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[intrepidacious]

☆ nika ~~ twenty-eight, she/her. welcome to my little corner of the internet, i'm happy to have you!! grab a drink, cosy up and get ready to gush about fictional universes.

links: masterlist · library blog · about me · request guidelines · ao3 · main blog · fic recommendations · ko-fi

please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors, ageless blogs, serial likers and empty blogs (i.e. people that don't reblog anything) will be blocked without warning.

requests are tentatively open for seven sentence drabbles, just check out the guidelines linked above!! 💛

☆ ongoing projects:

occupy my brain ↳ ransom drysdale x f!reader | fwb to lovers

seven sentence drabbles ↳ recent additions: geralt of rivia, jake jensen, joaquín torres, steve rogers

☆ recent posts:

time after time (completed series) ↳ bucky barnes x f!reader | frenemies to lovers in a time loop

make up for lost time ↳ james norrington x f!reader | angsty smut

melting snow ↳ andy barber x f!reader | fluff (first meetings)

step number one ↳ johnny storm x f!reader | fluff (kissing)

birds of a feather ↳ joaquín torres x reader | fluff (first meetings)

[intrepidacious]

time after time - masterlist

summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

series word count: 130.7k (136.3k+ including bonus chapters)

warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚

this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚

✨ this series is finished as of 12 july 2025

my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise

one: turn back the clock ↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k

part one

part two

two: twice upon a time ↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k

part one

part two

three: every day’s a holiday ↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k

part one

part two

part three

four: groundhog day ↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k

part one

part two

five: carousel ↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k

part one

part two

part three

six: butterfly effect ↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k

part one

part two

part three

part four

seven: spellbound ↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k

part one

part two

part three

eight: edge of tomorrow ↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k

part one

part two

part three

nine: out of the past ↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k

part one

part two

part three

part four

ten: about time ↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k

part one

part two

part three

eleven: tomorrow we live ↳ How to end a time loop | 9.8k

part one

part two

part three

twelve: serendipity ↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k

part one

part two

part three

epilogue ↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k

bonus chapters

these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story

frequently asked questions about time travel ↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ↳ One day in Bucky's time loop

57 seconds ↳ How Bucky met Twelve

somewhere in time ↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story

cause and effect ↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

alpine's pov ↳ set during chapter 8

fun stuff

🎵 series playlist

#️⃣ browse the series tag

moodboards by @barnesafterglow 💚

moodboard by @sweetascanbee 💚

moodboards by @idkitsem 💚

moodboards by @treatbuckywkisses 💚

moodboard by yours truly 💚

[intrepidacious]

time after time - masterlist

summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

series word count: 130.7k (136.3k+ including bonus chapters)

warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚

this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚

✨ this series is finished as of 12 july 2025

my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise

one: turn back the clock ↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k

part one

part two

two: twice upon a time ↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k

part one

part two

three: every day’s a holiday ↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k

part one

part two

part three

four: groundhog day ↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k

part one

part two

five: carousel ↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k

part one

part two

part three

six: butterfly effect ↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k

part one

part two

part three

part four

seven: spellbound ↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k

part one

part two

part three

eight: edge of tomorrow ↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k

part one

part two

part three

nine: out of the past ↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k

part one

part two

part three

part four

ten: about time ↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k

part one

part two

part three

eleven: tomorrow we live ↳ How to end a time loop | 9.8k

part one

part two

part three

twelve: serendipity ↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k

part one

part two

part three

epilogue ↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k

bonus chapters

these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story

frequently asked questions about time travel ↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ↳ One day in Bucky's time loop

57 seconds ↳ How Bucky met Twelve

somewhere in time ↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story

cause and effect ↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

alpine's pov ↳ set during chapter 8

fun stuff

🎵 series playlist

#️⃣ browse the series tag

moodboards by @barnesafterglow 💚

moodboard by @sweetascanbee 💚

moodboards by @idkitsem 💚

moodboards by @treatbuckywkisses 💚

moodboard by yours truly 💚

[intrepidacious]

time after time - masterlist

summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

series word count: 130.7k (136.3k+ including bonus chapters)

warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚

this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚

✨ this series is finished as of 12 july 2025

my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise

one: turn back the clock ↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k

part one

part two

two: twice upon a time ↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k

part one

part two

three: every day’s a holiday ↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k

part one

part two

part three

four: groundhog day ↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k

part one

part two

five: carousel ↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k

part one

part two

part three

six: butterfly effect ↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k

part one

part two

part three

part four

seven: spellbound ↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k

part one

part two

part three

eight: edge of tomorrow ↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k

part one

part two

part three

nine: out of the past ↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k

part one

part two

part three

part four

ten: about time ↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k

part one

part two

part three

eleven: tomorrow we live ↳ How to end a time loop | 9.8k

part one

part two

part three

twelve: serendipity ↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k

part one

part two

part three

epilogue ↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k

bonus chapters

these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story

frequently asked questions about time travel ↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ↳ One day in Bucky's time loop

57 seconds ↳ How Bucky met Twelve

somewhere in time ↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story

cause and effect ↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

alpine's pov ↳ set during chapter 8

fun stuff

🎵 series playlist

#️⃣ browse the series tag

moodboards by @barnesafterglow 💚

moodboard by @sweetascanbee 💚

moodboards by @idkitsem 💚

moodboards by @treatbuckywkisses 💚

moodboard by yours truly 💚

[sanguineterrain]

noise | john logan (3)

part one / part two

Summary: You finally drop off Logan's wings.

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader 

Word count: 4.8k

Warnings/tags: slow burn continues! john logan in his underwear (all you do is win win win). tucker is my favorite and i'm not hiding it at all. ND reader, forgetting to eat, struggling to recognize social cues. reader feels shame around attraction/crushes. mommy issues cont.

i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates

the divider

You: Hi

You: Can I drop your wings off around 4 o'clock?

Logan: hi yeah definitely :) don’t worry about knocking just come in I’m home till 6

You check the text one last time as you walk down the road where the Hawks house sits. It's a little past four because you couldn't find pants that didn't make your skin crawl, until you found a pair of yoga pants buried in a drawer. 

You haven’t been here in weeks, and even then, you didn’t go past the yard line. Hannah had gone in and out, having left her notebook in Garrett’s room earlier that day. You hadn’t known Logan lived there, not that it would’ve mattered. He wasn’t on your radar, and you sincerely doubt you were on his.

The door is unlocked, so you go right in, like Logan told you to. You close the door behind you, wings in hand, leaving your bookbag by the door. Then you wait.

The house is quiet. You pull out your phone and text I’m here to Logan, but there’s no reply even after a few minutes. You peer around the stairs. Where is everyone?

“Hey.”

You snap to attention as Dean comes around the corner. He slows down to a stop, raising his eyebrows at you. 

“What’s up?” he asks.

Fuck. You never know how to answer this question. Usually, people don’t actually want to know about your life. They’re just being polite.

“Nothing,” you say, your voice going up at the end. “And yourself?”

He snorts. “I mean, why are you just standing by the door?”

“Oh. I’m waiting for Logan. I came to drop off his wings.”

Dean nods, squinting at you. “Uh-huh… so go to him? He’s in the back lifting, but he should be done soon. You’re not, like, exiled to this one spot.”

“Heh, right.” You swallow. “Okay. Thanks.”

He gives you a thumbs-up and one last lingering, strange look, before going upstairs. You drop your smile, already feeling wrung out. Going to people’s houses makes you feel like you’ve run a marathon. So many rules. 

It’s just you again. You go towards the backyard, but you take your time, looking at the pictures on their fridge and the video games in the cabinet under the TV. You snoop through some of the shelves, fascinated to learn about what they eat. Conclusion? Many protein powder containers. You didn’t know it came in that many flavors. You wonder which one Logan eats. Chocolate? Confetti cake? Peanut butter?

There’s a photo of the guys at what looks like the beach. Your eyes linger on Logan even though all four of them are shirtless. He’s wearing light blue board shorts that are crisp against his golden skin, and he has his arms around Garrett and Tucker. He’s smiling at the camera. You kind of want to take a picture of the photo and make that his contact in your phone, but that is probably not the best choice, morally and mentally, so you instead stare at it for a long time and commit it to memory. Then you go outside. 

Logan is lifting weights. Logan is shirtless, in real time. Logan's back muscles are like the dimpled marble you find in museums, so skin-like, it makes you wonder if the sculptors entombed a person they loved and called it creation. With every rep, his muscles flex, from his shoulders to his stomach. His skin is a little bronzed, and you can imagine how tan he gets in the summer, his body sun-hot even after night falls. 

He has a maroon bandana on, presumably to keep the hair out of his face. You lean against the door, winded like you're lifting weights alongside him. His skin looks soft. You'd like to find out for sure. 

There's a shiny path between his neck and shoulder that looks like it'd sink beneath your teeth. And his thighs and calves are both sturdy. He's a good skater, so it makes sense. But it's different to see his legs bare, evidently thickened with muscle, working to support Logan as he lifts weights. You took a biology class. You know that Logan's bulging calf muscle is called the gastrocnemius. Below is his Achilles tendon. You wonder if his are sore—if you pressed, would he groan? 

Or maybe his quadriceps are the sorest from all the skating. They're thick with muscle too. Yours are soft with fat. Maybe Logan would like to press down on yours. 

No, bad. Wrong. You shouldn't think like that. What an offense it'd be, you wanting Logan like that. A dark, hurt part of you imagines him laughing to his friends about the girl in his psychology class believing she has the right to like a person like him. It's happened before; the way people—boys—can turn on you in an instant when they realize that you have the gall to crush on them like normal girls do, turns your bones to ice. You won't make that mistake with Logan. 

“Hey dude, if you're going out later, can you get—” Tucker stops short at the sight of you, his hand on the doorknob as he pokes his head outside. He smiles. “Oh, hey. What're you…” 

Logan has set down his weights, and he's staring right at you. He waves. Your eyes widen. 

“W-wings,” is all you can say. Shit. You shimmy past Tucker, and hover near the kitchen island. You're tempted to make a break for it, wringing your hands as you watch Tucker ask his question, then return inside. 

“Were you waiting on Logan? He's finishing up his last rep.”

“Right.” You shrug like you weren't creeping on John Logan two minutes ago, and sit at the island. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing. I'm just cooking, but hang out if you want. Actually! Do you mind taste-testing something?”

“Does it have mushrooms?”

“No,” Tucker says, spooning something from a bowl. “It's pico de gallo. I'm making tacos. I just wanna know if the acid and salt are balanced.”

He offers you a spoonful of the pico. You eat it, focused on the salt and acid. It's so nice when people give instructions for what they want feedback on. When someone asks you if something is good or bad, you have no idea how to answer. According to what? you want to ask.

“It's very good,” you say. “None of the flavors are overwhelming.”

Tucker holds his hand up, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a high five. Slowly, you tap his hand. 

“Teamwork makes the dream work,” he says. “You should stay for dinner.”

You’d consider it if you thought it would just be Tucker and Logan. But you don’t think you can handle all four of them together just yet. Not alone, anyway.

“Thank you for the offer,” you say, reciting the words your old therapist taught you to reject someone without hurting their feelings. “But I can’t today. Maybe another time.”

“Yeah, definitely. I haven't made pico since high school, so I’ll be making it again soon.”

“Did you cook a lot with your mom?”

Tucker beams. “Yeah, I did. I still do when I go home to visit. Mostly, I'm trying to do my mama justice when I recreate what she taught me. Do you cook much?”

“Sometimes. But often I'm so worn out, I have no energy to try new recipes. I like to cook and bake but one hundred other things usually require my energy instead. I haven't been grocery shopping in nearly two weeks.”

Which has been tough, considering the food at the cafeteria isn't always the best, and you pay per meal since you'd told your mother you would mostly cook in your dorm, which has a kitchen unit. But for the past week, you've sustained on two cafeteria meals and whatever looks reasonably edible in the vending machines. There was also Thursday, where you stumbled upon a breakfast event for women entrepreneurs, which you are not. But they had cheese danishes. You love danish. 

“I hear you. I'll get excited to try a new recipe and then I can't decide and I just make something I've made before,” says Tucker. 

You nod. “Yes. Except I can't even do that at times. But something that's helped me is a food chart.”

“What's that?” 

“It's a chart on my fridge with little pictures of foods I like and eat regularly. It's split into three categories for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So breakfast has toast, cereal, bacon, waffles, and so on. Lunch has sandwiches, burgers, ramen… anyway, it helps to have a visual presentation of what I can eat. Then I pick something and make it. Usually. Sometimes I eat shredded cheese out of the bag and call it a day.” 

Or you don’t go grocery shopping for weeks and you have nothing on your chart to eat anyway. 

“That's a good idea. Wait, maybe I can make one to maintain a balanced plate. Protein, carbs, fiber, fat. Those could be categories.”

You nod. “You can organize it however you want. I can send you the template I used.”

“Sick. I'll give you my number,” Tucker says, walking around the kitchen island. 

You unlock your phone and he types his number in, then takes a selfie where he's pursing his lips and puts that as his contact picture. You laugh, startled. 

The door behind you opens. Logan walks in, no longer shirtless. He stops short upon seeing you two. 

“What’s happening here?” he asks, drying his neck with a towel. 

“Tucker is putting his number into my phone,” you say. You turn to Tucker. “Maybe you can send me the recipe for the pico de gallo?”

You doubt you'll be making it soon, but it's nice to have another friend, which seems to be what Tucker is becoming. And based on the video you watched, talking about cooking is a good way for you to make him your friend. You are on fire so far. Two new friends in a month! 

“Totally,” he says, patting your hand. 

“Logan said you're a master chef,” you say, glancing at Logan, expecting him to chime in. But he's just staring at your hand, where Tucker touched you. You don't know him well enough to parse through his expressions, but it doesn't look like happiness. 

“Aw, thanks, man.” Tucker pats Logan's chest, which snaps him out of his staring. He smiles.

“Yeah, well, it's true. Alright, I'm gonna shower, then I gotta stop by the garage.”

“I left your wings over there,” you say, pointing to the couch. Maybe Logan didn't notice you watching him earlier. That bodes well for you, if true. The last thing you need is to prove to him how weird you truly are. 

“Thanks,” Logan says. “They're always here if you wanna use ‘em again. Never know when you'll be in a pinch for a costume.”

You just nod, still unused to Logan's easy generosity. He goes upstairs. 

“Hey, since he's going to the garage, why don't you go with him? It's on the same highway as Market Basket,” Tucker says. He's just finished tenderizing the chicken, and now he's cutting it. 

“Will Logan be okay with that?”

“‘Course, he'd take you anywhere you wanna go.”

You suppose friends do that for other friends. 

“Thank you for the suggestion, Tucker.”

“No prob.” He's now elbow-deep in a Ziploc bag, seasoning the chicken with one gloved hand. The smell of Adobo, oranges, and chipotle peppers makes your mouth water. He also has an apron on, which makes you feel light and warm. 

You're beginning to understand now what it's like to feel welcomed, befriended, a part of people's lives. Yes, you have Hannah and Allie, who always make you feel welcome, but you've never gone out and made friends on your own. Hannah was at freshman orientation, and befriended you herself, because Hannah's smiley and kind to everyone. Then Allie became your friend because Hannah introduced you. 

But to find friends on your own, to go to a hockey house and watch someone marinade chicken for their taco night, it's a different feeling entirely. It makes you think that maybe you're not a lost cause like your mother has told you so many times before. In your first month of college, she visited a few times, always tutting at the “state of things.” 

She told you that you'd fail the college experience if you didn't get out of your dorm, but you were so overwhelmed by change that you had no idea how to do what she wanted. You've never known, actually. Your whole life is one big question mark when it comes to pleasing your mother. You stumble blindly, reaching for people, places, experiences you don't want to have, all in the name of eliciting a smile from her. 

“Hey, pipes are leaking!” Logan shouts from upstairs. “Tuck, can you bring me my allen wrench?”

You look at Tucker, who appears a little frazzled between the chicken and the veggies to dice. 

“I can bring it,” you say, getting up. “Where's the wrench?”

“Thanks. It's in that closet.” He points to it with his chin. 

You open the closet and locate the orange toolbox. You pull out a wrench and show it to Tucker. 

“That's the one. Bathroom's at the end of the hall.”

You go upstairs. One of the doors is closed, and you can hear music and what sounds like a woman's voice. You linger only for a moment before you go to the bathroom. The door is barely cracked, so you knock softly. It swings open. 

“Thanks, ma—” Logan cuts himself off, evidently realizing that you're not Tucker. “Oh, hi.” 

A beat. Then:

“Your underwear is pink,” you blurt. Also, Logan is only in his underwear. 

He looks down. “Yeah, these are actually the product of Garrett's learning curve with the washer. He didn't know you're supposed to separate colors and whites. So now I have three pairs of pink briefs.”

You nod, still fixed on Logan's thighs and how tight the underwear sits on them. Look anywhere else.

You look at his face, which seems worse, somehow. 

“Sorry,” you say, suddenly, horribly mortified. “I was—sorry.”

Logan smiles, and you envy how he can lean against the doorframe like he's not almost naked. “All good. Ten years in locker rooms desensitizes you to people seeing you in your underwear.”

“Even girls?”

He makes a so-so motion with his hand. “Depends on if I think they'll laugh at me.”

“I would never laugh at you in your underwear,” you say seriously. “You look great.”

He lifts an eyebrow. You stutter. 

“I-I mean—that's…”

God, you've never lost your words like this. Your tongue feels like sand. 

“Can I have the wrench?” he asks kindly.

You almost throw it at him with how fast you shoot your arm out. He takes it, fingers brushing yours. You cross your arms tightly against your chest. 

Logan points to the shower with his thumb. “So I'm gonna go fix this…”

“Uh-huh! Yes. Good plan. Have fun.”

“Alright.” He gives you a thumbs-up. The door is almost shut when you say, “Wait!”

Logan opens the door a little. “Yeah?” 

“Can you drop me off at the grocery store? I haven't gone grocery shopping in two weeks.”

His eyebrows knit. “Two weeks?”

“Yeah.”

Logan frowns. “You shouldn't go so long without shopping. Have you been eating enough? Is it ‘cause you don't have a car?”

It wouldn't matter if you had a car because you don't drive—driving terrifies you. And even if you did drive, you probably still wouldn't have gone shopping because doing anything related to maintaining your body has felt like an impossible task these days. 

But that isn't something you can tell Logan, so you just say, “Yes.” 

“Well, I can drive you to the store in the future, so you don't go that long without groceries. Just let me know. Thursdays and Sundays work best, when I don't have games or practice.” 

“Okay,” you say, thinking again about how nice Logan is to you. Then you look at his chest. He is so nice, in fact, that you'd really like to bite his belly. It's taut with muscle, but you think it'd still be a good location to bite. 

“Okay,” Logan echoes, and it sounds a little like he's laughing. “I'll see you in a bit.”

You nod, and he closes the door. You stare at it for a couple seconds before you turn on your heel. You're about to go downstairs, maybe ask Tucker if he needs help. But the door to Logan's room is wide open. You stop in front of it. 

His jersey is on the back of his chair. His bed is made. You always enjoy seeing people's beds made even though you've never been able to maintain that habit. Straightening blankets is an impossible task; going to sleep regularly is hard enough. 

Logan's room is neater than you expected. Dean's room is, according to overheard conversation from girls on campus, a sty. You take a hesitant step inside. Then another, and another. You see his closed laptop and a couple of photos on his desk. One of him and Jules. One of Logan and Garrett after a hockey game. One of the whole Briar team. You scan the faces until you find Logan, and he's smiling like he always is, curls bouncy. He has books on his shelves, and you read some of the titles: Intro to Adult Developmental Psychology; World of Ice Hockey; Bridge to Terabithia. You take out the last one. Its pages are worn, the paperback cover slightly bent. You return it to the shelf. 

You pull open his drawers, finding athletic wear, sweatpants, and soft sweaters. You open another drawer and find his socks and underwear—you quickly shut it. Then you wander the room. He has his hockey gear in one corner: his stick, his padding. 

You sit on the edge of his bed, wondering what it would be like to come here regularly, lying on Logan's bed and smelling his apple scent, agonizing over essays, watching movies. Every time you discover someone's space, you yearn to be a part of it. For their room to engulf you, accept you as part of the furniture, a part of their home. The pull in your stomach to feel that with Logan is particularly strong. It's bad.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement too late. Garrett spots you immediately on his way to his room, which is across from Logan's. He stops at the doorway. 

“Hey,” he says. “What're you doing in here?”

Even though he and Hannah are dating—or not dating, you aren't really sure—Garrett Graham thoroughly intimidates you. Hannah has told you that he’s kind of arrogant but also kind of sweet. You know he's Logan's best friend, and Logan's so gentle, so kind, that you figure he must see something very good in Garrett to be his best friend. But all you see is the same sort of boy who, in seventh grade, would kick a ball at you. Patterns keep you safe, and you've seen this pattern before. 

“I am waiting for Logan,” you say, instead of trying to explain yourself. You don't have an explanation for why you're in here, but you can't let Garrett suspect that. 

He nods once. “Okay. You guys seeing each other?”

Oh, you know this code! 

“No, we're friends.” You wait, watching Garrett’s expression carefully to gauge if he finds that unbelievably hilarious. 

Garrett glances to the side, mouth curling into a smirk. “Right, sure. Friends.”

“We are,” you say, suddenly irritated. You wish you'd stayed in the kitchen with Tucker. 

“It's just, girls aren't usually in guys’ rooms unless…”

“You and Hannah studied together,” you say. “I presume you did that without having sex.”

Garrett gapes at you. “I—yeah, but that's different. You're not tutoring Logan.”

“So what? Logan can't be my friend? Sex is all men and women can do with each other?”

“That's not what I said.”

“It sure sounded like that.”

He sighs, runs a hand through his curls. “I didn't mean it that way. I just thought you were joking about being friends. Y'know, some girls pretend they aren't seeing a guy when they really are.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

“I dunno, sometimes it's ‘cause they don't want anyone else to know. So I thought you were kidding, but…” He scrunches his mouth in thought. “I get the feeling that you don’t really do that.”

Do that sounds like it could mean many things, and you wonder if Garrett intended that. 

“I wouldn't lie about being friends with or dating someone,” you say, feeling lost. You thought you knew where this conversation was heading, who Garrett is, and now you don't. People are hardly ever this straightforward with you. 

Garrett nods. “Understood. Sorry for assuming.”

You look at him. “Do you like Hannah? Besides the fact that she's a pretty girl.”

Garrett’s eyebrows crook briefly, before relaxing. His voice is soft when he says, “Yeah, I do.” Instantly, you believe him. Maybe he wouldn’t kick a ball at you. 

“Okay.” You get up, and he steps aside to let you pass. “I'm going to wait for Logan downstairs. See you.”

Garrett goes to his room and shuts the door. At the top of the stairs, you see Dean emerge from his room, which is the one you heard a woman's voice in. He's shirtless, which seems to be the typical state of dress here, but he's also flushed, sweaty, and has a small bruise on his neck. Oh.

Dean winks at you. “Hey, vampire.”

You frown. “What?”

“‘Cause you need to be invited in,” he says. “Vampire girl.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

Dean's smile dims. “I was—no, it's a joke.”

“A joke about how I didn't know that I could come into the house. And that's stupid, right?”

He shakes his head. “No… I wasn’t making fun of you. I thought it was cute. Polite,” he clarifies. “Most people who stop by aren’t polite. You're Wellsy's friend, right? She's polite too; she knocks.”

“Yes, Hannah's my friend. Did you really fail Developmental Psychology II?”

“Tragically, Professor Diamond was not nearly as forgiving as Dr. Jenkins. But then I switched my major, so whatever.”

“Do you invite everyone to your parties?”

Dean doesn't seem perturbed by your rapid subject changes. “Sure I do. Otherwise I'd send out handwritten invites. Logan told us what happened with you and Pembroke. That guy's a fucking sleaze, and he can't skate for shit.”

You nod. “He's repulsive.”

“Seriously. All the more reason to reject him from the team. Hey, you should come to our game. We're playing next week.”

“Your games are loud.”

“Yeah, that's part of the fun!” 

“I disagree. I'll come only if Logan wants me to,” you say. 

Dean grins. “Trust me, he definitely does.” 

“Are you lying?”

“Nope,” he says cheerily. 

You hum. “Fine. Who's that woman in your room?”

“Her name's Carmen. Lovely lady. Met her at a coffee shop.”

“Okay. Enjoy, I guess.”

He salutes. “Have done. Will do.”

You finally go downstairs. It isn't more than a few minutes before Logan joins you. His hair is damp, and his jacket covers his biceps, which is kind of unfortunate. You wonder what color his new underwear is, and then you chase that thought away, guilty for thinking it at all. 

Logan takes his keys from the hook by the door and shakes them a little. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” You put on your bookbag. “Bye, Tucker. Good to see you.”

“You too!” Tucker calls from the kitchen over the sound of frying tortillas.

“I'll be back in a bit,” Logan says, then opens the door. 

You follow him out to his truck and get into the passenger seat. 

“Mind if we stop at the garage first?” he asks. “It's before the store.”

“Not at all.”

It’s a short drive to the garage, but it feels like it takes forever. Maybe that’s because you stare at Logan the whole time. Well, mostly you look at his hands on the steering wheel. He wears a silver ring on his right pinky, and you can’t believe you’ve never noticed. Veins feed into each other down his forearms. You feel dizzy.

“I promise it’ll only be ten minutes at the garage,” Logan says, startling you from your staring. “Jules needs me to finish a patch job for a bike because they had to record a special episode for their show.”

“You both work at the garage?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’s our family’s garage. Jules and I pretty much run it, since…” Logan stops, his mouth thinning. “Since, uh, my mom’s in rehab again.”

“That must have been really hard to grow up around,” you say. 

He sighs. “Yeah. Jules always sticks up for her, but they don’t remember—” He shakes his head, turning into the garage lot. “Anyway. It shouldn’t be too long. You can come in.”

You follow Logan inside. He navigates the garage with practiced movements. He gestures for you to sit across from him while he works.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a bicycle from the future.”

He laughs. “Yeah, apparently the guy who brought it in is a professional bicyclist. I always felt like a bike is a bike but hey, maybe people say that about hockey skates.”

“I wish I was balanced enough to do either of those things,” you say, watching Logan screw something on the wheel. He’s taken his jacket off, so his biceps are once again in full view. 

“You don’t know how to ride a bike?” he asks. 

“No. My aunt tried to teach me when I was seven, but I couldn’t get the hang of it, and then she got mad, so I stopped trying.”

“Well, that was dumb of her,” he says. “Teaching anyone anything requires patience. We all didn’t know something at some point.”

You pick at a loose thread on your pants. Logan’s words have reminded you once more of the cavern inside of you that quivers dangerously when someone says things aren’t your fault. “I guess so.”

Logan pushes the front wheel of the bicycle, and it spins smoothly. He looks at you. “I can teach you, if you want. Jules doesn’t ride their bike anymore. I can adjust the seat for you.”

“You want to teach me how to ride a bike?”

“If it’s something you’re interested in, yeah, why not?” Logan stands, and you follow him up. He wheels the bike to the back of the garage, then you both go outside. He locks the garage. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, crossing your arms. What you want to say is why? Why would anyone want to do something so nice for you, go through the painful process of teaching you anything? 

“I know,” Logan says as you both get into the truck. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay. But if you do want to, then I’m up for teaching you. I promise I won’t rage-quit like your aunt did.”

“Isn’t it stupid to learn how to ride a bike in college? It’s so late.” You’re always too late for things. Always behind.

“It’s never too late to learn anything, ever,” Logan says. “Dean taught me that, if you can believe it.”

“Oh.” You flatten your palms against your thighs. “Okay. I would like to learn how to ride a bike. Then I can go on bike rides with Hannah.”

“Cool. How does next weekend sound?”

“It sounds good.” You unzip your bookbag and find your coin purse that’s shaped like Kermit the Frog. You take out twenty dollars and put it in the center console.

“What’s that for?” Logan asks. “You don’t have to pay me to teach you to ride a bike.”

“It’s gas money. You’ve been so generous with me, I don’t want to not give anything in return.”

“You don’t need to give me money.”

“I want to,” you say. “You told me to say what I want to do, and I want to give you gas money.”

He glances at you, half-smiling. “Should’ve known that would come back to bite me.”

Biting. Mmm.

“I don’t spend my work study money on anything but food,” you say. “I don’t go to bars or concerts or movies. I don’t travel. It’s fine, alright? Please take it.”

Logan sighs. “Okay, but don’t make it a habit.”

“I’ll make it a habit if I want to, John Logan.”

He laughs, surprised, and you laugh with him. 

“Sassy,” he says. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

You didn’t either, but Logan seems to bring out everything in you.

Logan pulls up in front of Market Basket. He rolls down the window when you get out.

“I’ll be in the lot,” he says. “Call me if you can’t find me.”

“You’re going to wait?” you ask.

“Of course I’m going to wait.”

You go inside, thinking about how wonderful it is to have someone wait for you. 

[intrepidacious]

It wouldn't matter if you had a car because you don't drive—driving terrifies you. And even if you did drive, you probably still wouldn't have gone shopping because doing anything related to maintaining your body has felt like an impossible task these days. 

so you've decided to attack me this tuesday night

[sanguineterrain]

noise | john logan (2)

part one

Summary: Weeks after Dean's party, you encounter Logan by accident when you're asked to take pictures of the guys during a hockey interview.

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader 

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings/tags: mentions of childhood bullying, parental issues, reader has food sensory issues and trouble understanding social cues. leaning hard into her being ND just fyi <3 dean and garrett being kinda annoying but they mean well. hannah being a cutie. photographer!reader. this is kind of a slow burn so nothing really happens tbh except logan being a nice young man :)

Notes: this is a series now? maybe?? i have no idea what's happening but thank u for all the support on the first fic! i guess if u guys are still interested, i'll keep writing these two!

i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates

the divider

“Yo. Hey, Logan. Loooogan. Dude.”

Logan peeks one eye open. Dean is crouched in front of him, at the side of his bed, shirtless, which is pretty much the last thing he wants to see ever. 

Dean smiles with all of his teeth. “Hey, sunshine. Drain's clogged again.”

Logan grunts. “What'd you do this time?”

“Absolutely nothing. It was Garrett.”

“It was not, asshole,” Garrett says, strolling into Logan's room. He throws a shirt at Dean. “I just got home. Someone thought it'd be a great idea to pour bacon grease down the drain.”

“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.

“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.

Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”

They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now. 

“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”

Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”

The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird. 

“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”

“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. 

Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you. 

Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.

“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.

He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class. 

You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says. 

Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”

Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other. 

“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes. 

You lost your silica gel.

It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.

But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that? 

And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach. 

Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm. 

Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.

She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away. 

Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting. 

Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper. 

If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do. 

Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up. 

“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”

You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”

“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”

You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”

“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”

You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say. 

She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”

But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers. 

“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”

“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”

She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”

You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.

Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.

Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely. 

You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.

“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”

“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”

He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.

“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.

You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.

“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”

“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”

He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.

“Hey.”

You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always. 

“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.

You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”

“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”

“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”

“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”

“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”

“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”

“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.

“I was sick.”

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.

She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”

“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention. 

“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.

Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”

“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you. 

Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.

“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”

“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say. 

“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”

“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.

Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”

“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”

“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”

You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”

“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”

You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is. 

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”

“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”

“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”

Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.

“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.

You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.

And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing. 

“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.

Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”

He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that. 

You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want. 

You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.

You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork. 

“Not a fan of the bun?”

You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously. 

“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”

“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”

“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”

Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”

You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture. 

You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.

“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”

“I zoned out.”

“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”

“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”

You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus. 

“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”

Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”

“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”

You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.

“Wait, go back,” he says.

You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.

“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering. 

It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open. 

“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles. 

“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”

“How?”

“Do you have Instagram?”

“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”

“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.” 

“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”

“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”

You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.

“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”

“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”

He lights up. “Same here.”

You type your number into his phone. 

Hi :) says the message on your phone.

Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒. 

“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.

“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”

“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.

“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”

You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.

“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”

You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”

“So what? You’re really good.”

You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”

You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms. 

And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—

“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”

Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over. 

“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”

“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled. 

“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.

And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.

“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”

You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other. 

“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.

“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”

“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”

“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”

Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out. 

“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it. 

“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.

“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”

You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”

“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”

“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett. 

Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”

“A win is a win.”

“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.

Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”

You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”

All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed. 

Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck. 

“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.

Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop. 

“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”

Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”

Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”

Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften. 

“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back. 

“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.

You smile. “They’re of you.”

“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”

You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.

“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.

“Stop by anytime.”

“See ya around,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods. 

You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you. 

Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.

“Hey, wait up!”

You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.

“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”

You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”

“What? You didn’t—”

“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”

“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”

“Nerds?” you finish.

“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”

You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”

His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.

“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”

No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you. 

“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”

“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”

You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning. 

You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”

“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”

“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”

He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”

“It’s on the plaque.”

“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”

“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”

“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”

“History is cool.”

Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”

You smile. “I guess so.”

“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”

“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.

“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”

“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”

You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”

“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”

The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.

“I really do like talking to you,” you say.

“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.

“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.

There’s a photo from this morning’s interview you took of Logan. He’s looking at you—well, the camera—smiling, a curl falling into his eyes. You don’t send it to the editor, even though it’s one of your best photos. Instead, you set it as his contact picture on your phone. 

[intrepidacious]

i'm gonna think about this for the rest of the week 🥺😭

[bluetimeombre]

★ JOHN CARTER... I KNOW HIM

synopsisupon returning to the ED Robby is surprised to find not only the ED not up in flames but you have a new someone on your arms. er cross over!

main masterlist. other robby fic!

Robby gave it an hour before he asked about you- which to him seemed a fair amount of time. Everyone else around him groaned.

“Yes!” Trinity Santos cheered.

He frowned at her as Ahmed sulked over to his betting board, collecting up money and double checking. He looked around at everyone. “What's going on?”

“We had a bet,” said Dana, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose and clipboard balanced on her hip. “How long it would take you to ask about y/n.”

“I said five minutes,” said Princess.

“I thought you would get to lunch, at least,” said Dana.

“I knew you'd do an hour, exact!” Santos cheered. She clasped her hands in front of her as if in prayer. “Thank you!”

When Robby got back from his sabbatical he fully expected to be unleashed to chaos. He thought his doctors and nurses would fall to their knees, elated to have him back. He expected chairs to be overflowing out the door and patients that had been in beds when he left to still be there. He expected you to be in the same room he left you.

Instead everyone welcomed him back with smiles, pats on the back and 'happy to have you back, boss.'

There were no tears, no fire.

And apparently, no you.

“You must really have had nothing going on.” He pushed himself up from the counter, peering at Santos. “How much money have you just made?”

“Five-hundred and fifty dollars,” she said, proudly.

Had the whole hospital and patients bet on him?

Robby pushed himself up from the counter, lazily walking around it as if he wasn't looking for you. He'd given himself an hour, wasn't that enough? In the three months he was away he'd only text you a handful of times, asking how you were? How was work? If his one singular, pathetic, house plant he brought just so you had an excuse to go to his house and house sit was doing ok?

Your answers were kept curt. Polite. Half the time he waited most of the day for a reply, which was expected, he knew the demands of the job.

But a vacation that was originally for him to find peace and self reflect only brought him thoughts of you.

“Does anyone want to tell me where she is?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He wasn't doing a good enough job.

“She's with her new Robby,” said Doctor McKay.

His head clocked to her slowly. “Her what?”

“New med student, started three days ago,” said Dana, clearly enjoying watching him squirm. “Name's John Carter, been practically attached to the hip since.”

“I didn't know we were getting a new med student.”

“Transfer from Westbridge.”

“He's good,” said McKay with an approving nod. “Super young. Cute too.” Her legs were kicked up on the desk as she clicked a pen repeatedly, watching Robby with a sly smile.

“Yeah, y/l/n has him started in triage,” said Whitaker.

“Reminds me of you,” said Dana.

Robby nodded short and held himself still for a second. Then he started moving, past them all as they all laughed between themselves as he bee-lined for triage. On the way through he plucked twenty dollars from the roll Santos counted from.

“Hey!”

“Okay, that's good. Now close it up.”

“Yes ma'am,” said John as he pulled at the stitches at Mrs Doyle's scalp.

“Ma'am,” said Mrs Doyle. “You've got this one trained well.”

John chuckled, focused intently on the stitches as you loomed close behind him, watching his sutures as you had for almost three days. “That she does.”

You smiled to yourself. When John Carter walked in three days ago, lingering at the counter un-sure where to go with his impressively clean and pressed scrubs you were dubious. He seemed too clean, too pure to be in the ED. You'd basically said as much. But you showed him to chairs and you talked him through stitching and he stitched up every wound on the first day.

On the second you let him order CT's and Blood tests.

Today you were thinking of taking him into some of your cases in the ED, getting him in the dirt of it all.

You'd been working hard all three months to not think about Robby. Med student John Carter was just what you needed. A surprise distraction to focus your brain on a new body and not an absence.

“Okay, Mrs Doyle,” you said, stepping away from John to look through her chart. “As it's the scalp we only ask you to keep the bandage on for twenty-four hours. Other than that keep it as dry as you can and John, how long till she can come back to get them removed?”

John's hair was dark and looked incredibly soft. It flopped over sometimes and he'd blow up to move it in a strange, endearing move. “Er, a couple days? Three?”

You waited for him to correct himself when another voice spoke up at the door.

“Face is five, scalp and head is a week.”

You wished you hadn't turned as quick as you did, wish your body didn't warm at the voice. But you did.

Michael Robinavitch stood in the doorway, rubbing sanitiser into his hands.

“You're back.”

He nodded.

For a moment you stared, trying to gage how you should react. Was he well-rested? Worse then before he left? Was he hiding everything behind a mask again?

Behind you, John Carter cleared his throat.

“Oh er-” your world that seemed so focused on training John the last few days suddenly shrunk and kicked him out. All she saw was Robby. “Doctor Robby, this is Med student John Carter, third year. John this is our attending Doctor Robinavitch.”

John put out his hand. He was still wearing his gloves.

Robby didn't move to shake his hand and after a painful moment, John lowered it, tugging off the blue gloves. He looked over the two's head to Mrs Doyle sitting at the chair as Donnie hovered around. “Come back if there's any irritation or swelling. Keep it dry and we'll see you in five days to see how it goes.”

It was not just dismission for her but you and Carter too.

You fell into step behind Robby, Carter falling into step behind you.

“Carter, Dana tells me you've been on triage and suturing the last three days,” said Robby.

“I thought it best to ease him in,” you said.

“You'd never done them before?”

“No, sir,” said Carter, quick on your heels and eager to follow the two of you.

“What did you do at Westbridge?”

“Dermatology and Psychiatry.”

You could see the irritated smile creeping in. “Be nice.”

Robby glanced down at you with a classic look of disbelief. It was the same looked many of them had at the desk, which was mainly why you stepped in. Everyone had to start somewhere.

“You done an IV before Carter?”

“Er... as of yesterday. With Doctor y/l/n's help.”

The three of you ended up in the main work area, others eyes being drawn up to you.

“Perfect, Doctor McKay you've got a patient north two, I want you to teach Carter here everything you know!” ordered Robby.

There was little room for movement in his order as McKay stood, gesturing on Carter who seemed frozen in place, like a lost puppy being took away from it's owner.

You had to nod at him to send him away.

Robby folded his arms over his chest, rocking lightly on his heels. “I thought we didn't coddle Med students.”

“I haven't coddled him, I've been teaching him. What did you want me to do? Throw him into GSW's and Spinal taps when he can't stitch up a cut?”

“Throw them in the deep end and they learn, you did.”

“Not everyone can be as good as me.”

“No they cannot but I don't like all the time you've been spending with Carter the last three days.”

Your eyes rolled. “You've been here what? An hour and you're already getting on my ass.”

“New world record or so I've heard,” he said. “Get back to picking up patients, Carter can trail everyone else.”

“But me?”

“But you.”

“Gee, nice to have you back, Doctor Robby.”

You walked away.

You'd promised in the three months he's been gone you'd do better on his arrival. You wouldn't rise to his taunts, you'd go to anyone else before him and you would certainly stop sleeping with the guy every time one of you needed a release.

The first month you threw yourself into work, picking up doubles and taking on more cases than anyone else. By the second month you'd almost crashed and gone back to moping that Robby had up and left you without so much a kiss. The third things settled, work got normal (or as normal as possible) things were looking up.

He just had to come back.

But you'd stopped counting since Carter came in. All smooth skin and dimpled smile and soft hair.

You'd been at the desk surrounded by Emma, Dana, Princess, Perlah and Javadi when you all spotted him.

“He's cute,” you commented.

“He kind of reminds me of someone,” said Dana, head clocked.

“Who?”

Everyone was silent, waiting for you to catch on. Three days later you were still trying to figure out who.

As you walked away you heard Robby follow, steps heavy. “You're not even gonna ask me how my trip was?”

“Clearly you lots of sleep cause you're up and at them this morning!”

“It was great, just me and my thoughts. Didn't kill myself, know you were worried about that.”

“Can't think why now.”

“You know your life would be boring without me.”

“And yet I'm so full of joy to have you back.”

“I know it's practically radiating from you.”

When you turned to face him- adamant your three months or progress go down the drain- you hadn't realised how close he stopped to you. You collided with his chest.

“You saying you haven't missed me?” he asked, voice low.

Of course you had. Every morning you walked into work and realised you wouldn't see him. Every night when you went to sleep without talking to him.

“I've been a bit too busy to miss you.”

“Busy with Carter, is that it?”

“I thought you were self reflecting on that motorcycle trip?” you asked. “You come in here sounding jealous.”

Quickly he shook his head. “Not jealous just... concerned with how much time you and this student have been spending together.”

You could've said something about how you were a student when you and Robby first slept together, but you were supposed to be doing better. It wasn't exactly a show of that if you implanted the idea of sleeping together again in his head. And you knew it would.

Instead, you patted him on the shoulder once. “Then he's all yours.”

You'd successfully avoided both Carter and Robby the last hour, you'd admitted a patient with lower abdominal pain in for CT's and an ultrasound, awaiting bloods. Whilst waiting, you bugged Dana.

“Alright, I give up. Who does Carter remind you of?”

Dana laughed. “Geez, kid, you still haven't figured it out?”

You shook your head.

Dana was still laughing as she pulled out her phone, scrolling while you took a seat, filling your time with charts. She scrolled far down. “Here.”

On her phone she had a picture pulled up. You knew it was Robby, as in your mind registered that but this was a younger Robby. His head of hair was fuller and longer. His skin was clearer and smoother. His eyes were the same dark warmth but he had a growing beard. It was Robby, just as handsome, only less worn by life.

“Why do you have an old picture of Robby on your phone?”

“That's not the point, the point is you're not seeing what's right in front of you.”

As an answer Dana pulled you up and held up her phone. On one side was the phone, the young picture of Robby. Over to the left you saw John Carter in the flesh, putting an IV in a patient. His face was moved in concentration.

You looked back and forth. Back and forth, then the two started to blur and you were seeing nothing. “I don't get it.”

“Oh my god,” groaned Dana, slamming her phone down.

“Are you trying to say they look alike?” you asked, chasing her down as she left your side. “Dana?”

“Of course that's what I'm saying. Jesus, they could be brothers!”

“I've really never noticed.”

“Maybe cause you're trying so hard to forget Robby you're ignoring the obvious. You've picked up another one!”

You laughed away the idea. You had not gone through three months of self-torture for this revelation. “That's not what I'm doing I was just... I'm just-”

“Filling that empty void in your heart.”

“Robby has no place in my heart.”

A lie and Dana was like a hound dog when it came to lies. She could smell them a mile away.

“Oh sweetie, you can lie all you like,” said Dana, grasping your hand and squeezing. “But you can't kid me. You were heartbroken when he left because you love the guy. You love who you love and sometimes it's not the easiest person but you can't kid yourself.”

You were doing rather well kidding yourself. Sleeping in his bed at his place on the nights you told yourself you were too tired to drive back to yours. Only replying simply to his texts as a way of keeping your distance despite the hundreds of miles between you two.

All you had to do was keep it together for the foreseeable future.

Dana left you with her words of wisdom and leaving you to look at Carter. Maybe there was some resemblance in the looks. If someone put Robby in a time machine and de-aged him then maybe you could see it.

But Carter was patient, kind, gentle in ways you knew Robby to be short tempered, hard at times and rough. That was how you'd grown to know him. Just because Carter was different didn't make you want him any less.

Annoyingly.

Doctor Robby hadn't chosen to keep himself busy but after being away for three months there was much work that apparently required his attention.

Another deposition had taken place on Santos, the programme he'd put Langdon through needed a letter of recommendation, along with the general patients he had to deal with and the traumas. There was also everyone who wanted to know about the trip but what was he supposed to say other than he slept, swam in the lake, drove around and thought about you.

All he wanted was to take cases with you, ask if you were coming to his tonight, ask if he could see you the next day and the next and for the rest of his life. He'd been away for three months, thinking. He didn't want to be away from you ever again.

Instead he was asking about the bowel movements of an eighty-six year old.

By the time he'd come out, slinging off his gloves, the only person waiting for him was that young John Carter.

“Doctor McKay ordered labs and bloods for our patient, until them am I okay to go with Doctor y/l/n?” he asked with a voice soft and innocent.

Was that what you were into? Soft and innocent after three months?

Robby knew he'd done wrong. Knew he'd wanted you close- impossibly so- but pushed you away, maybe too far. Too hard.

In the three months away he'd tried to think of a million ways of winning you back. All grand ideas that you'd hate.

“No,” said Robby. “There's a trauma in, waiting for the OR. You can join Jesse, watch their vitals. Then you can check in with Doctor Santos, she's got a eleven year old laceration to the leg and rash, go find out what that is.”

Carter stood there, slowly taking in everything he had said. “Doctor Robby-”

“Robinavitch,” he corrected.

“McKay said everyone calls you Robby?”

“Everyone does, you can call me Robinavitch,” he said, peering at him through his glasses.

“Doctor Robinavitch, I think I work well under Doctor y/l/n and I see she's on the board with a suspected cyst on the ovary in south two, could I possibly-”

“No you cannot,” said Robby. “Med students do not get to pick and chose their cases, especially dermatology types.”

There was a huff but Robby elected to ignore him for his sake.

“Okay.” Slowly, as if hoping he'd change his mind, Carter walked off.

Robby watched him walk, then looked to the board where your name was written. “Carter!” he called.

The kid turned.

“Twenty minutes I'll need you on the eighth floor, east wing, room three.”

Carter nodded and walked off.

That gave Robby ten minutes to find you.

Next to him, Dana chortled. “Like looking in a mirror.”

He was too aggravated to ask what she meant, he only caught her phone rising as he snapped a picture or him and the shuffling away Carter.

When Robby pulled you off of charting you could only assume it was for something urgent, but he took up up the floors, diving further into the hospital than you usually went till you were in the abandoned eighth floor. There were still beds and equipment littered around, just nobody to use it all.

“Robby, what are we doing?” you asked, a borderline complaint.

He pushed open a door, urging you in.

The two of you stood in a room of dust, empty begs and curtains pulled over a window. He nudged the door close, keeping it open with just a slit of light from the corridor.

“Robby?”

You'd known him long enough- and well enough- that you could see the tension in his back and shoulders. They were pulled as his arms flexed as he cupped the back of his head, smoothing down the hair there.

“Okay,” he sighed, as if gearing himself up to something. “I had a lot of time for self reflection on my trip. Too much of it.”

“I can only imagine how rough that was.”

He held up a hand, face scrunched, basically begging for a chance to talk. Usually you wouldn't give it but you shut up and listened.

“I'm a mess, that's not changed. I'll always say things I don't mean and do things I regret. But I don't want to regret you,” he said. “What we had before I left: It was casual, it was a fling. I want it to be more.”

Your heart stuttered. Your entire body jerked in response. How many times had you dreamt about words just like that? You dug your fingernails into your palms, begging it not to be a dream now.

“When I text you saying I miss you, that wasn't a lie. I did. I have. And I will if you say you don't want to see me again. I'm not saying it'll be easy, I am not easy, I know. But I- I want to try to be better. For you.”

There was no rush of emotion pushing you into his arms, no rush of blood. Only a quiet disbelief.

“But before you left,” you gulped. “Before you said you could never be anything more.”

“I know, I know,” said Robby quietly. His steps were light as he dared a step next closer. “I was messed up. I was scared. I thought you'd be better off without me but the truth is... I'm not better without you and I have no hope of being.”

You stared at the man. He looked just like the Michael Robinavitch that left the ED three months ago. But he was changed, it was in the softer lines around his eyes and the small warmth in his eyes. It was in the way he stood in front of you, earnest and complete with a hand stretched out to the small gap between your bodies.

“How do I know you won't get bored of this?” you asked, uttering the words like you couldn't believe you were saying anything but yes. “You've only been back a couple hours, when it gets tough again how do I know you won't just shut down on us all again?”

Robby's finger traced the back of your hand, a feather light touch. “Because you won't let me.”

You could taste the mint on his breath as he leant down and kissed you, softly. It was a gentle brush of his lips, testing the taste of you and the weight of his affections. His lips ran over yours a couple times, remembering the shape before he pulled back.

You only got a quick look at him before you collided.

Your lips pressed to his hard and un-forgiving. Trying to meld them into one and tattoo yourself there. His arms were strong around you, keeping you into him as his tongue invaded your mouth. Your arms went around his shoulders, body aching into him.

“God-” he mumbled against your lips. His hands ventured down, running over the curve of your backside and squeezing till your pelvis was flush with his.

“I missed you,” you admitted against his lips, the words lost in his mouth.

You could feel the grin against you. “Yeah?”

“Mmh-mm.”

He kissed you openly, tongue getting the taste of you as another hand curled in between your bodies, groping a breast as he trailed his lips down the side of your neck leaving a wet path down.

You were breathless, gasping for the freshest of air with him when a crash sounded outside the door.

Robby was still attached to you as he bit on your neck as you whipped around, facing the noise.

There was a flash of scrubs and brown hair before it was gone before your eyes, darting down the corridor. But you'd spent enough time around that face to know it.

“Was that Carter?”

Slowly Robby rose up and looked at the desolate corridor. He shrugged, a large hand spread over your back.

But when you glanced back at him you caught the bite back of a smirk.

Peep the Hamilton reference

[intrepidacious]

oh my god i don't know what it is about jealous robby but it just hits different 🤭

[sanguineterrain]

noise | john logan

Summary: John Logan smells like apples and lends you pencils and tells you it's okay to wear your headphones in his car. He brings you to Dean and Beau's party after you misunderstand who's invited. He's your friend now, apparently. You're starting to think that maybe you don't just want him as your friend, though.

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader 

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings/tags: drinking, a guy harasses reader. reader being a little weird (affectionate). maybe a little ND coded <3 misunderstandings. reader is friends w/ hannah. logan being a sweetie pie.

Notes: hi hello i am writing for off campus apparently (?) we'll see. i love u john logan

the divider

“That was so good!” Hannah says in your ear, her arm around you. “Wasn’t it?”

“It was,” you say, your smile a little strained.

She’s flushed from the excitement of the game. She cheered and clapped almost the whole time. You did a little. It’s not that Briar didn’t do well—they crushed Eastwood, in fact, 6-2. But you’re a little overwhelmed by all the noise. You’d like to leave as soon as you can.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna come?” Hannah asks as you go down the bleachers.

“I’m okay. I have a paper to write.”

She pouts. You don’t know why—after all, you weren’t invited. You couldn’t attend Dean and Beau’s birthday party even if you wanted to.

“Okay,” she says, finally acquiescing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. Good luck with your hard launch.”

Hannah bites her lip, her eyes shining. “Yeah, we’ll see what Garrett has planned. Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the dorm?”

“I’m alright, really. I can take the shuttle.”

She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.

She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.

You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.

“Hi.”

You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.  

“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.

“I wasn’t invited,” you say.

He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?

“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”

You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”

“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”

“Oh. That’s confusing.”

He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”

People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.

You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.

“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.

“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”

“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”

That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.

“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”

“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”

“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”

“We are?”

He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”

“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”

“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”

You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.

“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”

You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.

Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.

But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be. 

“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”

Logan grins. “Awesome.”

“You have nice teeth.”

He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”

“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”

Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?

“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh…”

“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”

You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”

“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”

You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes. 

Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” 

People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered. 

“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”

You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.

“What were you listening to?” he asks.

“Brown noise.”

“Is that a band or a song or…”

“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”

He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”

“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”

“So you don’t listen to music?”

“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”

“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”

“Will you really?”

Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”

You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.

Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.

“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.

You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.

Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.

“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”

“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”

You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”

He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”

As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.

You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.

You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

“Can I refresh that for you?”

You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup. 

“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”

He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”

Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.

“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of games?”

“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”

Ben frowns. “Are you together?”

“He drove me here in his car.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”

“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”

His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”

You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”

Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”

Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway. 

“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”

Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.

“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”

Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”

“Together for what? Sex?”

Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation. 

“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”

Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground. 

“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.

“Hey.”

Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you. 

“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.

You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is. 

Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”

“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”

“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”

Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest. 

“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”

Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”

Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face. 

“Fine. Fucking whatever.”

He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar. 

He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”

Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”

You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.

You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight. 

“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”

“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”

You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”

“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly. 

You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment. 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”

You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”

“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs. 

You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”

“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”

“Because she didn't kiss him?”

Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”

He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.

“I'm hungry, actually,” you say. 

He hums. “Good.”

“How is that good?”

“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”

“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”

****

“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”

The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.

“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.

“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.

“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”

It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.

“What?”

He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”

“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.

“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”

“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”

“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”

“What did you do?”

“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you want?”

It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.

Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend. 

Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood. 

“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”

“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”

You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.

“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it. 

It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.

“So do you.”

He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.

“You played really well,” you say.

Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”

He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it. 

“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.

“Goodnight,” he says after you.

It’s only after you get to your room that you realize that you’re still wearing Logan’s wings.

[intrepidacious]

oh i'm so fond of this reader 🥺💛

[intrepidacious]

SSS: Stucky + "can one of you pretend to be my boyfriend?" "Why only one when you can have 2?"

Enjoy 😏💙

call your boyfriends | b.b. & s.r.

a/n: i have no excuse for this except i'm on my period ajdshgjkdsh

"Is he still looking?"

You shuddered as Bucky nudged his nose against your cheek, the action pressing you even closer into Steve; you could feel his rumbling chuckle go through you, making your knees shake ever so slightly. "I’m not sure," you whispered; it was hard to keep your thoughts focused on anything, really.

"Concentrate, sweetheart," Steve said, his lips way too close to your ear, "otherwise how’re we gonna know if that piece of shit gets the message?"

"Language, Stevie," Bucky grinned against your skin, for all appearances pressing a kiss to your neck even though there was still a hair’s breadth of space between you.

You forced your eyes to return to the spot where you’d seen your ex a few minutes or eternities before, finding it empty; then, Steve’s hand tightened a little around your waist, and your attention bid you adieu again.

"Maybe keep doing that," you murmured when Bucky’s metal fingers lightly traced up your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; neither of them objected.

[treatbuckywkisses]

so yeah I'd like to be here

[intrepidacious]

UGH me too

[intrepidacious]

SSS: Stucky + "can one of you pretend to be my boyfriend?" "Why only one when you can have 2?"

Enjoy 😏💙

call your boyfriends | b.b. & s.r.

a/n: i have no excuse for this except i'm on my period ajdshgjkdsh

"Is he still looking?"

You shuddered as Bucky nudged his nose against your cheek, the action pressing you even closer into Steve; you could feel his rumbling chuckle go through you, making your knees shake ever so slightly. "I’m not sure," you whispered; it was hard to keep your thoughts focused on anything, really.

"Concentrate, sweetheart," Steve said, his lips way too close to your ear, "otherwise how’re we gonna know if that piece of shit gets the message?"

"Language, Stevie," Bucky grinned against your skin, for all appearances pressing a kiss to your neck even though there was still a hair’s breadth of space between you.

You forced your eyes to return to the spot where you’d seen your ex a few minutes or eternities before, finding it empty; then, Steve’s hand tightened a little around your waist, and your attention bid you adieu again.

"Maybe keep doing that," you murmured when Bucky’s metal fingers lightly traced up your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; neither of them objected.

[treatbuckywkisses]

so yeah I'd like to be here

[intrepidacious]

UGH me too

[intrepidacious]

sss w/ touch starved bf!steve?❣️

healing hands | s.r.

a/n: i kind of made this early stages bf!steve i hope that's okay 🫶🏼

Before you started dating Captain America, you had a few concerns about it; several, in fact, mostly relating to his image and your own, the spotlight that would be turned on your own humble, normal life, the scrutiny of the public and the awful, loud opinions on your relationship that would invariably arise.

None of your initial mental spirals could’ve prepared you for Steve Rogers being touch-starved.

You didn’t think too much of it when he didn’t kiss you on your first date, or even the second one; after all, he’d been raised in a different time, and so certain cultural barriers between the two of you were to be expected. But the first time you go to hug him, you can feel his muscles go rigid under your touch for just a moment, and then he liquefies; like your body heat is the only thing keeping him alive, like he wants to sink into you and be swallowed up whole.

It’s like you’ve opened up the floodgates, then, because the next time you see him, he’s the one initiating the embrace, warm and safe and soft; when you reach for his hand, he doesn’t let go, even though you’re still a little nervous and sweaty. The first time you kiss him good-night, he sighs into your mouth, his hands cradling both sides of your head like he never plans on letting you go now that he’s had a taste.

Not that you mind in the slightest.

[violets-library]

Steve melting makes me melt🫠

Gosh, Nika, this was so soft and fluffy and I love it so much 😭

[intrepidacious]

SSS: Stucky + "can one of you pretend to be my boyfriend?" "Why only one when you can have 2?"

Enjoy 😏💙

call your boyfriends | b.b. & s.r.

a/n: i have no excuse for this except i'm on my period ajdshgjkdsh

"Is he still looking?"

You shuddered as Bucky nudged his nose against your cheek, the action pressing you even closer into Steve; you could feel his rumbling chuckle go through you, making your knees shake ever so slightly. "I’m not sure," you whispered; it was hard to keep your thoughts focused on anything, really.

"Concentrate, sweetheart," Steve said, his lips way too close to your ear, "otherwise how’re we gonna know if that piece of shit gets the message?"

"Language, Stevie," Bucky grinned against your skin, for all appearances pressing a kiss to your neck even though there was still a hair’s breadth of space between you.

You forced your eyes to return to the spot where you’d seen your ex a few minutes or eternities before, finding it empty; then, Steve’s hand tightened a little around your waist, and your attention bid you adieu again.

"Maybe keep doing that," you murmured when Bucky’s metal fingers lightly traced up your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; neither of them objected.

[violets-library]

Where do I sign up?

[intrepidacious]

right here 😉

[intrepidacious]

Sam Wilson + arts and crafts

last minute | s.w.

a/n: have i mentioned lately that i miss the wilson family? because i do.

"And this is," you start, blinking a couple of times, gaze flitting between AJ and the diorama displayed on the table behind him, "well, this is just—what am I looking at?"

"The Empire State Building," he tells you dryly, pushing up his glasses.

"After the alien attack," his uncle adds with an easy smile that makes his eyes crinkle.

"Of course," you say, fiercely ignoring the prickling warmth in your stomach as you regard the project piece again, "it’s … remarkable."

"You can say it’s shit," AJ says with a sigh too wistful for his age, "Sam said we could finish it up in one night but we ran out of glue and then the buildings in the back all broke apart."

"We need to work on your poker face, kiddo," Sam says, rubbing his neck, "really, this is on me, please don’t drop his grade because I was an idiot—his mum’s gonna kill me."

You sigh, scribbling something down in your notebook, "Next time, I expect a minor explosion live on the table, or you can kiss that A goodbye."

[violets-library]

Commit to the bit Samuel! 😂

[intrepidacious]

🤭🤭 i just want more uncle sam shenanigans in my life

[witchywithwhiskey]

do you want the kitchen tour?

pairing: chef!jack abbot x female reader

summary: when your already bad date takes a turn for the worse, the head chef of the restaurant comes to see what he can do to help. when he offers to give you a tour of the kitchen, you jump at the chance to escape, and your bad night turns into something else entirely.

warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), some verbal and physical abuse against reader during her date, reader sustains a minor injury (bruised wrist), some hurt/comfort, unspecified age gap, porn with feelings, kinda instalove, eventual smut, dry humping, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, big cock, cock warming, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, come eating, marking/hickeys, sorta scent kink, dirty talk, chef kink, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, angel, baby), aftercare, happy ending

word count: 26.0k

a/n: it's finally hereeeee!!! i've been working on nothing else but this fic for the last month and it's finally done 😮‍💨😭 it was inspired by Shawn Hatosy's Quinn audio (although i haven't actually listened to it yet). i just had to write something for chef!Jack Abbot, and i'm really happy with how this turned out! it feels almost like a smutty little romance novella, which i think is cool. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!!

if you'd rather read the fic broken down into chapters, check it out on AO3

“Hey, chef.”

With just those two words, Jack Abbot knew his night was about to take a turn for the worse. Nothing good could come from the underlying urgency and overt hesitance in the voice of one of his servers, Nazely Toomarian.

But Jack also knew, from his years as head chef and owner of one of Pittsburgh’s most popular fine dining restaurants, Night Shift, that it wasn’t Nazely’s fault. No, it was very likely to be one of the insufferable guests who frequented his restaurant who ruined his night.

So Jack swallowed his sigh, kept stirring the sauce of that night’s special, and glanced at his server, giving her a nod to go on.

“We’ve got a situation in the dining room.”

Of course they did.

Jack finally let loose the sigh that had been building between his ribs, wondering distractedly if the situation was some jagoff businessman’s card declining, an impossible-to-please socialite sending every bite of her food back, or if another influencer was insisting on getting their meal comped in exchange for free publicity on their Instagram or TikTok or whatever.

Jack knew he was old and out of touch—that was why he’d hired one of the daytime servers, Victoria Javadi, to run the restaurant’s social media—but he also knew a scam when he saw it. Someone who genuinely wanted to work with him asked about partnership deals before eating an entire meal they expected to be free.

Grumbling about influencers under his breath, Jack gave the sauce on the stove one last stir, adding a little more salt, then handed the wooden spoon off to his sous chef, John Shen. Quickly, but methodically, Jack took off his gloves, turned to Nazely, and tucked his arms behind his back—a remnant from his days in the army.

“What kind of a situation?” Jack asked, his voice calm and measured even as he was already preparing himself for the worst.

The chef listened attentively as his server explained what had brought her back into the kitchen with that concerned look in her eyes. The frown on Jack’s face deepened the more he heard about the date going decidedly bad in his dining room.

Finally, Nazely finished up her story with a breathless, “Do you want me to have security handle it?”

Jack knew it was the easiest solution, to call security and have them escort the man creating the situation out of the restaurant. But it would cause a scene, and everyone else in the packed restaurant would be talking more about what had happened than his food.

It would be better for Night Shift’s business if Jack could remedy the situation himself, as quietly as possible.

Instead of answering his server’s question, Jack walked to the double swinging doors that led out to the dining room. He peered through the window, feeling a bit like a king overlooking his kingdom, and he had a sudden, fierce impulse to protect it.

“Which table was it?” Jack asked, glancing back at Nazely, who’d followed him to the doors.

“Table 12,” she answered quickly.

Jack looked out across the sea of glamorous guests dining in his restaurant, a swell of pride in his heart when he saw beyond the expensive clothes and glitzy jewelry to the smiles and laughter of people enjoying his food. In his heart of hearts, Jack just wanted to make food people liked eating, and it never failed to overwhelm him when he got a chance to see the delight he brought to complete strangers who’d entrusted their time and money to him.

Pushing those thoughts and feelings aside for the moment, Jack focused back on the room, his eyes tracking along the tables until he found the one Nazely had indicated. For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot’s heart skipped a beat and he froze at the sight in front of him.

The first thing about you that rendered Jack speechless was your mouth, the curve of your lips, the tension around the edges as you hid a frown behind a sip of wine. Jack knew, instinctively, that your lips would look gorgeous when you smiled, that your mouth would look exquisite while eating his food—and he knew, too, that he’d do anything to make you smile, to feed you, to take care of you.

Jack shook his head at those thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the situation Nazely had told him about, the date going irreparably sideways.

Still, the chef couldn’t help but rake his eyes over you, telling himself he was simply assessing how much distress you were in. Jack noted the stiffness in your shoulders, how you were curling in on yourself slightly, like your body was trying to protect itself. He also noticed the pretty color of your eyes, the curve of your cheekbones, the sweep of your dress at it fell across your thighs.

You were beautiful, enchanting in a way Jack hadn’t experienced in a long, long time—and you were miserable. That much was clear from your body language and the way you regarded your date with no small amount of disgust and fear deep in your pretty eyes.

Finally, the chef dragged his gaze across your table to your date.

Immediately, Jack didn’t like the arrogant slant of the man’s shoulders, the imperious tilt of his chin, or the pompous way he held his glass as he spoke and drank. Even the way the man took a sip of wine, smacking his lips before resuming his tirade where he’d left off, made anger coil like a poised predator in Jack’s gut.

Something shifted in the man, and Jack looked back at you, seeing indignant rage boiling beneath the surface of your expression. Jack watched you say something through bared teeth, hissing at your date like you were trying not to make a scene.

Your hands were braced against the edge of the table, and you pushed to stand—but then your date moved to stop you, grabbing your wrist, and something in Jack snapped.

Later, he’d tell himself he would’ve had the same reaction if any man had put his hands on a woman in his restaurant. But in that moment, he was driven almost entirely by the edge of something else threaded through the fury in his chest—something greedy and selfish that you, and only you, had inspired in him.

“I’ll handle this myself,” Jack growled, tossing the words over his shoulder at Nazely without taking his eyes off where your date’s hand was still wrapped around your wrist, holding you chained to the table like a misbehaving pet.

All Jack could think, as he strode across the dining room, his chest churning with wrath and violence, was that it was a good thing he didn’t have a knife in his hand.

You were on the date from hell.

And the worst part? You weren’t even sure when everything had gone wrong.

Was it when you’d let your coworker set you up with her boyfriend’s best friend, a man named Curtis Larsen?

Was it when you’d gotten your hopes up and donned your favorite dress—the black fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places and showing off your legs—only for Curtis not to say a word when he picked you up from your office building in downtown Pittsburgh?

Was it when you decided you could put up with his pretentious posturing about his job and his golf game to enjoy one night at Night Shift, the restaurant you’d always wanted to try but could never afford?

Hiding a sigh by taking a sip of your wine—a bitter red you’d never have ordered for yourself—you decided that was probably when things had gone wrong.

From the moment you’d gotten into Curtis’s car, he’d been nothing but insufferable. You should’ve left before walking into the restaurant, but you’d heard such good things about Night Shift, and its head chef Jack Abbot, that you’d ignored your instincts and soldiered on.

You were rewarded for your selfishness by watching Curtis talk down to everyone he came across—the hostess, who sat you in the middle of the dining room only for Curtis to complain you weren’t in one of the booths; the server, who tried to recite the night’s specials only to be interrupted by Curtis asking about a specific dish; the sommelier, who had to put up with Curtis acting like he knew more about wine than the man whose job it was.

It was all you could do to offer the restaurant workers apologetic smiles and slip them some money from your own purse when Curtis wasn’t looking. You tried to grin and bear it, to soak up the ambience of the restaurant despite the black hole of unearned smugness sitting across from you.

Truthfully, Night Shift was spectacular enough to almost distract you from your horrible date and everything that was wrong with him.

The space was decorated in rich, emerald greens and dark, roughhewn wood, with real, lustrous plants and other greenery breaking up the dining room to give each table a pretense of privacy. Warm candles and low lighting gave the restaurant an intimate atmosphere, even while it was packed full.

All told, Night Shift was the perfect place for a date. It was too bad you were there with a man who might’ve been worse than the devil.

You were hiding another frown behind a sip of your disgusting wine when Curtis launched into a tirade about how the woman he’d marry should have a respectable job and make a good salary—and she’d also be responsible for keeping his house clean and taking care of his kids.

It took all of your self-control to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him. You weren’t exactly surprised—you’d been set up with enough financial analysts like Curtis to know a lot of them were useless assholes who wanted a mommy more than a wife. But you could feel your desire to put up with the date for the sake of trying Night Shift’s food slipping away, and you hadn’t even ordered your appetizers yet.

Resolving to treat yourself to a dinner at Night Shift for your next birthday, you interrupted Curtis’s egotistical diatribe about modern women and tried to politely excuse yourself. You were kinder than you thought he deserved when you told him you didn’t think the two of you were a good fit and it would save you both some time to cut the date short.

But Curtis’s eyes flashed in a way that had fear suddenly bursting in your gut, and his expression turned mean as he leaned forward across the small table, invading your space.

“The date isn’t over until I say it’s over,” Curtis said, his voice so cold, you froze in your seat. “You’re not going anywhere.”

For a moment, you sat in your seat in surprise. You’d been on some bad dates, and while some of the men had reacted badly when you’d left early, none of them had scared you the way Curtis was. There was something so aggressive about the way he spoke, and it was then that you noticed a strange haze in his eyes.

Was he… high?

Thankfully, a sever must’ve caught Curtis’s words, or his tone of voice, because she came over to check on you. Her brown eyes were sharp, but kind as they stayed fixed on you, asking if everything was okay.

“We’re fine,” you told her weakly, giving her the most reassuring smile you could offer while silently begging her to help you somehow. You didn’t want to make a scene, and you were sure the restaurant didn’t want that either, but you would if you needed to.

That’s what you hoped to convey, and you thought the server might’ve understood because she gave a firm nod and headed off with a determined spring in her step. You saw her walk quickly toward the kitchen before your attention was diverted by Curtis.

“You better not embarrass me in front of the staff,” Curtis was saying, clutching his wine glass a little too tight and swirling the liquid enough that you worried he’d spill some on the expensive decor. “I bring a lot of high-profile clients here, I can’t have you leaving early—you know how people like them talk.”

The fear you’d felt melted away in the face of indignant anger on behalf of the restaurant staff—who Curtis had treated like garbage since he’d walked in. It was a miracle he was even allowed in the doors after what you’d seen that evening.

“What kind of people is that exactly?” you asked, quiet fury lacing your voice. You could put up with the indignity of being ordered around by your date, but you wouldn’t sit by and listen to him disparage the people who’d only tried to help the two of you that evening.

Curtis clearly didn’t hear the warning in your tone, because he gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, gesturing thoughtlessly with his hand holding his wine. Some sloshed over the edge, spilling on the floor.

“You know, low-class people.”

There was so much casual disdain dripping from his voice, you had to wonder, if Curtis was such a regular at Night Shift, why hadn’t the sommelier poisoned him already—it’s not like the world wouldn’t be better off without your date, who was somehow still talking.

“The type of people too poor to get a real job—like us,” Curtis said, fixing you with what he clearly thought was a winning smile. It did not make him look like a winner.

At the implication that you were anything like Curtis, your stomach roiled unpleasantly, and you were suddenly afraid that what little wine you’d drank was about to come back up.

That was it, you’d officially reached the end of your patience. You didn’t care if it caused a scene, you couldn’t spend another moment in this man’s presence without vomiting.

“You’re a small-dicked, pathetic excuse for a man, Curtis Larsen,” you hissed at him, trying to keep your fury in check as you braced your hands against the edge of the table and moved to stand. “And I would fuck every one of the people who worked here before I let you anywhere near me —”

As you pushed yourself up from the table, Curtis reached for you quicker than you would’ve expected, snatching your wrist in his big, meaty hand. He yanked on your arm hard enough that you sat back down, biting back a cry as a jolt of pain shot through your shoulder.

“Don’t you dare fucking try to leave,” Curtis snarled, his face contorted into an ugly mask of rage. It was clearer, in that moment, that he was high. It was making him more aggressive, so even when you tried to pull free of his grasp, he held on tighter, hurting you even more.

Just then, movement over Curtis’s shoulder caught your attention and your gaze snagged on a man pushing through the door to the kitchen, an air of violence and vengeance about him that made your heart leap in hope. He carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence weak-willed men like Curtis could only dream of, and he was heading straight for your table.

In the brief time it took the man to make his way through the dining room, you took stock of his appearance. The first thing you noticed was how handsome he was. Silvery, steel gray curls were swept back from his face, giving you a clear view of his sharp, hazel eyes, straight nose and a soft mouth bracketed by short stubble.

The man was clearly older than you, in his 50s, but he looked competent and put together in a way that had your belly swooping as your eyes raked down his body. A plain white t-shirt stretched around his bulging biceps, freckles dusted down his tanned, weathered arms. His broad shoulders and narrow waist were accentuated by the brown apron hanging from his neck.

Something about the man looked familiar, like you’d seen him somewhere before, but between the pain in your wrist, the fear inspired by Curtis’s aggressive change in mood, and the sudden attraction you felt toward the handsome chef, you couldn’t place him.

At least, not until you looked back at his face and saw the intent determination in his expression. It was the same exceedingly hot look he’d been wearing in the photos you’d seen—the ones in the article about Night Shift and its chef-slash-owner.

You realized, with sudden clarity, two very important things: The man approaching your table was the restaurant’s owner and world-renowned head chef, Jack Abbot. And he looked furious enough about the way Curtis was still holding on to you that he was liable to murder your date.

Jack Abbot could not kill a restaurant guest.

He could not. No matter how much that guest might deserve it for putting his filthy fucking hands on a woman in his restaurant. No matter how much Jack wanted to rip this guy’s head off for daring to touch someone as sweet-looking as you.

He could not kill a guest. He could not kill a guest.

Those words were a refrain playing in his head as he made his way to your table, the one with the situation Nazely had told him about—a situation that had clearly escalated to physical. Because your date had put his hand on you and all Jack could think about was murder.

He hated the way this pompous asshole was holding your wrist tight enough that it looked painful, though your face was a stony mask like you refused to give the guy the satisfaction of showing him he’d hurt you. And Jack especially hated the fact that he’d stupidly left his knife in the kitchen, so he couldn’t cut off the guest’s hand for the crime of touching you with so much violence.

Jack was nearly at the table when he heard your date talking, and he immediately recognized the smarmy voice of Night Shift’s #1 worst regular: Curtis Larsen.

In that moment, Jack knew he should’ve banned the guy after the last time he came in, when he’d terrorized the staff and tipped basically nothing for their efforts. Well, that was a mistake Jack was going to rectify immediately, once he got you away from the shithead.

So focused on his thoughts, and trying to quell his inclination toward murder, Jack didn’t fully register what Curtis was saying until he was right next to the table.

“—Didn’t take you for such a cheap whore—”

Any possibility of Jack politely interrupting Curtis went out the window when he heard those words. What came out of him instead was: “Sir, you need to shut your fucking mouth.”

Jack was louder than he’d meant to be, making you gasp softly. His gaze found you, wanting to make sure he hadn’t scared you, and he ended up getting lost in your eyes. They were bright and smart, and watching him with such a keen interest, it made Jack feel 20 years younger.

It was then that Jack really looked at you, and he realized just how young you were. Not young enough to make him feel like a complete creep, but… young enough to make him feel at least a little bit like a creep.

Especially when he raked his eyes down your body—telling himself he was just checking to make sure you were okay—and he couldn’t help but notice the way your dress clung to your curves, taunting him with how high the hem rode up your thigh. Your bare legs were a tease beneath the tablecloth, and Jack wondered if your skin felt as soft as it looked…

Reminding himself that you needed help, not to be ogled by a creepy older man, Jack shook himself free of the spell you’d cast on him with your wide, trusting eyes and your pretty, tempting curves. He turned to Curtis, giving the man his most fearsome glower, the one that kept the most unruly of restaurant guests in line.

“And keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Jack growled, making a point of looking down at where Curtis’s hand was still holding your wrist before returning his gaze to the man’s face. “Or do I need to teach you a lesson about putting your hands on woman without her consent?”

Jack knew he sounded dangerous—unhinged, probably—but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when his thinly veiled threat did the trick and Curtis let go of you like he was dropping a hot pan.

Something settled in Jack’s chest, and he felt soothed knowing he hadn’t even needed to resort to violence to save you from Curtis. But that feeling quickly shriveled as Jack watched you bring your hand to our chest and cradle your wrist.

He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to wrap you up in his arms and tell you no one would ever hurt you again. Not on his watch. But somehow, Jack managed to keep his hands tucked behind his back, even as the tips of his fingers prickled with the desire to touch you, to soothe you.

Those thoughts and urges were troubling enough, but then you lifted your eyes and gave Curtis a withering look that had the other man cowering almost as much as he had under Jack’s glare. The chef felt a threat of pride weave through his heart.

Jack could see your strength, your resilience, and he knew in that moment that you could take care of yourself. You could’ve freed yourself from Curtis’s hold, you hadn’t needed saving, but that only made Jack want to whisk you away all the more. He wanted to take care of you in a way he’d never felt before.

Biting back a sigh at himself, Jack realized one very important thing: He was a goner for you. Already. Even though he didn’t even know your name.

Unable and unwilling to stop himself from acting selfishly, Jack held a hand out to you, giving you a soft, encouraging smile and nodding toward your hurt wrist.

“My name’s Jack, I own this restaurant. Can I take a look, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it, a low, raspy rumble that he hoped felt like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “I used to be a medic in the army.”

It made Jack’s heart soar when you looked at him for a moment, like you were taking his measure, and decided you could trust him. Your fingers were soft and a little cold as they slipped into Jack’s plam, his own hand closing reflexively around them to warm you up.

Carefully, Jack turned your wrist one way, then the other, bending low over your hand to examine whether it was injured. All the while, he kept an eye on your face, watching for any wince or twinge in your expression to indicate he was hurting you.

Thankfully—for you, for Jack, and most especially for your date—it didn’t look like Curtis had done any real damage.

“No sprain, just some bruising,” Jack said, giving your fingers a soft, reassuring squeeze and lifting his gaze to yours. He nearly lost himself in the admiration and gratefulness in your eyes, but managed to continue. “I have some ibuprofen in my office.”

Your eyes widened a little in surprise, and Jack was forced to endure the torment of watching you nibble on your lower lip while uncertainty filled your expression. He understood your reticence to trust a man so soon after another had hurt you, so Jack tried to put you at ease.

“Whaddya say, sweetheart, do you want the kitchen tour?”

Jack shot you a cheesy, hopefully charming wink, and when you let out a soft giggle, shaking your head at him like you couldn’t believe how corny he was, he felt like he was flying. He felt like he could soar above all of Pittsburgh with only the confidence he earned from making you laugh.

“That would be nice,” you said, looking up at him from under your lashes. Jack was immediately entranced by your voice, by the way your lips moved as you spoke. “Thank you, chef.”

It did absurdly wild things to Jack’s heart, which was already beating a fast, staccato rhythm in his chest, to hear you call him ‘chef’. It shouldn’t have affected him so much, it was a title he heard about a hundred times a night from dozens of other people.

But hearing it from your pretty mouth made Jack feel like it was a badge of honor, and he was glad to have earned it.

Distracted by thinking of ways to get you to call him ‘chef’ some more, it wasn’t until you clutched his fingers more tightly that he remembered he’d intended to get you away from Curtis as quickly as possible. Using it as an excuse to keep holding your hand, Jack helped you to stand up.

When he was sure you were steady on your feet, after wobbling for a moment in your heels, Jack nodded to your chair and said, “Grab your things, angel. You won’t be coming back.”

Even though Jack was leaning into you when he said it, Curtis must’ve caught the words because his expression turned from icy resignation to red-hot fury as he pushed himself to stand. But Jack was quicker, putting himself between you and your former date, growling at the younger man before he could fully stand up.

“Sit down, sir.”

A stunned Curtis plopped back into his chair. Jack raised his chin, staring down his nose at the other man while he tucked his hands behind his back, standing guard between you and your former date. Images of knives began dancing in Jack’s head, and he let it fuel the anger in his expression to keep Curtis in check.

Jack could sense you moving around behind him. You’d dropped his hand when you’d turned to grab your jacket and purse, but you must’ve been done because you slipped your fingers back into his palm.

You grasped his hand tentatively, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, his heart soaring in his chest even as he continued glaring at the man at the table, who looked riotous at the thought of Jack stealing you away.

“You can’t do this,” Curtis snarled, trying to puff up his chest and make himself look big, even as he remained sitting in his seat, too much a coward to actually challenge Jack’s authority.

The chef responded to the other man’s posturing by looming over him, an unkind smile on his face. Jack was more than a little satisfied by the way Curtis cowered, just a little, in his seat.

“This is my fucking restaurant,” Jack said, his voice even but ruthless. “So let me tell you how this is going to go.” Jack kept your hand tucked in his, holding you behind him while he dealt with your ex-date. “You’re going to pay your bill, leave your server a generous tip, and then you’re never going to step foot in here again. Do you get me?”

Jack watched emotions flit across the younger man’s face—surprise, frustration, indignation, fury—and he could practically feel the temper tantrum brewing, like a storm rolling in. But he could also smell the booze on him and, if Jack wasn’t mistaken, he could see the telltale signs Curtis had been indulging in more than wine.

Night Shift really didn’t need the scene or the paperwork that would come along with the temper tantrum, which would inevitably lead to someone calling the cops. So Jack went in for the metaphorical kill.

“If I ever see your face in here again,” Jack said, lowering his voice even more so only you and Curtis could hear him. “You’re going to pay for putting your hands on a woman in my restaurant—and I’ll take that payment with my knife.”

Jack watched as Curtis blanched, his tanned skin going ghostly pale as all the fight drained out of him at the threat of actual violence. The younger man’s gaze finally fell to the table, and Jack knew he wasn’t going to challenge him again.

It was completely unhinged to threaten Curtis like that, he knew that, but all Jack worried about was that he’d scared you. When he turned to check on you, though, he found you staring at him with so much admiration, Jack wanted to puff up his own chest and take on every asshole who’d ever wronged you.

You took a careful step closer to Jack, looking at him with those wide eyes, a smirk flirting around the edges of your pretty mouth, and wrapped your other hand around his bicep. “Thank you,” you murmured for only him to hear, and Jack offered you an answering smile.

“Ready to go, sweetheart?” he asked charmingly, squeezing your hand gently.

Your smirk bloomed into a full-blown grin, and he caught the edge of excitement in your expression, making Jack’s heart thump harder in his chest. He could hardly believe someone as young and beautiful and strong as you wanted to go anywhere with him. Not only did you look like you wanted it, you looked eager for it.

“Yes, please, chef,” you purred, the sound of your voice calling him ‘chef’ again going straight to his dick.

Oh yeah, Jack was definitely a goner for you.

You could hardly believe how drastically the course of your night had changed in just a few minutes.

You’d gone from being on the absolute worst date of your life, trying to figure out how you were going to get away from the man who’d accosted you, to being on the arm of one of the most talented—and handsome—head chefs in all of Pittsburgh.

Jack Abbot’s hand was warm and strong in yours, his stride steady and determined as he led you through the dining room toward the kitchen. His presence at your side helped to settle the wobbliness you felt in the wake of the fear and adrenaline that had rushed through you when Curtis had grabbed you.

Leaning further into Jack’s side, you got a hint of his scent—fresh laundry something earthy, like sage or rosemary—and you let it stoke the little ember of interest that burned deep your core, the one that had flared to life when you watched the chef put your date in his place.

What did it say about you that you thought it was inexplicably hot the way Jack had threatened Curtis with his knife? What did it say about you that you felt safer with Jack than you had with any man you’d ever gone out with?

With those questions rattling around in your head, you were glad that Jack didn’t try to make conversation beyond asking for your name as he guided you to the kitchen. He seemed to understand you needed a moment to process everything that’d happened, and he remained quiet as the two of you walked together through the crowded dining room, the soft chatter of the other diners filling the silence so it wasn’t awkward.

When Jack pushed through the double swinging doors to the kitchen, the gentle murmur of the restaurant’s dining room gave away to the chaos of the kitchen. Immediately, you felt the buzzy, almost electric energy, of the staff, and you took your first full breath since you’d walked into Night Shift, something about the kitchen making you feel like you were coming home.

Your eyes were opened wide as you looked around because there was so much to take in—a whole army of chefs and cooks moved around the silver metal tables and big, gas range stoves, grabbing things out of fridges, chopping vegetables and searing meat. It was like a masterfully choreographed dance, the way everyone moved around each other.

And it smelled divine. Herbs and spices and so many other scents filled your nose, making your mouth water and your stomach grumble, though there was no way anyone could hear it over the noise—the clatter of knives and pans, the people calling out orders, the slamming of fridge doors.

Everything seemed to revolve around on particular chef, an Asian man spooning some sauce onto a plate and conferring with a Black woman. He was the calm in the center of the storm, obviously running things while Jack had been dealing with your date.

The head chef himself tugged you to the side of the room, pulling you out of the way of the steady stream of servers coming in and out of the double doors, carrying big trays filled with all kinds of dishes—salads and seafood, pasta and chicken. All of it smelled amazing, looked amazing, and it was all you could do to stare around the kitchen with awe no doubt written plainly on your face.

Gradually, you became aware of Jack’s gaze on your face, and when you looked at the chef, you found him watching you closely, so much intensity in his hazel eyes, it made you feel a little shy. Here was this older, accomplished chef, and he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in his entire kitchen—his entire restaurant.

You offered him a tentative smile, your heart skipping a beat when he towed you just a little closer by your still clasped hands.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Jack asked, and you could tell by the tenor of his voice that he actually cared about your answer. He sounded worried, hopeful, and so achingly interested that it made you unsteady on your feet.

“I think it’s amazing,” you answered honestly, your voice more than a little breathless with wonder. You leaned further into his side, staring into his eyes and getting a little lost in them. “Everything looks and smells delicious, chef.”

A small, pleased smile curved Jack’s mouth, even as his eyes darkened at what you’d called him. It stole the breath from your lungs, the knowledge that you could affect him so clearly just by calling him ‘chef’. It made you want to say it more, to say it while his mouth was on your body, just to see if you could drive him wild…

Tension crackled between the two of you, sharp and electric, sucking all the oxygen out of the room so it became a little hard to breathe normally. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and your legs trembled, and still, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Jack, your gaze drifting down to his mouth and the silvery stubble that surrounded it.

“Jack?” you murmured his name softly, a question in the single syllable, as you raised your eyes back to his. There was an answer in his gaze, in the way his own eyes dropped to your lips and back up, like he was fighting the same urge as you.

“Everything good, chef?”

You and Jack jumped apart, your hands disentangling as you put a respectable amount of space between your bodies. You watched Jack straighten, his expression shifting into something much more professional, much more appropriate for his workplace, as he turned to the room.

“Gimme a few more minutes, chef,” Jack called back to the Asian man who’d addressed him. You got the sense that the man was amused by the two of you, even though his face remained unreadable. “I’ll be back to dig you out of the hole of the dinner rush.”

The man who must’ve been Jack’s sous chef huffed a laugh and, without looking up from the dish he was plating, said, “Don’t worry about us, old man. We’ve got this.”

“Who’s he calling old?” Jack muttered under his breath, making a laugh burst from your lips at how disgruntled he sounded. A smirk flickered at the edge of Jack’s mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement, and he leaned closer to you. “Do you think I’m old, angel?”

Jack’s voice was little more than a rasp, and you swore that you could feel it skim down your spine and settle deep in your core, where heat was blooming hotter. All you could do was stare at Jack, at the weathered lines of his freckled face, and the silver curls that you wanted to run your fingers through, as you tried to think of something to say.

A little lop-sided smile tilted Jack’s mouth, like he could somehow see the odd mixture of awe and lust swirling in your body, in your brain, making you tongue-tied—and he didn’t hold it against you. “Don’t answer that,” he grumbled good-naturedly, his eyes still fixed on your face.

The two of you hung suspended in that moment for longer than was strictly necessary, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen fading away, until you finally remembered how to speak. Though once the words came out of your mouth, you wished you’d stayed silent.

“I don’t think you’re too old.”

That statement got Jack’s attention in a way you hadn’t experienced in all the short time you’d been in his presence. His eyes darkened, dropping to your lips once again before dragging their way back to meet your gaze. A charming grin made his mouth look far too tempting.

“Too old for what, angel?” Jack asked innocently, a hint of playful teasing in his tone that had your body burning hotter. His dark hazel eyes were knowing—like he knew what you really meant to say, that you didn’t think he was too old for you.

But you couldn’t say that, couldn’t answer him. You already felt like you’d said too much, and there were too many emotions still swirling around in your chest, in your belly, between your thighs, to make sense of any of them.

Thankfully, Jack seemed to understand you were overwhelmed and he didn’t push it. Instead, he pressed a hand to your lower back, the heat of his palm scorching through the thin fabric of your dress, even in the warmth of the kitchen. He guided you gently to a narrow doorway tucked into the corner of the kitchen you hadn’t noticed before.

Jack led you into a small office that you knew immediately was his. The space was nice and neat, just like his kitchen, with homey touches that reflected the dining room of his restaurant with emerald green walls and a dark wooden desk, which held a few framed photos and other keepsakes alongside his paperwork and computer.

Also, it smelled like him—fresh and clean, with just a hint of garlic and sage.

The room was small, barely big enough for a desk, chair and a couple of filing cabinets, but it was cozy, and you felt just as safe in Jack’s office as you did in his presence. Being away from the loud clamor of the kitchen also helped to settle your nerves and, without being invited to, you sank into the chair, leaving Jack to lean against the edge of his desk.

“How’re you holding up, sweetheart?” Jack asked gently, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking down to catch your eye. You gave him a weary smile.

“I’m ok,” you said, then paused to take stock of yourself to see if that was really true. “A little shaken, a lot hungry,” your smile tured rueful. “I was really looking forward to trying your food,” you told him, dropping your gaze to where your hands were twisted together in your lap. “But we didn’t even make it to the appetizers.”

Jack shifted closer to you, his knee nudging lightly against yours, and you felt a little zing of happiness at even that small touch. You almost huffed a laugh at yourself for the silly crush you were developing on the hot, older chef, but managed to bite it back and looked up at the man who’d so gently gotten your attention.

“If you want to go home, I can have security escort you out back,” Jack started, his mouth twisting into the vague impression of a frown, like he didn’t particularly like that idea. “Or, if you want, you can hang out in here, I can make you something to eat, and then later, I can give you that kitchen tour.”

He shot you another one of those exaggerated winks and you couldn’t help but giggle softly. Jack was charming and he knew it, and if you weren’t careful, you were definitely going to develop a big ol’ crush on the man. He made it too easy to feel comfortable around him.

“It’s your choice, sweetheart,” Jack said, pausing for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should go on, but then he did. “I do hope you’ll let me cook for you, though.” He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the edge of your jaw, his touch so light you could barely feel it. “I don’t like the idea of sending you home hungry.”

Before you could lean into Jack’s hand, he snatched it back, like he was worried he’d crossed a line. He crossed his arms more tightly across his chest, his hands tucked away as if he was worried they couldn’t be trusted not to touch you again, and you had to smile.

Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to develop a crush on the hot, older chef who’d saved you from the worst date of your life—especially since it seemed like the hot, older chef was having trouble keeping his gentle hands off you.

“I’d like to stay,” you murmured, looking up at Jack from under your lashes.

Almost against your will, your body swayed closer to the charming chef, your hand reaching out to wrap around his forearm. The light dusting of Jack’s hair tickled your fingers, and you couldn’t help but notice how strong and firm his arm was beneath your palm.

Your lips quirked into a small smile, putting a little flirty edge on your words as you said, “If you don’t mind, chef.”

Jack’s eyes were dark, liquid heat as he stared at you for a long moment, and you wondered wildly if he might kiss you. The thought had excitement fluttering to life in your belly, but before you could get your hopes up too high, Jack swallowed and looked away. It was only then that you noticed the faint flush pinkening his cheeks.

“Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart,” Jack said, pushing away from the desk and stepping toward the door. “Ibuprofen’s in the top drawer.”

The movement had your hand dropping from his arm and you immediately missed the warmth of his skin. When he looked back at you, he must’ve caught something on your face, something that had him cracking a small smile.

“I’ll be back soon, alright?” His voice was a little rough, teasing your body with its low tenor, but you managed a smile and a nod.

“I’ll be here,” you said, as brightly as you could. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack looked at you another moment, his eyes going a little soft, before he ducked through the office door. He pulled it most of the way closed behind him, leaving it open just a crack, somehow knowing you wanted some peace, but not to be cut off from the kitchen—from him—entirely.

Left alone to your own devices, you only had your own thoughts as company. You knew your brain wanted to spiral about your date—Why hadn’t you seen the red flags from Curtis earlier? Why hadn’t you cut the date short sooner?—but instead you focused on what was in front of you.

Tossing your purse and jacket onto the desk, you got comfortable in Jack’s chair, leaning back and noticing a leather jacket thrown over the back. Shooting a quick glance at the door to make sure no one could see in, you tucked your face into the collar and breathed in, a smile curving your lips as you inhaled Jack’s clean, earthy scent.

Once you’d had your fill—or, rather, once your shame caught up with you and you forced yourself to stop sniffing the hot, older chef’s jacket like a mindless hussy—you let your eyes roam around the room, taking in the almost military precision of the organization in the office.

The desk was mostly clear, save for the keyboard attached to his computer monitor, and a stack of order forms for things for the restaurant. There were also the photos and keepsakes. You picked them up one by one, looking closely at the people and things Jack cared about, not bothering to feel bad about your nosiness.

The first photo was of Jack and his whole kitchen crew at the opening of Night Shift, looking worn out but exultant in their success. Another photo depicted Jack with a man about his age, tall with brown hair and a salt and pepper beard, standing next to a motorcycle. They had their arms slung around each other like they were old friends.

Next, your fingers trailed over a medal of honor that was tucked into a corner of the desk. It was purple and gold, in the shape of a heart with a man’s side profile in the center. You remembered Jack’s comment about being in the army and wondered what had earned him the medal.

Feeling like you’d possibly overstepped, you set the medal back in its place on Jack’s desk and focused on finding the ibuprofen. After taking the pills with the glass of water he’d grabbed for you from the kitchen, you snuggled deeper into his chair, your head falling back against the collar of the chef’s leather jacket.

It occurred to you suddenly that you really liked Jack Abbot. You hadn’t known him for long, and you didn’t know all that much about him, but you wanted to.

You wanted to know why he’d named his restaurant Night Shift, and why he’d become a chef after being a medic in the army. You wanted to know what his favorite thing to cook was, and whether he needed readers to read texts on his phone.

You wanted to know if he was going to ask you for your number.

That thought made you stop and smile as you considered what you’d do if Jack asked for you number and actually used it. Your fingers played idly with the soft, supple leather of his jacket, letting the sounds of the kitchen lull you into deeper comfort as you imagined what it would be like to date world-renowned chef Jack Abbot.

You suspected it would be a helluva lot better than going on a date with Curtis Larsen, that was for sure.

Jack Abbot could not be interested in the young, pretty restaurant guest he’d saved from a bad date.

He paused just outside the door to his office, trying to get his head on straight, but all he could think about was the way you’d looked at him, like you were attracted to him, like you trusted him to take care of you. His fingers flexed at his side, and he could still feel the softness of your skin beneath his grazing touch—so pretty, so tempting.

His mind was consumed with the sweetness of your scent filling his office, invading his private space, and how much that pleased him. Jack already knew that scent would haunt him for the rest of the evening, that he’d fall asleep just to dream of you.

Wiping a hand down his face, Jack felt like a creep for even thinking about how you smelled, how your hand felt like a perfect fit in his own, how he wanted you to look at him with nothing but lust in your eyes. He was supposed to be helping you, taking care of you, making sure you got home safe, not thinking about what it’d feel like to put his hands on your body and pull you close…

With a hard shake of his head, Jack refocused on the task at hand—making you something to eat—and strode back into the kitchen. He walked up to stand beside his sous chef, who was busy plating a whole tray of that night’s special. John didn’t even look up as Jack approached.

“How are things looking?” Jack asked, busying his hands by retying the strings of his apron while he took a look at the line of orders still needing to be made. It was a busy Friday night at Night Shift, but his sous chef was keeping on top of things.

“Don’t worry about us, chef, we got this,” John said, before raising his voice and calling out to the rest of the kitchen staff. “Don’t we, nightcrawlers?”

“Hoo-rah!” came the answering reply and Jack had to twist his lips to the side to hide the proud smile that wanted to break through. Annoyingly, John noticed.

“Seriously,” John said, straightening up and setting the last of the plates onto a tray for a server to take them out into the dining room. He turned to Jack. “I’ve got this under control, if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”

John’s eyes drifted over Jack’s shoulder in the direction of the office before returning his gaze to the head chef and waggling his brows a little.

“I won’t take it personally if there’s someone else you’d rather be with than me,” the sous chef quipped, grabbing his Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee from the shelf over the worktable and taking an obnoxiously loud sip.

“It’s not like that,” Jack grumbled, hoping to nip that thread of conversation in the bud before it began. The last thing he needed was for his business with you to get around the kitchen. Everyone who worked at Night Shift were talented, good people, but they gossiped more than little old ladies.

Jack tugged on some black nitrile gloves and grabbed a knife and cutting board. But when he returned to his station with the ingredients he’d need for what he planned to cook you for dinner, John was giving him a skeptical look.

“Right,” John said, not dropping the subject, no matter that Jack was no longer looking at him and was instead focused entirely on chopping up some rosemary and garlic. “That’s why you stepped in and took care of her date instead of letting security handle it.”

John’s tone was dry enough to give the Sahara a run for its money, but Jack refused to rise to the bait. Huffing an exaggeratedly beleaguered sigh, John cut to the chase. “Do you know her or something?”

“No,” Jack said quickly—too quickly, he knew. He could feel John’s indefatigable gaze drilling into the side of his head while he worked. He knew John wouldn’t give up the interrogation until he got something so Jack finally admitted, “But… maybe I want to get to know her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a wide grin spread across his sous chef’s face a moment before John clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s great, chef,” he said, but he must’ve noticed Jack wasn’t grinning along with him because he asked, “It is great, isn’t it? I mean, it’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”

“She’s too young for me, man,” Jack said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. He paused, swallowing, then grabbed a pan and some chicken cutlets, getting to work breading and seasoning them. “Besides, she’s had a rough night—that jackass grabbed her.” Jack had to stop again and take a breath to contain his anger before he went on. “She doesn’t need some old man creeping on her, too.”

“Dude,” John started, before getting distracted by plating up a new round of orders. It took him a moment to get back to the conversation. “You’re not that old,” he said, shooting Jack a look like the head chef should know all his ‘old man’ comments were in good fun. “And if you think she’s not interested, you didn’t see the way she was looking at you.”

At John’s comment, Jack fumbled the pan he was cooking in, nearly spilling oil and chicken into the fire of the stove. He glanced at John, back to what he was doing, then to his sous chef again, who was watching him with a not-so-small smirk on his face.

“H-how was she looking at me?” Jack finally asked, unable to stop himself, not even daring to hope John wasn’t somehow fucking with him.

Sure, Jack knew you’d wrapped yourself around his arm while he’d walked you back to the kitchen, and he couldn’t get the memory of the way you’d touched his arm out of your head. But that wasn’t flirting… was it? And certainly there wasn’t anything particularly interested in the way you’d looked at him. Right?

John’s incredulous look told him otherwise. “Jack, the girl practically had hearts in her eyes when she looked at you,” he said, and when Jack opened his mouth to protest, he cut him off. “She’s into you, dude.”

“What, no—no, no, she’s just…” Jack couldn’t believe how idiotic he sounded, fumbling around his own kitchen while John tried to tell him you were interested. It was like he was a young, inexperienced teenager all over again with his first crush, disbelieving she could ever like him back.

“Ellis, back me up,” John was saying, calling over one of Night Shift’s senior chefs while he set a new round of plated meals onto a tray for a server. “The girl Jack brought back here had heart eyes for our head chef, didn’t she?”

It was only his decades of experience that allowed Jack to continue cooking—boiling water and adding pasta, mixing milk and cheese in with the chicken to create a creamy sauce—while he waited with bated breath for Parker Ellis’s response. Jack trusted the senior chef not to bullshit him or fuck with him the way John sometimes did.

“Oh yeah, full-on heart eyes,” Parker announced, stopping beside John for a moment to drop off some more plates in need of their finishing touches. She glanced at Jack, who was still trying to process her pronouncement. “You gonna do something about it, chef?”

Was Jack going to do something about it? Everything in him ached to do something—to touch you, to kiss you, or, at the very least, ask for your number and take you out for a real meal sometime. He wanted to get to know you, he wanted to impress you with the most romantic of dates, and then he wanted to take you home and take care of you in every way he knew how.

It had been a long time since Jack had wanted any of those things with anyone, and it was a shock to his system to feel them for someone so soon after meeting them. But Jack could tell you were special. There was a spark between the two of you that he knew he’d be a fool to ignore.

However, he was still wary about scaring you off or creeping you out. But maybe he wouldn’t if Jack could take things slow. He could feed you, make sure you were comfortable in his office, and then later, he’d give you a tour of his kitchen and see how things went from there. If you seemed into it, he could ask for your number and take you out on a real date.

Happy with his plan, Jack finally looked up from where he was finishing the meal he’d made for you. He found both John and Parker looking at him expectantly—and a little impatiently. He twisted his mouth to the side to bite back a smirk.

“Don’t you two have something better to do than discuss my love life?” he grumbled good-naturedly, knowing neither of them would take him too seriously.

True to form, Parker snickered and gave Jack a mock salute. “Happy for you, chef,” she said before heading back into the crowded kitchen.

Meanwhile, John was grinning to himself. “Get your girl, old man,” he quipped, giving Jack a sly look out of the corner of his eye.

Jack made a show of grumbling about his impertinent staff while he plated up the dish he’d made for you—chicken and pasta with a creamy, cheesy sauce flavored with plenty of rosemary and other herbs. Then, it was time to bring it to you, and even Jack was a little surprised by how eager he was to get back to you, striding across the kitchen as quick as he could.

Knocking lightly before pushing inside his office, Jack found you curled up in his desk chair, your legs tucked underneath you, an e-reader in your hands. For a moment, Jack was struck by the easy domesticity of the scene—him bringing you dinner while you looked sexy and cozy in his office.

It would be all too easy for Jack to get used to this, having you visit him at his restaurant and waiting in his office for him to finish up for the night so he could take you out for a late-night drink, or some ice cream. And then, he’d take you home and get you underneath him so he could have a late-night snack of his own…

“Oh hi, is that for me?”

Your question dragged Jack from his reverie, and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw your wide eyes looking up at him. He stepped forward to set down the dish and silverware he’d brought on the desk in front of you, your sweet scent tickling his nose before he stood back to give you some room—and so that he could watch your reaction.

You tucked your e-reader back into your purse, and Jack knew the exact moment you smelled the food in front of you because you went still and your eyes slid closed. You took a deep breath in through your nose, and when you exhaled, it was with a low, throaty moan that went straight to Jack’s dick.

For the first time since he’d hit middle age, Jack was actually glad he wasn’t as quick to harden as when he was younger. Still, he had to curl his hands into fists at his sides and tamp down on the instinct to adjust his cock, which was twitching to life, not wanting to bring any attention to how your innocent reaction was affecting him.

Instead, he focused all his willpower on keeping himself from getting harder, which became more difficult when you blinked your eyes open, looking almost dazed with hunger and pleasure. It was all Jack could do to hold himself back from touching you, from tracing the shape of your mouth with his fingers, from kissing you so that the desire in your eyes was all for him and not his food.

“It smells delicious, chef,” you purred, your voice low and husky in a way that Jack could tell wasn’t intentional, which made it affect him all the more.

“Give it a try, sweetheart,” Jack said, unable to keep the gravel out of his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop himself from reaching for you. He wanted to grab you by your hips, put you in his lap, and feed you. But he reminded himself he was taking things slow, so he leaned against the desk and watched you intently. “I want to know if you like it.”

Bobbing your head in a nod, you grabbed your fork, scooped up some of the pasta and speared a piece of chicken, popping the whole bite into your mouth. Some cream sauce lingered in the corners of your lips, and Jack had to clench his fists to stop from swiping it away with his thumb. He was nearly undone, biting back a groan, when your tongue peaked out and licked it up with a garbled moan.

“Oh my god, that’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you proclaimed. The pleasure in your voice made Jack harder, but he focused instead on the pride blooming, warm and sweet, in his chest.

Still, he couldn’t completely ignore his cock twitching to life in his jeans. For once, he was grateful for the apron covering his front, helping to shield the bulge growing between his thighs. God, he felt like a fucking teenager.

“Ah, th-thanks,” he said, stumbling over his words, flustered by just how much you visibly—and verbally—enjoyed his food. “It’s a personal recipe, not on the menu.” He shot you a wink, hoping desperately that it came across as charming, and not unbearably cheesy. “I figured you could use some comfort food.”

The somber note in Jack’s voice seemed to strike you right in the heart, and you blinked, your eyes dropping from his for a moment. Jack wondered if he’d made a mistake by referencing your bad date, but then your hand darted out, playing idly with the edge of his apron just below where his arms were crossed.

“I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of that situation, Jack,” you said softly, and the chef was so distracted by the sound of his name on your tongue that he almost missed what you were saying. But then you looked up and your gaze was arresting. “I thought I could handle it—could handle him—but I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there…”

Jack hated how small you sounded, how unsure of yourself.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jack was sweeping down onto one knee, barely biting back a wince when his prosthetic protested, and settling his hands gently on the outside of your thighs. He tried to ignore the heat of your bare skin against his palms, forcing himself to focus on you and making sure you saw yourself the way he saw you.

“You would’ve been fine, sweetheart,” Jack said in his firmest tone, even as he made sure to keep his voice gentle. He could tell from the uncertainty in your eyes that you were hanging on his every word, and he felt compelled to go on. “You can take care of yourself, and if you’d needed to, you would’ve handled that asshole.”

Something like pride and confidence swirled in your eyes, and Jack let his mouth twist to the side in a smile. It made him feel good to know he could put that look in your eye, and he felt his chest puffing up a little bit before he got control of himself and gave your thighs a reassuring squeeze before continuing.

“I am glad I could help, though,” Jack said, his voice rougher than it had any right to be. But he was kneeling so close to you that he breathed in your sweet scent with every inhale, and it was going straight to his head. “Thank you for letting me feed you—thank you for letting me take care of you.”

Your eyes were wide and bright and fixed so intensely on Jack’s that he barely felt it when your hands settled gently on his shoulders, holding on to him like he was the one steady thing you could count on. His grip on your thighs tightened, drawing you closer until your knees collided with his chest.

“Anytime, chef,” you murmured, your lips parted and glistening and looking so fucking tempting.

A little growl rumbled in Jack’s chest and he watched your eyes flare with interest, before settling back into a heavy-lidded stare. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, curling into the cotton of his white t-shirt, and he could feel you lightly tugging on him, trying to bring him closer.

Fuck, Jack wasn’t just interested in you, he craved you. It didn’t matter that he’d known you for such a short time, he wanted to devour you. He wanted to take you into his arms and kiss the breath from your lungs, make you come apart and then hold you tight until you put each other together again.

He wanted to go back to work knowing you were safe and sound in his office, eating the food he’d cooked for you, then give you a tour of the kitchen later. When that was done, he wanted to drive you home, make sure you got in safe, and make plans to see you again. He wanted to take up as much space in your head as you were taking up in his.

Jack wanted to kiss you. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, you looked like you wanted him to kiss you, too.

A great crashing sound came from the kitchen, shattering the perfect moment, and Jack’s stomach sank when you flinched. You tried to hide your reaction, staring at him innocently like you hadn’t recoiled at the loud sound, but he was reminded that he should be taking things slowly, carefully, making sure you weren’t overwhelmed by all that had happened throughout the night.

“Eat up, angel,” he rumbled, giving your thighs one last squeeze before moving to stand, pushing himself up with one hand on his desk. He gritted his teeth through the pain in his limb as he settled back onto his prosthetic, and gave you another of his hopefully charming winks. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll make you some dessert to go with your kitchen tour.”

At that comment, you sucked in a sharp breath, a sultry smile spreading slowly across your face. When you looked up at Jack, your eyes were a little hazy, and your body swayed closer to him, almost like you couldn’t help yourself.

“Oh, I’ll be good,” you murmured, looking more sexy than you had any right to curled up in Jack’s desk chair. “I promise, chef.”

There it was again, that title rolling off your tongue and licking straight down Jack’s spine. He had half a mind to gather you up in his arms and kiss you until you were murmuring that word into his mouth, his neck, into the center of his chest while he pressed between your thighs and slid inside you…

“I’ll be back when it slows down,” Jack promised, wrenching himself away from his fantasy and backing toward the door of the office. If he didn’t know better, he thought you might’ve been smirking as you hummed your acknowledgement. “Enjoy your dinner, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, chef,” you chirped sweetly, turning back to your meal—though not before catching Jack’s eye over your shoulder, a flirty spark in your gaze.

A goofy grin spread across Jack’s face, and for a moment, he let himself watch you as you pulled out your e-reader and began to read while you ate the meal he’d prepared. His chest filled with warm sunlight while something in his gut settled. It felt right to have you here in Jack’s office, in his space, looking safe and comfortable and content.

Holding that sense of rightness close to his heart, Jack ducked back into the kitchen, taking a moment to retie his apron before jumping into the fray. He felt steadier than he had before he’d brought you some dinner, and while Jack knew part of that was because he knew you were fed, it was also because he’d accepted it—he was interested in you and he was going to pursue you.

Jack was done feeling guilty or creepy for wanting to spend time with you, even if you were one of his restaurant guests that he’d had to save from an atrociously bad date. Jack believed what he’d told you, that you could take care of yourself, and if you wanted to spend time with him, too, then Jack wasn’t going to feel bad about it.

So he took his place beside his sous chef and got to work on the endless stream of orders coming into Night Shift’s kitchen. He let himself fall into the rhythm of the work, plating up and putting the finishing touches on all kinds of dishes before they were whisked away into the dining room. He worked with a methodical determination, knowing that the sooner he cleared out all the orders, the sooner he could check back in on you.

When things finally slowed down, Jack heaved a sigh of relief. It was a strange feeling, knowing he had someone in his office that he eagerly wanted to get back to, and it wasn’t until he caught John giving him an annoying looked that he realized he was smiling.

Jack tugged off his black nitrile gloves, tossed them in the trash, and flipped off John while he made his way back to his office. Jack’s heart squeezed at the sight that greeted him.

He found you snuggled up in his chair, his leather jacket tucked around you like a blanket, your head lolled to the side as you slept soundly. Jack marveled at the beauty of your face—the soft slope of your nose, the pretty curve of your mouth, the delicate fan of your lashes against your cheeks.

Somewhere deep in his chest, Jack’s heart knocked against his ribs like it was trying to get his attention, and he knew exactly what it wanted to say—you could be his. If you let him, and if you wanted him, too, Jack could fall for you. That night could be the start of something new, something spectacular.

Thinking about how he could very much get used to seeing you in his chair, in his office, Jack tucked his leather jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, holding his breath when your cheek nuzzled against the back of his hand. His heart thumped happily when you smiled softly in your sleep and it took every bit of his strength to pull away.

As quietly as he could, Jack cleared the empty plate and silverware from his desk, taking care not to disturb you. He carried it to the door, where he paused to look at you again, watching you sleep for just a moment longer.

It struck Jack then, like a lightning bolt, that he wasn’t just interested in you or attracted to you. He was completely gone for you. He was yours, and he could only hope that you’d want to be his.

Even before you were fully awake, you knew you were safe.

Warmth, and the scent of leather and herbs, surrounded you, easing you back into reality from dreams about a hot, silver-haired chef and big, capable hands on your body. Desire curled lazily, low in your belly, and you snuggled deeper into the leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders, wishing for more time of with your dream chef.

But before you could slip back into sleep, it struck you suddenly how quiet it was in your little cocoon. You’d fallen asleep to the chaos and clatter of the kitchen at Night Shift, but the noise had dwindled down to a dull murmur. It hit you that you must’ve slept longer than you’d intended.

You’d only meant to close your eyes for a few minutes. You’d been so full from eating the comfort meal Jack Abbot had cooked for you, and you’d felt so warm and cozy once you’d tugged his jacket off the back of the chair and wrapped it around yourself. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from letting your eyes close and falling asleep.

Reaching out from beneath the jacket, you checked the time on your phone and confirmed you’d not only slept through the rest of the dinner rush, but through Night Shift’s closing time. Slowly, you began to uncurl yourself from your position in Jack’s chair, stretching and looking toward the door of his office, wondering why he hadn’t woken you up sooner.

Had he forgotten about you?

It was a little dizzying, the sheer amount of disappointment that swept through you at that thought, and it took you a moment to wade through the emotions to get back to rational thought. Jack had been so kind and attentive since he’d rescued you from your bad date, it didn’t sit right to think he might’ve forgotten about you.

It also just didn’t make sense based on the way he’d looked at you before he’d left you alone to eat. He’d stared at you so intently with those dark hazel eyes of his, you’d felt like he wanted to consume you. Even just the memory of his stare was enough to warm you from the inside out, heat swirling through your belly before settling between your thighs.

Intending to get to the bottom of why Jack had let you sleep in his office for so long, you did a quick check of your makeup in your phone’s camera and set your feet on the floor. You were just rising to stand when Night Shift’s head chef stuck his head in through the open door.

“You’re up,” he said, his sharp eyes taking in the way you wobbled on your heels, wincing at the pain of wearing them for so long. He came into the room and took your hand, setting a steadying palm on your hip while his fingers twined with yours. “How are you feeling?”

His attentive question sent more warmth spiralling through your chest, and you smiled softly at the chef, leaning into his warmth. He was still wearing the thin white t-shirt that pulled obscenely across his shoulders and highlighted his bulging biceps, but the brown apron he’d had on earlier was gone, leaving him in just a simple pair of dark jeans and black shoes.

Meanwhile, you were still in the little black dress and heels you’d donned for your date, but somehow you didn’t feel overdressed around Jack. You enjoyed the way his eyes raked down your body, appreciating the way your dress clung to your curves—hugging your hips and cupping your tits. It made you crave the chef’s touch everywhere he looked.

“I feel good, chef,” you murmured huskily, your lips quirking into a little smirk when heat flared in Jack’s eyes. “I needed a little rest, but now I’ve got a second wind.”

“Still want that kitchen tour, sweetheart?” Jack rumbled, his hand on your hip pulling you closer, until you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the warmth of it teasing every inch of your bare skin. “You were such a good girl during the dinner rush, I’ve got that dessert I promised you.”

Something deep inside you clenched tight at the way Jack’s voice rumbled over the words ‘good girl’, his praise going straight to the place between your legs that was beginning to throb the longer his hand remained on your hip. To steady yourself, you lifted your hands to Jack’s biceps, feeling his muscles flex beneath your fingers as you looked at the chef from under your lashes.

“Really?” you asked, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of your voice, out of your smile.

Jack’s mouth pulled to the side in a slow, wicked grin, his eyes sparkling with humor and something that looked a lot like hunger. “How do you feel about coffee and chocolate?”

Excitement bubbled up your throat, and you bounced a little on the balls of your feet as you confirmed your undying love for coffee and chocolate. With another grin that had your core clenching, Jack guided you back into the kitchen, his big hand firm against your lower back.

Most of the kitchen staff had cleared out, leaving the space spotless and easier to navigate as Jack walked you through. He showed you each of the stations, and introduced you to the few remaining kitchen staff—including his sous chef John Shen and senior chef Parker Ellis.

Jack left you chatting with John and Parker while he rustled around in a fridge, pulling out some containers and setting up a work station on one of the long, silver tables in the center of the room. Once he was done, the other chefs each gave Jack a handshake and half-hug before bidding you a goodnight.

As they left, John exchanged a loaded look with Jack that had the head chef’s face twisting into an exasperatedly stern expression, and you had to bite back a smile. It was clear Jack’s staff loved him, respected him—and teased him every chance they got.

It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, to know that you weren’t the only one who felt safe with Jack. He was a good boss, a good man, to everyone in his life. He was the exact opposite of the man you’d gone on a date with and needed to be rescued from.

Jack Abbot was the kind of man you could be alone with in a deserted kitchen and feel only excitement, only the thrumming awareness that something might happen between you two. You turned to him, your gazes meeting, and for a brief moment, the two of you just stared at each other, silently acknowledging the sparks igniting in space between your bodies.

“Hop up,” Jack said, his voice as rough as a knife on metal. With one hand, he patted the counter beside the cutting board he’d set up, his dark eyes watching you intently.

Your gaze snagged on that hand, on the thickness of his fingers and the smattering of freckles along the back. You remembered how that hand had felt on your hip, on your thigh, and you nearly whimpered with the need to feel his palm on you again, but you managed to bite it back.

Instead, you did as the chef said. You pressed back against the counter, planting your hands on the edge and arching your spine just a little more than necessary to stick out your tits. You were rewarded with Jack’s gaze dropping quickly to your chest before he dragged his eyes back up to your face. With a smirk, you jumped onto the counter, careful not to put too much weight on the wrist your date had grabbed.

The cold metal of the worktable was a stark contrast to the warmth of your bare thighs, and you hissed softly, your shoulders trembling as a shiver snaked down your spine. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around your body and wished you hadn’t left your jacket in Jack’s office.

But then Jack’s hand was on your knee and he was giving you a concerned look, his silver brows lowered over his hazel eyes. “Cold, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you answered sheepishly, giving a light shrug and trying to shake off the chill. You leaned into Jack, your body seeking his warmth. “The kitchen gets cold without all the ovens and stoves on, huh?” you asked wryly, trying to get a reaction from the chef, and soften the worried lines of his face.

Jack huffed a laugh, shooting you an amused smirk even as he squeezed your knee in chastisement. The weight of his palm, the soft press of his fingers, had tendrils of heat licking down your spine and settling between your thighs. It took a great deal of effort not to shiver and grab hold of Jack to pull him closer.

“Stay here,” he rumbled, pulling away and striding toward his office. You nearly whined at the loss of his body heat, but you perked up quickly when he returned with his leather jacket.

The chef stepped close enough to your legs that your knees brushed his thighs, and your gaze snagged on his. He was so close, you could see the lines in his weathered face, the silver stubble along his jaw, and the light freckles dusted across his cheeks.

Tension crackled as he wrapped the jacket around your shoulders, his fingers brushing gently against your bare skin, and you leaned closer, until you could feel his unsteady breaths on your lips. Jack went still, his eyes searching yours and you tried your best to tell him without words how much you wanted him to kiss you.

But either Jack didn’t get the message or he chickened out, because he swallowed hard and tucked the lapels of the leather jacket around your shoulders, making sure you were ensconced in its warmth before he moved back to his workstation. It seemed to take him a moment to gather himself before he spoke.

“Better?” he asked, his voice raw with a hunger that made you squeeze your thighs together against a pulsing ache.

“Yeah, better,” you answered, your voice faint, trying and failing to shake off the unslaked desire burning through your body. You didn’t know if Jack was purposefully ignoring all the signals you were giving him, or if he was truly unaware, but you didn’t know how much longer you could last before you simply grabbed the chef and kissed him yourself.

Despite the almost-kiss, you and Jack fell into an easy quiet, him pulling out some dark chocolate and beginning to chop it up into tiny shards while you watched him work.

The muscles in his arms moved mesmerizingly as he worked his knife against the cutting board, his freckled forearms flexing deliciously, his biceps straining the hem of his white t-shirt. You had to wrap your fingers around the edges of Jack’s leather jacket and bury your nose in the collar, breathing in his herby, masculine scent, to keep from reaching out to touch him.

Whatever expression was on your face made Jack smirk when he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. After that, you could’ve sworn he started flexing his arms on purpose, getting fancy with his knife work, like he was trying to impress you.

From anyone else, that might’ve made you roll your eyes, or turned you off entirely, but Jack was so skilled, so charming, and just so downright hot, that it worked for him. His confidence came from his competence, and it was so attractive, it made you squirm where you sat on the counter beside him, the warmth blooming between your thighs becoming nearly impossible to ignore.

“What’re you making?” you asked in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from watching the muscles of Jack’s shoulders shift beneath the obscenely thin fabric of his white t-shirt. That t-shirt looked well-loved, and you had a sneaking suspicion it would feel really good to wear—while staying the night in Jack’s bed…

“We’ve got some leftover coffee mousse from tonight’s dessert special,” Jack answered, seemingly unaware of how you were ogling him as he continued to chop the dark chocolate into little pieces.

His hands were so deft and skilfull, his fingers so thick and sure, you couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like for Jack to touch you. You imagined him putting his hands on your body, groping your soft curves, slipping his fingers between your thighs to press against your damp panties…

“I’m just adding some chocolate to elevate it a little,” Jack glanced at you, and you knew your filthy thoughts were written all over your face by the way his eyes heated when they raked over your face. “Chocolate makes everything better, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

Jack’s voice had lowered, sending delightful little tendrils of lust licking down your spine. Even if you’d wanted to, you couldn’t have looked away from Jack’s dark gaze, the steady thwack of the knife against his cutting board matching the rhythm of the pulse between your thighs.

Slowly, you nodded your head. “Yes, chef,” you murmured, your voice raspier than you’d expected, matching Jack’s lower tenor. Your heart was beating so fast in your chest, you thought you might be able to hear it in the quiet kitchen, but it was only your soft, panting breaths.

The measured sounds of Jack’s knife ceased, his eyes dropping to your mouth, watching you breathe for one long moment, and then another, before dragging his gaze back to yours. Tension crackled electrically between your bodies, and it wasn’t until your wrist gave a twinge of pain that you realized your hands were braced on the edge of the counter and you were leaning closer to Jack.

He seemed to notice the position of your body at the same time you did, his eyes darting down to where your tits were bouncing softly with your sharp breaths before looking up, a light pink blush appearing beneath his freckles. His gaze collided with yours, and you could feel the older man holding himself back, keeping himself in check.

But that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted…him. Badly.

“Jack.” His name was a desperate whimper, barely louder than your breathing, tumbling from your lips. Something in him seemed to break at the sound of his name from your lips, and you thought he might kiss you.

Instead, he surprised you by grabbing a piece of chocolate from his cutting board and lifting it to your lips. He met your stare with his own heated eyes, looking like melted chocolate mixed with caramel.

“Here, sweetheart, have a taste.”

Jack’s words were a low, delectable rumble from deep in his chest, and you couldn’t hold back the shiver that raced down your spine, making your shoulders tremble with excitement under the onslaught of his voice and his closeness. You could smell his earthy, masculine scent, and you wanted more.

The tips of Jack’s bare fingers pressed to your lower lip and, instinctively, you parted for him, allowing the older man to feed you the chocolate. The rich, decadent taste burst in your mouth, and your tongue darted out, licking the pads of Jack’s fingers, making his eyes darken even further as he watched your lips close around the bite of chocolate.

You let the confection melt in your mouth, your eyes sliding closed of their own accord as you savored the delicious dark chocolate. You might’ve felt like you were in your own little world, but Jack’s hand fell to your thigh, his fingers teasing the hem of your dress where it rode high on your leg. You had to stifle another shiver as you hummed in delight, catching the rumble of a muffled groan coming from the chef.

When you opened your eyes again, it was to find Jack’s intense hazel eyes searing into yours, his gaze so blisteringly hot, you felt your core clench in anticipation. And since you knew you weren’t alone in your attraction and lust, you licked your lips, watching Jack track the movement with his gaze.

“Yum,” you whispered, your fingers trailing lightly through the hair on Jack’s arm, nails raking subtly against his warm, freckled skin. You were prepared for him to pull away again, but he didn’t, and you let a small smile curve your mouth. “Do you have anything else for me to taste, chef?”

Although your question was, on its surface, innocent, you imbued your words with enough innuendo for your real meaning to get through to him. You knew that it had when the corner of Jack’s lips quirked into a smile, but instead of leaning forward and giving you what you wanted—his mouth—he pulled away and turned to something at his station.

The chef popped open one of the storage containers he’d taken out of the fridge and swiped his finger through the mousse inside. You almost squirmed in excitement as he held his hand in front of your mouth, offering you the sweet treat.

Wrapping your hands around his wrist, you held Jack’s scorching gaze as you brought his finger to your lips. You licked teasingly at the mousse, making sure not to touch Jack’s skin with your tongue, and had to fight a smirk when he let out a barely suppressed groan.

Putting both of you out of your misery, you closed your lips around Jack’s thick finger and licked the mousse off of him. The bittersweet taste of the coffee mousse exploded in your mouth, with just a hint of salt from Jack’s skin, and it had you moaning around Jack’s finger. His whole body jerked at the sound and the vibrations.

“Christ, sweetheart,” he groaned softly, his other hand grabbing your thigh, gripping you tightly as he nudged your knees open so he could step between your parted legs. “You make the prettiest sounds when you’re eating my food—I just wanna taste…”

Jack’s finger, still sticky with sugar, slid from your mouth and his hand cupped your cheek, tipping your face toward his. For a moment, he lingered with his lips just barely brushing yours, close enough that you were certain he could taste the coffee and chocolate on your breath.

It felt like he was memorizing the moment, savoring the tension that crackled between your bodies, the way your breath hitched with him so close. Your knees squeezed his sides, your fingers dancing up his ribs, and a soft, breathy whined sounded in your throat as you tried to pull him closer.

“Is this alright, sweetheart?” Jack asked, his thumb stroking your cheek, swiping over the corner of your mouth.

The genuine care in his deep, raspy voice was nearly your undoing. This man had done nothing but take care of you since he’d come striding out of the kitchen to save you from your bad date, but you were tired of him treating you with kid gloves. You wanted him so fucking bad.

Fingers curling in the sides of his t-shirt, you tugged Jack closer, sliding your body to the edge of the counter at the same time, uncaring about how high your dress was riding up your thighs. You parted your lips, tilting your head into the handsome chef’s hand as you pressed your soft body against his hard one.

“Yes, Jack,” you whimpered, unable to stand the crackling tension any longer, even as you wanted to bask in it for the rest of your life. “Kiss me. Please, chef.”

Jack didn’t need to be asked twice. He closed the distance between his mouth and yours, capturing your lips in a slow, decadent kiss that had your heart soaring. His lips were soft, but firm, as they moved against yours, taking immediate control while you were left to gasp and whimper into his mouth.

It was everything you’d hoped it would be—the older man kissing you sweetly at first, before pressing his thumb to your chin and tilting your head back so he could sweep his tongue into your mouth. The hot slide of him was determined and possessive and so fucking hot, you moaned against his lips, trembling as you met the fervor of his kiss with your own heady lust.

Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you wrapped your arms around Jack’s shoulders, your fingers sinking into the soft, steel gray curls at the back of his head. Your fingers tangled in the strands, tugging lightly on his hiar as your nails raked lightly against his skin, earning you a desperate groan. Jack deepened the kiss again until you couldn’t do anything else but breathe him in.

The chef’s hands skimmed down your sides beneath the edges of his leather jacket where it was still balanced precariously on your shoulders. His palms were warm as his thick fingers wrapped around your ribs, pulling you even more flush against his chest, your legs splaying wide to make room for his broad body.

His thick, half-hard cock pressed against your soft inner thigh, and you shifted until he was nestled against your warm center. You rocked your hips, grinding against his bulge, dragging a desperate groan out of the older man.

“Fuck, angel, you taste like heaven,” Jack rasped, pressing kisses along your jaw, tickling you with the silver scruff on his cheeks. When he suckled on a spot beneath your ear, you moaned and writhed in his arms, pressing your aching pussy against his hardening cock. “Feel like it, too.”

“God, you feel so good, Jack,” you babbled breathlessly, rubbing against his body like a cat in heat. You hiked your thighs higher around his waist, using the leverage to hump against his thick cock through your clothes. “I want you. Please, chef,” you begged against Jack’s ear, nipping at the lobe and smiling wildly when he shuddered in your arms, his hips grinding his cock harder against your soft core.

“I thought you were going to be a good girl for me, sweetheart,” Jack growled, his voice softly recriminating as he grabbed your hips hard, his fingers digging roughly into your soft flesh.

But instead of dragging you closer and giving you what you wanted, he pushed you back. Lifting his head from your neck, he gave you a stern look, softened by the affectionate twist of his mouth and the spark of desire in his eyes, sending a zing of lust straight to your dripping slit.

“Don’t you wanna be good for me, angel,” he rumbled, his voice deliciously raspy, “and let me feed you some dessert before you start begging me to fuck you?”

Your jaw dropped and you sucked in a sharp breath at Jack’s filthy words, heat suffusing your body so fully, you couldn’t find a single word in your entire head to respond. You could only stare at the older man, your thighs squeezing his hips and wordlessly begging him to put your body out of its misery, but Jack simply chuckled at your reaction.

He stole a kiss from your parted lips before gently extricating himself from your clinging body, shushing you softly when you whined at the loss of him. Giving your hips one last rough squeeze, he stepped out from between your legs and adjusted his thick cock in his jeans as he moved back to his workstation.

It was absurd how cold you felt without him, and you pulled Jack’s leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, pouting at the chef. He pretended to ignore you, scooping up chocolate shards and dumping them into a bowl along with some mousse while you kicked your feet petulantly and whined, “Jaaack.”

That got you an amused smirk. “Just a few bites,” he urged, picking up the bowl and beginning to whisk the chocolate into the mouse, melting it into the dessert. “I promise it’ll be worth it,” Jack said, giving you another of his charming winks.

It had its intended effect, and you softened, endeavoring to wait patiently, though you still made a show of grumbling your discontent even as you got distracted by watching him work. Jack’s arms flexed deliciously while he whisked the chocolate into the mousse, his biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt so enticingly, you wanted to bite them, then lick every freckle, then bite him again.

Jack’s low chuckle let you know he’d caught your hungry look, and heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn’t get a chance to stammer out an apology or an explanation before he was setting the bowl down and grabbing a spoon. Scooping up some of the mousse mixture, he lifted it to your lips.

You opened eagerly, already knowing whatever Jack made would be delicious, and let him pop the bite into your mouth. Jack watched you closely as he pulled the spoon out, giving you a moment to taste what he’d given you.

The delectable flavors of rich coffee and velvety chocolate melted on your tongue, and your eyes slid closed as you savored the sweetness, a low moan slipping from your lips at how good the dessert tasted.

“Jesus, Jack, that’s the best thing I think I’ve ever had in my mouth,” you groaned, opening your eyes. You found Jack staring at you, a wild look in his eyes, and so much hunger in their depths, it stole the breath from your lungs. He was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

You half expected the chef to pounce on you, to kiss the remnants of the dessert from your lips and show you what other things he could stuff in your mouth, but you should’ve known better. Jack didn’t take the bait of your comment as he kept a white-knuckle grip on himself, holding back even as more tension than ever snapped and crackled between the two of you.

“Want some more, sweetheart?” he rasped, holding your gaze.

Your head was bobbing an eager nod before he’d even finished the question, and he lifted another spoonful of mousse to your lips, watching as you ate it happily, humming in delight. When Jack fed himself some of the sweet concoction, you could only watch with rapt attention as it disappeared inside his mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch some left at the corner of his lips.

The need in your body had pulled you taut as a bowstring, your skin practically vibrating with desire by the time you’d finished enough of the dessert for Jack to hopefully be satisfied. It was a testament to his culinary skills that you were still able to taste the chocolatey coffee confection with how much lust was swirling through your body, simmering low in your belly.

You squirmed where you sat, the metal beneath your thighs warm from your skin, and felt how wet you were, your panties nearly soaked with your desire. You were hot enough that you pushed the jacket from your shoulders, and looked directly at Jack, pouting at the chef once more.

“Jack, please,” you whined, your fingers curling around the edges of his t-shirt, knuckles brushing his ribs. You felt him suck in a breath as he let you tug him back between your legs, your body trembling with excitement and need. “I’ve had enough dessert, I need something else…”

The older man didn’t respond immediately, his head ducked, watching as his palms skimmed up the outside of your bare thighs, like he could barely believe you were letting him touch you. Your fingers trailed up his arms, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails raking lightly against his skin. You watched him close his eyes at the sensation, knowing he enjoyed it.

“I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I?” you murmured in Jack’s ear, feeling the tension in his shoulders as they bunched beneath your arms. He let out a slow breath, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. “I’ve been so good, and I want you so bad, Jack. Touch me—please, chef.”

The last thread of Jack’s control snapped at your comment—you felt it in the way his muscles moved, poised on the edge of giving in before he finally let his desire loose after your begging plea. His hands grabbed you roughly, fingers digging into your bare ass beneath the hem of your dress as he yanked you closer.

His mouth descended on yours, capturing your lips in a blisteringly hot, devouring kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. He wrapped you up in his arms, crushing you to his chest as he kissed you, gorging himself on your mouth, his hands groping greedily at your body while you clung to him.

It was everything you’d wanted from the chef, and the corners of your lips curved in an attempt at smile, but then Jack was kissing you harder, overwhelming you until you were moaning mindlessly into his mouth. You’d never felt more desired than you did when Jack kissed you, and you’d never felt more in danger of letting yourself fall for someone.

You were mostly lost to your lust, your nipples puckered and needy where they were pressed against the chef’s chest and your pussy aching to be filled, but it occurred to you that Jack was different from all the other men you’d dated. He was kind and gentle and steady, and he kissed you so good your head spun.

It struck you suddenly that while you knew you were safe with Jack, you were in danger of losing your heart to him. But that was the kind of danger you wanted to be in—especially since you knew that if you fell for him, Jack would catch you.

So you kissed the chef right back, pouring your desire for him into the slide of your mouth against his, holding him close as you flung yourself off the edge, letting emotions swirl and swell in your chest, confident that he’d carry your heart in his hands and protect it with his life.

You’d never been safer in your entire life than you were in Jack Abbot’s arms.

Jack Abbot was in heaven.

In all his years of cooking, of being a chef, he’d never tasted anything as divine as you.

He could gorge himself on you and still never get enough—not of the way your mouth moved against his, your lips soft and tongue eager as it twined with his. He couldn’t get enough of the feel of your body beneath his hands, so sweet and supple and responsive.

Every press of his fingertips into your spine had you arching into him, breathy, little whines slipping from your lips for him to devour. He could taste the coffee and chocolate on your tongue, and he sucked on your plump lower lip, groaning as he savored the combination of the dessert he’d fed you with the natural flavor that was all your own.

Kissing you was making him unbelievably hard—harder than he’d been in a long time—his cock heavy and weeping in his jeans. The only thing that saved him from embarrassment was how enthusiastically you were grinding against his bulge, the dampness of your panties leaving a wet spot where his cock was straining against the dark denim.

Jack dragged his hands up your sides, wrapping his fingers around your ribs, his thumbs brushing against the underside of your tits, teasing you both with the barest of touches. You let out a soft, keening sound against his mouth, making him smirk before he pressed kisses along your jaw and down the smooth column of your neck.

“More, Jack, please,” you begged, your hands fisted in his shirt and tugging on him restlessly. The desperation in your voice, the way you begged for him, it made his cock twitch for you.

He shifted his hands higher, groping your tits through your dress and dragging a filthy moan from your pretty lips. The pads of his thumbs teased your hardened nipples, and he reveled in the way your body shuddered in his arms. Your spine arched, pressing your tits into his hands and he rewarded you by rubbing your nipples more with his thumbs.

“Ya like this, sweetheart?” Jack rasped against your neck, raising his head enough to nip at your ear. “Like letting an old chef feel up your pretty tits?”

“Old, hot chef,” you shot back, correcting him in a deliciously breathless voice.

Jack’s cock twitched at the compliment, and he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have found you—someone so beautiful and full of life. Someone so into him.

He pressed his smile into the spot beneath your ear, kissing and licking your skin until you were moaning softly.

“And yes, chef, I love it. Touch me more, touch me harder—please,” you begged, squirming where you sat on the metal counter in his kitchen.

What was Jack supposed to do? Deny you?

He couldn’t even fathom the idea of not giving you what you asked for, even if he knew that he was letting things get a little out of control. The two of you were still at Night Shift, and though the staff had left for the night, it wasn’t the best idea to have sex in his kitchen.

But Jack couldn’t seem to stop himself, not when you were making such pretty noises while he sucked a hickey into your neck and teased your nipples with the lightest of pinches. His mouth trailed up your throat before capturing your lips in another kiss, swallowing your sounds of pleasure while he played with your tits.

It had been so long since Jack had lost himself in anyone—there hadn’t been anyone who’d awoken that desire in him the way you did. Not since his wife passed. You were a siren calling him to the danger of your body, to the promise of losing his heart to you, and Jack knew he could drown in you if you let him. He hoped to god you let him.

For long, endless minutes, Jack kissed you and groped your tits, playing with your nipples and seeing how many different noises he could pull from your lips. And for a while, you let him, the sounds of your pleasure growing more high-pitched, your hips working more desperately to hump against his cock.

Eventually, your need must’ve grown too great, your frustration too acute, because you grabbed one of Jack’s wrists and shoved his hand down between your bodies, until his fingers brushed your soaked panties.

“Touch me here, Jack, please—I need it,” you whimpered in his ear, and it was nearly his undoing.

It was his turn to gasp and groan, the tips of his fingers stroking against the sodden fabric as he used every ounce of the self-control he’d learned in the army not to spill himself in his jeans right then. You were so warm and soft, and so fucking wet.

Jack teased his fingers along the seam of your slit through your panties, hoping you couldn’t tell how much his hand was shaking. You felt so perfect, it was overwhelming. He’d stopped kissing you, your mouths close as you breathed each other’s air, panting your excitement together while he pressed into your cunt through your slick panties.

“Like this, sweetheart?” he rumbled, the edge of his mouth pulling up in a smirk when you let out a desperate little mewl. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly while you rocked your hips onto his hand.

“Jaaack,” you sobbed, and he’d never heard anything as sweet as the sound of his name falling from your kiss-bitten lips, pleasure soaked into your voice.

You pulled harder on his hair, and the jolt of pain went straight to his dick, which leaked even more precum into his jeans. Jack responded by pushing his fingers deeper between the lips of your pussy, his progress restricted by your panties, which prevented him from burying his fingers in your hole.

A violent shiver wracked your body, and Jack wrapped his other arm more tightly around your lower back, holding you close while he fucked you shallowly with his fingers. His thumb teased your clit with a featherlight touch, drawing a feral sound from your perfect mouth.

“Please, oh god, please, chef, touch me—fuck me with your fingers, please, please, please,” you babbled, yanking on his hair to draw him closer. But instead, Jack took the opportunity to lean back and take a look at you—and what a sight you were.

Your head was thrown back, your expression openly desperate with lust. Your gorgeous eyes were dazed with desire, your plump, perfect lips parted and panting for air. Your chest was heaving with heavy breaths, enough that your tits threatened to spill out of your mussed dress, which was hiked up high, Jack’s big hand pressed between your soft thighs.

You looked debauched. You looked so beautiful, Jack’s heart clenched in his chest and he couldn’t stop himself from imagining you looking like this in a million different ways—on the desk in his office, in the backseat of his car, on his couch at home, in his bed.

In that moment, Jack wanted nothing more than to have you in all those ways. He wanted to move you into his place and put a ring on your finger—he wanted to make you his and keep you forever. He was stunned by how much he wanted you.

“Jaaack,” you whined, your sweet voice bringing him back to the moment. Your eyes were wide and pleading as you looked at him. “I was a good girl, wasn’t I?” you asked so pitifully, Jack’s heart ached.

A single tear slipped down your cheek and he cupped your face, panic stealing into his gut and making his stomach drop. He wiped your tears away, already knowing he was going to give you whatever you wanted. If you’d asked him to lay down and die for you, he would’ve done it without a second thought.

“You’re being so mean, chef, when I was so good for you,” you whimpered, your hips worked against his hand. The movement reminded Jack of how he’d been teasing you with his fingers, dragging you to the edge of desperation when all you wanted was to be full of him.

“Oh, baby, baby, baby,” Jack groaned, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

He held your face in one hand as he kissed you, tasting the salt of your tears on your lips, while the other tugged your panties to the side. He pushed one of his thick fingers into your tight, dripping hole, swallowing your moan like it was the most exquisite decadence he’d ever tasted.

“I’m sorry, angel, you’re right,” he rumbled against your mouth, pumping his finger steadily into your pussy, feeling your gummy walls gripping him tight. “You were such a good girl for me—so good that ‘m gonna make you come on my fingers, alright?”

“Promise?” you asked, pouting up at him from under your lashes, and Jack knew he was in trouble, because that look on your face could get him to do anything you asked.

The corner of your mouth twitched, like you were holding back a grin, and Jack’s heart thumped in his chest because you knew the effect you had on him. He liked that a little too much. He liked that you weren’t afraid of torturing him a little bit after he’d teased you a little too much. It felt intimate, like you were building something real together, something that would certainly last past the night.

“I promise, angel,” he cooed, stroking his finger deeper before adding a second one, watching the way your breath caught on a gasp, biting back a self-satisfied smirk. “There’s a rule in my kitchen, y’know,” he went on, talking out of his ass to keep your attention on him even as he finger-fucked your pussy. “Good girls always get to come on the chef’s fingers—and you’ve been such a good girl for me, baby.”

You let out a soft, breathy giggle at that, just like Jack had hoped, and he pumped his fingers harder into your wet, gripping cunt, making your laugh devolve into a dirty moan. Your body went loose and languid in his arms, and he rewarded you by pressing his thumb against your clit. He rubbed the little bundle of nerves, watching how you reacted until he found exactly what you liked most.

“Think you can take another, sweetheart?” Jack asked, pressing kisses to your heated cheeks and cleaning away the remnants of your tears with his lips. He trailed his mouth down to your neck, enjoying the way you shivered when his stubble rasped against your sensitive skin. “Can you take one more finger in this sweet cunt, baby?”

“Yes, please, chef,” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his thin t-shirt.

Every pinprick became throbbing pleasure as it zinged down to his cock. He hadn’t been so close to coming in his pants since he was a teenager, but he fought off his own desire and focused on you. You and your pleasure were what mattered to him, not his dick.

“Good girl,” Jack purred, grinning into your neck when your pussy pulsed at the praise. He eased a third finger into your slick hole, biting back a groan when your tight warmth enveloped him. He pressed his cock against your soft thigh, looking down and watching your pussy take his thick fingers. “Fuck, angel, look at you—taking me so well.”

You leaned back, looking down your body, and Jack knew the moment you saw his fingers disappearing inside your cunt because you clamped down hard around him, like your body was trying to suck him deeper. He stifled another helpless groan, pumping into you, pressing against a spot that had you shivering and moaning wantonly.

You fell back further, planting your hands on the counter to hold yourself up, trying to use your leverage to bear down further on his fingers. But you’d barely rocked your hips in a slow roll when you let out a cry—the tenor making the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand up—as your arms gave out and you fell backward.

Quick as he could, Jack slid his free arm up your back, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to catch you before your head could hit the shelves above the counter. He pulled his hand from between your legs, holding onto your bare thigh with his sticky fingers as he ducked his head to meet your eyes.

“What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” he asked, his gaze searching your face, which was twisted like you were trying to hide your pain. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought.

You shook your head, rejecting the idea, which calmed Jack for a moment. Until you spoke.

“My wrist,” you whimpered. “Hurts.”

It took all of a second for Jack to understand what had happened. You’d put too much pressure on the wrist that your worthless excuse of a date had grabbed, had hurt, and it had given out. Rage flooded through Jack’s body, his blood pumping hot with the desire to track down Curtis Larsen and beat him to a bloody pulp.

But Jack knew that wouldn’t help anyone, least of all you, so he worked to rein in his anger. He focused on you, making sure you could sit up on your own before taking the hand of your injured wrist in his.

When he held it up to the bright lights in the kitchen, he could see bruises had formed where Curtis had grabbed you. Before he could stop it, a choked off growl rumbled beneath his sternum, the animalistic sound only ceasing when you stroked your palm down his chest, soothing him.

It took Jack another moment to collect himself, to gather his anger and put it in a box to deal with later. Gently, he lifted your hurt wrist to his mouth and brushed the sweetest, softest butterfly kisses over the bruises mottling your skin.

“I’d kill him if I thought I could get away with it,” Jack confessed, hoping to make you giggle again, his eyes lifting to your face to watch your reaction.

Although you didn’t laugh, his words did the trick of bringing the spark back into your eye. A shy smile curved the corners of your pretty mouth, and you lifted your other hand to cup Jack’s jaw, your thumb teasing over the stubble on his cheek.

“He’s not worth the effort,” you said, and though Jack agreed with you, he didn’t like the idea of letting Curtis Larsen get away with hurting you.

“Hmm,” Jack hummed noncommittally, wondering if he could call the police tomorrow and report the man for assault since it’d happened in his restaurant.

He liked that idea.

He liked the idea of locking up Curtis Larsen and throwing away the key even more. But you were his priority, not that jackass that had been your date, so he focused back on you.

Jack squeezed your thigh, his thumb teasing close to the edge of your panties. “Do you want to keep going, sweetheart?” he asked, his gaze watching you carefully. “I can take you home if you’d prefer.”

The change in your expression was immediate, your lower lip pushing out in a pout, your eyes widening and looking at Jack from under your lashes.

“I want to keep going,” you murmured, almost shyly, meeting Jack’s gaze before it dropped to his mouth. Your free hand fell to his arm, moving his hand from your thigh back between your legs then looking up at him. “I don’t want my shitty date to ruin our night—and you promised me I’d get to come on your fingers.”

A small smile curved Jack’s mouth and he ducked forward, stealing a quick kiss from your pouting lips before he pulled away. His grin was cocky as he pushed your panties to the side and teased your tight hole with the tips of his fingers.

“You’re right—and I always keep my promises, baby,” he assured you, pressing his fingers into your pussy while he watched you closely, making sure he didn’t hurt you.

Once they were buried inside you, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your injured wrist, then brought your hand to his shoulder. He gave you a pleased smile when you lifted your other arm to circle loosely around the back of his neck, your fingers playing with the curls at the nape.

“Hold on to me, angel,” Jack urged, easing his fingers out, then back inside your pussy, feeling your slick, tight cunt stretch around him. He watched your eyes go hazy with lust, your mouth falling open as you panted through your pleasure. “I’ll make you feel good—make you forget everything that happened tonight before I came to your table.”

With a soft, sweet sigh, you draped your arms over Jack’s shoulders, taking all the weight off your wrists, and leaned forward to nuzzle into the side of his neck. Warmth suffused his body, his cock twitching in his jeans when he felt you press a kiss to the underside of his scruffy jaw.

“Thank you, Jack,” you murmured, your voice almost low enough to be drowned out by the quiet whir of machinery in the kitchen. Your warm breath brushed against Jack’s throat and he had to suppress a shiver, focusing on your words. “You’re all I want to remember about tonight.”

Jack’s arm tightened around your lower back, instinctively pulling you closer as his heart gave a heavy thump in his chest. Your sweet words called to something deep in his soul, something that hadn’t been fed in too long for him to be normal about it.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell you he wanted to spend every night with you, that he wanted you in his bed when he woke up in the morning and to come home to you in his kitchen. He wanted to cook for you and take you out and move you in with him…

But Jack knew it was way too soon to be having those thoughts, let alone say them out loud, so he put on the charm, hoping you couldn’t tell where his mind had wandered.

“And the food, right?” he asked, his tone teasing and light as he fucked you with his fingers again, his thrusts building you back up to where you’d been. He could feel the way your body trembled in his arms, and he held you tighter so he could feel the pleasure work through you. “You want to remember the food, right, sweetheart?”

You huffed a laugh against Jack’s neck, your tongue darting out and swiping up the side of his throat, making him groan helplessly at the obscene feeling of you licking him. His hips bucked forward of their own volition, his cock grinding against your soft inner thigh.

“Oh yes, chef,” you purred in his ear, your voice shaky and breathless and so, so sweet as he pumped his fingers into you harder, his thumb rubbing your clit. “I want to remember everything I got to taste tonight.”

Your words conjured images of your pert mouth on Jack’s cock, your teasing tongue swirling around the tip, licking up his precum before sucking him deep between your soft lips. It was such a hot image, Jack had to duck his head and muffle his tortured groan into your shoulder.

It took him a full minute to get himself together, your giggles echoing softly in the empty kitchen while your nails raked through his silver curls. Once he was able to focus again on the present, Jack pressed his mouth to your collarbone, licking and sucking your skin down to your tits, pushing the top of your dress down so he could take your nipple into his mouth.

The older man was rewarded with a sharp cry from your lips, your spine arching and pressing your tits further into his mouth. Jack grinned into your soft flesh and began to lavish them with his attention, his fingers still working in and out of your pussy while his thumb rubbed your clit in teasing, maddening circles.

It occurred to Jack that he could stay right where he was for a long, long time and be happy to keep sucking on your tits, learning what made you squirm and moan, all while he fucked your cunt with his fingers. But all too soon, you were hovering on the edge of your release, your pussy fluttering around Jack’s fingers, your cries turning high-pitched and desperate while your body worked to find your pleasure.

Your fingers were threaded in his hair, clutching his head tight to your chest as you moaned and rocked your hips harder on his fingers. Mindless pleas were falling from your kiss-swollen lips, frantic appeals for ‘more’ and ‘harder’, begging him to give you the release you needed.

Jack was torn between drawing out the moment, making it last forever, and giving you what you wanted. Eventually, his need to take care of you won out, and he pushed his fingers deep into your cunt, his thumb mercilessly rubbing your clit while he lifted his head from your chest.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he growled in your ear. “Show me what a good girl you are and come all over chef’s fingers—let go, let me see you come for me.” He pressed his fingers against that spot deep inside your body and stroked your clit, feeling you tighten around him.

Pulling back enough to see your face, Jack watched you succumb to pleasure, your release taking hold of your body and making you throw your head back, a desperate, breathy cry bursting from your mouth. Your fingers tightened in hair, and your pussy clamped down on his fingers, making him work to keep fucking you through the waves of pleasure surging through your body, which trembled in his arms.

“Good girl,” Jack rumbled, his fingers slowly sliding in and out of your pulsing channel, wringing every ounce of bliss from your body. “Sweet girl, perfect girl.”

You curled forward and sobbed your pleasure into Jack’s neck, and when you shuddered at the overstimulation of his fingers, he gently eased you down from your peak. Once your release had ebbed, he slipped his fingers out of your body, and helped you to sit up.

“You gonna keep being a good girl and clean me up, baby?” he asked, touching his wet, dripping fingers to your plump lower lip. Jack didn’t know what had come over him, but the desire to see you taste yourself was too great to ignore, and he hoped he wasn’t making you uncomfortable.

He was pleased when your already unfocused eyes went even more hazy, your head nodding and a smile curling the edges of your mouth before you parted your lips and let Jack slip his fingers inside. You hummed a happy sound that went straight to Jack’s dick then got to work cleaning your own release from his skin.

It was such an erotic sight that Jack thought he could watch you suck on his fingers for the rest of the night, but then he realized he’d given away the opportunity to taste you himself and he got ridiculously jealous. You weren’t done cleaning him up, but he pulled his fingers from between your lips and shoved them into his own mouth.

Jack groaned at your taste, savoring the musky flavor of your pleasure while he held your gaze, letting you watch him lick his fingers clean. Your eyes were hooded and full of renewed lust, your lips swollen and parted as you panted for him.

He couldn’t stop himself. Between one breath and the next, his mouth was crushing against yours in a mindless, feral kiss. He could taste your pussy on your tongue when his delved into your mouth and it drove him wild. His arms wrapped around your body, crushing you to his chest while he kissed you harder, groaning when your fingers pressed into his spine and clung to him just as tightly.

“Jack, I want more,” you cried when your lips wrenched free from his, your fingers trailing around his ribs and down over his stomach until you could cup his thick erection through his jeans. “I need you inside me—need you filling me until I’m so full of your cock, it’s all I can think about.”

“Fuck, angel, you beg so pretty, how can I say no?” Jack teased, his voice only a little unsteady. He tried to pull away, but couldn’t bring himself to when you were stroking his cock through his pants, wringing desperate whimpers from him that would’ve embarrassed him if you weren’t smiling like the cat that got the cream. “C’mere, baby, let me fill up that greedy pussy of yours.”

But when Jack grabbed your ass and pulled you close to he could thrust into your pussy through your clothes, he felt a twinge of pain in his leg where it rubbed uncomfortably against his prosthetic. The pain shot straight up his spine, making his mind go completely blank for a moment, his breath catching in his lungs.

During work, Jack could typically grit his teeth and bear the pain when it hit, but he’d been on his feet for too long. He’d pushed himself beyond his own limits and his body was reminding him that he wasn’t the young, spry man he’d once been.

“Jack?” you asked, your voice thick with concern.

The older man took stock of himself, and realized he’d half collapsed against you, his head on your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh pants as he breathed through the pain. He’d shifted his weight to his one good foot, leaving him a little off-balance and using you to steady himself.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, stroking your fingers comfortingly through his hair and across his shoulders. When he relaxed into your touch, you held him tighter, not seeming to mind that he was putting some of his weight on you.

“My prosthetic,” he grumbled, not entirely happy that this was how he was telling you, but not shying away from the truth either. “Hurts.”

“Your prosthetic?” you asked after a moment, and Jack paid close attention to the tone of your voice. You sounded confused, maybe a little curious, but Jack was relieved that there wasn’t revulsion or, worse, pity in your tone.

“Lost my leg while I was in the army,” he explained, taking a deep breath as he began to recover his strength. The pain had subsided, leaving him a little shaky and off-balance, but fine.

“Oh, okay,” you said, nothing but acceptance in your tone.

Your fingers were still idly playing with Jack’s hair and that, more than anything else, helped him feel better—though he knew he’d have to get off his feet soon. He was trying to work out how to tell you he couldn’t fuck you on the counter in this position when you took him by surprise with another question.

“Is that how you got the medal?’

Jack paused. Of all the questions you could’ve asked—and he’d heard most, if not all of them—that wasn’t one he’d anticipated. Most folks didn’t know about the medal, and it took him a moment to remember that he kept it on his desk in his office, where you’d spent most of the evening.

The realization that you’d been curious enough about him to look through his desk made his heart soar, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. For some reason, it didn’t bother him, you going through his things. It felt right, the idea of you being comfortable in his space.

“Were you snooping through my stuff, sweetheart?” Jack asked teasingly, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze, curious about how you’d react to the question.

He watched your eyes widen slightly, your gaze darting away before returning to his with a sheepish look on your face. “It was on top of your desk,” you mumbled, shrugging, then wincing at how blithe you sounded. “I didn’t go through any drawers or anything, I swear.”

Jack couldn’t help but chuckle at how guilty you looked, and he smoothed a hand down your spine in a reassuring gesture. “You’re adorable,” he murmured, capturing your lips in a kiss to let you know you were forgiven. “And yes, it’s how I got the medal. I’ve made peace with it, but sometimes, it makes things…tricky.”

You nodded somberly as you absorbed that information, your eyes dropping down to where Jack was still half-leaning against you. The chef could practically see the gears turning in your head as you thought, but he was still taken by surprise when you lifted your gaze back to his and asked, “Would it help if I was on top?”

Your question made Jack pause again. He’d been with his wife already when he’d lost his leg, and she’d helped him figure out what worked afterward. It had given him the confidence he’d needed to eventually move on after she’d passed on. But the few flings he’d had since weren’t as easily accepting as you, and none of them had been as considerate.

It made Jack’s heart clench in his chest as he realized all over again how glad he was to have found you. Although he wished the circumstances of your meeting were different—he wished you’d never been hurt by your date—he was grateful that the universe had brought you together.

“Yeah, actually, it would,” Jack said, matching your serious tone with his honesty.

It was another moment where the weight of his feelings for you took him by surprise, especially after knowing you for such a short time. In an effort not to scare you away by revealing how he felt, he used his charm to lighten the mood. Ducking his head, he caught your eye and let a smirk play on his lips.

“Do you wanna ride me, baby?” he asked, his tone teasing, his smirk spreading into a full-blown confident grin when lust bloomed in your eyes, none of it tainted by pity or fear or disgust. It made his cock throb for you. “Wanna ride chef’s cock and make us both feel good?”

“Yes, please, chef. I’d love to ride you,” you purred, pushing him gently back to give you room to move.

You held his gaze as you reached beneath the hem of your dress and wiggled until you’d yanked your panties off, looking at him expectantly. Jack unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, shoving his jeans and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free.

He watched your eyes dart down, then widen when you took in the size of his thick cock. His dick wasn’t the longest, but it was fat enough that his three fingers stretching your pussy would feel small in comparison. Suddenly, he hoped you weren’t afraid.

It was on the tip of his tongue to reassure you, to tell you that you could stop this at any time and the two of you could go slow if that was what you needed. But before he could get the words out, your eyes lifted to his and he saw the spark of eager excitement in their depths, in the curve of your grin.

You looked like a sultry creature feral with lust, your pretty, kiss-bitten lips pulled into a sensuous smile as you hopped off the counter and prowled closer to him, only wobbling a little in your heels. Jack reached for you at the same moment you spun him around and shoved him onto the counter so you could climb on top of him.

“I’m gonna make us feel sooo good, chef,” you promised, settling your knees on either side of Jack’s hips and rising up, wrapping your fingers around his thick cock. Jack’s hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up so he could see your bare pussy where you rubbed the tip of his dick through your slick folds. “Gonna ride your cock until you’re coming hard in my cunt. Tell me you want it, too—please, chef.”

For a moment, all words fled Jack’s mind. All he could do was feel the teasing warmth of your pussy kissing the tip of his cock, hear the soft wet sounds of your desire, smell the scent of your arousal. All he could see was you, looking like a goddess above him, promising him pleasure.

Fuck, Jack Abbot really was in heaven, and he hoped he never had to leave.

You were right where you were meant to be.

You couldn’t explain what had come over you—whether it was simply the lust you’d felt at the sight of the older man’s thick cock or if it was everything about the chef—but you had the sense that everything you’d been through that night was worth it because you’d met Jack Abbot.

He was everything you’d been looking for in a partner—kind and capable, charming and funny—and plenty that you hadn’t known you’d wanted, like the way he could talk just as dirty as you, and cook way better than you ever could. He’d been gentle when he’d kissed your injured wrist, but hadn’t held back when he’d fucked you with his fingers, giving it to you as rough as you needed to get off.

Jack had made you feel safe and desired. He’d taken care of you in every way you’d needed throughout the night, and you were in serious danger of falling for him. If you hadn’t already. It might’ve been a little crazy, but you might’ve fallen for him already.

The weight of your feelings were too heavy to tell the chef just yet, so you focused instead on the moment, on the feeling of Jack’s broad tip teasing between the lips of your pussy, of the firm grip of his hands on your hips, and the heat of his eyes as he watched you tease his cock.

It was intoxicating, seeing the unrestrained lust in Jack’s face, darkening his hazel eyes and twisting his mouth into something feral and hungry. The thought crossed your mind that you could try to tease him until he snapped, the last remnants of his patience falling away as he yanked you down on his cock. But just the fantasy had you pulsing with need.

You needed Jack’s cock inside you. Immediately.

But before you could start to lower yourself down on Jack’s bare length, you remembered yourself. You paused, hovering above his thick, throbbing cock, and took a breath to steady yourself. Still, your voice was a little shaky as you spoke.

“I’m on birth control; I’ve been tested, and it was clear,” you rushed to say, hoping Jack could understand your words even as they tripped over each other to fall off your tongue. You braced one hand on his shoulder and looked dead in the older man’s eyes. “I want you bare, Jack, please.”

“Jesus,” he cursed, letting his head fall against your chest. His shoulders were trembling slightly, and it took a moment for the man to get himself together to look at you. You wanted him without a condom too badly to rush him. “I’m all clear, too, angel,” he rasped, staring into your eyes. “It would be the honor of my life to fuck you raw, baby.”

Your heart soared, battering against your ribs like a caged bird wanting to take flight. You were so overcome by emotion, by your desire for this man, that you couldn’t think of doing anything else but kiss him. Jack cupped your face while your fingers sank into his steel gray curls, both of you holding each other tight as you kissed, hard and deep, with all the wild, unfettered emotion you felt.

Before the kiss even ended, you were already pressing down on his cock, only pulling away from Jack’s mouth when the tip pushed inside your body, the stretch making you gasp. He was wider than anything you’d taken before, and it sent a filthy shiver sliding down your spine as you felt your body straining to take him.

“God, Jack, you’re so—fuck, you’re so fucking big,” you whimpered, your eyes crossing a little as you lowered yourself another inch, grateful that he’d already finger-fucked you to orgasm once, since it made the slide slightly easier. You shuddered with the effort not to impale yourself all at once, knowing it would be a mistake if you didn’t go slow.

“Careful, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself,” Jack warned, but there was a hint of a teasing chuckle in his tone that drove you wild, your pussy clenching around and suckling on the tip of his cock. His words devolved into a pleasured groan that trickled down your spine like warm honey. “Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me already—you’re so tight and warm and wet. Jesus.”

“Uh huh, uh huh, so wet for you,” you babbled, bouncing a little on Jack’s cock to take him deeper. Your pussy stretched to accomodate him and the feeling of fullness stole the breath from your lungs. “You’re splitting me open so good, Jack, fuck—fuck, chef.”

“Mm,” Jack hummed, his hands kneading your ass and sliding up your spine beneath your dress, pulling you flush against his chest. His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses to your skin that had you shivering in his arms. “You’re gonna take it all, aren’t ya, baby,” he rumbled into the hollow of your throat, “because you’re such a good girl for me, huh?”

You couldn’t explain it, but Jack’s words had a ridiculous effect on you, making your pussy gush even more while your heart soared. Your hips rolled, pressing down determinedly and taking his cock nearly to the root, the stretch dragging a gasp from your lips while you clutched the older man close, reveling in the feel of his mouth on your neck.

“Yuh huh, your good girl,” you moaned, feeling Jack’s cock deep in your body. It filled you up so good, stretching you nearly to your limit, but you’d gone slow enough that it didn’t hurt—just made you impatient to have all of him.

You squirmed in his lap, lifting up and pressing back down, taking more and more of him with every downward thrust. Jack chuckled darkly as his hands hand returned to your hips, groping you with those thick, skillful fingers of his while he helped you bounce on his cock.

“That’s right, my good girl,” Jack rumbled, the possessiveness in his voice making your whole body clench, wringing a desperate groan from his mouth. He pulled you closer at the same moment when you spread your knees wide, and the result was your body being finally fully impaled on his cock.

The sudden, complete fullness was a delicious shock to your system and you wrapped yourself tightly around Jack, your arms circling his shoulders while you trembled and adjusted to the size of his fat cock buried in your cunt. It took you a breath to return to the moment, feeling Jack’s hands smoothing over your bare thighs in soothing gestures.

“Atta girl,” Jack praised, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. “You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. Feels like you were made for me—made to take my cock.”

A soft, breathy laugh burst from your lips, because those words were exactly what you wanted to hear, and it surprised you to hear them from Jack’s mouth. It made you feel like you weren’t alone in the big, overwhelming feelings you were having too soon for the chef, and you pressed your face into his shoulder to silence yourself before you said something too soon.

Instead, you focused on the feel of Jack. Every little movement of your body had his cock shifting inside your tight channel, his heavy length dragging against your sensitive inner walls, making your surprised laughter turn into a helpless moan.

“You feel sooo good,” you murmured, rocking your hips and getting lost in sensation. With your head fuzzy and full of pleasure, you sat up enough to look into Jack’s face, staring deep into his eyes. “If I was made to take anyone’s cock, Jack, I’d want it to be yours,” you said, not realizing until the words were out of your mouth just how revealing they were.

But instead of the depth of your desire scaring the chef, his gaze turned more intense, and a flicker of a smile played around the corner of his mouth. He drew you closer, until your lips were a mere hairsbreadth away from his. His eyes were hot and dark as they stared deep into your soul.

“I’m so glad you came into my restaurant tonight, angel,” Jack rasped, so much genuine affection in his tone, it made you melt further into him, your knees squeezing his hips while you clung to his shoulders. “Meeting you has made this the best night of my life—I hope you’ll let me see you again.”

“Oh, Jack,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes, not from sadness but a boundless happiness. You tried to blink them away, embarrassed to be crying while Jack’s cock was still buried in your body, but the older man didn’t seem to mind, his thumbs stroking your cheeks and brushing away the few tears that fell. “I’d really like to see you again, too.”

“Good,” he said, his voice so decisive that you knew it was settled. Your heart soared in your chest, and a smile broke across your face. You couldn’t have said which of you leaned forward first, closing the distance so your mouths came together in a kiss, a promise.

The kiss was slow and sensual, one of Jack’s hands cupping the back of your head while you explored each other. It was a delicious kiss, made all the more exquisite when Jack’s tongue licked into your mouth, drawing needy sounds from your lips as he kissed you deeper, like he wanted to remind you that he was buried in more than one of your holes.

You barely noticed when your hips began to rock, fucking yourself on Jack’s big cock. But when his hands dropped to your hips, urging you on, you had to pull away from his mouth with a gasp.

Tossing your head back, you focused on riding your chef, lifting up onto your knees and slamming back down on his hard, thick length. It was dizzyingly glorious, the heat and hardness of him filling your tight hole, punching the air from your lungs until you could do nothing but let out mindless sounds of pleasure.

“That’s my girl, fuck yourself on my cock,” Jack murmured encouragingly, his hands on your ass helping you lift yourself up and slide back down his stiff shaft. He groaned, loud enough to drown out the wet sounds of your pussy and the soft clap of your ass hitting his thighs. “Fuck, angel, you feel so good—such a good girl, riding chef’s cock like a fucking champ.”

A shiver raced down your spine at his praise and your fingers tangled in Jack’s hair, bracing yourself so you could bounce harder on his cock. Every thrust of his dick deep into your cunt was driving your pleasure higher, until your head was filled with clouds and your body was tingling, balancing on the precipice of your release.

“Yes, yes, yes, your girl, your good girl,” you panted, your eyes heavy-lidded but still open as you watched Jack’s face, his skin flushed red, making his freckles stand out in stark relief. “Please, chef, I’m so close—please, I need…”

Your words devolved into a moan as Jack took control of your body, changing the angle of your hips so your clit was grinding against the base of his cock. All you could do was gasp and whimper and whine and try to hold on to him while he helped you ride him.

“My sweet girl, my perfect girl, my gorgeous girl,” Jack cooed, punctuating his words by pulling you down on his cock over and over and over again, making sure your clit rubbed against him with each thrust. “I know what my girl needs—come for me, pretty girl. Wanna see you let go, wanna feel you come on my cock, baby, please.”

Jack’s words and the way he guided your body, helping you find your pleasure, were your undoing. Tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core until it suddenly snapped. You were sent tumbling over the edge of your release, every muscle in your body pulling taut before you exploded with a wailing cry, pleasure crashing through you in violent, euphoric waves.

A groan tore from Jack’s mouth and his arms tightened around your body. He held you crushed against his chest, moaning his own pleasure into your neck while his hips jerked between your thighs, fucking you through both your releases.

You clung on to him, your body writhing on top of his as you eked out every bit of bliss from each other, until the waves of your release began to recede. With a sated sigh, you collapsed against the older man’s shoulder, fingers raking idly through his hair while his hands stroked everywhere on your body he could reach—your hips, your thighs, even down your calves and up your spine beneath your dress.

Between your thighs, you could feel his hot release beginning to leak from your hole, and you squirmed a little at the strange feeling of loss that settled in your gut. Jack pressed one of his palms to your lower back, urging you to settle on his lap, and you let yourself relax, reveling in the feeling of his softening cock still filling your pussy.

After giving you a few moments to recover, Jack’s fingers trailed down the side of your face where your head was laying on his shoulder. He curled a finger around your chin and tilted your head up enough so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips.

“Alright, angel girl?” he asked softly, his voice so low and raspy, it sent little tingles dancing down your spine. You smiled against his mouth.

“Sooo good,” you answered, your mouth quirking into a smirk as you continued. “Or should I say, ‘Thank you, chef, that really hit the spot’?”

Jack huffed a surprised laugh, squeezing you tight in his arms as he shook his head. “What am I gonna do with you, baby girl?”

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell Jack that what he should do was take you back to his place and keep you forever. That thought was so surprising—you’d only known him for one night!—and felt so right, that instead of answering, you kissed him.

You could feel the smile on his lips before he kissed you back, and that little expression had you realizing just how fond you’d grown of the chef in such a short time. It was so astonishingly easy to picture yourself going home with Jack, sleeping in his bed, cuddled up in his arms, then having breakfast together in the morning.

The night had started with you not expecting much from your date. You thought maybe you’d hit it off and see him again, but you hadn’t dared to have much hope.

And now, the night was ending with you kissing a different man, one you’d only just met, and wanting so much more with him. You wanted to get to know Jack Abbot and see if your initial compatibility and attraction could lead to something more.

For the first time in a long time, you had hope. It felt like everything that had happened earlier in the evening was fate conspiring to bring you and Jack together—and you were all too excited to see where things would go.

The best part, you realized, as Jack kissed you back, his mouth moving sensuously against yours, was that he seemed just as excited to get to know you, too. He’d shown you nothing but green flags all night, and had even already asked to see you again. It felt like something close to magic to know that the man you liked, liked you back.

A smile fluttered at the corner of your mouth as you let yourself focus on kissing Jack, knowing there’d be time to overthink everything later. For the time being, you wanted to enjoy the rest of the night with your chef, because you were certain it was the beginning of something beautiful.

For a long while, the two of you were making out just for the fun of it, for the enjoyment of being with each other, until Jack’s soft cock slipped from your body and made you shiver. He grabbed his leather jacket from where you’d tossed it on the counter and wrapped it around your shoulders, giving you one last kiss before he began to ease you off his lap.

“I’ve got to clean up here,” he said, tucking his cock away and zipping up his jeans before he helped you straighten your dress, his eyes wandering shamelessly over your body, like he hadn’t yet had his fill of worshipping you. “Once I’m done, I can take you home. Sound good, sweetheart?”

“That depends,” you said, your fingers snagging in the hem of Jack’s white t-shirt, preventing him from moving too far away. You weren’t usually the clingy type, but you couldn’t bear to be away from him just yet. “Are you gonna take me back to my place, or yours?”

The older man’s gaze darkened and his hands settled on your hips, pulling you close again. Your arms wound instinctively around his shoulders, fingers playing with his hair in a way that already felt so comfortable and familiar.

“I was planning to take you to your home,” Jack began, a smirk curling his mouth when you pouted up at him from under your lashes. “But if you’d like, I can take you back to mine.” His eyes softened as he looked at you, his smirk melting into a smile. “I’d love to cook you breakfast, sweetheart.”

The depth of the affection in Jack’s gaze and his words made you feel suddenly shy, and you ducked your head a little. “I’d like that,” you murmured, sneaking a peek at him and finding the chef grinning like he’d just won the lottery. It gave you the confidence to lift your head and give him a confident smirk. “Be careful, though, if you keep making me such delicious food, you’ll never get rid of me.”

Something devilish flickered across Jack’s face and his smirk was all smug confidence as he swooped in and stole a kiss from your lips, leaving you breathless when he pulled away a moment later. “That’s the plan, angel girl—I’m gonna keep you around any way I can until you get sick of me.”

You were already shaking your head before he’d even finished talking, your fingers tugging lightly, admonishingly, on his hair. “That’ll never happen,” you said, your tone more serious than you’d intended. But your honesty was rewarded with Jack’s mouth twisting into a smile and him kissing you again.

It was such a privilege, you realized, to be with someone who wanted you just as badly as you wanted them—who liked you just as much as you liked them. From the moment you’d met him, Jack had made you feel safe, had taken care of you, had shown you that you were special simply for being you. And you hoped you’d done the same for him.

When Jack finally pulled away from the kiss, you whined a little, making him chuckle. “C’mon, baby girl, let’s clean up and go home,” he rumbled, kissing each of your cheeks, then your nose, before giving you one last kiss on your mouth.

His words and his sweet kisses had you smiling and giggling, and you nodded, your heart warm and light as you let Jack move away to begin cleaning up his workstation. As he did, you fetched your things from his office, turning off the light and closing the door.

By the time you’d returned, Jack was done, and he held his hand out for you to take. You did so happily, handing off your jacket and purse for him to carry when he offered.

Stepping out into the brisk, spring evening, a breeze sweeping through Pittsburgh and making you glad to have Jack’s jacket around your shoulders, you felt like you were leaving the little bubble you and the chef had created. But as you watched him lock up the back door of Night Shift, using only one hand so he could keep holding yours, you knew you didn’t need that bubble.

You may have had to endure the date from hell to meet Jack Abbot, but it felt like fate had designed the night so that you ended up right where you were meant to be—with the hot, older chef who looked at you with so much awe and affection, it made your heart pitter-patter in your chest.

Jack walked you to his car, pushing you gently against the passenger door to kiss you some more before he helped you into the seat. He held your hand as he drove you back to his place, kissing your knuckles every few minutes, then leaning across the center console to kiss your mouth after he’d parked in front of his house.

The two of you didn’t talk much as you got ready for bed, but you didn’t need to. A comfortable silence had fallen over you and Jack, and you didn’t feel the need to fill it, especially with how tired you were. You changed into one of his t-shirts, brushed your teeth with the extra toothbrush he had on hand and cleaned your makeup off your face.

When you slipped into bed beside Jack, he was still massaging his leg, easing the pain he’d felt from wearing his prosthetic all night. You hoped he’d one day let you do that for him—help him to relieve the ache of the day’s grind from his leg, his shoulders, and anywhere else that might pain him.

Before you could gather the courage to offer, though, Jack turned and slid under the sheets beside you. He wrapped you up in his arms, and both of you let out little sighs of contentment. You didn’t know what exactly Jack was thinking, but you suspected it felt just as right to him as it did to you to be in his bed and in his arms.

You fell asleep knowing in your heart that you were right where you were meant to be—with Jack Abbot.

thank you for reading!! reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡♡♡

[intrepidacious]

oh my gosh, where even to start with this fic??

first of all, calling the restaurant itself night shift is an inspired choice and the kind of detail i absolutely adore about your writing.

He hated the way this pompous asshole was holding your wrist tight enough that it looked painful, though your face was a stony mask like you refused to give the guy the satisfaction of showing him he’d hurt you. And Jack especially hated the fact that he’d stupidly left his knife in the kitchen, so he couldn’t cut off the guest’s hand for the crime of touching you with so much violence.

god i love his mind immediately going to murder and it being very obvious 🫶🏼 that's the kind of dynamic that i will eat up every single time

“Sir, you need to shut your fucking mouth.”

ah yes, we all have that scene from season 2 still replaying in our heads huh 🤭

the palpable tension between the two of them is absolutely killing me in the best possible way. in fact, i wrote this and then just fell into the rest of this story without pausing to take notes so !! *chef's kiss* i loved this

[intrepidacious]

Curtis Everett + “Um, you realize I can see through your shirt, right?” 🤭

surprise | c.e.

a/n: i found this one in my folder basically fully written even though i have no memory of writing it, i hope it was worth the wait <3

The doorbell rings while he’s in the shower and Curtis swears under his breath, turning off the hot water with a squeak and tumbling out. There’s no time to properly dry off before he pulls on a pair of sweats and the first shirt he can grab, because it rings again, followed by an impatient knock, "Alright, alright, I’m comin’!"

He expects it’s Edgar being an impatient shit because he said something about dropping by for some pictures, but he’d not expected him until later; or maybe it’s Gilliam for another surprise visit, or that downstairs neighbor with her persistent sink problems or—

"Hey," you grin breathlessly, your bag dropping to the floor as he takes you in; you do the same, and a nervous, perfect giggle escapes you, "you realize your shirt is see-through, right?"

Curtis couldn’t give less of a shit about that as he steps in to wrap his arms around you; you squeal into his damp shirt, stumbling against him.

"You’re early," he says, breathing you in for the first time in months.

"I got an early train," you say with a smile he can hear, "did you get a new tattoo?"

[intrepidacious]

time after time - masterlist

summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x time witch!reader

series word count: 130.7k (136.3k+ including bonus chapters)

warnings: f!reader; more or less canon compliant; time loops, canon typical violence, repeated major character death (in a russian doll/supernatural's mystery spot sort of way); slow burn, mutual annoyance to reluctant friends to lovers; negative self-talk; just a lot of angst (but with an eventual happy ending i promise!!); lots of banter; hella self-indulgent 💚

this series is set after the events of the falcon and the winter soldier and will include spoilers for marvel projects up to and including multiverse of madness

please mind that my blog is 18+ only, minors and ageless accounts will be blocked

a/n: welcome to the fic i've been thinking about for almost a year!! i am beyond excited and terrified to finally start sharing this. if you want to get notified whenever i post a new chapter, you can follow @intrepidacious-fics and turn on notifications or follow along on my ao3 💚

✨ this series is finished as of 12 july 2025

my chapters are on the long side so they will also be posted in parts for easier reading in the app; the parts and the full chapters are identical contentwise

one: turn back the clock ↳ Bucky gets killed during a mission and you accidentally start a time loop | 6.0k

part one

part two

two: twice upon a time ↳ You struggle to cope with your new situation and meet a sorcerer | 8.2k

part one

part two

three: every day’s a holiday ↳ Ten days into the loop, you finally decide to ask for help | 10.1k

part one

part two

part three

four: groundhog day ↳ Library heists, bad ideas, and a decision | 9.2k

part one

part two

five: carousel ↳ Bucky has a secret and you have a revelation | 10.9k

part one

part two

part three

six: butterfly effect ↳ You go back to the start, and something changes | 12.8k

part one

part two

part three

part four

seven: spellbound ↳ There's a problem with this day | 11.1k

part one

part two

part three

eight: edge of tomorrow ↳ The truth comes out, and you scramble to fix things | 12.3k

part one

part two

part three

nine: out of the past ↳ Some ill-advised choices and a road trip | 12.9k

part one

part two

part three

part four

ten: about time ↳ The fallout, some truths, and time being really weird | 12.2k

part one

part two

part three

eleven: tomorrow we live ↳ How to end a time loop | 9.8k

part one

part two

part three

twelve: serendipity ↳ Something's weird about today | 11.2k

part one

part two

part three

epilogue ↳ Saturday: what a concept | 3.5k

bonus chapters

these are mostly set outside of the time loop; not required reading, but there will be some nods to these in the main story. bonus chapters can be read in any order and without knowing the main story

frequently asked questions about time travel ↳ Five times people asked you something about time travel, and one time you’re desperate for an answer yourself

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind ↳ One day in Bucky's time loop

57 seconds ↳ How Bucky met Twelve

somewhere in time ↳ a bantery little snippet that was cut for time from the main story

cause and effect ↳ How Bucky fell in love with Twelve: Slowly, and then all at once.

alpine's pov ↳ set during chapter 8

fun stuff

🎵 series playlist

#️⃣ browse the series tag

moodboards by @barnesafterglow 💚

moodboard by @sweetascanbee 💚

moodboards by @idkitsem 💚

moodboards by @treatbuckywkisses 💚

moodboard by yours truly 💚

[intrepidacious]

sss: 40s!stucky being domestic in their lil apartment 🥰

a sunday kind of love | b.b./s.r.

a/n: please enjoy this little snippet i wrote on the train 🫶🏼

Growing up Catholic, Sunday mornings for Steve were reserved for service; for long sermons and devoted prayer, whispered words he only half-believed in, and his hair smelling of frankincense for the rest of the day. It was the simple life his ma had always wanted for the both of them even though she knew, just as well as he did, that neither of them was really made for it.

Now, he hadn’t set a foot in church since she’d died, and he never knew whether she’d be mad at him for that or not.

"What are you thinking about?" Bucky’s voice was low when he was sleepy, and it never failed to make something warm spread in Steve’s chest, holier than anything he’d ever experienced on wooden kneelers in a drafty chapel, soft and right and true.

"Nothing much," Steve replied, and Bucky nuzzled closer to him, arm tightening around his waist as if he understood, silently, the words that stayed unspoken.

Sunday mornings were content now, languid and peaceful and loving; and somehow, at the very core of him, Steve knew that his ma would’ve very much liked that for him.