how to.

When he’s happy, it shows in the soft wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

When he’s worried, it gathers in his brows, in the tight set of his mouth.

And when he loves, it radiates from him so naturally it feels endless. Like sunlight.

You wonder what that must feel like.

To love someone without fear.

To offer tenderness without expectation, without the quiet dread that grows the more there is to lose.

He reaches up slowly, clearing tear-sticky strands away from your temples, thumb brushing beneath your eye. Still trying to read what hurts, the furrow in his brows asking without words.

You want to tell him.

For him, you’d try.

But the truth feels monstrous once it reaches your throat.

How do you explain that being loved by him feels unbearable sometimes?

That every touch lands somewhere deep inside you that still expects pain?

That he gives and gives and gives, asking for nothing in return, and yet some terrified part of you waits for the bill to come due?

How do you explain that it makes you feel broken, not knowing how to take something he gives so easily?

You part your lips, throat dry and aching.

Steve waits, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your wrists.

Patient.

Always so fucking patient with you.

“I just...” Your voice shakes. You stare at his mouth instead of his eyes, because it’s easier than being seen.

“...I just really love you.”

It rushes out so quickly.

And in a horrifyingly beautiful moment of clarity, you realize it’s the first time you’ve ever said it to anyone.

Ever.

Steve goes still. His brows soften, eyes drooping at the corners. His lips part soundlessly for a second.

“Oh,” he breathes.

You feel his hands twitch against yours, squeezing your fingers unconsciously.  

“I love you too,” he says, immediate and certain. “I... I love you so much it’s kind of insane.”

He watches you for a moment, thumb rubbing slow over your knuckles.

“Is that... is that why you're crying? 'Cause you love me a lot?”

A small, startled laugh breaks through your tears; it sounds so simple when he says it like that.   

It isn’t simple.

But maybe it also is.

So you nod, watching him visibly come back to himself, drawing out a shaky breath, shoulders dropping heavily like he’d been bracing too, just in a different way.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. C’mere.”

This time you don’t hesitate.

You fold into him, feeling his arm wrap securely around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

And what you always used to brace against—tonight, you sink into willingly.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You let your eyes slip shut, burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingers crinkling his shirt as you hold on tight.

“I love you,” you whisper again, the words pressed softly against his skin.

Thank you, you mean.

Thank you for being gentle with me. Thank you for waiting. Thank you for loving me like it’s easy.

Thank you.

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

[miserymorgue]

my (wo)man on willpower | j. abbot

pairing jack abbot x fem!reader

summary you and jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” no sex, no touching, no shortcuts. jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (ao3)

(inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)

tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (mutual), mentions of masturbation, praise & teasing, domestic, hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), wellness / “spiritual” themes, r. can do splits, santos being santos (mentions of santos/garcia breakup), robby lowkey ur third lol, healthy, sane relationship, more romcom than angst (much less sad than the actual song) (written by a law student, not a doctor—medical accuracy idkher)

wc 16.5k words

“I’m sorry,” Jack says slowly, like he’s trying very hard to be reasonable, “I’m still… a little lost here—what exactly are you doing?”

You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.

“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”

“—right there,” he cuts in.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”

He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”

You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”

Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.

“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.

You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”

You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.

“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”

You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate. 

He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”

You try not to smile. You fail, a little.

“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”

“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”

You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.

You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long.

“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”

He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.

Then—

“And this is just penetration?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your silence is loud.

Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”

You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”

“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”

“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”

That earns you a look.

“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”

You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”

“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.

You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”

You grin. “Oh, here we go.”

“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”

“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”

“Debatable.”

You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.

You hand him a fork.

“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”

He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”

“You could always use more.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.

“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.

You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”

He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.

A pause.

Then—

“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.

You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”

“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”

“‘Course I can handle this.”

★★★

“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.

Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”

“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”

Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”

“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”

“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”

Robby pauses.

Then looks up slowly.

“…Spooning.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”

Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”

“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”

“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.

“You stayed,” Robby counters.

Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”

“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”

“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”

“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.

“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.

Jack hesitates.

“…Two days.”

There’s a beat.

Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.

Jack doesn’t answer.

Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“You’re like this after two days?”

Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”

“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.

“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”

“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”

Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.

Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.

“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”

Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”

“Ambulance crashed!”

The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.

★★★

Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.

He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.

He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.

But this. This thing you were doing…

The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.

From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.

That includes the easy things. The soft things.

And yeah—sex too.

It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.

And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake. 

Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.

You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.

Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.

Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.

“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.

Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.

“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”

Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”

Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”

Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.

Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.

“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”

You were already moving.

Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.

You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.

“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”

Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”

“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”

Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.

Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.

“You busy?” you asked, softer now.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Then you leaned in.

Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.

Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.

Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.

“We’re heading out,” he said.

Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”

Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.

You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.

And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.

You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.

And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you. 

It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.

★★★

Day Six.

He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.

The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.

The second— You.

On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.

And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.

Why does Santos know where you live?

Why is Santos doing yoga?

Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?

“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.

“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.

“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.

The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.

He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—

—and you shift just slightly.

It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.

His kiss lands on your cheek instead.

You don’t even break the pose.

“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.

A beat.

“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”

There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.

“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”

You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.

He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.

She rolls her eyes.

“Next pose,” she says flatly.

You shift without hesitation.

“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”

“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”

“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”

Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”

“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.

You let out a small laugh into the mat.

“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.

“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”

Santos chimes. “And spite.”

Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.

Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.

“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”

He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.

You glance up, watching him go.

There’s a beat of silence.

Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”

You follow, steady.

“He seems… stable,” she says.

“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”

Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”

“We’re touchy people.”

“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.

“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”

“You could just… not text her.”

Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

You smile slightly.

“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”

“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”

“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”

“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.

“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”

There’s a pause.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.

Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.

You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”

★★★

Day Nine.

Virgin Mary, my ass.

That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.

The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.

He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.

His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.

You startle just a little, then relax.

“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”

“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.

He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.

“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.

“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.

“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”

He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.

“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”

His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.

You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.

Your hand stills completely on the counter.

“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.

He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.

“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”

You don’t answer.

Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.

His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.

Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.

“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.

“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”

But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.

Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.

“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.

“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.

“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”

His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.

“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”

The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.

He doesn’t move.

“Jack.”

“Just one kiss?” He asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.

You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.

“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.

You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.

You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—

You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.

It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.

If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.

You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too. 

Easy, natural, constant, release. Escapism, almost. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie. 

Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.

It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”

★★★

Day Twelve.

“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”

Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”

“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.

“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”

“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.

“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”

“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”

The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.

Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.

“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”

He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.

Robby stares straight ahead, deadpan. “Please stop talking.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”

“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.

“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And she keeps wearing—”

“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.

They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.

Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”

“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”

Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”

Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”

“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”

Robby stops walking.

Grabs his shoulder.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”

“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”

Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.

Locks. You.

At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.

You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.

“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”

Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”

“You aren’t going there.”

“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”

“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”

“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”

“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”

“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”

Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.

Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.

You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.

Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.

Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”

“I told you. Psychological warfare.”

McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.

“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.

“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”

“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.

“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”

McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”

“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”

You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”

“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”

“Santos encouraged it.”

“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.

“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”

Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”

You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”

You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”

Mel nods seriously, concentrating.

McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”

You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”

“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.

You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.

“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”

You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”

Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—

“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”

You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”

“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”

“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.

“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”

You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”

Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”

Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.

You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.

Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.

Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.

“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”

He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.

“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.

You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”

He stares at you.

“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.

You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”

He stands there for a second. Then another.

Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.

“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.

★★★

Day Eighteen.

You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.

Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.

“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.

You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.

He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”

You hum like you believe him. You don’t.

He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.

They stay on you.

Track every adjustment.

You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.

“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.

You shoot him a look. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”

“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”

And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.

One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.

Jack actually goes still. That’s new. 

“…Right,” he says, quieter now.

You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.

“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”

You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.

Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.

He’s trying to be good. You can see it.

Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.

You keep going anyway.

“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.

“Nope,” you say immediately.

You don’t look at him.

Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.

You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.

“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.

“Who?” His voice is tighter now.

“Isla’s husband.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”

You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.

Jack looks away this time.

Briefly.

Then back.

Like he can’t help it.

“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”

You glance at him now.

“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.

“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.

“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”

You don’t disagree with that.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.

You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.

He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.

“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”

His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.

“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”

That earns a small smile from you.

“Responsible of you,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”

You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.

“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.

You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”

“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds. 

Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.

“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”

Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”

“Two more weeks,” you repeat.

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

It’s small. Controlled. Safe.

Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.

He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.

Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.

You shouldn’t.

You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.

“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”

A pause.

“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.

You look at him for a second too long.

Then you nod.

His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.

You kiss him again properly.

It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.

Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.

His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up. 

A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.

His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.

He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”

You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.

You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.

“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”

“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.

You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.

He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.

You glance down.

He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.

You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.

“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”

“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”

You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”

“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.

You don’t look back when you walk out.

★★★

Day Twenty Two.

You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.

Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.

We resist.

You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.

So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.

So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly. 

So you added structure.

Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.

You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.

You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.

But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.

You’ve also tightened everything else.

Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.

The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.

“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”

Pitch black room. Eye mask on.

“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.

He’d watched it alone. Hated it.

Even the small stuff has become intentional.

You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.

He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.

And still—you function.

You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait. 

The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity. 

And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.

The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.

Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.

You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.

Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.

“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.

“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”

“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”

You nod, moving in.

The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.

You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.

“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”

“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”

Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.

You.

He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder. 

Three weeks of this… discipline.

And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Traction,” Park says.

You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”

“Now.”

You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.

Whitaker visibly winces.

“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”

Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”

“Good. Splint.”

You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.

Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.

You hold his gaze for half a second.

“Doctor,” you say, light.

He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”

You blink. “Are you—seriously?”

“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”

You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.

“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”

Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”

Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”

“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”

Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”

“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.

“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”

Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”

“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”

“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”

You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.

“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”

You correct it immediately. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”

Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”

“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.

A beat.

Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”

Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”

“Robby,” Jack says, warning.

“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”

“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.

He opens his mouth—

“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”

You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”

“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”

Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”

“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.

Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.

“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”

“Oh—right—sorry—”

“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”

“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”

Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.

He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.

“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”

You don’t look at him. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you told Robby.”

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”

“Debatable.”

“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.

“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.

There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—

“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”

You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”

You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.

Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.

Still looking at you like that.

By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.

“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.

“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”

You huff. “How is he doing?”

Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.

“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”

“And not clinically?” you prompt.

He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”

You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”

“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”

You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.

You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”

Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”

“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.

There’s a small pause, then—more casually—

“Soup was good, by the way.”

You blink. “The vegetable one?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“He called it punishment.”

“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”

You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”

You laugh under your breath.

He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.

You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”

“You too,” he says, stepping aside.

You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.

“See you at home in a few hours.”

He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.

“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.

You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.

“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”

Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking. 

“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”

★★★

Day Twenty Nine.

“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.

McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.

“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”

You glance over. “Why?”

“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”

“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.

McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.

“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”

Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”

You glance at her. “You miss her.”

She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”

“You brought her up first.”

“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”

McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”

You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.

“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”

“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”

McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”

Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”

You blink. “It’s just discipline.”

McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”

You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”

McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..

Santos, however, immediately does.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”

McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.

“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”

“Like… personality-wise?” you try.

Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”

McKay mutters, “Oh God.”

Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”

You nearly choke. “Santos—”

“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”

McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”

Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”

You stare at her. 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.

Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”

You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”

“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”

You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”

McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”

Then, casually—

“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”

McKay exhales through her nose.

Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”

Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.

“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”

“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.

Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”

Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”

You look at her like salvation. “Help.”

Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”

Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.

Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”

Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”

Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”

★★★

Day Thirty Two.

Your schedules have always been a mess.

Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.

Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.

You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.

Eat something.

You too.

Left food in the fridge.

Miss you.

Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.

He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.

Something smells good. Really good. Definitely not green. Lacking salt, maybe, though.

“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”

“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”

Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.

“…You are not my girlfriend.”

Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”

Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.

Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”

Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”

He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.

“I followed her recipe,” he adds.

Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”

“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”

A beat.

“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.

Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”

Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”

Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”

“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”

Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”

Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”

“…Did I what?”

Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”

“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.

“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”

Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”

Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.

“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.

“I salted it.”

“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”

Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.

“You two haven’t seen each other?”

“Not properly.”

Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”

Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”

“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.

Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.

The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.

“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.

“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.

You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.

“When’d you get back?” you ask.

“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”

“Shocking,” Robby mutters.

You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.

You pull back just as fast.

“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”

His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.

You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”

“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.

You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.

“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”

Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.

Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you call.

“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.

He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.

“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.

“Out!” Jack says.

Robby leaves.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.

“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.

“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.

He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.

“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.

“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”

You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.

“C’mere,” he says.

You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.

“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.

You nod.

“Speak,” he adds, low.

“Yes.”

That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.

You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.

His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.

“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.

You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.

He exhales, eyes still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.

“Mhm.”

He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.

“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.

His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.

“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”

You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that. 

You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.

Behind you, the stove clicks off.

A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.

“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”

He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”

“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.

“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”

You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.

You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”

His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”

You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.

“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.

“What else?”

“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip. 

You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.

“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”

“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.

He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you. 

The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch. 

You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.

“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.

“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.

He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass. 

He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.

“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric. 

He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement. 

“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”

You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.

He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.

“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe. 

He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.

“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.

His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.

You shake your head.

“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.

He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”

He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”

You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.

“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”

He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.

“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.

You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.

 “Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.

You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.

He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say, 

His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.

“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man. 

His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.

You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”

You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.

“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”

“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head. 

You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him. 

You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.

“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.

“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.

“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”

“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.

“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.” 

He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”

“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”

You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.

“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.

“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.

Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect. 

His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back. 

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good." 

You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch. 

He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. 

He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?" 

“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.

He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.

Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”

He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar. 

He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him. 

He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.

“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.

He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.

“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”

You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them. 

You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch. 

“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.

You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp. 

You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense. 

You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.

He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. 

His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.

His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?" 

His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”

“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.

“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.

“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.

“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”

His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.

"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely. 

You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.

You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.

Like he doesn’t want to.

You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.

“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”

There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.

You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.

“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.

You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”

He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”

“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it,” he mutters.

“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”

He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.

You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.

It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.

You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.

“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.

You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”

“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”

You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”

He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.

“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”

“I can help, I’ll—”

“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.

You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.

When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.

“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.

He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.

You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.

There’s a pause.

“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”

He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”

You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.

“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.

He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.

You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.

A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.

Who would you pick?

Who do you think I’d pick?

Are we about to say the same name?

“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.

There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”

“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”

You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”

You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.

“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.

“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”

His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.

The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.

You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.

Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god he’d never do that. he’s fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beat…. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!

[levanswrites]

𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞

some munch!steve harrington thoughts this evening... warnings: 18+, shy-ish!reader, oral f!receiving, certified loverboy steve

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

Call it devotion, call it curiosity. Call it his ego, if you want.

The need to know exactly what he’s doing to you. To understand it in every possible way: see it, hold it, breathe it in. That distinct aftertaste of the two of you entwined, becoming something shared.

Because once Steve Harrington realizes how easily he can switch from fucking you to tasting you, he never wants to stop.

It’s over for you, really.

He loves the closeness first; chest pressed tight to yours, the solid heat of him anchoring you into the mattress while he fucks those breathless, broken sounds out of your throat. His mouth hovers over yours, sometimes kissing, sometimes just there, close enough that every breath you take turns into his.

His eyes never leave your face. They flicker restlessly, near burning in their intensity to read you, from the tension in your brow to the way your lashes flutter when the angle hits just right.

He’s obsessive about it.

About learning exactly what you like. How deep to go, how slow to drag it out, when to snap his hips a little sharper to make you whine.

He loves telling you how beautiful you are. Loves feeling you clench when he asks if you can hear how wet you've gotten for him.

But even then… it’s not enough.

Because, see, his mind doesn’t stop there.

It starts to wander, fixate.

On the mess he’s making. On that slick, warm drag between you, the evidence of it everywhere—on his fingers, your thighs, soaked into the sheets beneath you.

On what that must look like.

On what you must look like.

On what you must taste like, fuck—

And once the thought takes hold, it doesn’t let go.

His head dips, rhythm faltering as his gaze drags down your body instead of staying locked on your face.

And then he’s sliding out, the sudden absence making your breath catch, that soft, wet sound of his cock slipping free from your pussy.  

He mumbles a breathless apology, a gentle hold on, baby, and before you can even process the loss, he’s kissing his way down your body, lips worshiping the swell of your lower stomach, the delicate arc of your hips. 

He doesn’t go far—never far—but he just needs to see.

Needs to check.

Needs to know what he did to you. To know what you look like after he’s spent hours making you his—round after round of slow, patient love-making, nothing short of worship—unraveling you piece by piece, then putting you back together the way he wants.

Warm, broad palms settle against your thighs, coaxing them apart.

His thumbs press into your skin, gentle but insistent when he spreads you open.

He just stares for a while, taking in the view like a man starved.

Tongue licking at the corner of his mouth, eyes gone dark at the sight of your swollen pussy; all puffy and fluttering around empty air, gaping from the way he’s stretched you open.   

You usually turn away from this kind of intimacy, still a little shy about being seen this closely—but in the rare moments he can get you like this, completely undone and unmoored, he knows he only has a brief moment to take it in, and he makes the most of it.

He can’t stop staring at that fucking gape, can’t help the low groan that slips past his lips when another line of your arousal trickles down and soaks into his sheets. 

“Shit, baby...”

And then he’s gone.

Once he starts, he doesn’t hold back.

Can’t, not when he’s down here. There’s always this moment—right before he presses that first, tender kiss to your pussy—where something in him splinters, and the version of him that survives doesn't hesitate.

He always gets a little too into it.

More than he should, probably. Past the point where it’s normal.   

It unsettles him, sometimes, how far his mind drifts when it’s just you and him inside it. Things he’d never say out loud, things that'd have his face going red if he lingered on them for too long. Everything he imagines doing to you—doing with you—if he ever let himself lean fully into the feeling.

He loses himself in that thought, same way he loses himself in your pussy. The scent of it, the wet, velvety heat that glides across his tongue as he slowly laps at your entrance. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, squeezes your hips, vision tunneling until everything else fades out, until even his own breathing stops feeling automatic—it breaks into quick, shallow bursts, and he pauses just long enough for the light dizziness to pass before he dives back in for another taste.

Gentle, always gentle at first, savoring your flavor, melting you on his tongue. Though it doesn’t take long for him to get a little carried away—how is he supposed to help it when start squirming underneath him like that, rolling your hips to try and chase his mouth?

“Yeah? Right here?” he murmurs, muffling a smile against your plush warmth, nosing into your clit. A soft laugh follows when your hips buck up into his face.

This is his favorite part—seeing you give in, letting go of the careful restraint you usually carry. He doesn't want you to hold back, never with him.

He moans into you, chasing the quick, erratic motion of your hips with his mouth, sucking at your swollen clit with a pressure that makes you gasp, thighs twitching against his ears.

And when you start to whine—when you start begging for him to come back to you, for him to fill you in a way only he can—he just huffs out a quiet laugh, breath warm against your pussy.

“I know, baby, I know,” he rubs his palm against your thigh, barely pulling his lips away to speak. “Just hang on a sec, okay? I just... just need to taste you—god, you’re so fucking perfect.”

He buries his nose into your mound, takes a deep breath like he’s running out of air, when really it’s just an excuse to linger a little longer. To press closer, inhale your scent in greedy, shuddering pulls, letting it sustain him until the next inevitable return.

When you finally tug at his hair, fingers clenched between sweat-damp strands, demanding kisses with quiet whimpers that make him ache for you all over again, he can’t resist.

How could he?

He lets you drag him back up, mouth parted, chest heaving. His whole face is flushed, nose and cheeks shining with your arousal.

And there's this quiet, adoring stillness in him when he looks at you like this, propped up on his elbows, eyes heavy with something he doesn’t try to hide.

Watching his girl, an angel if he’s ever seen one, glowing against his pillow like you're lit from within.

“Steve...” you whine softly, clutching at his shoulders. “Need you.”

“Yeah? You need me?” he pushes your hair back, thumb dragging lightly along your cheek. “Need me so bad, huh?”

He presses a tender kiss to your mouth—one pair of lips just as sweet and velvety as the other—as he slides back home, the warm, tight clutch of your pussy welcoming him inside.

And when he settles into you again, like he never really left, he lets a quiet sigh brush against your lips.

“Could stay here forever, baby,” he admits. "I love you."

He eases back into a familiar rhythm—slow, deep strokes, just the way you like them—his forehead resting against yours like he really could stay right here, suspended with you, for as long as you’d let him.

But it's his eyes that give him away, betraying him with the smallest glance downward.

He knows he won't be able to stay away for long.

♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡

[i-readtoo-much]

🫠

[salem-s]

HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.

WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.

WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.

You never would’ve stopped by Natasha and Steve’s apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.

He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.

Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.

Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.

Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.

Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.

Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.

But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.

"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.

You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.

His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.

Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.

When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.

"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.

You respond by doing it again.

"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."

His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.

Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.

Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.

All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?

You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.

"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."

If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.

Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.

When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.

"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."

"N—!"

Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."

When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.

"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."

"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.

Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.

She doesn't hear you. Of course.

"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"

"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"

Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—

"What the fuck?"

"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"

"I am freaking."

"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.

"Absolutely not."

"I didn't even pitch it to you."

"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."

Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.

But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."

"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.

"I didn't think I needed to?"

Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.

Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?

"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."

You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.

"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.

Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.

"It could be fun."

"Are you kidding?"

"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."

"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."

This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.

"Haven't pushed me away yet."

Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.

So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.

"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"

Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"

Deadpan stare.

He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"

Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.

"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"

"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."

The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.

Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.

You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.

He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him chatting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other girl who looks him up and down on the street to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?

Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.

"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"

It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.

And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."

You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.

But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.

So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.

"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.

Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.

"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."

He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."

You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.

Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.

"I want Alpine."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."

"You just said whatever I wanted."

His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."

Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."

"Gotta practice somehow."

"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.

Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"

You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.

"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.

But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.

"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."

God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.

Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.

Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.

"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."

You quirk a brow.

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."

For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.

The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.

You sigh deeply.

"Three," you counter-argue.

"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."

You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."

He still hasn't let go of your wrist.

"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.

And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—

"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.

As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.

"You didn't hear?" Bucky says amusedly. "We're dating."

You should've said no.

Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.

Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.

When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.

The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.

Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.

The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.

But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.

Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.

(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)

Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.

"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"

Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.

Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.

"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."

She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."

You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.

"Oh, did he?"

Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.

"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."

He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.

"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.

You shove that assumption way, way, way down.

Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."

Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"

You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.

His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."

If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.

"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?

Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.

"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”

Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.

The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.

The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.

"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."

Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.

Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?

But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.

"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.

Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)

"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."

You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"

Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.

"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."

Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.

His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.

You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?

Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.

When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.

"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.

And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.

Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.

Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.

Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.

And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.

You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?

Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.

"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"

Bucky's lips twitch just barely.

"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."

"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."

You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"

"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"

Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.

"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."

"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"

Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.

(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)

He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."

"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"

"There you are!"

An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.

Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—

"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."

Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.

"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."

You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.

Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.

"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.

Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."

"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.

Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.

"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.

Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.

Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).

"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.

Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.

After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.

No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.

A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.

"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."

He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.

But you're an adult. At least you try to be.

So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."

His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.

Then, Bucky does something you never expect.

The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.

He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—

Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.

You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.

You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."

"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."

Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.

You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?

"Pardon?" You ask calmly.

Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.

"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."

Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.

Doesn't seem like it, though.

But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.

"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."

The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.

"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.

"You think that's you?"

Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.

She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."

Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."

The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.

"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."

Your brow quirks.

"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.

Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.

Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.

"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."

Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.

Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.

Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.

"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"

Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.

He bites cautiously. "You alright?"

You quirk a brow. "Peachy."

Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.

"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"

"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."

His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.

"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"

Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."

God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.

No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.

It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.

His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.

"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."

Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.

Bucky rides that high all night.

Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.

"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."

You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.

His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.

"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.

God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.

Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.

"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."

The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.

But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.

Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.

“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”

Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.

He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.

But why’d Margaret say again?

You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?

You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.

But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.

All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.

But you do.

Fuck. You notice.

And your heart just… breaks.

How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?

Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.

“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”

Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.

Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”

She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.

But it only breaks the dam.

God damn it.

“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”

Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.

But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?

You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.

Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.

"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.

Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.

“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”

The stammering is immediate.

“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“

“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”

And Bucky?

His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.

"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."

Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"

You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.

Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.

"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"

He takes a beat. Registering your words.

Then, he nods. "Read my mind."

You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.

"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.

Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.

It's... achingly comfortable.

God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.

The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.

"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."

You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."

He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.

"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."

"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."

His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."

"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."

"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."

"Bucky."

"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."

"Do you ever think before you speak?"

"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.

You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.

But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.

...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.

When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.

"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"

The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.

But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."

When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.

This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.

...And Bucky fucking freezes.

Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.

He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?

The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.

It makes you stifle a grin.

"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"

You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.

Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.

"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"

You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.

You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.

His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.

There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?

And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.

Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"

"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.

"Debatable."

"Is it?"

"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."

"For show," you add pointedly.

Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."

"That's presumptuous."

"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.

God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."

Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.

Your brows pinch slightly.

"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."

It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"

His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."

"Do I?"

"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."

...You do.

You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?

You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.

You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?

"You're thinking about it."

Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.

"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.

He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"

"Bucky."

"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"

"You're insufferable."

His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"

Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."

"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."

"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."

"Hot."

"Bucky."

"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."

You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?

Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.

Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—

God, you can't even say it. Falling for—

"Bucky!"

The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?

"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"

Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."

"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."

While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.

And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.

When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.

Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.

The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.

Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.

Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.

It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.

Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.

But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.

Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.

"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."

A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.

Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.

A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.

You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.

"I wanna swim."

Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"

Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."

His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).

But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.

A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"

Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.

"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.

Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.

"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."

His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.

After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.

You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.

The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.

However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.

"Agh—"

You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.

Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.

"You're evil for that."

You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."

Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.

"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.

Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"

His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"

"I'd say so."

"Yeah. For you."

"What would you consider it?"

He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."

“Oh?”

“Yeah. One may say euro-stepping.”

"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."

Then you kiss him.

And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.

Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.

"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."

"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.

"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can't— You can't just say that."

Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.

"I can't?"

"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."

You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation you’ll shove him off, but you don’t. You fucking don’t. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.

Now it’s your turn to curse.

“Fuck.” You shift your hips against his once more. “Of course you’d have a big dick.”

Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, he’s just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing he’s just a man. (A man who has been practically celibate the past year when he realized this feeling towards you was going nowhere, but nonetheless just a man.)

“Makes up for being an asshole,” is all he’s able to get out.

You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.

“You’re not an asshole,” you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. “Not actually.”

“Careful, baby,” he warns. “It’s starting to sound as if you like me or something.”

“I can totally swim away if you want me to—“

“Nope.” His hands are iron grip. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”

You scoff. “I’m never being nice to you again.”

Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. It’s delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.

“I can live with that,” he says simply, as if it’s certain as law.

That’s when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.

How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair that’s fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.

It isn’t until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.

“Argh— What the fuck!”

Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.

“Easy,” he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. “All this big, bad talk and you’re scared of a fish.”

You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.

“That wasn’t a fish,” you defend instantly, hating the way he’s still literally laughing at you. “That was… It was a three tailed shark, or something.”

Bucky’s footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that he’s not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are — him, too — hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.

His words are slow and calculated. “A three tailed shark?”

You groan, annoyed he’s not moving. “Or something.”

“…Or something. Don’t sharks have fins? Not tails?”

His tone makes it sound like he’s on the verge of barking out laughter.

"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"

"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."

"Bucky."

"It's worse than I thought."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Just like any other day."

When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.

As you gather his clothing as well — even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face — you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.

"Wait— fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."

Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.

Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.

Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.

"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.

He hums low. "Am I?"

"Clearly."

"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"

God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"

"Never with you."

He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).

Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next room—

...To where you're not alone.

You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.

Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.

"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."

Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."

His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.

All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that — at the end of the day — the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.

The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"

Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."

"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."

"Can we not— Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"

A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.

But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.

"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."

Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.

"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."

Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.

But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.

Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.

His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows better—"

"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"

"That's not—"

Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.

"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."

You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.

But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.

"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."

Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet — too quiet — as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.

When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.

"You wanna shower?"

Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.

He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."

You frown.

...No. That's not what you're thinking.

You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.

But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.

So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.

Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.

Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.

The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.

"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"

"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."

"...So, no?"

Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."

You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.

His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."

You blink stupidly.

"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I just— I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind you— I don't even— Sorry. I don't know anymore."

Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.

God, why isn't he saying anything?

You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."

Bucky's still quiet for a moment.

Then, "Will you c'mere?"

At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.

You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.

And you just... hug him.

Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.

The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.

You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.

The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."

"Okay."

"I think you're more upset about it than I am."

You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."

Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."

"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.

All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.

It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.

You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.

"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."

His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.

You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.

"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."

Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.

Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.

"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.

Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."

"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"

With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."

Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.

(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)

He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."

"Bucky."

He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.

You ask anyway. "What happened?"

"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."

Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.

"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."

The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could she—? When you were— Did she even—? And then she has the audacity to try and get you back—"

"Easy." A playful warning.

"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."

He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."

The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.

You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.

Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.

"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."

"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're not— Uh— Are we not— Like, you know..."

Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.

"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. “…what?”

But he’s connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what you’re referring to, and Bucky’s too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.

The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what you’re asking for. But he’s never made things easy for you — why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something he’s been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then he’ll have you every single way you want him.

You groan irritably. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Yup.” Prick.

“This should be considered a form of medieval torture.”

“What’s torture is every second you’re delaying the inevitable.”

You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “For you.”

The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. “Who knew I’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”

“Seriously? Can you not phrase it like that?”

His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.

“Sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Who knew that you’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”

“Bucky.”

He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.

You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.

But it isn’t until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly — yet loud to you all the same because he’s right there by your earlobe — your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.

“Tell me to stop,” Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.

Your response is immediate. “Don’t.”

With one swift guidance, you’re suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Bucky’s hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that you’re both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely — just barely — connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isn’t until you’re ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.

Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.

It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if you’re not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.

You answer before he can put the request into words. “Off.”

Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. “Bossy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. “Would you rather me be quiet and complicit?”

His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.

“No,” he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.

Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure that’s almost embarrassing to admit. It’s hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature it’s supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.

You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, you’ve lost control of your motor and speech functions.

Christ, it’s humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, he’s bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.

This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.

When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if it’s stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.

“Oh my god.” His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. “All this for me, sweet girl?”

Your face flushes. “Bucky.”

Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh that’s music to his ears.

He’s in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. “Knew you liked me.”

“Shut up.”

Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.

“I think you should be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to eat you out.”

You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. “I think you should—“

You don’t finish. He doesn’t let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.

And it works, because ho— holy fu— fuck—

Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue that’s hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, you’re trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that he’s too good at giving, and he’s only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if it’s done something to personally offend you.

A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re breathily moaning curses and his name as if they’re mantras spilling from your lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one he’s thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.

He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesn’t miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.

The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria that’s blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.

“Bucky,” you babble clumsily. “Fuck— Right th— Fuck, I’m close—“

A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as he’s been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and it’s such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.

Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.

The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more — after you’ve already come — and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.

You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.

It isn’t until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.

“I need you,” you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. “C’mere.”

“Wanna give you another,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.

You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. “Wanna feel you.”

“Fuck,” he whines. Whines. “I need a— need a minute.”

“Please,” you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. “I want your cock. Please, Bucky.”

His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan — literally.

“God, you’re killing me.” Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. “Want you too, baby. I just— I need— I can’t—“

Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing over—

You gasp.

Brushing over the prominent wet spot.

The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesn’t entirely collapse on you, but given the way he’s melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.

He came from eating you out. You hadn’t— You didn’t even need to touch him. And he’s still hard.

So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.

“All this for me, sweet boy?” You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.

Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you don’t stab him with it.

You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).

“Lie back,” you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.

Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.

“You gonna take care of me, baby?” His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.

You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. It’s dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly — achingly slow — jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.

God, he’s big. You don’t need the light to know that.

Bucky’s hand grabs your wrist. “I don’t… I don’t have condoms here.”

You continue your movements. “‘M safe. It’s okay.”

You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.

The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Bucky’s hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you just…rub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)

“You feel like a fucking dream,” Bucky sighs. “Taste like one. Smell like one.”

Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.

“Shit,” he curses. “Shit. Give me a second.”

“Gonna come from just the tip?”

“Shit. Maybe.”

You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly — at his pace — lowers your body onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, and you’ve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.

Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Bucky’s hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.

“Breathe,” he muses gently.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how he’s undoubtedly the biggest dick you’ve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But it’s delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that he’s ruined you for anyone else.

His fingers brush hair away from your face. “You okay?”

You nod against his hand. “Feel so full.”

“Do you want me to come immediately?”

His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how he’s still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.

“Wanna make you feel good,” you mumble incoherently, drunk with pleasure.

But he understands you all the same. “You are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.”

You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. “Take what you need.”

So you do.

Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs don’t do much to help you in your movements, but Bucky’s hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.

You’re a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that you’ve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.

It isn’t until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.

“This what you needed, hm?” Bucky’s voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. “Someone to fuck you nice?”

“Wh—Who said you f—fuck me nice?” Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. “No one s—said that.”

The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. “Me giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.”

God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How it’s practically making you see stars already when it hasn’t even climaxed?

“You—You’re not.”

“Oh?” Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. “I’m not?”

Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. “Bucky, why’d— Don’t stop— Please— I need—“

“Need what, sweet girl?” Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. “I told you to take it, so take it.”

Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, it’s aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you can’t do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and you’re hands are shaking.

A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesn’t even sound like you, so wrecked. “F—Fuck, baby, I need it, I’m close—“

“Thought you said I wasn’t giving you one?”

Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.

But he’s not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.

“Just say you need me, sweet girl.” His voice is laced with honey cadence.

You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.

“I need you.” You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. “I’m yours.”

That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that he’s just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.

“Fuck—“ Bucky’s voice is desperate. “How are you—? When I—? Holy— Such a— a sweet fuck— fucking—“

You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.

You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.

Bucky’s movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.

His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.

“You okay?” His voice is gravelly.

You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but don’t quite have your speech functions back completely yet.

Bucky makes a noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sigh. “You did so well for me.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.

“Thank you.”

Did he just—

Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. “Did you—“ Your voice is hoarse. “Did you just thank me?”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, completely unashamed. “Had to.”

“For sleeping with you?”

“No. For letting me sleep with you.”

You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because… no. There’s no way he actually— he hasn’t been plotting on you, right? No, there’s genuinely no way. You’ve been friends. Just friends. You’ve never thought about him with his shirt off or what he’s like with other girls or if he’s ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a car—

“Why’re you so surprised?” Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).

Now you’re sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. He’s being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that you’ve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.

But you are surprised. You’ve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. He’s teased, you’ve swore, he’s riled you up, you’ve shoved him, but you’ve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. It’s not— You’ve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because it’s never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.

All this thinking and you realize he’s waiting for an answer.

“Uh,” you say immediately, unsure of where to start. “Well, I don’t know. We’re friends.”

“I’m literally inside you right now.”

You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. “Idiot. Not counting right now.”

Bucky hums, biding you to continue.

Thank god it’s dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.

“I just—“ You find yourself saying. “I’m not your type.”

“What?” He asks incredulously. “Who told you that?”

You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Uh, every girl I’ve ever seen you with ever?”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you?”

You freeze. “Huh?”

His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. “Why do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?”

Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.

“Why do you think I crash girl’s night and come to your apartment unprompted?”

Your left cheek.

“How come I live to rile you up?”

Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.

His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time… All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, he’s been… into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?

Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?

“Uh—“ Your voice is coarse. “Wh— You’re into me?”

“Took you long enough.”

Your head is spinning. “Like, as of recent?”

Bucky snorts. “As of a year ago, more like.”

“You—“ You’re trying to wrap your head around this. “Okay. A year— Okay.”

“Take your time.”

“No, yeah.” You clear your throat. “Totally. Thanks.”

Bucky’s other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. “Want me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?” His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if he’s finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.

“Funny,” you deadpan. “I think you’re wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.”

His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. “Such a sweet girl.” Another kiss. “Always looking out for my best interests,” he mumbles against your lips.

All this time, all this talk, all come to realize you’re still inside him.

It makes your heart flutter. “Uh—“ Suddenly you’re fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. It’s a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you can’t quite pinpoint. You’ve never…been treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.

Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.

At your silence, he hums. “I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot. But I’m yours. Whenever you want me, I’ll be here.”

Your heart skips. “I think I…”

The words escape you.

Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You think what, sweet girl?”

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Obviously.”

You groan, but there’s no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead it’s one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But you’re here. With him. And somehow you’ve never felt more reassured.

“I think I’ve been yours,” you say with no shroud of dignity left. “Even though I want to kill you half the time.”

Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. “I’ll take it.”

It isn’t much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if you’re a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.

Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. He kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.

You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that you’re complaining. At all.

“Easy,” Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. “Sleep.”

“‘M not tired.” Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.

His hands splay against your back under his shirt. “Sure.”

Your nose nudges his vocal cord. “I think you’re just keen to praying on my downfall,” you say laced with sleep.

“Try reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe I’ll believe you.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. “You love me.”

A pause.

Then, quietly. “Yeah.” His voice is certain. “I probably do.”

You’re asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you can’t explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, he’s a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time he’s in your presence. But he’s real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isn’t.

And he’s solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that you’ll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a really long time.

And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure he’s inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesn’t have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.

Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug that’s nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.

“You can’t leave!” She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Bucky’s car as you throw your bags in the backseat. “Winnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.”

“Right, honey,” Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. “We’re going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. We’d love your input.”

"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.

Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnie’s head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Bucky’s bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.

And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesn’t look back. Only onward.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission.

notes holy fucking god. this was too long. im unplugging for the unforseeable future. happy kinktober????? sort of????

[i-readtoo-much]

[inknopewetrust]

the jack abbot fan club

you loved jack…but the ladies of water aerobics at the allegheny ymca apparently loved him the most.

content: old women who ADORE jack abbot, the YMCA, wife!reader, sex/sexual activity comments, jack the bashful king, fluff with a dash (dousing) of comedy, and big thanks to addingtoneats on tt for the headcannon!

[jack abbot x fem!reader. wc: 3.7k ]

Masterlist | Other Jack Fics

Behind the door, the smell of chlorine was pungent.

Yet it wasn’t the sterile antiseptic he was used to, so, Jack breathed it in. It filled his lungs knowing he was free for the next several hours to decompress and while it may have only been a Wednesday, it was still a Wednesday.

And those were his favorite—not that he would ever admit that out loud. Who the fuck liked Wednesdays? Jack. Except maybe it was okay for him to, at least he considered it to be because he was already a little fucked up.

Jack heaved in another smell that lingered underneath all the chlorine. Florals, too many of them, that reeked of stale potpourri and lipstick that expired 8 years ago.

On Wednesdays? He liked the smell.

It meant his fan club was there and well, sometimes, Jack just needed the attention of 6 elderly women over the age of 80.

Attention was a word Jack had gotten used to in the last two decades of his life. There were inevitables when he was out in public and decided to wear shorts, or when he was in scrubs picking up milk from the gas station on his way home. The awkward, less frequent words of “thanks for your service” he’d get from older men and the very frequent, immensely awkward stares he’d get from the women.

Those were things he didn’t ask for.

When women ogled him, it hadn’t been an inevitability all of his life—even if you told him, time and again, that he was attractive and handsome.

He believed you. You and only you for the longest time. Jack had a hard time believing that many other people shared your same opinion. That was until he met the 6 ladies of the Allegheny YMCA’s 8:00 AM Water Aerobics class.

It had all been harmless at first.

Initially, he sought out the practice of swimming at the suggestion of his physical therapist three years after his amputation. The water helped him say afloat without many supports and as his muscles grew stronger and his confidence of being a BKA increased, the number of laps he did after a shift were a testament to his determination.

The repetitiveness of laps helped ease Jack’s mind before he went home too. The consistent back and forth of the strokes leveled him out from a difficult night. It functioned as an additional therapy to one he did four times a month and you let him have his space.

Most days the pool was relatively empty. Modern exercise eliminated most water activities from a daily routine and early morning runs to the gym often excluded getting one’s hair wet. Chlorine and its drying effects came second to the avoidance of swim time. It wasn’t feasible for everyone, but on Wednesday’s there were 6 others who simply didn’t mind.

And he could hear it through the door as he reached for the handle.

Paula Abdul’s voice rang loudly against the brick interior of the pool room. It bounced off the walls, cannonballing into the deep end to keep the women on beat as they did their buoyant repetitions.

With their weights in hand, the fifteen minutes since they began felt like seconds.

“Alright ladies,” their instructor, Susan, called out to them in an echo. “Now we are gonna take those weights and put them high above our heads.”

Susan mimicked the movement to which all the ladies copied to the best of their abilities. However, as people got older, the arthritis that plagued wrists and elbows and shoulders kept them from reaching as high as her. It didn’t kill their motivation, nor did it distract them from the men’s locker room door creaking open just like it did every Wednesday at the same time.

8:15. Susan glanced at the clock across the pool.

Like a well-oiled machine, the women began to drop their arms and their heads turned toward the door.

Mary-Ann was the first to pipe up today.

“Hi Dr. Abbot,” she called out immediately in a sweet tone. Jack’s face blossomed into a smile. With one hello, a plethora of them followed.

“Ladies,” he greeted back just as nicely. “Looking lovely as always.”

“You too, Jack!” Cheryl swooned. “You’re as handsome as always.”

“Are you tryin’ to make me blush, Cheryl?”

“I can make you feel a lot of things!” She laughed, loudly and only egged on the other women.

Jack’s eyes pinned themselves on the pool deck in case of splashes or puddles as he knew the risk of walking out on his prosthesis. In another world, his insurance, or the VA, would kindly provide him an Össur-pro so he could save himself time.

But it also gave him an escape from the redness working its way up his neck. Without a shirt on, he was bare to show off just how much flattery worked on him. He kept an eye on his leg to distract himself.

The women never made a deal out of him taking off his prosthetic. They didn’t stare, they didn’t jeer, and for that, Jack was more welcoming to Wednesdays. As he rounded the corner, he picked up a chair with his free hand and carried it with him to the end of the pool. Sharon whistled at him.

“We’re working on our biceps too, Jack. You should feel mine—they’re like steel!”

Jack scoffed, shaking his head at the floor. “Maybe another day, Sharon. But good for you. That’s a really important thing to work on.”

“Did you have a good shift today?” Mary-Ann asked. She was the only one to really care about his job.

No. He didn’t. But he didn’t want to ruin their mornings with tales of a two victim MVA, a meth overdose, or a GSW to the head.

“Oh,” he shrugged. “Same as it always is.”

“Deflection,” one of the ladies said as he passed. “Must’ve been bad.”

Their heads followed him comically to the lane closest to them. Jack settled his stuff onto the ground and used the chair to help him slip his prosthetic off before doing a couple hops to sit on side of the pool. As he fumbled with his goggles, Lisa waded over to him.

“So, Jack, I was wondering if maybe after our session today you could take a look at—”

“Lisa!” Susan called from the deck. “Stop propositioning Dr. Abbot during the session.”

“I’m not!” She defended. “I’m just asking him to look at my—”

“Yeah,” Cheryl nagged. “That sounds a lot like a proposition to me.”

“Don’t you think if he was the slightest bit interested in you he would have said something by now?” Sharon backed up Cheryl. “Jack’s not interested!”

“Hey,” Jack scolded Sharon jokingly. “I never said that…”

“Didn’t you just ask him to feel your arms?” Lisa accused and Jack slipped fully into the pool.

“That’s different.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“Ladies!” Susan yelled out and Jack gave her a thumbs up as if to say, “it’s alright.”

“You know,” Trudy paddled up beside Lisa. “My daughter is in town for the holiday and she’s single looking to mingle.”

“Is she?” Jack laughed. “I think I have some friends that might be interested. She can have her pick: doctors, nurses, police officers, vets… a few firefighters.”

Trudy shook her head with a smile. It was the same wide, pearly grin he got from all of the women of the class except for Susan who just wanted to teach.

“You’re too humble, sweetheart,” she replied. “I’m talking about you. What do you say? Can I give her your number?”

“I’m flattered, Trudy.”

Jack turned around, reaching for his bag to grab his hand paddles when he paused. Where the hell was his bag? Shit. He must have left in the car.

“She’s a nice girl. She just turned 37—is that too young? I know you just had a birthday.”

“Tru—” Jack started but she kept going. Persistent was Trudy Davis’ middle name.

“But she lives in Reading with her son. He’s 10. Do you have a problem with kids? Oh!” She laughed at herself. “Of course not. You’re a doctor.”

“The ones that are good with kids are called pediatricians, Trudy,” Lisa clarified. Trudy shook her off.

“I wouldn’t mind having a little eye candy for a son-in-law. I’d bet you would make a mother-in-law very happy.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jack murmured. “I think mine sees me a little differently.”

While Jack thought back on his bag, the ladies paused. Their eyes caught one another in a wide revelation that opened a new door of knowledge about their weekly friend. Lisa put her hand on Trudy’s forearm, aghast at the news that their silver fox doctor was married.

Somewhere in the distance between the water lapping and the music changing over, Francis, the oldest woman of the group at 92, held a hand by her ear and asked:

“What did he say?” She couldn’t wear her hearing aids in the water.

“He’s married,” Sharon informed her.

“Yeah,” Francis smiled. “To me.”

“Jack?” Sharon called out to him. He pulled his goggles onto his head but still looked over at the woman.

“Are you married to Francis here?” She asked.

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

“We didn’t know you were married.” Trudy was slightly offended that no one did.

This was their Jack. The same one who, every class, made sure to say hello and goodbye and let them make their silly jokes about him and took it with a brave face. Jack never wore a ring—or at least none of them had ever noticed. Many of the women themselves were married to partners for decades and thought they had a grasp in knowing when someone else was.

“You never asked.” Was Jack’s simple answer.

“Does she get mad you don’t wear a ring?” Lisa followed up and felt suddenly like she didn’t understand his generation at all.

“I do.” He rose his left hand and the smallest, tiniest, tan line reflected a thick band. “I don’t want to lose it in the pool.”

“Why haven’t you ever said anything?” Mary-Ann spoke up after having been uncharacteristically quiet. She had a glimmer in her eye, mischievous one that sent an invisible string glowing between herself and Jack.

Jack shrugged, his leg bending as he got ready to set off the wall.

“Like I said, you’ve never asked about her.”

Twenty minutes from the YMCA, you scrambled in the kitchen trying to butter toast and rush out the door.

The middle of the week always felt a little chaotic—especially when Jack wasn’t there to help in the morning. You’d gotten used to it, no choice but not to be, but it didn’t help ease the stress of trying to make sure the house was in order before you left.

You stuck the piece of toast between your teeth, shouldered your bag, and rushed to the door when your feet caught a bag at the bottom of the steps and tumbled.

Your hands fumbled for the banister as your feet twisted. The piece of toast you were excited for fell onto the floor, butter side down, and your eyes landed on Jack’s work out bag as the culprit.

“Oh, come on,” you whined to no one. “Just one fuckin’ day, I swear to God.”

You hated Wednesdays. They were the bane of your existence.

There wasn’t a day longer than it. It dragged, unceremoniously, to the two days that always gave you better hope that the weekend would be relaxing and with Jack off the next few days, it would be. You just had to get through Wednesday first.

You bent down to pick up the toast only to notice that Jack’s gear was still in the bag. He hadn’t simply just left the bag, he didn’t take any of his supports with him. His paddles, the buoys, his goddamn kickboard.

But like Wednesdays were bad for you, sometimes his night shifts were too.

Jack forgot. It happens.

Digging out your phone, the last exchange you had with Jack was an hour ago where he replied “K” to a “don’t get hit by a car” from you. It was fruitless trying to call him because he was bound to already be inside and he wouldn’t answer if he was in the pool. But you peered back at the paddles and knew Jack needed those supports. Your peace of mind would depend on him having them, even if he never ended up using them.

You swiped both the bag and toast off the floor and sighed.

“What would he do without me?”

For fifteen laps, the women of water aerobics minded their business and listened to Susan’s instructions.

They still talked, however.

“What do you think she’s like?” Trudy asked.

“A nurse,” Francis said shakily as her exertion was starting to show. “Like one of those old war movies. A soldier and a nurse… how cute!”

“He’s not a hundred, Francis.” Cheryl shook her head. “I don’t think she works in healthcare. Probably in an office, maybe a teacher, or a manager of some kind.”

“Do you think she bosses him around?”

All the ladies looked back as Jack swam past the last 15 meter marking down on the opposite end. They thought on it, imagining what a domestic Jack looked like but the man they knew and created an image for wasn’t domestic. He was just a charmer. A kind hearted night shift doctor who listened to their problems.

“No,” Mary-Ann said. “I think they probably have a really nice relationship.”

“Women can be bossy too,” Cheryl defended.

“Yeah it’s kind of… what’s that thing they say? Kinky.” Francis laughed. Her face lit up in red as a result.

They turned back to Susan who changed out the weights for foam tubes. The sea of colors changed the space as they held them in arches above their heads.

Lisa sighed disappointedly. “Is it bad that I’m kind of sad he’s married?”

“Yes,” Sharon deadpanned. “He’s young enough to be your kid.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a cougar, Sharon. I can provide a really nice life and hey! I’m a really good cook too!”

“Keep telling yourself that, honey.”

Susan cleared her throat and demonstrated an exercise with the tube. She counted them down like dancers as they began another set to round out their session.

“He’s just such a nice man,” Lisa continued on.

“Then we should be happy that someone found him,” Mary-Ann concluded. “Not everyone gets to find their special someone and we know he deserves one.”

The women agreed in staggered murmurs.

As they let the music carry their repetitions away, the women’s locker room door opened with a sharp squeak. The music was almost deafening as you entered the room but a lifeguard perched on their towers blew a whistle in your direction.

You looked up, the old women in the pool stopped, and Jack paused halfway down the lane thinking the stoppage was his fault.

“Ma’am,” the lifeguard spoke. “You can’t be in here.”

You chuckled nervously. “I’m just dropping something off—I am not staying.”

The lifeguard pointed to the sign beside the doors you barely moved away from. “You must be wearing swimwear and appropriate footwear while being on the pool deck.”

“Can I just take off my shoes?” You asked. “I’m just dropping off his bag.” You pointed to Jack who clung to the lane divider.

“Go ahead.” The lifeguard returned their attention to the pool and so did you.

But no one was looking at him. They were all looking at you.

Jack treaded water in the middle of the lane with a small smile fighting its way onto his face. With his bag in your hand, he was happy to have a few unexpected minutes with you before you were whisked away for the day. His chest was rising and falling rapidly but he lifted his hand in a single wave, pointing to the chair at the end of the lane.

You slipped off your shoes and followed along the edge of the pool.

“Ladies!” The aerobics instructor called out to them. “Why don’t we take a break, huh? You’ve earned it, great job.”

Like a thousand eyes piercing your body, all the old women in the pool stared at you as if you were a vision. You gave them a polite nod in return and kept going out slight embarrassment for getting called out by the lifeguard.

“Hey,” Jack reached the edge and tugged off his goggles. “I thought I left that in the car.”

“It almost killed me this morning, actually.”

“Well I’m glad you’re still here.” Jack swiped a hand over his hair before shaking it out. The water made the color go darker and it reminded you of what he looked like before he went gray.

“Thanks me too,” you said slyly and put the bag down at the base of the chair. “How was work?”

“Pretty bad,” Jack sighed, folding his arms in front of him and leveraging himself on them.

“I can tell.”

There was a gaze Jack fell into when the days turned sour. A light that never caught his eye, devoid of true amusement you could feel across a room. He looked drained.

“I’m only gonna do a few more and then I’m heading out. Can you text me what you want for dinner? I’ll go to the store after I sleep.”

“Sure,” you nodded and bent down in front of him. “Are you okay?”

Jack’s mouth got smaller, pinching onto one side of his face in thought. “I will be.”

“I can stay until you’re done,” you told him. “I can be late.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Mmm…” You titled your head. “I think I can.”

“Honey.”

“Jack.”

Your audience grew every second you stayed. Holding out your hand to Jack, he accepted it and held your hand over the end of the pool.

“You know, I was goi—”

“Excuse me?”

The interruption made Jack’s shoulders tense. Trudy led the women to the divider that started Jack’s lane and they hovered like animals preparing to be fed.

“Hi,” you replied. “Yes?”

“Are you his wife?”

Your eyes flicked between Jack and the women and your husband’s bashful avoidance peeked your interest immediately.

“I am. Jack didn’t tell me he made friends here.”

You swung his hand gently in yours.

“Have you known him long?” You asked them and a couple of the ladies nodded.

“He’s our Wednesday snack,” the oldest one said. “Jack the Snack.”

“Jack the Snack?” You beamed with hilarity.

“Oh yeah,” she continued. “He’s the only reason we keep coming to this class so early in the morning.”

“That’s pretty good motivation if you ask me.”

“Please don’t encourage them,” Jack said lowly and the women immediately complained. Their words muddled together in one giant, half-hearted complaint that was ignored. You winked, squeezing his hand in yours.

“He is a snack, isn’t he?” You agreed. “He’s tolerable, though, right? Sometimes he’s a real pain in my ass.”

“I knew I would like her,” one of them said to another.

“He’s a wonderful man. You sure got lucky, sweetheart. Jack’s a keeper.”

“Good.” You said definitively.

And then, the comments just went flying.

“Did you know he answers all of our questions about our ailments?”

“He helped me connect my phone to the WiFi here!”

“Sometimes, he helps me out of the pool when my knees give out.”

“Jack referred me to an Ortho for my broken finger once!”

“He’s the one who made management increase the pool temperature for us!”

“He changed my tire in the parking lot when I got a flat!”

Every comment they made, Jack had to look away. It’d been months since he started coming on Wednesdays consistently and he never thought to keep track of all the things he’d done for them. It was never a hassle, it was just another part of his day.

“Ladies,” Jack spoke up. “Can I have a minute with my wife alone please?”

“You get her alone all the time. We barely know anything about her. We don’t even know her name!”

“Well you weren’t asking about her just now.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lisa brushed him off. “What’s your nam—”

“Lisa,” he said firmly. “If I get just a minute with her, I’ll look at what you wanted to show me.”

“Susan!” Lisa shouted. “We’re ready to continue!”

One by one, the ladies of the aerobics class returned to their spots in front of their instructor and Jack’s shoulders deflated.

“Jack,” you hummed and he knew what was coming next. “Do you have… a fan club?”

“I think so.”

“Did I see Mary-Ann here? From next door?”

“Mhm,” he hummed. “She’s the only tolerable one.”

“You love it.”

“They love it—or me, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe they just like my muscles.”

Your laugh made some of the difficult night harbored inside of him chip away. “Oh my. I might need to come here on Wednesdays.”

“No.” Jack shook his head harshly. “I cannot handle any more comments from them. They’re insane. Do you know how sexual those women are?” He said it like it was some dirty secret. “They say the most absurd things.”

“Like the absurd things we did after I got home from work yesterday?” You lifted a brow. “I bet they’d love that hot gos.”

“I think you’re going to be late for work.”

“Maybe.” Your eyes trailed over his tired face again. “You sure you’re good?”

“Yeah. I’m glad you came.”

“I can’t have you drowning on me, sweetie. How could I live with myself knowing you left kickboard was at home?”

Jack rolled his eyes at your joking tone and dropped your hand. “Okay, goodbye.”

“Jack,” you laughed.

Before he plunged back into the pool completely, he lifted up on his arms and placed a quick, soft kiss on your lips without warning.

The chatter of the women struck up again.

“I’ll see you at home.”

“Could we ask them all to come for dinner?” You whispered and he kissed you again. “I think they’d all really like that. What do you say, Jack the snack?”

“Never.”

Yet when summertime came, those same six women sat in Jack Abbot’s backyard listening to stories of your marriage and knew that the man they had silly, schoolgirl crushes on, was simply perfect.

a/n: i would bet good money that the old ladies in the water aerobics photo never thought they’d be featured on a jack abbot fanfic.

sorry grandmas!

reblogs, comments, and likes are so greatly appreciated!

[inknopewetrust]

i got a bad desire

sex had never been a problem for jack—until now.

contents: smut! twitter was asking for an erectile dysfunction fic so i started drafting and well, this might have been my calling. ED, a little blue pill, drug talk (jack’s on depression meds), some wine consumption, a whole host of second-hand embarrassment for jack, world’s best wife in the reader, and of course ED wasn’t enough… loosely inspired by 02x02.

[jack abbot x fem!reader. wc: 7.2k ]

masterlist | other jack abbot fics

He was a doctor—of course he read the side effects of his pills. Right?

Right?

God. Jack could barely think for himself let alone think what the fuck was on the prescription label. He especially couldn’t think straight when you were on top of him, fingers carding through his curls, and your chest pressed against his own.

Everything would be fine. Everything is fine.

It wasn’t fine. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him and when Jack Abbot’s internal alarm bells went off, anyone in a ten mile radius could hear them. All it took was one look, a not fully present kiss, and you knew something was amiss.

“Jack?” You murmured softly in his ear. He loved the feel of your breath; the warmth your body brought to his.

He swallowed hard. His jaw tensed as his chest shuddered in immediate nerves and your hands moved to cradle his face instead. Jack’s eyes avoided you like the plague, sticking to a spot over your shoulder in the direction of the tv.

“Yeah?” He barely whispered.

“Are you okay?”

Oh, goddamnit. Shit.

Everything was really not fucking fine.

Jack hated when his shifts never lined up with your schedule. Summer’s were easier, so were those few breaks you’d get during the year, but most weeks it felt like you were ships passing in the night.

You were his wife, not a “sometimes companion” depending on the day. So, when he had off, there was nothing he loved more than being at your side. Watching mindless television, going to the grocery store, listening to you complain about your job, and everything in between. He loved it. Jack never thought that chance would come again and when it did, he promised himself that the time he gave to you would be nothing short of devotion.

And, when the time to “love” became a little more intimate, Jack gave you everything you could ask for. You’d never had a more generous lover, in all sense of the word.

He cared so deeply about you that he was too easily forgetful about his own needs. Jack never liked when you tried to make it all about him—he’d had enough attention in the last twenty years to last him a lifetime in solitude. In return, Jack’s altar was beside you, on top of you, under you, and anywhere near you.

Therefore, when he sacrificed his time away from you to save the lives of strangers, it was only right for him to recompense through the most natural form of intimacy.

But it had been five days. Five days of back to back night shifts where he left you sleeping in bed and you left him walking out the door with your work bag in hand. There had been a light in the distance, Saturday, when his schedule finally broke and you were both off to enjoy each other’s company.

He cooked, you cleaned, and then you’d both retired to the sofa where your feet landed in his lap and a movie you’d seen a thousand times played quietly as days-long lodged conversations started to flow.

Then, you shuffled into his lap and Jack knew something was wrong before even started.

His lips met yours and you melted. You’d been so quick to fall into him, wrapping your arms around him, and pressing down into his lap that it felt needy. Tilting his head back, your fingers pulled at his curls to open him up to you. His kiss deepened and you couldn’t fight the smile on your face.

You laughed, breaking apart.

“What?” Jack asked incredulously. His eyes darted between yours as your hand brushed back his hair.

“Nothing.” You shook your head. “I just love you.”

Jack’s hands ran up and down your sides gently. “Well now it’s cheesy if I say it back.”

“No.” Your nose bumped into his. “You could never make it cheesy.”

“I’m pretty sure I could,” Jack admitted with a peck. He let his hands wander down your sides, feeling the skin of your ass before smoothing down your legs and holding them down on himself. “I love you.”

“How much?”

“Eh. ” He shrugged causing you leaned back and swat at his chest immediately before pressing into his pecs with your palms.

“Cruel,” you gasped. “You’re just evil.”

“I don’t know about that.” He removed his hands from you and placed his on top of yours. “But I don’t think a measurement exists for how much I really do.”

Not cruel. Just utterly adoring beyond comprehension.

You leaned in, kissing him again and again and each one ended longer than the last. He brought your hands back to his hair and encouraged a rougher grip. Jack’s tongue was the first to ask for silent permission to which you welcomed it with your own.

You couldn’t remember the last time you made out like teenagers on the couch.

And for ten minutes, you did only that.

Lips swollen and blood rushing in your body, there was something exhilarating about having waited so long to have sex this week. Five days wasn’t a world record for either of you but it felt like a necessary end to it.

Only you were expecting to feel something after ten minutes.

One of your hands slipped from his shoulders and entered the few inches of space between your bodies to grope him above his sweats. You had felt that simply being on top wasn’t enough—you would have felt his erection if you did—but this was the second time in three weeks that grinding on him didn’t work in getting him aroused.

Jack’s attention broke away from your lips and to your neck. His stubble grazed your skin with a roughness you’d only accept from his face. He lathered and sucked, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you feel his desire through his lips.

As you met his groin, you felt the outline of his cock still limp between his spread legs. Gently trailing to the head, you molded your hand around it and rubbed to the base. Jack’s forehead fell to your shoulder and you couldn’t help but be satisfied, leaning your own into him.

Jack. Your Jack.

Your hand never stopped going. Slowly, you felt the minutes pass and you put more pressure in your grip and the air around Jack began to change. His kisses stopped, your fingers intertwined with his curls at the base of his head weren’t met with the same sighs, and his own hands loosened their grasp.

On the inside, Jack was having an existential crisis.

He knew it was going to happen.

It was the same goddamn thing from three weeks ago and he’d wrote it off as some kind of fluke. He was tired. He’d worn himself thin from a bad night and three weeks ago, sex wasn’t in the cards he’d been dealt. But now? Again?

Jack dug his forehead further into your shoulder to think—which was practically impossible for him to do in this state. Yet he tried. He thought back on any changes to his body and any signs he might have missed but the only possibilities he could think about were his age and his meds.

If it was his age, he was just about ready to croak off now. 50. Jack was only 50 fucking years old and he never imagined what the hell life would be like with erectile dysfunction at this age. He’d take it to his grave, he swore to God, but there was one other problem that he just couldn’t shake.

Those meds.

A switch from his therapist a few appointments ago to Zoloft, which was what he was supposed to be taking for years. But just like good medicine, sometimes finding the right balance was hard and it took time.

His therapist had warned him, right?

He was a doctor—of course he read the side effects of his pills. Right?

Right?

God. Jack could barely think for himself let alone think what the fuck was on the prescription label. He especially couldn’t think straight when you were on top of him, fingers carding through his curls and your chest pressed against his own.

Everything would be fine. Everything is fine.

It wasn’t fine. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him and when Jack Abbot’s internal alarm bells went off, anyone in a ten mile radius could hear them. All it took was one look, a not fully present kiss, and you knew something was amiss.

“Jack?” You murmured softly in his ear. He loved the feel of your breath; the warmth your body brought to his.

He swallowed hard. His jaw tensed as his chest shuddered in immediate nerves and your hands moved to cradle his face instead. Jack’s eyes avoided you like the plague, sticking to a spot over your shoulder in the direction of the tv.

“Yeah?” He barely whispered.

“Are you okay?”

Oh, goddamnit. Shit.

Everything was really not fucking fine.

He was falling apart. Jack couldn’t even look you in the eye because now he couldn’t have sex with his beautiful fucking wife and the world was basically ending.

“Yeah,” he barely squeaked out.

You saw through him and he could feel the pity in the way your thumbs rubbed softly on his cheeks.

“I think I need to use the bathroom,” he blurted out and discarded you to the side of the couch.

In his first attempt to stand, Jack struggled to gain momentum off the couch and the redness of embarrassment from another one of his problems inched up the back of his neck like a rash.

Holy shit, he thought. This is the worst day of my life.

He tried harder the second time to avoid your helping hands and rushed off to the bedroom, shutting the door so hard it reverberated throughout the house. Beelining for the sink, Jack’s hands strained the edges of it until his knuckles were white.

“What the fuck!” He scolded himself in a brash whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

This wasn’t happening to him. This was all a dream. A really, god awful, terrible, no good dream that would be over in a matter of minutes. He’d wake up, sun shining, and never deal with this again.

He slapped a hand across his face. It was not a fucking dream.

“Holy shit,” Jack’s words were now nothing but saddened, pathetic whimpering. “This is not fucking happening to me right now.”

From outside the door, you leaned against the frame and let him wallow. Those little blue pills in the back of the cabinet had been pushed away out of spite and this time, you knew he just needed to face the reality of his situation. But that reality was hard to fathom after a lifetime of one activity never having been a problem. He couldn’t have just this one thing?

Jack opened the cabinet and pulled out his Zoloft bottle. Unraveling the prescription label, his eyes raced down to side effects and right there “Erectile Dysfunction” laughed at him. He tossed the bottle in the sink.

“Jack?” You knuckles rapped against the door. “Are you alright in there?”

“Fine!” He replied too quickly.

“Can I come in?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’d rather you not.”

“You’re not gonna dump your meds are you?”

“No,” his tone was still sad. “That’s probably a bad idea.”

Jack could hear your hum. He imagined the look on your face and how you’d probably kick him to the curb now that he was completely defective.

“Jack, I think you need to talk to me about this.”

“No,” he drug out the word. “I don’t think so.”

“Honey.”

He said your name firmly in return.

“I’m coming in.” You didn’t give him any time because as soon as he got a syllable out, the door was open.

Jack’s eyes caught yours in the mirror.

“It’s okay, Jack.”

He shook his head. “It’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well that’s easy for you to say,” he couldn’t help the attitude that slipped out. “You don’t have a broken fucking dick.”

“I don’t have a dick but I do have a libido.”

“It’s not that, baby,” Jack sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want to have sex. I do. Very badly, might I add. But it’s like this—” he pointed to his brain “—just doesn’t want to work and tell the other parts of my body to do their jobs.”

Your brows furrowed in concern. “Is it the nightmares again?”

“No.” He shook his head and realized that you didn’t fully grasp it because of two things: you weren’t in healthcare and you didn’t have PTSD like he did. “They’re fine. They’ve been fine.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me, Jack.”

You approached him, settling for resting your hand along his back and feeling his tense muscles underneath the fabric of his tee.

“A side effect of the meds,” he gestured weakly to the bottle in the sink. “I can’t get it up.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you mumbled and picked up the bottle.

“My doctor gave me—“ Jack didn’t want the words to form.

Your rubbed soothingly on his back. He loved you so much.

“What did he give you?”

Jack reopened the cabinet and shuffled items to the side before landing on a small white bottle with VIAGRA plastered in blue on the front. His stomach lurched at the thought of needing to take one. Jack held it tightly in his fist in a refusal to show you.

You saw the bottle immediately when he brought it home. Jack was never as sly as he thought he was. He tried hiding your engagement ring for six weeks before proposing but you found it the day after the purchase because he stuffed it the garage where he kept all the spare keys.

He just hadn’t thought that maybe you’d lock your keys inside of the house one day.

Still, he clutched onto the white bottle as though if he dropped it, his problem wasn’t real. He could keep trying. Maybe it would just take a little bit longer than normal but eventually, he’d get hard and you could sail smoothly into the night.

“Are you gonna show me?” You asked patiently.

“I don’t really want to.”

“I’m not embarrassed if you need to use one, you know?”

His eyes pinched closed. “I feel like a fucking failure.”

You exhaled deeply, placing your hand over his fist, and dipping your head to better look at him.

“Look at me, Jack.”

He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“Jack,” you pressed once more. “Look at me.”

“This has never been a problem,” he said lowly. Jack’s tone lingered on disappointment but aired a frustration that sounded sexier than he meant it. “I don’t know why I can’t be normal in this one fucking way but of course not! Of course not. No… the goddamn leg just wasn’t enough. The stupid fucking depression and the nightmares and my joint pain isn’t enough!”

Jack rarely yelled. He bottled everything inside until it was ready to explode and it was just leaking out of him like a dam bursting.

“None of that is your fault,” you assured.

“What does it matter if it was?” He loosened the grip on the bottle and it rolled into the sink beside the Zoloft.

“Jack. I don’t care if we have sex tonight, okay? It’s not the end of the world for me.”

“It sure fucking feels like it for me.”

“I know it does,” you empathized. “But if you’re not ready to try the pills, then we don’t have to do anything. I can wait for you.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Jack whispered. “This is so inconvenient.”

“What would life be without them?”

He breathed in as your hand continued to rub his back and calm him down. Jack glanced down at the bottle, cursing the elephant in the room. He mumbled underneath his breath and even though you were standing beside him, you didn’t catch it.

“What?”

“It takes…” his words were muffled again.

“Are you having a stroke?” You asked honestly.

“No,” he heaved. “If I take one… it would take around an hour to work.”

“Okay,” you replied cautiously. It was his choice, you made that clear.

“And it’s not like… magical. Plus we had a whole bottle of wine with dinner and that might make it worse.”

“Trying to get hard or the erection?”

“Both?” He said like it was a question. He’s the doctor. He should know.

“If you wanted to try it, and it doesn’t work out, then you never have to use one again.”

Jack hummed. “I might have to eat you out for awhile.”

“Jesus,” you laughed. “Don’t try to be sly about it.”

His lips quirked into a small smile, one you’d missed seeing in his despair. Jack picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap.

“I swear to God that if anything goes wrong, I will jump off the fucking roof.”

“You can’t say that,” you lamented. “You’re literally the last person who should joke about that.”

“I’m kidding.” He popped a pill into his mouth. “I can’t let you fall in love with someone else.”

“How kind of you to think about me.”

Jack flipped on the sink, cupped his hands under the faucet, and swallowed the pill in one gulp. There was no turning back now.

“Well?” You asked him as he wiped his mouth dry.

“Well what?”

“You want to finish what you started?”

He locked eyes with you in the mirror and opened his mouth to object to the statement. You climbed into his lap. You kissed him first. But he saw a glimmer of hope that maybe the little blue pill would be a good thing for the both of you tonight and forgot about it. Jack nodded instead.

“Get on the bed.”

Whatever the little blue pill did, it gave Jack an ounce of courage back and fuck, could you feel it.

Jack had been on you from the moment you laid down on the bed. In silence, he stripped off your clothes one by one and settled between your thighs ready to give. And for the past thirty minutes, you’d been close twice before he drew back and smiled at you as his cheek rested against your leg.

Every time he did, you had to look away.

He was so sweet. Jack, the man who does anything for anyone, looked at you like you held the moon.

You fought a grin by biting down on your lip and had your arm flying over your eyes to shield his own impenetrable stare from reaching you. And then his mouth was on you again, tongue lightly flicking your clit as he slipped two fingers inside.

You writhed, body shaking lightly in pleasure as his hands grew more firm around your thighs and minimized any distance between you. Jack figured if he could lay atop the mattress and grind into it that it would replace the need for you to jerk him off for five minutes, and he was right.

The combination of periodically rutting against the mattress, listening to your sweet sounds, and feeling you squeeze his fingers was sheer poison.

He curled his fingers up inside of you, sliding them in and out in the same direction until your moans turned into a whine that spelled out his name.

“Jack,” you breathed in heavily.

Your hand fell from your eyes and trailed over one of your breasts, squeezing it, pinching the nipple just hard enough before fanning out on the comforter. Jack removed his fingers to let his tongue sink lower, pushing into you softer and wetter than before. His mouth devoured you; a sickening slurp of his saliva and your wetness had your mouth falling open, silent in disbelief that not an hour ago, you didn’t think this was going to happen.

“S-shit, Jack.”

He slowed down, sparing a glance at your face before deciding to back off. His pointer finger replaced where his nose was grazing your clit. Jack pressed down there, moving in small circles as your hips moved with him.

“That feel good?” He asked softly.

“I think that fucking pill gave you superpowers,” you spat out fast. “Holy shit.”

“Magical” his ass. It was certifiably otherworldly.

“Might just have been a long time since we’ve done this.”

You agreed, moaning a “yeah” in reply.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said like a question. “I hate to do this to you…”

“What?” You sat up so quickly that you got a little dizzy. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Jack couldn’t hide his blush. There was no easy way to say “I’m hard now, let me fuck you” after having a meltdown.

His throat bobbed and you caught it.

“You ready?”

Jack nodded and you retuned it with a nod of your own. “Okay, yeah. Alright—”

“Why does this feel like I’m losing my virginity again?” He joked. His laugh barely sounded like one because the second he sat up on his knees, his erection was all he could look at.

Jack had never been embarrassed by his cock before.

“If this is how you lost your virginity, I’d be a little nervous,” you scoffed. “Sit back against the headboard.”

He didn’t argue with you which was a rarity it terms of control. Nothing was really in his control right now and it was making his anxiety shoot through the roof.

Jack shuffled back to the headboard and slipped off his shirt. He helped you pull down his sweats carefully and even though he didn’t feel like you had to be, he was grateful for your gentleness. At the sight of his prosthetic, you tipped your head knowingly at him.

“Why didn’t you take this off yet?”

“I forgot,” he feigned innocence.

“Mhm,” you judged and took it off for him. “Sure you did.”

With his prosthetic resting on the floor against the bedside table, you resumed your position in his lap and wrapped an arm around his shoulder while your free hand wrapped around him. You’d never been with someone who needed to take a Viagra before. Jack felt different and you knew how he felt in your hands.

His dick felt firmer—less like his own and more like one that was being controlled.

Your hand went from tip to base and back and he jolted.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s like my nerves are on fire.”

“Does it feel bad?”

His nose brushed yours as he shook his head. Jack didn’t tell you to stop so you kept pumping him mildly.

“It feels really fucking good, actually.”

“Yeah?” You smiled.

“Yeah.”

Jack kissed you with everything he could muster. He gripped your bare hips tightly, sinking his fingers into your skin until he felt like you weren’t going to disappear. You put more tension in your fist and he groaned, precum escaping him and making your job easier.

“Do you feel like you’re ready?” You kissed him lazily, pulling on his bottom lip enough for it to bounce back.

He chased your lips. “What if—”

“Honey,” you soothed. “We’ll get there, okay?”

“Okay,” he accepted. He nodded, looking you in the eye and giving you the reassurance he also needed.

Lifting up in his lap, you guided him to your entrance and sunk down slowly. The feeling was overwhelming and you both needed time to adjust. Jack’s head fell back against the bed frame as far as he could go, clenching his jaw enough where the muscles strained on his face.

“You’re fine, Jack,” you cooed in his ear. Soft pants met his cheek as his hardness was unlike anything you’d experienced. “Breathe, baby.”

Your nails raked the base of his skull.

“Keep going,” he bit out. “You’re squeezing me so tight.”

“I guess we’ve both been ‘rejuvenated,’ huh?”

Jack wasn’t overly appreciative of your humor but you moved anyway, testing the waters of your bounces and grinds before settling into a rhythm that suited you. His cock stretched you wide and every time you sank back down, it was as though he never filled you in the first place. A spark of exhilaration bloomed. This was so different, so minutely different, that it felt new.

Jack’s hands groped your ass to help ease the strain on your thighs the longer you went. His lips swapped duties between connecting with yours and finding the skin of your neck, collarbone, and chest peppered with affection. Jack listened to your soft mewls. He soaked in the whispers of sweet nothings and the shaky gasps you couldn’t help.

He wanted you close.

Jack needed you to mold into him like he was showered in rain. He pulled you close; arms wrapped up around you so tight there was no escaping his embrace.

He nipped at your chin. Low and rough, Jack spoke to you. “I love you so much.”

Jack’s nose trailed up your cheek, bumping into yours and seeking your lips again.

“You have no idea how much I love you.”

“Jack,” you whined with a grin. A shake in your legs had him running his hands over your back, soothing you now instead.

“I know you’re ready, baby.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I’m close.”

“What do you need from me?” He asked willingly.

You shook your head. “I-fuck, nothing. I just—”

Jack bent his knees the best he could and the angle his cock was hitting changed on a thrust. Deep and unforgiving, your fingernails dug into his skin hard. Jack murmured appreciation, egging you on to the finish line and neglecting himself.

You were too wrapped up in the feeling. The building of a week, the racing of your heart, to think for a second that he was nowhere near close to his orgasm.

“Come on, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

He felt the falter in your hips.

Your orgasm shook you from Heaven to Hell and back—even if believing it was hard to fathom. Jack’s hand flew to the back of your head, holding you into him as the aftershocks of muscle spasms lingered seconds after your breathing began to settle. You returned his kisses with your own against his neck and shoulder. The freckles on his body were reminders of all the places he had ever been kissed and you were adding to that—on top of ones that already existed, beside them, and in the spaces that laid empty of any.

He wouldn’t remember them in every lifetime but you liked to imagine that all of his freckles were kisses from you.

As your brain recovered from the fuzzy glow and you realized that Jack was still rock hard inside of you.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” Jack cut you off. “No, it’s fine. It’s just… I think it takes time.”

“But now you haven’t even…” you trailed your response with a flick of your eyes downwards. “I can’t leave you like that.”

“Baby, it could take an hour.”

You glanced at the alarm clock on his side of the bed. The time read 11:47.

“We’ve got time.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m not gonna let you give me a handy for an hour.”

“Hey,” you tugged on his earlobe lightly. “I’ve got a mouth too.”

“It’s fine,” he reassured but you weren’t buying it. His mouth quirked to the side in thought. “Would you hate me if I asked you to clean up alone?”

You ran your thumb along his jawline.

“I could never hate you, Jack. I’ve lived this long, I think I can handle one less aftercare shower.”

“It makes me feel like an asshole.”

“You’re not. I promise you.”

Carefully, you lifted up from his lap and let him slip out. You avoided looking at him so he didn’t find another reason to be embarrassed about something that impacted millions of men—especially those who were on medication for concerns far more important than simply erectile dysfunction.

He watched you disappear into the bathroom and shut the door with a click before he put his pillow to his face and yelled into it.

The prescription tag read as follows:

Prolonged erection greater than 4 hours and priapism (painful erections greater than 6 hours in duration) have been reported infrequently since market approval of VIAGRA. In the event of an erection that persists longer than 4 hours, the patient should seek immediate medical assistance. If priapism is not treated immediately, penile tissue damage and permanent loss of potency could result.

Jack had to put his readers on to even see the label.

“… if priapism is not treated immediately, penile tissue damage and permanent loss…” he repeated the label back to himself to make sure he read it correctly.

His eyes flitted to his phone, touching the screen to light up a big 7:30 AM and a picture of both of your smiling faces beaming back at him.

This might not have been the actual worst day of his life but it was second.

His crutches clicked against the floor as he approached your side of the bed. He hated waking you up when you were clearly dead to the world. Laid face first into your pillow, he rested a hand on your back and shook you gently.

“Baby?”

You barely bristled. He repeated the action, calling out your name louder.

“Hm?” You grumbled in slight annoyance.

Jack shifted uncomfortably on the bed, wincing as he turned wrong and made his sweatpants tighter than they already were.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he started and realized how quickly those were the wrong words. You sat up abruptly, face twisted in concern as he tried not to cry from the pain his fucking dick won’t stop causing.

“What!?” You searched his face for an answer. “What happened!?”

“You gotta calm down.” Jack moved his arm to block your view.

“About what? What’s wrong?”

“I seem to be having a little… complication.”

Your brows furrowed. “A complication?”

Jack clicked his tongue with a nod. Your eyes darted down too obviously to his pants and back to his face. His erection was blatant. It practically waved at you from behind his arm.

“Does it have anything to do with that?” You said above a whisper. “Why do you have such bad morning wood?”

Jack groaned, again, completely at odds with himself.

“Remember when we had that bottle of red with dinner?” You nodded. “Well it turns out that sometimes while meds can cause the problem, mixing alcohol with the little blue pill causes… other problems.”

“And this can’t be solved with an orgasm?”

“Not after more than six hours.”

Your eyes bugged out of your head. “Six hours!? Jack, what the fuck!”

“I thought it was going to go away!”

You swiftly moved out of bed and shrugged on a sweatshirt. Jack watched you pilfer the room for socks and shoes and leggings and just sat there helplessly on the edge of the bed with his crutches one inch from sliding off of it. You didn’t say anything and that made it worse for him.

“I’m sorry,” Jack spoke up.

“What are you sorry for?” You opened his drawer and pulled out a fresh tee. “It’s not your fault.”

“It feels like it is.”

“Well it’s not, Jack. So stop apologizing and get your leg on.”

“I can’t bend over.”

You tossed the shirt to him. “We’re going in.”

“Where?”

“The ED.”

“No,” he said with a nervous laugh. “No the fuck we are not.”

“You say that like you have a choice, Mr. Abbot.” Oh. He didn’t like that. “Turns out that doctors are truly the worst patients. Your night shift is gone, Robby’s gotta be—”

“I am not letting Robby see me like this.” The thought repulsed him so badly that it made his skin crawl.

“Then someone else will help us,” you clarified. “The longer we wait the worse I’ll assume it will be for you. I’m not driving you to Presby or Mercy when I know the ones that can help you the best.”

“I’ll never live this down.” His eyes filled with ashamed tears and every now and then, you’d seen Jack down on his luck.

A terrible shift, a long week, anniversaries he’d rather not have… but he stared at you from the bed and he looked so small. His salt and pepper hair was flat from restless sleep and the scruff on his face couldn’t hide the jumble of thoughts pouring out of him. You moved to stand in front of him, grasping his face between two hands, and forcing him to look you in the eye.

“You are the strongest, most resilient man I have ever met. You’ve taken care of me more times than I can count and now, it’s my turn to help you the best way I know how. This is bad now, yeah… it is,” you nodded in agreement, “but it’s not forever. After this, you’ll call your therapist and tell him what happened and we will try again when things are better.”

A tear steamed down his cheek and you wiped it away with your finger.

“It’s okay to be embarrassed, honey.”

“I’m gonna make this up to you,” Jack settled. “I promise.”

“Okay.” You didn’t need him to. However, if it made him feel better, sure. Your hands tapped his face twice before letting go. “Let’s go, Soldier.”

The PTMC Emergency Room wasn’t an unfamiliar sight, but it wasn’t one you frequented.

It bustled with far too much chaos and while your own career had its fair share, there was something about Jack’s place of work that made you feel ill just looking at it. Death, hurt, pain, and suffering wrapped up in four walls, some windows, and doors.

And now Jack sat outside of it in a wheelchair because he refused to go in on his crutches.

“Just go in and tell Dana I’m out here.”

“Someone is going to have to come and get you anyway, so just come with me.”

Jack begged, “please.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Luckily, Dana was talking with a young nurse at the hub when the ambulance bay doors opened wide. You kept in a straight line to her, not distracted by the sounds and the yelling coming from one of the many rooms. Dana was halfway through a sentence when she glanced over her shoulder and did a double take.

“Hey stranger,” she beamed. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

The young nurse beside her, Emma, smiled at you in the awkward way you did when you didn’t know someone’s friend.

“Hi Dana,” you greeted.

“Jack’s not here,” her eyes questioned you. Jack had been scheduled off for the next couple days so there was no telling where he’d be other than at his house.

“Well,” you let out a loose, barely amused chuckle, “funny you should say that.”

“Is he okay?”

“Not really… I just—we just—need this on the down low, alright? He really doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here.”

She nodded understandingly and grabbed an iPad from the counter. “Where is he?”

“Out in the ambulance bay. I put him in a wheelchair.”

“Should I get Robb—”

“No!” You said loudly and shook your head. “God, no. Sorry.”

Emma jumped at the sound and her eyes darted to the bay. “Can I help?”

Your face scrunched. Jack would rather not traumatize a new nurse so early in the shift.

“Is Donnie around? Or Dr. Al-Hashimi?”

“Yeah.” Dana patted Emma on the shoulder. “Go get ‘em and we’ll put Dr. Abbot in Room 7.”

Dana rounded the hub and put a hand on your shoulder. As she stepped further away, she pressed about the situation.

“You know, you two aren’t getting any younger. You can’t go at it like rabbits.”

“Dana,” you scolded with a smile. “That’s—that’s not it.”

“What happened?”

All that was needed to be said were three little words:

“Little blue pill.”

Jack heard the hiss of the ambulance bay open and Dana walked up to him with a laugh buried in her throat. Jack was wearing a hat and glasses like a superhero in disguise and his backpack flipped over so no one could see the name angled in his lap.

“Don’t fucking say it, Evans. Don’t.”

“I’m not!” She held up her hands in defense.

“Dana said she’s gonna help. No one needs to know.”

You grabbed his crutches off the wall and followed closely as Dana wheeled him into Room 7 and pulled the curtains. She left still fighting amusement as Donnie entered with Baran.

“Dr. Abbot,” she said fondly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“I think we both had different ideas about how today would go.”

Jack took off his glasses and hat, passing them off to you. The bag stayed lumped in his lap.

“So, what brings you in today?”

There was a second of silence and then:

“I seem to have a bit of a… priapism problem.”

Baran’s eyes widened and Donnie hesitated putting on his second glove.

“And how long has the erection lasted?” Jack hated how she pronounced the word loud and clear. He looked at you, shrugging for a loose approximation of time.

“Maybe around… since 11 or so?” You informed.

“So somewhere around 8 hours?” She asked and motioned for Donnie to put the bed rails down. “Does that seem accurate?”

You both nodded. Donnie wheeled Jack over to the bed and he hesitated, looking at you to help him instead. You handed Jack his crutches and as he stood, both Donnie and Baran tried to be respectful and looked away from Jack’s body.

“Dr. Abbot, I’m going to have to ask you some questions about your medical history, medications, and so forth. Is that okay with you?”

“I think you can just call me Jack now,” he grunted as he shuffled onto the bed.

“Can you tell me what medications you take?”

“I-uh, take um, 100 mg of Zofolt, 3 mg of Prazosin for sleeping, and Cyclobenzaprine as needed, 5 mg three times a day, but I haven’t needed it lately.”

“And for the priapism problem?” She slipped on her own gloves.

“I took one Viagra.”

“Have you taken one before?”

“No,” Jack admitted. “My therapist changed one of my medications to Zoloft two months ago and ordered it as a precaution.”

Baran nodded in understanding and as she sat down on a stool and rolled closer, Jack’s hand shot out to yours and squeezed tightly.

“Did he explain the side effects of taking those medications together?”

“Yes,” Jack recalled. “But we must have had… three glasses of wine last night and I’m pretty certain that’s the reason it won’t go away. A reaction, if you will.”

“You’re not wrong.” She smiled at him kindly, then to you.

“How long have you been married? I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“Six years,” you told her. “And it seems we’re always finding something new to experience together.”

“It’s a good thing,” Baran assured. “Imagine living a life where it’s normal and boring all the time. At least you’ll be able to laugh about it later.”

Her eyes found Jack’s and he knew she needed to look at him more closely.

“What happens in this room, Dr. Abbot, stays in this room. Got it?”

He nodded and focused on a spot across the wall as Donnie hovered behind Baran. Your hand covered his, rubbing gentle circles to ease the discomfort.

“Was this a special occasion or something?” Donnie asked Jack. “Or just a regular Saturday night for you two?”

“Just a Saturday night,” he said shyly. Jack, being bashful? You relished it.

“I gotta say Doc, your wife’s a lucky woman. Who knew Dr. Abbot hit the genetic lottery.”

The blush that overtook his body was a deeper red than his penis. Your hand flew to your mouth, covering the choked laugh before it could escape but Donnie was grinning like the Cheshire Cat and keeping it in was practically impossible. Baran bit down on her tongue.

But Jack knew how to bite back too. “If your idea of the genetic lottery is a guy with 1.75 legs, then sure. Whatever floats your boat.”

“Okay.” Baran finished her inspection.

“I have a feeling this isn’t a cold compress kind of procedure,” Jack wished.

Baran shook her head.

“We’re going to need to aspirate.”

Jack was back on his crutches after an hour with a soreness that would last hours.

“I don’t think I need to tell you what you can and cannot do in the next 24 hours,” Baran opened up the curtain and immediately Jack locked eyes with Dana.

“No, you don’t.”

“Maybe also speak to your therapist about the prescription the next time you go?”

Jack gave you a closed mouth smile. “I already heard that from this one.”

“She knows what she’s talking about it seems,” Baran nodded in approval.

The door opened up and Donnie held it for Jack to escape from. The RN held out his fist, asking Jack wordlessly to bump it.

Jack obliged.

“My man,” Donnie grinned. He slapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder before walking to a computer.

“I’m never filling in for day shift again, ever,” Jack told you over his shoulder.

“All good, Jack?” Dana asked from the hub as you both passed by.

“Never better.” Jack kept going towards the door.

“Thanks Dana for your help,” you said appreciatively. “If he never tells you, he’s thankful too. And I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

The doors to Trauma Bay 2 opened with a whoosh. Jack, still on the slow run on his crutches out of the ED never looked back, but Robby caught sight of him as he sanitized his hands.

“Woah!” He exaggerated. “What’s Jack doing here?”

“He’s going home,” Dana informed and you gave a small wave to Jack’s work wife. He hated when you called Robby that but it didn’t make it any less true.

“Just a little accident.”

“Jack!” Robby called after him but Jack didn’t care.

“Adios! Goodbye!” He said your name loudly followed by a “hurry up!”

You tapped the counter. “Sorry. The princess needs a ride home.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to call him that,” Robby laughed.

“It’s the least of his problems right now.”

They watched you trail behind your husband who, once through the second door, turned and waited for you patiently. You kissed him gently before walking out of view and inside of the PTMC, the world continued to turn.

Robby looked at Dana with a question and Baran walked away before he could ask her anything remotely related to Jack. But Donnie… Donnie just can’t keep anything to himself.

He turned to Robby in his swivel chair.

“Did you know Abbot’s packin’ heat down there?”

A/N: i wrote this straight over three days after not writing for about a year. crazy how that works, huh?

i hope the twitter divas find this.

comments, reblogs, and likes are appreciated! it keeps us writing!

[flamedahlia]

Occupational Hazard

CH. 1 Witching Hour

Summary: The grind never stops, especially for reader. Life in a firehouse isn't all that TV shows make it seem. Now, a few too many events lead to more time around Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center and many of the notable staff of the ED. Friend or foe, who knows?

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Slow Burn, Female reader, MDNI (just in case), Use of (y.n) (l.n), Implied reader is at least taller than 5'4", Firefighter!reader, EMT!reader, Implied reader ~late 20s/early 30s (balanced age depending on pairing), reader has a bit of a blunt personality, injuries, cursing, medical procedures/interventions, some medical inaccuracies (I'm not a doctor), blood, car accident

A/N: So... uh, first time writing fanfiction, please don't hurt me. I am open to advice and would like constructive criticism. I am not a medical professional, I am a firefighter/EMT. So some things may be from my own experiences, but I also don't work in a big city. I was thinking a reader x jack abbot, but I am open to see what the people want. I could try for multiple relationship or make other stories for different characters. Please, let me know. Cross posted on AO3.

Please don't repost my works on any other platform!!

Let the Flames Begin - Paramore

It's not always as dramatic as some make it sound. It's gradual.

The red lights turn on and the overhead speakers crackle to life.

"Engine 32, Medic 4. Reports of a three car MVA on Northbound I-279. Mile marker 2.0, Left lane. Possible entrapment."

A soft sigh escapes me as my eyelids slowly open. I sit up with a quick stretch and blink away the tiredness before checking my phone. 03:27 I quickly reach for the small bottle of eye drops to save my drying contacts. Then my hand grasps for my quarter zip jacket and radio strap hanging at the end of my bed.

"(l.n), (l.n)!"

"I'm up."

I grumble loudly as the sliding door squeaks when I pull it open to find Klara, a close coworker of mine.

"Which truck?"

"We're hopping on the engine. Let's go."

With a small nod, I follow after them. Our boots stomp against the stairs as we make our way to the bay. The rest of the crew is pretty quiet, only the rustle of gear being thrown on fills the bay. I'm quick to follow suite.

Bunker pants, Nomex hood, radio on and clipped, bunker coat, grab your helmet.

The same pattern that has been ingrained into me since fire academy and the repeated 2 minute drills always done before starting shifts. I huff as I pull myself up into the engine and park myself into one of the middle backseats. Klara follows behind me shutting the door. Captain Valerio pulls his headset on before radioing,

"Dispatch, Engine 32, en route."

My hands deftly zip up my coat and secure all the velcro along the zipper and around my neck. Klara reaches behind me and grabs my headset for me. I give a small nod before taking it, the sound of the Q siren and air horn swiftly mute as the headset squeezes tight. My right hand fiddles with the small microphone as I hear Captain Valerio gives Fulton directions. Even in the dark, I can see Klara's bright eyes meet my dark tired gaze.

"So it's right after the on-ramp. Perfect. Best hope police learned how to properly re-direct traffic within the last two days.", I sigh before looking out the window.

"Come on, (y.n). At least we get to cut open something. I mean terrible for the person, but we actually get to do something this time."

My eyes roll as I pull out my extrication gloves, tracing the thick material and rubber knuckle guards with my thumb.

"Yeah… Hey Captain, want us to grab cribbing or tools?"

There's a small pause before I watch him glance back at Klara, Tobin, and myself.

"(l.n), grab cribbing and stabilize the vehicles. CAD says at least one rollover, that might be our entrapment. Gonna need you to evaluate the victim as well. Dumb and dumber will grab the other tools."

A low chuckle escapes me as Klara and Tobin protest the nicknames. Mirth fills my voice as I reply, "Aye, aye, Cap'."

Looking out the front windshield, the streets are not as nearly busy, but busy enough. Red brake lights gleam whilst traffic quickly picks up. Yet it seems no one can hear as Fulton lays on the air horn, trying to get the engine to squeeze between vehicles.

What do people not understand about lights & sirens?

I think to myself as a path finally opens up. Small curses escape Fulton while his head swivels back and forth between side mirrors.

Not long after, we pull up to the scene. Captain Valerio radios our arrival on scene. It's a quiet chaos, but our hearts are pumping and a sudden alertness buzzes under my skin. Highway accidents may not only mean injury from what's already done. It's a constant threat to us. The engine is positioned diagonally across the left lane before the accident scene, a small barrier to protect us and the victims.

As soon as the air brakes hiss, we are jumping out of the engine. Distant sirens from the incoming ambulance echo in the night as compartments shutter open. I tighten the chinstrap of my helmet, while dark eyes burn with a calculated determination. My gloved hands reach for the handles of thick rubber cribbing.

Well, shit.

My gaze finally fully takes in the scene. A black Toyota corolla rests against the guard rails with its sides and rear dented and scratched up. Behind it is a dark red SUV sitting diagonally across the lane, yet still bumper to bumper with the Toyota. Then further on about 40 feet ahead, the last vehicle, a gray Ford Explorer resting on the driver's side with all airbags deployed.

My eyebrows furrow while I drop some cribbing next to the Toyota and SUV. Squatting down and wary of the vehicles, I place some cribbing behind the wheels as a precaution. Finally, my attention is solely on the Ford. Directions are being given by Captain Valerio, my radio crackling as information is exchanged for an extra ambulance or two. Yet, I'm locked in. Cribbing is thrown down and quickly placed to help prevent the Ford from moving further.

"3206 from 3224, I need the big jacks here." I call into my radio and after a moment, it crackles with Captain Valerio's gruff voice.

"10-4, 3224. I got 3235 bringing them to you."

"10-4, thank you."

I huff softly as I try to look through the cracked windshield. With a click, my flashlight pinned to my coat shines inside revealing what appears to be a 40 something year old woman.

"Hey, ma'am, can you hear me?… Please respond. We are stabilizing the vehicle right now. We are going to get you out."

There is no response from inside and I can already feel alarm bells ringing inside my head. Just as I'm about to curse, Tobin shows up with the large jacks. I look up at him with a stern gaze.

"Get those set up now.", my voice comes out with a slight edge to it before I grab my radio again. "Medic 4, be advised, I have one victim in the flipped vehicle, 40 something year old female, appears unresponsive, blood evident on the head and face." I don't hear the response back as I try to find an easy access point to the woman.

Windshield is the best way, but I need to get her covered so glass doesn't hit her.

The muscles in my jaw tense knowing it might be unavoidable. Klara appears beside me with a tarp and the circular saw.

"What if we cut the roof closer to the back and work forward?" Her gaze narrows as I can see the gears turning in her head.

"Too much time. If she's still alive, we need to act quicker."

Just then Tobin sidles up to Klara and I. "Jacks are set and the vehicle is stable."

I give a quick nod before walking to the rear of the Ford. My lips purse before I hold my hand out for the tarp. "I'll crawl through the rear windshield and up to the front. Once I give the go ahead use the glass saw to open the front windshield."

Not the most convenient way, but the best we got for now.

The rear windshield is not as damaged as the front windshield. I reach into my left coat pocket before revealing a window punch. I slap down the small visor tucked in my helmet.

"Cover your faces." The warning is quick before I hit the windshield. The tempered glass explodes into several little fragments. I drop down and take the tarp while squeezing through the roof and the seats of the vehicle. The crunch of glass and other items in the vehicle feels almost deafening as I try examine the woman's condition. Klara and Tobin are already by the front windshield, peering inside.

"Get ready to punch the windshield out." I holler while pulling the tarp over the woman. I rip one glove off while tucking my head down. Her skin is warm, but a bit pale as my fingers find her carotid. A thready, fast rhythm pulses under my touch. The rise and fall of her chest is slower than I like. There's blood evident on her head from a laceration above her right eye. The same blood stains the steering wheel and its airbag.

"I got a pulse, but it's not great with a low respiratory rate. Break the windshield now."

I can hear the sirens from the Pittsburgh ambulance finally arriving on scene. Yet, I'm more concerned about getting this woman out of the vehicle for better assessment. I try a sternum rub, but just like I guessed, she's completely unresponsive. My head ducks as I hear the windshield finally crack open. Klara and Tobin are ripping the laminated glass out. Pieces of the glass clink against my helmet.

All at once, multiple voices are crossing over as two paramedics appear. One pulls along the stretcher and a long backboard, the other sets down the monitor and jump bag full of medical supplies.

"40 year old female, unresponsive, rapid thready pulse with low respiratory rate. Possible head trauma." My voice is clipped as I focus on getting our victim out of this hell hole. I take the c-collar offered by the lead medic, a middle aged man with a short dirty blond haircut, and throw off the tarp. I do my best not to move the woman as my hands secure the c-collar around her neck.

Everything moves quicker with more hands available, and after a few long moments of careful movements, we have the woman free. I turn to Klara with furrowed eyebrows. "See about finding some identification. I'll help the medics." With a sharp nod, Klara begins looking around and in the Ford for clues. Trailing after the medics, I open the ambulance's doors for them. The lead medic has already jumped into the ambulance and began setting up equipment for an IV and airway interventions.

The stretcher buzzes as it lifts up before sliding in. The younger medic jumps in while I close both back doors. My footsteps are unhurried as I stride to the side door. Alarms are already sounding from the monitor while the younger medic attaches the blood pressure cuff, pulse oximeter, and finally 12-leads as a precaution. I jump in, removing my bunker coat and switch my extrication gloves for nitrile gloves. Minimal communication is needed with vitals pending reading, an IV is placed by the lead medic, and I spike a saline bag.

There's a knock from the side door before it opens when Klara peeks in. Her hand holds a small hand purse that she sets on the small counter. I glance at her and nod my head then she's closing the door, letting us resume our work.

Stabilization is priority one, then we can get to the hospital.

Simple…

No, it's not. I should've stayed quiet.

The young medic is now trying to keep up with bagging the woman. The lead medic is grabbing epinephrine and watching the monitor. Klara has found a spot in the driver's seat laying on the siren while I found myself a one way ticket to doing compressions.

"Going into V-fib. Are we almost to the hospital?" The lead medic's voice is curt as I can hear Klara radio the hospital. "3 minutes out!" Her voice echoes from the front. "PTMC knows we're coming in hot."

"AED pads are on."

I pause and lift my hands as the robotic voice cuts through the alarms.

"Analyzing rhythm… Shock advised."

With a sharp huff, I'm back to compressions as the monitor charges with 200 joules. The screen flashing 30 seconds later.

"Shock now."

My gaze meets the lead medic's as my hands pull back. The medic's finger hovers over the shock button.

"200 joules. I'm clear, you're clear, we're all clear."

The woman's body jolts from the shock and tension fills the back of the ambulance. The monitor's screen flashes…

No good.

"Dammit." I growl under my breath before resuming compressions.

Just then, the ambulance suddenly halts. My body sways from the abrupt stop. I hear Klara clamor out of the driver's seat and seconds later the back doors open. Both medics bail out the back as the stretcher slides out. My feet shuffle while I keep with compressions. It's not the greatest way to deliver compressions, but I can't stop.

The sliding doors hiss as we barrel in with the gurney. The medics are giving information and I barely register the doctor grabbing the edge of the gurney.

"Trauma 1 is open."

I glance up to meet a familiar gaze from my many times at Dunkin' Donuts grabbing breakfast after shifts.

"Well, I definitely hoped I wouldn't have to run into ya here, Dr. Shen."

I huff out between compressions. My arms and shoulders are finally feeling the ache from doing compressions for so long. I glance up at him as the door to Trauma 1 swings open when we enter. He looks up with a grin tugging at his lips.

"What ever do you mean? You love seeing me." His voice as light before he focuses back on the patient. The medics and nurses grab onto the backboard and lift the woman from the stretcher to the gurney.

"Not at 4:15 in the fucking morning." I grumble when someone taps my arm. With a turn of my head, I find it's one of the nurses. "Thank god, my arms feel like they're gonna fall off."

Finally, I can pull away from the patient and watch as they work on the woman. My eyebrows slowly furrow and my lips purse the slightest in a frown.

This isn't looking good… Dammit.

Heavy boots clomp on the clean linoleum floor while I step back and out of the way. I watch for a second longer before I leave the trauma bay. A long sigh blows through my nose once my mind comes back to me. It's like I could finally think outside of the tunnel vision I had for the last while. Of course, it couldn't come back to me sooner as I bump into someone. My body freezes in place not wanting to take another wrong step.

"Shit! I'm so sorry."

Dark yet aged eyes flick down to my widened gaze.

Uh, oh… Please don't be mad at me.

But the man merely steps back. He scans over me before noticing the Station 32 insignia on my department shirt.

How does someone make aging look good?

"No worries. Honestly, my fault as well. Who'd you come in with?"

I blink a few times at him before looking towards Trauma 1.

"Medic 4, 40 year-old female, MVA victim, sustained a possible head injury. She entered V-fib when we were only 5 minutes out… Medics gave epi and shocked her."

With a shrug, I turn back to him. "Doesn't look great, but y'all do the miracles."

The man nods his head before stepping towards the room. I just watch him as he steps in and puts on gloves.

Okay, then.

I wet my lips with a swipe of my tongue before I finally notice Klara by the nurses station. Striding over, I let out an exaggerated sigh and lean against the station.

"I'm ready to go back to bed and for the record, I don't like these 48 hour shifts." I grumble as she just laughs.

"Don't worry, Cap' is sending Tobin in the spare battalion SUV to grab us."

"Perfect." The exhaustion is already ebbing back in now that the adrenaline has worn off. My gaze drifts back to Trauma 1 as the man seems to just be standing and watching Dr. Shen work the patient.

Just like I said, it ain't looking good.

Just then I feel someone prod my side. Straightening up, I whip my head to Klara, who's just grinning. I immediately deflate and my half-lidded eyes meet her mischievous stare.

With a low 'Shut it.', I walk towards the emergency entrance. Her footsteps are right behind me as Klara catches up.

"Come on, no shame in it." Mirth fills her voice while I shake my head.

"For me, there is."

There's plenty of good looking people. Just unfair that this place seems to always have a lot.

[inkdippedquills]

hoarding you

Pairing: Jack Abbot x tattooed!fem!reader (attending) Summary: Jack Abbot likes knowing. He likes knowing about you. He likes hoarding information about you, in fact. WC: 3.2k || Rating: E (Explicit) Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Smut, Intimacy (emotional and otherwise), a little silly.

-- -- --

You knew how you looked. Tattoos covered your arms (and legs—though no one saw those at work), small silver studs decorated your ears and nose. You’d had an eyebrow piercing at one point but after a stray limb from a seizing patient caught it, you’d removed most of your facial piercings. The tongue piercing was smaller, almost discrete if someone wasn’t looking for it. 

It was always interesting to watch people square your appearance with your affect. You didn’t think you were intimidating or overtly mean, but strangers tended to give you a wide berth. In your new attending position you hadn’t given much thought to it. There was little time to think about how someone who didn’t actually know you perceived you. 

Still, you knew people noticed. Jesse had asked about a tattoo on your forearm, Dana had asked about the tongue piercing, and Trinity had been taken by the constellation of metal in your ears. 

“Do you have a sec?” Abbot asked, coming by your work station. You had been reviewing a CT scan for your abdominal pain patient when he approached. 

Jack had been one of the few people who hadn’t made a comment about your appearance. He never seemed to take notice of the ink on your skin nor the metal through your body. You supposed he blew you out of the water body modification wise, though that joke stayed safely ensconced in your own head. 

“Yeah, what’s up?” You asked looking up at him. 

“We have a patient with a really bad infection in her piercings and she’s…well, she doesn’t…let’s just say I think you would give her peace of mind.”

You grinned at him. “Why do you think that, Dr. Abbot?”

He gave you a flat look and walked towards the curtained off beds. Snickering, you followed. When you walked in, Jack easily introduced you. Sitting on the rolling stool, you asked, 

“What seems to be the problem?” 

A cursory glance didn’t show you any piercings that looked infected. She had a nose ring. A couple cartilage piercings, but none that seems angry.

“I got two piercings a couple weeks ago and I think they’re infected,” the young girl said. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. 

“Which piercings?”

“Nipples,” she said quietly, her facing turning bright red. 

“Ah, those can be tricky to heal,” you said nodding. “I had to get mine done twice.”

Jack cleared his throat and said, “I’ll leave you to it. Grab me if you need it.”

“Can you send Princess our way?” You asked. 

“Got it,” he called quickly exiting the curtained bay. 

You looked at your young patient, and said, “I don’t think he enjoyed learning that my nipples are pierced.”

It thankfully elicited a laugh out of the younger woman, so by the time Princess came in, she was enough at ease you could examine the piercing sites. They were infected and based on the look, whoever had done them hadn’t done a good job. 

“Where did you get this done?” You asked lightly. 

“A place near campus. They were doing it for $25 each,” she told you. You were proud your face didn’t show it, but a nipple piercing for $25 should have been the girl’s first warning. 

“I’ll give you the name of my girl if you want to get them done again. The metal your piercer used isn’t body safe which is why you’re having such a bad reaction.”

“Oh. Will it hurt as bad the second time?”

“Mine hurt worse the second time,” you laughed. “My boyfriend at the time went with me and I think I broke his hand.”

You and Princess finished taking out the offending jewelry and cleaning the wounds before giving her care instructions. It would be more than six months before she could try again. Based on the look on her face, you doubted she was going to try again. 

“How long did it take to heal?” Princess asked once you both were at the nurses station. 

“Didn’t finish healing the first time. But probably close to two years before they stopped bothering me,” you told her. 

“What took two years to heal?” Trinity asked. You noticed Jack a few steps away ignoring the personal conversation. 

“My nipple piercings,” you told her. 

“What happened the first time?” Princess asked. 

“In med school I got in a car accident and they had to take them out for imaging. By the time I was able to get them back in a few hours later the holes were closed. Pierced them again when I passed Step 3,” you said. 

“That sounds so painful,” Princess shuddered. 

“What do people you sleep with think about them?” Trinity asked. 

“Most haven’t really cared one way or another. They don’t really make me more sensitive, but my current partner loves them,” you said. 

“Oooooh,” crowed Princess. “You’re dating someone?”

You caught Abbot staring at you from the corner of your eye. You lowered your voice, but suspected he could still hear you. 

“Maybe? He’s nice, clearly attracted to me, but I’m not sure he really wants something serious. Could be just a way to get his dick wet,” you said shrugging. 

“Does that bother you?” Princess asked. 

“Haven’t decided yet,” you said, mostly honest.

“Speaking of,” Trinity said. “Did you hear that Lupe’s cheating ex-wife sent her flowers on Valentine’s Day?”

“The fucking nerve,” you scoffed. When you glanced up Jack had disappeared. 

-- -- --

After your shift, a rare day shift for you, exhaustion weighed heavy on your bones. You adored your job; there was rarely a day you weren’t excited to go to work, especially now that you were paid appropriately. The nipple piercing conversation had turned into a shift long gossip session where you and Princess had pulled more info from Trinity about Whittaker’s farm widow, Garcia, and even some information on Mel. 

It had been a good shift, but your circadian rhythm was shot. By the time you got back to your house, the idea of doing anything more than collapsing face first into bed was too much. Still, you were covered in hospital germs and starving. 

A frozen meal and quick shower later, you were curled up on your couch in an oversized tshirt watching some random comedy when your doorbell rang. It was highly unusual to say the least. 

Next to your couch was a baseball bat your dad had jokingly-not-jokingly given you, and for the first time in half a dozen years you were grateful for the gift. The baseball bat in hand, you walked up to your front door. To your surprise, Jack stood on your doorstep. 

Forgetting about the bat in your hand and your lack of pants, you opened the door confused. 

“Jack?”

Without preamble, he walked in and boxed you against the wall. The door shut behind him and you heard him turn the lock. 

“You have a baseball bat in your hand,” was the first thing he said to you. 

His lips were only millimeters from your own, the heat from his body seeping against yours. You could feel the density of his body pressing against your own. 

“We didn’t have plans,” you told him. “Didn’t know who was at the door.”

“So you were going to hit them with a baseball bat without wearing pants.”

“A nice sight before I hit them so hard they see stars,” you nearly whispered. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs, desperate for action and movement. This moment was so similar to the first time Jack had kissed you, it was like your body recalled and yearned for the same feeling. His fingers ghosted over your wrist before he gently tugged the bat out of your hand, setting it down against the door. 

The ghost of his touch trailed along your upper thigh and every nerve stood at attention, focusing on the featherlight contact. You yearned to yank him close to you, fingers closing around his shirt collar, but his stare had you frozen. 

His eyes, bright and seeing, felt like they had pinned you in place. You weren’t sure what he was looking for. You weren’t even sure what he was wanting. All you knew is that you might vibrate out of your skin if he didn’t actually touch you soon. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked. 

He took a half step forward, firmly pressing you against the wall, the length of his body holding you still while his hand played with the bare skin of your thighs. There was a tattoo on your upper thigh of a switchblade, it was one of Jack’s favorites. Whether it was intentional or not, his fingers always lightly ran circles over the skin it laid on. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asked. It wasn’t technically an answer to your question, but it answered enough. With a small nod, his lips captured yours. 

One hand stayed on your legs, tracing patterns slowly up your body, while the other cupped your face. Jack was never an indecisive man. He knew what he wanted and knew how to get it. Tonight, it seemed like he wanted to bury himself in your body—as though he couldn’t be close enough to you. 

His stubble scraped against your sensitive skin. Kissing Jack felt like the first plunge on the rollercoaster. For a split second you felt your body lose understanding of gravity, which direction was up, and, sometimes, even how to breathe. There was always something that shocked you back into awareness. Tonight, a quiet growl that seemed to emanate from deep in his chest reminded you to wrap your own arms around him. 

When his lips moved off your own, trailing down your jaw and neck, you found the air to ask, 

“Why the sudden visit? I thought we weren’t meeting up this week.” 

“Maybe I missed you,” he mumbled. He wasn’t so much kissing your skin, as pressing his lips and face against you. 

“You saw me today.” 

“That’s different. I can’t pin you to the wall and make out with you at work. You’d kick me in the balls.” 

Your chuckle turned to a gasp as he nibbled on your ear. 

“I would do that,” you hummed. “Can we move this to the bedroom?” 

“Lead the way.” 

Your house wasn’t huge; it was just you, so there was no need for a million extra bedrooms or bathrooms. What it lacked in size, it made up for in coziness and a nice warm scent of cinnamon filling every inch of the place. Jack loved being at your house; more than that, he loved being with you at your house. 

When you walked into your bedroom, he stripped off his shirt and sat on the bed while you kneeled and helped him remove his leg and pants. The pants were haphazardly discarded over your shoulder while his leg was placed against the end of the bed for easy access later if he wanted it. Jack preferred to keep his limb sock on when not using the prosthetic to keep his leg from swelling too much, so you placed a simple kiss on his knee instead of rolling it off him. 

When you looked up at him, there was a soft gentle look on his face that he couldn’t have hidden if he tried. 

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbled, grabbing for you. 

Pulling you up on the bed, you allowed him to drape your body over his own. He was thick and dense with muscle, but soft and warm too. He cared more about strength than appearance. His arms, the same ones you drooled over when no one was watching, wrapped around you and pulled you close against him. 

For a while, he just held you against him. The frantic energy from earlier having abated. Soft touches and a strong grip had you gently kissing the side of his neck while he soaked in the contact. Every so often Jack would hold you like this, like he craved human contact. 

“Are you okay?” You found yourself asking. 

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, shivering slightly and your lips tickled his skin. 

“Are you still going to fuck me?” 

“Yes.”

“Normally this level of cuddling is for post-sex,” you continued. You awkwardly wrapped your arms under him, resting your head on his shoulder. 

“Long day, I just want to hold you for a minute.”

“Okay,” you replied. Jack was weird and this certainly wasn’t the strangest thing he’d done. 

At some point both you and Jack ditched your shirts. It was more intimate than any of your past hookups—the way that Jack held onto you, fingers dancing along your skin. Despite the caressing of your tits, it wasn’t groping. His touches felt sweet…reverent even. 

He paid special attention to the metal on your nipples. Each tender manipulation made you moan against his lips, which rarely left yours. This no longer felt like a frantic hookup. Instead, Jack was treating you like you were special, like he wanted this to mean something. You were too drunk on the feeling of his body against yours to pay it much mind. 

After a punch out groan from Jack when your thigh brushed his erection, you reach down and encircled his dick with your hand. His fingers stuttered along your skin and nipple. Releasing your lips, he muttered a quiet, 

“Fuck.” 

“Feel good?” you asked, nipping at the underside of his jaw. 

“You make me feel so good,” he whispered, hoarse. “Please, sweetheart.” 

“Please what?” You taunted. 

“Keep going,” he moaned, attacking your lips again. 

The handjob was probably too dry, but the way Jack’s hips drove against your fist made you think he didn’t really care at the moment. Minutes passed as you pumped Jack’s erection while he toyed with your nipples, all the while nipping and kidding at each other. 

“You’re so hard,” you mumbled in between kisses. 

“You do that to me,” he replied. 

Impulsively, you let go of his erection and rotated your hips so he was nestled at the core of your legs. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned. You were on your sides now, one of your legs thrown over his hip. It was a bit of an awkward maneuver, but you managed to reach around your bodies and help him slide inside of you. 

“You do that to me,” you repeated. “The sounds you make, Jack. God, I’d listen to them all day.”

The stretch was delicious. Jack was more girthy than most of your previous partners (of which there had not been many). The slow pistoning of your hips against each other elicited a warm glow from deep in your stomach, radiating outward. The pace was slow and unhurried, the both of you whispering quiet words of encouragement to each other. 

“Just like that,” you said. 

“Feel so good around me,” he replied, softly. 

It was almost lazy, the pace you both had set. The point was not orgasm but instead the connection between the two of you. Occasionally, one or both of you would pause and luxuriate in the feeling. Your skin was so sensitive that you could feel the ghost of his touch. Each caress and featherlight contact sent shockwaves through you. 

There was not enough of him to satiate your own hands. Each expanse of skin freckled and a little rough deserved attention and veneration. Your nails lightly scraped along his ribs and he arched into your touch, gasping against your mouth. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. It almost sounded like, I love you. 

The caress of his hands along your waist and back elicited an eruption of goosebumps in their wakes. There was no part of you that Jack Abbot had not touched, caressed or kissed. He felt all encompassing; it was overwhelming in the best way. Despite the gentleness, you felt claimed by the man. It was as though he was imprinting his very essence onto your body—convincing it never to let another person make you feel this way. 

You could only hope he felt the same. 

The evening continued like that. Touches, slow pistoning movements, and tender kisses to every inch of available skin consumed you. You weren’t sure if you orgasmed or even if he did, but at some point, you both separated. It was less of a true separation and more of a natural end to your coupling. He bundled you close to his chest; you could hear his heart’s slow, rhythmic thump. 

“Can I say something and you promise you won’t judge me?” Jack asked, breaking the peaceful silence. 

“No,” you replied. 

“No?”

“Men say that and then say heinous shit,” you replied, idly tracing your finger between freckles on his stomach. 

“And do you think that’s what I’m going to say?” He asked. He sounded mildly offended. 

“Probably not, but I want my options open.”

“You’re fucking difficult,” he grumbled. You buried your face against his shoulder to hide your grin. 

“C’mon, tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Please?” You drawled. 

“Not a chance.”

“Ugh, fine, I promise not to make fun of you,” you huffed. 

“Thank you. Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

He pinched your arm lightly. The way you both were tangled up with each other, meant his lips were brushing the top of your forehead. You felt him exhale and say, 

“I feel kind of jealous that I’m not the only person who knows about your nipple piercings.”

“What?” You asked, chuckling. 

“I liked that I knew something about you no one else did,” he mumbled into your hair. 

“You’re the only person from that hospital who’s had their dick in me,” you replied. He snorted. 

“I guess that’s true.”

“You know what I sound like when you’re fucking me into my mattress,” you hummed, pressing a soft kiss on his bare chest. “You know what I sound like when I’m choking on your dick.”

“Christ,” he hissed. 

“You know what I feel like, when I sit on your face,” you continued trailing a finger up his stomach. “I think you have plenty of me to hoard.”

“Hoard?” He asked. 

“Is that not what you’re doing?”

Jack hummed and thought about it for a moment, “I guess I am. There’s rarely a moment where I don’t think you would make it better.”

“Romantic for a hook-up there, Abbot.”

“I think we both know that’s not all this is. Certainly not after tonight,” he whispered, pulling you up to lay on the pillow next to him. His eyes, bright and clear, bore into yours. Legs tangled together, he grasped your chin between his forefinger and thumb to pull you closer to his lips. “I don’t just want my dick wet. I want you. I want all the parts of you that you don’t share.”

“Hoarder,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. 

“Proudly.”

He kissed you gently, encompassing your body with his. It was impossible to tell where he ended and you began. It wasn’t sexual; neither of you were gearing up for a second round despite your state of undress. Instead, he seemed to soak in how your naked body felt pressed against his. 

Jack Abbot cared about you and after tonight, you wouldn’t doubt if he loved you. 

-- -- --

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[inkdippedquills]

i dodged a mullet

Summary: Sometimes your past comes back to haunt you in ways that give your coworkers and crush far too much comedy material. If only the ambulance would be kind enough to run you over. 

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Jack Abbot

Tags: attending!reader, fluffy, the haunting of bad boyfriend choices, a little goofy.

Word Count: 5.5k

Author's Note: I wrote this to avoid fighting with my family over Christmas! Enjoy! Inspired by "I Dodged a Mullet" by the Chattahoochies, unfortunately this is when I come out as a country music fan. I can only apologize. 

-- -- --

You prided yourself on never lying, so when Ellis asked if you were in love with Dr. Jack Abbot, you responded with,

“Of course. Who wouldn’t love a man with a crike kit in his pocket at all times?”

It wasn’t your business if Ellis read that as sarcastic.

And that’s how you managed to survive the first year of your junior attending position at PTMC—never lying, but never correcting the misconception that Jack Abbot had not thoroughly charmed you. The Pitt at night had its own rhythm: it was filled with bizarre injuries, sundowning patients, sharp but well-intentioned banter, and the constant rattle of gurneys being pushed to and fro. The air was always vaguely stale and the coffee machine never quite worked the way you wanted it to. 

Jack hadn’t intended to charm you, that was clear. He had about as much game as an empty and abandoned Chuck-E-Cheese. Still, he was earnest, dry-humored, and ferocious when it came to patients. There was never a battle he was unwilling to wage or a line he couldn’t creatively fudge. It had been Jack, after all, who had shown you how to finagle ultrasounds in order to ensure the measurements were within the cutoff, standing just close enough at the machine that his shoulder brushed yours while he murmured, “Angle it like this,” as if it were a secret—in a way, it kind of was.

But a year in, the man was clearly hung up over his ex-wife, and no matter how much you’d worked on your self-esteem and confidence, you couldn’t compete with a ghost. Still, you found yourself enjoying the night shift because you were around Jack. He wasn’t laugh-out-loud fun like some of your friends, but he always had a sharp comment or knowing look that seemed to buoy you through lulls or rough moments. He lingered when you talked, leaned against counters instead of walking away, and somehow always ended up beside you during the slow stretches, even when there was no obvious reason for it.

“Tell me something,” he said, sliding his phone over to you across the cluttered workstation. The plastic surface was covered in old tape residue and a half-wiped coffee ring. “You’re young.”

You didn’t look at him, fingers still moving as you scrolled through a chart. “Tell that to the bartender who didn’t card me. I am not forty-five and I sure as hell don’t look it.”

“Hospital lighting is unflattering for everyone. I’m afraid I can’t comment,” he said balefully, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.

“Fuck off, Abbot. What can I and my Gen Alpha niece translate for you today?”

“The fuck is 6-7? My nephew texted it to me and I cannot for the life of me figure it out.”

“Not a clue. My niece is a little too old for that.”

“Damn. You’re the only person I’m willing to ask.”

“You could just Google it,” you suggested. He gave you a flat look over the tops of his glasses, unmoving.

“Remember what happened last time I Googled something you suggested?”

You snorted. “It is not my fault you kept asking me about omegaverse.”

“The patient kept saying I had ‘alpha’ energy. Ellis said it was something about omegaverse, not that I was going to ask her to clarify. Also, if anything, I’m an omega. I’m like catnip to strong and tough people.”

“This is an insane conversation. And I’m pretty certain we determined the patient meant it in an incel way, not a horny wolf-adjacent way,” you replied, trying to keep your eyes on your chart. The insurance company was not going to like this test. You mentally cycled through the billing department’s preferred phrasing, trying to find language that might convince the evil overlords of healthcare not to immediately deny everything.

“I think you’ll recall you brought it up.”

“It is not my fault you caught me after watching a two-hour YouTube video about how an omegaverse porn copyright case made it in front of a federal judge.”

“Your viewing habits are baffling.”

“Didn’t have a lot of TV time growing up. Gotta watch my weird shit now.”

“I thought everyone in your generation was raised on iPads,” he shot back.

“How old do you think I am?” You finally looked up. 

He gave you a shit-eating grin, one corner of his mouth pulling higher than the other.

“I dunno. Twelve?”

“Damn. Must be the next Doogie Howser then,” you replied, backspacing your notes.

“Never mind. With that reference, you gotta be seventy-five,” he laughed, the sound surprising you with how nice it floated through your ears. There was always a little bit of pride when you got the normally serious man to laugh.

“You got that reference too, babe,” you laughed back.

It was a habit—calling people babe. It started with your sister, then your friends, and now your coworkers. Most of them found it amusing. Cassie loved it. Jesse got a cute little blush whenever it slipped out. Jack hadn’t been subjected to your HR-violation habit until now.

You hadn’t even realized you’d done it until the silence lasted far longer than you expected. The monitors beeped steadily behind you. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed too loudly.

“You good, Abbot?” you asked.

He was looking at you inscrutably, brows drawn together, mouth pressed into a thin line like he was thinking something through very carefully.

“You called me babe,” he said. There was something like surprise under the stoicism, quickly masked.

“Sorry. It’s a habit I adopted from my sister. It’s spiraled, clearly,” you replied, keeping your tone light even as your stomach tightened.

“Ah,” he said slowly. “So this isn’t indicative of some yearning crush on me?” 

There was a mischievous tilt to his mouth now.

“You caught me,” you laughed. “I’ve been in love with you for years. I’m ready to propose any day now.”

That earned you a hearty chuckle, and it would be a lie to say you weren’t thrilled to be the one who got it. He laughed with his whole chest, head tipping back slightly, and when he looked at you again, his eyes lingered just a beat longer than necessary. You didn’t know if you’d say you were in love with Jack Abbot, but sometimes crush felt like too small a word for whatever this was.

“Incoming blunt force trauma,” Lena sighed from behind you. “Someone at the Steelers game took a fall from a great height, apparently. Frankly, I’m surprised they waited until nine p.m. to make bad decisions.”

You snorted and gestured at Jack. “Idiot sports fan is all you, babe.”

“How kind,” he snarked, already pivoting on his heel. He started barking orders to the night-shift residents and nurses, his voice snapping into that commanding cadence that made people move faster.

“Hey, another incoming,” Lena added, pointing at you. “Apparently our fall had a friend. Sounds like they were trying to scale something in the stadium.”

“Alas,” you sighed, pushing away from the workstation, “I suppose I’ll subject myself to fans of a bad football team.”

“You support the Dallas Cowboys,” she said skeptically.

“And like any good Cowboys fan, I’ll talk shit and complain but never root for anyone else. We suck, but it’s poor management—at least I think that’s the excuse we’re working with now,” you laughed. “Can you try and come up with language that would convince an insurance company to pay for South 10’s arthrocentesis?”

“Sure,” Lena didn’t sound confident.

You walked toward the ambulance bay as the truck pulled in, the cold night air briefly cutting through the stale warmth of the ER. As soon as you saw the patient, your stomach dropped.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” you hissed. “Ellis, take point. I have to switch out with Abbot.”

“You good?” she asked.

“I know him,” you grumbled.

You pushed into Trauma One and found Jack directing Mel’s line placement and triage. First glance: internal bleeding, broken femur. Relief washed through you when you didn’t recognize the man. He was barrel chested, a bushy beard and slightly-too long hair. He was in ratty jeans, cowboy boots, and a navy blue sweatshirt that had been cut off. 

“Abbot,” you sighed. There must have been something in your voice because his eyes snapped to you immediately. “We need to switch patients.”

Mel glanced up but didn’t comment. Jack stepped closer, concern flickering across his face.

“I’ll explain later. Can’t treat people you know,” you sighed.

“Are you good?”

“Let’s just say I’m more inclined to let him die than do anything risky to save him,” you muttered.

He studied you for a beat, then nodded without hesitation.

With ease, you slid into his spot. For the next thirty minutes, as Mel evaluated the patient, you forgot entirely about the too-familiar man in Trauma Two. It took four nurses, yourself, and the traction kit to set his femur fracture. Thankfully, it was closed—easier recovery, no surgery.

Throughout the triage, the full story of the injury came out. Apparently the two geniuses in your ED were in town for the Cowboys/Steelers game. In all their wisdom, the gentlemen with multiple broken ribs, internal bleeding, and at least one femur fracture thought scaling the stadium to be the best evidence of their Cowboys pride.

“It’s just been so long since we hit the playoffs,” the man complained. 

You briefly met eye contact with Princess and Donnie across the body and said, 

“Cowboys went to the playoffs in 2024, man.”

“You’re shitting me.”

If anything, you wanted to double check Mel’s concussion markers—surely he wasn’t surprised by that. 

“This is not a commentary on your work Mel,” you said, swiping your pen light over his eyes again. 

“Our patient here just said something real dumb, and I think doc is hoping there’s a medical explanation for it,” Donnie snickered. 

“What was it?”

“Cowboys went to the playoffs, like, two seasons ago,” Princess said. 

“Which is crazy, because we suck most of the time,” you added. 

“Holy shit, you a cowboys fan too?”

“Not the time, sir,” you said, feeling for a contusion on his skull. 

“EMTs said that he was in a football helmet when he fell,” Donnie said. 

“Well we weren’t going to climb the concrete pillar thing without protecting our heads. My girl thinks I’m handsome—can’t change that,” he replied gleefully. 

You weren’t surprised this man was friends with Bradley. They both seemed to have an overly simplistic and optimistic view of the world. The fact that you moved halfway across the country and still managed to find people from, presumably, your hometown was absolutely astounding. 

A terrible realization about what a small world it was. 

“You got this Mel?” You asked. 

“Oh yeah, thanks,” she said cheerfully. 

To Donnie and Princess you gestured to watch the patient by point at your eyes then the patient. If he was friends with Bradley, he wouldn’t hesitate to cop a feel and that was the last thing you wanted. 

When you finally stepped out, Jack was leaving Trauma Two.

“The patient is okay,” he said. “Most of his ribs are broken and he probably bruised his pancreas, but he’s okay.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you pulled Jack into an alcove of the Pitt. A little storage nook that held the sandwich cart when not in use. 

“I’m going to tell you something and if I find out that you said this to another soul, I will put capsaicin in your googles,” you said quietly. 

“That’s evil,” he said proudly. 

“The patient in trauma 2. He’s my ex-boyfriend,” you grumbled. 

“No fucking way,” Jack said way too loudly. You poked him in his unfairly hard chest. 

“Capsaicin, glasses,” you repeated. 

“You can’t tell me you dated Dumber from Dumb and Dumber and not expect me to be shocked.”

“Look, my early twenties were a rough time. I lived in a trailer with my mom and worked at the local dive bar. I didn’t exactly think my life was going to leave bumfuck nowhere.”

“You dated him after you went to college?” Jack asked, shocked. 

“No, I dated him in my early twenties. I didn’t go to college until I was twenty-five,” you said. 

“I didn’t know that,” Jack replied. 

“Look, I grew up poor as shit and somehow, by the skin of my teeth, made it out. Bought my mom a house, put my sister through school, too. And that motherfucker, I let him—very, very briefly—break my heart. But trust me when I say, I dodged a bullet.”

“You dodged a mullet,” Jack whispered, laughing with glee. “That man has an honest to god mullet, with a rat tail. I cannot believe that man ever convinced you he was good enough for you.”

“Surprisingly wholesome response,” you huffed. “Look, I’m going to steer clear of his room. The last thing I want is for him to recognize me and then his wife to find out.”

“He’s married?” Jack asked.

“Somehow,” you replied. “Last I heard they were in the same trailer park, except this time with three kids they can’t afford.”

“And you had sex with that man?” Jack asked suddenly. 

“I’m not answering that,” you said, walking out of the alcove. 

“Wait, sorry,” Jack laughed following you. “I’m just struggling to recognize the serious, put together attending in front of me with someone who would date that.”

“Weren’t you young and dumb, Abbot?”

“Not that dumb,” he grinned. “Married my wife.”

“You did join the army, though. And that doesn’t make up for how cute your high school sweetheart story is,” you replied, knocking him with your elbow. “Not all of us grew up somewhere with options—romantic or otherwise.”

“Do you have pictures?” 

“Pictures of what?” Ellis asked. Looking at you, she added, “I cannot believe you abandoned me to that man. I think my IQ dropped. I think I forgot my second year of residency.”

You snorted. “Bradley is a fucking idiot.”

“Bradley?” She asked, with raised eyebrows. “Didn’t know you were on a first name basis with him.”

“We grew up in the same town. If anyone mentions my name to him while he’s here, I’ll make sure the next bowel impaction is theirs.”

“Shit doesn’t bother me,” laughed Ellis. 

“Then I’ll give you the next cold,” you said. “Think about all the mucus and saliva.”

Ellis heaved a full body shudder, “Fine. Fine.”

Assuaged that no one would be blabbing about your connection to Bradley, especially to Bradley, you went back to your charting. 

“Lena, any thoughts on the language?”

“Did you try, ‘I’m the doctor not you, I wouldn’t order anything unnecessary’?” 

“I think they would charge double for that,” you sighed. 

“Hmm, your problem then. Chat with billings.”

You groaned. Tonight was going to suck. 

-- -- --

For the bulk of the night, you had been kept busy with a massive flu outbreak and three MVAs. At least one of the MVAs was a drunk driver, although the kicker was both drivers were drunk. A certain poetic justice existed in that situation. The ED felt permanently overfull, monitors chiming in uneven rhythms, the smell of antiseptic clinging to you no matter how many times you washed your hands. Your feet ached, and you knew you would feel it tomorrow, too 

You had been so focused on the patients and subsequent charting, you hadn’t thought about Bradley and his dumbass friend for at least an hour. You were halfway through reconciling medication orders when Jack appeared at your side, close enough that you felt the warmth of him before you registered his presence.

“Cat’s out of the bag,” Jack told you, ushering you into the break room.

He didn’t touch you exactly, but his hand hovered at your elbow, steering rather than pushing, and he waited until you were fully inside before closing the door behind you. The break room was dimmer than the ED, a blessed quiet punctuated only by the hum of an ancient refrigerator.

“What?” you asked.

“Bradley mentioned to Donnie he was a Cowboys fan and Donnie let your name slip–you’re the only Cowboys fan he knows,” Jack said in a hushed tone.

He kept his voice low and was closer to you than normal. It almost felt like he was preparing for you to freak out. You weren’t exactly going to freak out, but something close to a light sense of dread came over you. 

“No,” you whined, collapsing on one of the seats.

The chair creaked under you. Jack remained standing for a beat, watching you with a pinched expression before finally sitting down beside you, knees angled toward yours.

“You’re not going to have a good night,” Jack said hesitantly.

“God what is he saying?” you whined, hiding your face in your hands.

Jack leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs. When you didn’t immediately look up, he stayed there, patient.

“He told everyone the story of how you met,” Jack said. “It was romantic at first.”

“Until he got to the fact he’d stolen the truck and flowers? Yeah, I’m sure.”

Jack huffed quietly through his nose, the closest he came to laughing most of the time.

“He’s charming, I’ll give him that,” he grumbled quietly. His jaw tightened as he said it, like the admission annoyed him.

“He was a bad decision,” you hissed. “We dated for less than a year.”

“And yet somehow he broke up with you?” Jack inquired, sitting next to you.

The question came out sharper than curiosity alone would explain. He glanced at you sidelong, watching your reaction more than waiting for an answer.

How did you explain to the man who found the love of his life in algebra that at some point, especially in a small town, you didn’t think you’d find anyone better? Your town had less than 50,000 people in it and there was a period of time where Bradley was charming and romantic, if not very bright.

“There was a period of my life where I thought that the only thing in my future was kids I didn’t want and a double wide, if I was lucky,” you said carefully. “Our friends were friends and incredibly enough, he was once very sweet.”

Jack didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even nod. He just listened, eyes fixed on you in a way that made it hard to look towards him.

“And then?”

“And then he found weed and beer and dropped me on my ass for his dealer. I cried for a day before I realized how pathetic I felt. I enrolled in community college the next day and a year later I transferred to the local state university and eventually ended up in medical school.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose slightly, not in surprise so much as in something that looked suspiciously like admiration.

“Eventually? Sounds like a lot of hard work went into it,” he commented.

“It’s not polite to brag,” you said.

You meant it lightly, but his gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened, like he was cataloguing something he just learned about you. Your therapist did that sometimes; it was unnerving.

“Also his wife is asking for you,” Jack said.

“Oh, I’m not going in there,” you scoffed.

“Why not?”

“She’s convinced I want him back—which, gross. Still, I’m kind of afraid she’ll kick my ass,” you said. “Hannah was the scariest girl in my high school class. The fuck are they doing in Pittsburgh anyways? I don’t think he’s left the state his entire life.”

“They always wanted to see the Cowboys play the Steelers,” Jack shrugged. “Is there a rivalry I don’t know about?”

He shrugged, but his hand curled briefly into a fist against his knee. He seemed to dislike Bradley more than you did, which is odd because he was your ex-boyfriend. Jack Abbot was a good colleague, maybe even a friend, but it was a little odd that he cared this much about such an unfortunate chapter in your past. 

“No,” you scoffed. “One of the first home games Bradley went to with his dad was against the Steelers. Apparently they destroyed the Cowboys and he’s never forgiven them. I guess this is a life goal or something. Or maybe he’s an idiot, both are good options.”

Jack snorted and stood.

He didn’t immediately step away. Instead, he lingered, then squeezed your shoulder, his grip firm and grounding, before he spoke.

“You’ve done really well for yourself. You should be proud.”

There was no humor in it, just earnestly and the intensity of a man who never spoke in half measures. It made your skin tingle where he touched you. He really was not making this crush thing easier—he didn’t even know what he was doing.

“Hard to feel that way when the worst ex-boyfriend is in 20,” you grumbled. “Why couldn’t yall have met my hot bitchy ex-girlfriend or the boxer I dated?”

Jack froze for half a second before turning back toward you.

“You dated a boxer?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, for a few months earlier this year. I broke up with him because he disagreed with me when I told him his nose was broken,” you said.

You expected a laugh, but it never came. Instead Jack said in an odd voice, “Didn’t know you were dating.”

His posture shifted subtly, shoulders squaring. He seemed shocked and a little unnerved. 

You shrugged. “Off and on. Not a fan of the apps, so I have to meet people the old fashion way and since I work sixty hour weeks—it’s rare.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Just didn’t realize you were dating,” he echoed. He stared at the floor, jaw working, like he was biting back a follow-up question.

“I know, you said that.”

“I have to go check on a patient.”

He moved quickly then—too quickly—already halfway to the door by the time he finished speaking.

An untrained observer might think Jack’s behavior was perfectly normal, but you couldn’t help but watch his sudden retreat puzzled. Normally, your stoic colleague was measured and unswayed by the currents of the ED. No sudden beep or alert made him move any speed other than measured and direct.

Before you could get up yourself, Ellis walked in and her eyes lit up when she spotted you. 

“You dated that freak?”

“Fuck off,” you groaned, banging your head on the table. 

“Can’t believe that’s the competition," Ellis laughed. 

“Are you trying to tell me something, Ellis?” You asked. 

She snorted. “No, my girlfriend doesn’t share. I am not in the competition.”

“Okay? So who is?”

“I’ve said too much,” she grinned.

“Oh you did that on purpose,” you grumbled. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Gossip is bad, boss.”

“Fuck off, Ellis.”

-- -- --

You managed to survive the shift without laying eyes on Bradley or his, apparently fuming, wife Hannah. Your escape was surreptitious and via the back entrance loading docks, slipping out with your badge already tucked away and car keys in hand. The loading dock was dim and echoing, concrete stained with old oil spills, the November air sharp enough to sting your lungs after hours inside. You rolled your shoulders, adjusting the strap of your bag, already mentally halfway home.

It was just your luck that Jack was waiting out back for you.

“Jesus Christ,” you nearly shrieked when he appeared from around the corner. “Make a fucking noise, oh my god.”

His hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, posture deceptively casual. He looked like he’d been there for a while, weight shifting from foot to foot, gaze flicking toward the doors every few seconds.

“I’ve been having trouble with something,” he said, ignoring your outburst, like he hadn’t just sent your heart rate tachycardic.

He took a step into your space. Despite your shock and annoyance at said shock, he didn’t step back, which you noticed immediately.

“Being fuck normal?” you asked.

“Never been that.”

“Clearly,” you grumbled. “What do you need Abbot? I’m going home and blocking everyone from my hometown on Facebook. With my luck there’s already been a post about this on the town Facebook page, probably from my mother.”

You started down the dock, boots scuffing against concrete, already pulling your phone out of your pocket.

“Do you still think that’s the kind of man you deserve?” Jack asked.

You stopped walking. He had caught up to you, again.

“What?” You were deeply confused now. “Are you talking about Bradley? That was like, fifteen years ago.”

“I just can’t get over how younger you thought that motherfucker should have been allowed to see you naked,” he said harshly.

The words landed boldly in the open air. It was not exactly the most appropriate comment for a coworker to make, but Jack seemed to be on a roll. His jaw was tight, his hands flexing once at his sides. With furrowed eyebrows, he was only a few centimeters from. You couldn’t help but feel a little shocked by the turn of events. Bradley seemed to have triggered Jack more than he had you. You were going to say something, but he kept talking. 

“And now I’m worried you still date people like that.”

“I do not,” you scoffed. “I’m going home, Jack. I’m tired.”

You shrugged your bag up higher on your shoulder and jogged down the dock steps. Right before you rounded the corner toward the parking garage, Jack stuck his arm out to block you. His forearm braced against the concrete wall beside your head, not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. The garage lights cast harsh shadows across his face.

“You said the last guy you dated tried to argue with you about what a broken nose was,” Jack continued like you hadn’t walked a solid fifty feet and two minutes from the last thing he said.

“Yes?” You sighed.

“That’s loser behavior.”

“Thank you for that riveting critique of my dating life. I certainly don’t get enough comments from my mom or sister.”

“I’m serious. Why do you think you deserve losers?”

“Because losers are the only ones who tell they’re interested, I guess. You do realize I pay a therapist for this kind of conversation. Don’t hurt Cassie’s livelihood like this.”

You tried to laugh it off, but Jack didn’t. He didn’t move away either. His focus on you was almost unnerving now. It was a lame joke, an attempt to ease his intense focus on you so you could go home and collapse into your bed. In a back corner of your brain, you hated to hear his evaluations of your dating life.

“There are better options,” he continued.

“Like who? Robby?” You scoffed.

“Absolutely not,” Jack replied harshly.

The word came out fast, almost reflexive. He stepped closer to you, nearly backing you against the wall, close enough now that you could smell him.

“I’m telling him you said that,” you replied weakly.

“This whole time, I thought you were dating CEOs and hedge fund managers—”

“Why would you think so low of me?” You asked, almost offended.

“I thought you were dating impressive people. But you’re dating Joe Shmoe who’s an amateur boxer and thinks he knows more about medicine than you. I didn’t think…”

You sighed again. “Did you just corner me out here to insult my taste in men?”

“No.”

He didn’t continue.The silence stretched. A car passed by the loading dock, headlights briefly washing over both of you.

“Spell it out Jack. I’m exhausted. I want to go home.”

“I didn’t think I had a chance,” he said. “You are so impressive. You worked your ass off, managed top of your class in med school, was a resident at the Cleveland Clinic, fellowship too and then came out here and you’re one of the best teachers we’ve had.”

His voice softened with every word. He was somehow closer still. His eyes bored into you and his hand hovered near your hip, but didn’t quite make contact. You could hear the soft huffs of his breath as he leaned near you. 

“That’s kind of you to say,” you said, you didn’t like how shaky your voice sounded. Your heart was pounding hard enough that you could feel it in your throat.

“And I watched how funny and affable you were and thought there was no way this incredible woman wants anything to do with me.”

“What are you saying?” You were terrified of his answer.

“I’m saying that I can’t stop thinking about you, and that I want to take you on a well planned, non-accessory burglary date.”

“Fucking with me like this is cruel,” you whispered.

“Not fucking with you,” Jack said. “Fell ass flat for you the moment you got in my face about my shit charting.”

“It’s important to beat insurance companies at their own game,” you said quietly.

“So you say,” he whispered.

His hand lifted slightly, hovering near your wrist, now.

“You’re so amazing. And I just want you to know that. I want to sweep you off your feet like you deserve.”

Your brain raced as it tried to make sense of everything that was happening, the cold air, the concrete wall at your back, the man in front of you looking more nervous than you’d ever seen him.

“You want to date? Me?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t a joke?”

“Do you think I would joke about this?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s your answer.”

You blinked and eventually said, “I thought you were still in love with your wife.”

“I’ll always love Sarah. But she never believed in soulmates or anything like that. Love is not finite.”

“I can’t compete with her,” you said.

“Not a competition,” he replied. “Not even a game. It’s just life…let someone romance you, okay?”

“And you’d be doing the romancing?”

The disbelieving tone was clearly evident.

“I don’t see anyone else out here on the loading dock,” he commented idly.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I can’t believe you still haven’t given me an answer. You’re leaving me out to dry here,” he said. For the first time, his confidence cracked just enough to show nerves.

“I’ve never lied to you about my feelings, Jack,” you said.

“What do you—oh my god, are you kidding me?” He sounded annoyed. “You were clearly being sarcastic.”

“I always sound like that. Not my fault you chose to see that way. Mamma taught me not to lie.”

“So you’re in love with me?”

“Love is a strong word. You’re still annoying,” you said.

“Yeah, well, so are you,” he shot back. “Please tell me I can kiss you.”

“Yeah, you can kiss me,” you giggled. You hadn’t giggled since high school.

Jack didn’t rush it. He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek softly. It felt reverent, almost. When his lips touched yours, they were cold and chapped with the chilly Pittsburgh air. It was tentative, careful and restrained. When you kissed him back, his breath hitched audibly, his other hand settling at your waist, the warmth bleeding through your coat and scrubs.

He pulled away, looking almost as shocked as you felt. As much as you didn’t expect this happening, you doubted he had either. You were too befuddled by the turn of events to do anything more than lean in again, reveling in the feeling and satisfaction of knowing that the man who had captured your attention so intensely, somehow felt the same way. 

The second kiss was deeper, less careful, all the held-back want finally slipping through long fought for control. He lingered there, forehead resting against yours when he finally pulled away, breathing a little heavier than before.

“You’re off tonight, right?” He asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m picking you up at 7pm and I’m going to take you on a real date. I’m going to wine and dine you and then I’m going to walk you to your front door and kiss you before going home,” he whispered. “And I’m going to show you exactly how not to fumble someone as phenomenal as you are. Sound good?”

What else could you say, other than, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

-- -- --

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[inkdippedquills]

slow dancing and slow heartbreak

Pairing: public defender!fem!reader x Michael “Robby” Robinavitch

Rating: M (Mature)

Word Count: 23.3k

Summary: You hadn’t seen Robby in almost three years. Three years since he’d ripped your heart out of your chest and ground it down with a self-righteous indignation he had no real claim to. And now, in what felt like a cruel act of God—one that only reinforced the idea that if God existed, he had a personal vendetta against you—you were thrown back together, jointly responsible for keeping a young man alive and keeping the carceral system that tried to kill him from finishing the job

Tags: ex!reader, flashbacks, angst, no comfort (but not like in an evil way, there’s closure), heartbreak, yearning, what it means to love someone even after they break your heart, insanely anti-cop/anti-carceral system, in this fic we are prison abolitionists, a lot of liberty was taken with legal/court things in this fic,

You can read on AO3 if you prefer.

(Author’s Note at the end)

Not based on "Rubber Band Man" by Mumford and Sons ft. Hozier, but damn does it fit this fic, lemme tell ya.

-- -- --

“The trouble with fighting for human freedom is that one spends most of one's time defending scoundrels. For it is against scoundrels that oppressive laws are first aimed, and oppression must be stopped at the beginning if it is to be stopped at all.”

H. L. Mencken.

-- -- --

May 2026 - Present Day

You never thought you would step foot into this ER again, barring any insane emergency. And yet, you shifted from foot to foot, anxiously staring at the entrance to the hospital where your ex-boyfriend was surely working. The break up had been messy and painful, calamitous even. You’d cried so much you’d given yourself such a bad case of dry eyes you’d needed prescription eye drops.

But you had a client and that client needed you. And you would never ignore someone who needed your help.

Squaring your shoulders, as much as your far too heavy brief case allowed, you walked into the emergency room and was met with a long line to talk to the check-in nurse. She seemed to have a kind smile, more patience in her pinky finger than you had in a year and the watchful eye of a hawk.

It didn’t take long before you were standing up at the front.

“Hi, I’m from the Public Defender’s Office. I’m here for Anthony Williams. He was brought in from county a couple hours ago?”

“Can I see your ID?” She asked.

“Of course.”

You were fishing your wallet and ID out of your giant bag when you heard your name from behind the check in nurse. Looking up you saw Dana. She looked as no nonsense as ever, her platinum hair pulled back from her face and a pair of readers perched on the end of her nose.

“What brings you here? You okay?”

“Work, I’m afraid. I’ve been appointed to oversee the treatment and catalogue of care for Anthony Williams.”

“Lupe, buzz her through. I know her.”

-- -- --

May 2022

You had met Robby through Dana. Well, kind of. A friend of yours had invited you to her neighbor’s summer barbecue and you had been unceremoniously shoved on a cornhole team with a weary looking man. It was the adult version of making friends by diving into the deep end.

“Are you any good?” He asked.

“Not even a little bit. I can trash talk though, which won’t help but might be fun. You?”

“Also terrible,” he laughed. “Can’t trash talk either.”

“I’m good enough for both of us,” you replied, nudging him.

He had a soft smile that wrinkled the skin of his eyes. Over the years you had become very good at reading people. This man held a lot of grief, but he also held a lot of joy.

You heard the joy in his first chortle when, unbeknownst to you, you had called out to his best friend,

“You look like your favorite song is the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald!”

The light hearted jab had shocked the lithe, silver haired man enough his bean bag toss was just shy of the hole. Robby high fived you with a grin on his face.

“I think I’m looking forward to being on your team.”

You and Robby lost every game you played, but it was a blast to trade barbs with the others in the backyard. You’d gotten to know other neighbors, people from the hospital that Dana and Robby worked at, along with whatever stragglers had been picked up along the way.

Dana truly believed in “the more the merrier.”

You had gone home with Robby that night.

-- -- --

Present Day

“How have you been?” Dana asked. She did a remarkable job of not sounding deeply uncomfortable or awkward.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, reflecting off the polished linoleum and the scuffed rubber wheels of passing gurneys. The hallway smelled like antiseptic, over-brewed coffee, and something metallic underneath it all that you tried not to name (blood, it smelled like blood, unfortunately you named it). She kept her tablet tucked against her chest with one arm and used the other to swipe open automatic doors with efficiency of someone who knew every inch of this place.

“Busy, stressed, planted an herb garden and then killed said herb garden,” you told her as she led you through the sterile hallways of the ED. Your briefcase strap dug into your shoulder with every step, and you shifted it higher, trying to keep up with her brisk pace. “You? How are the kids?”

You tried to sound casual, like this was any other morning walkthrough with a colleague and not a slow march toward your ex-boyfriend’s orbit.

“Applying to college and learning how to drive,” Dana said with a shudder.

“Linear time is a bitch,” you replied.

“Ain’t that the truth, sweetheart,” Dana laughed. She pulled you to a stop outside a back room.

There was a prison guard posted outside and you began to shuffle through your bag again looking for your paperwork, grateful for something to do with your hands. The guard’s stance was rigid, shoulders squared, boots planted like he was waiting for someone to attack him. The glass door had a curtain pulled over it, but it looked like there was a doctor or medical provider moving inside, a shadow crossing back and forth in the faint light. Your pulse jumped at the thought that it might already be him.

“Do relevant parties know I’m coming?” You asked.

“Not a clue,” Dana replied, with a tense look. Her mouth was set in a grim line now, the easy humor of the hallway conversation fading.

“Alright. Who is the physician on record?”

“Michael Robinavitch,” she told you.

Your stomach twisted so sharply it felt like you’d swallowed glass. Heat crept up the back of your neck, under the collar of your blazer. “Fuck. Okay, well, time’s wasting.”

“Sweetheart,” Dana said, grabbing your arm. “It’s been a number of years. He’s…he’s not the same.”

“You’re a good friend to him.”

“You were good for him too, ya know.”

“Dana, that’s not even remotely true.”

You huffed out a humorless breath, but your chest ached. You remembered late-night takeout at his kitchen table, him falling asleep on your couch mid-rant about hospital policy, the way he’d once called you from a stairwell just to hear your voice after a bad shift. None of that had mattered in the end.

“I’m not meddling, just saying,” she said, with her hands up. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“That was exclusively meddlesome.”

“Alright, alright,” Dana agreed. “I’ll tell you this though, that guard is a right fucking pill. He almost made Perlah cry and she’s the second toughest person in this ER.”

“After you?”

“Damn right.”

“Well, today is going to be a fun day, huh?”

“Best of luck. Better you than me.”

You couldn’t help but snort as Dana left and went back to her post, her footsteps fading quickly into the surrounding noise. The moment she turned the corner, the air seemed to thicken. With the judge’s orders in one hand, you approached the prison guard.

He was burly and tall. Probably somewhere in his forties. Up close, you could see the long sideburns that made him vaguely resemble a civil war era soldier, the kind who’d have been immortalized in a sepia photograph with a musket and a permanent scowl. His uniform pulled tight across his chest; his hand rested just a little too comfortably near his belt.

In your experience, there were two kinds of prison guards. People who were doing a job and recognized they were interacting with other human beings, and then there were people like this guard who seemed to enjoy having power and exerting violence. You’d spent enough hours in interview rooms and holding cells to recognize the difference in the first interactions.

“No one but medical professionals are allowed inside, ma’am,” he said sharply as you approached.

“I have an order from a judge. I’m his appointed attorney and I am to oversee his care and supervise evidence collection.”

“Figures, sending a public pretender to oversee something that isn’t even a problem. Kid just got sick. It happens,” he groused.

“And I’ll let the person with the medical degree inform me of that, thank you,” you replied, already exhausted. “Here’s the court order.”

You held the document out between two fingers, resisting the urge to jab it into his chest.

“I don’t care, lady. Just go in and see your pet criminal.”

You barely controlled your eye twitch, feeling it pull at the corner of your left eyelid. You stepped beside the man, close enough to smell stale coffee and something acrid on his breath, and lightly knocked on the door before opening it. The positive of dealing with the dickhead posted outside is that you briefly forgot that there was a good chance Robby was in the room you were about to walk into. For a fleeting second, Anthony Williams was just a client and this was just another hospital room.

Robby looked up and a number of emotions crossed his face. The first one you noticed was shock, like you were a ghost walking in. Then sadness. Then it landed on a mask of professionalism, the familiar flattening of his expression you’d watched him put on before walking into difficult conversations. There were two nurses in the room, one strictly medical and the other forensic, both moving around the bed.

Anthony Williams was unconscious. The harsh overhead lights bleached his skin, making the bruises stand out in ugly, mottled purples and greens. The monitors hummed and beeped steadily, a constant reminder that for now, at least, he was still here.

“Hello, I’m the public defender appointed to represent Mr. Williams during this investigation, I have a court order authorizing the hospital to inform me of his pertinent medical conditions and treatments. I do not have medical power of attorney but am allowed to make recommendations,” you rattled off softly.

The words had been said in countless rooms, but this time your tongue felt thick around them.

“Uh hi,” Robby said.

“Hi Robby,” you replied.

His name tasted strange in your mouth after so long—familiar, but edged with old hurt. You kept your gaze on the space between his eyebrows instead of his eyes, unwilling to risk drowning in whatever you might find there.

Perlah looked up and grimaced. You had only met her a couple times, but she had long been Robby’s second favorite coworker after Dana. She was tough, reliable, and a damn good teacher for nurses and residents alike.

“Oh, this is fun,” she muttered under her breath. You couldn’t help but snort, tension easing a fraction from your shoulders.

“It is certainly a unique set of circumstances,” you said, setting your bag in the chair in the corner. The vinyl cushion squeaked faintly under the weight. You flipped open your notebook, pen poised. “Can someone tell me what we know so far?”

Robby cleared his throat and gestured to the monitors, shifting his weight closer to the head of the bed. “Mr. Williams was brought in from the county jail about three hours ago. We alerted the authorities about two hours ago. He was unstable. According to his chart, he was being treated for a tooth absence. But he’s dehydrated and septic.”

His voice settled into that clinical rhythm you recognized, the one he used when he needed to put distance between himself and the harsh reality of what he was describing.

He flipped through the chart on the computer, his movements brisk, efficient. “However…what we have seen appears to be inconsistent with the records from county.”

You blinked. “Meaning?”

Robby exhaled slowly, eyes flicking from the page to the patient. “Meaning whoever filled out the jail medical record either didn’t look at him or didn’t care.”

Perlah let out a low, dry hum. “Or both.”

Robby gestured toward the bed, careful to stay clinical and unbiased. “We’ve documented extensive bruising that indicated internal bleeding along the ribcage–left side mostly, patterned contusions consistent with either a boot tread or baton strike. Older ones too, maybe a week old. His right wrist shows defensive abrasions, some starting to scar over. His dental infection is real, but it’s not the main reason he’s septic. It’s likely from soft tissue trauma along with the delayed care of his tooth.”

You scribbled furiously in your notebook. “Fuck.”

That earned a flicker of a smile, it was small. “And now his blood pressure dropped so low that his organs started to shut down.”

“Jesus,” you muttered, writing faster. The facts lined up in your head like dominos—delayed care, bruising, inconsistent records. You could already picture the motions you’d have to file, the subpoenas, the affidavits.

“Exactly,” Perlah said. “He was feverish, shaking, and had a pulse through the roof by the time transport brought him in. Not with a lot of kindness either.”

Robby lifted the patient’s arm gently, showing you the dark marbling along his inner elbow. The skin looked angry and fragile, stretched over veins that had been abused. “See that discoloration?”

You stepped closer, swallowing against the awkwardness of the room. “Yes.”

“That’s from prolonged IV infiltration. They probably missed a vein or left a line in too long and didn’t monitor it. It’s infected, too. We’ve started him on broad-spectrum antibiotics and fluids, but he’s severely dehydrated.”

You scribbled another note. “So, if I’m understanding you correctly, the delay in care caused—”

“Sepsis,” Robby finished. “Yeah. The bruises are too patterned to be from a fall. We’ve already done imaging—a couple of rib fractures, old and new. No indication of blunt chest trauma in his intake report, which suggests those injuries happened while he was incarcerated. There’s no record of him ever being looked at from them and we can’t tell who committed the acts against him.”

“We suspect the guards, because of the shape of some of the bruises, but proving that is your job,” Perlah added. You nodded and continued writing down notes.

The forensic nurse looked up from her station in the corner. “I’ll get photos of everything.”

“Please,” you said. “If you can email the files to me, I’ll get a preservation order for everything else.”

Robby nodded, but his voice softened when he spoke again. “He’s lucky they brought him in when they did. Another few hours and we’d be talking in the morgue.”

You met his eyes then, and for a brief second, professionalism faltered. The clinical precision in his tone couldn’t quite mask the anger underneath. You had seen Robby angry for a patient before, but not this kind of patient. It was a bit of a surprise if you were honest.

“How’s he doing now?” you asked quietly.

“Stable,” Robby said, “but fragile. Ideally he’d be up in the ICU, but there aren’t any beds. So we’ve got him on fluids, antibiotics, and supplemental oxygen. He’s sedated. We're hoping to avoid intubation, but…” He hesitated, glancing at the monitors. “He’s young. That helps.”

“Does he have any next of kin?” Perlah asked, looking at you.

You shook your head. “Not that we know of. He was waiting on transfer to a state facility.”

Robby set the chart down and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ll need copies of the intake records and labs, right?”

You nodded, pulling your folder closer. “Yes. I’ll submit a request. If the hospital can send me copies directly under the court order, that would be helpful.”

“Anything else you need?” Perlah asked.

“No, thank you.”

You capped your pen and set it across the open notebook, forcing your fingers to unclench.

Perlah and the other nurse took their leave, the room briefly feeling too large and too quiet in their absence, which meant you and Robby remained in the room. You didn’t look at him, but you weren’t sure where to direct your eyes—Anthony’s bruises, the monitor, the scuffed toe of your shoe.

“We can get you set up in the break room if you want,” Robby said quietly. His voice came from just to your left, closer than you’d realized he was standing.

“Better stay here. I don’t like the guard outside,” you replied.

“He’s certainly an asshole,” Robby said.

“Yeah, I’ve gotten that impression.”

Robby lingered and you tried not to pay attention to the way the silence stretched, to the small sounds he made—the rustle of his scrubs, the soft click of his pen, the almost inaudible sigh as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you saw him again. It had been years. Seeing him still hurt, but the wound was no longer raw, like you’d feared. The pain did not take your breath away, instead it clenched onto your heart. It was tolerable. Manageable, the way an old injury aches in bad weather.

You had taken months to heal from the calamitous break up. The precipitating fight had been a knock down drag out battle and neither of you took prisoners. One moment, you had been falling in love with one Michael Robinavitch and the second you had been walking out of his house, trying not to cry.

“How…how have you been?” He asked hesitantly.

“We don’t have to do this, Robby,” you said, quietly.

“Do what?” He almost sounded convincing.

“Pretend we left things…well. Pretend we didn’t go for the jugular.”

“I’m not…” he trailed off seemingly unsure of what to say next.

“I don’t plan on relitigating the fight,” you promised.

“I didn’t think you were,” he replied. You gave him a look.

“Really, I just…I know we left things badly, but I only wanted to know if you’re okay?”

There was something in his tone. It was earnest and forlorn all wrapped up in his doe eye look, even if you were doing your best not to meet it head on. The part of you that had once adored that softness in him gave a small, involuntary stir.

“Most days, I’m fine,” you replied. You didn’t mention the therapy or the medication or the way your friends forced you to go to yoga now. You didn’t mention the nights you lay awake replaying that last argument, wondering if you’d missed a chance to say something different. “You?”

“I wasn’t—good, that is—for a while. Everything at the hospital compounded how terrible COVID had been for me, and then Jake was at Pittfest a few months ago,” Robby said.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh, Robby, I'm so sorry.”

“Jake is fine, his girlfriend,” Robby cleared his throat and flicked his eyes back towards Anthony’s vitals, “didn’t make it.”

“That must have been tremendously hard.”

“The police tried to arrest one of my residents that night,” he added.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she—sorry, I don’t know what I’m telling you this,” he said.

“We’re water under the bridge, Robby. Too much time has passed to hold on to anger.”

It was partly true. The sharp edges had dulled. But there were still sediments settled at the bottom, stirred now and then by moments like this.

“Of course,” he replied, clearing his throat. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He stepped back toward the door, and you listened to the soft squeak of his shoes on the floor, the quiet click as he opened it. For a moment, you were left with the steady hum of the monitor and the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears, wondering when exactly the version of him you’d known had turned into the man you’d just spoken to.

-- -- --

Late July 2022

At first the thing with Robby was a hookup. Almost-friends with benefits. It started easy and low maintenance—late texts after bad days, meeting at his place or yours when it made sense, leaving before dawn if one of you had an early start. And it was nice, far nicer than trolling for someone on an app or at a bar, trying to decode whether a stranger understood basic hygiene or boundaries. 

Robby was fastidiously hygienic, understood the importance of condoms, and was more than happy to cuddle or say goodbye depending on the mood. He would ask, every time, if you wanted him to stay or if you’d rather have the bed to yourself, and he seemed genuinely fine with either answer.

Even actual romantic partners paled in comparison to the attentiveness of a non-romantic Robby in the bedroom. Along with frankly asking about your likes and dislikes, he paid close attention to your reactions. You could feel him adjust when your breath hitched, when your hips tilted, when your fingers tightened in his hair or on his shoulders. 

It was overwhelming and exhilarating all at once, like being under a microscope and somehow not minding. The first few times you almost laughed at how focused he looked, brow furrowed as if he were solving a particularly satisfying puzzle. You weren’t used to that kind of care from “just” a hookup, and the contrast with past experiences made it stand out even more.

You did the same, of course. Ever the lawyer, you kept a shorthand note in your phone about what went well and what didn’t—disguised under a boring name in case anyone ever scrolled too far. Not only that, you kept a long list of what you wanted to try and what you thought Robby would like, mentally cross-referencing his responses with your half-serious theories about his control issues, his stress levels, and his need to be taken care of for once. It was an organized little ritual that helped you feel like you had some control over a connection that otherwise felt entirely unplanned.

Sex with him was fun. When he was present, you felt like you were in the center of the galaxy, everything else dropping away until it was just you, him, and the sound of your shared breathing in a dark room. He could be goofy and self-deprecating one minute and devastatingly earnest the next, and that mix made you feel disarmed in a way you weren’t used to. 

However, sometimes there would be days or weeks where you never heard from him—text bubbles left unanswered, shifts that ran long, vague comments about “a bad week.” When he popped back into your life he always looked more haggard, shadows under his eyes, shoulders tense, and assured you that work was busy and nothing more. 

Then one evening, you were curled up behind him on his bed, enjoying being the big spoon despite the fact Robby was far longer than you, your front pressed along the length of his back. One of his old, soft T-shirts was twisted in your fingers, your knee slotted between his. 

You were warm, sated, and hovering in that pleasant, drifting state where you weren’t quite ready to move. The apartment smelled like laundry detergent and the lingering scent of dinner. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest under your arm.

He shifted, then awkwardly turned around to face you, half rolling onto his back and propping himself on an elbow so he could see you better. The movement broke the comfortable tangle of limbs, leaving a sliver of cool air between your bodies.

“You know I enjoy this, right?” He asked. 

“Based on the sounds you make and telling me how much you love me touching you—yes, I put it together,” you laughed

Robby’s face remained serious, eyes darting away for a second before coming back. You assumed he was about to end your little dalliance and it surprised you how sad that made you feel, how quickly your stomach dropped at the thought. You’d told yourself you were fine if this stayed casual, that you liked him but didn’t need him. In that moment, it became uncomfortably clear that might not be entirely true.

“Yes, well, I’m glad that’s clear,” he stopped talking and avoided making eye contact. He fiddled with the edge of the blanket instead, thumb worrying at a loose thread.

“And?” You prompted. 

“That’s it,” he replied. 

“Michael,” you sighed. “You shouldn’t play poker; your face is a picture book.”

You shifted to face him more fully, tucking one hand under your cheek and studying him. His eyebrows were drawn together, lips pressed in a thin line, the way they did when he’d had a rough shift and didn’t know how to start talking about it, not that he ever talked about it with you. 

“And what does it say?”

“That there’s something bigger on your mind than making sure I know you like fucking,” you said plainly. 

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” he replied, still not making eye contact. 

“If you want to call this off, I’d rather know sooner than later,” you stated. 

“Wait, what?” 

“Aren’t you going to call this quits?”

“No! No,” he said quickly. He pushed himself up a little straighter, finally looking at you with wide, startled eyes. “The opposite actually, but I chickened out.”

“The opposite?”

“I wanted to ask you on a real date. I like you and I want to go to dinner with you and call you my girlfriend or whatever romantic shit people say nowadays.”

You blinked at him. Your brain stuttered over the words, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. “A date?” 

“Yes?”

“With me?”

“Well, there’s only one woman half naked in my bed right now and I think it’d be weird if I was talking about someone else. You don’t have to say yes. I’ll be okay—”

“Yes, I do want to go on a date with you,” you said quickly. The answer came out before you had a chance to filter it, which told you everything you needed to know about how far past “casual” you’d already drifted.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whispered against his lips as you leaned in, closing the small gap between you. “You are already better than half my other boyfriends.”

“God that’s such a low bar,” he mumbled as he kissed you, deepening the kiss while pulling you closer against his body. The last of the distance vanished as his arms wrapped around you, and you let yourself sink into the familiar warmth, feeling something in your chest unclench.

“You’re raising it,” you told him. 

He gave you such a sweet and genuine smile that you felt warmed from the inside out, a slow, steady heat rather than a sudden flare. Lying there with him, your leg hooked over his hip, wrapped in his arms, it was the first time you let yourself think that maybe this was more than something convenient. Maybe, if you let it, it could be something that lasted.

-- -- --

Present Day

The Robby of today felt like a different Robby. In some ways more nervous, but in others even more steady. From your perch in Anthony William’s room, you had a perfect view for most of the ER. You couldn’t hear much—the soft hum in your noise-canceling headphones swallowed most of the clatter—but you could see everything. And watching helped settle the knot in your stomach more than rereading your notes for the tenth time.

Dana stood at the threshold of the ED: one hand on her hip the other holding a tablet simultaneously directing a baby med student somewhere. Perlah sat beside her charting and chatting with another nurse with beautiful dark shiny hair. They leaned their heads close together, almost conspiratorially. 

Robby was talking to a blonde haired doctor, she had on dark rimmed glasses and a serious look of concentration and Robby pointed out something on the tablet. He was always a wonderful teacher. When you both were together he loved explaining complex medical concepts in ways that someone who didn’t even take college biology could understand—it almost seemed like nothing had changed. 

Yet it wasn’t nostalgia that kept your eyes on him—it was the tension in his jaw. He didn’t like the guard. That was obvious. The Robby you knew wouldn’t have been pleased about a prison guard shadowing his patient’s room, but he might have been relieved that someone was handling security. This Robby cast sharp, deliberate glances toward the guard whenever the man drifted too close to one of the residents, his shoulders stiffening in a protective way that seemed new. Or maybe you just hadn’t noticed it back then. Maybe this was always inside him.

A few moments later, Robby and the blonde resident walked toward the room. You watched as he subtly shifted, angling his body to place himself between her and the guard.

Interesting. 

When they walked in Robby introduced you and said, “This is Mel King. She’s a third year resident.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Mel said. 

“You as well, Dr. King.”

“Mel, please.”

“Okay, Mel. Now that we have the blood tests back, what are the next steps?” Robby asked. 

You settled further back into your seat, one leg crossed over the other, notebook balanced on your knee. Your pen hovered, ready. Despite eighteen months of dating him, you had never seen this version of Robby—working, focused, unfiltered by the version he curated for dates and dinners. He’d tried to keep work separate from you. You had tried not to notice how poor his attempts had been.

He and Mel were physically examining one of the wounds on his torso when she paused, leaning in a little closer to trace the edge of a bruise with her gloved fingertip. The mottling had spread since the last set of photos, blooming in darker shades beneath the skin. Robby steadied the patient’s shoulder so Mel could see the full extent of the injury, his voice low as he pointed out areas of swelling that hadn’t been present on intake. You watched the two of them work.

You found yourself staring—at the way he moved, at the ease he had with teaching, at the calm precision in his motions. It reminded you of moments in his apartment when he had patiently explained medical metaphors or drawn diagrams on the back of restaurant napkins because you had asked one question too many. You weren’t sure whether remembering felt good or horrible.

Something in Anthony’s vitals shifted, and a quiet beeping alarmed. Mel flinched only slightly before both she and Robby sprang into action—adjusting his IV, checking the fluids, muttering quick updates to one another. Mel lifted his eyelid and ran her penlight across his pupil, her expression tightening.

And then the door exploded open.

The hinges rattled as the guard slammed it with the force of someone convinced danger lurked behind every corner. He barreled into the room, filling it with his bulk and the smell of stale coffee and cheap body spray. His hand hovered near the equipment on his belt, eyes sweeping with frantic suspicion as though he expected Anthony to leap out of bed swinging.

“Step away from the bed. The patient is dangerous,” he announced. 

“Dr. King and Dr. Robinavitch are treating him. They don’t have to do anything. Not to mention the kid is unconscious," you said from your seat in the corner, not even bothering to stand. Your heart rate spiked, but you kept your face neutral. You’d had worse men try to intimidate you in smaller rooms.

“Forgive me if I don’t take a public pretender’s word for it,” he snapped. 

You rolled your eyes. At least he could try rotating his insults. The repetition was almost insulting in its laziness.

“She’s right. His blood pressure just dropped, we’re only trying to figure out why,” Mel said. 

“Fine. But if he wakes up I’m the first to know. He’s a dangerous criminal.”

“He’s awaiting trial. He’s not a ‘dangerous’ anything,” you grumbled. 

“You’re not in the prison. You don’t know anything,” the man said. He bent over you, invading your space so abruptly you caught the sour scent of his breath. His name tag read Benning. 

“Well, Officer Benning, neither are you since you both came from the county jail not the state prison,” you replied blandly. “I’m not disputing that some real characters come through, but perhaps the 20-year old with his first charge isn’t one of them.”

“And you would know that how?” The guard hissed. 

“I think it’s best if you step outside and let us finish our examination,” Robby said, trying to guide Benning back. 

“Whatever,” the guard hissed. 

You narrowed your eyes and, because you were petty and furious and needed an outlet, you scribbled something utterly nonsensical in the margins of your notes. You knew he’d notice. You hoped he would.

It worked.

“What the fuck did you write down?” He asked. 

“None of your business,” you replied, closing the file with exaggerated calm. You had written “dickhead officer,” which wasn’t legally relevant, but it gave you a flash of satisfaction. “As Mr. Williams’ attorney, I’m not at liberty to share any information with you.”

“And how does it feel knowing you’re defending scum?” Bennings asked. 

“I sleep well at night, if that answers your question,” you replied back coolly. 

“Well, the world is better off if this kid dies, trust me.” 

“Whoa, whoa,” Robby said sharply, stepping fully in front of Benning now, blocking him with his entire body. “I’m going to ask you one more time to step outside and let us do our job. I won’t tolerate that kind of discussion in front of a patient.”

“Patient,” scoffed Bennings, but he went back outside. 

“Still an instigator,” Robby said, but it almost sounded fond. You ignored him. 

“Are you okay?” You asked Mel. She looked rattled. 

“Y-yes…yes, um, I wasn’t expecting such a show,” she stated. 

“Yeah, that’s fair. A lot of prison guards aren’t like that. A lot of them are fine, he’s a real piece of work,” you told her. “Do you want me to make sure he doesn’t come in here when you’re in here?” 

“Can you do that?” Robby asked. 

“You and Perlah seem to think that Mr. Williams was attacked by guards, with that information I can do quite a lot.” 

“It might be a good idea,” Robby mused. “I don’t love the idea of anyone worrying about the patient and the guard.” 

“I’ll file the motion and see if my boss can get it in front of a judge soon,” you told him. 

You began the process of filing a TRO, temporary restraining order, for your client and his medical team. 

“Do you want me to get you a coffee? I…I still know your order,” Robby said softly. 

The words struck something deep and tender in your chest. It didn’t feel sweet—it felt like pressing on an old bruise. Robby had been kind, and caring, and attentive. And at the end of it—cruel. Somehow knowing he remembered your coffee order made everything ache a little deeper.

“No,” you said, desperately hoping your voice wasn’t betraying your emotions. “No, I’m good.”

“Okay, well, let me know.”

Then he and Mel stepped out of the room, leaving you alone with your notes, the beeping monitors, and the confusing tangle of emotions you’d been trying not to pick apart since the moment you saw him again.

-- -- --

January 2023

Robby was surprisingly sentimental at times. On your three month anniversary—a date you had totally forgotten—he showed up at your door with flowers and a surprise night planned. On your birthday he drove you out of the city and took you stargazing because you had offhandedly mentioned you’d always wanted to try it. 

So it stood to reason that when he invited you over on your six month anniversary, you walked into what could have only been a four course Michelin star meal. He was wearing an apron when he answered the door. 

“Now this is a sight,” you said, grinning at him. 

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” you replied, setting down your bag and taking off your shoes. “If you ever want to only wear the apron, call me I’m sure I can make time.”

“The apron really does it for you, huh?” 

“It really does. I’m just as surprised as you are,” you laughed. 

He pulled you against him and leaned down to gently kiss you. Smiling against his lips, you fiddled with the straps of the apron. 

“Never gets old,” he said, satisfied. 

“What?” 

“Kissing you.”

“Pretty cheesy there, Michael,” you smiled. He pressed another kiss to the top of your head. 

“Sure is. Come in, dinner is almost ready.”

The two of you chatted as he finished dinner. You were mid rant about the DA when the timer went off and Robby pulled out an elaborate sheet pan of exceptionally roasted vegetables to go along with his main course. 

“Why do you hate this man?” Robby asked as he began plating the food. 

“I work really well with a lot of the county prosecutors, most of them in fact, but Zicarelli goes out of his way to be an obstinate dickhead. Most of the assistant attorneys aren’t like that at all. And a few of them I think are really trying to make a difference. They think the system can be fixed from the inside and on my optimistic days, I believe them. On less optimistic days…well, I am one step away from burning everything down and starting over,” you grumbled. 

“Mmm, that’s familiar,” Robby said. He handed you the plate and your drink then you followed him out to the balcony on his condo. It was cold, but with the fire pit and heater, th porch was cozy. It overlooked a calm but picturesque street near the university and hospital. 

You sat next to him at a small wooden patio table where he had already set out fake candles and silverware. 

“I can imagine,” you said. “You don’t really talk about it—the hospital I mean.” 

“It feels too bleak for a good date conversation topic,” he shrugged. “I’d much rather talk to you about the tv show we’re watching or the complex philosophical musing on if you can reform a system as big as healthcare or the legal system. My job is just…a lot of the same thing,” he replied. 

“So do you?” You asked, taking a sip of your drink. 

Robby looked out to the street for a few moments. You speared a roasted asparagus and took a bite before he finally said,

“No, but I think people can make it hurt less.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Fixing the healthcare system in this country would require more money and more policy changes than anyone is willing to commit to. The people who have the power don’t seem to give a shit. But if I do my job, if I’m attentive to patients and make sure they are treated fairly and quickly, then maybe it isn’t as shit.”

“I think that’s admirable,” you told him. 

“Glad someone does. Some days it feels Sisyphean," he said simply while taking a bite of dinner. 

“I mean, it is, but only if Sisyphus was rolling up the boulder to make sure the people at the bottom didn’t get crushed,” you said. 

Robby snorted. “Still sucks when you don’t make it to the top.”

“I know that feeling well,” you hummed. 

“It’s frustrating when someone comes to be so sick and it’s a sickness that could have been avoided if they had access to healthcare earlier. I see so many lives taken because of pointless shit like that,” Robby grumbled. “We live in a liberal city in a kind of liberal state, but we can’t do anything for healthcare.”

“It is a surprisingly conservative city for how much we vote for Democrats,” you replied. 

“At least the criminal sentence things make sense. But healthcare? It seems like a no-brainer.”

“What do you mean the ‘criminal sentence things make sense’?” You asked confused. 

“Just that I can at least understand where people are coming from when they vote against changing bail procedure or vote for Zicarelli. But healthcare is just so…important, I guess.”

You hummed, and a weird feeling settled in your stomach but you couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason. Something about what Robby said rubbed you the wrong way, but you’d often been described as confrontational or combative by past partners and tonight was so nice, it wasn’t worth bringing up. Instead, you changed the topic to something easier, 

“So instead of dwelling on the hellish professions we choose—”

“Yours more than mine,” he laughed, adding to the upset feeling in your gut. 

“—we talk about our Severance theories and the fact my book club is reading some of the worst writing known to man kind.”

“I still don’t know where they thought they would run to,” Robby grumbled. “It’s the severed floor, where are they going to hide?” 

“It’s a take on Orpheus and Eurydice,” you laughed at his dramatics. 

“Well, I wouldn’t look back,” Robby declared. 

“I would,” you shrugged. “To love someone so desperately you go to the Underworld, and after successfully freeing them, you wouldn’t want confirmation nothing had happened? Think of how long their journey was. I can’t imagine not looking back. We look back all the time. I still read old texts from friends; I keep letters in my office.”

“Huh,” Robby said. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. I have a whole box of cards and notes from patients I look at after rough shifts.”

“If you think about it, that necklace is looking back. Your grandmother gave it to you—a way to honor your heritage and remind you of the spiritual comforts. Wearing it everyday is looking back for her.”

Robby was silent for a long while. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him fiddling with the necklace. There was a lot of emotion on the balcony as the slow cars ambled through the darkened street. The buzz of the street lights hummed, adding a soft amber glow to the ambiance of the dinner. 

“I have a photo of us, you really,” Robby finally said with a thick note of emotion in his voice. “It’s tiny, but I keep it on the back of my badge. It’s that one of you absolutely cackling after bowling your fifth gutter ball on our third date.”

It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to you. So you replied, 

“I think I could fall in love with you, Michael Robinavitch.”

And that weird, uncomfortable feeling was all but forgotten. 

-- -- --

Present Day - 10:00 am

Later that morning, you managed to slip out of the room while the guard’s attention was fixed on whatever game he was playing on his phone. You eased the door shut behind you and exhaled slowly, grateful to put a few feet of distance between you and a man whose mere presence made your shoulders lock tight. 

The hallway outside South 15 was its usual mixture of fluorescent glare, scuffed linoleum, and the low-level hum of activity that never really stopped. The Pitt, for all its faults, was predictable in at least that way—it always felt a little overworked, a little understaffed, a lot too busy.

It hadn’t changed much since the last time you’d walked these hallways years ago. Same faded signage above each bay, same rolling vitals machines half blocking the path, same antiseptic scent clinging to the air. Even the coffee dispenser was in the exact place you remembered—tucked beside a column near the nurses’ station like a sad shrine to caffeine dependence. 

You stepped toward it automatically, muscle memory guiding you more than conscious thought. Your mind was still half in the room with Anthony Williams, half with Robby, half trying not to feel anything at all. The math didn’t add up and neither did the way you were feeling. 

You were on your way back, styrofoam cup warming your hand, when you heard it.

“What do you think he did?” A hushed female voice asked. 

You froze mid-step. The words weren’t loud, but they bounced off the hallway walls. You shifted back toward the corner and leaned your shoulder against it, the cool plaster holding you while you eavesdropped. You didn’t need to see them to know they were talking about your client. The tone alone—morbidly curious, speculative—gave it away.

On one hand, you could walk past them, shut it down with a single look or a pointed reminder of confidentiality. On the other hand…you were curious what the rumor mill had churned out in the last hour.

“I mean that guard is pretty nasty. Surely it was something bad?”

The next couple of minutes unfolded like a deranged episode of Dateline, complete with dramatic pauses and whispered theories pitched somewhere between absurd and insulting. Serial killer. Bank robber. Gang hitman. At one point you were fairly certain someone suggested “domestic spy,” which almost made you snort into your coffee. Anthony Williams’ alleged crimes had apparently become a popular form of entertainment in the lull between patient charts.

You understood the psychology of it—high stress jobs bred gossip like mold. But the casual disrespect, the lack of empathy, the gleeful speculation about a kid who might not live through the night…that part sat poorly in your gut. It reminded you too much of prosecutors who described your clients as monsters without ever reading their files.

“I see a lot of talking and not a lot of working,” you heard Robby’s voice say. 

The volume in the hallway dipped immediately. You remained still behind the corner, listening.

“You gotta tell us what he did, Dr. Robby,” a higher voice said. It sounded young. “Is there a dangerous criminal here?” 

“There is a man accused of a crime in South 15,” Robby confirmed. “But he hasn’t been proven guilty in a court of law. More than that, he’s fighting for his life right now, so I really don’t think speculating about what he’s charged with is appropriate.” 

“Oh, no you’re right,” another voice said sheepishly. 

“It doesn’t matter who the patient is, we treat them the same either way. And it would be good to get rid of that gut instinct to now, it’s a lot harder to get rid of when you’re older, trust me.” 

You heard heavy footsteps headed towards you. 

You straightened instantly, heart thumping, and pivoted on your heel in a practiced motion, heading briskly back toward Anthony’s room. You slipped inside before the footsteps rounded the corner, shutting the door behind you with care. The guard glanced up with mild suspicion, but you ignored him, sinking into the chair beside your notes.

You weren’t sure what to do with what you’d just heard. You weren’t sure what to do with a Robby who thought about carceral bias at all—who chastised staff for judging a “criminal”, who spoke about preconceived notions like it was something he’d spent years wrestling with.

The Robby you knew had a blind spot a mile wide and thought he saw the whole landscape clearly. Hearing him acknowledge otherwise…left a strange, complicated ache simmering behind your ribs.

-- -- --

March 2023

You spotted him before he saw you, slumped in the dim corner booth of your usual bar, the overhead bulbs casting a warm amber glow across the tired line of his shoulders. He looked wrung out—scrub top wrinkled, jacket sleeves shoved up haphazardly, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. 

Even from a distance, you could tell it had been a rough shift. Your own day had been long—court delays, an irritable judge, a client meltdown—but the exhaustion in his posture tugged at something soft inside you.

“Hi handsome,” you said softly. 

The smile he gave you still made butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“Hi,” he said, pushing himself up to greet you.

His arms wrapped around you in that way only Robby could manage: warm, enveloping, making you feel sheltered without crowding you. You were not a small woman, but somehow he always made you feel like he’d been waiting for you to fill his arms. He pressed a brief, gentle kiss to your lips before letting you slide into the booth across from him.

Robby already had a cold beer half-drained in front of him and your drink waiting beside it—your order, exactly right, even after the day he’d each had. His reading glasses were hooked crookedly into the collar of his scrub top, and his badge, keys, and wallet sat in a disorganized pile in the middle of the table, like he’d emptied his pockets the moment he sat down. His phone lay face down.

You silenced your own device and set it on top of his, the ritual familiar now. After three dates in a row being interrupted, you’d adopted the rule: phones down, face-down, for at least the first hour. 

“Have you been here long?” You asked. 

“Ten minutes, maybe.”

“How was work?” 

He just groaned and rolled his eyes dramatically. “Apparently my jokes are unprofessional.”

You smirked into your drink, “Your mean and snarky jokes? Unprofessional? Crazy.” 

“I got written up,” he replied. 

Your mouth fell open. “You’re shitting me. What did you say?”

“A bird flew into the ambulance bay and Gloria made some stupid announcement that we had to make sure vermin didn’t come inside. She did not appreciate my comment asking ‘what if they have good insurance’ apparently.”

You barked out a laugh before you could stop yourself. “God, that isn’t funny that you got written up. But the insurance joke was good.”

“Well, at least you enjoyed it.”

You watched him take another sip of beer, shoulders still slumped like nothing could quite shake the day off. You reached for your drink, you asked, gently,  “Why do you and Gloria butt heads so much anyways?” 

Robby sighed. “When Adamson passed during COVID, it was hard. COVID was just so fucking hard. And for a minute it really felt like Gloria was on our side. She wanted us to get the PPE, wanted us to get the meds and the oxygen. She fought for us and she's good at fights.”

You listened quietly, hands wrapped around your glass. Every time he talked about COVID or Adamson, his face changed—older, worn, a decade of grief settling behind his eyes. There was a day in July that he always disappeared during and it wasn’t until you saw Adamson’s memorial photo on the wall with his date of death that you put two and two together. Robby wasn’t often forthcoming about that era of his life. You knew he had been dating someone and the relationship fell apart but that’s about all he actually told you about COVID. The rest you’ve gleaned from conversations like this. 

“But when COVID became less emergent. When the other floors were cleared out, it’s like she forgot it was still affecting us. COVID lingered in the ER and ICU far longer than anywhere else. And all of the sudden that fight was directed at us. We weren’t fast enough, or seeing enough well paying patients or whatever. We lost eight doctors and ten nurses and four techs to COVID. It just feels…like a bitter pill to swallow. And she refuses to negotiate. She just demands things and expects me to pull resources out of my ass.”

“I can’t imagine being in either of your positions,” you said, shaking your head. “COVID was hard for me, but in a very different way. It can’t be easy.”

“Well it’s not easy for me. Gloria seems to having a good fucking time,” he groused. 

You hummed and sipped on your drink. “I mean, she’s in charge of a huge hospital. I doubt her job is easy.”

“She sits behind a desk all day,” Robby snapped. 

“Except when she’s harassing you about birds,” you joked. 

It fell flat. You knew instantly you’d misjudged the moment. His jaw tightened, shadows settling across his features.

“Did you know that attacks against healthcare workers have skyrocketed since COVID? It’s shitty especially when there was a moment when we were the most respected profession.” 

“I think most people still respect you guys. You’re just a safety net and not always given the resources of one,” you said. 

“Doesn’t feel like anyone gives a shit about us. Most of the time we can’t press charges when someone assaults us or if we can the DAs refuse to prosecute.”

“It’s hard to prosecute those cases,” you said sympathetically. “Proving beyond a reasonable doubt is a high bar even for a simple assault.”

“Nothing about it is ‘simple’,” Robby bit. 

You held up your hands, “It’s a legal term, Michael. I’m not negating your experiences.”

“Get better legal terms,” he grumbled. Despite the tension in the conversation you couldn’t help but snort. 

“Yeah, there’s a lot about the penal code that needs adjusting,” you sighed. 

“Have you ever defended someone like that?”

“No, but if I had I couldn’t tell you. I’m pretty strict about attorney client privilege. But no, most of those cases tend to be misdemeanors and I almost exclusively handle felonies—murders mainly.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said. His tone sounded weird. 

“Most of them plead guilty, so it’s about making sure the state is proving their case and sentencing is fair. When they plead innocent it is a lot more stressful,” you told him. 

“Why’s that?”

You hesitated, then answered with the honesty he’d always claimed to appreciate. “Well, when your client did the crime, or tells you they did, you don’t have to worry about them going to jail for no reason. They’ll serve prison time and my job is to make sure it’s fair and as equitable as the law can get. When they’re innocent, all of the sudden I have someone’s life in my hands. About three quarters of my clients plead guilty, but the other ones? Those are just a little bit harder. Though, they all keep me up at night.”

“Because of their victims? What they did?”

“No,” you replied. “No, there’s only been a handful of clients I’ve had over the last decade and a half that haven’t had only terrible choices and murder was just the terrible choice they chose. What keeps me up is how lucky I am in comparison. My family didn’t abuse me or I wasn’t homeless or poor. I went to law school. I live in a nice apartment and I have access to mental health care. A lot of my clients don’t have that.”

“What about the victims?”

“The prosecutors office typically has resources for them. But, frankly, it isn’t my job to worry about them. My client is my responsibility.”

“I don’t think I could do that,” Robby said looking down at his beer. “I’ve seen too many people lose their loved ones in the ER.”

“I have compassion for them, but I can’t put their emotions over my client’s rights.”

“Sounds like something Gloria would say,” snorted Robby. 

You raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“That’s just a very utilitarian take. It doesn’t feel very compassionate.”

“Sometimes it isn’t compassionate for the victims, but that’s not my job.”

“It should be someone’s job.”

“It is,” you said through lightly gritted teeth. “There are victims' advocates and social workers.”

“But not you.”

“And so what if it isn’t me?” You snapped. 

The conversation was slipping—tilting from debate into something sharper, more personal. His eyes flashed with a frustration you hadn’t seen aimed at you before.

“I just don’t think you understand what it’s like to lose someone in such a horrific way. You don’t know what it’s like to be the victim of these crimes. I’ve seen them. Treated them.”

His voice hadn’t gotten louder, but it was taut with emotion, heavy with something deeper than irritation. You stared at him—your heart dropping—because there it was, the thing that had lodged under your ribs a month ago on his balcony: a blind spot so large he didn’t even see it.

“That’s a lot of assumptions, Michael,” you said finally. You had paused to let your voice calm, despite the anger boiling in the back of your throat. 

“You basically defended Gloria!” He added. 

“And when the fuck did I do that?”

“When you said both of our jobs are hard.”

You held his gaze. “They probably are. Different ways, sure. But you don’t get to sit here and assume that you’re the only person who has the monopoly on how the world should work.”

“Am I wrong, though?”

“In general? No. But you certainly are determining who does and does not deserve compassion and that’s not a call you can make. Not to mention you can’t just assume I’ve never lost someone or been hurt. We haven’t even been dating for a year.”

“And what? You have?”

“Do you really think I’m going to divulge sensitive history to you right now? When it seems like your reaction will be to dismiss it?”

The shock on his face landed like a small, painful punch. He looked away, toward the bar, shoulders deflating.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said quieter. 

“And based on our previous conversation, how was I to know?” 

He looked away towards the bar. Silence stretched between you. You hated it. You hated the heat behind your ribs, the way the evening had turned. You sighed, softening your tone.

“Look, you care so deeply about people—especially people you don’t even know. I think that is one of the best things about you. But my job isn’t to do that. My job is to make sure the state proves its case before throwing someone in jail, even if they plead guilty. The government isn’t a good guy, Robby.”

“No, they aren’t,” he sighed. “Sorry, I think I took my frustration out on you.”

“Oh you definitely did,” you snorted. He had the good sense to look embarrassed. “But I understand where you’re coming from. A lot of people feel weird about my job. But if you can’t deal, we should reevaluate where this is going.”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I can deal. I just…I lost a patient today and then everything with Gloria compounded.”

“And you bottled it inside?” You asked. He nodded. “Maybe you need a healthier way to deal with that anger than taking it out on your girlfriend.”

He sighed heavily, “You’re right. What do you do?”

“Scream in my car,” you said blandly. It startled a laugh out of him. 

“I walk to work,” he said. 

“Think about how few people would talk to you on the street if you started your walk home with a loud scream.”

Robby snorted, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Well, I would certainly be the talk of the hospital.”

“See? You’d be so popular.”

He finally allowed himself a real laugh. “Sure, with psychiatry.”

You shrugged. “We could drive to the middle of nowhere and just scream for a bit.”

“Like a joint screaming date?” He asked, amused. 

“Why not?”

“Fuck, might as well,” he laughed. 

And just like that, the two of you found your way back to each other across the table.

-- -- --

Present Day -  11:30 am

You were stretching out a tight spot in your back when Mel finally came in with test results. You barely understood what she was telling you, but you knew enough to realize that Anthony Williams was going to have an uphill battle getting out of this hospital bed. It was frustrating and heartbreaking for a myriad of reasons. Not least of which was how minor his charge was. Misdemeanor theft shouldn’t lead to a kid in a hospital—it shouldn’t lead to anyone in a hospital, but something about this felt particularly unfair. 

“I wish there was more I could do,” Mel said. You could hear the frustration in her voice. 

“The deck seems to be stacked against, Mr. Williams,” you sighed, sitting back down. 

“What happens if he doesn’t make it?” Mel asked tentatively, not taking her eyes away from the man. 

“Honestly, not sure,” you replied. “There will be an investigation, but my ability to intervene typically stops after my client dies. Pennsylania has a uniquely corrupt criminal justice system, but i have a friend in the ACLU who is suing them. I might hand her the case.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“A few years ago a bunch of judges were disbarred for taking bribes from a private prison and sentencing juvelines to extreme sentences for their charges. Essentially taking kickbacks to ensure the prisons are full enough to keep their state funding.” 

“I knew that Dr. Robby wasn’t joking when he was lecturing us about it,” Mel said, still sounding unsettled. “I didn’t realize he meant…this.”

You shifted in your chair, studying her. “He talks to you about that?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, finally tearing her gaze away from Anthony to look at you. “If we get an incarcerated patient or someone brought in with police, he makes sure we know that we’re treating the patient, not the cops. He tells us if we don’t interrogate our biases now, we'll kill someone later because of them.”

You blinked at her, your pen hovering over the page. That didn’t sound like the man you’d fought with across a bar table about compassion and who deserved it. Mel kept talking, unaware that every word felt like it was rearranging the way you had viewed this man for the last two years.

“He had us do a whole teaching conference on incarcerated patients and people in behavioral health holds. All of the attendings are good at making sure we view them as people and not…well, problems, I guess.”

You let out a slow breath. “That doesn’t go over well with everyone, I’m guessing.”

Mel gave you a sheepish smile. “No. But he doesn’t care. I’ve always had a harder time in emergency medicine; I can get kind of emotional. But Dr. Robby told me that the emotion is important to care. Sometimes people need emotion in their corner.”

You looked over at Anthony, at the constellation of injuries mapped across his body, and then back at the closed door where Officer Benning was no doubt glowering at anyone who walked by. The Robby you knew had believed in compassion, yes, but he’d also believed in his own read on who deserved it. He’d talked about victims and families and the horror of what they went through, and he hadn’t been wrong, but he’d spoken as if the rest of the system was at least somewhat fair. As if, on balance, it more or less worked the way it was supposed to. 

This Robby—teaching residents to question authority, to assume the system could be cruel, to see a twenty-year-old ‘prisoner’ as someone the world had failed rather than a problem to be managed—felt like you were coming face-to-face with a whole new person.

“He sounds like he has been a good teacher,” you said finally, keeping your tone even.

Mel nodded. “He really has been. I owe a lot to him. He doesn’t talks about his own mentor, Adamson, a lot. But he’s kind of legendary—we’ve all heard about him. Personally, I think in some ways he sees teaching us as an extension of his appreciation for Adamson, but that’s speculation.”

“Of course,” you replied quietly. You wrote down a few more lines in your notes, the words seemed like gibberish—habit more than anything. Something to do with your hands while Mel pulled the rug out from under you. 

You weren’t sure what to do with this version of him, the one who seemed to have finally taken off the blindfold you’d spent an entire relationship trying to point out. All you knew was that sitting in this room, watching him fight quietly for a kid your old Robby might have viewed with wary distance, made the past feel both closer and more foreign than it had in years.

-- -- --

June 2023

You were sick. Sick as a dog, sick. You had a hacking cough, congestion and more sinus pressure than you knew what to do with. Calling in sick to work was more stressful than it was to just be sick at work. You had three court hearings today and it’s not like you could easily reschedule them. 

Donning a mask, you made your way to the office–wearing your most comfortable work pants and blouse. You grabbed your files and made your way across the street to the court house. Taz, the security guard on the north entrance, took one look at you and simply waved you through. 

“You look rough,” he said, as you walked by. 

“What everyone wants to hear, Taz, thank you,” you croaked. 

“Girl, do you think a judge can even understand you like this?” he asked. 

“Don’t be mean to me,” you complained. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.” 

“Hmm, all right. Do you want me to grab you a tea or something from our break room? It’s free and I know y’all don’t get paid much more than we do,” he said. 

“Taz, I would literally die for you if you did that,” you said, far more pitifully than intended. 

“Well, don’t do that,” he replied with a frown on his face. “We like having you around here. Wouldn’t want whatever monster cold you’ve come down with to take you out.” 

“You’re the best,” you told him. 

He disappeared behind the check-in desk and came back out with a disposable coffee cup full of steeping green tea. 

“If you ever need anything, I got you,” you said. 

“Well, hopefully I don’t ever need your kind of helpful,” he replied. Quieter he added, “but we’ve both met some of these cops, huh?” 

You snorted and waved as you made your way to your courtroom. 

The hearings were simple, thankfully, and they allowed you to check in with your clients. You kept the mask on when in close contact with people, but when addressing the court—and staying far away from anyone else—you removed it so people could hear you. 

When you finally made it back to your office, you collapsed into your chair and with one look at your inbox knew you weren’t capable of any type of high level thinking. It was a shame, because you had a date with Robby tonight that you were looking forward to. He had been on night shifts for a while and it had been nearly two weeks since you both had seen each other; only communicating via texts and quick phone calls. 

You dialed his number on your way to your car and was surprised when he picked up, 

“Hey,” he said cheerfully. 

“I thought you were working today?” You replied. The horrible croak in your voice couldn’t be disguised even over the phone. 

“You sound terrible.” 

“You’re not the first person to say so,” you sighed. “I think I’m cancelling our date tonight. I can’t even answer emails right now. I want to go and melt into my bed, I think.” 

“Well, I traded shifts with one of our other attendings, so if you want me to, can I come by?” 

“I don’t want to get you sick, though,” you whined. 

“Incredibly enough, I doubt you’ll get me sick. I have a pretty good immune system after all these years,” he rumbled. 

“Come over,” you grumbled. 

“How generous you’re being,” he replied. You could hear the smile on his face. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Want me to bring you anything?” 

“Does it make me a bad person if I ask for a milkshake and fries instead of chicken soup or whatever the fuck you’re meant to eat when sick?” 

“As long as you have some actual protein, I will bring you a milkshake and fries,” he said. The laughter in his voice was evident. 

“Fine, I’ll have protein.” 

“Drink at least one water bottle when you get home please,” he added. 

“Anything else, Doctor?” you asked sarcastically. 

“Take ibuprofen or something, I can tell you’re running a fever from here.” 

“Well, I didn’t know they taught you how to diagnose over the phone in medical school.” 

“I don’t think you’d sound this pitiful on purpose.” 

“I do not sound pitiful!” You exclaimed getting in your car. The exhaustion rested heavy against your bones and you took a few deep breaths before turning your car on. 

“You’re right, ‘pitiful’ is an understatement.” 

“You’re mean. I want a large milkshake now and I’m not paying you back,” you grumbled. 

Robby’s laughter was the last thing you heard before you hung up on him. 

Despite your complaining, you did follow his instructions when you got home. You chugged your water bottle and then refilled it and chugged it again. Then took the medicine that he instructed. By the time Robby let himself in, you were in ratty pajamas curled up on your couch covered in blankets and pillows. 

“Decided to make a blanket fort, too?” he asked, kneeling down in front of your face. 

With the back of his hand, he felt your forehead and then his fingers slid against your neck to feel your pulse. 

“Are you evaluating me right now?” you asked. 

He shushed you. 

“Did you fucking shush me?” 

“You’re a terrible patient.” 

“You’re not my doctor,” you snapped. 

“Do you want your milkshake or not?” 

“Yes please,” you pouted. 

Allowing Robby to pull you up into a seated position, he handed you a to-go container. With a chicken sandwich, fries and a milkshake. 

“Thank you,” you said, when he sat next to you. He was on the opposite end of the couch, held in place by about a half dozen blankets. 

“You’re welcome. Have you gone to the doctor?” 

“It’s just a cold,” you replied. 

“I also would like you to take a COVID test,” he said softly. There was an anxious twinge in his voice you didn’t like hearing, so you shoved your hand out of your blanket cocoon and he popped a box in your palm. 

“Can I finish eating first?” 

“Sure.” 

Once you had eaten, he threw away your trash and kneeled down in front of you again. He gently took the box from your hand and instead of letting you take the COVID test, he did it for you. It felt weird letting your boyfriend shove a q-tip in your nose and you couldn’t help but say, 

“Is this foreplay for you?” 

“You’re annoying when you’re sick.” 

“Take that back. I’m always annoying,” you replied. 

He chuckled to himself as he finished preparing and executing the test. When he stood to throw the trash away he planted a kiss on the top of your head and you felt it sink through your body all the way to your toes. 

“Thank you for coming over,” you said. It was nice to feel bad with company. 

“Anything for you,” he replied, setting a timer on his phone for the test. “I don’t think you have COVID, but your cough is terrible. You should really go to the doctor.” 

“But I’m tired,” you whined. Robby gave you a flat look and you sighed, “Fine. I’ll go to the doctor.” 

“Thank you,” he said. “COVID wasn’t long enough ago for me not to worry.” 

You fell into a companionable silence until Robby’s phone time went off and he got up to check the test. 

“COVID free,” he said with more relief than you were comfortable hearing in his voice. How anxious was he that you had gotten COVID? The height of the disease had been over two years ago, and despite being fully vaccinated, he seemed terrified that you had gotten ill with it. But still he seemed to be able to take a breath and ease down on the couch next to you.  

“It’s because you brought me a milkshake,” you told him. He smiled and rolled his eyes at you. 

-- -- --

Present Day - 12:00 pm

You spent another hour or so alone in the hospital room, desperately trying not to notice if Robby walked by. You worked on parole packets, answered countless emails, wrote a recommendation letter, you even started your taxes—all in an effort to distract you from the man that had lightly haunted you for the past two years. It didn’t work. 

You knew he didn’t wear cologne or even strong smelling deodorant at work, but you could swear every time he walked by you could smell him. Distant calls of his name made you look up suddenly, and each time Anthony Williams’ monitors beeped you waited with baited breath to see who walked in to check on him. 

More often than not it was Perlah. 

She was as witty and dry humored as ever. And yet, she was tender and gentle with Anthony. Despite his unconscious state, she spoke to him like he was awake. There was an odd emotion building in your throat. It felt like a mixture of respect and appreciation. The kindness Perlah doled out was not unappreciated. 

Still, you spoke very little to the staff beyond getting informative updates and logging them for evidence. 

Around lunch time you realized that in your rush to get to the hospital, you hadn’t grabbed your lunchbox from the break room fridge. Your stomach grumbled and you began debating the merits of leaving your post for food versus the risk of missing something. 

The door opened and without looking up you knew it was Robby. 

“We’re taking him to get another CT,” the man said softly. 

“Okay,” you replied, making a note of the time. You knew the hospital records would reflect everything, but being cautious was the name of the game. 

“I…I, uh, grabbed you lunch and a coffee,” Robby said, handing over the small cafeteria salad and coffee. “I remembered you really liked those salad we have here and, uh, if your coffee order is the same—well, there’s some caffeine.”

You took the food and coffee from him. There was a dusting of a blush on his face. He stepped out of the way—much closer to you—in order to allow the techs to roll Mr. Williams out, the guard followed at a distance being unceremoniously blocked by the tiny Perlah. 

“Thank you.”

“It is good to see you,” Robby said. 

You were really sure how to reply to that; mainly because you weren’t sure if it was good to see Robby. Every time he walked by or spoke to you, even in a completely professional manner, it felt like poking a bruise you thought had healed. It technically wasn’t creating more damage but it sure hurt. 

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” you settled on saying. It wasn’t a lie, but it didn’t echo his sentiment. 

He glanced over at the large screens over Dana’s kingdom. Shifting from foot to foot, he surprised you by sitting down in the chair next to your own. His long legs stretched out and almost bumped against yours. It took all of your self control not to move them back. Even without looking down you were hyper aware of his presence. 

“I’m glad Mr. Williams has you,” Robby said. “I’m glad he has someone like you in his corner.”

“Oh, uh…thank you,” you replied, though it sounded more like a question. 

“I just wanted to make sure you don’t need anything else. I know that you get cold, so I could see about grabbing you an extra jacket or maybe one of the blankets…”

Suddenly, though perhaps it really wasn’t, perhaps it had been building all morning, your body washed cold. The anger and grief that you thought you had processed all those years ago welled up and crashed against your ribs begging to burst out and wail on Robby. 

How dare he bring you lunch? How dare he keep remembering you in such gentle ways? How dare he sit there like he didn’t call you the devil last time you spoke? 

You stood suddenly. “I can’t fucking do this.”

Striding from the room, you quickly skirted around milling medical workers and patients until you were outside and slightly beyond the reach of the ambulance bay. Robby’s presence was suffocating and infuriating and heartbreaking. Maybe it hadn’t been poke a bruise, maybe it had been picking at scab that hadn’t healed—maybe it would never heal. 

“Fuck,” you croaked, squatting against the building, hoping beyond hope for a peaceful five minutes to collect yourself so you could go back inside and pretend to be fine and untouchable until tonight when you would go to yoga and probably cry during shavashna. 

Squatting on your heels, the palms of your hand squished against your eyes causing dancing spots to trail across your vision, you heard your name. Robby was still a few paces away, but you could hear his footsteps approaching. 

In your mind's eye, you briefly imagined pushing him in front of an incoming ambulance. It wasn’t practical nor legal, but the thought gave you a modicum of comfort. 

“Not now, please,” you said. You couldn’t even find it in you to be horrified at how tearful you sounded.

“What happened? I thought…well, I didn’t think…” he trailed off. 

“Robby, I can’t do this.”

“I just want to know what I did, so I don’t do it again,” he replied. He sounded as sad as you did and for some reason, that swallowed the grief and sadness, replacing it with the fiery anger and fury that had been neatly tucked away in a small pocket of your heart.

“Fuck off,” you almost laughed, wiping your tears away and standing. “What you did?”

“Look, I know how we ended was—”

“Cruel. You were cruel,” you said. The blood pumping in your ears made it nearly impossible to tell how loud you were being. “Do you remember one of the last things you said to me?”

Robby grew pale and shook his head. 

“You said the devil had no need for an advocate when I was around,” you hissed. “You—you were so mean and nasty and you broke my heart. And then I spend years trying to get over it. I spend years trying to convince myself that someone somewhere might not see me as an awful monster.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you kept going. 

“I never wavered in my love of this job, you know. It sucks. Every day there is some new horror I’m faced with, but what I do makes a difference. The world is better, or Pittsburgh is better, because I do this job. And someone else would replace me if I left, but I haven’t. Did you know that I was named Assistant Director for the Allegheny Public Defenders while we were dating? I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t stomach the shitty judgment I knew I would get.”

“Sweetheart,” croaked Robby. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you nearly spit. “Don’t call me that. You basically said you hated me. So no, you don’t get to be familiar and friendly with me today. You don’t get to remember my favorite salad or remember my coffee order.”

The tears welled up in your eyes again. 

“Fuck you for thinking you could break my heart, break me, and think that you retained the right to remember me. You hated me, Robby. I’ve never been as hated as I was by you, don’t know what that’s like? For one of the people you care about most in the world, someone who should care about you back, to despise you? To think you’re evil? Just…” you took an angry breath, “just leave me alone. Talk to me only about Mr. Williams, and we can go back to pretending the other person doesn’t exist tomorrow. You can stop pretending not to hate me or whatever.”

For the first time since your rage against him started you looked at him. He looked, well, he looked like you imagine you did. Devastated and broken hearted and like one gust of wind could knock you over. Well, that was his problem. You brushed past him and managed to bump into Dana. 

“Where’s the bathroom?”

She looked up at you sharply and simply pointed down a hall. You nodded and rushed off, not before noticing how she began to walk in the direction you came from. 

Good, she can deal with her pet emotionally stunted doctor. Robby’s inability to deal with how he feels was no longer your problem. Your only problem now was to hide how puffy your eyes were from crying and compose yourself for the next inevitable fight with Officer Benning. 

When you finally found yourself back in th hospital room things had drastically changed. You had only been in the bathroom less than ten minutes and yet you somehow found yourself in the middle of a western stand off. Two police officers had spawned in your absence and they seemed to be staring down Mel, Perlah, and to your muted surprise, Robby. 

“You are not taking this man anywhere,” Robby said in a voice you’d never heard from him before. 

“We have orders,” tall cop said. 

He looked too young to radiate the amount of confidence that he spoke with. He was far too confident for someone who held a gun and—as you liked to remind everyone around you—a monopoly on violence. His use of violence was always justified, not true for anyone else. His partner to his left seemed bored. She leaned more than stood. 

“Orders from whom?” You asked, tugging on your blazer. 

“Who are you?” Tall cop asked. 

“I’m Anthony Williams’ attorney,” you said simply. 

Officer Benning, who had been standing towards the back with a gleeful look on his face, spoke up, “She’s a public defender.”

You didn’t react, but out of the corner of your eye saw Perlah scoff. 

“We have orders from our sergeant and the warden of the state prison to transfer him to the in-unit medical facility,” the female cop said. 

“Not without a court order,” you said. “Right now there’s an internal investigation occurring in regard to Mr. Williams’ injuries. IA and the presiding judge need to sign off on moving orders.” 

“Look, we were just told to pick him up and drive him north,” Tall cop said. 

“And how do you plan to do that?” Robby asked. “You arrived in a cop car. The patient is not in a state to be transferred, but certainly won’t be walking out of here to sit in the backseat.”

“Can’t you put him in wheel chair?” The female cop asked. 

Robby’s jaw tightened. “Are you asking me to put a patient who should be in the ICU in a wheel chair so you can toss him in the back of your cop car?” 

“Yes?”

“Do you hear yourself?” 

It sounded like something you would say, but it came from Robby’s lips. 

“That’s a person. A human being. Someone who is our neighbor—and you want to treat him with such blatant disrespect?” 

You weren’t sure if you shocked look was showing on your face or not. But Robby wasn’t looking at you. It seemed like he had forgotten you were even in the room. 

“Mel, what are the possible outcomes of such an egregious transfer on an unstable patient in Mr. Williams’ condition?” Robby asked. 

Mel began to rattle off medical jargon that simply went over your head. The whole time you were staring at Robby. Briefly, you wondered if this was an elaborate ploy to prove to you wrong—to prove he was…better, maybe? But that didn’t sound right. Robby was petty at times, but not like that. No, instead you thought back to what Dana had mentioned so many hours ago. Perhaps he had really changed. Perhaps he was really different. 

Once Mel finished, you jumped in. 

“What are your names?” You asked grabbing your notebook. The power of a lawyer and a notebook could not be understated. It struck fear into many a cop and prison guard alike. 

“Greggs and Frobishire,” the woman said, bored. 

“What precinct?”

“The one-twelve,” Greggs replied in the same bored tone. 

“Oh perfect, I know Rodney,” you said calling their sergeant by his first name. 

The only thing worse than a public defender writing down your names was when she knew your sergeant by his first name. You reveled in the way they recoiled. Grand conspiracies weren’t wildly common (neither were they wildly uncommon), but more often it was people calling in favors and taking advantage of structures that didn’t have built in check points. Favorable situations were spotted by clever people and exploited. 

If you had to guess Benning had called the warden who called Rodney who hadn’t been informed about the reality of the situation. As much as you were anti-cop, Rodney was about as good as they came. Your job would be a lot easier if the police force was filled with more Anthony’s. 

You pulled out your phone and dialed the precinct number. While it rang, you said, “My boss just received an injunction order preventing any further communication with this patient, so let’s leave the room and allow the doctors to complete their work.”

Jan had sent over the injunction order while you had been having a small bathroom breakdown about facing your ex boyfriend. You had seen it come across your phone and then proceeded to blubber for another five minutes. 

“Rodney?” You said as he picked up and you ushered the cops and guard out of the room, “Hi how are you? Tell me, how up to date are you on the situation of Anthony Williams?”

You watched as the faces of the people in front of you spasmed. It never got old, being the stanchion in the way of people who believed they could bulldoze across those less powerful; it certainly wasn’t old now watching Benning’s face grow more and more red. As you continued your conversation with the sergeant of the 112, Greggs and Frobishire began to inch farther and farther away from the unconscious body of Anthony Williams. It wasn’t a long phone call. Nor did it take long for Rodney to call the officers back to the precinct. 

“Don’t you get it?” Benning hissed. “This man is dangerous and you’re putting everyone in the hospital at risk.” 

“This man has rights,” Robby sighed. He looked exhausted and you weren’t sure if it was from the intense stand off you just had with Bennings and the cops, or because of the intense personal stand off the two of you just had not twenty minutes earlier. “And whether you respect them or not is irrelevant. This man is not leaving without my approval, his attorney’s, nor our legal and administrative team. Because guess what?” 

You stood a little mesmerized as Robby stepped forward towards Benning. Robby wasn’t as bulky as the prison guard, but he was taller and just slightly broader. 

“I can call my boss, too. And I can guarantee she is much scarier than yours,” he continued simply. 

In a tiny alcove of your brain–one you hadn’t known even existed until this moment–you realized that might be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen Robby do, and you’d experienced his above average bedroom skills. 

He glanced at you quickly; you were unsure what exactly your face looked like, but he seemed to flush at your gaze. Greggs and Frobishire exited not long after that and Benning returned to his post right outside the door of Anthony Williams tiny ER room. 

“Mel, let Gloria know what’s going on down here. She’ll want to make sure legal is in the building and nearby in case this happens again,” Robby said after Benning finally took his leave. “Even with his lawyer in the ED they still tried to take him; I want eyes on this room at all time.” 

“Got it, Dr. Robby.” 

“Include all of this in your chart, too,” he added. “And see if the CT results are back yet.” 

“I’ll page you when I’ve had a chance to look at them,” she replied as she headed out the door.  

There was a moment, a split second really, when you realized you were alone with Robby again. During your relationship with him, during all of your relationships really, you had prided yourself on being even keeled, emotionless during arguments and fights. You never raised your voice. You didn’t need to. 

But if you weren’t careful, and there were plenty of times you weren’t, your words were sharper and more painful than any raised voice could be. 

It seemed to have shocked Robby, that you had finally reached your threshold. You yelled at him. Raised your voice. And now you both had to go back to being professional like it never happened. Like he hadn’t seen you finally reach a breaking point that he caused. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. 

“Doing my job,” he said gruffly. 

You snorted. “No, you weren’t.” 

He just hummed and busied himself with Mr. Williams monitors. You knew next to nothing about the medical world–it was hard to tell if he was actually doing something or just trying to look busy. 

“I heard you earlier,” Robby said quietly. “I am going to respect your space, but I just wanted to apologize for not getting it while we were together. I’m sorry I didn’t understand what you were telling me.” 

You weren’t sure what to say to that. But it made your chest ache and you couldn’t find the strength to respond. 

“I just…” he trailed off. “You made me better, even if I didn’t pick up on it until after you left.” 

He left the room and you weren’t sure if you were relieved he didn’t give you time to respond or sad. If he had stayed, you doubted you would have known what to say. 

Whoever this Robby was, he was fundamentally different from the man you knew. 

-- -- --

September 2023

Robby was reading when you walked into his condo. You had just celebrated your one year anniversary and as much as you enjoyed dating Robby, there was this fear in the back of your head that he really wasn’t as “okay” with your job as he pretended to be. He still made odd comments about some of your clients here and there, but most of the time when you brought up the specifics of your job he tended to change the subject. 

“Hey,” he said, setting down his book. You couldn’t tell what it was from where you stood, easing off your heels. “Court day?” 

“Yes, fuck those heels,” you grumbled collapsing against him. “They were sent from hell to kill me.” 

“You must feel important that something was sent from hell to kill you, then.” 

“You’re not funny.” You had a small smile on your face. 

“Sure,” he replied, leaning over to kiss you. 

The kiss was chaste at first, but there was still a fire brewing inside of you after your day and it wasn’t long until you were pulling Robby closer, deepening the kiss. It definitely wasn’t long until you were stripping off your blazer and throwing one of your legs over his laps. 

“Is this okay?” you asked a little breathlessly. 

“More than,” he replied. Beneath you, he looked flushed and a little shocked at the turn of events, but his hands held on tightly as you adjusted your weight over him. It wasn’t long until you felt his arousal against your legs. 

You were a little more aggressive than you would normally be. With one hand fisted in his hair, you tilted his neck so you could kiss and nip at his skin more effectively. Robby's skin was a little dry from the fall air, but even that couldn’t discourage you when the sounds he was making went straight to your core. 

“What brought this on?” he asked, panting when you finally pulled back. 

“I got a little worked up in court today,” you told him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Fucking Zicarelli was being a bitch.” 

“The District Attorney?” Robby asked, confused. 

“Yeah, I had a client who killed her abuser and that motherfucker was going for the death penalty,” you grumbled. “Insane since no one has been executed in this state since before the turn of the century.” 

“Why would he go for the death penalty?”

“Because the victim was a wealthy and ‘upstanding citizen’ and there was 'no real proof’—whatever that means—he was abusing her. As though her medical records and multiple domestic calls weren’t enough,” you said. Sighing a little you finally said, “So I’m a little pissed. And I figured fucking you would be more productive than toliet papering his house.” 

“Do people still do that?” Robby asked, amused. 

“No idea, but I would. Although I think he lives in an apartment and that’s a lot of effort.” 

“And so you ended up in my lap.” 

“No need to worry about cognitive decline with this level of brain power,” you snarked. Robby rolled his eyes. 

“It sounds like you need to talk about it," he stated, brushing some of your hair out of your face. 

“No,” you replied, grinding down on him, “I need to ride you so well neither of us can walk tomorrow.” 

“You won’t feel better,” he added. 

“I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black.” 

“Do as I say and not as I do?” he replied, but it sounded more like a question. 

Taking a deep breath, you eased off his flagging erection and sat back on his legs. He seemed content to let you continue sitting on his lap as you talked through your day. 

“I can’t say much about the case, although I guess it’s all public record now,” you mused. “My client was being abused and her husband threatened to kill their baby. She snapped and shot him with his shotgun. His family is rich. They are also donors to Zicarelli.”

“So you think he’s more motivated to seek harsher penalties?” Robby inquired. He was stroking your thighs through your work slacks. It was grounding as you thought back to your miserable day in court. 

“I don’t know how directly they are truly correlated. More like they exist in the same circles and that tends to breed loyalty. He played every dirty trick in the book. He ‘forgot’ to disclose evidence in discovery, he added a witness last minute—all things I couldn’t prepare for. Not to mention the victim’s family donated to the judge’s campaign too–same circles and shit, so he wasn’t willing to cut me some slack or hear a motion to strike some of the prejudicial statements from the record. It felt like they were ganging up on this woman because she finally stood up for herself.” 

“Maybe, but she also killed someone, babe,” Robby said softly. 

“I’m well aware of that, Michael. I saw the crime scene photos,” you snapped. His lap suddenly didn’t feel near as comforting as it had a few moments ago. 

“Maybe it isn’t a conspiracy, but they’re doing their jobs—seeking justice for the man who was murdered.” 

“It wasn’t murder, though. It was self-defense. He beat her,” you nearly snarled, getting off of his lap and standing. You began to pace. “Her medical records could be used as a textbook example of abuse.” 

“It’s hard to prove abuse just from medical records,” he disagreed. 

“No offense, but I think I’m more familiar with what abuse looks like than you are,” you snapped. “Nearly every single female client, and even some of my male clients, have been abused by a partner. This man alienated her from her family, locked down her access to money and the real world, and then when she upset him, he made sure he hurt her where no one could see.” 

“I’m not saying he didn’t abuse her,” Robby defended. “I’m just saying that it doesn’t excuse murder.” 

“And I’m telling you that if she didn’t kill him, she would have been dead. Likely with their kids,” you exclaimed. “I don’t think she should get away without recompense—although, I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed—but she shouldn’t be facing the fucking death penalty!” 

“Plenty of people are abused everyday and they don’t kill another human,” Robby huffed. 

You stared down at the man on the couch in front of you gobsmacked. This man, who cared so deeply for his patients and the community he served was sitting in front of you completely unable to sympathize with a woman who had been abused by her husband. 

“And a lot of those people are killed, Michael. Surely you know the statistics?” 

“Of course I know the statistics,” Robby said. “But I also know that real life can’t be neatly summarized by numbers.” 

“Okay? What does that have to do with my client and the poor behavior of the district attorney?” 

“Maybe he just didn’t want to see someone escape justice.” 

“Is it justice? Or is it really vengeance because the family has money and friends in government so they can use the state as their personal firing squad?” you shot back. 

“I think that’s a little extreme.” 

You felt your eye twitch. The sour feeling returned to your gut and you couldn’t be in this room any longer. 

“I’ve been doing this job for a long time, Michael. I have seen things that would shake your very dumb belief in our criminal justice system. Sometimes the only answer is to burn it down,” you snapped. You grabbed your blazer from the ground. “I think I need to leave. I’m really pissed and I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.” 

“C’mon, sweetheart—”

“Don’t start with me, Michael. If I stay I’ll say something mean, and neither of us want that.” 

“You’re serious?” 

“Yeah, I fucking am. You just sat there and implied that you think that there is a good reason the district attorney, a man I have repeatedly said is not trustworthy, is above board seeking the death penalty against a battered woman!” 

“I’m just saying that there were other options than murder!” 

“And I’m saying that you can’t make that call when you don’t know what her life was. It was hell, Michael. Absolutely hell. Get the fuck off your high horse and recognize that sometimes violence isn’t always the actions of an evil person. Sometimes violence is the response of someone with very few other bad choices.” 

You didn’t wait for him to reply. Instead of trying to put your shoes back on, you grabbed them along with your bag and walked out his door. You slid your heels back on in the elevator and once you got to your car, you allowed yourself a deep, shuddering breath. 

That sour feeling still sat heavy in your gut. 

-- -- --

Present Day - 7:30 pm

The rest of your day was spent in Anthony Williams hospital room. Dana brought you a sandwich for dinner, but you noticed she didn’t make eye contact with you. It was nice to know that Robby had people in his corner—even if his corner was defined by being a piece of shit. As the day shift slowly transitioned to the night shift, you let our a breath of relief. It meant Robby was going home. His last update had essentially been telling you not to get your hopes up, that it was unlikely Anthony Williams would last through the night. 

Shortly after shift change you saw Jack, Robby’s friend, and he introduced Cassie McKay. Except, you already knew Cassie McKay. 

“Robby filled me in,” Jack said, stepping in the tiny hospital room.

“On which part?” You asked blandly. Snorting, Jack replied, 

“Medical and personal.” 

“Hmm,” you replied. 

“Mind if I bring a resident in on this?” 

“Are they as good as Mel?” You asked, making Jack laugh. 

“Of course they are.” 

A few minutes later, you saw Cassie walk through the door. 

“This is Cassie McKay, she’s a third year,” Jack said. 

The problem with this is due to the fact you knew Cassie. You had been her attorney during her ongoing assault charges. You had been given the case because her ex-husband’s family was rich and you were uncowed by those with money. It also meant that you couldn’t disclose that relationship, so you stood and smiled. 

“Nice to meet you, Dr. McKay,” you replied. 

Cassie laughed. “It’s nice and very ethical of you to pretend we don’t know each other.” 

“Oh?” Jack asked. 

“She got me on probation and an ankle monitor, instead of jail time,” Cassie told Jack. “She also helped keep me out of jail after Pittfest last year.” 

“Fucking ankle monitor bullshit,” your grumbled the same time Jack said, 

“Cops trying to arrest you after the biggest mass shooting our city had seen was beyond unreasonable. Robby and I about lost our shit.” 

Oh. That meant Cassie was the resident Robby had mentioned this morning. What a small, terribly-too connected world. 

“Doing my job,” you said simply. “How up to date are both of you on what’s happening with Mr. Williams? 

“Oh, we’re well aware of the showdown you and Robby had with the state of Pennsylvania,” Cassie replied, laughing. 

“I wouldn’t call it a showdown,” you hedged. 

“Well, it made them stand down for now, whatever it was,” Jack said. “Are you getting tagged out at all?” 

“No, not tonight. I was scheduled for night court anyways, so they switched me to this. So it will be a nice change compared to getting our favorite drunk and disorderlies out on bail,” you replied lightly. 

“That happened one time and I was not drunk,” Jack grumbled. 

“You sure as hell were disorderly, though,” you commented with a small smile on your face. 

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said. 

“You’ve been arrested?” Cassie asked, surprised. 

“I have been a lot of things. This hospital doesn’t know everything about me, McKay,” he commented lightly. 

“But she seems to,” grumbled the doctor. You laughed. 

“My clients get the same confidentiality, Cassie,” you replied. 

“Is that what I am to you? Only a client?” Jack asked. Your stomach swooped uncomfortably. 

You couldn’t exactly say, “No actually, you're the best friend of the man that tore me inside out, and then a few months later got into a bar fight where I had to get your ass out of the drunk tank and then get your charges dropped.”

So instead you said, “It’s unethical for you to be anything else.” 

“Whatever you say, counselor,” he replied, winking. Jack had always been a bit of a flirt. It was, perhaps, the most normal thing that occurred today. 

“Do you want to increase the pressors, Abbot?” Cassie asked looking at Anthony Williams’ monitors. 

“Yes, maybe it will help his heart rate as well,” Jack hummed. They began to speak in medical jargon that went so far over your head you could barely remember what they said. 

“I’ll let Dr. Robby know about the changes,” she said, moving to leave. 

“Dr. Robinavitch is still here?” You asked. The tension that had been sitting heavy on your frame all day had returned. You looked over at Jack who was dutifully avoiding eye contact. 

“Oh yeah, he is pretty invested in the case and wants to be here as the chief attending in case anything else goes awry,” Cassie said. It was hard to tell if she picked up on your tension. But she certainly caught the awkwardness that Jack brought—well, more than normal. “What am I missing?” 

“Nothing,” Jack said the same time you said, 

“Nothing relevant to Mr. Williams.” 

“Ooo-kay,” she drawled. “Well, that’s not ominous. I’ll go put in the orders and update Robby.” 

“Thanks, McKay,” Jack said. 

When Cassie had left the room, you stared down the man in front of you. “Still here?” 

“He’s…invested in the case.” 

“Jack.” 

“He won’t come bother you. He’s not the doctor of Mr. Williams right now. He really only wants to be here for backup.” 

“I’ll poke him in the eye if I see him,” you grumbled. 

“Well, it’s not a bad place to poke someone in the eye.” 

Against your will, you huffed out a little laugh. “Level with me, Jack. What are the kid’s chances?” 

Jack sighed and looked down at the tablet with the chart. “Not good. We’re throwing everything we can at him. If he makes it to discharge tomorrow, he’ll get a bed in ICU. Robby called in a few favors.” 

“Robby did?” Your surprise was evident.

“He’s…not different, necessarily, more like he evolved some,” Jack said. 

“All because of me?” You snorted disbelievingly. 

“He say that?” Jack asked. You nodded making Jack snort his own disbelieving sound. “You certainly started it. That breakup knocked him on his ass for a long time. He still hasn’t talked about it.” 

“He doesn’t come off well in the tale,” you grumbled. 

“I have no doubt,” Jack nodded. He eased in the seat next to you and steepled his fingers for a moment, thinking. “After my little…indescretion, we had a guy from the state prison come in with complications from cancer. He had murdered a couple in their car during the ninties or something. Made away with like fifty bucks.” 

“Where is this going?” 

“Robby hated that he was here. Hated that he wasn’t in a state prison run hospital. I wasn’t here, so I couldn’t shake some sense into his dumb skull,” Jack said. He wasn’t looking at you, but kept his eyes on Anthony Williams. “He was so…cautious, I suppose, about the man, he only allowed himself and Perlah to treat him.” 

You snorted. “That sounds about right.” 

“And I have no idea what happened in that room, but they came out a couple days later as friends.” 

“You’re shitting me.” 

“Not even a little bit.” 

“He befriended a convicted murderer?” You asked shocked. 

“Mm-hmm. Continued visiting him after he was sent back to prison once he was stable.” 

“So I spent almost two years begging him to see their humanity and he did it for someone else?” 

“You could see it that way,” Jack agreed. “Or you could see it as a man who heard all the things you were saying and when he finally interacted with it in a more substantial way, it finally clicked. It’s one thing to see the poor and small time criminals that we normally get. We don’t often deal with the people you deal with. It’s hard, I think, to understand we’re just one bad day away from being them until you come face to face with it.” 

You sat there long after Jack left, the room settling back into its familiar rhythm—the soft hiss of oxygen, the steady beeps of the monitors, and the faint murmur of voices drifting in from the hallway. Anthony Williams hadn’t moved. His chest still rose and fell with mechanical assistance. You watched it because it was easier than letting your thoughts fully percolate.

It hurt in a way that felt almost petty to admit, even to yourself. You had loved Robby. You had argued with him carefully, patiently, sometimes angrily, about the things he refused to see. 

You had tried to hand him the language, the framework, the moral through-line, hoping he would meet you there. Instead, he’d dug in. He’d told you you were being too naive and unrealistic. He hadn’t wanted to grow with you. And now—now he was standing his ground for a stranger, for a kid he’d never met before today, for someone whose name he’d only learned because the system had nearly killed him.

You didn’t begrudge his previous patient or Anthony Williams. In some way, you were grateful for it; that it resulted in defense of the broken man in the bed next to you. The timing was fucking shit, though. You hated that Robby’s growth arrived too late for the two of you, that it had required distance and damage and silence before it could take root and sprout into something substantial. It felt unfair—useful and necessary, sure, but still deeply personal in its cost.

And yet.

You couldn’t deny the quiet pride that lingered behind the hurt. You had been right. The things you had tried to teach him weren’t theoretical anymore. They now had consequence he could see and feel. He was using his authority the way you had always believed it should be used: not to sort the deserving from the undeserving, but to slow the banal bulldozing of a person by an uncaring system long enough that hopefully they could survive it. 

You pressed your pen to the margin of your notebook, trying to ground yourself. Maybe this was what it meant to love someone and leave them. Not to stop caring whether they became better, but to accept that you wouldn’t always be the reason. That the seeds you planted might grow a tree whose shade you’d never stand beneath. 

-- -- --

October 2023

It had barely been a month since your last fight about Zicarelli seeking the death penalty. Things were still fragile between you—patched over only because Robby apologized for snapping at you. It wasn’t the full conversation you’d hoped for, but you also weren’t sure you could handle a breakup on top of everything else happening at work.

So you kept things to yourself. You didn’t tell him when the State Association of Public Defenders gave you an award, or when one of your clients was finally found innocent. You didn’t mention your promotion to Assistant Director, either. You knew that if you couldn’t share moments like these with him—moments that were important and celebratory, but about work—you couldn’t keep pretending this relationship was sustainable.

But it was hard to reconcile those doubts with the man who showed up for you so consistently in other parts of your life. The man who took care of you when you were sick without hesitation, who fought bitterly for his patients and residents, who never stopped arguing for resources for his safety-net hospital. He worked with the street team without complaint, showing a level of compassion most people didn’t. And yet something about your job snagged on him, you doubted he was all that conscious of it. 

He was sweet and attentive, carrying more COVID-era trauma than he admitted, but kind despite all of it. Kind—until you reminded him that you defended people accused of murder.

So you shouldn’t have been surprised when you went over for your weekly dinner and he ambushed you about your newest case, the one that had turned into a minor media circus.

The irony was that being a public defender hadn’t even been your plan. You went to law school aiming to be a prosecutor. Then one presentation from a Philadelphia County Public Defender turned your entire sense of purpose on its head, and you never looked back. You loved the work. You believed in it deeply. 

But whenever you talked about your job—specifically that you defended people accused of violent crimes—Robby slipped into a worldview you recognized in so many others: that there were two kinds of defendants, those who deserved a lawyer and those who didn’t.

You couldn’t even fault him for it at first. The world conditioned people to think that way, especially in a culture convinced that anyone touched by the criminal legal system is already guilty of something larger than the charge.

It didn’t help that your newest client, already buried under an intense media frenzy, was exactly the sort of person the public decided wasn’t “worthy” of defense at all. He’d been accused of felony assault of a nurse. Normally your caseload was full of more violent felonies, but because this case was becoming a public relations nightmare, your boss assigned you as attorney of record.

You weren’t surprised Robby didn’t love the case; you were surprised by how fast the argument flared when you mentioned the news report that listed your name. It felt like it came out of nowhere—except it hadn’t. It had been building for months.

“Well I’m not exactly happy about it,” Robby grumbled.

He sat back from the table, arms crossed, the vein in his temple starting to pulse. You could see the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in his hand as he tried to keep his voice even.

“About what? That I’m doing my job and can’t get your personal approval for each case I take?”

Your voice was sharper than intended. Maybe you shouldn’t have gone from zero to one hundred, but it felt like you all had gone through this conversation before. 

“I would have appreciated a heads up.”

“I can’t give you a heads up,” you grumbled. “Attorney client privilege.”

“Not even when the newspaper quotes you saying that your client deserves a “robust defense in a court of law”?” Challenged Robby.

“He does!” You exclaimed. “Everyone does. Even people you don’t like!”

“It’s not about like!” Robby finally said, with a raised voice. He slammed his hand on the table, silverware rattling. You jumped. “It’s about loyalty! You know how terrible patients are to us. Do you know how it feels to see your girlfriend defend someone who attacked us?”

“You’re accusing me of not being loyal?”

Robby’s eyes were fixed on you, blazing. “If the shoe fits, counselor.”

You leaned forward now. “Do you think I went through our docket trolling for cases that were going to hit a little too close to home? Do you think I sought out ways to hurt you?”

“I just don’t think you care who gets hurt in your defense of these people,” Robby said.

“These people? Elaborate on that one, Michael,” you nearly spit.

“It’s good, important even, to defend poor people from the overreaches of the police, but that’s not what this is. This is someone who was caught on camera punching a nurse. Her nose was broken in three places.”

“And what? Because he may have committed a crime you are particularly sensitive to, the government shouldn’t have to prove their case?”

“He shouldn’t have a chance to get off!” Robby exclaimed. His chair scraped back as he stood, pacing now, hands flexing at his sides. “People cannot treat healthcare workers like punching bags on their bad days!”

“I agree with you! But what if it wasn’t him? What if the camera footage is misleading? What if the cops have some agenda against the guy they arrested and pinned this crime on him?”

“Please, that’s not what’s happening here. I saw the guy’s mug shot and the camera footage,” Robby said. “And the fact that you agree with me but still insist on defending him is insulting.”

“You are not the final arbiter of morality, Robby! Just because you think you know what you saw doesn’t mean my client should forgo a defense.”

“Trying to get him off on a technicality isn’t a defense, it’s…it’s underhanded!”

“Underhanded,” you scoffed. 

“Yeah underhanded. So what if they didn’t fully read his rights or miss a fucking filing date? Criminals shouldn’t get off because of a loophole.” 

“Criminals are human beings. Criminals deserve the same rights that you and I do,” you shot back. 

“Criminals deserve jail! They don’t deserve to hurt my nurses!” 

“That isn’t my problem! My problem is the government not taking advantage of the kind of people you hate. Oppression starts with the people society despises!” 

“C’mon,” scoffed Robby. “That does seem a little dramatic,”

“The trouble with fighting for human freedom is that one spends most of one's time defending scoundrels. For it is against scoundrels that oppressive laws are first aimed, and oppression must be stopped at the beginning if it is to be stopped at all.” You recited. “If that means I represent rapists, murderers, and whoever for the rest of my career, so be it.” 

“And you would feel good about that? Seriously?” Robby asked. 

“Ah, I see now. I always wondered why you were so fucking weird about my job and this is the real reason—you don’t agree with it. You don’t think criminals should have a defense. You think we should lock them up and throw away the key,” you said slowly. “Very ‘do no harm’ of you.”

“Hey, back off. Don’t make this personal.”

You laughed once, bitterly. “And what has this been, then? Not personal? You attacking my character isn’t personal?”

“I think it would make me feel a little better if I knew that you felt somewhat conflicted about it. That it bothered you in some way,” Robby replied. 

“Well, it doesn’t. I don’t think of my clients that way. I think of their cases in terms of what the state, the government—the only institution in our country that has a monopoly on violence, by the fucking way—has to prove in order to take away their freedom.”

“And when they’re guilty and you get them off?” Robby challenged.

“Not my problem, the burden of proof is on the state. If the cops and DA can’t prove their case they don’t get to throw someone in prison.”

“I just don’t understand how you could do it,” scoffed Robby.

He was pacing again, running both hands through his hair now, his movements jerky and restless. The tension in the room was suffocating.

“Then lay it out for me. I must not be as smart as you high and mighty doctor. So explain to me like I’m an idiot. What is wrong with me doing my job?”

There was a silence around the table and you scoffed.

“When you’re my age—” Robby began.

“Oh fuck off,” you laughed. “What? In ten years my moral compass will change? Or do you not think I understand the consequences of my actions?”

“People look at me differently because you’re defending him!” Robby snapped. He pointed at you now, the gesture sharp and trembling.

“Be around better people then,” you replied. “It’s not my problem how people treat you. You knew exactly who I was before we started this. I haven’t hidden anything. I haven’t changed. I’m doing the same job I’ve always done. I’m protecting people from the overreaches of the state. And I’m so sorry you’re understanding of the criminal justice system began and ended with Willie Horton, but read a fucking book and don’t attack someone you claim to care about.”

“You just don’t get it,” Robby said softly, shaking his head. “Every day I worry one of my staff members is going to be injured on the job. We’re harassed, assaulted, yelled at on a daily basis. And as soon as someone finally, finally is willing to take it seriously you jump in trying to make sure justice doesn’t happen.”

“I know. And that is so tremendously unfair. But it’s also not my job to deal with that. My job begins and ends at the court house. I’m trying to ensure justice does happen, Robby. You have to prove someone is guilty. If we don’t then the only thing standing between the two of us and a jail cell is an accusation,” you sighed.

“Wow, how righteous of you,” Robby snapped. 

“Christ, hang up the martyr hat Robby. It’s a bad look,” you snapped.

“Only one of us gets attacked for doing our jobs, and it isn’t you.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m glad you think so. Next time I get a threatening email, it’ll be nice to know it wasn’t really me they wanted to kill.”

“It’s not a surprise when you defend people who have caused real pain and misery in the world. Why would the devil need an advocate when you’re around.” 

Fucking ouch. 

You blinked at him. “Okay, well, I’m not sure I really want to date someone who thinks so low of me.” 

“I’m not sure I want to date someone I think so low of,” Robby replied back harshly. 

“It would have been really great if you had figured out you hated me before you made me fall in love with you, you absolute bastard.” 

You didn’t wait for a response before walking out the door. As you drove away from his condo, you realized this is what heartbreak felt like. 

Incredible how it really does feel like someone reached inside your chest and squeezed your heart until it burst. Incredible that it was caused by the person you thought cared about you. Incredible that you fell in love with someone who seemed to hate you. 

You were back at your own apartment before you realized you hadn’t told Robby you loved him before that moment. 

But, it didn’t matter because you never heard from him again.

-- -- --

Present Day - 10:00 pm

It happened quickly but not unexpectedly. One minute the room was holding steady in an anxious equilibrium and the next breath found everything tilted. Alarms cut through the air, voices stacking over one another as the bed was flattened. and hands went everywhere at once. Someone called out numbers you didn’t understand. Someone else swore. You pressed yourself back into the corner automatically, spine against the wall, notebook still in your hand like you might take notes on how Anthony Williams died so needlessly. 

The room filled with bodies and motion—determined people who did this everyday and continued to come back for more. You heard Robby’s comment in your head: “Sisyphean.” and you finally understood what he meant. 

Jack was at the foot of the bed, Cassie at Anthony’s side. And then Robby was there—seemingly out of nowhere—sliding into place without hesitation. He took over from Jack, barking out orders trying to keep a young man from dying.

You knew it wouldn’t matter. You knew it with a certainty that settled heavy and cruel in your chest, even as your heart insisted on hoping anyway. The body failing despite everyone’s best efforts. The neglect catching despite the endless efforts of everyone at The Pitt. 

You watched Robby work—his face set, jaw clenched, hands steady and relentless—and the anger flared hot and unproductive. You were angry that Anthony Williams had been twenty years old, scared, and brutalized in a place meant for safety. You were angry that the people fighting hardest for him now were meeting him for the first time at the end. You were angry that Robby finally saw how fucked the system could be, but only when it was too late.

When they finally stopped, the silence was worse than the alarms. Someone called time of death. Robby stood there for a moment longer than necessary, hands still braced on the mattress, chest heaving. You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t look at Anthony, either. You stared instead at the floor, at the scuffed linoleum, at the spot where your shoe had left a faint mark earlier in the day. 

You felt hollowed out and raw, grief and rage tangled so tightly you couldn’t separate them. You had known this was coming. You had prepared for it professionally, legally, emotionally. And still it felt like a small, brutal theft—another life swallowed by a system that never seemed to pay for what it took.

“What do we do from here?” Cassie asked. She was looking at you. 

Clearing your throat of the anguish that threatened to suffocate you, you said, “I’ll inform the court. Write a report to internal affairs.”

“That’s it?” She asked, her tone was furious. 

“Yeah,” you sighed. “That’s it.”

“And there’s nothing else we can do? Nothing else you can do?”

“Cassie,” Jack said. 

“No! No way! This child was killed but that motherfucker out there and we can’t do anything about it? Fuck that!” She snapped. 

Cassie shucked her gloves off and stormed out of the room. Her exit took your anger with her and all that remained was sadness and the reality of the next steps. 

“Can you send me the death certificate?” You asked no one in particular. “I’ll need to file it with the update.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Jack said. “Don’t take Cassie’s words to heart…she just really cares.”

“It’s not like I’m not feeling the same way,” you huffed. 

Jack squeezed your shoulder as he walked out. The rest of the team began clean up. They covered Anthony Williams body, began unconnecting wires and tubes from him. You continued to stand against the wall, staring at the body of a boy you never really knew. 

“Mel said something earlier,” Robby said, leaning against the wall next to you. 

“Hmm?” Your brain wasn’t full processing his words.

“She mentioned you had a friend at the ACLU, who is suing the state for things like this,” he said softly. You doubted anyone else could hear it. 

“Yeah, I do.”

“Can you tell them about this?”

“I can give them a filing number. They’ll have to file a motion for discovery to get the information I’ll have collected. It will take a second, but yeah, in a roundabout way I can.”

“I’m glad.”

“A really, really small silver lining. Maybe Anthony Williams will get justice in death.”

“Maybe he will. But he also had you to advocate for him—try to keep him alive.”

“I think you did that part.”

“Not very well.”

“Based on what Jack was telling me, I think the only person who could have changed this outcome is God himself.”

“You don’t believe in God.”

“No I do not.” 

The two of you lapsed into silence for a few moments, watching as the bed was rolled out by techs. Eventually facilities would come through and sterilize the room, preparing it for another person. 

“Does it always feel this…bad, when it doesn’t go your way?” 

“Not always,” you replied. “But often.”

“I didn’t know.”

You couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah, I’m aware of that.”

“Let’s get some fresh air while you wait for the paperwork,” Robby said softly. “I don’t think you should be in here any longer.”

Against your better judgement, something you would chalk up to how emotionally strung out you felt in the wake of the day, you followed Robby out of the Pitt, across the street, and to some benches in the park. You both sat on a bench, a stone’s throw away from the place that Robby spent most of his career and you spent one of the worst days of your career. 

The grass beneath your feet was dull and flattened, patches of mud showing through where people had cut corners on the paths. A few lights from the street and the hospital spilled over the trees, casting everything in a tired yellow haze. Robby had sat down beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched, far enough that he wasn’t assuming anything. 

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You stared out at the empty park and tried not to think about how young Anthony had been, how you’d never even spoken to the kid before he died. You really tried not to think about how scared he was. 

“I’m sorry it didn’t work,” Robby said finally. His voice was hoarse and you heard his own grief. 

“For what?”

He snorted humorlessly. “Everything, I guess. But specifically that we couldn’t save him.” 

“Is this how you feel when you lose a patient?” You asked, mirroring Robby’s own question from before. 

“Not always, but often.”

“Suck ass.”

“Yeah, it fucking does.”

He went quiet again, shoulders rounding in on themselves, and you could see the weight of it settling—the familiar, cruel calculus of emergency medicine where effort and outcome never line up the way they should.

“I’m sorry I didn't understand it back then,” you said. “I always tried to understand both sides of your shit and that wasn’t what you needed, huh?”

“No,” he replied quietly. “I wanted someone to be angry with me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get that. I’m sorry it sounded like I was trying to defend the people who made this harder,” you told him. 

“I’m sorry I did the same.”

“Thank you.”

“Seriously, I’m sorry I was so stubborn and mean about it. I was so focused on the grief I saw in those walls, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”

“Why now?”

“What?”

“Why not earlier? Why not when we…why not when we still could have salvaged something?” 

He blew out a breath and leaned back against the bench, tipping his head back. You remained tilted forward, your elbows on knees, resting your head in your hands. 

“Yeah. Jack told me what you said earlier. About…about how it must look. Me changing now. You were right. About a lot of things. Back then. You were responsible for a big shift in me—even if I wouldn’t admit it at the time.”

You let out a humorless breath. “Funny way of showing it.”

“I know.” He didn’t argue. “I thought you just hadn’t experienced what I had. That time would make you more like me, instead of considering that maybe I needed to become more like you.”

You felt his words settle somewhere deep and sore, equal parts vindication and grief. 

“I wasn’t asking you to agree with me about everything,” you said quietly. “I just wanted you to see how fucked things could be. That what I did…wasn’t evil, I guess.”

“I know,” he said again. “And I wish I could say I never thought that. I was so caught up in grief, my own and others, that forgot that the people who created those grief were also humans, also our neighbors.” 

“Neighbors?” 

“I listened to that Mister Roger’s audiobook when I went on a sabbatical roadtrip a while back,” he laughed, sounding almost bashful. 

“No shit,” you chuckled. “I can’t believe you took sabbatical.”

“It was that or Jack was going to admit me,” he told you. “And I had to come to terms with how not okay I was. COVID, Adamson, Pittfest…you. God I was a mess. Still a mess, honestly.”

“Makes two of us.”

“About a year after we broke up, I met Charles. He was in jail for killing an old couple for the fifty bucks in their car console. I’ll spare you the deeply embarrassing details of my early behavior—but I’m sure you could guess. Anyways, he was reading that Mister Roger’s book. And he read me this quote and I have it fucking memorized now: 

“What happens when you’re so convinced about the rightness of your cause that human beings are less important than values or commitments or commandments? 

“We talked and talked about this man who has a radical view of how to treat people—treat our neighbors. And during those conversations, I realized Charles was just like me. He made bad choices, monumental mistakes that have long lasting consequences, and yet I don’t think he is evil.”

“Sucks doesn’t it?”

“I hate it,” Robby laughed. 

“It’s hard to realize the people we vilify, the felons and criminals we hate so much are just human. They aren’t monsters. Their bad choices are choices any of us could make with the right circumstances.” 

“I am so sorry for how hard of a time I gave you. I’m just so sorry,” Robby said quietly. 

“I can’t believe it took Mister Rogers and an honest to god murderer for you to get your head out of your ass,” you laughed, lightly. 

It still hurt, the fact you weren’t enough for him to take the blinders off for. But perhaps the point was they came off. You planted the seeds and Charles nurtured the sapling. 

“I guess, but it wouldn’t have happened without you. Don’t sell yourself short on this. You did more than enough.”

“You still see Charles?”

“Every couple of months. He writes, I write back. It’s an odd friendship, I suppose.”

“No kidding.”

The park’s silence seemed to echo. Each critter that skittered in the dark, each gust of wind that ruffled the leaves in the trees lingered between you both. It was the closest you’d been to Robby in so many years. You simultaneously wanted to push him away and hold him close. 

“Dana said you’d changed,” you said. 

“What?” 

“This morning, she walked me back to the room and said you had changed. She was was right.”

“She’ll love to hear it.”

“I’m just sorry I didn’t get to experience it.”

Robby let out a long breath and you heard him scrub his hand over his face. Your eyes hadn’t strayed from the darkness of the park. It was hard to look at him. 

“I wish I’d been ready sooner. I wish I’d been ready when it might have meant…us.”

Something about his tone made you look over at him. He looked, grief stricken. His face was filled with real regret. You had imagined this conversation a million times. You had imagined what it would be like for him to say those exact words, to tell you he changed. It wasn’t as satisfying as you thought it would be, just sad. 

“Me too.” 

As much as the break up had destroyed it, the relationship hadn’t been all bad. Robby taught you so much about how to show up for people, not just fight for them. He showed you how to be kind and funny in the face of impossible odds. He held you with love and gentleness, despite your rough edges. 

“We were bad for each other sometimes,” you admitted. “We hit each other’s worst pressure points. You were mean; I was meaner. And I think both assumed the other one would eventually bend.” You swallowed.

“But we were also good. I spent my career railing against the machine. Fighting tooth and nail, burning it down again and again. But you taught me it isn’t just about confrontation. I need to show up for people otherwise there’s no one to burn it down for.”

“I didn’t even know I was doing that,” he murmured. 

You gave him a rueful half smile, “I didn’t either. Not until after.” 

“I owe you an apology for that, too,” he nearly whispered. The remorse was clear in his voice. “That last fight. I was so mean to you.”

“I wasn’t much better.”

“Maybe, but you wouldn’t have lashed out if I hadn’t,” he said. You weren’t sure that was true, but he kept talking. “I said unforgivable things. And I’m so sorry for that.”

“I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Well, too bad. Not your call to make,” you shot back. He laughed. 

“You’re incredible, I hope you know that.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

Again, the pair of you fell silent. It wasn’t as awkward and uncomfortable as you feared. It almost felt like it used to. There was a quiet comfort radiating from Robby like this. He always felt like the last bastion of protection between you and the world. He was full of terrible jokes, smiles, and warm hugs that could thaw even the coldest of hearts. Sitting here, on this park bench suffocated by grief—grief of the present and past—you found yourself surprisingly content. 

“Do you think we could try again?” Robby asked after a while. 

You sat back against the bench sighed. “That was a really hard breakup. It…I am a different person now.”

“Yeah, I think we both are.” 

“I used to go home every night and replay that last fight until I couldn’t tell what I’d actually said versus what I wished I’d said. I second-guessed every instinct I had. I wondered if I was too much.” You let out a shaky breath. “It took months to sleep through the night. Longer to stop crying everytime I thought about it. The person I loved, it felt like he hated me.”

“I never, ever hated you,” he said in such a serious tone you glanced over at him. Robby’s face had gone pale, guilt written plainly across it. He looked small. 

“It felt like it, Michael. Now, I’m more careful. More closed off. I plan exits in my head even when things are good.” Your mouth twisted. “Everyone tells me that’s natural, not bad, not good. But I don’t know. Some days it just feels like I lost a much more hopeful version of myself.”

You finally looked at him, really looked at him, and the familiar tenderness flared. Sitting next to you, in scrubs he had worn all day trying to keep your client alive, it was hard not to feel that thread of connection between you. It was hard not to reach out and wrap your fingers in between his. 

“I don’t regret us,” you said. “I don’t regret loving you. Love isn’t a waste just because it didn’t last. Even a short love teaches you something. And ours taught me a lot. But it also cost me a lot.” 

“I miss you,” Robby said again, like he couldn’t stop himself. “I miss us. And I still love you. That never really went away.”

“I still love you, too. But I don’t think I could survive another heartbreak from you.” Your voice felt small, smaller than it had ever been.  

You let the quiet settle again, heavier now, weighted by everything you’d already said. The park felt suspended in time, the city noise dulled by distance and cold, like the world had decided to give the two of you a narrow pocket of stillness. Robby shifted beside you, rubbing his hands together, staring out at the same dead patch of grass you’d been studying like it might eventually offer answers.

“I’m a different dickhead than the one who broke your heart—and that’s not something I’ll forgive myself for, even if you have” he said finally. “I thought for a long time that I was the reasonable one. That I’d seen enough to justify my cynicism. Losing you certainly corrected that assumption.”

You stayed quiet, letting him talk.

“I kept hearing your voice in my head,” he went on, a faint, rueful huff of a laugh escaping him. “In meetings. In patient rooms. When I caught myself making snap judgments. I’d think, she’d hate that. Or worse—she’d be disappointed.” 

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, posture folding in on itself even more. “I didn’t suddenly become you, but I stopped assuming my way of seeing things was the only reasonable one. That maybe my version of realism was just my own grief clouding my judgement.”

Your chest tightened despite yourself.

“I miss you,” Robby said again, but this time he didn’t rush past it. “I miss the way you challenged me. I miss how infuriatingly principled you were, even when I didn’t agree. I think about you all the time.” 

He hesitated, then gave a self-conscious grimace. “I set up Google alerts for your name.”

You turned, startled. “You did what?”

He winced. 

“Yeah. I know. That sounds…not great. I promise it’s not stalker-y. Mostly professional stuff. Articles. Awards. Panels. Sometimes your name just pops up attached to something impressive and I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I always knew you were brilliant. I just didn’t realize how much you were doing while we were together. How much you weren’t telling me.”

You looked away from him again, your eyes following a stray ant. 

“I put it together a few months after we broke up,” he continued quietly. “I started seeing your name places. A state association award. That promotion. A couple of cases that made the news. Some of it happened while we were together and you felt you couldn’t tell me”

“It wasn't just you,” you said automatically, but the words tasted hollow.

“I think it was,” Robby replied. “I realized I was dating someone extraordinary and treating her like she was just…there. Like she’d always be there. Like she didn’t need the same kind of attention and care I gave everything else in my life, simply because I didn’t understand her fight.”

The admission caused a complicated mix of validation and grief to bloom in your chest.

“I miss you in the small ways,” he added. “Stupid ways. I still know your coffee order. I still catch myself wanting to text you when something absurd happens at work because you were always the one who thought my dumb jokes were funny.”

Robby cleared his throat and continued, “I’m sorry I changed you in bad ways, when I got to keep the good ones.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that.

He took a deep breath before continuing. “I just wish I’d been brave enough to meet you where you were before it was too late.”

“So do I,” you said. 

“I don’t expect anything. I just needed you to know that loving you changed me in ways that have made me a better person, a better doctor.”

You sat there together, the park quiet around you, both of you holding the same truth: that sometimes love arrives exactly when it’s needed to transform you—and leaves before it blooms.

Robby’s phone buzzed and he said, “Jack has everything ready for you.”

“Thanks.”

You both stood and Robby said, “I know that I made a monumental mistake with you. But if there’s even a chance that I can prove to you I’m different, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

“Because you’re a different dickhead, now?” You asked, a tiny smile playing on your lips. 

“Because I’m a different dickhead, now,” he agreed mirroring your smile. He looked...almost hopeful. It wasn't a bad look on him. 

“It has been surprisingly good to see you, Robby,” you said, standing on your tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek. The contact burned against your skin. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“As long as you do the same.”

“If that’s what the doctor ordered.”

You walked back into the Pitt. Back into the world of the man that had haunted you for the past three years. It didn’t feel as suffocating anymore. You weren’t sure what you were going to do about Robby’s offer, but the anger and devastation that had long hung heavy on your heart had been excised and assuaged tonight. 

You had changed. 

But so had Robby. 

Maybe it was enough to begin again. 

-- -- --

Author’s Note:

I actually know the US legal system decently well. I used to work for a lawyer and a shit ton of my friends have gone on to become lawyers (I even applied to law school before doing the whole PhD thing)—that being said, I took massive liberties with how something like this would work in real life, so take the legal shit with a huge grain of salt.

I have been working on this story in some iteration since the show came out. I thought a public defender was SUCH a a good foil for Robby, especially after the episode where Dana is assaulted. Because I think it’s important to grapple with how we think about people who commit crimes we are particularly sensitive to.

Fun fact about me: I became a prison abolitionist in college. It was the first “leftist” policy position I held and it came about because I had to take a class for my Public Administration minor that required me to, and I shit you not, tour a state prison. It is one of my most formative experiences and radicalized me beyond belief.

Since that’s unlikely anyone else’s experience (and I frequently wrestle the morality of that tour ngl), here are some resources if you’re interested in learning more.

Equal Justice Initiative

The Marshall Project

Instead of Prisons: A Handbook for Abolitionists

Also that story I mentioned about Pennsylvanian judges is completely real. It’s called the “Kids for Cash” scandal. So that’s neat.

Anyways, aren’t you glad you read this long ass fanfiction, long ass authors note for some really bleak information 🤪

- -

Taglist:

@emerald-jade @2guysonascooter @roses-and-grasses @deluluwritess @she-sounds-hidieous @wildfoal @generation-zero @dammitj4net @valkyreally @thisisevelynR @karlawithacapitalk @fanforthought @blueblizzardreview @sava207 @rubytuesday2468 @alexxavicry @seeminglyincurablesadnes @shakedownstreet73 @sharkluver @pinkstuff @rosiepoise88 @nxtliliana

[thatfanficstuff]

Sabbatical - M. Robinavitch

note: Just a quick little thing that was sitting in my drafts to expand but I'm kind of fine with it the way it is. MINOR SEASON 2 SPOILERS

wc: just shy of 600

Noelle Hastings was staking her claim. At least, she was trying to. Not that anyone was buying it, really. She kept cornering Robby in the ED every time she came down. He’d brush her off and move on, but she didn’t seem to be getting the hint.

She kept trying to rekindle their relationship from almost two years ago and he just wasn’t interested. That didn’t keep her from letting pretty much the entire hospital think they were dating. If asked directly, Robby would shoot the rumors down but otherwise, he just didn’t see why it was anyone’s business who he was dating.

You were the Pitt’s favorite neuro, always responding quickly to requests for consult or letting them know why there was a delay. You’d just examined a patient with a possible TBI and were at the hub entering your notes and ordering tests.

Robby turned from where he’d been talking to Dana only to run into Noelle. “I heard you’re going on a sabbatical in a couple of days,” she said. “Three months.”

He tilted his head as if trying to figure out where she was going with this. “I am.”

“Three months is a long time to be alone. You should take me with you. Or let me meet you somewhre,” she said, leaning into his space with a smile.

“Now, why would I do that?” Robby moved around her to continue to his previous destination, giving you a nod and a wink on the way by.

Noelle huffed a sigh and sat her tablet down on the counter in front of Dana. The charge nurse looked at her over the top of her glasses. “Everything okay?”

“There is no way he’s going to be gone the full three months. The man can’t stand to be alone. He sleeps with the TV on in the bedroom.”

You gave up any pretense of pretending you weren’t listening and leaned back in your chair, brow arched in disbelief.

Dana’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think I needed to know that.”

Noelle just shrugged and grabbed her tablet. “Lighten up, Evans.” She turned and spotted you watching. “Oh, I didn’t see you there.”

“Sure, you didn’t.” You shook your head and went back to finishing your orders. After a beat you realized Dana was watching you. “What?”

“You okay with her and Robby?” She gestured in the direction Hastings had disappeared.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You know damn well everyone in this department, and your own, are wondering when you and Robby will get together. You don’t care at all he’s with someone else?”

You huffed a laugh and stood, pushing in the chair. You moved closer, lowering your voice so only she could hear. “Dana, Robby hasn’t slept with the TV on in well over a year. So, no, I don’t care what Noelle Hastings has to say about it.”

Her mouth dropped open as you grinned. “See you later, Evans.” You turned back to face her as you walked away. “Oh, by the way, I’m leaving on a three month sabbatical in two days. You’ll have to page someone else for your consults.”

You ignored her calling after you once her shock wore off, waving as you got on the elevator.

And if you and Robby both wore wedding bands when you returned from your respective sabbaticals? Well, that was no one’s business but your own.

[moonlitabbot]

Gym Crush: Jack Abbot x Reader

Cross-posted to AO3! 3k words, Jack Abbot x fem!afab!reader, 18+ (explicit)

Summary: You join Jack at the gym and meet his fanclub.

Tags: Established relationship, you have the guy all the girls want, dry humping, mention of penetration, clitoral stimulation, female orgasm, fully clothed, relationship fluff

a/n: my smut debut<3

You pushed one of the last boxes, still half full, against the wall in the living room. You could unpack more tomorrow, but tonight you were done. You got up from the floor and joined Jack on the couch.

"So, what are you doing tomorrow?" you asked.

"Going to the gym in the morning. Then, I don't know, whatever you want to do." He slung his strong arm around your shoulders while you cuddled up to him. His black t-shirt smelled so good.

"Could I come to the gym with you?"

"Sure, if you want."

"You won't be sick of me? You don't hate that me moving in is turning into me spending every waking moment with you?"

"No, baby," he smiled into a kiss on your cheek. "That was kind of the idea."

He kissed higher up your cheekbone, then just behind your ear, then started slowly kissing down your neck, opening his mouth. You reveled in it, how just a touch of his warm tongue could light the fire in you. You pulled his head up to kiss him, once on the lips, then quickly all over his face. He laughed into it.

"Is it time for bed?" he asked, his narrowed eyes showing his intentions.

You kissed his lips again, slipping his top one between yours. Your soft lip scratched against the stubble under his nose and pulled him closer. He opened his mouth wide so that warm tongue could make contact with yours.

"Mhm," you hummed.

____

You snaked your arm under his and wrapped your hands around his bicep as you walked up to the gym. God, he was already so ripped. You squeezed his bicep with both hands.

"Maybe one day I'll have arms as big as yours," you said.

"Yeah? I'll see you on the bench? I'll spot you," he played.

"No, fuck that. I looked it up and they have a pilates class starting soon."

The doors slid open and together you walked past the smoothie shop and towards the front desk.

"How long is the class?"

"45 minutes."

"Alright, I usually take a little more than an hour."

"OK, see you then," you said. He kissed your forehead before you let his arm go. He walked ahead, scanning his tag at the counter, flashing you a quick smile, and disappearing into the gym.

"Hi, I wanted to sign up for a membership," you said to the girl behind the counter. She was giving you a curious look - you weren't sure what it was communicating. She glanced at the spot where you lost sight of Jack. Ah, you thought. Your hot boyfriend had a fan at the gym.

"Sure! Come on back," she said.

___

Pilates was in studio 3, just behind the section dedicated to cardio machines. You had just left your coat and bag in a locker, swinging your water bottle as you entered the room. A couple of girls who looked your age, but much fitter, were bringing out yoga blocks and small handheld weights to their mats.

"Hey!" the tallest one said.

"Hey," you replied.

"I'm Amy. This is Charlotte and Arianna." The other two girls smiled, both starting to stretch on their mats. "We're usually the only people in this class - are you new?"

"Yeah, actually. I literally just signed up."

"Oh, perfect. Here, I'll grab you a mat and you can get some weights," Amy said. "We love Kaniyah, the instructor. But she's a hardass so maybe start with smaller weights and see how you do."

"Thank you! I will definitely be starting with a small weight." You grabbed 2 one-pound weights from the rack on the wall and took a seat on the mat Amy got you. 

"I saw silver fox come in," Arianna said to all the girls, then said specifically to me, "Our gym crush."

You of course thought of Jack, who was once your silver fox work crush. But the gym was huge and the likelihood felt small.

"It's important for a girl to have a crush in every space she frequents," you said. 

____

Kaniyah had your arms and legs shaking from what was marketed as a beginners pilates class, but at least you could commiserate and laugh with your new gym friends. Afterwards, they headed to the stationary bikes, and since you still had some time to kill, you joined them. 

"Yeah, he's here," Amy said, slowly starting to peddle, rubbernecking to get a view across the gym. 

Three bikes down from her, you couldn't see who she was talking about - your view blocked by all the weight machines on the far end of the gym.

"He's so fine," Arianna said, "It should be criminal."

"I want him to curl me. I feel like he could do it. His arms are fucking huge," Charlotte said.

"Guys, be cool. We can't look like horny freaks to our new friend," Amy laughed.

"That is not something you have to worry about around me," you said.

If they weren't talking about Jack, everything they said applied. You started on the bike, and thought about Jack and his arms and the sex last night, your first night living together, living with the man you crushed on, then pined for, then felt like you desperately needed. The man who stopped by your office to say hi almost every shift, who left you lattes and smiley face sticky notes, who looked at you and made it feel like you were the only two people in the emergency department. Who knew you now inside and out, who had let you into his world completely, who was approaching 10,000 hours of dedicated practice making you come, who said he desperately needed you. You felt the gratitude in your chest, the love you shared, the excitement for everything that was yet to come for you two.

You were starting to sweat from the persistent peddling, face feeling hot, and you thought about beads of sweat coming down the side of his faintly freckled face, which happened sometimes when you were fucking. Now you were turned on in the middle of the gym. Your clit swelled and the way it hit the bike seat suddenly felt good. You backed up a bit so you were rocking against a wider part of the seat. The girls were absentmindedly chatting, and they didn't notice your silence and your new focus. Could you come just from this? You squeezed your legs together tighter, a new, more heated sensation lighting a spark in your lower belly. 

"Well, he headed to the locker rooms so I guess I'm done, too," Amy said.

You let your legs fall apart and reminded yourself where you were. You had hit 20 minutes on the bike, and Jack was probably wrapping up soon. As the girls dismounted, so did you. You got a wipe to rid the seat of anything you may have left on it. 

"The smoothies here are really good," Arianna said. 

After you got your coat and bag back from the lockers, you looked at the smoothie menu while the girls each ordered theirs.

"The protein absolutely ruins it. Do not add protein," Charlotte said.

"It's not that bad," Amy said, grabbing her orange smoothie.

"Let her try it," Charlotte said. 

Amy handed it over to you. You lifted the lid to try a sip - it was chalky and indeed spoiled any possible good flavoring from the orange and mango. 

"It's a no for me," you said.

You ordered strawberry banana - no protein added. You texted Jack: Getting a smoothie, and he gave the message a thumbs up.

"Guys, here he comes. Look, that's silver fox," Arianna nudged you with her elbow and sucked down her smoothie with wide eyes.

And there was Jack, spinning the car keys in his hand, heading right to you. You tried, but you couldn't hide your smile - proud to be the gym crush's girlfriend, and even more turned on hearing how the other girls wanted him just as bad as you did. Well, not just as bad. No one on earth could match that. Especially not now. 

You decided to savor the moment, stepping back so you could watch all their faces. They were not being coy, and you didn't blame them. You barely were when you had met. They watched him saunter past the counter, gazes unrelenting as he came nearer. He didn't notice - he never did. He knew how to keep his focus, and it stayed on you. You saw his small smile.

"Wait, he's coming here," Charlotte said, low.

He walked right up to you.

"Hey, how was pilates?"

"Good, I made some friends. Amy, Arianna, Charlotte," you said, trying to hide a stupid grin. 

"Hey, nice to meet you," he nodded at them. "You guys look familiar. Have you been coming here a while?"

You sipped your smoothie and scanned his face, eyes landing on the hair at the nape of his neck that had turned darker gray, wet with sweat but starting to dry and curl again. 

"A couple years," Amy said.

She darted her eyes at your face to try and read it. Slap happy was all she could see, a school girl looking up at her class crush. 

"Yeah, same. I've never done a class though," Jack said. 

"Maybe I'll drag you to our next one," you said, grabbing his hand, intertwining your fingers. You may as well have been twirling your hair, too.

"We'll see," Jack looked at you, playful. "Nice to meet you," he said to the girls, their faces poorly hiding their shock and awe.

You lead him toward the door. Outside, you offered him your smoothie. He took a sip without taking it, just leaning his head over to drink.

"Pretty good. I got one a long time ago and it was awful," he said. He unlocked the car and opened your door. 

"That's because you added protein," you said. 

He laughed.

"Yeah, I did. You just know everything about this gym now, huh?" He closed the door.

When he started to drive, he put his hand on the middle of your thigh, like he always did. You pulled it up higher, and slid it slightly towards the inside of your legs. He looked over at you, already looking at his side profile, hungry. He smirked, squeezed your leg, then shifted his hand further inward, fingers nearly underneath your thigh, thumb applying pressure, his smallest finger nearly grazing your clit. The warmth in your lower belly became hot again.

"Actually, I got some great gym gossip," you said.

"From your new friends?"

"Yeah, they gave me the lowdown." "What's the tea?" he asked. You shot him a look - no man his age should be saying that - but he kept his eyes on the road, small smile at the corner of his mouth.

"I'll tell you when we get home," you said. Home heavy on your lips. 

___

"You want to shower?" Jack asked almost as soon as you were past the front door.

"No, I want to tell you the tea," you said.

"Oh, of course." 

You both shed your coats, and you grabbed his hand to lead him to the couch. Jack sat, and you kneeled on the cushion, whole body facing him. You took one of those half-wet curls at the nape of his neck between your fingers.

"I've seen those girls there a lot," he said, "They must know everything."

"Not really. They just have a gym crush," you said. Your hand in his hair spread out, lightly scratching the back of his head with your nails.

"Oh?" He wasn't sure where this was going.

"Yes, they call him silver fox. And they couldn't stop talking about his huge arms."

You trailed your arm down his neck and squeezed his bicep. Realization hit.

"No fuckin way," he said.

You nodded, your giddy smile infectious.

"Shut up," he said, covering his face with his hands, hiding his blushing.

"Jack, I swear. I wasn't sure it was you until you came up to us and they were like 'that's him!'"

"That is so embarrassing," his voice husky and pained. You peeled his hands off so you could kiss his cheek.

"No it's not! It's sexy. I get to go home with everyone's gym crush. Get him all to myself," you said.

You moved kisses down his neck, feeling him finally relax, releasing a huff of air.

"Well, you're my gym crush," he said, turning his body to you, pulling you into his lap by your legs.

"In these sexy leggings."

You threw your arms around his neck, kissing him hard and toppling him over, laying his back on the couch. You pried his mouth open with yours, shoving your tongue in. He shoved his back, muffled noises stirring from you both. You pressed your chest to his to close the gap between you, tightening your arms around his neck and arching your back. His hands grabbed your thighs just under your ass, squeezing once, then gliding them up to cup your ass. He gripped the slick fabric, trying to get a good hold. You lowered your waist down to press against his. You shifted around until you were pressing your warmed clit to his dick, separated only by flimsy gym clothes. At this touch, his dick perked up, twitching under you. With his hands on your ass, he pulled your waist even closer, pushing his hips up, desperate to eliminate any remaining space between you.

Your kisses turned sloppier, tongues catching each others' cheeks. Your breathing got heavier. Stretching your back, you slid your cunt from the base of his hardening dick back up to where the tip rested just below his stomach. You went back again. Once, twice, three times. Then you squirmed on it, so much better than the bike seat, rocking your hips side to side.

"Fuck," Jack breathed, only breaking the kiss for a second.

"Mmm," you replied into his mouth. He was fully hard now, and huge, like the girls probably figured. Maybe they fantasized about him, about the things you get to do everyday. 

His hands traveled everywhere. Groping your ass, then wrapping around your torso to pull you impossibly closer, cunt and dick desperate for each other through the fabric. He started to thrust upward against your warm center for the friction, and your body followed in rhythm. You thought of last night, how he made you come in under a minute from a careful, practiced dance of his fingers on your clit, pressure in all the right places, speed dizzying. It was similar to the feeling you were getting grinding your clit along his clothed shaft. And then you thought about how he had slipped it in from behind, slipped it in so easily from how wet you were. You moaned at the thought. 

"Baby, let me fuck you," he groaned in reply. His fingertips started to pull down your leggings from your waist. 

"Wait," you said.

You sat up, looking at his handsome, dumbstruck face. His lips glistened with your shared saliva. He bit his bottom lip as he watched you take your place on top of him. Your thighs trembled slightly from the workout, but you sat on his dick with all your weight, writhing on him. You placed your hands on his abs, those rock hard fucking abs, for leverage. Starting small, you rocked slightly up and down his dick, clit expanding and swelling, starting to whine.

"Oh, shit. You like that?" he said.

He squeezed your legs once, then brought his hands behind his head to rest on them. Those huge fucking arms. That fucking smile. He always looked so fucking good. His eyes were lit up, watching your face closely. Knowing he was enjoying the view got you even warmer and wetter. You picked up your pace, your range of motion still quite small, but it meant less time in between each sway, building the hot ache at your clit. You whimpered softly in concurrence with each rock, bobbing up and down his thick cock, getting closer.

"Oh, you love that." 

"Yeah," you whined.

"You look so fucking good from here," he said. "Are you gonna come, baby?" You grinded down on him even harder, edging closer with every word he said.

"You gonna come fully clothed, riding me like this? Let me see it, baby."

"Fuck, Jack," you breathed.

He removed his arms from behind his head and brought them back to the sides of your legs, helping you keep the pace you established. Letting him start to take over allowed you to focus on the feeling igniting and catching fire. You could do this all day, you thought. Maybe you won't ever come, and you'll just do this until one of you has to go to work again. 

But then he started gently thrusting his hips again, rubbing against you just like you needed. You let your head fall and your mouth went slack in pleasure, gasping and sighing. Jack continued the movement for you, gaining more traction on his dick, now throbbing under your clit. He quickened the pace, little by little. You didn't need to think anymore, didn't need to do anything anymore. You felt the heat travel everywhere, all the way down your legs, through your arms and to your fingertips, down to the small of your back. Heaven.

"Fuuuck," he groaned.

His voice and his persistent pace pushed you over the edge. For a minute you could feel nothing but full body bliss as you rode him in silence. You came back down to your earthly body, which finally shuddered on top of him with a guttural gasp. Your legs trembled before relaxing back into stillness, and you slid your hands back up to his neck, letting yourself fold over and rest on his chest, spent. 

"Jesus Christ," he said.

"Mmm," was all you could get out.

You took a deep breath, still coming down from the high. He let you rest for a minute or two, trailing his fingers up and down your arms and back. 

"Please let me put it in you," he said.

You laughed against his chest. 

"Baby, please. That was unreal."

You picked your head up, lifting off of him, and sticking your tongue into his open mouth, lips mashing. Then you pulled away and moved to get off the couch, starting to take your pants off.

"Okay, since you asked so nicely."

[docrobinavitch]

sacraments master list

the way we were raised and the people we were raised by leave permanent scars no matter how badly we wish them away. robby proves to you over and over that he loves those scars and wouldn’t change a thing, even if you’re always wishing things were different. (this started as a sort of reimagining of ep 2x06 of the bear and spiraled from there)

playlist | read on ao3 robby x f!attending!reader ; established relationship content: 18+ only minors dni, angst, swearing, sexually explicit content, smoking, alcohol, sibling death, grief, complicated mother/daughter relationship, family/childhood trauma, mentions of physical/emotional childhood abuse, accidental pregnancy, abortion, canon medical events/gore, substance use disorder, drug abuse, overdose, mental illness, suicidal ideation, age gap

healing

penance

baptism

communion

matrimony